by Greg Walker
“Maybe. I might need to take tomorrow, too.”
Chapter 12
Will had arrived home late from the camping trip also, driving a circuitous route to Erie, and then once in the city choosing random streets, lost in thought. He still clung to the aftershocks of the adrenaline high that the robbery had sparked but mostly dealt with a growing sense of shame in finding himself in a near identical situation to the one he had intended to resolve; Brody Stape once again their master, but this time, he, Will Roup, entirely responsible.
He didn’t fault Jon for attacking him, expected much worse than the single punch and knew he deserved it. He assumed that if they made it through this fiasco to the end, and were still alive and not incarcerated, his friendship with Jon had reached its expiration date. The only other scenario he could envision was that they might bond once again in prison for the sake of survival, not a thought he wished to entertain.
Will ended up outside his house, where Michelle and Justin lived, and parked his car at the curb across the street. He had intended to enter Erie as a conqueror, with his past bound in chains and paraded behind him. Instead, he came at the end of the procession, led by Brody as if he rode ahead on his Harley, dragging Will in the dust.
Will watched the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of his wife or son. The only light that filtered to the kitchen and the bedroom he used to share with his wife came from the living room, deeper in the house. Justin should be in bed already, so Michelle probably sat transfixed in front of some reality show, the type which Will hated and had been the source of many petty arguments, before she caught the weather on the eleven o’clock news and then headed to bed.
The bedroom light came on, and without the shade pulled Jon’s pulse quickened at the possibility of seeing her. He experienced some arousal at the thought of catching her in a stage of undress, then felt utterly pathetic at his demotion to peeping tom in regards to the woman he used to share a bed with.
It wasn’t Michelle that he saw, however, but an unknown man entering the bedroom - technically still Will's bedroom - with his shirt off, displaying a more muscular build than Will could ever hope for. Michelle followed, wearing only her bra and an already short skirt, rumpled and riding high up on her thighs. She walked directly to the window and pulled the shade, but the image remained burned in Will’s mind even as he closed his eyes to block it out.
After a long moment, he looked again, but saw only the shade backlit by the lamp, and then darkness as it was extinguished. He considered going to the door, pounding on it, forcing her from the bed and into her bathrobe, and confronting them both. He could go in hard, pushing her aside and attacking her lover before either could react. He found that he didn’t much fear a physical confrontation with a man that would probably knock him to the floor, but discovered little solace in it now. What he feared most was that Michelle, while his blood dripped into the carpet and they both stood over him in disgust or contempt or pity, would ask him for a divorce. This wasn’t part of the plan. But then nothing had gone according to plan, for his entire life, it seemed.
Will started the car and drove away, his heart torn but thinking that maybe there was still a chance to get her back. Perhaps this weekend hadn't been a total debacle. Maybe revenge no longer mattered. Just as Brody had explained, that most people are made to follow, perhaps it came down to understanding his personal limitations, finding the right fit, and doing the best within those parameters. Yes, that might be it; but he was too exhausted to hammer out any details right now. Will went to his apartment - not his home as this place could never be that, still thought of the house he had lurked outside of as home - and crawled into bed.
The matter of winning back Michelle became moot the next morning. When checking the mail that had accumulated in his absence, he discovered a thick envelope from a downtown law firm that carried the news he had feared, delivered in a much more formal and detached fashion. Michelle wanted a divorce and custody of Justin. He would have visitation rights, to be determined by the courts at a later date.
He wanted to burn the notice, tear it up into pieces, scrawl obscenities on the documents, mark the envelope "return to sender" and thrust it back into the mailbox. But Will did none of those things, only sat in his ratty armchair found at a yard sale - marked “free” - with the letter on his lap. He wondered if he should be crying or yelling or doing something, but could only manage a general feeling of numbness that glued him to his seat.
At nine-thirty, long after he should have been at work and out making sales calls, he still sat, replaying the various scenes from the weekend. He found them more stimulating than anything else currently happening in his life.
At eleven he decided that alcohol might be just what the doctor ordered, and made his way to a bar that he had passed many times but never visited, walking gingerly with the soreness that had settled into every strand of muscle tissue. Seemed like a place beneath his status, but perfect now for solitary and anonymous inebriation. Will wasn't much of a drinker, would share a casual beer with some guys from the company or with a customer, or a glass of wine at dinner when he and Michelle had gone out. He hadn't gotten sloppy drink since college, and decided that since he had opened up a portal into his past already, he might as well step through again; the results certainly couldn't be worse.
The bartender appeared dubious at his request for a shot of brandy but served him without comment, returning to cleaning the glasses and straightening the bottles of alcohol with their labels out, preparing the bar for patrons later on. Jon sat on a seat at the very end, as far away from the door as possible, in a corner a few shades darker than the overall gloomy interior. The only lights came from over the bar - and only at the other end where the bartender focused his tasks - and some white Christmas lights strung up around the wainscoting secured with thumbtacks. The neon beer signs hadn't been plugged in, so the space lacked the third world carnival atmosphere that no doubt gave hope and encouragement to the regular alcoholics, that they engaged in something exciting rather than wasting their lives and livers. The place looked like a natural fit for such characters, the drunken alter egos of Cliff and Norm. Will didn't aspire to become one of them, but as the alcohol burned his stomach and soothed his frayed nerves and bruised feelings, he thought he might make a little more room in his life for such a magical potion. But he would visit the state store and buy a bottle to drink in the comfort…well, at least the privacy of his own place.
He ordered another drink, the bartender making no attempts to engage him in conversation and Will grateful for it. The components of his life had been poked and prodded and revealed as hollow and he felt raw and exposed, with no desire to talk about the weather or sports or women. Will considered one more drink, but decided the strong buzz just shy of intoxication was enough for now to take away the edge, feared that with any more he might begin discussing things best left unsaid to strangers such a corpses buried in the woods. He put his money on the bar with small tip and got up to leave.
"Thanks," he said to the bartender, who only looked at him and then returned to writing in a notepad.
"I said, 'thanks'."
The man, a young man probably college age but working in a bar instead, this time gave a small wave without looking up, a motion that reminded him of someone shooing away a fly. Irritated, Will walked deliberately back to the small pile of money he had left and pulled back the two dollar donation, making sure the change jingled to get the man's attention.
"Guess I'll have to put buying that Ferrari on hold. Bye, asshole," he said.
Will searched for a retort, his anger piqued by the blatant disrespect. He imagined he were Brody, tried to picture what he would do. But he knew Brody wouldn't have been in this situation; the bartender, if he had any brains at all, would know that he stood in the presence of a dangerous man and would behave accordingly. Once upon a time he, Will, would have walked away at this point. But that Will had been upgraded, his tolerance for rudeness from a lo
ser like this drastically reduced. He might be Brody's bitch, but that certainly didn't extend to this punk.
Instead of a response, Will picked up all of his money, put it in his pocket and walked towards the door.
"Hey. You have to pay for your drinks. I'm talking to you, dickhead."
Will stepped outside, and heard footsteps close behind. He darted quickly to the right and flattened himself against the building, out of sight, wanting to time it perfectly. As the man passed through the threshold in pursuit, Will swung his fist into his gut as hard as he could and stepped back. The bartender's momentum caused him to fall forward as he crumpled to his knees, and he lay on the sidewalk with his head on the curb. He gasped, trying to catch his breath, his knees drawn up and his hands holding his stomach. Will stood over him, savoring the man's helplessness, nearly pulled back his foot to kick him in the face, but instead took all of the money, tip included, from his pocket, and threw it down. The change jingled on the concrete, a quarter running on its edge into the street, and the bills flutteredin the air like fallen leaves.
"Hey," he said.
The bartender looked up at him, and Will relished the fear in his eyes, and the respect borne from that fear.
"’You're welcome’. Or maybe 'sure, come back again.' That's all I wanted. No reason it had to be this hard."
The man struggled to sit up, and Will waited to see what he would do, hoped he would get up and fight. Willed him to.
"You want to do anything about this? I'm in no hurry. In fact I've got all day. Just let me know."
The man shook his head, and Will understood that he was just another coward, another fool with grand ideas about himself easily exposed when called to account. And in this way the bartender reminded him too much of himself. Before. Disgusted, he turned to walk away, and then on impulse pivoted back around and swung his foot, catching the bartender in the chin. He heard his teeth click together as he fell backwards again on the pavement.
Will glanced all around, but either nobody saw him or nobody cared, and he set on a brisk pace away from the scene, feeling better than he had all day, the soreness not so much an impediment now but a secret badge of honor. If he thought it worth the risk, he might go back to deliver one more blow. He kept walking and rounded the corner, smiling at this newfound freedom. He took off his jacket, like shedding an old skin that no longer fit, slung it over his shoulder and hiked the four blocks to his apartment.
Michelle picked up on the fifth ring, and Will did his best to keep an image of her tearing away from a passionate kiss to take his call.
"Hello?"
"It's me, Michelle. I got the papers in the mail."
There was a pause, and Will waited anxiously, gripping the phone so hard he feared it would break.
"Yes."
"That's all? 'Yes'? Fourteen years and that's all you can say?"
"Will, I'm sorry. What do you want? This separation has been enough for me to know that I don't want to go back to the way things were. I want to be happy again. I haven't been happy for a long time."
Will ran his hands through his hair, trying to bite back his anger, carefully measuring his words to avoid doing any more damage. So much hung in the balance. If nothing else, he needed to preserve his relationship with his son.
"We can work things out. I know we can. I've changed. Just give me a chance to show you that. I love you, and I'm sorry for making it so hard."
"I don't want to work things out. It's over Will. Just please try to accept that. Anything else will just make it more difficult for…everyone."
His anger rose, and he tried and failed to keep it in check.
"What's that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me about Justin? He's my son, too."
"No. I'm not doing that. Please calm down. But I do think that Justin shouldn't play on the team right now, until we get this sorted out. He's confused enough already, and I probably shouldn't have let him join this year in the first place, until we knew how this would end."
Knowing it was the wrong thing to say, Will blurted out, "You knew already, didn't you? I saw you, last night. I stopped by the house and I saw him. Where was Justin? Did you send him to bed early so you could screw your boyfriend?"
Her silence infuriated him more.
"What, you thought you could keep that a secret? We are still married, Michelle. I haven't been with anyone at all, you know."
"Maybe not recently. But I know what you did at that conference. I know all about it. Don't you dare try to turn me into a whore, when you did that already."
Will could feel his cheeks burning, but he refused to back down. He'd been backing down his entire life. What he had told Jon hadn't been entirely accurate. The opportunity to test his manhood had never arisen because he'd steered clear of any situation that could turn physical. Even verbal attacks had left him shaking inside, provoking a need to appease rather than stand his ground. Any maybe, just maybe, Michelle needed him to step up and refuse to go along with the divorce. Perhaps it was a test. She needed to know he would fight for her. He could do that. He would. He took a deep breath to steady his voice, to dispel his anger, or at least hide it.
"I'm sorry. You're right, and I’m asking for your forgiveness. But I was different then. I went camping with Jon Albridge this weekend. Some things happened...and everything’s changed. We need to try, Michelle. I'm willing to try. Can we do that? Just try?"
She began to cry, and Will took it as a good sign, an indication that she still felt something for him. He dared to believe this could turn out okay. Just one thing. Was that too much to ask?
"Will, I waited for you to change for years. And I finally realized it wasn't going to happen. You're a self-absorbed man that put his wife and son in the background to amass some fortune that still has yet to materialize. And now magically this weekend everything changed. What happened? Was there a revival at the campground? Did you find Jesus, Will? Tell me what could have made such a huge difference in one weekend."
The tears had yielded to anger, and she mocked him in her challenge. He came close, so very close to telling her everything, but knew how foolish it would be, and knew how ineffective his next words sounded before he spoke them.
"I...I can't tell you what happened. But if you'll just trust me. I'm not lying."
"I don't trust you, Will. I can't. And even if I thought I could, I don't want to. That man's name is Robert, and do you know what? We went to dinner before you spied on us through the window..."
"I wasn't spying."
"Whatever you want to call it. But when he picked me up, he told me how nice I looked, how good my perfume smelled. He pulled out my chair at the table. He looked me in the eye when we spoke, was actually interested in what I had to say. He did all of those things I've been waiting for you to do. And now by some profound experience that's also a big secret, I'm supposed to believe that you can do that?"
"He just wanted to get into your pants, Michelle. I didn't think you were that stupid."
"Shut up! He didn't even want to come in. I invited him and then insisted. And before I screwed him, he wanted to go home, said he didn't want to ruin things. And for your information, Justin was at my mother's. He hasn't even met Robert, and I don't plan on introducing them until after the divorce is final."
"I won't sign the papers." His voice had turned petulant, and he knew he had lost, the decisive moment probably passing years ago without him even noticing.
"Then I will hate you. I don't, yet. Maybe I should, but I don't. I just want out. You can keep me as a wife in name, but I will never be one again to you beyond that, Will. If you've really changed, then let me go and you can find someone else to prove it to. Be happy with her. I wish you the best. I have to go now. Please just sign the papers. For once, think about somebody other than yourself. Goodbye."
He heard the click of the terminated connection but held the phone to his ear, thinking of all the things he might have said, but then realized that the phone wasn't a t
ime machine so that he could go back to all of those conversations necessary to prevent this one, that nothing said now could matter enough. He gently put the receiver back in the cradle, went to the kitchen table, set down the papers from the envelope and signed his name. He experienced true sorrow for what it meant, the most significant signature of his life, but he knew that she was right. The new Will Roup couldn't waste any more time. And truth be told, he had things to do, and couldn’t see a place for Michelle in them. He thought again of the most important thing, that one with Brody. Instead of dread, he felt a curious sense of excitement and anticipation.
Chapter 13
Brody arrived home from the trip the next day, after spending another night at the motel, enjoying the solitude, the anonymity of a generic room without any reminders of his life, either past or in progress. He liked his house, surprisingly left him by his mother, but their ghosts walked the empty rooms in the form of bitter memories and unmet expectations. His parents had both died young, his father first, his mother close behind, and he guessed that his life choices had contributed. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t feel sorry for those choices.