by Susan May
Her heart thrummed as she leaned forward to peer through the windshield, now caked in dust and fogged with the warmth of her breath. She rolled down the window again and listened. The only sound above the rustle of the leaves was the rhythmic buzz of crickets.
What should she do now?
Keep driving until she pulled up behind him? Then: Hi, honey, saw your taillights on, thought I’d drop in?
The baseball cap excuse was now buried in the lame basket.
Yep, I followed you for thirty minutes because I knew you’d be worrying about your bald spot in the middle of the night.
Nope, she had no excuse, well, no plausible excuse. Curiosity was now a wild burn only the truth could salve. Something crazy had brought her husband out here in the middle of the night, and whatever that crazy was, she had to know.
Emily stopped the car and sat there for long seconds, as bravado, anger, and fear ran intermittently through her veins. The dashboard clock glowed green and alien. 10.55 a.m. Her jaw clenched.
Should she? Shouldn’t she?
His truck’s lights shone through the brush like a lighthouse beacon. She figured it would only take five minutes of brisk walking and she would be there. She could at least take the next step. Just get over there, and see what he was doing. Then from there she’d decide.
Emily pushed at the door, cringing as its squeaks and groans echoed too loudly around her. Just put one foot in front of the other, she told herself and started walking. The urge to stop, turn around, and drive home dogged her every step. Nothing good would come of this. Curiosity, though, had strung around her so tightly she felt strangled.
She kept thinking: what if he needs my help?
Not that he’d ever ask.
“A man’s got to be the man,” he’d said enough times.
If he did need her, somehow she’d get it through his thick skull they were in this together, whatever this was.
The darkened clouds had disappeared and, without the town lights to dim them, a sparkling carpet of stars hung in the sky.
The denser scrub here worried Emily that within the foliage a myriad of creatures crawled and slithered, all evolved to live in the harsh, waterless landscape much better than her. She worried about meeting these creepy, crawly creatures, unawares. She moved warily, scouring ahead afraid of walking into a huge cobweb or treading on something that would bite first before asking questions. Fear grew with each step.
Concentrating so hard on looking for crawlies, she wasn’t prepared for the low tree branch she’d pushed aside, to whip back suddenly and slap her across the face. Barely missing her eye, it stung like hell on her skin. She bit down on her lip to stop from calling out.
Damn, she should have driven a little farther.
Her jeans offered some protection, but the spiky bushes still managed to penetrate and prick her legs, which were now itching like crazy. She wanted so badly to take a break, roll up her pants, and scratch the torment out of her skin, but she had to keep going. Stopping would make her feel more like fair game.
Emily had read somewhere if you made a lot of noise snakes wouldn’t attack. She couldn’t afford to make any noise. As she pulled back another branch—carefully, this time—she realized she’d almost reached where Bobby had stopped.
The sound of music from Bobby’s truck radio drifted toward her.
… together again and that's a lot
We love each other—let’s take a shot
Whoa-o, we're nearly there
Whoa-o, we’re living and praying …
Emily crouched even lower. Only a few shrubs and small trees separated her from Bobby. Kneeling behind a shrub, she found herself looking into a clearing edged by small trees. They stood like sentinels around a large, open red-dirt area.
Bobby’s truck was parked off to the side of the ragged clearing.
No sight of Bobby, though.
… got to give it everything we’ve got
There’s no difference
if we make it to this spot
because with each other that’s really a lot …
The lyrics dug into her. She felt sick with guilt. What was she doing out here, following Bobby like some demented, jealous wife? Wasn’t he entitled to his privacy?
He could be collecting wood, star-gazing—it was pretty spectacular out here—or just taking some time for himself. If roles were reversed, she’d be indignant and find it hard to understand why he didn’t trust her.
In that moment, rational thought finally took over, and she lost her nerve. She began retreating into the shrubs, staying as low as she could, picking her way backward. In her mind if she didn’t see anything, and if she didn’t confront him, then she’d done nothing wrong.
She had only moved a few feet when she heard his voice. Instantly she stopped, her body rigid, her breathing stilled. Questions like fireworks exploded in her brain.
Was he talking to somebody? She hadn’t seen anyone with him. Had he met someone here? If so, then where was the person’s car?
Her heart fluttered that maybe her affair theory was correct.
In moments she’d returned to her original position.
Bobby was behind the truck. He had the dirt bike by the handles, and after pulling it free, began to push it toward the edge of the trees. Emily scanned the area, but he seemed to be alone.
He hardly spoke, even at the best of times. “I save my words, so as people know when I mean business,” he’d say. Now it appeared he was talking to himself. What kind of business was he in now?
She risked a deep breath, holding it, listening, cocking her head, and straining to hear his words drifting through the dark.
“Bastards … you … back to … take …”
The distance and the radio made it impossible to put his words together to gather any sense. The bulk of them floated away.
Leaving the bike propped on its stand, he trudged back to the truck and opened the door. The song blared louder, escaping into the night.
We've got to carry on, like it or not.
You live for the fight when it's all you’ve got.
He jumped into the truck and, with the slamming of the door, the song and Bobby’s words were contained inside. Now she couldn’t make out anything except what sounded like banging.
Shame suddenly curdled in her stomach. He still hadn’t done anything wrong, but she was imagining he had done all types of wrong and that his behavior was strange. She was the one behaving strangely.
He wouldn’t follow her to the supermarket, or the laundry, or to coffee with the girls. What was she doing following him from work?
When she really thought about it, there could be a million reasons he’d come out here. His boss may have asked him to do something. Maybe a customer who’d hired a truck had lost a tire, a tire iron, or some such thing out here. Hardworking Bobby was out here now doing his job, being chased by his damn fool wife.
She was doing exactly what she was about to throw at him. Deception went both ways, and if he was innocent then she was the one in the wrong.
Bobby deserved better from her.
Emily sucked in the dry air and stood. She shook her shoulders, relieving the tension in her body.
Out you go, she told herself, and admit to your husband you’ve gone a little crazy.
The next few minutes played out in her mind. Her sorry and her tears—she was already holding them back—and Bobby laughing. Hopefully it’d be laughter. Then he patting her arm. You silly girl, Em. Too many of those soap opera shows of yours.
It could go that way. Or maybe he’d be appalled at her lack of trust. Maybe he’d go sleep at work for the night. He’d done that once when they’d fought over something stupid she couldn’t even remember the next day. They always came back to each other.
Her legs were really itching. She ached to reach down and scratch them, but she was worried, and not just about crawlies. Her mind returned to focus on straightening out this mystery so they could both go ho
me. If she showed herself, at least she wouldn’t have to wade back through the scrub. If he wasn’t too angry, he could drive her back to the car.
Emily stood and moved forward the few feet to the edge of the clearing, readying herself for what the next minutes might hold. She bent back the last bush shielding her from the clearing, holding it tightly, and noting its roughness against her palm. The moment she let go would be the ignition in her mind to launch her into the clearing.
She hesitated when she noticed the wind. The breeze had kicked up considerably. Strange, because only seconds before the night had been calm.
When the roar of the explosion hit her, she was so unprepared it tumbled her backward, crashing her into the bracken. She felt the skin scrape from her elbows and palms as she instinctively held out her arms to break her fall. A sudden ache bloomed in the base of her spine.
In the seconds after, as she gasped for breath, it flashed in her mind someone had exploded a bomb. Following was a muddled thought that the bomber must be some kind of stupid to explode a bomb where there were no people or buildings.
Glancing from her torso down to her legs, she took inventory. Besides a throb in her bottom where she’d hit the ground, she seemed okay.
When Emily looked up, she saw Bobby’s truck on fire. Orange and red fingers of flame reached up into the night as though desperately trying to escape the earth. The truck looked like a ghostly skeleton of itself, its frame blackened and highlighted sharply against the red glow consuming it.
That was when the wild panic hit.
Where was Bobby? The last time she’d seen him he’d been inside the truck, the truck that was now burning like it was made of paper.
Emily’s head swung madly around, frantic, searching. When she finally caught sight of Bobby, she was unable to stifle her scream.
He stood a good distance back from the truck, his hands on his hips.
Relief rushed in just as quickly as fear had moments before.
“Bobbyee!” she screamed, pushing herself up and running toward him. Her arms flailed before her as she ran; thoughts of secrets, anger, and arguments gone. The liberation of knowing he was alive and unharmed propelled her forward.
Even if he was angry and wouldn’t speak to her for a week or a month or however long it took him to forgive her, at least he was safe and nobody would have to explain to their children there’d been a tragic accident.
The heat of the blazing vehicle beat at her, as she neared him, panting and calling his name. He didn’t turn toward her, which surprised Emily. Instead, he continued to stare at the orange flames—now tinged a strange dark blue—that were engulfing the truck. Thick, black smoke whirled high into the night sky.
Bobby was mere yards away. She saw now he appeared strangely serene, his hands perched on his hips, as though he were simply appraising some garden handiwork.
The wind had changed and now blew toward them from the fire. Emily coughed as the thick fumes of burning rubber and metal entered her nose and mouth. The toxic chemicals in the smoke overwhelmed her, and she began to gag.
If she could just reach Bobby, grab his arm and steady herself, she knew she’d be okay. He still hadn’t acknowledged her, but when he did she knew he would help her, get her away to good air where she could breathe again.
She wasn’t going to make it.
The smoke was too thick and every ounce of energy her body possessed suddenly evaporated. Her legs buckled beneath her. The ground came rushing up, as the world slowed until it was just the earth and her. If only she could get her arm to move from her side, she might break her fall.
She couldn’t. Emily hit the ground hard, jarring her chin. Something wet dribbled from her mouth, and she moved her hand to wipe it away. When her fingers came away, they were red with blood. Pain shot through her mouth and settled along her jaw.
Emily’s fingers clutched at the ground, but she couldn’t pull herself back up no matter how hard she tried. The sound of another explosion reached her. The sudden crack in the air and vibration through the soil shocked her back to alertness, and filled her muscles with adrenaline. She scrambled to push herself up and away from the ground.
Her legs wouldn’t obey.
Then hands were on her waist hauling her up. Bobby was by her side, hooking an arm around her chest, forcing one of her arms over his neck before dragging her away.
In the next moment, she tasted clear air and gulped down the sweetness like a cold drink. Bobby placed her gently on the ground and crouched before her. His hands cupped her cheeks, holding her head up as his eyes scanned her face.
“Em, you okay?”
“Bobby. What’s happening?”
It was hard to raise her head.
Before he could answer the wind began to blow relentlessly, enveloping them in a cloud of foul-smelling, thick, black smoke. Once again the oxygen disappeared from the air.
Emily’s lungs strained as the toxic fumes again invaded her body. An endless darkness filled her mind. She closed her eyes and wondered who will take care of the children? Who will tell them they were loved?
Just as she found herself falling into the dark warmth, she felt arms around her again. There was just enough spark left in her mind to reach for Bobby’s neck as he pulled her up and sideways out of the smoke.
Within seconds the air was clearer and cooler. She sucked it in greedily, only to experience a sudden, overwhelming urge to vomit.
“Gonna be sick,” she spluttered, pushing Bobby away as she fell to her knees. Gravel and sticks dug into her skin as she fell onto her palms and crouched there like a dog, her head hanging between her shoulders.
Bobby was right there. His hand pressed against her back even as the bile rose in her throat. Her stomach contents came up and out in large, hacking coughs that eventually tapered off to black dregs of spit. Her throat felt swollen and raw and the taste of gasoline and chemicals coated the inside of her mouth as though she had chugged a container of the stuff.
When nothing was left inside, she sat back. Her head now drooped between her knees. Bobby leaned in against her, cradling her body close, his hand gently pulling strands of hair back from her face.
“Em, what are you doing? Are the kids …?”
She motioned the OK sign. She still couldn’t be sure whether words or more of her dinner would come out if she opened her mouth.
As they both sat together, his hand rubbing her back, her head on her knees, the urge to vomit still ripe, and the smell and crackling of the burning vehicle surrounding them, she suddenly thought: If this isn’t the weirdest thing in the world.
The question she wanted to ask traveled through her as strong as the waves of nausea. Just like the vomit, it erupted from her mouth in fits and coughs.
“Bobby … did you … did you just … set that truck on fire? What the hell you thinking?”
She turned to him, only to find his attention gone from her and now focused back on the blaze, while his hand continued stroking her back on autopilot.
“Bobby,” she screamed, punching his arm, trying to bring him back to her. “You could have got yourself killed. I don’t understand.”
He didn’t answer, just kept focusing on the flames, gleefully dancing about the truck. Normally a bonfire meant marshmallows, friends and family, and fun. This wasn’t fun. This was alien and crazy, and there could be no explanation for any of it. No reasonable one, anyway.
She waited for him to answer, watching his face, now dappled from the orange glow of the fire. Rivulets of sweat ran down his cheeks, and she saw something else, too.
Weariness. As though they’d had this conversation before and the simple thought of repeating it was too exhausting. His shoulders slumped as though they’d carried too much weight for too long, and now he could finally stop and put down the load.
“What is it, Bobby? Tell me.”
If he’d shown embarrassment at being discovered or anger she’d followed him or even worry she’d almost been killed,
she could understand. This sad, tired look—it made her want to cry.
Bobby pushed himself up from the ground and stood, his gaze never leaving the fire. He bent slightly, patting her head before walking toward the truck. Then, as though he’d reached an invisible wall, he turned and walked back.
Like a sneaking shadow the word snuck into her mind.
Cancer.
It hit her in the gut.
He was sick. It made perfect, horrible sense. This was obviously his way of working through his anger. He could have become moody or irate but, instead, he chose this. Instantly she saw the symbolism.
Destroy the cancer. Burn it out of his system.
A ferocious wave of overwhelming emotions soared through her, as a future without him displayed itself in frightening vivid images.
“You’re sick, Bobby, aren’t you? That’s it.” Then, in a smaller voice, which was all she could manage between her parched, ragged throat and her churning emotions, “I love you no matter what.”
At her words he stopped, staring at her as he rubbed his flattened palm up and down his arm as if he were trying to warm cold skin.
Finally he answered in a weary voice she didn’t recognize. “I’m not sick, love.” Then he half-laughed. “I wish.”
Emily opened her mouth to ask then what? Bobby raised his hand, staying her question.
“I’ll tell you everything,” he sighed. “Should have done sooner. I thought you’d leave me or think I was crazy and take the kids away.”
He reached down and gestured for Emily to take his hand. His grip was the first firm comfort she’d felt all night. As she rose Emily felt the strength rush back into her body as the concept of him dying, which had so quickly wrapped itself around her heart, flowed out with his words.
Slowly, as if aiming a gun, he pointed toward the fire, which was now popping and crackling as the intense heat from the blaze twisted the truck’s metal frame.
Emily brought her hand up to shield her face. It occurred to her burning to death must be one of the most hideous and cruel ways to die; your skin melting into your clothes, your face dissolving as though it were plastic and not a living thing.