by Hunt, James
Even after a marriage dissolves, love still lingers. It’s a residue that never breaks down, only grows smaller and weaker as time passes. Bellingham had met her once before, years ago before Chuck had taken over the family business. She was a lovely woman, too sweet for Chuck.
She had remarried and lived on the West Coast, with no desire to keep anything of her late husband’s. She sold everything. The house, cars, and the factory.
It was a blow to the whole town, because the moment she sold it off, the people who bought it started stripping it down for parts. Today, the factory doors were finally closing for good.
Bellingham drove over with the chain and lock, choosing to do it by himself instead of sending a deputy. The mass exodus of the town had already started, people moving to either New Orleans or Houston in search of work. The factory had kept people employed for a long time, and despite the Toussaints’ violent history, Bellingham thought that had to be worth something.
The outside of the factory looked the same as Bellingham shifted his cruiser into park. The parking lot was empty, and the usual noise and commotion from inside had stopped, but its shell hadn’t changed. Bellingham had heard that some of the equipment had been shipped to China. He supposed that was where the work was though. He doubted anyone from Ocoee would be able to get work there.
The chains rattled defiantly as Bellingham pulled them from the passenger seat. He wrapped them around the door handles and then snapped the lock into place. The doors buckled as Bellingham tugged at the handle to make sure they didn’t open too far, and he found a gap just big enough for a few roaches to slip through. He let go, satisfied.
Sweat collected quickly on his face and stains formed in tiny blotches under his arms. The only remnant of the building’s purpose was the sign that ran across the top of the roof. Toussaint Auto. That sign had been here longer than the sheriff had been alive.
With the factory closed, it was like the town’s motor had been turned off and then ripped out. He wasn’t sure if the town would survive, but he wouldn’t be here long enough to find out. After nearly forty years in law enforcement, tomorrow was his last day. And not by choice.
With the trial and debacle that unfolded the only way for Bellingham to help Owen was to admit that the department had screwed up the investigation. And when he said the department, he meant himself.
Part of the deal for Owen’s release from his prison time was that Bellingham be publicly fired for his incompetence on the job. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t sting. But he figured it was a small price to pay for putting a man and his family through so much. After all, if he had just listened to Owen in the first place, then a lot of people might still be alive.
He knew that the knowledge of what happened here would haunt him at night. After long days of doing nothing but fishing and drinking can after can of Miller, he’d lay down in bed next to his wife and try and calm the voices of doubt. He figured he’d be able to silence them most of the time, but he knew there would be nights where the voices would be too loud to drown out.
It was all in his head of course; a self-inflicted torture for a man who had done his best to always do the right thing. Just like the chains he put on that door to keep it locked, he put chains on himself to keep the bad locked away in its little corner.
At least he was able to do one thing right after all of it was over. The fact that Owen Cooley was no longer in jail would offer some solace. And while Bellingham wasn’t able to re-employ all of Ocoee, he was glad that he was able to put in a good word to his friends out west.
Owen was still a young man, with enough time to heal after what happened. There would always be a scar, but a scar was better than bleeding.
* * *
Sparks flew from a welding torch outside the hull of a large tanker anchored at the dock. The welder hung from the side of the ship, hovering fifty feet in the air as the waters from the bay lapped against the ship’s hull below. Sweat glistened on the back of his neck that had burnt to a nice shade of red.
The welder skillfully ran the torch down the side of a panel, the heat melding the new metal panel into place. The line was straight, the soldering skillful, and once the job was finished you could barely tell there was anything done at all.
The flame in the torch cut out, and Owen lifted the welding mask. He wiped his forehead, smearing a grey ash across his skin. He reached for a thermos of water and sipped from it greedily, the cool liquid running down the sides of his mouth. He splashed the rest over his face and set it down. Just before he re-donned the welding mask, the whistle in the shipyard blew, and the workers topside hollered down.
Owen descended the ship in the elevator with the rest of the crew that worked topside. He kept his head down, avoiding a few of the glares that he’d received since he started working. So far no one had said more than two words to him. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to do his job and go home at the end of the day.
Owen lugged his welder suit and lunch pail out to the rusted truck he managed to buy for a thousand dollars when they first moved out here. Another three hundred dollars got it running, and while it siphoned gas like a fish breathes water, it got him to work on time.
Owen’s muscles groaned in thanks as he sat behind the wheel. He squeezed his hands into fists a few times, his body out of practice from the physical labor that the job required. But three months locked in a jail cell had a way of wearing you down.
Traffic bottlenecked on the interstate, another wreck backing up cars for at least a mile. It added another thirty minutes to his commute, and when Owen turned down the street to his family’s new neighborhood, he offered a wave to the elderly woman across the street from him as he pulled into his driveway.
The door hinges groaned as Owen stepped out and turned toward Mrs. Delver. “How’s that stove working now?”
Mrs. Delver waved back, nodding and rocking in her old front porch chair. “Just fine, Owen, just fine. Your family coming to the block party this Saturday?” She gave her eyebrows a hopeful raise, craning her neck forward.
“We’ll see. Have a good night.” Owen turned before the old woman could answer and walked the path to the front door, which needed a new coat of paint. The whole house could use a new coat of paint.
He stepped inside, Mrs. Delver’s words echoing in the back of his mind. He already knew what the answer would be. It was a no. Despite the hospitality of the neighbors and being as far away from Ocoee, Louisiana as they could possibly get, it would take some time before they could get back to anything normal.
“Claire?” Owen dropped off his work gear in the front closet by the door. The house was dead quiet, and he stepped through the kitchen, finding it empty. “Claire, you home?”
A dull smack echoed through the walls, and Owen spun toward the back of the house where the noise originated. He slowly made his way toward the back door. Another smack. Voices drifted inside from the backyard. A ball passed by the tiny window in the door. Another smack, this one louder as Owen reached for the doorknob.
A fresh evening breeze drifted through the open door as the baseball was swallowed up in Matt’s glove. It was the first time in nearly four months that he’d seen his boy smile.
“Hey, Dad!”
The screen door swung shut as Owen stepped onto the lawn. “Hey.” He smiled back, then glanced to Claire, who had a glove on her hand and a shimmering gleam of sweat on her forehead. The evening sun highlighted her hair and eyes. Even in that ratty old shirt she wore with her hair in a ponytail and no make-up on her face, she was still just as beautiful as when they met.
“They were getting a little dusty.” Claire pounded her fist into the mitt. “Thought we’d give them some air.”
“Yeah,” Matt replied, smiling and tossing the ball in his hand. “They were suffocating in those boxes.”
“I bet.” Owen spotted Chloe in the corner of the yard. She was sprawled on her back over a blanket with a book in her hand. “And what are you doing over
there, bug?”
“Shh!” Chloe didn’t even look away from the page. “I’m trying to concentrate, please.”
Owen raised an eyebrow at Claire as she caught another ball from Matt. “Anything you’d like to share?”
“We went to the library today,” Claire said, heaving the ball back toward Matt with bullseye accuracy. “Our daughter has discovered the art in the Louvre.”
“The Louvre?” Owen laughed.
“Shh!” Chloe said, this time eyeing her father from her leisurely place on the blanket. “There isn’t anything funny about learning and appreciating the classics.”
Owen shook his head as Chloe returned to the book and turned the page. “Where on earth does she learn to say things like that?”
“TV,” Matt and Claire answered simultaneously.
Matt beelined a fast ball and connected with Claire’s glove in a pop akin to a firecracker. Claire winced and immediately removed her hand from the glove. “All right, Mom’s gotta take a break.” She tossed the glove to Owen, ball still tucked away inside. “I’ll let your dad take over.” Claire kissed his lips and then smacked him hard on the ass on her way up the steps to the screen door. “Go get ’em, slugger!”
Owen hopped across the lawn with a light spring in his step that he hadn’t felt in… well, he couldn’t even remember the last time that he did. He slipped the glove on and lobbed the ball to his boy, which triggered another wide grin across his face. Owen rotated his shoulder. “Little stiff.”
“I guess the gloves aren’t the only things with a little dust on them,” Matt said, laughing as he threw the ball to his dad.
Ball smacked into glove. “Was that an old man joke?” He tossed the ball back with a little more pepper on it and tried to hide the wince from another shot of pain in his shoulder.
Matt laughed, gobbling the ball up just before it got past him. He spun around in a circle and then flung the ball back wildly, but Owen snatched it at the last second. “Maybe it was.”
“Well,” Owen said, glancing at the ball as he tossed it back and forth between his hand and glove. “This old man still has a few things that he can teach you.” He chucked the ball back and smiled as Matt caught it.
And the pair played catch for a while, Matt talking about his day, and Chloe chiming in every once in a while but never looking away from her book. It was the most vocal Matt had been since they moved out here.
The back door swung open, and Claire wiped her hands on a towel that hung over her shoulder. “All right, dinner’s ready. Chloe, bring in that blanket.”
Their five-year-old groaned as she rolled to her side and pushed herself up on all fours. She kept a finger in place from where she left off then bunched up the blanket that was half her size. Matt came over to help, and she kissed his cheek.
“You’re a doll,” she said.
Owen laughed and removed his glove. He watched his kids pass their mother inside, and then he looked to the sun which had finally dipped below the horizon. Nothing but pinks and oranges and light blues swirled in the sky. He wondered if anything like that was painted in The Louvre.
“Hey.”
Owen jumped a little, Claire suddenly at his side.
“You all right?”
He pulled her close and kissed her. It brought up a passion and desire that neither of them had felt in a long time. They’d made love a few times after Owen was released from jail, but it always felt mechanical, more out of necessity than want. Their bodies were hungry, starving for one another. But in those moments of starvation you rarely tasted the food, instead you only filled the hunger.
But here, now, in their back yard after a long day’s work and coming home to find his family smiling and feeling normal for the first time in months, Owen wanted to taste again. He wanted to let life run through his veins. He’d tasted enough death to last him a lifetime.
Owen finally pulled back, but Claire lingered with her lips still in the same position as when he kissed them. With her eyes closed, she inhaled. “Wow.” She opened her eyes. “Hi stranger.”
“Hi.” Owen kissed her once more. “What’s for dinner?”
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!
Writing has always been a passion of mine and it’s incredibly gratifying and rewarding whenever you give me an opportunity to let you escape from your everyday surroundings and entertain the world that is your imagination.
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