Into the Storm

by Susan Fanetti

  She stripped out of her work clothes, flexing her toes into the lush, pale cream carpet of her bedroom floor, and eased into a set of summer silk pajamas—camisole and shorts in peach. Good lingerie was a decadence she’d allowed herself from the moment she could afford it. She felt oddly more powerful when she was wearing something silky and lacy under her clothes—a kind of fragile armor.

  She caught her hair up in a clip and washed her face. Then she went out to the kitchen, and poured herself a big glass of a nice chardonnay, and settled into her comfy white sofa in the sitting room, prepared to spend a couple of hours vegetating in front of the television. She felt at peace. Quiet and alone in her own little space.

  Television was a surprisingly rare phenomenon in Signal Bend. Only satellite reception was possible, and not many could yet afford it. The inn had the full complement of possible channels, however. Shannon turned her set on with no clear idea what she was in the mood for. She scrolled through aimlessly, pausing every now and then to see if a show might catch her interest and then moving on after a few minutes. Eventually, she landed on a show about adoption—what turned out to be a documentary about adoptees reuniting with their birth parents. Shannon moved on quickly, but then, after a few more minutes of scrolling, went back. She set the remote down on the side table. Nesting in an old wound, she watched.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Holly and the girls lived about an hour or so south of Little Rock. In the truck, pulling Isaac’s trailer, it was about an eight-hour drive—more than that with pit stops. Show had the trailer and truck packed up around ten the same night he’d picked up the boxes from the B&B, the same night of the morning he’d first gone into the house. Feeling impelled by a force beyond his reckoning, he’d gotten into the truck right then and started driving. By the time he pulled up in front of Holly’s apartment building, he’d been up twenty-four hours. And for the first time in ten months, he’d gone twenty-four hours without a drink.

  He’d needed one—being alone in that house, packing up his family’s belongings, feeling the ghosts of the life he’d lost bearing down on him from all corners, had nearly unmade him. There was booze in the house, too—three bottles of Jack Daniels and half a bottle of a Maker’s Mark, which had been a gift from Isaac two Christmases ago. But Show had known that once he started he wouldn’t stop, and the thought of passing out in that house stopped his blood. So he’d forged on, telling himself that he would go back to the clubhouse when he was done and drink himself unconscious then and there.

  But then everything had been packed. The house was suddenly half a house, important pieces, vital organs, missing, and he’d needed to see his girls. He couldn’t wait. Packing up the clothes and toys they’d left behind, smelling their smell haunting their room, had made him ache for them. His little flowers. Daisy was gone, really gone. He’d never have her again. But Rosie and Iris? They were still here. They were still his. He’d let Holly have her way, let her take them from him, but they were no less his for a piece of fucking paper.

  With that thought, he’d gotten into his ancient pickup and hit the road for Arkansas, driving through the night, stopping only for gas, food, and coffee. When he figured out which apartment was hers and walked to the door, he was buzzing on caffeine, fatigue, and uncertainty. He didn’t know what he’d find when Holly opened that door. He didn’t expect it to be good.

  He knocked.

  He heard Rosie say, “Somebody’s at the door, Mom.”

  Then, at the same time that he heard but could not make out Holly’s raised voice, he heard Iris, his baby flower, right at the door. “I got it, Momma!” And then a series of locks turning. The door opened, and there was his baby, wearing a blue vest, white top, and blue plaid skirt—like a private school uniform. She was nine now, and she’d grown noticeably. Her wavy, gold hair had gotten darker and really long, and she had a big white bow clipped in it.

  Her eyes grew huge when she craned her neck up at him, and she screamed, “DADDY!” and threw herself at him, clutching her arms around his hips.

  Fighting back tears, he bent down and hooked his hands under her arms, hoisting her up. “Hey, baby flower. Wow! You’re gettin’ big!”

  “Yeah! I’m second-tallest in my class. Aston Whitson is taller but he’s a boy so that’s okay. No girls are taller than me in fourth grade or even fifth grade!”

  “You started school already, huh?” He could see Rosie standing back from the door, watching, looking serious and anxious. He winked at her. Holly was coming up from a hallway, dressed in a waitress uniform, and looking fit to do murder.

  Unaware of the potential drama behind her, Iris answered his question. “Yeah—last week. I go to St. Sebastian’s. Rose doesn’t, though. She goes to Jackson Middle School. She gets to wear fun clothes but I don’t. I have to wear this ugly skirt every single day. I have two the exact same. And plain white sneakers. It’s not fair. Tell Momma it’s not fair. Are you staying with us now?”

  “Iris. Come here. Now.” Holly was holding the door open about halfway.

  “No, Momma. Daddy came home. He’s going to take me to school.” She turned to Show. He tried to put her back on her feet, but she grabbed his shirt in her fists. “Right? You can take me to school because you’re here and I can show you the picture I made the other day. We had to draw our family and I drew you even though you stayed away so long. I drew Daisy, too. I know she’s with Jesus in Heaven, but she’s still here, too. Momma says Daisy left a little piece of her with us in our hearts.”

  Christ. Show’s eyes filled and he blinked the tears away. “Your mom’s right, flower. Daisy’s right here with us all the time.” He kissed her cheek and set her down. “I’m gonna need to talk to your mom. You got more to do to get ready for school?”

  “Yes, she does. She has to brush her teeth and make her bed. Go now, Iris. Right now.” Iris looked back and forth between her parents, conflicted, and then ducked under Holly’s arm and trotted back into the apartment. She stopped at the head of the hallway and called back, “Don’t leave, Daddy.”

  This was a mistake. A terrible damn mistake. He should have shipped the shit Holly wanted, as she’d asked him to. But he was here, he was committed to this. He looked past his ex-wife, staring knives at him, and smiled at his middle, now oldest, daughter. She, too, had grown several inches. And she was getting breasts. “Rosie. Miss you, girl.” Rose’s sweet, lovely face crumpled into tears, and she spun to run down the hall. Show noticed that her left arm was in a full cast.

  He turned his eyes down to Holly. She’d gained more weight since she’d left him, moving from curvy to heavy. She’d never been skinny. When they met, she’d been voluptuous. Show liked a curvy woman, a woman with something soft to get hold of. At that thought, an image of the manager of the B&B back home, Shannon, wearing that tight black skirt and that green shirt slinked through his head. Surprised, he shook it away. “What happened to Rosie’s arm?”

  “Rose. Her name is Rose. I’ve always hated that you called her that silly name. And you don’t get to ask any questions. What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?” By the last few words, she’d begun to shout; now, she stepped into the breezeway and closed the door.

  “I brought the stuff you wanted. From the house. I have it all.” He knew that wouldn’t satisfy her, and he knew he needed to take the opportunity he had here to say some things and reset some expectations. But he was wired and exhausted, and he was feeling all but destroyed by seeing his girls again. “What happened to Rosie’s arm?” He’d always called her Rosie. He wasn’t going to stop now, not unless she herself said she didn’t like it.

  “You were supposed to send it, not bring it. I don’t want you here.” She crossed her arms over her ample bosom.

  He didn’t know why, but it was crossing her arms that did it. In the tumult of his head, anger shouldered to the fore. Show grabbed Holly’s arms and pushed her back against the door. “I am sick to fuck of hearing what you do and don’t w
ant. I’ve given you every damn thing you wanted, and I am sick to fuck of it.” Her eyes were wide and scared, but Show didn’t back off. “What the fuck happened to Rosie’s arm?”

  Holly blinked a few times, and then her expression hardened back to anger. But she answered him. “She fell off a friend’s horse. She’s got another two weeks in the cast.”

  Show released her, and she rubbed her arms where he’d held her. “Why did you come?”

  “I want to see the girls. Spend some time with them.”

  She was shaking her head before the first sentence was out of his mouth. “No. You signed the papers. No custody, and no visitation. Seeing the girls is visitation. You are out of their lives.”

  “No. They don’t want that any more than I do. You saw it yourself.”

  “You signed the papers.”

  “Fuck the papers, Holly. I want this. You know what I can do to get it. Do you want that?”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “All I have to do is tell the club how you got me to sign those papers. How you threatened me—and the whole club. And then this fight is over. You know that. I don’t want to do that. I don’t even want new papers. What I want is to see the girls sometime. When they want to see me. That’s all.”

  “Your precious club got me raped and Daisy killed. You chose them over your family. Why on God’s green earth would I let you risk the daughters I have left? No, Show. Do what you have to do, but you don’t get to see the girls. And if something happens to me, that won’t help you get them. You gave up custody. I have a will. My parents will be their guardians. They. Are. Not. Yours. You have the Horde. I have the girls.” She took a breath. Show heard the tremor in it, but her voice had been steady.

  She looked down at the concrete of the breezeway floor. “We leave for school in five minutes. I’m going to call into work so I can be here while you haul our stuff in, after I drop the girls off at their schools. You can come in and spend these five minutes with them. Say what you need to say. But don’t you dare upset them.”

  He had nothing to say. He had lost them. Lost everything. He nodded, the fight gone out of him, and, when she turned and opened the door, he followed her into her nearly-bare apartment.

  The living room had only four molded plastic lawn chairs and an old tube television on a milk crate. The dining area had a collapsible card table and four folding chairs. There were stacks of books and toys. Holly hadn’t been exaggerating their need. Iris came down the hall and took his hand. Looking up at him, she asked, “Are you taking me to school?”

  “No, baby flower, I’m not. Mom’s gonna do that, like usual. And I gotta get going pretty soon. I’m glad I got to see you, though. I love you. Always will.”

  “But I want you to stay!” She wrapped her arms around his arm, pushing her face into his belly. He looked at Holly, whose expression was resolute, seemingly unmoved by their daughter’s distress.

  He squatted down and took Iris’s little face in his big hands. “I can’t stay, girlie. I wish I could. I miss you a lot.” With another look at Holly, he added, “But you can call me or come see me whenever you want, okay? Work it out with your mom, but whenever you want is okay with me. You hear?” Iris nodded, sniffling. Holly looked ready to throw something. He didn’t give a fuck. He needed his girls to know he was there when they wanted him.

  Rosie had come into the living room and was leaning against the wall, her good arm across her chest, holding her cast. She didn’t make a move toward him, but when he came to her, she didn’t back away. She was becoming a great beauty, with her mom’s yellow hair and big blue eyes. She was willowy, though—long and slim. “Hey, Rosie. Your arm okay?” The cast was wrapped in pink gauze and covered in signatures and notes. She had a lot of friends here. She’d made a life.

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. Mostly itches. It was scary, though. My arm bent all the way the wrong way.”

  Show raised his brow. “Musta hurt a lot.” She nodded, and he reached down and took her good hand. “Sorry I wasn’t around to help.”

  Rosie shrugged again. “I know. I get it. Mom told me, but I knew anyway. Daisy’s dead because of you. All that stuff that happened is your fault. So we went away. Iris doesn’t get it, but I do. We’re better off without you.” She pulled her hand free from his.

  He stepped back, feeling more defeated and empty than he knew how to feel. His eyes met Holly’s. She looked…victorious.

  “Okay, girls. Get your packs and lunches and let’s get moving. Say goodbye to your father.”

  ~oOo~

  Show waited in his truck for Holly to get back. Then, as quickly as he could, he emptied the truck and trailer. She spoke to him enough to direct him where to put furniture and boxes. When he was done, she ushered him out and slammed the door. He stood in the breezeway and listened as she turned all the locks.

  Then he went back to his truck. He had a mind to drive straight back home, but he could feel his fatigue deep in his marrow. He pulled into an anonymous little roadside motel and got a room. There was a liquor store a couple of buildings over. He walked down and bought two bottles of Jack, then spent the rest of the day with his whiskey, lying on the broken-down motel bed, with the blackout curtains closed.

  He woke the next morning with his eyes on fire and his head turned to molten stone. He checked out, took a cup of shitty free coffee from the dispenser next to the front desk, and got back on the road.

  Three times during that long drive home, he’d sped up and aimed for a bridge support or a rock wall. Three times, he’d veered away from that conclusion at the last second. Suicide was for pussies. He was many things, but he was not a pussy. His lot was to live.

  ~oOo~

  It was nearing suppertime when he backed up to Isaac’s garage. He hadn’t called ahead; he’d been too deep in his head to call. But it didn’t matter. Isaac and Lilli were both home, their house agleam with light, the late summer sun warming the white boards on the west side. As Show stepped out of his truck, Isaac came through the side door and walked his way.

  He grabbed Show’s arm and pulled him in for a hug. “Hey, brother. How’d it go?”

  Show shook his head. “Not good. Thanks for the trailer, though.” He unhitched it, and they both walked it back, away from the truck.

  Isaac put his arm across Show’s shoulders. “We’re just getting ready to sit down. Lilli made some pasta thing—mani-something or other. I don’t know, but it’s great.”

  Show wasn’t fit for company. He just wanted to go back to the clubhouse and drink his mind quiet. “Thanks, but I’m gonna head out.” He started to pull away, but Isaac held on.

  “Show. Come on. Come inside and see Gia. Lilli’s had the kid strapped to her chest all day. Come give her a break, at least. That little miss loves her Uncle Show.”

  That little miss was a month old and had no idea yet who Show was. But he looked over at Isaac’s house, the windows alight, the house full of what Show no longer had. His mind rebelled as his heart stretched out to reach for it. “Okay.” With Isaac’s arm still across his shoulders, he went in and shared his friend’s family as well as his meal.

  ~oOo~

  “Show. Show.”

  Show opened his eyes to see Lilli leaning over him, smiling. Confused at first, he lifted his head and got his bearings. He was sitting on their couch, Gia sleeping on his chest. They’d had supper—that pasta thing had been really good, whatever it was—and then he’d given Gia a bottle while Lilli and Isaac cleaned up supper. They’d all sat in the living room, talking, mainly about the town, the way things were changing, and the even bigger changes on the horizon, with the movie thing maybe happening soon. Show had not brought up his trip to Arkansas, and they had known not to. Lilli and Isaac had argued lightheartedly about Signal Bend—and specifically Isaac—going Hollywood. Show had found the easy rapport in their banter bittersweet. He didn’t remember much beyond that.

  Lilli reached out and put her hands around
her daughter. “I’m gonna take her,” she whispered, “see if I can’t get her to nurse again before I try to sleep. You can stay, though. I brought you out a couple of pillows and a blanket. If you pull the chair over close to the couch, you can make a decent bed, I think. Isaac’s done it a couple of times.”

  He sat up and let Lilli take Gia. “No. I’ll go. Sorry I feel asleep.”

  “Not a problem at all. Isaac’s already asleep in bed. Really, Show. Stay. I’m worried about you.”

  He smiled. He loved Lilli. She was some kind of woman. “You’re just an equal opportunity mother now, ain’t ya?”

  “What can I say? A switch got flipped. Take your boots off and see if you can get comfortable on that broken-down old couch. I’ll make a big breakfast in the morning.” Gia fussed in her arms, and Lilli leaned down and pressed her lips to Show’s forehead. “Okay?”

  The thought of a breakfast as good as that supper eased his aching chest a little. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He watched her head down the hall, then took off his boots and his beanie, pulled the chair up to the couch, and settled in for the night. The old couch wasn’t as comfortable as his bed in the clubhouse, but he slept better. Their big black and white cat, whose name he could never remember—something short, though, like Kip or Tim or something—settled in on his chest, where Gia had just been, and Show let him.

  A borrowed family felt better than none at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shannon had found Katie, the bride, and her mother, Maureen, to be among the most flexible and cooperative clients she’d ever worked with. Brides had very clear and specific ideas about how their wedding should be—and they should; it was their “special day.” But very often those clear and specific ideas went head to head with reality and lost. Working with disappointed brides—or, more challenging, working with brides who demanded not to be disappointed—had always been one of the more…interesting facets of Shannon’s career. She had become adept at turning problems into promises, making brides who insisted that a hundred white doves be released as they exited their limousine, obstinately refusing to acknowledge the budget in which their parents were working (or the reality of the biological tendencies of birds), realize that an archway wrapped in roses and a red carpet coming up from the drive, and giving guests white rose petals to throw, was much more romantic and photogenic, and making them think it was their idea.