FROM AWAY ~ BOOK TWO Page 3

  “Minnie Roberts brought the pork roast.” Minnie, he writes. Roberts.

  Those Sylvie accepted? May as well have been delivered by a scarecrow riding a circus elephant, for all she’d remember. That’s not even mentioning the platters surreptitiously left on their doorstep overnight by well-meaning folks eager to help, but not wanting to intrude. To overstep. To come face-to-face with the parents-in-mourning.

  “Shepherd’s pie? I don’t remember...” Trevor leans out of the kitchen. Looks down the hallway. To the front door. Where his wife stands. Waiting. Fully dressed. Coat on. Ready for her son’s funeral.

  “You see who brought the shepherd’s pie?”

  She looks up at him. Tuning in from some other world. Trying to translate Trevor’s words into something comprehensible. Unable.

  “Look, if we don’t do this now... I really can’t afford to offend a potential client, Sylvie. If you could even just try to help...”

  She’s left it all to him. Casket. Stone. Ceremony. Schedule. Every decision. Every task. Entirely in his hands. If not for the circumstances, he’d be overjoyed. To finally be allowed to take the lead. But she’s deserted him when he needs her the most. Already back to work. Trying to escape what’s left of their home. Even when she’s physically present, she’s not there. Not for him.

  “No? Shepherd’s pie? You don’t know?”

  “No.” Sylvie shakes her head. Looks away.

  He’d go to her if she wouldn’t push him away. But she could never allow herself to be weak enough to need him. She’s always been so deadset on her independence. He’d loved that about her initially, but it kept her from ever truly settling into their partnership. Maintained a wall of separation between them.

  Trevor returns to the kitchen. The piles of - stacks of - mounds of food. Feeling no appetite whatsoever. Neither of them have eaten more than a few bites since it happened. Wouldn’t be, anytime soon. Regardless of the sentiment, what lay before him was little more than a lot of compostable landfill and at least a day’s worth of dishwashing.

  Trevor draws a question mark in his notebook. Another on masking tape. He sticks the tape to the shepherd’s pie.

  ~

  Sylvie steps directly into baked macaroni and cheese.

  Another helpful meal. Left thoughtfully on the front stoop. Right outside their door. Unseen until too late.

  She lifts her foot. Kicks slightly. Dislodging the tinfoil. Yellow clumps of melted cheese and noodles. Still warm. She can’t wear these shoes anymore. Hates them anyway. But owns nothing appropriate to replace them. The stockings are ruined, too.

  Trevor doesn’t know why she’s stopped halfway out the door. Looks over her shoulder. “What are you-- Oh, Sylvie, that’s... It’s okay. There’s still time.”

  She ignores him. Bends. Picks up the stoneware casserole dish. Trevor reaches around to take it from her. “Let me deal with this, you just--”

  She shoulders her husband back. Slams him into the doorframe. Wrenches the dish away. Throws it.

  Macaroni showers the lawn. The sidewalk. Arcs down over their driveway. Towards Trevor’s sedan. The heavy dish crashes through his windshield. Lands in the passenger seat. In pieces.

  Sylvie shuts her eyes.

  When she opens them, the windshield has not repaired itself.

  “Bravo.” Trevor pushes past. Angry. Down the front steps. Heads for her truck. Passenger side. “Looks like you’re driving.”

  In her mind, she apologizes. Obviously, she’s sorry. But he doesn’t need to make her feel worse about it. Why would he do that? Can’t he see how shitty she feels? She stows away any potential expression of regret. Offers none out loud.

  Instead, Sylvie goes inside to change her shoes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Having risen after three days, all Max really wants to do is lay down again.

  His own room. His own bed. His own sheets. Leaving the hospital behind. Looking forward to the comfortable familiarity of his own space. Instead, it feels entirely strange. Alien.

  To start with, it smells wrong. His mother has taken advantage of his absence: Aired the place out. Laundered the bedclothes. Pillow cases. Gone is the teenage boy funk. In its place: Springtime freshness. Ugh.

  Secondly, it’s too bright. In letting fresh air blow through, she’s left his black skull-and-crossbones flag pulled back from the window. The sun is taking full advantage of the oversight. Streaming in unchecked. Advancing into enemy territory.

  Max enters anyway. Limping on one leg. Carrying a large glass jar. He crosses to his dresser. Sets it down. Inside: Forty-seven twisted chunks of metal. Varying shapes and sizes. Most recently residing in his body. Prior to that: The back-up generator at McLennon Lighthouse.

  His left calf throbs. Where the largest chunk was removed. At least forty-six other sore spots ache as well. That’s just the worst of them. Little bandages and sutures mark the spots. Some on his face and arms. Mostly hidden.

  Max moves to the window. Unties the drawstring his mom has wrapped around the Jolly Roger to keep it open. Glancing out, he sees the roof of the garage. Where he’d had his last real conversation with Max. Where they’d made up, more or less. Thank Christ. If they’d still been on non-speaking terms when it happened - and let’s face it, that was his decision - he’d never have forgiven himself.

  That’s going to be hard enough as it is.

  He lets the flag slip down. Covers the window. Blacks out the sun. All but a thin strip of light. That’s more like it. Replacing the stink will be a slower process, but at least a more appropriately cave-like darkness has been easily attained.

  He crawls into bed fully dressed. Pulls the covers over himself. Lays his bandaged face on the pillow. Shuts his eyes.

  Less than a minute, or possibly three hours later: A knock.

  Max groans. “What?”

  The door opens. The darkness gives his mother momentary pause. “You okay?”

  “You miss the news the last couple days?”

  “Max.” Netty doesn’t appreciate sarcasm at the best of times. When she’s trying to ascertain her son’s health, it is plainly unacceptable. “Do we need to go back to the hospital?”

  “Sorry, Mom.” Max turns to face her. “I’m just... Tired.”

  She’s all fancy. Fully made up. In a simple, form-fitting black dress. Too bad it takes an event like this to get her to embrace her femininity. More effort for Aaron’s funeral than any date has merited in ages.

  She heads for his window. Reaching for the flag. Intending to tie it back again. In clear collusion with the sun.

  “Don’t.” Max stops her. “Please.”

  She grabs the edge anyway, but stops short of throwing it open. Torn between respecting his wishes and doing what she thinks is best for him. He’s seventeen. Not even that for much longer. He can decide how he wants his own bedroom. She forces her fingers to open. Lets go. “All right, well... You should be getting dressed. We’re going to be late as it is.”

  “I’m not going,”

  “You’re...” Netty stops herself. Measures her response. Considers insisting. Demanding. Knowing it would be pointless. Counter-productive at best. “Let me just tell you, Max: If you don’t go... If you don’t attend your best friend’s funeral. Say a proper goodbye. Get that closure... You will very probably regret it.”

  “I will absolutely-definitely regret it. But I’m still not going.”

  He rolls over. Turns away. Done. Whatever his mother’s feelings on the matter, there ends the conversation.

  “Okay.” She says. As though permission remains hers to give. “Call my cell if you need me.”

  She knows he hears her. That should be enough. It’s not. She needs some sort of acknowledgement. Searches her mind for something - anything - else to say.

  “There’s hamburger in the fridge for later.” Good. Useful. Sustenance. “You can barbecue, if you want.” Even better. Trusting him. Confident in his abilities. “Or just wait. I can do them up
when I get home, if that’s easier.” She’s willing to take care of everything, if he needs her to. Still his mom. No matter what.

  “Fine.”

  There. Now she can go.

  She exits. Pulls the door nearly - but not quite - shut. Open a crack. Enough for a peek. To check on him when she gets home.

  Three steps down the hall, she hears it shut behind her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The two men ahead of Dawn in line at the roach coach are easily three men wide.

  They order sausage and egg sandwiches that somehow manage to both smell horrible and make her mouth water at the same time. Each of the construction workers grabs a fistful of little mayonnaise packets from a shallow basket. These cannot possibly - but absolutely must be - destined to be squeezed out onto the sandwiches. The very idea at this time of the morning is utterly revolting. Only the knowledge of the breath that would result keeps Dawn from ordering the same for herself.

  When her turn comes, she steps up to the counter. Plunks down her money. Points: At an allegedly ‘fresh’ cheese danish beneath a clear plastic dome. Hopefully superior to the one she’d gotten from the Talbot Inn’s continental breakfast the day before.

  The hairy man crammed into the food truck tongs one from the pile. Extends it to her with a napkin. If there was change coming, he challenges her to demand it. She can’t be bothered. Lets him keep it.

  Today, work on the Cumberland Channel Bridge will resume. The place is already hopping. Sure, most of the activity centers around three silver cube food trucks. But it’s early. The steam whistle has yet to blow.

  Dawn’s borrowed hard-hat swims loosely around her head as she checks the time: Later than she’d like. Aaron’s ceremony will be starting soon. This was meant to be a brief stop. Allowing her father to make sure everything is in order, before continuing on to the funeral home. Already, he’s been inside a portable, talking to the foreman for... Eight minutes.

  Long enough for her to line up for a danish. She takes a bite. Spits it back out. Into the generously-included napkin. Wraps the whole thing up. Money well spent. The food truck apparently has the same danish supplier as the Inn.

  She looks for a trashcan. The nearest is by the front gate.

  On her way, Dawn passes a conspicuous group of men and women entering the site. Around a dozen. Sticking close together. Wearing bulky jackets. None less than a size too large. Some carry bristol board signs under their arms. Facing their bodies. The messages hidden.

  Dawn turns to watch them. Cocks her head as they go by. Listens closely. Hearing something like... A jingle-jangling as they walk. Swinging slightly beneath the hem of one long coat... Is that a chain? It’s obscured before Dawn can be certain.

  None speak to one another. None make eye contact with anyone else. All aim in the same direction. Past the workers. Through the site.

  Towards the bridge.

  ~

  “If ya can wait the three minutes more, I’ll let ya blow the whistle.”

  “Er... No. That’s all right.” Ren is already moving towards the door.

  Simmons is apologetic. “Sorry we can’t blow early... Union rules.”

  “That’s okay. You know I’d stick around if I could, but--”

  The foreman holds up stubby-fingered hands. “I get it. It’s family. What can ya do?”

  “Right. Thanks for understanding.” Ren’s hand is on the door handle. Even turning it, when Simmons waddles out from behind his desk. “But just afore yer off...”

  Ren pauses. Certain Dawn is already preparing to skin him alive for the delay.

  “I want ya to know, Mr. Lesguettes, just how goddamn much we all liked Paula.” Simmons shakes his head. Devastated. “Even though she was from away, she was good people. Always treated us right straight. Guys here, they all loved her. No matter were they for the bridge or agin’ it.”

  Ren nods. “Appreciate you saying so, Simmons.” He starts to open the door.

  Simmons stops it with one heavy foot. Sidles closer. “Yer tight with the Sheriff, yeah?” Whispering now. Just between them. “Ever she thinks she’s got the guy what done it? Maybe you just let me know.”

  Ren releases the door handle. Faces Simmons. “And why would I do that?”

  “Only ‘cause then, we’ll make sure he gets took care of right. And there’s my guarantee on it. No trial. No bullshit jail-time. Justice. After what he done? There’s not a man on the job who wouldn’t like to feed that guy his balls for breakfast.” Simmons backs away with a shrug. “Just a thing to think on.”

  The office phone saves Ren from needing to reply. Rather than pick up, Simmons hits the speaker. “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Simmons.” Mrs. Rutherford’s voice stops Ren halfway out the door. Quietly, he steps back in. “I gather it’s the big day. Must be very exciting to have your crew back together again.”

  “Ya need somethin’ there, lady? ‘Cause I got work to do.”

  “Since you are cutting directly to the chase, yes. What I need is for you to do me the favor of excusing yourself.”

  Simmons doesn’t understand. Looks to Ren. Receives no assistance. “What’s that, now?”

  “Exit your office. Immediately, if you please. So that we might speak to Mr. Lesguettes privately.”

  The men share a silent moment before Simmons leaves. No sooner has the door shut, then Mrs. Rutherford speaks again. “This is your last chance, René.”

  “I don’t recall needing the first one.”

  “Only you can put a stop to this now. Halt the bridge construction before it resumes. Before we’re all forced to face the repercussions.”

  “Repercussions, Mrs. Rutherford? Are you referring to the almost certain increase in tourism? Or the economic boost of expedited trade with the mainland? Which would you find to be more odious?”

  “We have begged. We have pled. You’ve only seen fit to ignore us. To laugh at us. In spite of all of our hard-won experience. Our amassed wisdom. Now, you’ve left us with no recourse... We are hereby washing our hands of the entire enterprise.”

  “You’re speaking on behalf of the Old Men?”

  “Whatever happens next, it is on your head, René Lesguettes. Yours, and yours alone. Violent factions have made their intentions clear. Poor Ms. Fields can attest to that. Or she could, if only--”

  “Don’t.” Ren starts. “Don’t you...” He stifles himself. Forces his rage into a secret nook where it can’t hurt anyone. Lets Mrs Rutherford continue.

  “If it’s your decision to defy them... To test their wrath? We can only hope you are ready to accept the consequences.”

  Ren notices the clock on the wall. It is now 9:00. Beside the clock, a cord hangs from the ceiling. Thick. White. With a ring-pull on the end.

  “Do I have the pleasure of addressing your full complement, Mrs. Rutherford?” Ren crosses to the cord. Puts two fingers through the ring.

  “We have a quorum in attendance, René.”

  “Good. I would like you all to turn up your hearing aids. Listen closely. To the sound... Of progress.” He pulls.

  Outside, the steam whistle blows. Announcing the official start of the work day. The recommencement of work on the bridge.

  “I don’t believe that was neces--”

  Ren taps the speakerphone. Ends the call. Smiles to himself.

  “Dad?” Dawn enters.

  “I know, Dawnie.” He ushers her back out. Follows her down the stairs. “It couldn’t be helped. But not to worry: Half-an-hour’s still plenty of time to...”

  Ren trails off. What is going on? Other than his daughter, the construction site appears to be deserted.

  “Yeah...” Dawn takes him by the arm. “There’s something you should probably see, first.”

  ~

  5/16 inch. Grade 70. High strength carbon steel. 4700 lb. working load limit.

  The heavy-duty chain links fourteen men and women. To one another. To the bridge itself. Wrapping around cement pillars. Crossing all four lane
s. Blocking the entry point of a massive multi-lane entrance ramp, surging up and out from the island the length of a football field before terminating over the water. The beginning of what will eventually be the Cumberland Channel Bridge. Or what will not ever be, if these fourteen protesters have anything to say about it.

  Repercussions, Ren thinks. Consequences.

  They stand side by side. Arms crossed in just-you-try-something solidarity. Singing: “Just like a tree a-standing by the wa-a-ter. We shall not be moved.”

  The construction workers are gathered at the base of the bridge-in-progress. Watching as the protesters alternate between singing and chanting. May as well. Nothing else will be accomplished until they are evicted. Beats working.

  After fully absorbing the demonstration, Ren digs in his pocket. Pulls out his car keys. Hands them to Dawn.

  “Looks like you’re going to need to go without me.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Jack Russell is Regina.

  The dachshund is Freud.

  The pug is Mr. Spice.

  Bimbo is the Great Dane.

  Mighty Joe sees them coming. Gets excited. Runs to the fence surrounding the dogpark. Pokes his nose through the gaps. Barking sharply to get their attention. Mighty Joe is also a Jack Russell.

  Somewhat less excited is Mighty Joe’s person: Melanie. She has nothing against the dogs. Quite the opposite. She just seriously dislikes the guy holding their leashes: Anton. Professional dog walker. Amateur douchebag.

  Bimbo is lashed to his right hand. The others to his left. Between them, he saunters.

  He won’t actually use the dogpark. Won’t allow his charges through the gate at all. Never does. Instead, he will stand at the fence. Chatting Melanie up. He will follow her from outside the enclosure, should she stray. He will offer to walk her home, should she not have the fortitude to outlast him. All the while, he will keep the dogs at hand. On their leashes. Continuously bringing them to heel with harsh pssts, hups and hisses.