He turned onto Arlington. Three houses down, he pulled into Stan’s driveway. A few seconds later he was standing on the chipped cement porch and impatiently fingering the doorbell. The door swung open with a velocity that left him teetering in its wake, as Stan, dressed in his usual blue jeans and soiled white tank top, popped out of nowhere. “Lay off the bell you son-of-a-bitch!”
Stan’s chummy comment eased the tension in Chuck’s posture and allowed him the chance to smile. “Let’s go get a beer.”
Stan glanced back over his shoulder. “Shit…Margery’s almost got supper ready.”
“So…”
“You remember this—”
Margery called from the kitchen, “Who’s that at the door?”
“Chuck!”
“Who?”
“Chuck goddamn it!” Stan stood poised with his brows pinched, waiting for his wife to ask again. When she didn’t, he turned back toward Chuck. “You’re going to owe me one.”
Chuck smiled as he tipped his chin up. “Well go on…get your shoes and for God’s sake put on another shirt that doesn’t smell like armpit.”
Stan raised his arm and lowered his nose for a smell as he said, “Come on in.”
The dark-green, shag carpet crunched under Chuck’s feet as he glanced at the baseball game on the console in the corner. The window unit that he helped Stan hang in the kitchen three years ago wasn’t doing much to cool the air. In fact about the only thing it was good for was pushing the aroma of fried chicken into the living room. At least he hoped it was chicken. The air in the house was so stale and full of cigarette smoke that it was actually hard to tell.
While Stan ducked down the hallway to the bedroom, Chuck waded slowly over to the kitchen and peaked around the corner. “Hey there Margery,” he offered with a nod.
She prodded a floured chicken leg with her fork and then as grease spit and popped out of the pan, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Thought that was you at the door.”
He waited awkwardly for a moment, not sure whether to try and start up a conversation or not, but before the question had a chance to be answered, Stan came trotting back down the hallway. “You ready?”
Chuck smiled in relief. “Hell yeah!”
They made it to the side of the sofa before Margery spoke up. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Stan stopped, looked back toward the kitchen and yelled at his wife. “Where do you think! I’m going to get a beer with Chuck.”
“Like hell―supper’s almost ready!” Margery peered around the doorjamb with the look of spite in her eyes.
The comment brought Stan full turn to where he was facing her. “That’s fine; put the legs and a breast in the fridge for me. I’ll have them tonight when I get back.”
“You step out that door mister and you might as well stay the night with HIM.”
Stan’s smirk was followed by a laugh as he shook his head defiantly. “Calm down now, honey. Just put me some food in the fridge―that’s why God made Tupperware.” He turned back toward Chuck and smiled. “I told you, you’re going to owe me one after this.”
Chuck slapped him on the back as he reached for the front door. “Let’s go.”
The Broadway was actually an old, turn-of-century inn. The upper floors were rooms for let while the ground floor was divided evenly between a bar and a restaurant. The last time Chuck had been on the restaurant side was when he and Becky celebrated their twentieth anniversary. The way things were up the hill, he wasn’t sure they would make number twenty-five. But the bar side of the Broadway was a different story altogether. It was a dark, old comfortable place that had been as much a home to him over his life as any house ever was.
Stan held the heavy oak door open while Chuck took a quick glance around at the handful of regulars before walking over to the bar and easing onto a stool. Stan pulled out the stool next to him and threw his leg over it like he was mounting a horse. Then they ordered a couple of Millers and waited silently until they each had a chance to take a swig.
Stan emptied a third of his bottle before he brought up the Red’s dramatic comeback against the Cubs. “You catch the end of that game?”
Chuck perked up. “I wish. Becky’s dad came in during the bottom of the eighth and switched the channel to the news.”
“Oh man that’s fucked up!” Stan said with a chuckle. He took another gulp and added, “I thought you said he was a Cubs fan.”
Chuck shook his head. “He is! But he was all caught up in some big stink about a couple of kids dying.”
Stan set his beer down and turned to where he was facing Chuck head-on. “I heard about that. Bunch of news about these college kids on some kind of trip down in Mexico and now three of them are dead.”
“So tell me why I should give a crap?” Chuck asked as he started picking at the label on his bottle.
“The college kids aren’t the only ones dying. They said people are also dropping dead in some of the small villages down there.”
Chuck glanced at him before settling on his own reflection in the mirror. “Things are fucked up everywhere.” A second later he threw his head back and tipped the bottle. After two gulps he slammed the empty down on the oak counter just as the bar keep headed over with the next round. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and laid it out on the wet counter. “Keep the empties away Mike, we’ll take care of you.” Mike snapped up the twenty and gave a nod before heading off to tend to other customers. Chuck grabbed the fresh, cold bottle and held it to his forehead for a moment as he closed his eyes. “Fucked up everywhere…”
Chapter 5
It took Chuck well over half an hour to get home that night. Most of the delay was spent in Stan’s driveway as his buddy kept wanting to spin “just one more” drunken story of their adolescent years before getting out of the truck. Chuck put up with it for a good fifteen minutes before he finally pushed his friend out the door. But as far as the rest of the time it took to get home—that was a different story.
Before Chuck knew what he was doing, the truck was idling in front of a brick ranch with a ‘Sold’ sign posted in the yard. He sat there behind the wheel, in the safety of his cab, unwilling or unable to commit to any further action. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing there.
The ‘why’ though was far less ambiguous. It was Sally. At first, it appeared innocent enough when she wandered into the store last week. But by the third time she mentioned her divorce he began to pick up on it. When she slid her hand over his and went on and on about how exciting it was to move back to town, it left no room for misinterpretation.
He stared into the darkness behind the plate glass of her picture window as he wet his lips and swallowed. Her Impala was parked in the drive. In the midst of the decision, his attention was pulled back to his left hand in front of his chest. He was spinning his wedding band around and around his finger. An anxious smile started to pull at his lips. It was like he was a kid again and about to ask a girl out for the first time. The spark felt good. But before it could flourish and prompt action, another feeling came around. He quit spinning the gold band and let it rest firmly between the index finger and thumb of his right hand. It was what Becky said in the car. He began to think about the leisurely drives they used to take. The memories were dusty for sure, but not forgotten. The mental images put a different kind of smile on his face and before he knew it, he was pushing the ring into the crotch of his wedding finger. The smile was still there as he put the truck in gear and pulled away.
When he finally made it home he found the drapes drawn and the lights out. There was no doubt in his mind that he was stinking drunk, yet it didn’t feel that way as he maneuvered around the shadows in the living room. Instead of a drunken stumble, balance appeared in his gate as he headed down the hallway to the master bedroom. Balance put there by purpose.
He stopped short of the doorway and stared at the dark mound sleeping under the covers across the room. There was still silence, but this time
it was a good silence. All the memories that he couldn’t see during the day—were with him now. For a second he even toyed with the idea of sliding under the covers and sleeping with his wife. But in the end, he found his way back to the pillow and sheets folded next to the sofa.
Chapter 6
The first time Chuck felt the hand on his shoulder he wasn’t sure if it was real or part of a dream, so he brushed it off without really waking. But the second time left no doubt as he felt himself rocking under the force of a gentle shake. “Time to get up.”
He filled his lungs and stretched out his arms. After a few blurred attempts, he saw Becky kneeling next to the sofa. “What time is it?”
“Just a little past eight…I would have let you sleep longer but I wanted to make you breakfast before it got too late.”
She didn’t have to say anything more. He could smell the hickory bacon frying in the kitchen. The aroma perked him up and got his blood flowing again. He blinked a couple of times, then while Becky took a seat on the coffee table, he propped himself up and started massaging the puffiness out of his face.
She was still sitting there when he finished—staring at him with a smile on her face no less. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” He started to get up, but she beat him to it. “You just wait right here…I’ll get it along with the morning paper.”
Chuck plopped back down on the sofa and glanced around the room. Something was different. The lamp that should have been on the end table next to the recliner was gone. He was still taking in the living room when Becky walked back over. She handed him the coffee, laid the paper down on the sofa next to him and sat back down on the coffee table across from him. He cupped the warm mug in both hands and blew the steam rising off it before taking a sip. “What happened to the lamp on the end table?”
“You broke it last night when you came home.”
“Really?”
“Don’t worry about it…it was cheap and I can always pick up another one at Wal-Mart.”
He took another sip as he tried to remember what could have happened to make Becky act this way. A regretful moment later the fog cleared. He remembered the fight they had on the way home from her folks, as well as stopping in front of Sally’s on his way home from the tavern. He focused back on Becky and as he did, she dropped her eyes to the floor and began to rub her hands together like she was trying to wash off some stubborn dirt. Was this it? Had he inflected too much damage on the marriage to repair?
After struggling with her thoughts, she finally looked back at him. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Chuck froze. It was a simple gesture, one that should have been easy to acknowledge. But he found himself caught between his own selfish pride and the love for his wife.
She waited for his response with her hands clutched together on her lap. But after a few seconds of unbearable silence, she got up and headed for the kitchen. “Should be just a few more minutes. The hash browns are still cooking. You read the paper and I’ll get you when breakfast is ready.”
Chuck swung around and looked at her over the back of the sofa. “Hey.”
Becky paused and stared at the linoleum on the kitchen floor before finally turning and looking up at him.
“I’m sorry too Baby.”
There was another moment of silence as they gazed at each other. But this was a good moment. Becky began to slowly nod. “Good,” she said with a smile.
Telling her that he was sorry felt really good. He matched her smile and then slowly turned back around. The front page of the paper was nothing but the typical mud-slinging over the upcoming county sheriff election. He started rifling through the pages, glancing at the headlines, working his way back to the sports section where he could read about the finish of the Reds game yesterday. But then he stopped and stared at the headline midway down on the fifth page—’Third adventure youth dies in twenty-four hour span’. It immediately brought back the memory of what Stan told him last night at the bar, and in particular the statement about people dying in some of the small villages down in Mexico. He glanced at the by-line and saw that it was actually an associated press article picked up by the paper. Intrigued, he started reading as he grabbed his coffee and took another sip.
“Breakfast is ready, Honey.”
He paused for a second and stared at the article, before looking over at Becky who was waiting for him at the end of the sofa. With the paper in one hand and coffee in the other, he got up and followed her to the kitchen. “Have you read the paper this morning?”
“No…I wanted to let you read it first.”
He sat his cup down on the Formica tabletop and pulled out a chair. “It’s got a story in here about three college kids collapsing and dying.”
She was at the stove scraping the hash browns out of the frying pan. “Uh-huh.”
Talking to her back, he continued, “It says they were on some kind of extreme adventure tour in Mexico when that big earthquake hit last month.”
Becky turned and headed over to the table with two loaded plates. She sat his down and momentarily captured his attention as he took a savoring look at the eggs over easy, hash browns and bacon. He smiled as she started to sit down, but then the toaster went off and she was back up. As she retrieved their toast along with a jar of jam from the refrigerator, she asked, “Did they get hurt in the earthquake?”
Chuck looked back at the paper. “They’re not sure what killed them by the sounds of it, but they didn’t mention anything that sounded like it was related to the earthquake.” He started scanning the article. “It says they’re running toxicology on the first kid that died. He explored a cave they found after the quake; they think he might have caught something.” He was about to take another sip of coffee while he scanned the article, but suddenly stopped and set the cup down. “It says that eleven local Indians are also dead.” He looked over at Becky who was busy buttering their toasts. “Says close to a hundred others have been hospitalized and that others as far away as Mexico City are beginning to exhibit symptoms of hypoxia.” He continued to read, “…a reduction in oxygen to the brain.”
Becky took a seat and handed Chuck a slice of buttered toast. “You read about the finish of the game yet?”
“No…” drifted off his lips as he pulled his attention from the news to the plate of hot food in front of him. There was nothing quite as satisfying as a hot breakfast after a night of hard drinking. He grabbed his fork and mixed everything before lifting a scoop of hash browns covered in runny eggs. After the combination hit his mouth, he closed his eyes and slowly pulled the fork out with a long, drawn out pleasurable moan. He opened his eyes and snapped up a strip of beacon to add a quick bite before chewing any further. With the flavorful combination of all the flavors working as one, he set the rest of the bacon strip down and quickly rifled through the remaining paper until he came upon the recap of the game yesterday.
A few lines into it, he glanced up as he reached for his bacon and saw Becky staring at him while she ate. She didn’t say anything―she just smiled. He didn’t say anything either. He just shoved half the bacon strip in his mouth and returned his attention to the paper.
Chapter 7
Chuck closed the antique store early the following Wednesday. It wasn’t unusual for him to take in far less money during the week than he did on the weekends. His business rose and fell with the feast or famine of city folks flowing down for a one-day taste of yesteryear. But this week it was different. It wasn’t that it was slow as much as it was non-existent. Only one person came in yesterday and that was simply to get out of the sun for a spell. No one had been in today since he opened at nine—so at about a quarter to four, he closed up and flipped over the ‘Open’ sign hanging on the door. By five he was on his way up Michigan and by half past five he had his boots off and was leaning back in the recliner with a cold beer, aiming the remote at the television.
Timing was everything. His daily routine was synchronized to the start of the local sports wra
p-up. But when the picture tube lit up, he didn’t see the familiar faces of the local news team. Instead ABC was broadcasting the network feed from New York. He was about to give NBC a try, when the mention of Mexico jerked him up straight in the recliner. Something bad was happening. He could tell by the anchor’s tone and posture. He kept his eyes glued to the man behind the news desk as he waited anxiously for what he feared was coming. The wait wasn’t long. The anchor said something before it and after it, but the only word that mattered was “outbreak”. Chuck closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and slowly let go of the armrest clutched in his fist.
For the next several minutes every fiber of his being was fixated on the high altitude images taken over Aquismon, a small Mexican village in the Sierra Madre mountain range. A visibly shaken news anchor stated in a solemn voice that the dark spots appearing all over the screen were actually the bodies of the town’s inhabitants. The anchor paused for a moment before stating that thermal imaging provided little hope of finding survivors.
He quickly flipped the channel over to the cable news network. CNN was rapidly detailing events as they unfolded on the state map of San Luis Potosi. But it was the numerous small towns highlighted in red that really had him concerned. The anchor confirmed reports of more casualties coming out of Rio Verde. Chuck forced down another hard swallow and called for his wife. “Becky! Get in here!”
As if she were being pulled away from a task of the utmost importance, Becky labored in from the hallway and stopped at the edge of the living room with a huff. “What do you want? I’ve got three loads of laundry to do.”
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