by Jenna Blum
Kevin. Karena should call Kevin. She promised she would if she had the slightest suspicion—but how can she, when she doesn’t even know where Charles is? He could indeed be in New Heidelburg confessing to the sheriff, at which point, Karena feels fairly sure, any involvement Kevin has in her life will become moot. Or Charles could be at the farmers’ market, the Linden Hills co-op. He could be already full blown, reeling around Minneapolis deranged with mania, fending off visions from his own fevered mind. There’s only one way to know for sure. She has to find the ledger.
Karena ravages the room looking for it, tossing aside armfuls of T-shirts and socks, towels, even checking the bathroom. Of course it is the last place she looks, the logical place, under the bed. Karena almost cries when she sees aug 2009 on the cover and hugs the composition book to her chest. Charles hasn’t gone to the sheriff. Not yet. Feeling physically sick, Karena opens the ledger. She would never do this except in an emergency, and she’s no snoop. She doesn’t read all the entries, only the last one, written this morning.
21 aug 2008 sunday, 10:53 AM. mostly sunny, se wind to 15, lo 62, hi 88, dews mid-70s. Poss severe forecast day 2, dakotas thru western and southern mn. shortwave troughs moving thru will likely cause siggy tor outbreak. not sure if i will chase bc might be in new hellishburg at the sheriff’s, haven’t decided yet. made the mistake of telling k yesterday & she basically pooh-poohed me. like patted me on the head & said that’s nice charles but leave me out of it. cowardly bitch, like i’m the only one responsible for what happened that day on the road. tho that’s not fair, she’s not a bitch, she just doesn’t get it. doesn’t get what it’s like to see the fucking guy every night. doesn’t get how awful it is to be trapped in this skin knowing i did it, i killed him. just go work at a soup kitchen, she sez, looking at me w/ this great condescension. what a fucking dumbass thing to say & so easy for her to say it. it’s all easy for her, she’s got this nice setup here w/ job & house & car, except of course it’s all a lie bc she’s not telling the truth, & that’s going to come back to bite her on the ass. i’m so tired of dealing with this all on my own, it’s not fair, & i’m tired of K thinking i’m crazy—her & her little dog too. that’s wieb, haha, tho really he isn’t a bad guy i don’t think, like not EVIL necessarily, it’s just that like most weak people his vision is limited & he’s jealous & it makes him do bad things. wieb knows he’s nothing next to me, he’s always envied my instincts & tried to push me out of the way. hence that day in ok when we were chasing that tor & he got me locked up, what the fuck was THAT? & how ironic is it that the two of them have ended up together? or maybe not, birds of a feather & all that, but the pt is K’s over there right now plotting w/ wieb & i can FEEL them talking about me, wieb’s trying to convince K i’m nuts, he totally wants me gone from the picture except this time not to steal my data but to take my sister. well he’d just better watch out the two of them had better watch out because i know they want to put me someplace where they’ll give me more ECT & stick wires in my head—
“What the fuck are you doing?” says Charles from the top of the stairs, and Karena turns. He is carrying a paper bag of produce and he takes a couple of steps toward her, except it is not Charles, Karena sees, looking at her with such open-mouthed suspicion, such dark and righteous indignation. No, Kevin is right, and Karena has been wrong, because Charles has been erased as efficiently as with a sponge. Her brother is not here. But the djinn is.
47
Karena sits out on the front steps with her cell phone, calling and calling Kevin. She has to warn him, keep him from coming over if she possibly can. He’s coaching soccer practice, which started last week, and Karena knows he turns off his cell and tosses it in the glove compartment while he does this, often forgetting to retrieve it until later that night. She can only pray this time he makes an exception, calls to see if he can pick up anything last minute, even goes home to shower so he’ll hear the message Karena has left on his landline: I’m okay, I’ll explain later, but do not come here, Kevin. I repeat, do not. Karena doubts she’ll catch him, though. Kevin is already a half hour late for supper, which, Charles has reminded her, Charles is scheduled to cook for the three of them. Why else do you think I went to buy all this fucking food, K, he snarled, to give you time to go through my shit?
Karena is right: Kevin comes straight to the house. She jumps up as soon as she sees his Honda round the corner, but Charles is too fast for her. He barrels out of the house, almost knocking her over, freshly showered and holding a big brown bottle. He is wearing a pink button-down shirt and swim trunks with flames on them, and he trails the smell of his organic soap, patchouli with a hint of lime.
“Wieb,” he says, bounding down the front walk, “Wieb, Wieb, Wieb, Wieb, Wieb! Good to see you, man.”
He throws an arm around a somewhat startled Kevin as Kevin comes around the car and plants a smacking kiss on Kevin’s cheek.
“Jesus, Hallingdahl, what the hell,” Kevin says, shrugging Charles off. “I’m not that easy. You have to at least feed me first.”
“Sorry, Wieb, sorry, sorry,” says Charles and hands him the bottle. “Here, here’s a beer, sustenance for the beer baby, he must be parched. It’s so hot tonight, high dews too, I don’t envy you out on that field. So how was it,” he says, guiding Kevin up the walk, “how was school, how was practice, how are kids these days?”
“Brutal,” says Kevin. “I knew I should have gone into hairdressing.”
He looks at Karena and raises his brows: What’s going on with him? She gives her head a tiny shake.
“Hold up a minute, Hallingdahl,” Kevin says, “let me say hi to my girl here.”
“Oh, forget her,” says Charles, flapping a hand, “she’s useless, this woman, does no work whatsoever. Would you believe I asked her to set the table an hour ago? An hour, a whole fucking hour, and has she done it yet? That’s a rhetorical question, Wieb, you don’t have to answer. I s’pose I’ll just have to do it, the way I do everything else around here, no rest for the wicked as they say. Also we have to grill, I’ve already got the fire going, so come on, Wieb, let’s go do manly things.”
“Sounds good, Hallingdahl,” says Kevin, “one sec,” and he detours to Karena and hugs her.
“How long has he been like this?” he says in her ear.
“I’m really not sure,” she says, smiling widely, and from on the porch Charles says, “Jesus, Wieb, could you be slower? Move your ass, the grill waits for no man.”
“Coming, Hallingdahl,” says Kevin. He looks at Karena over one shoulder—Is this all right? Is this what we should do?—and she nods and shrugs and follows.
Charles drags Kevin through the house and out onto the back patio, where Karena sets the table while the men grill Charles’s vegetable shish kebabs. It is indeed a hot evening, the western sky orange-pink beyond the garage roofs, the bats cross-stitching it with eerie, stuttery speed. The neighbor kids splash in their pool across the alley: Marco! Polo! The air fills with the smell of charcoal, and Karena brings out the dishes Charles has prepared. Green salad, caprese salad, a selection of farm cheeses, a baguette, and, Karena sees with a pinch, Siri’s favorite, sliced tomatoes piled high with sugar. Karena adds beer and ice water and lights the citronella candle, and all the while Charles talks—and talks and talks and talks and talks and talks. So what does Kevin think about tomorrow? The forecast looks pretty healthy, huh? Is Kevin going to chase? Oh, sorry, Wieb, forgot you had to coach, but if Kevin wants to play hooky they could chase together, wouldn’t that be sweet? One last summer chase, Hallingdahl & Wiebke, a chase for auld lang syne? Okay, dinner’s ready! and they all sit down. Karena doesn’t dare look at Kevin, but she grips his hand under the table.
They eat. At least Karena and Kevin do, while Charles keeps talking. So what does Kevin think of this season anyway, would he say it was slower than usual? More active? About the same? Good season, interesting, what makes him say so? And what does he attribute that to, El Niño? Doesn’t he th
ink global warming has a lot to do with it? What does Kevin predict will happen if the earth’s temperature keeps rising a couple of degrees a year? What will the effect be on severe weather, particularly tornadoes, particularly significant tornadoes? Doesn’t Kevin think the parameters will totally change? “If this keeps up,” says Charles, “forget Tornado Alley, we’ll all be chasing in New York City, ha ha! That would suck.” He pauses to drain a glass of ice water, pours himself another, drinks that too, then wipes his mouth on his shoulder and keeps going. “I’m telling you, man,” he says to Kevin, “I’m this close to submitting my abstract on rapid cycling, this close, thisclose!” and he holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart and shakes them in Kevin’s face. Kevin blinks and eats another forkful of mozzarella. “But I might’ve been looking in the wrong direction. I should have been paying more attention to global warming and its effects on severe, that’s the future, Wieb, because that’s where the study of meteorology is going.”
“That’s probably true, Hallingdahl,” says Kevin, and under the table he presses Karena’s hand: Still okay? And she squeezes back: Yes.
“Really,” says Charles, “really, you think so, Wieb? Then maybe, maybe, maybe we can look into piloting a study together,” and he pours a third glass of water. The bowls and plates chatter lightly on the table from Charles’s knee jackhammering beneath it and his eyes glitter and he rakes his hands through his hair, and although he sounds pleasant enough, in fact is being perfectly friendly, Karena knows what he’s thinking. She told Kevin the truth when she said she can’t usually intuit what’s going through Charles’s mind, but tonight the force of his dementia is so strong she feels herself getting sucked into it, can see how Charles is viewing them all. Karena is a sickly lamb, baaing, fearful, and sycophantic. Kevin is a neckless calf, unaware of imminent slaughter. And Charles, sitting between them, is neither animal nor human, exactly, but more a towering consciousness that mushrooms up and up and up over the table, above the yard, above the house and the block and city and countryside until he is miles above them, in the stratosphere, looking down and thinking, Lord, what a bunch of fucking morons these mortals be.
Suddenly he stands up.
“Well, I’m off,” he says, “you kids can do the dishes, can’t you? See you later.”
“Where you going, man?” Kevin asks.
“Night lightning,” says Charles. “I’ve been watching the southwest sky over your head, Wieb, and there’s a pretty decent show going on over there. It’d be sweet to shoot a few CGs, maybe an anvil crawler or two. I’d invite you to come along but I know you kids want to be alone and speaking of which”—he winks—“be good now, use protection, and no wild parties or I’ll call the cops, you hear?” and then he is gone, the screen door wheezing behind him.
Karena and Kevin stare at each other until they hear the front door shut too.
“Are you all right?” Kevin asks, and Karena nods.
“You?” she says.
“Drenched,” says Kevin and lets go of her hand to reach for the water pitcher. He drinks a glass and pulls his T-shirt away from his skin. “He scared the bejesus out of me. That’s the djinn, huh?”
“That was him,” says Karena.
“He was bad in Oklahoma too,” says Kevin, “but not that bad. I’ve never seen him this wound up. Has he been hearing or seeing things?
“Not yet,” says Karena, “but probably soon. Kevin, I think I was wrong. I think he’s been working himself up to this for a while and I didn’t want to see it. I’m sorry, I’ve been such an idiot—”
“Don’t, Laredo,” says Kevin. “(A), you’re not, and (B), that’s counterproductive. The question is what we should do about him now.”
“But what can we do?” Karena says. “Besides go after him. He shouldn’t be in the car,” and she starts to stand up. Kevin puts a hand on her wrist.
“I think we should call the cops,” he says. “Let them handle it.”
“And tell them what, Kevin? That he’s manic? They can’t arrest you for that.”
“No, but couldn’t we say he’s driving under the influence?” Kevin argues. “What is that, reckless endangerment?”
“Maybe,” says Karena. “But under the influence means alcohol or drugs, and he’s—”
“Who’re you kids talking about?”
Karena and Kevin freeze. Charles is back, standing at the side gate. He lifts the latch and strolls in, setting off the safety light over the door.
“Forgot my keys,” he says, “must be early Alzheimer’s setting in, I should start wearing them around my neck or something. There they are,” and he snatches his carabiner key ring from the table next to the grill.
“So,” he says, bouncing it in his palm as he walks over, “what’s going on, what’s up, what’d I miss? What’s the hot topic of conversation at the dinner table?”
“Not much,” says Karena, and Kevin says, “Yeah, just shooting the breeze.”
“Oh, not much?” says Charles, sitting down and scraping his chair over. “My favorite topic. Deal me in. The light show can wait a little while. So, Wieb, who’s this guy you’re talking about?”
“What’s that?” says Kevin. He takes another sip of water.
“That guy,” says Charles, “that guy you were just discussing. Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing, it’s not like I’m an eavesdropper or a snoop or anything. Unlike my sister here, I’m not into that kind of thing. But you’re not exactly subtle, Wieb, in fact your voice carries like a fucking airhorn, so my question is, this guy you want to call the cops on, that wouldn’t be . . . me, would it?”
“Actually, Chuck,” says Kevin, “we were thinking you seem a little wound up.”
“A little wound up,” repeats Charles, rocking the chair on its back legs. He regards Kevin with his eyes half closed, a smile curling his mouth. “A little wound up, little wound up, that’s how I seem to you, huh, Wieb?”
“Kevin, don’t,” Karena says softly.
But Kevin says, “That’s right.” He sounds calm enough, although blisters of sweat have formed at his hairline. “Maybe you should hang with us a while, just talk and relax. Play some cards—”
“No, let’s talk,” says Charles, his chair legs slamming down. He sweeps his plate aside and folds his hands on the table and smiles. “Talking’s good. I like talk. Especially when it’s among friends. And we’re all friends here, wouldn’t you say, Wieb?”
“Charles,” says Karena, but Kevin says, “Sure, man. Absolutely.”
“Did you hear that, sistah?” Charles asks. “Absolutely. Absofucking-lutely. See, K, Wieb agrees we’re all friends. And friends should talk honestly among themselves, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” says Kevin. “Listen, Hallingdahl—”
“But you know,” says Charles, “somebody here has a different definition of honesty. I’m with you, Wieb, I think trust is the basis for any relationship, friendship or otherwise. But somebody does not agree.”
“That’s enough, Charles,” says Karena.
“And who could this somebody be?” Charles asks. He looks around dramatically, then clamps his hands to his forehead. “Oh my God! There she is!”
“There she is, right,” says Kevin, but he is starting to look nervous. He licks his lips. “Come on, Hallingdahl, let’s just go in and—
“Wieeeeb,” says Charles. “Wieb, Wieb, Wieb, Wieb, Wieb. Wieb. I’m trying to do you a favor here! I know how important trust is to you—especially after that shit went down with your fiancée. Man, that had to hurt. I was so sorry to hear it. I’d hate to see you go through another heartache like that, Wieb, and K and I have talked about this, haven’t we, K? And I think sooner is better than later to tell you, that the sooner you find out the truth, the better off you’ll be.”
“All right, Charles,” says Karena, standing up. “You need to leave. Now.”
But Kevin is looking back and forth from Charles to Karena.
“Tell me what,” he says. �
�The truth about what.”
“Motorcycle Guy!” says Charles, throwing out his hands. “The guy we killed.”
There is a moment of perfect, awful silence. Then Kevin says, “What?”
“Yup,” says Charles, “you heard me right. Although technically K didn’t kill him, I did, she was just along for the ride. We were chasing, we were on this sweet storm, only Motorcycle Guy was out in it too, and the visibility in the core was really bad and I clipped him and killed him. It was a total accident, of course, but that’s what happened. There. Doesn’t everyone feel better now?”
Kevin is staring fixedly at the citronella candle, gripping the arms of his chair. Karena puts a hand on his.
“Kevin, no,” she says in a low voice. “Don’t listen to him. He’s crazy, he’s totally out of his mind—”
“What!” Charles shrieks, “I am not! Jesus, K, tell the poor guy the truth, why don’t you stop lying for once in your fucking life.”
But Kevin is not listening to either of them.
“He was on a motorcycle,” he says, to nobody in particular.
Then, very slowly, he stands up. He doesn’t push his chair back first, so his thighs collide with the table. A glass rolls off and smashes on the cement.
“Kevin, don’t,” says Karena. “Don’t go. Kevin, wait. Please!”
Kevin walks across the patio and up the steps into the house.
“Wait,” Karena calls, scrambling after him. “Kevin, wait!”
“I think he’s gone,” Charles says.
