She thought of Shawn as salvation. But he was a hero who never was, in a sense. Yes, he helped her escape the world of torment and abuse. And for that, he deserves to be commended. He did what the other man couldn’t do. He saved her.
But throwing a tornado and a hurricane together only crates a malevolent storm. A crime-ridden nobody like him and a victim of abuse, who’s on the defense from men already, act like two animals locked in cages, ready to tear out and build a new and less optimistic reality for themselves.
He remembers the first fight. Not the first tiff — that was different, something every couple has. No, this was a real fight. A breakdown of their souls, a collapse of their relationship, the end of what they started to build those days in California.
He hears the screaming echo through his memory’s foggy cave. He watches the lamp shatter against the wall, the pieces raining down like diamond snowflakes, littering the ground like a fresh mourning dew. He sees himself slamming his fist hard into the plaster wall, little slivers dusting his hand like baby powder. Oh, and the screams. The loud, shrill screams. He hears Mary shout for him to clean up his act and plead for him to not get so jealous, so emotional, so aggressive. She reaches deep down into her vocal chords — maybe even ripping one — as she yells for him to leave her, to walk out, to let her be alone. He can almost taste the salty tears that drip from her eyes.
And the smoke. Every five minutes when they pause — which was really each of them preparing for the next argument — all they do is puff puff puff puff right away.
A car horn squawks in the distance and it’s loud enough to wake him. He shakes in the car seat, the radio turned down low to barely audible. It’s still night time. The clocks reads back at him just about an hour after he left their apartment.
He still has time to make things right.
Tour
Asleep
Mary.
Three days pass and he finally arrives. The walk took some time, mostly the first day. The second day he trekked his way to a local cafe where he borrowed a phone charger from a hipster. Only when his phone was at full battery did he get a chance to suss out the details. He finally found her in the hospital on that second night, broken and battered, laying in the hospital chair. Her face is a mess of bruises, scabs and cuts.
He falls asleep at her bedside, head laying in his hand. On the third morning, he hurries downstairs and pours some horrible coffee from the machine in the cafeteria. Two cups just in case. One for his beloved and one for himself.
She is still out of it and resting.
A doctor joins him in the room and asks if he’s seen the news. She turns it on for him and that’s where it shows the breaking story about her attacker. Short and bulky. Thick arms about the size of thighs. Hard eyes and a crooked nose.
“Officer Reggie Sampson has been charged with assault and battery, tempering with evidence and a slew of other crimes this morning. We’ll have the rest for you as it develops.”
The woman on the screen folds together her papers.
“And in other news,” she begins, but the doctors turns off the TV. She warns Shawn that Mary should get as much sleep as possible if she’s going to make the best recovery.
Had he kept the TV on and listened to the newscaster, he would have heard something like this: “Officer Mike Hughes was shot in the incident with his fellow officer. He’s been taken to a nearby hospital and doctors expect he will make a full recovery.”
It’s the fourth day when the officers start coming in more than normal. He recognizes Mathias, the leader of the team in her tight pant suits and wonderful makeup. An intellectual and strategic person who deserves to be at the head of the team. She’s tells him everything he needs to know about his father and about what they expect to do with Officer Sampson.
He doesn’t understand Mathias. From what he’s heard about her from his dad, she’s nothing but a rude boss that demands the impossible. Blood rushes to his face when their eyes meet. She’s a gorgeous, angelic woman with a successful career in law enforcement. She’s the dream. She’s perfection. She’s what good men strive to bring into their lives, for she can make them better than they already are.
An image of Mary floats into his mind. Back when she was Cassie, back before they came home. Before they found their exit. The warm touch of her skin buzzes up his arm. The brightness she spurs from within the darkness glows around him. A glowing, bulbous splotch of brightness amid shadows of despair. For a second he’s back in California, eating crappy breakfast food at the diner. A sense of nervousness and wonder about potential roads ahead warm his stomach. He’s alive again, for only the briefest of seconds.
“We’re sorry about all of this,” Mathias tells Shawn in the hospital room, standing at the foot of Mary’s bed.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I would have blamed me, too.”
“We still have some questions for you, of course. We can’t be too sure.”
“Even after a confession?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll definitely come by when you need me. Do you want me to make any statement now? My story is really boring. Really, truly.”
She waves her hand. “We don’t have any officers in the area. Why don’t you give me a call when she wakes up? We can talk then?”
She hands him her business card. Sleek and titanium. Cold and clear. Kind of like her personality.
“Alright. Thanks for stopping by.”
“Did you want to hear about your father?”
“My father?”
She smiles. Her heels clap against the ground as she steps to the chair next to Shawn, sitting down, her back taut, with a ear-to-ear smile stretched across her face.
“Your dad’s been in the hospital, too, Shawn. He was in something of a knife fight a couple of days ago.”
“A knife fight?”
Mathias sucks on her own lips, an expression of pity because he doesn’t know.
“He found out who killed” — she catches herself, buries her head low — “who attacked your girlfriend. He helped us apprehend him, but he was caught with a knife. Right in the leg. He’s in the hospital, too, if you want to see him.”
He does want to see him, but at the same time, he doesn’t. He’s spent so long hating his father for everything that happened, for not giving up, for not letting him be free.
Little did he know that the grasp really did keep him alive.
“Yeah, maybe. When things cool down.”
Mathias smiles. “Of course, I understand.”
She leaves after a few more pleasantries. Shawn falls asleep again, drifting off into blackness. Reveries of Cassie and nights long gone swim through his brain like passing fish in a clouded sea. When he’s up the next morning, his head pounds with pure violent hatred for the lack of sleep he’s received the previous nights. He wipes his face with a swipe of his hand. The coffee cup sitting on the heater sits empty. Not even a sip to get the engine running. He sighs heavy and heads downstairs to get more. Coffee will help him wake up for the troubled day ahead.
Maybe today. Maybe today will be the day she wakes up, and all the reconstruction can begin.
It only takes him twenty minutes to get enough coffee for him and her. She’s still asleep when he returns. Her chest moves in and out like a cat purring. Slowly but sure. Steady yet slow.
A man stands at the foot of Mary’s bed, looking down at her with a sheet of paper in his hands. Plum bruises stain his face and a red puddle soaks one of his leg. Bandages cover his left leg and he seems to be favoring it. He’s hunched over, feeling his right rib. It’s his father. Heavier than he remembered and a little more worn out. So the stories were true. He really did put himself in danger over the issue. He had been searching for him the entire time.
Two more steps inside grab his attention. The two see each other, for what feels like the first time. Their eyes say everything and nothing.
Mary sleeps away the day. Alone.
Finally at peace.
Author’s Note
This story came to me back in 2001. Sort of. My fifth-grade teacher tasked us with writing a short story. I put together a quick tale called “77,” which was about a character who was frozen in time during an alien invasion. He woke up 77 years later and went on a long distance drive from New York to Chicago and finally, Los Angeles.
A good 15 years later, I decided to write a short story for the Utah Arts Festival’s Iron Pen competition. I titled it “Alone” and included the character from “77” (you can read the original at the end of this book). But for this story, I decided the character would be on the run for a crime, not because of aliens. I didn’t win the competition, but friends encouraged me to expand on the story and turn it into the novel.
An extra 50,000 words, character name changes and overhaul of the plot brought me “Nessus.”
I want to thank my mom for her quick editing and reading ability. Always my first critic, helping me craft a better book. Shoutout to my oldest friend Kyle, member of my ka-tet. Happy you graced this book with an excellent poem. More projects for us in the future, dear friend.
Thanks to Wondergirl for the title suggestion and for encouraging me to enter into the Utah Arts Festival competition.
Thanks to everyone who bought my earlier books, including Jean, James, Mike, Tera, the Whites, South Hadley kids.
Special shoutout to the bachelor party of the Shores wedding last summer. Traveling out to Lowell inspired the location of this story.
Thanks again to everyone who has encouraged this project along the way. I couldn’t have done it without you. You make this all possible.
Onto the next project.
Herb Scribner
January 31, 2017—March 15, 2017
Herriman, Utah
Here is the original short story “Alone” that I submitted to the Utah Arts Festival.
“ALONE”
Zack Tyker parks his car on the corner of the street where his ex-girlfriend lives and watches her through her bedroom window. He wants to make sure she goes to sleep.
Well, he also wants confirmation that she’s alone.
He would hate to see her with someone else — some financial advisor with a tucked in, pale blue shirt, balding hair, a fancy silver watch that he probably won at a company retreat. Mary always wanted to marry a rich guy, anyway. An older, rich guy. A man with a plan. Zack Tyker has never been a man with a plan.
Except for tonight. Tonight he wants to watch Mary from his Impala, just to make sure she tucks herself in and goes to sleep alone. Probably best to not let someone else get in the way of their love. He’ll win her back anyway. Eventually.
Isn’t that right, Zack?
The dirty streets of downtown Lowell are especially quiet for a July summer night. Zack hates Lowell, with its wicked thin streets made up of houses that choke each other. Police sirens and screaming ex-wives, who hope to get their alimony or their Italian boyfriends to stop selling heroin and not end up over at Norfolk behind bars, drown out the sounds of summertime. But tonight it’s quiet. It’s the exception, not the rule.
Yeah, Zack hates Lowell. But it’s Mary’s home.
He met Mary back in college, out at UMass. When the days of bingedrinking 30 racks of Rolling Rock and snorting coke for fun were over, Zack and Mary retired to part-time jobs in Mary’s hometown — apparently Zack’s home of West Valley City was too “out there” for Mary) — where they were stuck in an apartment complex that looked like a tooth that had been splashed with one too many cups of coffee and a glazed with the smoke from a cheap pack of cigarettes.
Zack, with the Lowell crickets chirping around him and keeping him company, pulls his own Camel Crush out and lights up. He sucks up the smoke and blows it out the side window. Some of his nerves evaporate, but some stick onto him like leeches, digging at his skin. Just turn out the light, Mary, he thinks. Turn out the light, shut off the Kardashians and go to sleep. For me, please.
He turns away, because really, how much longer could he look? His eyes find his keys. A Yankees keychain dangles around his house and car keys. He hates the Yankees. BoSox, all the way. But Mary loves those pinstripes. Happy wife, happy life, right? Guess the same rule applies for a girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend.
The sound of Tic Tacs banging against their plastic case echo through his car as his right leg vibrates. He slides his iPhone out and sees MARY glowing on the screen above a smiling photo of her. He takes an extra second to stare at the bubble gum lips and pearly whites.
The emotional flood held back by the dam of his eyes slides down his throat and splashes against the acid wade pool of vodka and tequila shots. Zack’s wishes he had made a plan now. He didn’t expect her to call.
He slides his right thumb against the screen. Leaning against his open window, he itches his eyebrow.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“I know you’re there,” she says.
He opens his eyes and peers up at the window. The pale amber nightlight glows, as does a soft blue-white hue from the television. He thinks he sees the faintest hint of orange from the Kardashian skin, too. He watches her shadow flash across the room.
“I have nowhere else to go,” he lies. Of course, he has somewhere else to go. Will and George invited him out for a beer down at KilKenny Pub. Probably seven glasses of PBR and a shot of Cabo Wabo waits for him there.
Isn’t that right, Zack? More drinks to numb the pain?
“I know what you did,” she says.
The nerves camp in the acidic lake of alcohol and decide to fizzle and spread like dark ink, which flows down into his gut. Really, it feels like he had been socked right in the balls. His legs go numb and the hair on the back of his neck stands erect.
“You know it was a mistake.”
“Still did it.”
“Mary,” he pleads.
“I’m calling them,” she says. “You’re not going to get away with this.”
He shoves his key so hard into the ignition that he’s sure it will snap, or at least break through and slice some of the wiring inside. With a hard tug, he pulls the key forward and ignites the engine. The car’s bass booms to the tunes of a hypnotic rap song, one either from the mid-90s or just last week. Whatever it is, a female sings the hook and the rap artist rhymes about rims, liquors and chains.
Zack’s foot stomps against the gas and he’s off. He speeds around the corner past the package store and zips along the back road. He passes a Dunkin Donut and curves around onto Pawtucket Street. The roads are narrow and dark, with few lights to guide him. He flies by three separate motels along the way, all of which, he notices, have blinking NO VACANCY signs. But he needs a place to stay.
Where you going, Zack?
Home, he thinks. When it gets tough, you go home. He sets his plan — yes, he finally has one — and decides to run back to his home in Utah.
He speeds along the thin New England roads until he finds 495. As he curves around the bend, he hears the faintest whoop-whoop of the po-po. They’re coming for him.
He checks his rear view mirror and just sees the headlights of some piss poor Masshole, who probably is heading over to KillKenny’s, or looking to find something better down in Boston.
He doesn’t realize he has already lit another cigarette and that his right hand is shaking. The reality settles in like the first snow of the season, dusting over him and chilling him all at once. She had seen him. The cops knew he was in Lowell and that he had been within reasonable distance. His new car was registered with the state, too, so eventually they’d find him, wouldn’t they?
Wouldn’t they, Zack?
He swallows hard and slaps his right cheek to bring himself back. He drives along a dark road with faint streetlights. Once every few minutes another car passes him. But really, he’s alone. The seat to his right is vacant, save for a few pieces of tobacco peppered around. But tobacco won’t save him. He’s alone. And he always will be.
Right, Zack?
He reaches into his pocket for his phone, but realizes he never picked it up from the floor earlier. Hunched over, he rips the phone from the ground. One eye on the road and one on his smartphone, he dials a number of a friend, one he knows will still be up.
“No way,” the voice says.
“Austin,” Zack sighs a breath of relief. “Thank God you’re awake.”
“It’s only nine here, man, of course I’m awake. What’s up? How’s Mary?”
He didn’t know what happened. But Mary knows. Doesn’t she, Zack?
“Good good, look, I’m gonna be in town this week and thought maybe we could catch up,” he says. Another lie, but a respectable one. He doesn’t want to have to explain that he’s running from the cops.
“Oh really. Yeah, man, yeah,” Austin says. “Look, I’ve got some stuff going on, but feel free to stop by when you’re here. When you think you’ll be here?”
Zack runs the math in his head. If he drives 12 hours every day, stopping for gas, food and a night or two at a hotel, it shouldn’t take too long to get to Salt Lake City.
“Maybe by Monday night?”
“Sounds great man,” Austin says. “I’m about to get to this place. We should go when you’re here. It’s called ‘A Bar Named Sue.’ Cool, huh?”
Zack had been there before, when he was younger. But this wasn’t the time to ruin Austin’s momentum. “Yeah man, sounds great.”
When the conversation ends, Zack pushes the pedal harder than before and drives on through the night. He checks behind him anytime he thinks he sees the slightest hint of blue or red.
The sun rises just a couple of hours later. The slanting glow wakes Zack right up from a state of stupor that had glazed over him that night. The sorbet swirl of pink and orange give Zack enough light to look at himself in the mirror fully for the first time in his drive. Shopping bags droop from his eyes, which are surrounded by purple storm clouds. Sharp facial hairs define his chain a little bit more, and his hair looks like a canister of Zeus’ lightning bolts.
Nessus Page 17