Summer Breeze

by Nancy Thayer

  Morgan crossed her arms over her chest, partly to calm her shaking. “How could you?”

  Josh nodded. “I knew you’d be angry about this. You think I already spend too much time away from home—”

  “Wait. You think I’m upset because you’re writing a novel?”

  Josh almost smiled. “Well, look at you. I’d say you’re upset.”

  “Of course I am—because you didn’t tell me, you told Natalie!” Morgan couldn’t tolerate one more second of his typically male incomprehension. “What kind of husband are you, to share such an intimate, enormous secret with another woman? Are you sleeping with Natalie?”

  Exasperated, Josh groaned, “Oh, for God’s sake, Morgan. Of course I’m not sleeping with Natalie. Don’t be fantastical.”

  “Oh, okay. I won’t ‘be fantastical.’ ” The full blackness of wrath settled on her. “So you’re not sleeping with Natalie, but you’re sharing with her the secret you would share with your wife, if you were truly married.”

  “What?” Josh ran his hands through his hair. “Now you’re just getting overwrought. What does that even mean, ‘truly married’?”

  Morgan said through clenched teeth, “It means faithful. It means choosing each other over everyone else. It means being true to each other in every way.”

  “Oh, babe.” Josh tried to put his arms around her. “Morgan. Come on. I am true to you in every way.”

  She wrenched herself away from his attempted embrace. “You told Natalie you’re writing a novel, and you didn’t tell me!”

  He hung his head. “Okay. I get it. Look, I’m sorry. I apologize, all right? But, listen, it just happened. It just came out. It was when Natalie was babysitting Petey after the painting party you guys had—”

  “The one you didn’t come to.”

  “Okay, fine. Guilty as charged.” Her words had snapped something in Josh. He walked away from the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “Don’t you see, Morgan? I can’t do anything right by you anymore. You’re always pissed off because I’m always working. I knew you’d go ballistic when you found out I’m also trying to write a novel in my spare time—spare time, hell, as if I have any.”

  “Oh, I see!” Morgan stood up, too, facing her husband. “So it’s my fault you conspired with Natalie.”

  “Oh man, give me a break, I didn’t conspire—don’t be so dramatic.”

  “Dramatic!” Morgan could hear how shrill her voice was. She paced around the room, trying to cool herself down, trying to get to the heart of the matter. “Josh,” she said, quiet now, as if she were calm, “why didn’t you tell me you’re writing a novel?”

  “Because of this!” His voice broke. The firestorm of her anger had crossed over to ignite his own anger, injury, and fear. “Because I knew you would give me holy hell about it. Damn it, Morgan, I work eighteen hours a day. I suck up to Ronald Ruoff every day, every day, ‘yes, sir; of course, sir; you’re right, sir; I’m sorry, sir; I’ll get right on that, sir.’ I take wealthy prospective investors out to lunch and pretend I’m something I’m not, and if you don’t think that makes me feel like a nasty little lizard, think again.”

  “I thought you believed in Bio-Green,” Morgan said.

  “I do. Of course I do. I wouldn’t work for them if I didn’t, I’m not that much of a tool. I do believe in Bio-Green and their goals, but that doesn’t mean it helps me believe in me. I’m thirty-five. I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life. But I also love you and Petey. I’m trying my damnedest to provide for both of you, to be sure Petey and any other children we have get a good college education. I try to spend some time with Petey, I try to be here part of the weekend to take him out on the lake. Jesus, Morgan, I break my neck getting back here. But it’s not good enough for you.”

  “Josh—” How had the argument turned? How had she become the bad one?

  “I want to see if I can write novels well enough to make money, and I think I can. But it takes cojones to try to write. It’s … private, and embarrassing. I could tell Natalie I’m writing a novel because I don’t care what Natalie thinks about me. But it makes all the difference in the world what you think of me.”

  “Josh—” The adrenaline whirling through Morgan made her almost dizzy, stalling her at the height of her outrage. She felt she was being cheated somehow, that Josh was spinning this argument on its head. She could understand the sense of Josh’s words, she could see her husband’s weariness, but she was still right, she was still owed something. If he loved her, Josh needed to be the one to make the first move toward reconciliation.

  But Josh turned away from her, his entire body haggard and desolate. “I don’t know how to fix this, Morgan. I just don’t.” He strode from the room.

  Morgan heard the front door slam. The Escalade started up and roared away.

  He would come home. Josh would go for a drive to cool off, and he would come home.

  Fatigue struck. She was more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life, except after giving birth to Petey. She slid down on the bed and let sleep engulf her.

  Josh hadn’t returned home by morning.

  Morgan dressed and fed Petey absentmindedly, replaying last night’s argument, making funny faces at her son, feeling sick in her heart.

  The day still wore its hazy veil of early-morning coolness, so Morgan took Petey outside and settled him in his stroller. He enjoyed a ride around the lake road, and Morgan needed to move while she thought about what to do next.

  This was a good time of day for a stroll. Few cars were on the road. The neighbors had already gone to work or off shopping. The trees arching over the road were in full flush, providing an abundant green canopy of shade. By now Petey had made friends with a few of the neighborhood dogs, who ambled out to lick Petey’s hand and wait hopefully for him to hold out a few of his Cheerios. Morgan and Petey sauntered along, stopping to chat with neighbors working among flowers, before strolling farther, in the direction of Petey’s beloved babysitter’s house. Often Felicity or her mother would invite them in for iced tea.

  But this morning, both Felicity and Grace were standing in the front yard, crying.

  Morgan slowed the stroller, wondering whether she should turn around and protect Petey from the sight.

  Then she noticed the teenage boy lying at the bottom of the driveway, huddled against the curb of the street. He was crying and clutching his arm, and he was bleeding terribly from his head and arm. Morgan couldn’t comprehend why Grace and Felicity, normally caring, kind people, weren’t attending to him.

  “Petey.” Morgan used her most cheerful mommy voice. “Let’s see if we can help this boy. I think he has a boo-boo.”

  She turned the stroller toward the boy so Petey could see what she was doing, grabbed a couple of baby diapers from the back pocket of the stroller, and cautiously approached the boy, who, she recognized, was Drew Keller, Felicity’s boyfriend. Drew was fifteen and cute, in a scrawny way.

  Bending toward him, she said, “Drew. It looks like you’re hurt.”

  He struggled to sit upright. “I fell out the window.” After a moment, he clarified, “The second story. Felicity’s room. C-c-caught my arm on a jagged piece of metal from the storm, and the top window came down on me. I’m trying to get back home, but I can’t walk very well. I had to rest. I think my arm’s broken.” He was trying to snuffle back his tears while blood streamed down his face, onto his clothing. “I know Mrs. Horton wants me out of here. Do you think you could call my mom?”

  “Oh, honey.” Morgan handed him a diaper she had turned soft-side-out. “Press that against your head. It will slow the bleeding. Do you have any sexually transmitted diseases?”

  He looked alarmed. “What? We just had sex once!” Embarrassed, he looked down. “The first time.” His lips were turning blue. His skin was paling out.

  Morgan said calmly, “I’m calling an ambulance. Then we’ll call your mom.” She hit 9-1-1. “This is Morgan O’Keefe. I live on Dragonfly Lake. There�
��s been an accident at”—she stopped to check the number on the mailbox—“67 Lakeside Road. Adolescent male with bleeding head wound, bleeding and possibly broken arm. He’s going into shock. Yes. I’ll stay here.”

  Clicking off the phone, she said to the boy, “Can you extend your arm?”

  He looked dazed, unsure. Blood was soaking his hairless chest, flooding down his thin body to puddle around him on the street.

  She held up the other baby diaper. “I want to wrap this around your arm to stanch the bleeding.”

  With his good arm, he was holding the first diaper against his head. He tried to stretch his bad arm toward her but winced, crying out in pain.

  She moved toward him, taking care not to step in the blood. “It’s fine. I can do it from here. Press on your head harder. Can you see that? You’ve already slowed the flow. Head wounds bleed like Niagara Falls. It’s not a sign of anything terrible. It’s just the way head wounds are. It’s probably not very deep. You’ll be just fine. I’ll phone your mother as soon as I’ve got this attached.” She spoke in a mild, firm, reassuring voice as she wrapped the diaper around his arm, which was deeply slashed. She fastened it tightly. “Tell me your mother’s number, honey.”

  His teeth were chattering. “Four-one-three …”

  She punched in the numbers as he said them. When a woman answered the phone, Morgan said, “Hi, this is Morgan O’Keefe. I live on Dragonfly Lake. Your son Drew is here at Felicity’s house. You need to come at once. He fell out the window and broke his arm. I’ve called an ambulance.”

  His mother was brisk. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Your mother’s on her way,” Morgan informed Drew. She took out a baby blanket tucked into the back of the stroller, unfolded it, and draped it over Drew’s chest and shoulders. It was lightweight, covered with bunnies, and not very large, but it might give Drew some warmth and also a sense of protection. The blood from the head wound had slowed.

  “I’m going to talk to Felicity,” Morgan told the boy. “Your mother will be here any minute, and the ambulance. It’s under control.”

  “My mom’s gonna kill me,” Drew said.

  Morgan smiled. “Not until after she’s sure you’re okay,” she promised. She added, “I’m going to leave Petey here. Talk to him, would you? Tell him everything’s all right. Don’t frighten him.” She wanted to keep Drew from sinking away into a shock faint, and Petey was wide-eyed and fascinated.

  She walked up the lawn to the two weeping females. Felicity was barefoot and naked except for a sheet covered with bluebirds wrapped around her. Grace was dressed in shorts, sandals, and a tee shirt, as if it were any normal day, but her face was red and tear streaked.

  “Grace,” Morgan said, “what’s going on?”

  Grace wrenched her face toward Morgan. “That crazy delinquent raped my daughter!”

  Felicity was equally intense. “It was not rape! I told you! I sneaked him in the house last night! Yes, we had sex, but I’m fifteen now, and I love Drew.” Felicity choked back sobs. “It was the first time. It was the only time. We just fell asleep. We didn’t mean for you to see us like that.”

  Her mother gave an insane laugh. “I’m sure you didn’t!”

  A car shrieked up to the house, slammed to a stop, and a woman leapt out. She ran to Drew and knelt next to him. Sirens sounded and an ambulance streaked toward Felicity’s house, parking next to Drew. Two EMTs jumped out. Morgan walked down to stand nearby, watching as they examined the injured boy. Drew’s mother babbled at them the entire time. Up on the lawn, both Grace and Felicity were silent as they watched.

  Morgan returned to Petey, who was trying to watch everything at once. “Isn’t this interesting? Petey, look, a real, live ambulance! And real emergency technicians.” She thought the scene might frighten him—so much noise and weeping and strange people in uniforms and the towering ambulance with its light blinking. But Petey was delighted.

  The attendants brought out a stretcher. They put a pressure dressing on Drew’s head and wrapped it and his arm, then lifted him into the back of the ambulance. His mother stepped up inside. The driver approached Morgan.

  “This is your house?”

  “No. It’s the Hortons’. I’m a neighbor, Morgan O’Keefe. I’m the one who called in. I understand that Drew was in the girl’s bedroom and tried to escape when her mother opened the door this morning. He hurt himself in the process.”

  The driver smiled just slightly. “Won’t be the first time we’ve attended something like this. Give me your phone number in case we need it.”

  She gave him her number, and he got into the ambulance. Without the drama of a siren this time, the vehicle pulled away.

  Morgan pushed her stroller up the driveway.

  Felicity was weeping dramatically into her sheet.

  Grace glared at Morgan. “He probably gave my daughter an STD.”

  “I doubt that,” Morgan said. “He told me it was the first time he’d had sex.”

  Felicity wailed. “It’s true!”

  “Well, we’ll be lucky if we all don’t get diseases,” Grace continued angrily. She gestured toward the driveway, which ran slightly downhill. “Look at all this blood! It’s got to be full of germs and HIV and hepatitis B and God knows what else!”

  “I doubt that,” Morgan told Grace. “Have you touched the blood?”

  “Of course not!” Grace flared her nostrils.

  “Felicity?”

  “No. It all happened so fast. Mom and Dad knew the metal was split on the storm window”—she shot an accusing look at her mother—“but Drew just went out the window so fast, and then he screamed because he’d cut his arm on the metal, and then he fell and hit his head on those stupid stone cupids Mom put in her flowers.”

  “Blood on my cupids,” Grace wailed. “Blood everywhere. And who knows what’s in it.”

  Morgan asked calmly, “Do you have any bleach?”

  Felicity and Grace stared.

  “Bleach works as a disinfectant on blood,” Morgan explained. “You’ve got a street drain near your driveway. We’ll decontaminate the blood with a mixture of bleach and water, then hose it all down into the drain.”

  “What do you know about this kind of thing?” Grace demanded.

  “I’m a biosafety expert,” Morgan told her. “This is my field.”

  Grace looked worried. “But blood in the drain …”

  “It happens every day, in every home,” Morgan told her. She leveled her eyes at Grace. “So do you have bleach?”

  “I have bleach.”

  “Go get it. And put on sunglasses, both of you, to prevent any bleach mist from getting in your eyes.”

  “I’ll get dressed,” Felicity said in a small voice.

  The two Hortons went into the house. Morgan lifted Petey out of the stroller, carried him away from the driveway, and let him roam around the lawn in his stumbling baby gait. He loved all Grace’s outdoor statuary, the elves hidden among the rhododendrons, the fairies among the zinnias.

  Felicity came out first, dressed now, in shorts and a top and sneakers. She knelt down next to Petey and chatted with him. Grace came out carrying a bottle of bleach.

  “We need a bucket and hose,” Morgan told her.

  Felicity played with Petey while Morgan supervised, showing Grace approximately how much bleach should go into a gallon of water, helping her carry it and splash it over the precious stone cupids, around the side of the house, and into the drying stream of blood speckling the driveway. She poured the largest amount on the puddle where Drew had lain. Grace attached the garden hose to the outdoor faucet and took turns with Morgan flooding the bleached blood down the driveway, around the corner of the curb, and through the metal grid, down the storm drain. In only a matter of minutes, the sun had dried out the water, and everything was just as clean and normal as always.

  Felicity’s mother sighed, exhausted by the morning. “What if the bleach kills my flowers?”

  “A modera
te amount of bleach can actually help flowers,” Morgan assured her. “Once the bleach is mixed with all that water, the remaining chlorine is not really a problem. Besides, it may even help by killing the bacteria in their stems. Possibly, it will fade their colors for a while, probably not. If I were you, I’d rinse them more with water from the hose, really soak the ground around them.”

  “Right. Thanks.” Grace gave Morgan a wry look. “Wait until Petey is a teenager.” She rubbed her hands over her face. “Sorry, Morgan. I should thank you for all your assistance. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” She tried to laugh but couldn’t quite get there. “Drew’s a nice boy, but I’m not ready for my daughter to be having sex yet. She’s only fifteen. Her father will die. His perfect princess.”

  Morgan moved a few steps away. This was for the Hortons to deal with. “I’ve got to get Petey back home for lunch.”

  “Yes, of course you do,” Grace replied, her mind on other matters. “Thank you again, Morgan, for your help.”

  “I’m glad to help.”

  The truth was, Morgan thought, as she gathered up her son and said good-bye to Felicity and tucked Petey into the stroller, she had been more than just glad to help. Something had switched on inside her at the scene—something had gone very calm, determined, and deliberate. Her mind was equipped for just such dramatic moments when normal people freaked out. When she knew exactly what to do.

  And suddenly, Morgan knew exactly what she should do.

  Elation burst within her as she pushed the stroller toward her house. She found herself running. Petey waved his hands and squealed. At home, she unbuckled him, swept him up into her arms, and raced inside. She grabbed up a banana and a Tupperware bowl of Froot Loops, a rare and special treat. She headed for the car.

  As she drove toward Bio-Green, Morgan played Queen’s “We Are the Champions,” singing along at the top of her voice. By the time she’d reached her husband’s facility, she was zinging with self-confidence. She parked in the lot, unbuckled her son from his car seat, hefted him onto her hip, and hurried toward the main doors. She entered the lobby, greeted the attendant at the front desk, strode toward the elevators, and punched the button for the fifth floor.