Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  “It was hardly that big of a deal, Wren.”

  “Spill it.”

  Bennie shuffles her feet and winds a string of red hair around her index finger.

  “I was hung over from getting drunk with Deacon Miles.”

  My mouth drops open, and I can’t believe what she’s saying. My chin bobs as my brain searches for a response. Finally, I point my finger at her and grin.

  “Mom made me sing that damn song, gave me the disappointed look, and then prayed for me to receive the blessing of talent.”

  “She did not,” Bennie says.

  “She did! Deacon Miles. The Deacon. You got drunk with Daddy’s assistant.”

  “We did more than just get drunk,” she says with an exaggerated wink. “You make it sound so sinister.”

  “Because it is, you tramp!”

  We both laugh until there are tears in our eyes, and I clutch at a pain in my side.

  “Tell me about your travels, Wren,” she says.

  “I thought you got all my postcards?”

  “I did. But they only tell me where you were. I want to know what you experienced, who you met. I kept every one of those postcards. Want to see?”

  “Hell, yes. I bet I don’t even remember half of them.”

  Bennie heads upstairs, and the air is much thicker with just Preston and me in the store. I feel, more than see, him approaching. I avoid his gaze until I can’t. What I see there is complete agony. I can tell he hasn’t slept. He looks tired and beat to shit. Though every other thing about his appearance is crisp and neat. Our gazes exchange places. Mine goes up, his goes down.

  His telltale frown increases as his lips move. I sit silently, hearing him count to twelve and start over again.

  “Twelve,” he finally says aloud. “There are twelve album frames in this case. Maybe I should move some to the other side. Six and six would work better.”

  I watch closely as he grabs a stack of flyers on the counter, straightens them, and lays them flat again. He does this three times before I interrupt him.

  “Did you need something, Preston?”

  His head snaps up, like he’s forgotten I’m here.

  “Alphabetical order,” he says, pointing to the flyers. “Coffee Call. Franklin Bowling. Lake Loveless Fourth of July Celebration. C, F, L.”

  “Preston,” I say again, urging him out of his OCD attack.

  He looks at his watch with a frown. Preston grabs the cup of pens near the register, replaces the caps on each one, and makes sure they are all cap side down. I watch him, waiting. But he seems to be lost in this ritual. He slides the cup back toward the register and spins it so that the word pens faces the front door. For once, I find all these rituals maddening.

  “Just spit it out, Preston,” I say, frustration evident.

  He turns to me, our eyes finally meet, and there is nothing there, no emotion I can read. He nods and rubs at the back of his neck, his flexed biceps pulling tight against his sleeve.

  He shakes his head and says nothing before walking away.

  As I watch him leave, I frown when he pauses to straighten the front album on every row on his way to the back of the store. A whisper of guilt floats through my mind. I’ve made his condition worse. His tics seem uncontrolled, his anxiety elevated. I know I’m being hard on him, but I can’t get over him keeping this secret. When I think about Preston knowing this whole time that my sister was dying and keeping that from me, I am hurt.

  A few minutes pass, and Bennie emerges with a large book. I am relieved to have her back here as a buffer. She slaps it down on the counter and waves a hand over it like a game-show girl.

  “What’s that?”

  “Every postcard you ever sent me. Chronologically.”

  “What? That’s awesome, Ben.”

  “It was Preston’s doing,” she says proudly.

  My head snaps up, and I meet his gray eyes across two aisles of records. He gives me a hopeful smile, but I can’t return it. Instead, I hop up on the counter and take a look as she opens the scrapbook and flips through the pages. I’m in awe and reliving my travels through these cards. I’m so honored that she kept them.

  “I want to know everything,” she says.

  For the rest of the day, I regale Bennie with stories from my three years away. We laugh at some adventures and cry at others. I tell her about people I met, the good and the bad. Sometimes Bennie cringes over a particularly dangerous situation, but I try to keep things light. Of course, Dylan wasn’t my first bad encounter on the road, but he was the one who broke me. He was the one who sent me running home for sanctuary.

  “Why haven’t we done this sooner?” I ask, flipping over a postcard from Nashville and reading the back.

  “Who knows? We’ve been distracted,” Bennie says.

  I watch Bennie flip through page after page of organized postcards. “I’m sorry I was so focused on Preston, Ben. I should have made more time for you.”

  Bennie sweeps my bangs to the side and pats my cheek. “No worries, kid.”

  And just like that, I feel better. That’s the best part of Bennie. She means what she says. Even after her recent lies, I can always trust that. It’s in the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes. It’s the way her mouth curls up on one side when she tells me not to worry. It’s sharing a part of her peace, and I embrace it.

  Around noon, Bennie and I are in a heated debate over our favorite Radiohead album when Preston approaches the counter. I keep my eyes on the ground, my arms crossed over my chest.

  “I’m going to go to lunch,” he says, running a hand through his hair. The same hand slides into his pocket and out again, before adjusting his shirt collar. He is like a beautiful sunset or a horrific accident, demanding my attention.

  “Okay, Preston. See you in an hour,” Bennie says.

  He hovers for a second, shifting back and forth. “Would either of you like something from Boone’s? I mean, would you like anything to eat from Boone’s? I could get you something. If you’d like.” Each time he says it, Preston emphasizes a different word in the sentence. It’s like he’s not satisfied with how it sounds and tries again.

  I look at my feet and shake my head, silently begging Bennie to answer him. “We’re fine, hon. Thanks.”

  The door chimes a few seconds later, and I know he is gone. I look to the front window and see his large form stop at the sidewalk. He looks up and down the street. Just catching that small glimpse of his profile sends a flutter through my chest. It’s been one day, and I already miss him. I watch his back as he crosses the street and disappears around the corner.

  “You’re being unfair,” Bennie says.

  “He lied to me. You both did.”

  “Then why aren’t you angry with me?”

  I turn to her now. She looks more like the old Bennie, hand on her hip, expectant look on her face.

  “I am angry with you; mad as hell. But I don’t know how much time I have left with you. I don’t have the luxury of wasting any of that time being mad.”

  Bennie takes a seat next to me, knocking my shoulder with hers. “None of us know how much time we have left, Wren. Do you really want to spend another day away from him? Do you want to devote that much energy into denying what is so obvious? You two belong together. I never thought it was possible, but you’ve met your match, Wren Hart.”

  “I can’t forgive him, Bennie.”

  “Not even for me?” she asks, batting her lashes.

  “Are you playing the dying sister card right now? Really?”

  “Too soon?”

  We both laugh, though it is empty and stabs at my heart in the worst way.

  Too much

  The emptiness is

  Too much

  I thought I knew lonely

  Before

  Always alone

  But now, it’s as if lonely

  Was paradise

  Compared to this

  Whatever it is

  It drags me down


  To a depth

  Of fixation

  Pain

  Anger

  That resides just

  Below hell

  She looks through me

  No smile

  Her words are sharp

  And cut like glass

  The obsession

  Now denied, is

  Too much

  This is what will kill me today

  - Preston

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Maladjusted

  Thursday morning Bennie and I have breakfast together. She heads down to the store, and I promise to show up later. Spending the entire day yesterday being tortured by my seesawing emotions was enough to make me want to hide away.

  I’m furious with Preston. I’m devastated at the sickness that will eventually take Bennie from me. It’s a cycle that circles back around to disappointment in myself. Tears fill my eyes, my natural reaction to any kind of heightened emotion. Now I’m angry that I’m crying. There are too many feelings swirling around in my head, too much chaos to nail anything down. After all that time on the road, all my lonely nights, I finally feel completely alone.

  Of all the times not to have someone to lean on, now is the worst. It’s another thing I blame Preston for. I want him to hold me and tell me that everything will be okay, that he’s here for me. But that would just be another lie. Everything, most certainly, will not be okay.

  Instead of going to the store, I decide to take a walk around Crowley. Thoughts of Dylan cross my mind, but even I know he wouldn’t try anything in broad daylight. I vow to stick to populated streets.

  I pass the diner and give Angela a wave through the front glass. Outside of the hardware store, I run into Coach. He gives me a hurried hello as he loads bags into his truck. I end up at my parents’ house. I don’t know why I come here, what I am looking for, but it does bring me some comfort. Maybe it’s because I know that they are the only other threads connected to Bennie. Whether we like it or not, we are family. Losing her will hurt us all.

  The windows are closed, so I know they aren’t home. I take a seat on the porch swing and revel in the silence of this place. If only my mind would be silent.

  I can’t stop the hammering thoughts in my head—Bennie and her cancer, Preston and his betrayal, Dylan and his threats, Crowley and my roots. All these things have me out of sorts, like I am a ghost floating above the earth and watching all this happen. I feel so separated and yet, so buried by everything. A breeze whips over me, drying the sweat from my skin. It brings me back to myself, and I’m thankful for it.

  On my walk home, just as I turn onto Main Street, I hear a siren blast behind me. I jump and spin to find Sawyer smiling through the windshield of his cruiser. He pulls next to me as I glare.

  “What’s the matter, Wren? Did I scare you?”

  “You know you did, jerk.”

  He laughs, showing off that megawatt smile. “Well, I like to keep things interesting around here.”

  “Oh, yes. Crowley is super interesting,” I deadpan. I lean down and cross my arms on the edge of his rolled-down window.

  “Hey, just last week Jude ran off the road into Mr. Tibb’s mailbox.”

  I roll my eyes and smirk. “Whoa. Alert the newspaper. Wait. There is no paper.”

  Sawyer puts the car in park and leans back in his seat. “Something big will happen one day, and I’ll be ready. You’ll see.”

  I look out at the road in front of us and back to Sawyer. Bennie’s words come back to me, all the worry about Dylan. I should tell him.

  “You may get your wish,” I say.

  Sawyer’s eyes widen. “Why? What have you heard?”

  “There’s this guy…” Looking at his face makes me hesitate. For some reason, I find it hard to share this with him.

  “And?”

  The words come out fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Well, he’s a guy I dated in New York. And he was kind of abusive. And I kind of drugged him and stole some money from him to get home. And he’s been sending me things in the mail, and he called Bennie’s apartment one day, and I’m scared he may be coming here.”

  “Wait. What?” Sawyer straightens in his seat. His eyes search mine. “Wren, are you serious?”

  I nod and scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. “Unfortunately.”

  He shakes his head as his grip on the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles turn white. “Why haven’t you made a report?” Sawyer’s smile is gone. He is dead serious.

  “Report what? That he sent me things in the mail? He hasn’t done anything to report. It’s just a feeling, you know?”

  He nods and places one hand on top of my stacked arms. “You can definitely report weirdness, Wren. But, he isn’t really breaking any laws, so there’s not much we can do. Is he dangerous?”

  “He can be,” I answer, wincing at the memory of bruises and aching ribs.

  “I’ll step up patrol around Bennie’s and The Haystack. Give me his name so I can run a check on him.”

  “Dylan Watts from Buffalo, New York.”

  Sawyer pulls a small notepad from his front pocket and a pen from his visor. He scribbles the name down. When he tucks the notepad away, he turns to look at me. We are silent as he stares into my eyes. I’m not sure what he’s searching for, but I feel like he sees me again, like when we were kids.

  “Be careful,” he says. “And thanks for telling me.”

  Though it’s nothing official, I feel a huge relief telling Sawyer about Dylan. I nod and give a wave as he drives away. When the cruiser disappears from view, I cross the street to the diner. There’s room at the front counter, so I take a seat and wave Angela Louise over.

  “Hey, Wren. What can I get you?”

  “I need a super jumbo size piece of pie and a water, please.”

  “Super jumbo, huh? You want to talk about it?”

  I give her a pleading look and shake my head. “Nope. I prefer to just eat my feelings like normal people. Thanks.”

  “Pie and water, coming up.”

  Angela disappears into the kitchen, and I play with the salt and pepper shakers in front of me. The place is bustling with the lunch crowd, and I do my best to drown out all the noise. The bell over the door rings, and I turn toward it. Preston’s gaze connects with mine, and he gives me a cautious grin.

  I turn away and drop my eyes. “Shit. It’s Thursday.” I curse myself for not remembering his schedule.

  “Super jumbo pecan pie and a water,” Angela announces, dropping off the plate and glass in front of me. “Anything else?”

  I shake my head.

  The noise in the diner fades to almost silence. It’s not abrupt. It’s a slow wave of quiet, like turning down the volume on a turntable. Preston slides onto the stool next to me, and I can’t help but look up at him. His shoulders are tense, the muscles in his neck and jaw tight, but his eyes are on me.

  He’s beautiful in his optimism, waiting for me to respond. All I can do is stare. His usually perfectly coiffed hair falls out of place. The beard covering his face is longer than normal. White-knuckled hands clutch each other on top of the counter.

  “I’m so sorry, Wren.”

  I glance around, and most of the diner is watching. Some whisper and point, while others just stare, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. These people have seen him as a creature of habit for two years now. They are shocked and curious. When I look back to Preston, he takes a deep breath and exhales. In this moment, he is so strong, and I am so proud.

  “Everyone is looking,” I say. My voice is weak and surprises me. I don’t like it.

  Preston shakes his head. “The only thing I care about is how you are looking at me.”

  I tilt my head and can’t fight the lift to my lips. Then I remember his lie. It hits me with such force that it knocks the smile from my face. As much as I’m drawn to him, as much as I want to let him wrap his arms around me and protect me from this hurt, I can’t forgive him.

  I pull away from
the counter and hop up off my stool. Without a word to anyone, I push through the front door and practically run all the way back to Vinyl.

  With each footstep, my pulse pounds in my ears, and it feels a little harder to breathe. It’s all so overwhelming. As soon as I enter the store, Morrissey serenades me into a calmer state. Until I see Bennie’s worried face.

  “You got another one,” she says.

  A pale-yellow envelope sits between us, my name and address scrawled on the front. There is no return address.

  “I don’t want to open it,” I say.

  “You have to.” I shake my head and take a step back. “Wren, this one is postmarked St. Louis. That’s only eight hours from here.” I shake my head again as panicked thoughts tumble through my brain, but I can’t voice them.

  “I can’t,” I mumble. “I feel like my whole world is crumbling, Bennie. You, Preston, and this shit with Dylan. I can’t.”

  “Wren,” Bennie pleads. Her brows are heavy over worried eyes, pink lips turned down in each corner.

  I place my hand over hers and squeeze. “I’m not running away, Ben. I just need some space. Promise.”

  I take off through the front door and turn left on the sidewalk. I need to clear my head and get a grip on reality. My feet lead me to the park long before my brain recognizes the path. At the bottom of the water tower, I start up the ladder. The midday sun beats down on my shoulders, and the metal is hot beneath my hands. By the time I get to the top, my arms are shaking and my muscles burn from the climb. When I take a seat on the platform, the wind whips around me, fluttering my shirt in the breeze.

  I close my eyes and lift my face toward the sky. I feel free up here, lighter and hardly anchored to the town below. After a minute or so, I open my eyes and look out over Crowley, such a neat little package in the middle of farm country.

  Up here there are no heartbreaking truths staring me in the face, there is no beautiful man stealing my resolve, there is no threatening mail. It is just me and graffiti confessions scraped into the paint by others who have occupied my refuge. Sawyer is the only other person I know that has been up here, but suddenly I feel a connection with them all, each person who has made this climb. Whether they still live in one of the houses below or they’ve moved on, they each left a little piece of themselves up here.