Hazard and Somerset

by Gregory Ashe

Glennworth Somerset pulled to the curb in a gleaming Aston Martin. Grace Elaine took a step toward the car.

  Hazard reached for her. He didn’t touch her; he wasn’t ready to start World War III. But the movement stopped her just as effectively.

  “You still haven’t opened your bag,” Hazard said. “What do you think John’s going to say when I tell him my theory?”

  With a speed that surprised Hazard, Grace Elaine spun toward him, thrusting open her bag. The book, still wrapped with Somers’s clumsily folded corners and superabundance of tape, lay at the bottom. She grabbed it and thrust it at Hazard.

  “There,” she said, her voice low and fierce. “I hope you’re happy. Go on. Tell John-Henry all about our little talk. Tell him what a horrible mother I am. You can gloat. You can tell him you were right about me.”

  “It’s not about me. It’s about Evie.”

  “Please,” Grace Elaine said, the word laced with contempt. “This is entirely about you and your attempts to ruin this family.”

  “Goodbye, Grace Elaine.”

  “I’ll tell you one more thing, now that we’re talking openly. That book? The one my poor, deluded son picked up for his daughter? A girl can be a scientist, an engineer, a doctor.” She made a noise of disgust.

  “I guess you’d rather have her be, what? A debutante? A socialite? An heiress?”

  “I’d rather have her be normal.” The word came out like a punch, and then emotion overwhelmed Grace Elaine, and she blinked rapidly as tears welled in her eyes. “I’d rather have her be happy. Think about what her life is going to be like, you and John-Henry playing house like this, as she grows up in Wahredua. Think about what her life will be like in elementary school. You grew up here; think about what her life will be like in high school.” She shook her head, gathering her handbag and turning toward the car. Then, over her shoulder, she shot a final volley: “I’d think you would understand better than anyone else the price of being different in a small town.”

  Then she was swallowed up by the Aston Martin, and the car slid away like molten silver under the bright September sun.

  V

  SEPTEMBER 7

  FRIDAY

  5:13 PM

  THE PARTY WAS SHIFTING when Hazard stepped back inside: Somers and a few of the moms were herding the children toward the kitchen, and shouts of, “Cake,” were threatening to turn an orderly movement into a riot.

  “Hey,” Somers said, hanging back as the crowd trickled out of the front room. “Where’d you go?”

  It wasn’t really a decision, but Hazard felt like he was still making a choice, falling on one side of a problem. He held up the present. “I thought I’d double check one last spot.”

  Grinning, Somers accepted the wrapped book and turned it over. “Where’d you find it?”

  “In the dining room.”

  “I checked the dining room.” Somers was eyeing him now, his gaze frank and assessing.

  “It was under the table.”

  “I looked under the table.”

  “One of the kids,” Hazard said with a shrug. “Maybe that nasty pig-tailed girl was carrying it around.”

  “Uh huh. And then you went outside to talk to my mother?”

  “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  “Uh huh. Because the two of you are so close.”

  “No, John. Because it’s the polite thing to do.”

  Somers ran his fingers along Hazard’s jaw. “Emery Hazard, you wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”

  Meeting Somers’s gaze dead on, Hazard said, “You’re the one who always says I’m a terrible liar.”

  “You are, my love. You really are.” Then Somers leaned forward and kissed him. He took Hazard’s hand and led him into the kitchen.

  Although the promise of cake had stoked the kids into a frenzy, very little had changed in the party dynamic. The other dads clumped together along the wall, while the moms set up paper plates and napkins and disposable forks. Somers flowed into action, getting the kids lined up around the table, plucking matches from a cabinet, laughing and shooting the shit with some of the guys who were trying to stay clear of the action.

  Hazard stayed where he was: on the outside of all of it. Where he always was.

  And then Somers looked up, head swiveling as he glanced around the room until he caught sight of Hazard. Then, he gave an impatient jerk of his head.

  Hazard offered a small wave; a negation.

  Come on, Somers mouthed with another jerk of his head, this time indicating the refrigerator. The cake.

  Hazard shook his head.

  With a dramatic roll of the eyes that Hazard could read across the room, Somers set down the matches and slipped out of the kitchen. He took Hazard by the arm and tugged him toward the chaos.

  “No, John. I’ll just stay out here.”

  “Not a chance, dummy. You’re the one who messed up the cake for little Evic. Now you’ve got to take the rap.”

  “John,” Hazard protested, but Somers drew him forward inexorably until Hazard was deep in the crush of children.

  “Ok, Evie,” Somers said, pulling the cake from the refrigerator and setting it in front of Hazard. “Who’s going to light the candles? Daddy or—”

  He never had a chance to finish. Evie raised both hands toward Hazard and shrieked, “Dee!”

  PRIDE SLAYS THANKSGIVING

  This story takes place before Police Brutality.

  Pride slays thanksgiving, but a humble mind is the soil out of which thanks naturally grow. A proud man is seldom a grateful man, for he never thinks he gets as much as he deserves.

  - Henry Ward Beecher

  I

  NOVEMBER 21

  WEDNESDAY

  4:25 PM

  NORMALLY, EMERY HAZARD LOVED having his boyfriend home from work early.

  Well.

  Normally might have been an exaggeration. Thirty percent exaggeration.

  Sometimes, Emery Hazard loved having his boyfriend home from work early. One time, John-Henry Somerset, who was blond and beautiful and was maybe just a little too spontaneous and imaginative for Hazard’s comfort, had come home, locked the doors, lowered the blinds, and made Hazard lose track of several hours. And one time, Somers had come home from work early, blindfolded Hazard, and driven him twenty miles to a cabin he’d rented—and, subsequently, made Hazard lose track of several days. One time—the best of all—Somers had come home from work early and done all the laundry. Washed, dried, and folded by the time Hazard got back from running errands. That might have been the day Hazard loved his boyfriend the most.

  But sometimes, Somers came home and wanted to talk.

  “You know what I could go for?” Somers called from the kitchen, the words accompanied by the sound of the refrigerator doors opening. “Pumpkin pie.”

  The words registered at the edge of Hazard’s consciousness; they didn’t sound like they needed a response, so he let his attention slide back to the text in front of him. A Statistical Analysis of Recidivism, First-time Offenders, Missouri, Iowa, Kansas, Arkansas, 2007-2009 was turning out to be even more of a page turner than he’d anticipated.

  In the kitchen, the refrigerator doors closed. Stockinged footsteps crossed the tile. Then they crossed back. The refrigerator doors opened again.

  “Maybe we could make a pie this weekend.”

  A ripple at the edge of consciousness: that sounded like it required some sort of acknowledgment. Hazard grunted.

  “I know we said we’re not doing Thanksgiving,” Somers said, poking his head into the living room. “But maybe we could still make a pie.”

  “Uh huh,” Hazard said, licking a finger to turn a page.

  Footsteps retreated into the kitchen again. Somers’s phone chirped—some game he was playing, Hazard thought distantly—and then footsteps came back toward the living room.

  Hazard tried to swallow a groan; he was focusing on the text so hard that
it swam in front of him.

  “My parents said we could still come over. You know, if we change our minds.”

  Hazard marked his place with his thumb. He looked at Somers. “We talked about this.”

  “I know.”

  “We said we didn’t want to do Thanksgiving.”

  “I know.”

  Hazard waited twenty seconds. Then he opened the book again.

  “It’s not like we completely, totally agreed, though,” Somers said.

  Hazard marked his place again. “What?”

  “I mean, we talked about it. And you said Thanksgiving was stupid. But we didn’t really agree, not really. You just kind of assumed I agreed when you said Thanksgiving was stupid.”

  “I didn’t say Thanksgiving was stupid. I said Thanksgiving was a sentimental fabrication, when corporate turkey farmers take advantage of emotionally-stunted, braindead mouthbreathers who don’t have enough intelligence to realize that they don’t like turkey the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ree. I like Thanksgiving.”

  Hazard held his breath.

  “So, what,” Somers said, “I’m one of the mouthbreathers?”

  This seemed like dangerous territory; Hazard tried to sink into the book again.

  “That’s what you’re saying, right?”

  “I make statements like that all the time, John. You never got mad before.”

  “I never thought I was included in them before.”

  Hazard made the mistake of looking up.

  “Oh my God,” Somers said. “Oh my God. So, last week, when you were talking about people who read novels and you said they were a bunch of drama queens who just wanted to live somebody else’s life, you were including me in that group?”

  “I said,” Hazard began, but he faltered, suddenly sensing that now might not be the best time to worry about his precise words, “that all novel readers suffer from a mild case of histrionic personality disorder that could be simply treated by—” The words dried up at the look on Somers’s face.

  “I like novels.”

  Hazard’s thumb worried the edge of his page.

  “And I like Thanksgiving.”

  “Ok.”

  “I like the food.”

  Hazard bent the corner of the page; this was going to take longer than he’d thought.

  “I like pumpkin pie.”

  “You said that.”

  “I like my mom’s stuffing.”

  “You said your mom always makes you eat way more than you want.”

  “I like a cigar and whiskey with my dad, the one time a year he’s not bitching at me.”

  “You hate cigars. You told me you can’t get the smell out of your hair.”

  Somers walked back into the kitchen so hard that the plates rattled in the cupboard; a small part of Hazard’s brain tagged it stomping.

  Then, the stomping came back.

  “You know, somebody put a quote up at work. ‘Pride slays thanksgiving.’”

  Hazard threw down his book and looked up at his boyfriend.

  “What?” Somers said. Then, rolling a shoulder, “It’s just a quote.”

  “It’s just a quote.”

  “It’s just a quote. Somebody pinned it on the bulletin board at the station. I saw it this morning, and I thought I’d share it.”

  “Don’t do that. You’re trying to pick a fight.”

  “I’m not trying to pick a fight.”

  “You’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “So what is happening?”

  Somers seemed frozen; then he melted. He was practically steaming, red in the cheeks, eyes fever bright. He went back into the kitchen, accompanied by the rattle of plates.

  Stomped, a part of Hazard’s brain supplied.

  “What?” Hazard said, going after him. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m pissed off, ok?”

  “You said you’re not mad.”

  “Well, I’m mad. And I’m acting like an asshole. I know I am. So, just, I don’t know. Leave me alone for a little while.”

  “No.”

  Somers spun, leaning against the sink, studying Hazard with those dry, fever-bright eyes. “No?”

  “No. I don’t know why you’re mad. You’re not being fair. We talked about Thanksgiving—”

  “You talked about Thanksgiving.”

  “We talked about it, John. And you didn’t say anything about pie or stuffing or a fucking cigar. You just nodded and said you didn’t want to do Thanksgiving either.”

  Somers was nodding. He wiped his face. Then he started smiling, still nodding. So much nodding.

  “You’re right.”

  Hazard shifted his weight, waiting for the rest of it.

  “No, you’re right. We talked about it. We totally talked about it. You’re right, just like you’re always right.”

  Hazard had the urge to hunker down, really brace himself.

  “Come here,” Somers said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  He held open the garage door and motioned Hazard to go in front of him. Hazard padded barefoot onto the cold cement of the garage. Then he turned back.

  “Hold on; let me get my shoes.”

  “When I say I want to be left alone, Ree, I want to be left alone.”

  Then Somers shut the door, and the bolt went home.

  II

  NOVEMBER 21

  WEDNESDAY

  4:57 PM

  JOHN.” HAZARD TRIED THE KNOB. “This isn’t funny, John.”

  Nothing.

  He knocked. Cold seeped into his bare feet, and he bounced up and down on the cement.

  “Ok, I get it. I should have left you alone when you said you wanted to be left alone. Can you open the door please?”

  His toes ached. Knocking changed into hammering, the door shivering in its frame.

  “I’m sorry. I was a shit. I know I was. Can you please open the fucking door now?”

  Pausing the blows, Hazard listened for a response.

  Instead of words, though, he heard the front door crash shut.

  “Shit.”

  Slapping the garage door control, Hazard padded past the cars and slipped out onto their driveway. He went up onto the porch.

  His heavy winter coat was neatly folded on the doormat.

  Next to it, Somers had placed a pair of wool-lined moccasins.

  “Oh, fuck no.” Hazard rained blows down on the front door, hard enough that the side of his hand throbbed. “John, open this fucking door, I’m not going to—”

  Movement caught his attention, seen out of the corner of his eye. Mrs. Kasperick stood on her porch, a long coat over her house dress, her feet stuffed into googly-eyed dalmatian slippers. Her own eyes were just as googly. The snoopy old bat looked like she might have an aneurysm she was so excited.

  “Enjoying the fucking show?” Hazard shouted.

  Her googly eyes got even bigger, and she latched onto the porch rail. A bulldozer couldn’t have gotten her back inside now.

  “John!” Hazard shouted, kicking the door once, barefoot, and barely avoiding breaking his toes. Then he hopped in a circle, massaging his aching, frozen foot, swearing a stream of fucks as long as the Bible.

  He shoved his feet into the moccasins. He dragged on the winter coat. He started around the side of the house, passing the garage. This was his house too. This was his fucking house too. And that meant he knew this house, knew all the ways in and out, knew it better, maybe, than Somers did.

  The back window in the living room had a broken latch. Jiggle it, work it gently, and it would slide right up. Hazard was already picturing what he was going to do once he got inside. What he was going to say, hell, he knew what he was going to say. But what he was going to fucking do, that was the part he was really enjoying. He’d been threatening to give Somers a red ass for a y
ear now. Maybe it was time to deliver.

  He wasn’t entirely sure about that, he had to admit, but he enjoyed picturing it anyway. It helped him forget about the cold.

  When he got to the window, he let out every fuck, shit, hell, and damn he had left.

  Somers had braced a length of wood across the inside of the window. Broken jamb or not, wiggle or jiggle or try as Hazard might, there was no way he was getting the window up now. On the glass, Somers had taped a note with his bold, blocky letters: Nice try.

  Hazard caught his watery reflection in the glass; daylight ran out early now, and it was almost dark, but he could still see the craziness, the sheer goddamn insanity, in his own eyes. And seeing it just poured fuel on the fire.

  He went back to the garage. He got a ladder. The window in Evie’s room. It didn’t have a broken latch; Hazard didn’t care. He was going to kick the goddamn thing in, and then they could deal with it later. Evie’s room made the most sense for a broken window; she was staying with Cora, it was at one end of the house, and it would be easy to close off and insulate until they could get the glass repaired. Hazard felt a chilly satisfaction at his own logic under the blaze running across the top of his thoughts.

  When the ladder was settled against the edge of the room, Hazard climbed. He picked his way onto the asphalt shingles, distributing his weight as best he could, and squirreled his way over to the dormer window.

  This time, he screamed. Not a howl. Not a roar. Just a downright, fuck-it-all, man-at-the-end-of-his-rope scream. He managed to cut it off after a heartbeat, but it was too late. It had already gotten out.

  Across the street, Mrs. Kasperick made a very appreciative noise. She probably had hot cocoa. She’d probably popped popcorn.

  This note said: Don’t you dare break this window.

  III

  NOVEMBER 21

  WEDNESDAY

  5:08 PM

  AS HAZARD CAME DOWN THE LADDER, Noah Harmon was pulling into his driveway next door. Noah and Rebeca had, in spite of their large brood of children, somehow developed an immediate rapport with Hazard and Somers. Somers loved both Noah and Rebeca. Hazard, he was slightly ashamed to admit, liked both of them. A lot. And as he dropped onto the brittle winter grass, he felt his cheeks heat.