Truth Hurts

by David Boyle

  Tom closed his eyes and pinched his lips together. Mucus from his nose started running down onto his mouth; he wiped it away, gathered his breath. “He gave me some pills. And I took them. Lots of them.”

  Lucy shook her head. “Life with me is that bad, huh? I’m a monster? My plans for a better life for us drove you to immaturity and danger, to take drugs—is that what you’re telling me? What an eye opener! I can’t imagine what other secrets you’ve been keeping from me.”

  “They’re not secrets—they’re insecurities, I guess. I didn’t know how to confess them, was unsure how you’d react. I was feeling terribly inadequate and the pressure became too much. I’m human, aren’t I?”

  “Sure, you’re human. But I’m not comfortable accepting the brunt of the blame. I mean, put yourself in my position. Here I am feeling horrible for you, Tom, like you’ve been traumatized by something out of your control. Something sudden and unforeseen. Yet somehow I get labeled pushy wife, dictator—someone questioning your manhood. Well, if you feel your manhood’s in question, then…be a man, speak up. Show a little backbone.”

  “Okay, I will. But what you’ve heard is not the worst of it.”

  “No? No?”

  Tom shook his head no.

  “Go on. What more could there be? This is all so sickening. What about the fire?”

  Tom’s emotions had once again gotten the best of him; his tears were flowing more heavily now, his face turned blotchy red, his fingers became tremulous. “We went out to Garfield’s Point, to the old shed we used to hang out in. And we got drunk. Took more pills. I was a total mess at this point.”

  “I can’t believe you, Tom. Can’t believe you would do something so reckless and stupid and—”

  “That makes two of us, Luc. I don’t need a reminder.”

  “Sorry. But what do you expect? What have you become? What if I was the one doing this to you? Sneaking out. Getting loaded. Out with God knows who, doing God knows what. Scaring you half to death in the middle of the night. Piling blame on you. You know you would be more than irritated yourself.”

  Tom nodded. “I can’t dispute that, Lucy. I know I’ve lost my head over lesser things.”

  “You sure have.”

  “That’s not all I went through tonight. I’m already humiliated enough. Might as well give the rest.”

  Eyes watering, Lucy rubbed her hands together. “Go on.”

  “Then I took Hampton’s car for a ride. Crashed into a pole.”

  “What the hell…?”

  “What a disaster. Sparks were everywhere. Fire under the hood. Gas tank almost ignited.”

  “My Lord!”

  “I fainted. A couple of hours later I woke up in some guy’s pick-up truck.”

  Even though Tom’s revelations were disconcerting to hear and uncharacteristic of any mature, self-respecting man, Lucy endured his devastating tale. Tom’s attention drifted around the room from one object to the next, from one corner to the other, from floor to ceiling. “It was Randy Watkins who pulled me out of the wreckage. He saved me. The car was minutes from… from I’d hate to imagine what. I have no idea how he happened to be there, except I think he’s a fireman in that town. He must have been off duty. But I’m alive… because of him.”

  “That jerk saved you?”

  “I’m…I’m as shocked as you are. He was a bully.”

  “And a slime…a compulsive liar.” Then she shouted “A backstabbing jerk! A thief! Don’t you remember our past? Don’t get me started.”

  “Yeah. I’m fully aware of his track record. His checkered past. But he pulled me out of the wreck, Lucy. Got me home. Dumped me out front. He said, ‘I warned her about you.’ Whatever the hell that means. Never said a word other than that.”

  Lucy dropped her face in her palms. “My mind is spinning so fast I can’t stop it. He said that because he ran into me after we had been dating a while. He had the audacity to tell me that I shouldn’t get involved with you. That you were a softy…a weakling. That’s typical of Watkins, though. Always running his mouth, insulting everyone he comes across. He’s finally done something against character. Something human.”

  “He really said that to you about me? Man, that’s rotten.”

  “Watkins was never decent. Except for a month here and there, when he was going through therapy.”

  Tom was rubbing his head, as if he had a headache. “I’m numb…confused as hell. Don’t know what to think anymore.”

  As dark and ill-timed as this evening had become, the chain of events explained Tom’s wretched condition, his volatility; none of these remembrances, however, shed light on his flimsy, contrived excuses for sneaking out on his fiancé, making irrational, dangerous decisions, acting idiotic, irresponsible. Lucy had heard of the various ways in which men reacted to the fear of marriage and permanence and monogamy and kids; most grown men, she had been told by countless other women, were nothing more than little boys trapped in adult bodies, evolving in form but not in mental and emotional capacity, secretive and deceitful. She had also heard that statement from her married friends and from her mother, who had often spoken disrespectfully about Lucy’s father; she complained constantly about her forty-year marriage, but never tried to improve it. Not in a million years did Lucy think she would now feel the same about the man in her life, a man who had brought her to a horrible crossroads, leaving their future in a dark void of doubt. The events of this particular evening were going to linger in her mind for an unbearably long time no matter how remorseful and apologetic Tom was, no matter how hard he worked to mend his and Lucy’s threadbare relationship. Her mom had been right all those years, Lucy thought: Sometimes men commit to a relationship knowing they will regret it later in life and then make you spend the rest of your life paying for it.

  Lucy stood and looked down at Tom. She knew what she was about to say was untimely and hurtful, but she couldn’t stop herself from voicing the thoughts at the forefront of her mind. “If this is the way you have felt for so long, maybe we’ve got a rough road ahead of us. Maybe we ought to rethink what we want out of life.” She shook her head, groaned. “Now that I think about it, it might be better if we consider going our separate ways. I mean, do you think we can endure much more?”

  Tom, as usual, said nothing. Just when he could have maybe risen from the couch, stood confidently before his wife, and promised to put all the turmoil behind him and demonstrate his commitment to a better, more fruitful future, he lapsed into nothingness. He didn’t even turn his head in Lucy’s direction. Didn’t even make the slightest movement. Didn’t even move his lips or open his mouth to form a response. Pathetic indeed.

  Lucy walked away. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Please sleep out here. I want to be alone.”

  Abjectly hopeless, devoid of the strength and determination to seize the moment and take control of himself, Tom sat in silence, fresh tears spreading down his face as he tried to figure out whether the whole calamitous evening was an accident or merely a cowardly way to end his life on his own terms—just another botched suicide. After all, this wasn’t the first time he’d gone bonkers. More than once Lucy had tolerated his drinking binges, his overnight trips to the casino, which always left Tom dealing with sleepless nights of unyielding, unrelenting regret and anguish. Regardless of his actions and intentions, did he now deserve a chance to make it up to the lady in his life, the one who’d made a commitment to him in spite of his many shortcomings? Now that he had finally divulged his inner turmoil, his deep-seated fears, could he in time prove to be her worthy counterpart, if given the chance? Could he conquer his own demons, manage his own weaknesses? Doubtful? Could he shatter the stigma attached to so many men? If his life and relationship were doomed, could he ever be a match for another woman? Would he ever be emotionally and psychologically capable of rising above the ruins he had left in his path, overcoming his obstacles, and being a better, more stable man? Could he handle the challenging, unpredictable realities of the l
ife ahead of him? This is what Tom was left to ponder all alone: the disaster, the tumult, the ongoing shambles his life had become—and his utter lack of direction to set it straight, as he sat in the dark, once again, staring at a wall he couldn’t see, though he felt as if all four of them were creeping toward him with the intention of squashing him, putting him out of his misery.

  UNFORESEEN

  We were a close and loving family. Like other families, we quarreled from time to time but never failed to respect and support one another during the many hardships. These sentiments are what keep me going and give meaning to my personal rebuilding process. My name is Herbert Johansen. And whether I can bear it or not, I would like to describe the events of the most horrible day of my life as I’m visualizing them now. My thoughts are scattered. But first let me say…

  In our lifetime, all of us on this vast planet will have our inner strength challenged when least expected, no matter how much we try to insulate ourselves from myriad threats. Reality in its darkest forms can dismantle the most stable and reasoning human being. For several years now (three to be exact) I have been in exhaustive therapy, making every effort to come to terms with the catastrophe I survived and let go of my pain.

  I grew up on a farm. How delightful it was to rise every morning to the aroma of thriving crops, acres of freshly cut grass, and to the sounds of lively animals stirring inside the barns. Each day commenced with a hearty meal, thirty minutes of reading from the Bible, and then hours of arduous field work with my pop, a fastidious worker who demanded my best effort. Pop taught me the value of physical work; it didn’t matter to him that I was only twelve years old. He always said: “The good Lord gives you that body to work, and a brain to study his message.” Everybody I knew within thirty miles of home attended church every weekend. After the ceremony, most people went home, some lingered for coffee and donuts. My pop had developed his own ritual: He required us to stand on the front lawn of our house while he recited a prayer—his way of blessing the crops. His scriptures never made sense to me, but since the words came from him I listened carefully.

  My pop (he liked being called that, by the way) was a short man, barely five feet, with a muscular physique and leathery hands. His strength and pride made him seem larger than life to me. He never avoided backbreaking work, even when he had to carry bulky, cumbersome stone to build a drainage wall behind our garden. He did it for hours without a break, and then after his nap he read until supper. My thoughts of him are always uplifting and full of admiration.

  Momma did her job terrifically as well. She cooked large, nourishing meals, kept the house in tiptop shape, and showered us both with love. If my parents were paid lavishly for their devotion to family, we would have been able to live luxuriously in a mansion; but there were no such dwellings anywhere near our old farm.

  As I recall—this was five years ago—my parents were asleep in their bedroom on the second floor. A full day of work had taken a toll on them. I must have nodded off for about ten rejuvenating minutes when I was awakened by a rumble outside, followed by a slight tremor: the noise reminded me of the thumping ruckus of thunder—but it alarmed me unaccountably. Across from me, on the decorated wall in the den, a picture swayed gently from the vibration, then the light above me flickered. I placed the book I was reading on the desk and made haste for my parents’ bedroom, where I found them in the deepest sleep; their repose looked so peaceful that I decided not to intrude upon their much-needed rest.

  Instead, feeling curious as any antsy child, I walked outside onto our porch and stared at the sky. Blackness encompassed me, but a shiny purplish-white hue around the warming slit of the moon shined down onto the open land. A slight breeze made me more alert as I observed, uneasily, the dirt road below: everything seemed fine. Nearby farms were calm. All were fast asleep, restoring their energy for another day. Faint groans could be heard from a few of the horse stables, and it was in the middle of that moment of blissful peace that I noticed an oddity: the clouds swelled, clustered together, formed an immense funnel, and spun strangely toward the moon like an inverted tornado. It seemed as if there were a separation in the mesosphere and opposite sections of the sky were pulling away, revealing the most disturbing sight I had ever seen. Space itself had cracked open and yet the air became stagnant around me; the odor of the fresh, invigorating outdoors had given way to a dreadful musty smell. My body stiffened. A terror I’d never experienced before seized me. I needed to rush to my parents and alert them to the disorder transforming the atmosphere before my eyes.

  Another clap of thunder rattled me. I fled the porch and hustled to my parents’ room. I burst through their door with the strength of an hysteric youth and they sprung from their bed in an instant. My mother cringed at the sight of the terrified look in my eyes. Pop immediately ran to the closet—instincts taking him over—and wrapped his thick hands around the handle and barrel of his rifle. “Are we being attacked, son?” I was stunned and scared stiff, but I answered to the best of my knowledge. “Something’s wrong.” A flat response perhaps but it was more than ample reason for my brave father to break for the second-floor porch I’d just come from; he must have heard the screen door swinging back and forth as the wind became more violent.

  From the porch the three of us stared in amazement at the drastic transformation. My father—with my mother glaring at him and waiting for answers—found himself struggling to explain the perplexing occurrences taking place around us. In a state of shock, the gun slipped from my father’s grip and dropped onto the wooden floor. Mom’s eyes pooled with tears. Pop seemed unsure of how to react—helpless in fact. This was not an intruder or a drunken farmer or even an escaped prisoner crossing the border. That wasn’t the threat at hand. His polished steel rifle, with the scope and mini torpedo-like bullets, served no purpose now. Nature could crush all in its path; we felt like a speck of dirt underneath the gargantuan paw of a dinosaur.

  “I’ve read many books on weather and science,” he said. “Yet this is something I can’t begin to understand.” My father’s voice had an unfamiliar mixture of alarm and confidence, perhaps the expression of a commander ordering his troops into an uncertain situation without having a firm grasp of the enemy. “This wind, this needlelike rain,” he exclaimed, shaking his hands at the sky, “it’s increasing too fast. Look at those clouds, that sky. I can’t believe my eyes.”

  As I listened to my pop vent his frustration, the cold rain became more frigid and lashed us with fury, the wind raced with devastating turbulence, frequently changing direction. We ran from the porch to our cellar. As we left I heard the wooden overhang rattle, then crack. At that point I couldn’t deny the troubling thoughts consuming me. My father, for the moment at least, kept his composure. My mother followed his lead; as resilient as she was she often depended on him to handle the big problems. I saw tension building inside her, strain in her eyes. At the bottom of the steps I shouted over the roar of the storm. “This has got to be a typhoon, Pop.”

  He shook his head in disagreement. “No, sir, it most certainly is not. A typhoon loses its power as it moves onto land. This is otherworldly, son.”

  “What on earth is it, Pop?” Just then we heard windows exploding upstairs.

  My father gave me a look—one a doctor gives the patient when he must reveal a life-threatening prognosis. “That out there is beyond our comprehension. Nature’s angry. Gone crazy.”

  We huddled in the basement and started putting together a plan—a rushed plan—but it would have to suffice. Time was passing with lightning speed. My mother clutched my pop’s arm, completely disoriented, and suddenly without the ability to conjure up her motherly instincts. “What do we do?” She sounded helpless, petrified.

  Pop looked at the ceiling as the screaming storm intensified; the loud booming became twice as intimidating. “We have to make a break for it.”

  Running upstairs we passed through the living room on our way to the canopy where the car was parked. In the main
hall the windows were popping under pressure as we went by them, throwing glass into the air, slicing Mom’s face—Pop and I were unharmed. Within minutes we were outside getting in the car. The once-thriving crops around us were now flattened, whole acres uprooted. Branches had snapped from our many fine rows of fruit trees and were broadcast hither and thither. One stubby limb landed on our windshield and cracked the glass. The three of us fastened our seat belts. Desperate, my pop tried using the radio but all we heard were voice fragments through the static: “Stay indoors. Don’t attempt…leave…we…looking... matter…stay…for more.”

  A swath of wind spread under the car and shook the frame, lifting the passenger side of the car inches from the ground. As we drove away my mother’s breathing quickened abnormally. I clutched her tightly, trying to calm her. “We’re getting out of here, Mom,” I assured her. “Pop knows what he’s doing.”

  My mother formed the slightest smile and spoke despite her heightened condition, her blood-stained face. “He always knows.”

  We sped down the long, winding dirt road, passing rolling acres of sprawling farmland and fields. Trees had snapped and fallen and were still cowering under wind stress. A tractor on a roadside gravel trail had been tipped over; we could see the diesel tank dented and detached beside it, the tractor wheels spinning in mid-air like windmills in frenzy. Stables in the distance appeared decimated; animals may have sensed danger and escaped in panic; there were none in sight.

  Pop drove us another mile or so and brought us past Luther Willis’s place, the town’s beloved tractor mechanic. His windows were blown out. Wind and rain ripped through the empty frames and through nooks and crannies of the shoddy wooden shakes. The walls were buckling. The roof was on the verge of suffering damage as fierce currents swept and shimmied underneath the loosened shingles and began stripping them away. My father was driving like a maniac, speeding down the narrow country road as best he could, attempting to avoid the storm’s path. Somehow, by way of miracle or good driving, we hadn’t been flipped. Surges of vicious wind forced us to veer, to bounce erratically, but Pop held it together. Mom was right: He always knew what to do. He fought the wheel and it battled him in return. He would not give in. He refused to back down. His vice-like grip on the steering wheel was unbreakable. The sky turned blacker. In the glow of the moon, the cylindrical cloud above us was drawing more energy and rising toward the dark hole of oblivion, pushing vertically toward space, rearing an uglier pattern. At the same time the bottom of the strange cloud elongated and various tails began overspreading the land like an enormous gray octopus with rust-colored blotches. Bright, dense lightning flashed violently across the hideous sky, the constant thunder was near deafening, causing my head to ache. Debris battered our car, easily denting the metal. And just as I wondered how much worse all of this could become the sky rained particles of ash, red and fluffy, and as they landed the ground quaked more alarmingly.