by D. K. Wall
Abe printed the ticket. “You never know. That could be the winner right there.”
“Sure. Why not? It’s found money.”
“Good luck with the missus,” Abe called as he shuffled open his newspaper.
Walking across the parking lot, Nathan glanced around and noted with relief none of his friends saw him carrying the flowers or chocolates. He felt as self-conscious as he did holding Donna’s purse in a store and didn’t want their ribbing. After opening the door of his truck, he placed the chocolates on the seat, with the flowers resting on top so they would not be damaged. He slipped the lottery ticket into the pocket of his jacket as he climbed into the truck.
10
A dozen small houses sat snugly on the short street—standard salt-box floor plans with two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a den—built decades earlier by the plant owners as housing for workers and their families. As distant, cold corporations replaced the paternalistic mill owners, they retreated from owning the homes and sold them to their employees.
Nathan’s neighbors prided themselves in maintaining their homes. Toys cluttered the small yards, but summer flowers bloomed amid mowed grass. Homeowners tackled minor repairs on the weekends. Those with special skills pitched in to help their neighbors with advanced projects.
With his diverse mechanical talents, Nathan spent many a Saturday afternoon helping a neighbor patch a leaking roof, dig up a broken waterline, or replace a shattered windowpane. No one expected money to change hands for these tasks, certainly not Nathan, but he readily accepted cold beer and grilled burgers in payment. Or a return of a favor when he needed an extra hand keeping his own home standing.
With school still in session, quiet reigned over the neighborhood as Nathan dodged cars parked at the curbs in front of the houses, inching his way down the narrow path. Each driveway was big enough for only one car, so those families with two cars parked the second car on the street. Without a word ever discussed, the neighbors had long agreed that no one should park in front of another’s house. Only two families owned a third car, both because of older teenagers still living at home, indicated by the worn grass in the front yard.
A shiny black Dodge Charger with tinted windows was breaking those unspoken neighborhood rules and occupying the curb in front of Nathan’s house. He knew the car didn’t belong to any of his neighbors, not just because it was new and expensive but because of the out-of-state license plates. It must have belonged to a visitor to the neighborhood, but Nathan couldn’t figure out who they were visiting.
The driveway next door sat empty. Seventeen-year-old Josh often skipped school and hung out with his buddies, smoking pot, blasting music, and playing video games. But his beat-up old Honda Accord was not in their front yard, so he might have been in school that day. And his mom and stepdad were at work. Besides, none of Josh’s friends could afford a new car.
Across the street, Betty’s Buick was parked in the drive while Maury’s Chevy pickup sat on the street. Long retired, they rarely moved their cars except for a weekly grocery excursion and church services on Sunday mornings. Maury waved at Nathan as he pushed his noisy, smoke-spewing lawnmower across their lawn. If the Charger-owning visitor was theirs, Maury would have been moving it as soon as he spied Nathan coming down the road.
On the other side of the house, Chad’s truck occupied the driveway. Unemployed for months and collecting a disability check, he rarely left the house. The old Camaro parked at the curb belonged to a blond, chain-smoking woman, the girlfriend of the month. Perhaps a third person was visiting around midday and Chad thought Nathan would be at work—a reasonable assumption.
Donna’s car occupied the drive, so he parked in the only open space he saw, the curb in front of Josh’s house. He vowed to keep an eye open for the boy if he came home early from school—a distinct possibility on a sunny spring Friday. He hoped that by then, the owner of the Charger would appear and Nathan could claim his rightful parking spot.
He draped his work shirt and jacket over his arm and gathered the candy and flowers. The possibility of afternoon sex eradicated any frustration of dealing with a visiting car blocking his way. Chad wouldn’t be the only man in the neighborhood getting laid on a Friday afternoon if the presents Nathan carried worked as hoped.
He sat on the stoop and removed his boots before entering the kitchen. He hung his jacket neatly in the closet and draped his shirt across a kitchen chair, mentally reminding himself to haul it to the hamper before Donna griped about dirty clothes strewn about the house.
Thanks to the loud sputtering of Maury’s lawn mower floating through the open window, he couldn’t hear Donna anywhere in the house. The den was vacant, and both bedroom doors and the bathroom door were closed. With a glance out the back window, he confirmed Donna was not on her knees toiling in her precious flower bed. She must have been enjoying a late-morning shower after cleaning Jacob’s whirlwind of the morning.
Pleased to have time to set up his surprise, he retrieved a large glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, and arranged the flowers before placing them in the center of the kitchen table. He propped the candy bag in front of the flowers and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
He glanced around and realized she still hadn’t heard him in the house. With visions of her naked in the shower, he decided to strip off his own dirty, greasy clothes and surprise her by slipping under the streaming water with her. An hour or so later, covered in the sweat of sex, they could climb into the shower again.
The thought aroused him as he picked up the dirty shirt from the back of the chair—don’t give her something to complain about, he thought—and crossed the den just as Maury shut off his mower across the street to accept the glass of lemonade Betty was delivering. Through the living room window, Nathan saw the two of them chattering in their yard and looking across the street, likely speculating whether the factory had laid off Nathan since he was home so early.
Without the background roar of the mower, he heard a woman’s moaning coming from the bedroom and froze just outside the door, his hand resting on the knob. No mistaking the noises emanating from behind the door, sounds he expected—had expected—to make within the hour himself, the rhythmic cries of passionate lovemaking. His heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat denying what his brain knew.
Donna?
But then the sound of a man grunting hammered his ears. Giggles floated through the closed door. And the creaking of the bed.
My bed. Our bed.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut.
The Dodge Charger. Parked where I park.
He leaned his head against the door. A tear slipped down his cheek and clung to his jawline before plummeting to the floor.
Walk away. Right now. Go get drunk.
But he couldn’t. His feet wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move. He remained stuck to the door, listening to the ecstasy on the other side. He hadn’t been so hurt, so crushed, since the night his father died. The ache spread through his body as he quietly sobbed.
Donna called out, and Nathan’s head snapped up. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding against each other. She had yelled out a name.
No. Can’t be. Not him.
Out-of-state license plates. Georgia. An easy drive into the mountains of Western North Carolina.
He wouldn’t.
A state that printed the county name on the plates. DeKalb county. Atlanta.
No friend would.
A Marine Corps sticker on that tinted window.
She wouldn’t. Not with him.
Someone in law enforcement would drive that. Or someone who wanted to look like they were in law enforcement. Like someone with a high-end security job.
No!
An ex-Marine. Who worked in security. From Atlanta.
Hank.
Son of a bitch.
He leaned his head against the door frame, willing the accusation out of his mind. Arguing against it.
Couldn
’t be. Hank would never break the one inviolate rule of the Fearsome Foursome—never, ever, ever interfere with a buddy’s girlfriend. That rule certainly included wives.
But that rule only existed because of Hank and his womanizing ways, starting with Marissa Whittum in the seventh grade.
But that was then. Friends grew up and respected each other.
But are we really still friends?
Hank came to town two or three times a year to visit Matt, Colette, and their son, Luke. After Hank and Matt’s mother had died several years before, he had no other relatives in town.
During those increasingly rare visits, the three remaining members of the Fearsome Foursome would gather in Sammy’s Pub to raise a toast to Charlie’s memory, but those nights had grown shorter—halting conversations, mainly old stories of pranks. Without the bond of football, they had little in common. And with Hank in Atlanta, they didn’t even share Millerton.
Even if the bonds had waned, Hank still would not cross this line. He wouldn’t do that.
But someone was in there. Whoever was with Donna, the sounds were unmistakable. Open the door and confirm it. Or walk away and let it eat you forever.
Nathan took a deep breath, steadied the shake in his arms, turned the knob, and pushed the door open slowly.
The covers of the bed lay twisted in a pile on the floor, the interlocked couple exposed and so enthralled with each other they didn’t notice their intruder. Donna stretched on her back, eyes closed, moaning in pleasure. Her legs wrapped around the man, ankles hooked on his thighs, pulling him deeper inside her. Her fingernails dug into the small of his back. A series of semicircular nail marks peppered his skin.
The man’s hands cradled her back and lifted her to him while he suckled her breasts. He pushed her back onto the bed, arched his back, and thrust deep inside her, rewarded with a squeal of delight from her. His hairy buttocks clenched as he propelled himself forward.
Nathan stood paralyzed in shock, his work shirt squeezed in his fist. Outside the door, despite the sounds, the tryst had been only imagined. But seeing them together shattered all illusion.
Turn and run? Yell and scream? Grab the naked man and pull him off her?
Donna screeched in delight, and her eyes fluttered opened as she arched her back and rose upward to receive the man more deeply. Her eyes locked with Nathan’s and widened in shock. The man, oblivious to the interruption, continued to thrust as Donna tried to push him off. He only stopped when she stammered a question.
“Wh-wh-what are you doing home so early?”
The man froze, his back muscles tense, and he turned his head slowly toward the door. All doubt left Nathan’s mind. Hank Saunders. Fellow high school football teammate. Lifelong friend. Stealer of girlfriends.
Add stealer of wives. And traitor.
As Hank slid out of her, reached to the floor, and pulled the sheet over Donna’s naked body, she protested, “You aren’t supposed to be home.”
Anger exploded through Nathan’s body, a splattering of red crossing his field of vision. His chest tightened, and his hands shook. He felt the pounding of his pulse along the sides of his head. “I’m not supposed to be home? All you care about is I’m not supposed to be home. Here’s one for you—you aren’t supposed to be fucking another man.” Spittle sprayed from his lips as fury rose with his voice.
Donna trembled and clutched the sheet to her chin. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“What if Jacob came home and caught you in bed?”
Tears flowed down her face. “I would have heard him come in.”
Nathan flung his shirt in the air. As it floated to the floor, he threw his hands onto the top of his head and pulled his hair. His head throbbed as his body quivered. He shrieked in anger, a primal scream of rage.
The neighbors could probably hear every word through the open windows, but he couldn’t bring himself to lower the volume. “You didn’t hear me come in. Why would you have heard him? And even if you heard him come in, how would you have explained his best friend’s uncle walking out of our bedroom?”
Donna’s voice dropped low, almost to a whisper. “He wouldn’t have caught us.”
“But I sure caught you, whore.”
Hank stood from the bed, his erection accusingly pointing at Nathan, and held out his hands in front of him. “Easy, Nate, just calm down. Don’t call her names like that.”
Explosions ripped through Nathan’s chest, blinding him with rage as he stepped toward his former friend. “Calm down? Who the hell are you to tell me to calm down? I ought to rip your cheating dick off and shove it down your throat.”
Donna sat up in bed, the sheet dropping and exposing her breasts. Rage filled her face. “Nathan! Stop it!”
He pivoted back toward Donna. “Me? You’re pissed that I’m mad? Are you kidding me? You’re the whore in bed with another man!”
Hank stepped closer, his open hands still outstretched, and spoke in a quiet, authoritative voice, the voice of a Marine trying to command a situation. “Nate, I already warned you. Donna doesn’t deserve to be called that.”
“Fuck off, Hank.”
“Nate.” Hank reached forward and touched his forearm.
If Nathan had thought about Hank’s military training, he would have never swung. In a fair fight, the bigger, stronger man would win. But Hank’s weakness had always been his speed, a weakness exploited daily by his younger brother in their high school days. He never saw Nathan ball his hand into a fist and reacted too late to avoid the incoming punch.
Nathan’s swing slammed into Hank’s nose. Blood spewed as the crack echoed in the bedroom. His hands flew to his face as he stumbled backward and fell over the corner of the mattress. Trying to break his fall, he stretched his arm out and collided with the lamp on the nightstand, toppling it to the ground. The ceramic base shattered on the floor, scattering shards throughout the room.
Donna screamed and jumped out of bed. She bent over Hank, crying and touching his face.
Watching her tenderness, Nathan’s anger ebbed slightly as a crushing ache of loss swelled within him. He leaned his back against the wall in shock as Hank staggered to his feet.
Donna sank onto the bed, sobbing and glancing back and forth. “I’m sorry.”
“Donna…” Nathan started but stopped as she waved her hand in dismissal. He hung his head.
“You broke my nose, you son of a bitch.” Hank grabbed Nathan by the throat with his left hand and pinned him against the wall. He balled his right hand into a fist and cocked back as he prepared to swing.
Donna jumped in the middle of the two men and pushed Hank in the chest. “Stop it.”
Hank stumbled backward, stepping on the broken ceramic with his bare feet. He howled in pain and pushed Donna onto the bed. “Stay out of it.” Anger flared across his face as he turned back toward Nathan and charged.
Nathan hadn’t been on a football field in over a decade, but the sight of his wife being pushed caused instinct to kick in. He viewed Hank as a receiver breaking for the end zone and dropped his head to drive his lowered shoulder into his rib cage.
But Donna had bounced back off the bed to put herself between them again, catching Nathan’s shoulder in her chest. With an “oof” of escaping air from her lungs, she fell backward, collapsed into a heap on the floor, and groaned.
Horror coursed through Nathan as he saw his wife crumpled on the floor. Like all couples, they had had fights over the years—some yelling, some tense moments—but he had never, not a single time, hit her, grabbed her, or harmed her. Even the thought of doing so—or of any man hitting a woman—sickened him.
Shocked and horrified, he dropped to one knee. “Donna. Are you all right?”
With gentle hands, he helped her sit up and draped the sheet over her naked body. Tears flowed down her face as her body shook. He reached to stroke her face.
From behind him, he heard a metallic sound—an action being pulled back on a pistol, a bullet sliding into
a chamber.
Still on his knees, he rotated slowly and found a 9mm pistol pointing between his eyes. Hank stood naked, gripping the pistol. His voice remained soft and firm, yet anger rumbled in the background. “Get out, Nathan.”
Nathan gritted his teeth. “It’s my house. You get out.”
The gun held steady. “Look at her.”
Donna looked up through red eyes, tears rolling down her face. Her arms were wrapped around her chest as she fought to catch her breath.
“Now look at me.”
Hank stood in front of him, hands gripping the pistol. His nose was misshapen, blood flowing freely and dripping from his chin. His face was swelling around his eyes.
“If we call the cops, they will take one look at the two of us and not care about anything else. They will just slap the cuffs on you and drag you to jail. Do yourself a favor, and get out of here.”
The fight had oozed out of Nathan. His voice came out defeated and quiet. “You were screwing my wife.”
“We were making love to each other, not screwing. And not for the first time.” Hank waved the pistol toward the bedroom door. “Get out of here. Go find somewhere to stay the night. We’ll deal with this later. I need to take care of Donna right now.”
Nathan rose to his feet, careful to keep his hands open and out. The pistol followed his movements, Hank’s hands steady and sure. With a glance at his crying wife, he backed toward the door, stepping over the broken lamp and his crumpled work shirt, and slipped into the den. Hank lowered the gun and scurried around the bed to Donna. He dropped to his knee and kissed her head, his eyes still warily watching Nathan.
The tenderness Hank showed Donna hurt Nathan more than anything else. That simple scene revealed a deeper, longer relationship than a single afternoon of adultery.
As he crossed the den to leave, he glanced out the window. Maury and Betty were standing arm in arm, horrified looks on their faces as they stared back across the street.