Hot Mess

by Anne Conley

  The ten minute drive to the lake Juan fished at was done mostly in silence. It wasn't awkward though. Juan left Sam to his thoughts, and Sam's thoughts left him tormented. He figured Juan brought him out here to talk about Derrick, and Sam wanted to be enlightened, if Juan knew what his deal was. But Rachel consumed him.

  The lake Juan fished at was a little ways outside the town's limits. Juan swore it was filled to the brim with crappie, but when Sam questioned him about the time of day, and volume of the music he was playing, it became evident that they weren't there to fish.

  "Look man, I just wanted to talk to you about Derrick. I figured this was a good place. You know, away from everything."

  "Okay."

  Sam was pretty sure the last time he'd been fishing, it had been on the Gulf. He didn't care enough about fishing today to change out his lures. He cast and reeled, just to have something to do with his hands, while Juan fastidiously set up his rod for some serious business. Sam shook his head at the man's effort, as it was clearly the wrong time of day to catch anything.

  "Derrick's had a thing for Brenda for ever, man."

  "Is that what this is about? I don't have anything going on with her. She works for me." Sam was incredulous. All of Derrick's antagonism was about Brenda?

  "Yeah, but he seems to think there's more to it than that. Last year, at the annual picnic, he brought Brenda."

  "Well, good for him."

  "Yeah, and she went home with JT. They still don't speak."

  "Wow. That's pretty messed up."

  "Yeah, you would think he'd just get over her. She doesn't want him." Juan's rod was finally ready, and he cast it out. "Except he still wants her, and it's obvious to everybody but her."

  Sam was quiet, digesting the information. He recalled the times that Brenda had been a little too friendly with him, the short skirts and shorts she wore, the cleavage she seemed to like to show off.

  "She's not my type, man."

  "I know that, and I think that deep down, Derrick knows that. But it's killing him to know that she's in your house all day, sleeping there at night. Some emotional shit."

  Sam nodded. He thought he might see where Derrick was coming from. If Rachel was spending so much time at another man's house, he'd probably have issues too. Realizing he was thinking about Rachel as his again, he rubbed his face with his hand, hard.

  "So what's your problem, man? I know that shit with Derrick isn't what's got you so twisted."

  "No. It's not."

  "Rachel?"

  He sighed. "Yeah. We're not a thing anymore."

  "She broke up with you?"

  "No, I did it. And I don't want to talk about it."

  Apparently, Juan didn't care. "Wow. She cheat?"

  Sam bristled in spite of himself. "No, she didn't cheat. She's not the type."

  "Well, then what is it?"

  "I said I didn't want to talk about it, Juan." Sam cast out again, a little too hard, and the line got tangled. He cursed under his breath.

  Juan whistled. "Must be something serious. I thought for sure I was seeing a ball and chain in your future."

  Sam uttered a warning growl and cut his line free. Tying the end up, he told Juan, "I'm done. I'm just going to sit back here while you do your thing, but I am not talking anymore."

  Juan shrugged, "Whatever man." He cast out again, reeling his line in slowly. "That reporter keeps calling the station, wanting an interview with you. It's pissing off the chief. Maybe you can start something up with her."

  "Are you kidding me? Are all the women in this town that desperate?" Sam was losing patience, quickly. This fishing outing was not calming him down at all.

  Juan laughed, "Maybe. She seems pretty interested in you though, and not in a professional way. It may be what you need to get Rachel out of your head."

  Sam grunted in response, and Juan continued chuckling.

  "I'm just saying, man. It may be just what you need."

  "Whatever, Juan. Just fish, okay?"

  Chapter 13

  Pressure will take the path of least resistance within a confined area as it tries to become equalized. If that path leads to more combustible material, the heated air will spread its heat to that substance and permit it to ignite, thereby spreading the fire -- From Firefighter's Handbook, Essentials of Firefighting and Emergency Response

  Warm Spring weather drove people outdoors, as the bluebonnets, azaleas, and dogwood trees awakened. Sam opened his garage door to let the breeze float through while he worked out. His morning runs got longer. He opened his curtains to let the sun shine in, and kept the windows open when he was home to chase out the winter air.

  Of course, all this left him opportunities to see his neighbor, whether he wanted to or not.

  One particularly sunny morning, when he was rounding the corner closest to his house, coming in from his run, Rachel was outside washing her car, managing on her cast much better than the last time he'd seen her. He was reminded instantly of Cool Hand Luke, not in the way Rachel was dressed, but in his own reaction to her.

  She was wearing shorts and a tank top, which showed off the curves he'd once admired. He stumbled briefly in his running, but managed to catch himself before he actually fell. His breath was suddenly harder than it had previously been, and the feelings of guilt returned. Okay, apparently he still admired her curves.

  He'd been miserable for weeks after he stopped talking to her in early March. Now, here it was mid April, and every time he saw her he got a lurch in his stomach, and all he could remember about their brief fling was kissing her, and the way he'd left things.

  He tossed her a casual wave, then went inside to sit by the window and watch her.

  He was glad she was outside. That made it seem like she was doing okay, and he was glad that she was alright. The car was new, for which Sam felt gratitude. At least now she wouldn't be in danger of it breaking down on more railroad tracks.

  She was managing to do a pretty good job of staying dry, but when she leaned over to scrub something across the hood, the way she crushed her breasts against the soapy metal made his shorts uncomfortably tight. Then, when she straightened, the wet spot on her tank top was visible from where he sat, and he could imagine her nipples straining into stiff peaks under the layers of clothing.

  Groaning, he stood and went into the back of the house to shower, away from the vision.

  The next week, he watched her screen in her front porch. It already had pillars up with boards across them horizontally. He watched and chuckled to himself, as she used a hot glue gun and duct tape to attach the screen to the boards. She worked efficiently and managed to get it all done in an afternoon. He wondered if she did it every year, then took the screen down at the end of the summer. The end result was a cozy spot on her porch, where she could sit and not get eaten by bugs. It looked nice.

  Yeah, he realized he had become that creepy guy that spies on the neighbor lady, when he caught himself sipping coffee in the chair by the window, watching her weed her flower beds after her morning run.

  He didn't care if he was the creepy guy in the neighborhood. He needed to see that she was okay, that she was moving on. Although, it didn't look like she was moving on at all. Sure, she seemed to be functioning. She picked her daughter up at school, she had a new car, her routine seemed to be uninterrupted. But she had lost weight, and she didn't smile much. And thinking that he might be the reason for that made his gut clench.

  The next week, he managed to squeeze his bulky frame into an undersized chair in Mrs. Radcliff's classroom, staring at the mousy woman as she told him of Amanda's lack of focus in class.

  "We had a desk cleanout in class last week, and I found all of these papers crammed into the back of her desk. She's doing her work, Mr. Owens, she's just not turning in anything. When I asked her about it, she just shrugged at me." The woman's mouth was pursed when she spoke, and Sam wondered how long she'd been teaching.

  "Is it too late to turn them in? I understa
nd that she needs to follow procedures, but is there something we can do here? I'm afraid that if she fails fourth grade, she might suffer a blow in self-confidence or something."

  "It's too late, Mr. Owens. I'm sorry about that, but the grading policy is district-wide. She's only in danger of failing this six weeks, and her prior grades are sufficient to keep her from failing for the year, as long as she brings her grades up for the rest of the semester. She's a very bright girl." Mrs. Radcliff offered him a friendly smile, for which Sam was grateful. Maybe it was just the principal that was a bitch.

  "I'll talk to her today about all of this. I'm sorry for any problems that she's caused in class."

  "She hasn't really caused any problems. She's not participating in anything, and her lack of focus is only hurting herself. All she does is doodle, that I can see. But apparently, she's finding time to do her work when I'm not looking. She's just not turning any of it in."

  Sam unfolded himself from the chair, clutching the handful of papers Mrs. Radcliff had given him. "Thank you for talking to me about this. I'll see what I can do." Holding out his hand, they shook, before he walked outside to wait for Amanda to get out of school.

  He felt much better about this conference than he had after the first one. He had no idea what was different, other than the principal not being in attendance. Maybe she put everyone on edge? Whatever the cause of it, Sam was grateful that this meeting had seemed to be productive. Now all he had to do was figure out what was going on with Amanda. She seemed to be doing so well with the move and getting over the loss of Marisol. And now this.

  When they got home, Sam sat Amanda down at the kitchen table, grabbed a can of coke out of the fridge, split it between the two of them, and then sat across from her.

  "You know you're fixing to fail this six weeks, right Punkin?"

  She shrugged, looking at her hands, as she picked at a cuticle.

  "Mrs. Radcliff gave me all of the papers you haven't turned in, honey. What's up with that?" He was proud of himself for keeping his voice even and soft. He wasn't mad, really. He just wanted to know what was going on.

  "Nothing."

  "What do you mean, nothing? There's got to be a reason you're not turning in your work. You're doing it, and if you turned it in, the grades would be good. Mrs. Radcliff graded everything to show me. You'd have an A in class if you'd turned everything in, 'Manda. What's going on?" He could feel his neck muscles tense, but he restrained from raising his voice. He knew he had to stay calm.

  "Nothing, Dad. Nothing's going on."

  "So, what's the problem?"

  Her eyes raised, and Sam's breath left him. Amanda's eyes were filled with rage and it was directed towards him. "You, Dad. You're the problem."

  "What?"

  "You won't let me see Sophie anymore, Dad. You got mad at her mom, and now you're taking it all out on me, and it's not fair!" Her voice was loud and shrill, and Sam winced.

  "There's more to it than that. You don't understand."

  "Whatever." She stood and started to leave the room. Sam stalked around the table and grabbed her arm.

  "Wait a minute, let's talk about this."

  "Will you tell me why you hate them?"

  He took a deep breath. This was not something he wanted to talk to his ten-year-old about. "No, it's personal. But I'm not letting you go over there for a very important reason, I need you to understand that."

  "I hate you." She spat the words, and Sam's heart broke into a million tiny pieces. He let go of her arm, and watched her stomp out of the room, before slamming her bedroom door.

  Chapter 14

  From Remainingrachel.com

  Dear Rachel,

  I've been told that having AIDS means that I've been touched by Satan. That it is God's punishment upon the human race. What are your thoughts on this?

  Sinning in Vegas

  Dear Sinning,

  This is actually a topic that is close to my heart for reasons I'm choosing not to disclose, but suffice it to say, I've heard the same. In fact, my inbox is filled with hate mail written by people who think that my words of encouragement to you guys is sinful. What I have to say to you is this… (My best snarky voice here) Unless you have personally made a deal with the devil and honestly brought this on yourself, you have not been touched by evil any worse than most of the judgmental idiots out there spouting nonsense. Honestly, just try to ignore it. I know that's easier said than done, especially if it's someone close to you doing the talking. But the truth of the matter is, that's ignorance talking. An educated person wouldn't say something like that.

  You can try to educate them, but that's like trying to turn a Republican into a Democrat: damn near impossible. It's probably not worth your time, unless it is someone very close to you.

  Rachel had her laptop on her newly screened-in porch, trying to work while absorbing some of the glorious sunshine that the new weather was bringing. She was also trying to ignore the gorgeous bundle of sweat working out in his garage across the street.

  She had tried to confine Sam to the recesses of her memory since that night, almost two months ago, but it had been difficult. Everywhere she looked, she saw reminders of their brief, but ill-fated relationship. The variety of condoms she had fretted over in the pharmacy, and then ended up buying an assortment of, because she had no idea that there were so many different types to choose from. She'd ended up burying them all in the garbage. She spent as little time as possible in her living room, because memories of their first encounters there were still fresh in her mind, the same with the foyer and the Bombay chest that he'd so effortlessly set her on top of before sending her to mind-blowing heights. She had yet to bake another cheesecake, because of Sam.

  She realized she was being ridiculous, but the downward spiral of depression had threatened to overtake her, and quickly. She had to take care of Sophia, and it was easier to do that, if she didn't think about what might have been with Sam. So she did whatever it took to stop the memories.

  But she couldn't stop the present. Father Time kept rolling by, and every day that passed brought forth new memories of Sam. Memories of watching him across the street, in the school parking lot, running through the neighborhood, she couldn't stop those.

  Today, she was trying not to watch him, as he lifted weights in his garage. She had started coming out to her porch when he was finished with his morning run, to avoid him. Rachel thought she'd been in the clear. But when his garage door lifted, and she saw him settle himself on the bench to begin lifting the weights, she was helpless to not gaze at the power he emanated.

  He was wearing cut off sweats and one of his tank top undershirts. The ensemble showed off the muscles that coated his body like a suit of armor, and the sweat dripping from him sent a little shiver of heat coursing through her body. She could see the shadow of his tattooed bicep and wondered again what it was. Wondered what it would taste like.

  Shaking her head to clear the lurid thoughts that she had no business thinking, she tried to get back to work.

  As soon as she had focused herself on her laptop, the cordless phone next to her rang.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, Rach." It was her brother.

  "Hello, Brandon. What's up?"

  He sounded funny. "I was calling to talk to you about Mom and Dad's anniversary coming up."

  "What are they doing this year? It's gotta be something special. It's the thirtieth." "Yeah, that's why I was calling. They're having a big party, with vow renewal and everything." His voice hesitated, and Rachel felt a certain unease at where the conversation was going.

  "That's wonderful. Where is it?"

  "Um…That's why I'm calling. Mom wanted me to ask you to please not come."

  "They don't want me at their anniversary party?" Rachel's stomach suddenly hurt, as if her mother had just punched her herself.

  "No, Rachel, they don't. I'm sorry." He sounded genuine, and Rachel realized that her brother probably didn't have an easy time dealing wit
h her parents' issues with her.

  "Well, thanks for letting me know, Brandon." She would collect herself and call her mother. It was time they had this out.

  "Do you need anything?"

  Besides someone who understands me? "No, I'm good. Thanks for calling."

  "I love you, sis."

  "Love you, too."

  She hung up the phone, and wiped a tear from her cheek. On top of everything, her parents' lack of understanding and support had definitely been the worst. They honestly believed that her disease was a punishment from God, striking down the unholy with a vengeance. Or the work of Satan, calling his followers home in an early demise. They thought the disease tainted her with evil, and they prayed for her regularly, but they believed that she was lost to them. Dead already.

  She took a cleansing breath and dialed the phone number locked in her memory for a lifetime.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, Mom."

  "Hello, Rachel." Her mother's voice cracked, and Rachel knew she had probably grabbed a Bible, and was holding in front of her for protection, as if Satan would strike her down just for talking to her.

  "Brandon called me."

  "Well, I asked him to."

  "I know, Mom. Why don't you want me at the party?"

  "It just wouldn't be right."

  "What wouldn't be right about it, Mom? I'm your daughter, I should be celebrating this with you." She was determined not to cry, not to succumb to the devastating feelings of rejection she was feeling right now.

  "This is a religious event, Rachel. It wouldn't be appropriate with you being sick, and all."

  "Mother, I'm not sick. I don't understand what would be inappropriate about your daughter attending your anniversary party. Thirty years is a huge milestone. I want to help you celebrate."