Fully satisfied with his bulk and body strength, he stuck to simple toning exercises. He started with stretches as a warm-up, and a breathing/flexing routine he liked to consider his own version of Tai-Chi. He then got down on the floor to do several repetitions of sit-ups and pushups. Retrieving a large beach towel from the linen closet, he improvised arm curls by standing on one end while pulling upward on the other. He exercised his legs by standing, crouching, standing, and crouching again in repetition. A half-hour later, a bit winded, he paced the room to cool down and wiped at his face with the towel. He half-considered showering again, but knew he had a long day of yard work ahead of him.
Not wanting to use his last remaining set of clothes for work, he went down the hall to the bedroom stuffed with boxes. He presumed they were all good will donations and so forth from the church’s parish, and Father Mike probably would not mind if he dipped in. He found a pair of old jeans that fit well, some clean socks, and an old, faded “Journey” concert t-shirt with blue three-quarter length sleeves. “I can’t believe these were ever in style,” he muttered, pulling the shirt on. He figured it would make a good work shirt. Never having been a Journey fan, sweating all over it and tearing it up while working would not bother him a bit.
He went downstairs to use the toilet, washed his hands and face, put on some deodorant, and ran a brush through his short hair. When he came back out Father Mike, already dressed, stood in the kitchen digging through cabinets and gathering pots and pans for cooking. A carton of eggs stood open on the counter beside a loaf of bread and a slab of bacon.
“Good morning, Father,” Tim said, uncertain as to whether he should volunteer to help.
“Morning,” Father Mike replied cheerfully. “I heard you come downstairs so I figured I would throw together some breakfast.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you…”
“Nonsense. I was already up. Just doing some light reading, that’s all. You like butter on your toast? I’ve also got grape jelly.”
“Both, please. Can I help?”
“No, thanks. Just grab a seat. I enjoy cooking, and do it faster without extra hands.”
Tim did as he was told, sitting with his back to the door. He leaned back, watching the old man work. The priest moved fast, cracking the eggs with expert care and dropping the shells into the wastebasket at his feet. The bacon sizzled as it hit the pan. Within moments the smells incited Tim’s stomach to rumble and growl. The priest scrambled the eggs with a fork and threw in several strips of cheese and a dash of seasonings. The toaster ejected its payload and he quickly swapped the toast with fresh white slices. He then alternated between buttering the toast, flipping the bacon, and mixing the eggs. Finally, he removed the eggs from the heat and placed them on a back burner to simmer, put the bacon strips on a plate, and retrieved a carton of milk from the fridge. He poured two large glasses and set them on the table, returned to put together two plates of food, and finally sat down.
“There we are,” the old man said, taking his seat across from Tim. He opened his napkin and tucked one corner into his collar.
“This looks great,” Tim said sincerely. Two slices of toast, liberally coated with butter and jelly, sat on the edge of his plate over four crisp slices of bacon. The scrambled eggs, still soft and white with a yellow coat of cheese permeating the mix, looked wonderful. Dots of seasonings speckled the surface.
“I hope you like it. I was a short order cook for a time, right before I went to school. The eggs are my own creation. Try them.”
Tim scooped up some egg with his fork and tasted it. “Excellent! What did you season it with? Oregano?”
“A blend of Italian spices. Oregano, basil, and so forth. Then add a sprinkle of onion powder and voila!”
Tim dug in heartily, cleaned his plate swiftly, and, at Father Mike’s direction, helped himself to seconds.
“So,” Father Mike began, breaking the awkward silence. “How long were you married?”
Tim pushed away his plate, cleaned for the second time, and took a long sip of milk. He looked down at the pale band around the base of his ring finger. He never knew what happened to the actual ring. He woke up following a night of drunkenness and realized it disappeared as he supported himself over the rim of a motel toilet bowl. “Almost seven years,” he replied glumly.
“What happened? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”
“No, it’s alright. She fell in love with another man.” He never use the phrase “she cheated on me.” It made him feel like it was his fault when he put it that way, as if he slighted her in some way, forcing her to compensate for his deficiencies in the arms of other men. “She gained custody of the children and most of our property.”
Father Mike whistled in disbelief. “You poor man.”
Tim shrugged it off before thoughts of it dragged him into tears or depression. “I’ll get over it.” Memories of his children playing in the back yard persisted. Thankfully, Father Mike, sensing his discomfort, changed the subject.
“I’m sure you will.” He rose and gathered the dirty plates. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us. I have some shopping to do. I prefer to do it early, as most of the townsfolk around here do theirs in the late afternoon or evening.” He filled the sink with soapy water and drowned the dirty dishes.
Tim drained his glass of milk and wiped his mouth before standing. “Okay. I’ll get started outside. Hopefully I’ll get most of the yard work done before the sun gets too hot.”
Father Mike nodded. “Sounds good. When I get back, I’ll let you into the church so we can take a look around.”
Tim stepped outside and walked across the yard to the small shed, taking deep breaths of the cool morning air as he did so. The high grass licked at his ankles. At one point he paused to brush a large, winged insect he did not recognize from his leg. He could not help but wonder what other little monsters he would uncover as he mowed the lawn. The sadist in him hoped he would destroy all of their little homes.
An old padlock held the clasp on the shed doors shut, apparently there for convenience over security as the key stuck out from the bottom. Flakes of rust came off on his fingers as he twisted the key and opened the lock. He opened the hasp and hung the padlock from the ring, leaving it dangling as he swung the doors wide. The translucent roof of the shed provided plenty of light for him to see by. It also provided a lot more heat than he expected. Weeds pushed up between the makeshift floor, simply rows of masonry bricks laid close together. The usual yard equipment leaned against the walls, such as rakes, a spade, a hoe, a snow shovel, and more that he did not have names for and probably would not even use. A pick and sledge hammer leaned in one corner, though he did not know what they could be used for around here. The lawn mower, as promised, was only a simple set of rotating, curved blades that turned with the wheels. He found a coiled green garden hose dangling from a hook on the wall, but it looked corroded and leaky. A tarp covered the stacks of paint cans.
He upended the push mower to examine the blades. It appeared Father Mike kept them clean and sharp. He took it outside and passed it over a few feet of grass. With some effort he made a fair cut. Probably not as low or as clean as a motorized mower, but it would do the job. He would have to rake the clippings when he finished.
“Let’s do it,” he told himself, and went out to the far corner of the rectory lawn to start. He went the long way first, along the side of the house and parallel to the sidewalk. He turned and went back the opposite direction when he reached the walk connecting the street to the church’s front entrance. A few passes later he began to feel tenderness in his muscles. This was not going to be as easy as he thought, but he pushed himself on. He decided he could take a break after finishing this section, then go back and finish the opposite side of the church. The adjoining backyards of the rectory and church could wait until later this afternoon.
As he pushed on, he thought back to the conversation with Father Mike before he came outside. “She fell in love wi
th another man.” He thought back to his wedding night, how he and Laura promised to be together forever, reaffirming their hours-old vows in the dark hotel room shortly after they consummated their marriage. He tried not to think of her as a liar.
They spent the next two years keeping to themselves, adapting to one another’s little quirks before talk of children started. One Christmas morning, Brian was conceived. The boy grew up so fast. Tina came a year and a half after her brother, a mirror image of her mother. They were both so beautiful, and even now he felt such pride in them. He raised a hand to his eyes to wipe away the beginnings of tears, hoping any onlookers would assume he wiped away sweat.
He allowed his anger to rise, staving away the sorrow and self-pity. He remembered looking back from the sidewalk as Laura threw him out of the house. Brian and Tina looked out from the upstairs window, tiny faces and hands pressed against the panes. He could make out the tracks of their tears even from his seemingly distant vantage point. He blew a kiss up to them, and Tina, bawling, ran from the window. Laura shouted something at him, some last emotional dig, and he turned away. His heart heavy with grief, he climbed into the taxi, his only suitcase in his lap, the keys to his Camaro biting into his palm. He controlled himself long enough to tell the cabbie to take him to the self-storage garages. Further up the street, Laura’s new man pulled away from the curb and passed them, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Tim wished he had blackened both of the bastard’s eyes.
He spent the following week drunk on his friend’s couch, until his wife grew tired of their visitor and ordered Tim out. He bounced from hotel to hotel, getting evicted from one, the money he had left (what she had allowed him) rapidly diminishing.
Then he lost the wedding ring.
There, on the floor of a grimy bathroom in some remote, dilapidated motel, he had an epiphany of sorts. The ring, the shackle to a decayed marriage, disappeared, setting him free at last. He knew this was his chance for a fresh start. The past did not matter. A whole new world waited out there for him to conquer. He would rise up from the ashes a new man, calloused to the pitfalls and entrapments of emotion.
Or so he thought.
Now, almost a month later, he found himself in the middle of nowhere, with no car, no clothes, and damned lucky just to have food in his belly and shelter over his head. Fuck karma. His anticipated rise from the bottom took an abrupt nosedive, sending him plummeting lower than ever. He wondered if it stopped here or if it would ever stop at all. Perhaps it would plunge him straight down to his death.
Let it be quick and merciful, he thought.
Behind him, Father Mike came out onto the porch. Tim pushed the mower on, feigning total concentration on the task at hand. He decided he liked the priest, but he was in no mood for idle banter at the moment. He passed out of the old man’s view and, on his return trip, he saw the priest walking down the sidewalk away from the church. Tim watched the man shrink into the distance. Occasionally, he looked around. Up at the sky, to his left, his right, even over his shoulder. It was as if the priest feared, or perhaps expected, some assault.
No matter. Tim pushed on, seeing he had only a half-dozen or so passes until his break. Sweat continued to trickle down his face, tickling his flesh and stinging his eyes. He paused, the mower handle resting on his hip, and tore the sleeves from the soaking wet shirt. He tied one around his head like a bandanna. The other he tucked into his back pocket. He labored on, doing his best to ignore the heat. He probably looked pretty silly, but he really did not care.
He began to think about the heat of the desert, only moments away from the secluded little valley he now stood in. If he looked up he could see the mountaintops in the distance. For the grass to grow this long, there had to be a fair amount of rain. He did not realized it at first, but there had been dew on the grass when he came out. He wondered what phenomena of atmosphere or weather allowed this place its own temperate climate. He decided he would ask Father Mike about it later.
Finally, at long last, he pushed the mower through the last few feet of grass. He dropped the handle on the lawn and the thick layer of clippings nearly buried it. His shoes stained green, clippings clinging to his cuffs, he made his way to the back steps to rest for a while. A glass pitcher of lemonade waited for him, a layer of rapidly-shrinking ice cubes floated on the surface and condensation trickled down its side to pool at the base. A tall glass waited at its side.
“Ah, sweet golden elixir,” he said, grinning as he thirstily poured himself a glass. He made sure a few ice cubes made it over the lip of the pitcher. Pitcher still in hand, he guzzled his first glass in large, noisy gulps and poured a second glass. He belched loudly before taking another sip. Carefully, he set down the pitcher and turned back to the yard.
The clippings covering the surface of the lawn made it tough to judge how even or level the cut was, but it already looked much, much better. He walked toward the church, peeling his shirt away from his body with his free hand and flapping the end to get some air current beneath it and cool himself off. Sipping periodically, he wandered around each side of the church, looking up and down the walls, planning his attack on the steady decay.
As he did so, he discovered a third branch of the walk connecting the rectory to the church. It led to what he guessed used to be the parish hall Father Mike told him about last night. The hall burned to the ground, collapsing upon itself and sinking so low that Tim could now see over the ruin to the far side where a small parking lot stretched out to the street, its white lines long faded and since reclaimed by vegetation. Most of the blackened wood remained, and several metal supports, first twisted and distorted from the intense heat, rusted from years of exposure to the elements. He shook his head, mildly ashamed of the church’s former parishioners for allowing this to happen. Then again, based on the vandalism of the upstairs bedroom and whatever happened within the church, he was willing to bet an arsonist did this.
He shook his head and walked back to the tool shed. He decided he would rake up the clippings and recoup his energies before tackling the rest of the lawn. He retrieved a long rake with a tight grouping of metal tines to make the work go faster. Setting the rake and his glass of lemonade on the steps, he went out front to get the mower. He dragged it beneath a faucet near the garden and washed the clippings away, careful not to cut himself on the edges. He wiped the blades clean with the second sleeve of his shirt. Finally, he downed the last of his lemonade glass and, leaving the mower to its own devices, he took the rake out into the yard.
The sun rose higher his arms began to feel warm as they burned slightly. Never one for farmer’s tan, he took off his shirt and discarded it beside the lemonade pitcher (after pausing for yet another cool, refreshing sip from a fresh glass). Sweat trickled down his back, cooling him as it evaporated.
He worked diligently, wondering how much longer the priest would be away. Now that he thought about it, he wondered what time it was. He looked up from his work and considered the height of the sun. He regretted not buying a watch when he thought about it last week. As he looked down, something caught his eye. A woman sat in the driver’s seat of a car up the street, a small blue two-door of a make he did not quite recognize. The car had been there awhile, but he did not recall seeing her sitting there a few minutes ago.
She did not acknowledge him, and in fact did not even try to conceal the way she watched him, He moved a few steps to his left, attempting to get a better look through the open driver’s side window rather than attempting to peer through the glare on the windshield. He finally made out her round face and the red hair falling across her shoulders in loose curls.
For a few moments they stared at one another. Though he could not see her eyes, he knew she was looking him up and down, sizing him up, before meeting his gaze once more. It seemed almost sexual in a way, and a wave of discomfort passed over him. She licked her lips, slowly and seductively. Then she started the car and pulled away from the curb, coming down the street toward him. They both h
eld eye contact as she did so.
He shifted his grip on the rake and leaned his weight onto it, considering her intentions. Slowly, her car idled past, a sly smile playing at the corner of her mouth. He pictured her perched over him in the motel, her lips wrapped around his penis, but knew it could not have been this woman. She pursed her lips, and at first she seemed to be blowing a kiss toward him. But then he realized she blew air through her lips. She may not have delivered the blow job, but he realized she somehow knew about it.
“Hey!” he shouted, throwing the rake aside and giving chase.
She laughed and pressed the accelerator. The car roared up the street and around a corner before he even reached the sidewalk. He kicked a clump of clippings into the air in frustration, angry for not moving on her sooner, for not getting a look at her license plate.
“Stop fucking with me!” he shouted after her, though he knew she would not hear. He cursed again, returning to his yard work. He could not help but wonder again about some strange plot being launched against him. He wondered if women everywhere suddenly teamed up against him. His wife, the ringleader of this feminine conspiracy, pushed him this way on purpose.
Pushed him directly into the waiting claws of this fucked up town.
He chuckled at the ludicrousness of the idea.
* * *
Father Mike carried his overloaded basket to the checkout area and chose to wait in the longer line so he could speak briefly with an old friend of his running the register. He made eye contact briefly with the man, then gave him a curt nod. The man did not acknowledge the greeting, he simply turned back to the task at hand. He emptied the contents of an obese woman’s cart and ran each item across the scanner. He only did it for inventory purposes, however. Certain women of rank in town never paid for anything.
This particular woman was Marie Grand, in Mike’s opinion a loud-mouthed outspoken bitch whose last name most aptly described the size of her belly (Marie liked to believe it described her beauty). As always, she wore tight clothing that her flesh threatened to roll right out of. A thick layer of powder and rouge caked her puffy face, and several corkscrews of tight, dirty blonde curls thrust out all over her head. She looked like some madman’s idea of a little girl’s fashion doll.
Deadliest of the Species Page 6
