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Frames Of Reference- Chapter 3

~nsequeira119

“You know I hate oat milk,” she says. “You keep getting it. Please stop.” She holds it on the counter, looking at the label, turning it over in feigned disbelief.

“There’s not much variety here,” I say, straightening my tie, “But I’ll take what I can get.”

Sheila is clearly going through a lot but doing her best to maintain an optimistic outlook. Stars going off behind her eyes, I can tell, moving her tongue back and forth, as if even her own mouth has become alien terrain, the familiar has departed and all we’re left with are new substances in place of the previous ones. I grab the oat milk and put it into the fridge alongside the bargain sour cream and the avocado dip.

“You’re being dramatic,” I say, leaning in to caress her on the waist. “You’ll figure it out, you’ve always been good at adaptation. You wouldn’t be a nurse if you weren’t.”

“Fucker.”

She pulls out a tub of whipped cream from the paper bag on the smooth granite island we had installed- it’s been under construction for a week but the team finally completed it, presented me with an invoice I never would have dreamed could be nonchalantly resolved before now. The bag slides across it like butter as she forces it away, she nimbly pries off the lid and dips her index finger in, scoops out a modest portion.

“Have some.” And then she inserts it into my mouth, and my eyes open. I gag a little at first, not having expected it, but she goes further, the haze in her field of vision disappearing, she regains clarity and focus as she drives it further in-

“Mmph. Alright, enough.” I take the tub and resign it to the cooler. “That’s nice, you know lots of tricks. Got any more you care to show me?” I take a napkin, rub my lips- I’ve been trying hard to reduce the amount of acne I get, the hanging skin is bad enough, makes me look like I have a bad sleep schedule. She probably knows that. She’s having fun, grasping at straws on an alien world, because it suits her. And I’d probably be better off doing the same.

Instead, a look dawns on her, and the humor fades, and she grasps the back of the seat nearest the island, then climbs atop it with her legs crossed askew, putting her hand to her forehead. She’s in no mood for playful aphorisms tonight.

“We had a burn victim today,” she says. ‘Horrible, absolutely horrible. You see that charred flesh, flesh the way it isn’t supposed to be. You- you know, you’ve seen pictures. It peels back, gets crispy, and you think anyone could look like that, anyone if they stood in front of a stove or a really hot fire, they could look just the same-”

“On the face?”

“No, the arms. All over the forearm.” She gestures toward the exact spot, winces at the recollection. “And we got the trauma specialist in- I’ve been getting to know him, he’s pretty good at what he does- layers of gauze to the area, special jelly with aloe to numb the pain, he comes in and he tries to reassure the patient, tell them that it’ll be alright. Soft tones.” I could picture it- we never had many burn victims back at Swedish, at least not in my department, but I of course recognize the deceptive tone doctors use for comfort.

“How’d they get it?”

“I can’t tell you,” she says. “Confidentiality. Hippocratic oath.” At this, a slight smile is drawn from cheek to cheek- grows- then she erupts into pained laughter and couples over onto her stomach, tears streaming out her eyes, slapping her knee. I follow suit, pulling up a chair alongside her, arm on her back, helping her through.

“No, but seriously,” she says after more therapeutic release. “It was- it was one of those people who go out into the desert, weeks on end. You know. Basic day trip adventurer, they want some thrills, they want the fear of death instilled in them because they’re unable to recognize their own mortality otherwise. I guess. It was a 20-something, not sure what gender or race, I didn’t see much of them- they were hidden amid a crowd of multiple techs and interns. All I see is the burn, hanging out in the open.”

“They weren’t really screaming, just this low-pitched kind of wail. Low and deep, sort of noise a cat makes. Extreme pain. The type of pain most people don’t get to experience, but it seems they learned their lesson from it. What happened is, They were out there, midday, noontime, and even though fire bans have been placed all around here- very prominent fire bans warning against the lighting of campfires, they had some soup and weren’t content to just drink it and move on with their day. Had to have it hot.”

“So out near Crestone, they pull out their little stove and go to town, and they told the spesh how they didn’t know portable gas stoves could start fires, even though they were in an area with lots of brush and sage and flammable material. You could tell they felt bad about it, but I felt worse for them. It was-”

“Horrible,” I state, rocking her gently. “You don’t need any other words for it. Horrible.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Really awful. I don’t wish that on anyone, and I like to think it’s a learning experience, but I can’t stop caring. I can’t refrain from being invested. Does that make me less efficient?”

“No,” I reply. “I hope not.” And she leans against me, drained of all she had to offer, pulls out the avocado dip and a nice clean spoon from the drawer and starts feeding it into her lips even though it’s much less substantive than guacamole, it dribbles a little over the neckline of her shirt.

“Watch out.”

“It’s OK. Could have been my scrubs if I wasn’t more careful with them.”

“You make a good point.”

Pueblo West is the modern nightmare, it is a direct confrontation with the viscera that would otherwise go unnoticed and unappreciated by the 21st century droves who swarm its fields and fences like thirsty vermin searching for shade.

Acreage and generalizations, red tape and gerrymandering, Pueblo West is the epitome of dishonesty, it is blatantly deceptive to all its residents. I don’t know what caused me to select this locale. It’s not that I was unfamiliar with Puebloan geography- I had a rudimentary knowledge- but there were so many houses in Pueblo available, even some right alongside the main strip, in neighborhoods with character and presence. Instead, we’re secluded in this sparse roadside delusion where the nearest food can only be obtained by driving. I’m not used to life in this vein. I’ll have to adapt, have to become a leaner, hungrier animal.

I step outside every morning, catch my breath momentarily before hopping in my Camry to make the drive. Squint my eyes at the massive yards, the poorly watered vegetation, the rocks and shrubs begging for a drink, all seen through a cold azure lens as if from a distance, the sun not having risen yet from the East and just barely visible as an irradiative scarlet hue. This is Dream Country, the territory of the mind, the brochure in the Triple-A office nobody takes seriously. Abstract national ephemera.

Pueblo West is a commercial gone horribly awry, a world I wouldn’t wish on my own worst enemy, because every waking second of life feels as if you’re caught in some grainy kodachrome artifact. A place that has no right to exist.

Pueblo West, west of Pueblo. Inexplicably not Pueblo.

The big night has arrived, and I’ve put on my jacket in preparation for the onset of the nighttime cold and Sheila is in the bathroom applying some last-minute perfume she got at a boutique downtown. One of those places with the cheap foam core displays and the overpriced crystal necklaces. I’m standing in the hallway, nuzzling against my ribbed collar, staring thoughtlessly at the precise triangle of amber light streaming from the door of the upstairs bathroom as the noises of running water echo out.

I glance to my right and notice the way the handrail on the staircase projects its shadow onto the wall in bold, vertical stripes, like the prohibitive bars of a cell. I check my watch. 6:53.

My mind reels back to the papers I filled out today- they’re always on my desk, promptly, first thing in the morning. I’m pretty sure it’s the receptionist who places them there, and what unholy pit she digs them from, I can’t say. They employ strange, unconventional terminology- deficits, programs, coded language in an obfuscatory, bureaucratic form. I don’t know what it is I’m writing, but I’ve had no complaints about it so I keep on doing what I know best, which amounts to absolutely nil.

“Ready, Hon,” she croons, flipping the sides of her bun out slightly. It looks good on her, has form and weight, brunette strands askew before the lampshade. Her heels click on the uncarpeted wood of each step. Like mandibles...

The saguaro chill outside is insufferable, so as I step out she retrieves her shawl from the coatrack and drapes it around her shoulders. It’s one of those indigenous numbers with the tan squares and triangles arranged in a textile pattern, somehow it suits her deep Spanish eyes better than I assumed it would. Not that much of her can be discerned in this patchy dust-laden atmosphere. I unlock the Camry and we open the doors at the exact same time.

Now comes the moment of hesitancy, the pause where she uses her fingers to count and make sure she has everything she needs, followed by the sigh of resignation and the subsequent muted hiccup of my key swiveling around in the ignition. All systems go.

“It looks so empty,” I remark as the headlights glare forward onto the row of scrappy taproots lining our driveway. “Like it needs to be filled in by something. I don’t know if I’m capable of that.” The car lurches out, kicking up dirt with its wheels, jostling her back and forth as I crank the shift into 2nd. The flat expanse greets us, empty unsold ghost houses with lights on, a fake cardboard town like in the old serials with extra paint and shellac.

“You’ll manage,” she reassures me, staring hypnotized at the broad yonder. “You always do. You’re problem-oriented, if you can keep us afloat anywhere, you can get into landscaping. My grandpa used to do it. Just rent a book from the library. I was there yesterday and they seem well-stocked.”

She reconsiders, shrugs. “Well, by these standards.”

I don’t say anything, keep my eyes on the road and listen to the hum of the engine as it throttles us forward, weaving around the corners and angles like a point on a geometric grid, each block completely identical to the last, flat and desolate and barren. No tire swings or treehouses or lush foliage in sight. You could choke on this.

No words spoken as we exit out of the development on West McCulloch Boulevard, rattling past the bleached white fenced-in stables and the skeletal telephone poles which run their thin razorblade wires deep beneath the crust. No words from Sheila or myself as I spin the tires onto Highway 50 and we jump from dirt to smooth blacktop. Not necessary for the time being, we’re both awash with psychic dread.

To bide the time, I reach forward and flip on the radio, try and maintain focus on the road while turning the dial from station to station. No luck. All ear-piercing static, what sounds like an ad for boat covers hidden beneath fifty sheets of deep-fried cosmic microwave background. Two points beside that, an ear-piercing yacht rock ballad with no commercial appeal, equally distorted and warped beyond recognition.

She reaches out and feels my fingers on the steering wheel, the minute vibrations beneath them corresponding to the acceleration and deceleration of our orbital cruiser, we’re locked into near-Earth orbit and the moon is glinting off her lavender nails, coming down heavy onto a carpet of stars that burn like twinkling diamonds or amethyst. She lets out a deep, pained sigh.

Here we come up on the mainland, along the row of power lines to the North and the moon hanging suspended like a fat teardrop directly forward, around a foot above the twinkling lights that have come to dominate our souls. I realize that she makes roughly the same trip every day, although she leaves for the ER a few hours before I leave for the office, so when she leaves it’s still very early in the morning and the moon is in the opposite position, setting in the far West.

I wonder what she does on her day off, when I’m still out- I know she makes a habit of playing the daily Wordle, walks around the back yard aimlessly, looking at it with the same disbelief I tend towards, and she brews a kettle of tea, sits back quiet while life passes her by. I can imagine it and it’s all too familiar.

I’m not looking forward to meeting Bradford outside of work. I’ve told her how great he is, what a cool employer he is, how he really has our best interests in mind, but she doesn’t buy it and I’m not that great at pitching the notion.

We race past the intersection of Highway 45, then under the overpass, up the hill onto the main strip and past the row of well-lit car dealerships, each one offering wonderfully low down payments and tempting APR, because out here everything is five times farther apart than it is in Denver, and you want a quick, expedient way to maneuver around.

“What have you said about me, to him?”

“Huh?”

“I need to know,” she drones. “So I can make a good impression. You know, fulfill whatever expectations he has of me.”

“He doesn’t have anything unrealistic going on. You’re fine.”

She has her purse neatly folded in her lap, both arms bent at a precise 90 degree angle. She’s tense all over, every muscle unnaturally contorted, she’s looking into the mirror and practicing smiles, studying her eyeline. I don’t think I need to try anything as drastic.

Finally, five minutes early, I click on the turn signal and we’re whisked up to Bradford’s estate in University. I’ve only been here once and it was when I was lost, so I feel wrong making any premature judgments, but it appears to be a testament to excess. Every lawn is expansive, the catalpas swing like vast screaming ghosts, and for a moment I note that if I didn’t know I was in Pueblo, I’d think I was back in Denver.

Of course, these houses and lawns are just as illusory as the ramshackle driftwood assemblages and patchy plastic turfs in Pueblo West- lawns don’t naturally occur here, grass has no domain in this biome, and they lay scattered across the terrain like bleeding emerald scabs. You never realize how the economy of water works until you live in a desert, how a well-watered lawn is a sign of status and the less fortunate are resigned to their little gardens and kiddie pools.

Bradford’s property is located at the top of the hill, the zenith of achievement, a castle in the sky with a long driveway and all the lights on behind the ornate, five-foot-tall diamond windows set into its stone exterior. It looks vaguely like the opening to a mundane 90s soap opera, the sort of place where you’d expect hearts to be broken and deals to be struck. I doubt Bradford’s life is actually that exciting.

“Here we are,” I exclaim, locking up and helping her out of her side- she almost trips on the fringe of her dress. She’s wearing heels and isn’t accustomed to them, she’s much more familiar with her pumps and I don’t even think she looks particularly good in them. I help her forward, she staggers and limps and we both get a big smile from the absurdity of the situation, and then, at long last, with both our mentalities cleansed, she reaches forward and pushes the button.

A distant, reverberating sound like the impact of a bell in a deep cavern can be discerned, then muffled footsteps, some quiet murmurs. This is followed by the arrival of an enthused face in the oval window at the top of the door- an ear-to-ear smile and the dull thud of the deadbolt being slid back.

“Vernon! They’re here!”

She’s about a foot shorter than both of us, wearing a flowing yellow gown and copious lipstick, her neck stretched out in an ostrich-esque, inquisitive way, glancing from one direction to the other. She waves her hands up and down, unsure of how to approach us. I can tell she hasn’t experienced visitors in a long, long time- not new ones, anyway. But she is beautiful for her age, which is probably around 70- and has a good figure. Probably one of those types who use the Jane Fonda plan and own the shake weight and archaic copies of Jazzercize. And of course, Bradford’s health plan makes mine look like a first aid kit.

The man of the hour comes trotting down a rustic oak staircase beneath a crystal chandelier, wearing only a Hawaiian short sleeve and athletic khakis. Once again, I feel silly for having brought my full getup and jacket, because in here it’s warm, and as I’ve learned it’s important to dress as loose as possible during the day. He probably never leaves, he can have supplies from town delivered by cheap errand boys who’ll do anything for 15 bucks.

“Jerry! How’s it going?”

“Fine, Bradford,” I grin. “Looking alright yourself. Keep in shape?”

“You know it,” he remarks, bending down to kiss Sheila’s hand, an excessively formal act I can tell she almost recoils from. “Got a treadmill upstairs, fifty different settings plus a complete press. Crucial at my time.”

“Hi, I’m Sheila.”

“Delighted! You can call me Vern. Now, let’s go get set up.” And with that, he places his hand in the small of my back- a behavior which he seems to consider routine, but which I feel is intimidating, as if he were holding a gun and maneuvering me into some kind of hostage situation. Sheila and his wife follow, attempting to make eye contact with each other.

“Hey Inez! Get more coleslaw from the freezer, would you?” he gestures at a portly Hispanic woman tending the grill, which is an absolute gas-guzzling monster ten feet long, its grates so vast they could feed an entire wedding- which they probably have. She looks up from her work, he snaps two more times, impatiently, and she disappears into an adjacent shed.

“My housekeeper. Sorry for the inconvenience, we ate the slaw earlier today and I didn’t realize until now that you’d probably want some as well.” I look at his eyes- there’s a congealed layer of crust and buildup around them, I assume he’s likely on some optic medication.

“What’s your wife’s name?” I ask, realizing I don’t know it.

“Harriet. Ah, now. Here we are.” We near a vast table which could seat ten, draped in a white satin tablecloth with three separate candleabras lit, dripping little rivulets of wax. The table is located in a honeysuckle alcove toward the rear of the backyard. I realize I don’t need my jacket, the desert chill doesn’t permeate this oasis, the plants produce oxygen and suddenly I realize how summer nights used to be, back during my tenure as a paramedic. It was only a few months ago that I filed for my resignation, but it seems a receding eternity now.

Inez returns, carrying a massive bag of frozen shredded lettuce over her shoulder into the house. Harriet sits opposite me, Sheila occupies a seat to my right, and then past her, closest to the house at the end of the table, is Bradford, who lifts up his napkin and tucks it into his collar.

“Might want to suit up, boy,” he cackles, rubbing his palms together. “These ribs- why, they fall right off the bone like you would not believe...”

“Oh, I believe it,” I mutter. I’m bored. Inez is laboring away over these things- massive slabs of meat covered in thick brown sauce- she’s getting dangerously close to the flames, looks exhausted, and I consider whether or not to go over and give her a hand. But I don’t, because performatively I’m of the same station as Bradford and I know I can’t attempt such a thing or he’ll think lesser of me.

What am I becoming...?

“So, Sheila!” he laughs. “How do you rate your husband? He’s a mighty fine man, isn’t he? Prime specimen right here.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

“That’s right. Jerry here is exceptional. Never had one like him. He’s twice as fast, chipper and honest, and he always shows up on time! Ain’t that right, Jer?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I’m staring at my fingers, cursing under my breath, hoping he doesn’t notice how vacant I am. I’m devising strategies, maneuvering around potential directions this conversation could take us- what he thinks of me, whether he knows what I think of him, if he even understands how vastly different our backgrounds are, how uncomfortable I’m feeling, how Sheila must feel twice as awful and how I should never have dragged her into it...

“Now we’re talking! Bubbly!” Harriet claps in delight as Inez leaves her station at the firepit to haul over an icebucket with two massive green necks protruding out the top. Bradford nimbly pulls one out, inspects the label, whispers a statement of admiration under his breath, then hands us all a glass and pops the cork, yielding foamy ribbons which cascade into our flutes like cubic zirconium waterfalls.

“Cheers!” he exclaims, raising his flute high in the air, his hand framed by the dark Puebloan clouds suspended above.

“Cheers!” we all shout, raising ours in reciprocation before he collapses back into his seat and we all imbibe. It fills me with a strange feeling- it’s cold, yes, and harsh, and I would even go so far as to call it acidic in some way. But Bradford is clearly a man of good taste and I would never, ever question his judgment. That would be insane.

In the time it took us to down one glass, Inez has retrieved bowls from the house, mixed the lettuce with what appears to be vats of dill and ranch dressing, removed the ribs from the barbecue and seasoned them appropriately, and now here she is, her lattice apron swinging before her, directly out of a Frida Kahlo mural, two massive platters in either hand. She sets one at my end and one at Bradford’s end, then with a satisfied grunt she heads inside.

“Oh, this is lovely, dear,” Harriet squawks, picking up a cob of corn and dipping it in a tray of butter. “You always know how to end an evening.” she begins chewing it intently, and he slides the salt and pepper shakers over to her.

“Only because I have you to end them with,” he says. Then, out of nowhere-

“You have any children, Jerry?”

“No, not yet,” I stammer, dropping a rib on my plate out of shock. “We’re- well, it’s complicated. I don’t think we have to get into that right now.” I pick up a few more ribs, unsure of how many I can handle. They are just as succulent and fall-off-the-bone as he promised. Meat with character.

“I can explain,” Sheila volunteers. “We can’t. We’ve tried, we’ve looked into alternatives and other methods, and we have floated around the idea of using a surrogate, or adopting. Probably adopting. But for now we’re okay. We like it just being us.” He looks at her, a wash of realization comes over him, probably recognizing that it’s rude to ask such a question, and he goes back to chawing on his rib.

“You have any children?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, shoveling a spoonful of slaw between his teeth. “Did. Our son was William, called him Billy, he was an active lieutenant in the Gulf War. Back in ‘91. He was a hero, served our country well, made his mom and dad proud. Earned lots of medals. You probably saw him when you came in.” I think back to a little desk to the left of the front door- I hadn’t bothered to give much thought to the framed portrait in the middle surrounded by some potted daisies.

“I’m sure he was amazing,” Sheila says.

“Oh, he certainly was, dear,” Harriet purrs. “Fifty confirmed kills. Tore through those Iraqi cowards like a machine! But one day, out on patrol, they got him- aimed like that, from behind a building, and he wasn’t quick enough to react in time. Doctor said if they had hit one inch higher, he could have survived.”

“But he didn’t,” Bradford responds sullenly. “So here we are.”

“Fucking scum Iraqis,” Harriet mutters before going in for another smear of butter.

I’m so unnerved by everything I’ve been through in these short few weeks- the posturing, the compliments, the gestures of goodwill, the patent desperation in this strange couple. I think, from what Bradford has let on, that both he and Harriet are lifelong Puebloans, and I wonder how permanent residency here must affect one’s psyche. You’d come out a little warped.

No, there’s something else...

The night continues and as the four of us indulge in more and more champagne, getting our napkins smeared beyond belief with pungent viscous fluid, and Bradford recounts dry observations about his neighbors and about the state of the city generally, I slip further and further into an ambient haze, and my stare is drawn out not to Bradford, but over his shoulder, where below the lights sparkle like a vast constellate plain of wonder.

His face blurs as his plate piles up with discarded ribs... at least Sheila seems to be enjoying herself. I can’t quite tell. Things are getting fuzzy, but I stay glued down, fixated on the way the patterns cast by the candles refract off the silverware. This is some kind of adverse effect I’ve got towards alcohol, I convince myself. Not suited for the stuff. Yeah. That’s all.

Finally, I look down at my watch and it’s around 11:00 P.M. Harriet is beginning to yawn a little, she extends her talons and smacks her lips. It’s been good food, good people. Inez carries out a massive sterling tray with a huge cake on it. Written on the top, in bold cream frosting, the message is inscribed-

“To many years of successful work.”

“How you like it, Jerry?” Bradford whoops, clapping his hands together, all his inhibitions gone. “Had that made at the baker’s downtown specially for you! Go on, which piece you want?” I’m not sure how to respond- I haven’t eaten cake in such a long time, don’t even really go to the trouble of buying one for either of our birthdays, and she never complains. I probably shouldn’t, but here’s my generous benefactor holding a big knife ready to slice in, and Harriet licking the corners of her mouth in apprehension...

“Uh, the corner piece,” I decide.

He takes the knife and brings it down with precision accuracy, his wrist a mercury torpedo of resiliency amid a sea of layers, raspberry and strawberry and triple fudge. This is a cake that defies explanation, it’s stacked between all three and wobbles a bit as he sets it down. Then Sheila, then Harriet, and then, in a misguided attempt to save him some of the hassle, I grab the knife out of his hand.

“Which piece do you want?”

“Me?” hand to the chest, faux bewilderment. “I don’t want any. It’s for you. You can take it with you when you go, if you just want one piece here. I swore off the stuff years ago. You know. Health and all that.” He’s lying- he should know, given his cursory knowledge of medicine, that ribs and champagne and cole slaw with 500 pounds of ranch dressing slathered on top aren’t any healthier than cake. This is a ritual, a test.

“Oh. Well, okay. If you say so.” I raise the fork to my lips. Something deep in my autonomic system tells me not to allow the airplane into the hangar, but Sheila is already taking big bites of it, I can tell she’s never had one this ornate, and so in the spirit of goodwill, and to placate the unbearable silence, I force it in and swallow.

“That’s the spirit!” Bradford chuckles, pushing his chair in and dumping his abhorrent bib on the tablecloth. Harriet follows, then Sheila, and before I know it the night has come to an end and we’re all walking back through the house towards the front door.

“You’re a peach,” Bradford remarks to Sheila as we pass the staircase.

“You two were MADE for each other!” Harriet sighs. “Please tell us, dears... if anything happens. Hopefully good news, we’d love to invite some of the little ones over.” My field of vision centers on the shrine they’ve got set up for their dead son. He’s about 19 going by the photo, clean trim and a vertical line of buttons below his collar, posed in front of the American flag and the blank blue background like in every Military photo. He’s not smiling, even remotely.

“We’ll keep you posted,” Sheila says, shaking Bradford’s hand one last time on the front stoop, affixing her shawl.

“You bet!” Bradford exclaims, waving as she descends the drive towards my Camry, pops the doors with my lock and lets herself in. Once he’s sure she’s out of earshot, he puts his hand on my shoulder, pulls me in until I can make out the gathering wrinkles on his cheeks.

“Now, tomorrow,” he says, quietly. ‘We’re going to do something different. But I think you’ll be able to adjust. The real work starts tomorrow. Don’t worry about whatever you’re currently on, I’m going to bring in a temp to take care of all that. Just show up early tomorrow- say 7 o’clock. Go to sleep immediately once you arrive at home, and show up chipper, with an open mind. It’s challenging, what we do, but if the character you’ve shown here tonight is any indication, you’ll be up for it. I’m counting on you. You understand?”

“Yes, of course. I can’t wait.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” he laughs, patting me on the back so hard I almost collapse. I don’t know how he possesses so much strength. “Anyone who can down an entire slice of Pueblo cake is a winner in my book! No question!”

“Alright, Brad. Well, I’ll be there. Seven on the dot.” I turn around, begin making a beeline toward the driver’s seat. I shouldn’t be driving, not after the night I’ve had, but I don’t think I’m drunk- I’m just tired, is all- tired and zapped of energy. Being around him is like being around an insatiable charisma magnet.

“Call me Vern!” he laughs as we pull out, he and Harriet standing in the doorway with their everlasting smiles, more than comfortable savings accounts and sprawling, well-kempt lawn. Ghosts in a world that will never acknowledge their presence. Down the giant hill, out towards home. Into Dream Country.

“You shouldn’t have tried to cut the cake,” Sheila observes.

“No, it’s fine,” I say. “Everything is fine.”

Those are the only words we exchange the remainder of the night.

I know Bradford said to get some sleep, but I’m tossing and turning, the tremors building up to an excruciating degree, tidal waves demolishing tidal pools.

I’m replaying the night’s events over and over in my head, and when I get to the end I feel as if there’s some detail I’m missing, some vital bit of information, something off- we were walking towards the front door, saying goodbye, they said something about having children again, we stepped out front- I drove away. What else...?

Oh, yes. Inez.

There weren’t two silhouettes framed in that doorway, but a hulking third member in the trio, standing behind them amid the gathering twilight shadows, and I couldn’t see very well through the dirty windshield, it’s been too long since I went to the car wash, not that it would be much help out here where dust is a universal truth- but I could make her out all the same. Not waving along with them, but-

Is that what she was doing?

Yes. Praying.

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Replies

~tracker wrote:

I tip my hat to you. These are riveting. Keep going!

~kudzu wrote:

I'm hooked on these, looking forward to the next chapter!!