Truth Hurts

by David Boyle

  Pop was sweating profusely. “This isn’t happening,” he mumbled. His face turned paler. My mother, seeing his pupils dilated and his unsightly pallor, began to further lose her composure. She realized at that second that her worst fears had been confirmed: her husband’s bravery might not save us and, worst of all, his inability to take control of a situation, accompanied by his utter silence, meant terrible things.

  Behind us I heard a crack, like the ominous sound of a gargantuan tree falling, only a thousand times louder. I turned around. My father had the accelerator pinned, the engine screamed like a wounded lion. What we witnessed was more frightening than anything I could have ever imagined, scarier than my most baffling nightmares. The road behind us was literally splitting. Seams were spreading, the crevices chasing us steadfastly, wanting to pull us underneath into the Earth’s deepening crust. Stones and debris were falling into the gaps. Trees of all sizes collapsed and plunged into the rapidly widening chasms. I clutched Mom’s arm tightly while my eyes stared hollowly at the chaos behind us. “We’re gonna make it, Mom. Just hold on.”

  Mom’s body no longer shook. Her eyes were frozen, expressionless, fixed on me. An emptiness I’d never known assailed me: She was gone. She had no pulse. “No!” I cried out. I made a half-hearted, unskilled attempt to jumpstart her heart. I laid her flat on the seat and tried to resuscitate her. Pop was aware of the grave danger behind him but had to keep driving. The terrors behind us were escalating. The splits in the earth followed us like belligerent fuses scattering every which way. Tears poured from Pop’s eyes but he knew if he stopped the car the outcome would be fatal. Mom’s cold, lifeless body never responded to my best efforts. With careful thrusts I worked her chest, blew air into her mouth and repeated the process, again and again. I worked tirelessly for what seemed like hours—merely minutes had passed—for I had to fathom the most horrifying reality yet: my attempts to save her were laughably useless. I would not be a hero. I could not give my mother life although she had given it to me. “Is it over, son?” Pop asked, his voice muffled as he choked on his own emotions. I covered my face with my hands and began crying. The torrents of distress were unbearable. Through clenched fingers, I answered. “Yes, Pop.”

  My pop lost control of the car and veered off the road into a desolate driveway where weeds protruded through the gravel surface among broken glass and litter. Our car came to a stop in an overgrown corn field. Dazed, I jumped from the vehicle and ran to the other side, then began pulling my pop from the car. He was dazed, mumbling to himself words I couldn’t comprehend. As I yanked him to freedom the wind kicked up and pushed the car back toward the road. The powerful surge threw Pop and me into a mammoth tree, where we held on for our lives. From a tangle of branches we watched the storm reeling the car—with my dead mother inside—into one of the deadly widening trenches in the street. Dad looked up to the sky and screamed amidst the squalling wind and ice-cold rain. “God damn you!” I grabbed his shirt sleeve and tried to hold him in place. The seething currents were gathering velocity. My grip would not hold long. While sharp rain speared my father’s face he spoke. “I love you, son.” A surge of water shot into my mouth, preventing my reply, but I nodded.

  My father was thrown into a swirling mass of whipping water and land. I too was tossed an outlandish distance, landing in a dirty, overflowing rushing river just a stone’s throw from a woody embankment. The deep water had cushioned my fall and I swam to the surface. The storm began changing its course. It was—I dared to hope—moving away from where I lay. Nowhere close by or in my most distant vision could I see my father. He had been ripped from that tree like a tender limb and flung into the whirling dusty sky. I knew right then and there that I had lost my parents and life would never be the same. Exhausted by grief, I found refuge in an old barn and then fainted.

  When I woke it was as though none of what I had lived through ever happened. For a split second I hoped it was all a bad dream but it wasn’t. A patch of hay needling my sides and the horse manure stains on my shirt reminded me that what I had witnessed was totally and, without question, real. My clothes hung from me, ragged and torn. My body was deeply chilled. I shivered while I scanned the room from the dirty wooden floor. Around me, the barn appeared unkempt, hardly used. The bales of hay at my feet and beside me were soiled and crawling with bugs. Cracked, rusty tools were hanging on the walls and dangling from the ceiling.

  Standing, I felt my bones wanting to fold underneath me but I had to press on. I leaned into the large barn door, allowing the weight of my terribly fatigued body to push it open. Outside, the sunlight fired into my eyes. It felt as though I were a prisoner who’d spent an inordinate amount of time in solitary confinement. In the distance I saw the remnants of the storm’s damage: slits in the ground, roofs unhinged, shards of lumber, scatterings of assorted junk. Not far behind me, the land seemed to be untouched by the previous night’s horror. Part of me wanted to go back and find my pop although I knew I couldn’t handle the sight of his broken body. I had no way of determining where he might have landed.

  I forced myself to retrace my steps, the miles we had covered in the car. I decided there would be no rest until I could see my pop—dead or not. If I had to walk for hours, for days, that was the price I was willing to pay. I needed to know what had happened to him. Sadly, I knew Mom had perished in the black abyss underneath the earth: she was dead before the car took the plunge.

  For at least thirty minutes I walked aimlessly and found my way back to where the sights of ruin were rampant around me. The sun was burning more intensely overhead, the sky no longer presenting a dismal picture, no longer engulfed by the foulest, most ruthless storm I had ever lived to see, and luckily lived through. In the distance I noticed only a handful of people, moving purposelessly, ridden with anguish and defeat, the same awful feelings that were devouring me inside, and would haunt me for days longer. I had no way of calculating the number of deaths the maniacal storm had caused.

  Within the hour I came to the highway which seemed almost unrecognizable. The trenches were deep and narrow: Everything below the surface was black, just as I had anticipated. For a second I tried to imagine the actual depth of the holes but I had no way of measuring, nor did it matter. More importantly, I realized I’d never see into the crevices unless I had stronger light.

  I kept moving. I ventured farther and crossed over a flattened cornfield. I came upon an old pump house. The walls were in bad shape, the foundation pushed away from the cinderblocks underneath, revealing an uneven mound of sand, dirt, and rubble. Around me I felt the air thickening again, that exact feeling I had when standing on our porch before all hell broke loose. I couldn’t believe it. The clouds above me began rolling across the sky, anxious to cause havoc all over again. Then, suddenly, from the distance I heard a rumble, steady and pulsing. I gazed up to the sky and looked all around me. In the distance, emerging from the bubbling clouds, I saw a helicopter coming toward me. Its propellers sang a peaceful song, one I longed to hear. I waved my hands desperately as the chopper slowly descended into the vast mess. Sighting no clear place to land, the pilot settled for a nearby shredded field, and I began walking toward the man as he jumped from the rear compartment. We met at a halfway point. He was big and strong, dressed in a flight uniform with an American flag patch on his shoulder. He greeted me with a handshake. The chopper reminded me once again of roaring thunder, a thunder I did not fear now. “I’m Brannigan,” the man said. “We need to evacuate. According to the National Weather Service, what this town’s been hit with is nothing compared to what’s coming, and they’re not sure how far this disaster will spread.”

  My heart palpitated as I listened to the dreadful news.

  “The storm’s progress is unpredictable,” he said. “Doing our best.”

  I wiped dust from my eyes. The pilot’s voice grew urgent, louder. “I’m sorry but we have to get moving, get survivors to a safe shelter. Is there anyone else here with you? Any survivors?”<
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  That question was painful to hear. It meant I had to say goodbye to my parents. I never thought it would end this way. I bent down and picked up a piece of the damaged earth and placed it in my pocket. I needed to have a reminder of where they would remain—I had nothing else to hold on to, no keepsake. A handful of eroded turf with remnants of soil would have to suffice. And just maybe, I thought, I could apply the principles of my pop’s farming lessons and make that grass flourish into a vigorous field one day, celebrating my parents’ lives after I had finished mourning their loss. I boarded the chopper and we swung over the dismal landscape, and then banked east, on our way to a safe place.

  Years have passed since that dreadful night. I often wonder if and when that kind of danger might strike again and, if it did, would I be so lucky? The rock I’m sitting on is gigantic, half of it buried deep in the sandy loam beneath my feet in my backyard. I wrote all this down as my therapist instruct-ed years back. Whenever I struggle with the memories of what happened, I have found reliving the story to be comforting; my tears lessen with each telling. In my garden I have planted my little piece of grass and supplied the necessary nutrients to encourage growth. So far my little keepsake is responding favorably. When it’s large enough—to my satisfaction at least—I will transplant it to a more accommodating space where its roots can spread with vigor. I also have discovered that, quite surprisingly, my repeated flashbacks in time, regardless of how disturbing, provide the relief I need to go on living. They boost my gratitude—my gratitude for having once been part of a solid, nurturing family. And one day, with a little luck, I will start a family of my own. It’s almost time to lie down and rest. The morning brings work. My career holds promise: I’m apprenticed to a local meteorologist.

  In the years since the accident, I haven’t prayed once and have no plans to ever again. If there were such a supreme being responsible for life on Earth, he wouldn’t have let my parents die and let me, who never believed, live. They were loyal to him and his teachings and yet they suffered when they should have prospered. The lessons—the facts—I’ve learned in life will stay with me forever: Nature is in charge, no one else; nothing else. From time to time, Mother Nature needs to cleanse herself and start anew. We are intruders on her land, not the other way around. So, when she is furious we must be ready. Though we are no match for her—with or without weapons, with or without the resolve to protect and defend our territory. We must savor, and preserve, the remains of her destruction.

  VAPOR

  Bryant Palmer, staring morosely through the French sliding doors and watching Miranda swimming laps in the immense rectangular pool, turned toward the front door when he heard the doorbell going off, two long presses. He started for the door at a lazy pace, as if the distance from where he was standing to the door was of great inconvenience. On his way, he paused for the briefest moment in front of one of many extravagant paintings. Having given that particular item only a routine glance, he moved on, almost disinterestedly, like a spoiled child with abundant toys, none of which offered sufficient quality, interest, or significance.

  He opened the door—and admired with wide eyes and with a lump in his throat the strikingly attractive brunette in the doorway; his thoughts, his imagination, his libido came alive. The exquisite paintings hanging on the walls were nothing in comparison to the ravishing woman standing before him holding a clipboard and wearing form-fitting overalls, the zippered neckline opened just above her cleavage; the embroidery on her left pocket read “Tanya.”

  “Good afternoon. You have a leaky faucet, Mr. Palmer?” she said. “I’m Tanya, from Elite Services.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out, Tanya.” Though Bryant was joking, the tone of his voice and his stiff posture could be hard to read—so he had been told by his employees.

  Tanya smirked. Her unblinking eyes re-examined her clipboard.

  “Or are you a strip-o-gram plumber? This wouldn’t be the first time the boys have pulled that one on me.”

  Tanya rolled her eyes, scratched a few notes on her work-order sheet. Male customers had often uttered such immature nonsense. “May I check your faucet, please? I’ve got a lot of stops pending. Boss is getting anxious. He’s not a pleasant man to begin with, and the heat wave’s not helping.”

  “Sure thing, Tanya. Right this way,” Bryant said, guiding her to the kitchen, glancing back at her repeatedly. Tanya noticed but paid no mind. She followed him care-fully, positioning her bulky, oblong toolbox in front of her, being sure not to let it come near the walls. Tarnishing or scuffing a customer’s walls would be grounds for immediate suspension or termination. Bryant tapped the faucet with his knuckle, an oversized gold ring making the noise louder. “This is the one. Constant drip. Irritating noise—which I have a very low tolerance for. Like fingernails on a chalk-board, Tanya. It would drive anyone crazy.”

  Miranda, clad in her wet bathing suit and no towel, had come in from her swim, carelessly dripping water all over the freshly cleaned carpet, her bare feet leaving soggy trails where she walked. Tanya sneaked a glance at her. Miranda smiled. Tanya smiled back, nodded her head, and kept working. Bryant grimaced. “The drip must have driven the wife crazy. Maybe that’s why she’s filing for divorce.”

  Tanya did her best to tune out his small talk, his attempt at humor, though she had a curious look on her face. Nevertheless, she had a job to do and it wasn’t customary for her to meddle in customers’ private lives, regardless of how friendly or hospitable they were. She remained focused on her assignment. As she labored she could feel Bryant’s eyes on her, assessing her. Men, even women, had been known to stare at her while she worked. Some had all the best intentions, wanting to lend a hand, perhaps, or answer any routine questions she might have. Some just had the habit of bearing down on her, as was the case now with Mr. Palmer, whose self-assuredness seemed to ooze from him; he had that world-wise air about him. In any case, Tanya appreciated it when customers gave her adequate space and privacy to complete her duties.

  Less than fifteen minutes passed. Having taken apart sections of the faucet and repaired them efficiently, Tanya tested the water-flow and the drip, both of which were now in good order. She wiped her sweaty face with a handkerchief she had pulled from her back pocket; she stretched her neck, she caught her breath. Bryant still couldn’t stop gawking. He had shifted his gaze at times, pretending to take notice of other things around the room, but Tanya had been fully aware of his constant ogling, a look more irritating than flattering, more judgmental than innocent. “I’m sorry, Tanya,” Bryant mumbled in a some-what shaky voice, “but I’ve got to ask you a personal question. Would that be all right?”

  Tanya sucked in a deep breath as she collected her tools and cleaned up the mess, doing her best not to make excessive eye contact with the customer. “Go ahead. Ask,” she said indifferently.

  Bryant shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, licked his lips, winked indiscreetly. “How did a knockout like you end up a plumber? It just seems so...bizarre. So unnatural.”

  Tanya, wiping her hands with a rag, contemplated a response. Ten seconds of silence, the constant drip no longer present to mark time. Bright, colorful track lighting made more visible the perspiration on her forehead and along her hairline, as well as accentuating her hazel eyes, her high cheekbones. She had hardly any makeup on, her complexion virtually impeccable without it. “I became a plumber because of an old friend. He used to be in the field. I learned from him.”

  Bryant took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest. “Hmm. That doesn’t really explain much. Doesn’t explain why you chose it as a profession. I’m sure you could get much better jobs. Or have someone take care of you.”

  “Why would I want anything else?” she countered. “This,” she said, gesturing with her open palm at her toolbox, “is empowering.”

  Bryant laughed under his breath. “Empowering? What-ever you say.”

  “You know, Mr. Palmer, I’m not one to break the
rules of job conduct, engaging with customers in anything other than the business at hand. But now that I have, a soon-to-be-divorced man is in no position to judge me—or anybody else.”

  The overconfident smile had disappeared from Bryant’s face. His firm, guarded stance had loosened, his lower jaw moved from side to side, as if showing restraint. “Feisty one, eh? Perhaps you’re right. But any man—any woman, even—would ask the same thing.”

  Exasperated, Tanya huffed slightly.

  “If you don’t mind,” Bryant said, “I’d like to complete the rest of the puzzle. I’d even pay you for your time.” Bryant pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, handed it to her. “This should cover it.”