“Oh, yes, I enjoyed meeting your friends. What were their names again? Oh, yeah, Snatch and Gan. Such strange names, Julian, is that Snatch like in grab? Is he a thief of some sort?”
“No, sugar, it’s Snatch like in a woman’s …” Fuck this shit.
“All right, party’s over, thanks for stopping by, but it’s time for you all to leave now. Clover has shit to do and so do I.” I grabbed my woman by the arm and hauled her little ass behind me just before that asshole could taint my baby’s ears with his biker bullshit code names. If she didn’t know what a snatch was, I’d explain it to her later, in private, after I finished munching on hers for a while. They got to visit, have a little chat, now it was time for them to get the fuck out. Clover put up little resistance as I insisted they leave. This time, she thanked them all for stopping by and wished them all a safe trip back home. I could breathe a little easier knowing we were finally in the clear and rid of these scum suckers for good, until she did the unthinkable and yelled out to their retreating backs.
“Oh, before I forget, you guys are all invited to our wedding in a couple weeks. Consider this your formal invitation.” Someone please tell me that shit did not just happen. Inviting these fucking bikers to my wedding without asking me first was fucked up on all levels. I was about to squash that shit right down when the big fucker, Gan, slowly stalked over to Shelly, bent down, and whispered something in her ear that made her huff and puff and nearly blow the house down. He casually smirked as he walked away, hopped on his bike, and followed the rest of the scum as they rode away. I’d have to worry about that shit later. For now, Clover had a fuck of a lot of explaining to do. Everyone was standing around with their mouths hanging open, silent as the dead while Clover smiled and continued to wave good-bye long after they’d disappeared from sight.
“That was amazing! I can’t believe Julian is moving so close to…” She finally realized that none of us were smiling and didn’t share in her joy of seeing Craze again. She just couldn’t understand why this was a bad idea, and I was partly to blame for that. She didn’t know the truth about the shooting, which was completely my doing.
“What’s wrong? Why are you all looking so angry?” She tried to laugh it off, but she knew something was wrong. Clover wasn’t stupid, and the four of us standing around pissed off in the yard wasn’t something we were trying to hide.
“What the fuck, Clove? How could you invite those assholes to your wedding? Are you fucking crazy or something?” Shelly was the first to speak out, while Sebastian and Mem simply slipped off without saying a word. They would never get involved in business between a man and his woman unless she was in danger of physical harm, which Clover would never be while with me, so they recognized that it wasn’t their place to interfere. Buckism 101
“Shelly, this is none of your business. Julian is my friend, and as I mentioned already, he saved my life. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here right now, so please stop worrying about things you know nothing about.” Her tone left no room for argument, and whatever Shelly was about to say was lost through a shake of her head and rigid posture. Clover was taking a stand and would not be dissuaded.
“This is bullshit. You deal with her, Range, I’m over this crap.” She stomped to her car and pulled out the driveway like a bat outta hell, not bothering to look back. Clover and I were left alone, facing each other as the familiar comfort began to return to her eyes. She was looking to me to tell her that it was okay and that she made the right decision by inviting them to our wedding, but I couldn’t give her the response she was looking for. Her loyalty to Craze was based on the notion that he saved her from a random robbery attempt, that he was a hero. She was wrong on both accounts. He was no more her hero than I was, but unlike him, I loved her more than life itself, and the time had come to show her just how much by telling her the truth.
“Range? What’s wrong? Please tell me you understand why I invited Julian to our wedding. I wouldn’t be alive to have a wedding if it weren’t for him. Please tell me it’s okay.” She begged me with her eyes to agree with her, but this time I couldn’t.
“I know why you invited him, baby, but it’s not okay and it never will be.” My reply was harsher than I intended, and she shirked back a step at my words.
“Why, Range? I don’t understand. Please tell me why,” she demanded. Now was the time.
“’Cause he didn’t save your life, baby, and it wasn’t a random robbery. The guy who killed Buck was a biker we rousted for information on how to find Craze an hour before the shooting.”
“I don’t understand. How could that be? You told me it was a robbery.”
“We beat that bastard down pretty bad. Guess he came looking for revenge since he knew where we were headed. Showed up to kills us, and would have if Buck hadn’t shot him first. I…I didn’t know how to tell you the truth, baby. I’m sorry I didn’t.” I prayed she could hear the sincerity in my voice and believe that my actions were those of someone who only wanted to protect her from harm. I never meant to deceive her for my own personal gain. She was so trusting and honest, and she wanted to believe in something that wasn’t real. As I looked at her now, I could tell that my confession had ruined her. The silent tears streaming down her cheeks caused my chest to ache, knowing I was the one who caused them to flow. I reached out to hold her, but she recoiled from my touch. The action hit me like a two by four to the chest. She didn’t want me or my touch, but I desperately needed hers.
“You lied to me, Range. All this time, all the nightmares, waking up in cold sweats, afraid that someone would break in and try and kill us, you knew all this time and never said a word. How could you do that to me?”
“Baby, please, I only wanted to protect you. I never meant to hurt you. Please…” I was begging her like a pussy to believe me, but it didn’t matter. I would be the biggest pussy in the world if it meant she would forgive me.
“I trusted you, and you lied to me this whole time. How could you?’
“Tootsie baby, please just listen for a minute…” I took a step toward her, but she held up her hand, stopping me in my tracks.
“Don’t call me that…don’t ever call me that again.” She wiped her eyes and squared her shoulders, gathering herself once again. She will forgive me and we can go on with our lives as we planned by putting all this bullshit behind us. We are meant for each other, and this is just one of those small obstacles that got in our way. We are strong enough to face it as long as we stay together. Those were my thoughts just before she shattered my dreams by looking deeply into my eyes and slowly removing her engagement ring from her finger, then handing it back me.
“I’m sorry, Range, but I can’t marry you. I need time, time to…” She paused. “I just need time.”
Then she walked away taking my soul with her.
Chapter 7
Clover
The reservations were cancelled, the dress was returned, and the invitations were rescinded. The day I returned home with my packed suitcase, I told my family that Range and I decided to postpone the wedding and I needed time to myself to think things through. There were a lot of questions, finger pointing, and threats made. They all wanted someone to blame, the reason for our sudden decision and overwhelming sadness, but it was no one’s fault. It just needed to be this way. I refused to answer any of their questions. It wasn’t their business to know the details. I hardly understood them myself. One day, I was the happiest girl in the world looking forward to starting my life with the man of my dreams. The next, I was wallowing in misery and despair, separated from the only person in the world whom I truly felt safe with. How did it all go so wrong?
I arrived at the innocuous-looking building at exactly nine in the morning, parking the car in the same spot I chose the week before. The first night back at my parents’ house after the emotional roller coaster of that day had caused my body to physically shut down. I fell asleep in my old bed to what I thought would be a much-needed night of rest. Wit
hin the hour, I woke up screaming bloody murder from one of my nightmares, scaring the shit out of everyone within earshot. Two more days of sleep eluding me, and my mother had had enough. She forced me to go see our old family doctor for a complete checkup and evaluation. I refused to be placed on any sort of medication to help me sleep, and going to see a shrink was completely out of the question. I didn’t want to turn into an emotionless zombie walking around oblivious to my surroundings, and lying on a couch while some old dude with a pocket protector attempted to get in my head was not something I would ever agree to. Without any other recourse, the doctor recommended a support group that was run by the son of an old colleague of his from college. The group was open to the public, similar to an alcoholics anonymous meeting, and met once a week in one of the buildings downtown. He was well aware of the shooting, but without proper psychoanalysis, he could only speculate that I was suffering from trauma caused from the whole ordeal. No shit, doc. You think?
I was willing to try anything at this point just to make the nightmares stop. I didn’t have Range to hold me close anymore so I could fall sleep, and I desperately needed uninterrupted rest. I didn’t see the harm in meeting with an anonymous group of people, listening to a few stories or perhaps telling my own, all with hopes of feeling better at the end of the day. I didn’t participate much in the first session, opting instead to just sit back and listen, to try and get a feel for how this whole thing was supposed to benefit me in the long run.
The group was small, ten people at my count, from all walks of life. They seemed very familiar with each other, as if they had been coming here for years. Perhaps they had. Refreshments were provided, and it all seemed rather social, like a sewing club meeting once a week to discuss the latest techniques in backstitching. Once the sharing started, this group was anything but social, and the gut-wrenching stories were enough to have me walking out several times just so I could catch my breath. I felt so embarrassed by my actions. I mean, these people lived through their ordeals and I didn’t have the common decency to sit down long enough to hear the retelling of it without a complete mental breakdown. This week would be different, no more tears, no more sympathy, and no more running out when the whole idea was to stay and show support for one another. Today, I’d consider telling my story as the others had so trustingly told theirs. I refused to be that simpering little brat I’d become over the last couple of weeks, all because of a few nightmares. I was a fucking Benjamin, for goodness sake. We didn’t back down, we kept fighting.
I took my seat amongst the small group of regulars and inhaled deeply to steady myself as I waited for the meeting to begin. The ratio of men to women was pretty even, and if I had to guess, I would say most of the crowd was under the age of forty. I was sure it was no coincidence that my doctor recommended this group versus another; even the therapist was in his late thirties and looked more like a hipster than someone who carried a degree in psychology. His name was Henry of all things, and I was instructed early on to just call him Hank. He had a boyish look about him and a smile that made you feel a level of comfort bit by bit with just one glance. I liked him straight away, and that feeling of unease was dying down tremendously by the end of the first session. Hank made it easy for me to decide to return for the second week, so that’s what I did.
Hank breezed in and took his seat. Armed with his notepad and pen, he began the meeting on time and without preamble. He wore his customary designer clothing, button down shirt and freshly pressed khaki pants. His dark-rimmed glasses completed his hipster look as he checked his notes to see where we had left off after last week’s meeting:
“Okay, so last week we learned that Michelle was going out on a first date with a young man she met at the local coffee shop. Michelle, would you like to share what happened?” Michelle was about my age, a beautiful girl with lovely red hair that hung to her waste in waves. She was involved in a hazing incident at the college she attended out of state. The sorority girls made her run around campus naked in order to prove her worthiness to become an Alpha Delta or whatever the hell it was called. Everyone took pictures and posted it all over social media within minutes. She was so embarrassed and ashamed, she withdrew herself from school the same day and returned home. I felt her pain deeply as she shared some of her story last week, and when her tears stared to fall, I wanted nothing more than to hold her close and give her the comfort she so richly deserved. She didn’t need my pity; she needed my strength and attention. She needed to feel secure that the fault didn’t lie with her and what she did, but rather with those evil bitches who pushed her into doing it. She was innocent, a victim, just like the rest of us were.
Michelle sat up straighter in her chair and shyly looked over at Hank as she shared her first date experience. Her cheeks turned a light pink as she spoke softly about her weekend.
“It was okay, I guess. He was nice enough and didn’t try anything.” She hid her face behind her hair and used it as a shield against prying eyes.
“Think you might see him again?” Hank asked, turning his face to give her his full attention.
“We’re going out to dinner on Thursday, nothing special, just pizza.” She smiled this time, and we all shared the joy in her good news. There were shouts of “awesome,” “way to go,” and “hell, yeahs” from all of us, but the unwanted attention caused her to hide her face behind her hair again, so Hank had to intervene and move the meeting along.
“That’s wonderful, Michelle. I hope you decide to share with us again next week. We’d love to hear all about your second date as well.” Yes, Hank, we would.
“Anyone else like to share what’s been happening in their lives over the last week?” It was an open invitation to the group and my cue to dive into the deep end headfirst. If Michelle could do it, then so could I. Here goes nothing.
“My name is Clover, and I’m the newbie of the group. Super excited to be here.” I went for the humorous approach, but that was about as well-received as Rhett Butler at the Wilkes’ annual barbeque at Twelve Oaks. I needed to cut the bullshit and act respectfully and serious for a change. I cleared my throat and continued.
“About six month ago, I was shot during a robbery attempt at Foster’s Confections. You may have read about it in the newspapers.” Some nodded their heads in agreement, while others just waited patiently for me to continue. This was so much harder than I thought it would be.
“I survived, of course, but a man was killed in the process. A man who was very important to my um…former fiancé. I…I’ve been suffering with nightmares ever since it happened. I can’t sleep and I…I panic because I think someone is going to break in and kill me.” I acknowledged that last part softly. Even to my own ears it reeked of weakness and irrationality.
“Those are all reasonable thoughts and behaviors considering the circumstances, Clover. You said your former fiancé. Did he leave you after your ordeal at Fosters?” Hank asked cautiously. How could I answer him truthfully without starting from the beginning and how this entire mess could all have been avoided if cooler heads had prevailed? All the different pieces of this chess game coming together to cause heartache and death with so many victims they’re still counting the bodies.
It was at that very moment that I realized I had never spoken to anyone about what actually happened that day at Foster’s, not even with Range. We picked up the broken pieces, dusted ourselves off, and kept moving as if it was just another normal day in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. Range isn’t big on expressing his feelings out loud, “Pussy talk” he called it. He hides behind his work, choosing instead to focus his energy on doing more, as much as he can to keep that junkyard running in tiptop shape the same way Buck had. He internalizes every ounce of his pain until you could feel it seeping from his pores. Range is without a doubt one of the strongest men I knew, but attending a support group? Never gonna happen. He would rather die than share feelings. I needed this. The shared understanding of helplessness and trepidation. If anyone would un
derstand, it would be the mailman sitting beside me who was attacked by a gang of thugs, the mother of two across from me who was raped and beaten while her baby slept in the next room, and finally, the young college student who just wanted to fit in and make friends but instead was forced out, alone. These people would understand my pain as I understood theirs, and so I shared.
“No, he didn’t leave me…I left him.” I had to be careful with this part of the story. Most of the community believed that the shooting was random and that Buck Calhoun was an upstanding citizen who was licensed to carry a firearm, who did what any reasonable person would have done if faced with a similar situation. So I lied…again. I told them that I left Range for a very different reason, and I shared it all until there was nothing left but truth. My truth.
Chapter 8
Range
I was so fucking tired, but I couldn’t stop moving. I didn’t want to think of her more than I already did. I couldn’t afford the distraction. I’d been working in the yard since four this morning, and I could hardly see straight. I knew it was late, because the sun was setting, but that was about all I knew. I couldn’t think about anything but getting the work done, pushing myself till I couldn’t move anymore. I hadn’t slept in our bed since the day Clover left me, too many reminders of her all over the room. The long hairs in the bathroom sink, her toothbrush still sitting in the holder, and her tootsie-roll scent that she still carried even though she hadn’t worked at Foster’s for months. The office at the junkyard was just as she left it: papers neatly stacked on the edge of the desk, appointment book sitting next to the phone, and her blue sweater draped over the back of the chair in case she got cold during the day. It was all there, just the way she left it, the way she left me.
The first few days were the hardest for me to handle. Standing around the junkyard alone for the first time in years. Memory had been like a fucking ghost since he came home, keeping to himself and acting strangely when I approached him. He’d been cagey, paranoid at times, so much so that he refused to stow away his weapons. He was always strapped with his nine millimeters and God knows what else in his shoulder holsters. I was worried he was not adjusting to civilian life as he should be by now. He didn’t sleep in his room at the house, said he needed time to himself, so he cleared out one of the larger sheds we used for storage and moved his essentials inside. I balked at the suggestion at first, but I understood his need for privacy, so in the end I relented. I just hoped I wasn’t making another huge fucking mistake by allowing him this much space instead of insisting that he gradually socialize with someone who was non-military personnel and remained close by.
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