Wayward

by Gregory Ashe

  He carried his mom’s things to her room and saw why: the rumpled bedding, the oxygen tank, the mask, the bedside table covered with medications. He found a box in the garage, took it back to the bedroom, and loaded up the medication and miscellaneous junk. Then he carried the box and the oxygen tank to the garage. He made a second trip to get the rest of it. Then he stripped the bedding and put on new sheets. He checked the room again, a slow, careful walkthrough, to make sure that nothing visible remained to remind his mother of the long sickness, the months of wasting away. She would have to deal with some of it on her own: the drawers that held his clothes, his toothbrush and razor and shaving cream, all the little things that made up daily life. Photographs from their wedding day sat on his mom’s bedside table in an excessively ornate silver frame. Hazard held the frame up to the light, examining the saturated colors, the faces he’d known with all the years stripped away. It was one of those hinged frames, with the sides folding open to create a stable footing. He set it down and adjusted it until he was sure it wouldn’t fall.

  When he went back out to the living room, his mom was already asleep. He considered cooking, but he thought that might wake her. So he started a load of laundry with the bedding and a few articles from his duffel, and then he found a spray bottle of bathroom cleaner and a stack of microfiber towels. He went to work on the hall bathroom: sink, tub, toilet. He really got going on the grout, and then, out of the clear blue, he thought of the epic fight he’d had once when his dad had wanted to drag him fishing. Hazard had hated fishing with his dad, still hated the thought of it: his dad drinking too many beers, talking about women, the comments getting lewder by the can. Hazard shoved the spray bottle across the tile, and it clanged up against the side of the tub. He threw down the microfiber towel. His hands were stinging, and he scrubbed them in the sink, trying to figure out what the fuck he was doing anymore.

  When he returned, to the living room, his mom was in the same position, still curled up on the sofa, but her eyes were open, and they tracked him as he paced the room.

  “What would you like to eat?”

  “Oh, thank you, bunny. But I’m not really hungry.”

  “Well, you have to eat something.”

  He moved to the refrigerator, opened it, and saw a few soggy stalks of celery and a carton of organic milk, two weeks past the expiration date. And mustard. Brown mustard, spicy brown mustard, yellow mustard—which Hazard still thought of, to himself anyway, as hot dog mustard—Dijon mustard. So much mustard that when Hazard slammed the fridge shut, the jars rattled in the door.

  “I’ll run to the store.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “You need to eat. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  According to his phone, the Food 4 Less was his closest option, so he drove the quarter mile and got a cart and went up and down the aisles, adding everything that he saw that looked like a staple: lettuce and tomatoes, potatoes and onions, apples, one of those jars of minced garlic, chicken breasts and ground beef, ketchup, several cartons of organic milk, two dozen eggs, three loaves of bread. When he got back to his parents’ house—his mom’s house—the Mustang was in the driveway.

  Hazard carried half the groceries in on his first trip; Somers sat on the couch, still dressed in the suit he must have worn to work, with bags under his eyes and his hair messier than usual. He was hugging Hazard’s mom, who was crying softly again. Hazard met his eyes and then went back out to get the rest of the groceries.

  On his second trip in, Aileen and Somers had separated; Hazard’s mom was wiping her eyes and laughing at something Somers had said, and Somers was smiling softly and touching her hand as he talked. Hazard set the groceries down. The milk cartons thumped, and Aileen and Somers both looked over.

  “Ree, I’m so sorry about your dad,” Somers said, moving toward him.

  “I’m going to grill some burgers and chicken breasts,” Hazard said, opening the fridge door and cutting off Somers’s path.

  “I can do that,” Somers said. “You can just sit and be with your mom.”

  Hazard unpacked everything, left the meat on the counter, and headed outside. He might have been a stranger to the house, but he knew his father, knew the man’s habits, and he found the grill and the charcoal and the chimneys on his first try. He got the chimneys going and went back inside, where Somers was waiting in the doorway.

  “Can I do something?” Somers said.

  “Just sit down and relax. You look exhausted.”

  Somers bit his lip, and then he darted in and hugged Hazard. Hazard stood there for as long as he could take it, and then he pulled Somers’s arms away and moved into the kitchen.

  He got the patties ready. He made the barbeque sauce from scratch. He seasoned the chicken breasts. His mom was moving around the house, straightening up, and Somers perched on the edge of the sofa, offering to help at five-minute intervals.

  By then the coals were ready, so Hazard got the grill cleaned and dumped the coals out of the chimneys. He did the chicken breasts first. Then the burgers. He let everything finish under a light glaze of the sauce, which caramelized in the dying heat of the coals. And then he carried it all back into the house.

  At the island in the kitchen, Somers was tossing a salad. “I thought we might like something green.”

  Hazard set the platter on the counter and found plates. Then he stopped and swore. “Damn it, I forgot the buns.”

  “It’s ok,” Somers said. “We’ll just use bread.”

  “Great. We’ll use the fucking bread.”

  Somers flinched; he released the salad tongs, took a few steps away, and said to empty air, “Could I use the bathroom?”

  It took a moment before Hazard’s mom answered. “Of course, sweetheart. Down that hall. On the right.”

  When Somers came back, his eyes were red.

  They ate in silence, Somers and Aileen on the sofa, Hazard standing near the kitchen island. Wheel of Fortune ran in the background, Pat trying desperately to banter with Vanna. Eventually they finished, and Hazard washed the dishes, ignoring Somers’s repeated offers to take over. After a while the blond man cut himself loose, and he drifted along the wall of windows, where the deep dark of southern Missouri pressed against the glass.

  “I think I’m going to call it a night, bunny,” Hazard’s mom said. She was standing in the doorway; from across the house, she looked very small.

  “Do you need anything?” Hazard asked.

  “Oh no.”

  “Do you want hot chocolate?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Do you want me to set an alarm?”

  “No, bunny,” she said. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  Hazard waited until her bedroom door closed, and then he went to the bathroom. He passed Somers on his way; the blond man was leaning against the wall of windows, still in his suit, his only concession to the long day the slight loosening of his tie. In the bathroom, Hazard brushed his teeth and showered. He tracked himself losing minutes; he’d come back with a start, staring at the soap in his hand, and then the drone of the pounding water would wipe everything away until, with another start, he came back. After a while he shut off the water, dried himself, and wrapped a towel around his waist; he left the clothes where they were. He couldn’t even stand the thought of touching them.

  The guest room was small and empty except for a bed and a wicker chair with a fluffy fake lambskin throw. Hazard stretched out on the bed, just the towel around him, too tired even to crawl under the blankets. He hadn’t seen Somers when he’d come out of the bathroom, but a few minutes later, he heard the tap at the bathroom sink, quiet splashing, and then footsteps.

  “Light on or off?” Somers asked from the doorway.

  “Off.”

  The light went off; a dusty glow filtered through the curtains, but that just seemed to make everything darker. More footsteps, and then the mattress shifted under Somers�
��s weight as the blond man sat.

  “Do you want me to sleep on the couch?”

  Hazard had to think about that question. Finally, he said, “Why would I want you to sleep on the couch?”

  Somers sighed. In the dark, the rustle of clothing seemed magnified, and the secondhand light from the street traced Somers’s silhouette: the strong shoulders, a hint of the dark ink that swirled across muscle. The mattress rocked again, and then again as Somers worked himself into a comfortable spot.

  “Don’t you want to get under the blankets?” Somers asked.

  Hazard stared up into the darkness. Ten minutes went past, maybe fifteen, and Somers’s breathing evened out. Hazard knew what his fiancé sounded like when he was asleep. And then, for the first time all day, Hazard could relax: it started in his gut, a slow easing of the tightness there, and then his back, his neck, even little places he hadn’t noticed like his fingers and toes. He felt like he was getting his first lungful of air all day. He thought about fishing. The hours-long drives to country lakes, many of them small enough to piss across. The small boat rocking. The sun on the water. The heat, and the smell of zinc sunscreen. The midges, and their whine in his ear. Once, Hazard remembered, on the drive home from one of those spit-puddles where his dad liked to fish, he had fallen asleep, curled up on the front bench of the truck, and he remembered waking to the impossible idea of his dad carrying him inside, and then falling asleep again as his dad tucked him into bed. Once. It had been one time. He’d almost forgotten, under all the fighting and complaining. He’d almost forgotten because he hated fishing so much.

  Before Hazard really knew what he was doing, he was on his feet, still wrapped in nothing but the towel, moving toward the door. He let himself out of the bedroom quietly, and he walked the length of the house and let himself out into the garage—again, quietly. He turned on the light; the spring chill in the cement slab soaked into his soles, and he smelled motor oil and antifreeze and sawdust. He found the tackle boxes and carried them, one by one, to the trash. He lifted out the Hefty bag on top and dropped the tackle boxes in, one by one. He went back for the poles.

  His dad had no interest in fly fishing; every pole—almost a dozen of them—was a spinning rod. He picked up the first one, carried it to the trash can, and stuffed it down between the bags. Half the length of the rod stood up from the trash. He worked it free from the can, gripped it with both hands, and applied pressure. The rod bent. Then it snapped.

  Swearing, Hazard dropped both pieces; he had misjudged where to hold it, and one end of the broken pole had driven into his hand, lacerating his palm. Blood flowed freely, running to the ends of his fingers and dripping onto the cement. He wiped his hand on the towel, checked the cut—not so bad—and put the broken pieces of the pole in the trash can. Then he went back for another, choosing a better place to grip this time. Blood made the carbon sheeting slick, but the pole still snapped easily enough. And then the next. And then another. He had gotten through eight when he heard Somers say, “Jesus Christ,” from the doorway. Hazard kept working.

  “Ree, what are you—oh my God. Your hand.”

  Hazard shoved the ninth pole in the trash, but when he turned, Somers was in his way, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and hugging himself against the cold.

  “Move, please.”

  “You’re bleeding like crazy.” Somers reached; Hazard angled away. “What’d you do to your hand?”

  “John,” Hazard said, stepping sideways. Somers stepped with him. Hazard stepped opposite; Somers mirrored him. “I’m trying to clean out the garage.”

  “I think you need stitches.”

  “Will you get out of my goddamn way?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Growling, Hazard tried to circumvent his fiancé again.

  “I’ll wake up your mom,” Somers said, stumbling into Hazard’s path again.

  “Go back to bed. Jesus Christ, you’re the one who wanted some time apart. Can’t I have five fucking minutes without you breathing down my neck?”

  “Fine,” Somers said, his cheeks bright like Hazard had slapped him. “I’ll get her right now.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  “Then get your ass inside and let me look at your hand.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Cleaning out the garage. With your hand bleeding all over the place. Wearing nothing but a bath towel. In the middle of the night.”

  “Is there a problem with that?” Hazard said, stepping past Somers, who made no move to stop him this time. “Just leave me alone, please.”

  Hazard expected Somers to go back into the house, but instead, Somers stood there, shifting from foot to foot, skin pebbled with the cold. Hazard tried to ignore him. He snapped the last two rods, shoved them in the can, and settled the lid in place.

  “Fine,” he said. “We’ll go back inside. Does that make you happy?”

  In the kitchen, Somers made Hazard stand at the sink while Somers scrubbed the lacerations with soap and water, and Hazard swore a blue streak under his breath.

  “Stay,” Somers said.

  He came back with a first-aid kit and did some more scrubbing with antiseptic wipes.

  “For the love of Christ, John,” Hazard said, trying to squirm free. “Enough.”

  But Somers didn’t let go until he had taped the gauze in place. Hazard pulled back, cradling his hand against his chest, and Somers leaned into the counter.

  “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

  “It wasn’t about anything. It’s his shit. Somebody has to deal with it; why should my mom have to do it all herself?”

  Somers reached, and Hazard flinched. Instead of drawing back, though, Somers set his jaw and stretched out one hand, pushing back Hazard’s curtain of dark hair. Then his hand lingered on Hazard’s jaw. Then he let his hand fall and he sighed.

  “Go back to bed, John,” Hazard said, trying to make his voice gentle. “You’ve got another long day tomorrow. You’ve got to go back to work, and you’ve got a . . . a lot on your plate. With the election. And with all those old friends who are popping back up.”

  “Am I going to wake up and find you stripping his car for parts? Or are you going to be burning his clothes in the backyard?”

  “Very funny.”

  Somers took a few deep breaths, arms across his chest, the fine lines of ink rippling with every movement.

  “I know you’re hurting,” Somers finally said. “Please tell me how I can help you.”

  “You can go to bed. I’m fine.”

  “Ree, your dad just died. You’re not fine.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, guess what, John? I don’t give a fuck. That man treated me like shit my whole life. That might be hard for you to hear. Maybe . . . maybe you think it makes me fucked up. I guess I am fucked up. But I don’t care. He was an asshole. He was a bigoted, abusive asshole. He treated me like I wasn’t even human. He used my mom like a maid. And here’s another big surprise, so get ready: I’m not you. You’re always hoping things can get better, with your dad, I mean. And I love that about you. I love how optimistic you are. But that’s not me. I knew things weren’t going to change. I was the biggest fucking disappointment of his life, and you know what one of the last things was he said to me? That son of a bitch said he wished he’d had a kid to take fishing. So fuck him. You can . . . you can patch things up with your dad, if you want. But that asshole? I couldn’t ever make him proud, I couldn’t ever do anything right, and that’s on him, ok? That’s not on me. I’m a good person. I’m smart and I’m strong and I’m brave and I work hard. So fuck him if he can’t see that. Fuck him, and let him rot in hell.”

  Hazard couldn’t breathe. He shook his head, trying to clear the buzzing that had started there. He had a whole list of things he wanted to add—every insult, every injury, all the years of wanting to do right and falling short. He opened his mouth to say them, and then he started to cry: huge, heart
sick sobs, the way he’d cried as a child. He let Somers pull him close and hold him. He wept for a long time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  APRIL 1

  MONDAY

  9:16 AM

  SOMERS POUNDED ON THE DOOR to Dulac’s apartment. Down the hall, one of Dulac’s neighbors—an emo kid with long black hair and a skull on his t-shirt—paused while locking his door to stare.

  “Morning,” Somers said.

  Then he pounded on the door again.

  When Dulac answered, he looked like shit: hollows under his eyes, a sallow color to his skin, and the sweaty, greasy look of someone who has skipped too many showers. “Dude, I called in—”

  “You’re not sick,” Somers said, pushing into the apartment.

  Dulac stumbled back. “What the fuck, bro? I’ve got, like, the flu.”

  “No,” Somers said, “you don’t.”

  “I called Ehlers and told her to tell you—”

  Somers pushed past him and into the living room, with its minimalist furniture: the sofa, the TV, and the sliding door that opened onto a small porch. Somers took up a spot in front of the TV and pointed at the sofa. “Sit.”

  “Dude, I can’t even do this with you right now. I want you to go.”

  “Sit your ass down, Gray. I got zero sleep last night. My fiancé broke a million fishing poles. I—Jesus, I don’t even know how to begin to explain it. But my patience is at an end. Sit.”

  Dulac dropped onto the sofa; he tried to meet Somers’s gaze, and then he blushed and dropped his head. After a moment, Somers realized he was sniffling.

  “He told you, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  Dulac made a weird, hiccupy noise that Somers decided, after a moment, was supposed to be a laugh. “Oh fuck. Are you here to kill me? Or are you just letting me know that Emery is going to put a bullet in my brain?”

  “Does Emery need to put a bullet in your brain?”

  “No.” Dulac’s head came up. “Bro, this is a huge misunderstanding. Whatever Darnell said, it’s not what it looks like. I—”