After the Fog Clears

by Lee Thompson

  “What’s so great about not having roots?”

  “I have roots,” he said, “and they’re deep. But they’re not attached to any one place. They’re attached to what’s over the next hill, what’s waiting for me in the next valley, and they stretch out into the horizon, they pull me, and it’s the movement and surprise that nourish those roots. Seeing where I’ll end up next, what kinds of people I might meet, it might not be normal to you, but it’s the most normal thing in the world to me.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I can see how that would be appealing. If you were twenty. What about security? What about the future?”

  “I don’t worry about the future,” he said. “The immediate future, sure. I like the right now. I want to stay immersed in it, squeeze everything good out of it that I can.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “More than some people.”

  “And you think it’s that lifestyle that brings you happiness?”

  “I think if you’re always trying to be happy, you’ll never be happy. Just look around. Too many people think about what they could be, or should be, or would be, if only—and they’ll never find any fulfillment until they accept themselves for who they are right now. It can change from month to month, we learn or we don’t, but we overcomplicate our lives. We waste so much time and energy looking at the details, but they’re the wrong details.”

  “I guess I had it all wrong,” she said.

  “You don’t have to agree with me,” he said. “I’m just answering your questions.”

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I’m sorry if it came across that way.” She grabbed the bottle, spun the cap off and took a healthy slug, straight, burning, firing off more memories and feelings in a matter of seconds than she wanted to remember all at once, enough to fill books upon books, of love mostly, some of frustration, some of a mild loneliness and fear for the future. Why she thought any alcohol could numb her, when everything was so fresh, proved how out of her head she actually was. She knew the feelings you bring to the bottle, good or bad, are only heightened by liquor. She put the cap back on and set the bottle aside. She didn’t cry despite wanting to. Isaac said, “You’ll get through this, Genny.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. It won’t be easy, but things can’t get much worse, can they?”

  “I doubt things could ever get worse than this.”

  “And even if they do, you’d get through that too. You’re a survivor.”

  “Dad used to say that.”

  “He was never worried when you left and came up here. He knew you’d be all right. We all did.”

  She said, “I wish someone would have worried a little.”

  “Yeah, I can understand that.”

  “Have a drink in honor of my massive self-pity,” she said.

  “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. I needed this talk. Especially with you. I had something just as surprising happen earlier with Raul’s mom.”

  “The world is full of surprises when you’re out there on the razor’s edge.”

  She shook her head and looked into the middle distance. “I’ll never look at fog the same way again…”

  “Things will warm up, they’ll burn the fog away.”

  She heard a car pull into the driveway. She said, “Raul broke his mother’s finger. She said he’s having some kind of breakdown. She thinks he’s dangerous.”

  “He could be,” Isaac said. “Anybody can be if they’re given enough time and the right kinds of stress.” He got up and said, “What do you want me to tell him?”

  “Tell him to go away until he has his head straightened out.”

  Isaac nodded and left the room.

  Geneva could hear Raul shut the Jeep’s door and a moment later come up the steps. It seemed unreal, how you could devote your life to someone else with such intensity and focus and trust and hope, to believe you’ve built on the rock-solid foundation of shared interest and common devotion, a bond you haven’t felt with another human being, and for their desires to corrupt all you thought the two of you had worked so hard at.

  She expected Raul to argue with Isaac. What man, even one as timid as Raul, could handle any other man telling him to go away, that he’s not welcome at his own house?

  Isaac sounded heated. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his tone was aggressive. She pushed herself up, wanting to prevent him from hurting Raul if she could; he’d been hurt enough. She hadn’t cheated on him, but he’d lost his son. And Raul couldn’t talk to anyone like she could. He had a hard time expressing himself. He’d hold all the pain and anger and sadness inside until it warped him out of shape.

  Then she was in the hall, ten feet behind Isaac, who had his hands up, gripping the door frame, blocking the entrance. She opened her mouth, planning to tell him to let Raul inside. She wanted to talk to him, she figured he probably needed it. But then she heard a deafening explosion and she could taste something metallic, like she were sucking on an old penny, and something was wet and warm on her face, her throat, and her ears were ringing.

  Isaac was falling in what looked like slow motion, the back of his head missing a chunk the size of her fist. She blinked, tried to focus her eyes, wrap her mind around the fact that Raul not only turned himself into a murderer, but he killed her brother.

  There was a hitch inside her when he stepped inside, the pistol held nonchalantly in his hand, only he wasn’t Raul. It was the man who had run over her son, which made even less sense to her than if it had been Raul.

  The cop said, “Let’s go.”

  She had a hard time finding her voice. She wiped Isaac’s blood out of her eyes with a shaking hand. She whispered, “Excuse me?” Afraid to look at the floor between them, afraid to turn and flee because he could raise the pistol in the narrow hall and pull the trigger before she took two awkward steps.

  Hazzard said, “We’re leaving.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Road trip.”

  “I’ll need to pack some things,” she said. “At least some clothes, toiletries—”

  “I’ll help you,” he said.

  She swallowed hard and said as naturally as she could manage, “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

  He stepped around Isaac’s body. Geneva thought the first thing she needed to do was figure out what he wanted and she’d give it to him until she could get to her phone.

  Hazzard said, “Where’s your husband?”

  “He left.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “He’s not coming back. He left. He was sleeping with my best friend.”

  “I will never be unfaithful,” he said. “I can be better than him.”

  “You’re already better than him.”

  He smiled. He pointed at Isaac’s body and said, “Was this man bothering you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “If you hadn’t killed him, I would have,” and she wanted to collapse right there, hold herself, bawl her eyes out, but the cop was grinning, proud of himself, saying, “I knew it. I can size up a situation quick.”

  “That’s something I admire about you,” she said.

  “I admire your strength. Most people would fall apart in your position.”

  She didn’t know which position he was talking about. The one from yesterday morning? The one from last night? The one from today? The one taking place now?

  “I’m strong,” she whispered, “stronger than I ever thought I could be.”

  He nodded. “Are you ready?”

  “I have to pack.”

  “Right,” he said, actually looking embarrassed that he’d forgotten.

  She went to the living room and grabbed her cell phone and the bottle of vodka. He followed her, hovered over her in what she assumed he meant to come across as affection or protection. She said, “We might need a drink for wherever we’re headed.”

  “I’m thinking Alaska. But you shouldn’t drink. It’ll cloud your j
udgment. People are different when they’re intoxicated.” Sad now. She’d never met a true psychopath. How quickly his emotions shifted was scary.

  She said, “You promise to always protect me?”

  “I swear.”

  “Thank you.”

  He said, “Will you stick with me regardless? Come what may?”

  “I swear,” she said.

  He straightened his shoulders. “We need to get on the road, honey.”

  “Yes, dear.” She turned away, to head to her bedroom, her mind racing. She turned back and said, “We should get a picture together. One to mark this night, one we can look at years from now and remember how we left everything behind to make a new start.”

  “I don’t like having my photograph taken.”

  “Why? You’re beautiful.”

  “You think so?”

  “You’re all man, what could be more beautiful than that?”

  Caveman, she thought, and if I get the chance, I’m going to kill you. She thought she might be able to talk him into letting her hold the pistol once he trusted her a little more. They could be in North Dakota by then, but she’d put a bullet in his head without blinking an eye, and she’d leave him there for the buzzards and buy herself a bus ticket home so she could bury her son and her brother.

  He said, “I don’t know.”

  She couldn’t understand him for a second. Then she remembered that she wanted a photo of the two of them. She said in the phoniest sultry voice she’d ever heard, “For me?”

  He shrugged. “Okay. But just one, right? Of the two of us?”

  “Of course,” she said. She kissed his cheek and he shivered. She stood next to him and he put his arm, as heavy as hell, over her shoulders. She snapped a selfie of them and then showed him and she said, “Perfect, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged. “I look a little bloated.”

  She glanced at the picture. There was blood still smeared and streaked, just below her eyes, a few vivid speckles on her forehead. She said, “You look cuddly. Like a teddy bear.”

  He followed her to the bedroom. She still had the suitcase she’d used to move to Michigan. She tossed it on the bed and popped the latches and opened it. “Grab some of my panties from the dresser. Socks too. Five pairs of each. I’ll grab some clothes from the closet.”

  He went to the dresser. His back was to her. She could hear him breathing. She pulled the photo up on her phone while she was in the closet and sent it to Raul, his mother, Regina, and 911. She wasn’t sure if 911 could receive a picture text, but it was worth a shot, and she hoped they could track her via GPS on her phone. She set her Facebook to pick up her location and automatically update it.

  Then Hazzard was behind her, too close.

  His breath stirred her hair.

  His hands closed over her shoulders and she thought if he began to undress her, she’d find a way to slit her own throat. Or better yet, his. The vodka bottle was on the bed. It wouldn’t be hard to break it on the nightstand and stab him in the eyes, twist, break off some pieces.

  He said, “I like your panties.”

  32

  Luther was freezing by the time he left the woods, stumbled out into a frozen field, saw a house in the distance, maybe a quarter mile away. It had one light on. A nightlight maybe, a soft glow near a window. It was after eleven p.m. The house was surrounded by frozen fields in all directions, more woods beyond them. Six months ago, the farmer grew corn or beans or beets, but the land was barren now. Crusted. The house was big and white. There was a large red barn out back. Farm machinery. But all Luther could think about was the warmth and safety inside the house, a phone call to the police, and another one to his grandmother, to check on her, because the man who had killed Herman and their dad knew where she lived, and he might think Luther would head back there.

  He prayed she was okay. He was starving. He could use her cooking, her hugs, her smiles. When he told her about Herman, her heart was going to break. She had a special tenderness and patience with him because of his disability. And maybe, with Herman and their dad gone, she’d tell him how their parents’ crimes had hurt his older brother. It was the only good he could see coming out of the whole situation.

  He had to get in that house first though, before he froze to death. The field was dark, wet from earlier rain. It soaked his sneakers, numbed his toes. The porch was dark as hell too, but he felt safer under the awning. He hated waking people up but in the case of an emergency he figured it was justifiable. He groped blindly for a doorbell but couldn’t find it. He beat his fist against the wood. It sounded like machine-gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat.

  He waited a second and then gave the door another burst, harder, was about to kick the damn thing, even though it might break his foot, when the knob turned and the hinges groaned and whoever was inside stuck a double-barrel shotgun in his face and cocked both hammers.

  It was a man, an old man by the sound of his voice. “Go away!”

  But it didn’t matter if it’d been a child, the open mouths of the gun were menacing. Luther stumbled back, nearly fell off the porch, his hands raised to show they were empty, that he wasn’t a threat, didn’t want any trouble. He stammered, “Someone shot my dad and brother.”

  “Go away!”

  “He’s still out there. All I need is for you to call the police. Let me call my grandma. Let me warm up a minute. The temps are dropping. I’ll freeze out here.”

  “I don’t care. You leave now. This second. You don’t and I’ll spray your brains all over the lawn.”

  “My grandma might be in danger!”

  “I warned you,” the old man said, opening the door wider.

  Luther ran. He ran like the wind if it were crippled with cold, staggering across the lawn and into the rutty field and through the first stand of trees, coming out on the other side, into another field, the interstate ahead of him, I-75, lit by streetlights, headlights, taillights. He fell several times and the ground was as hard and jagged as broken pottery. He wiped his bloody palms on his jacket and staggered along, his eyes stinging, blinded by the lights a mile or two away but it might as well have been a hundred.

  There was no way he’d make it. He wiped his nose, started crying, but thought of his grandmother again, sitting in her living room and watching television, Golden Girls probably, a rerun on TV Land, when she hears that knock at the door because she locked it on her grandson since he ran off, took his crippled brother with him to go meet their deadbeat father.

  He was too deep in his own head, too hypnotized by the lights, closer now, when he stumbled into the drainage ditch, fell spread-eagle, face forward, into a foot of ice water. It soaked the front of him. The bottom was muck. He splashed out, but lost one of his sneakers in the process.

  He climbed the bank, chilled so deep inside he could barely catch his breath. He couldn’t feel his lips. It hurt when he turned his head to look around and reorientate himself. His clothing hurt too as it rubbed against him, felt like it was freezing in spots to his skin, his nipples, his stomach, his groin. All he needed was frostbite. The stars overhead were just as cold, just as far away as…

  “Grandma,” he whimpered.

  The highway was less than a mile away. Beyond it he could see the warm glow of the Flying J Travel Plaza. There was his safe haven. He’d get there, have some employee get him a blanket, buy some dry clothes, call his grandmother while he waited on the police. He dreaded telling her the whole ordeal. He thought it might break him too, remembering. If anything, his hunger, and especially the cold crawling around inside him had helped him avoid how it had all gone down.

  His shoeless foot ached. He pulled his coat off, ripped one sleeve badly, tore at it until it was separated. He tied a knot in the end of the sleeve, used it like a thick down sock, held it to his calf muscle with his belt, but then his pants were sagging off his ass and he had to use one of his bloody palms to hitch them up and it hurt like hell, the wet, hard fabric rubbing against his wounds.


  His foot was still freezing.

  His left arm now too.

  His breath came out in massive plumes. He walked toward the interstate as quickly as he could in the near dark without too much risk of tripping now. He could hear the big rigs idling once he hobbled across the interstate, all their drivers fast asleep, dreaming of home.

  33

  Raul couldn’t believe his wife was out with the fat cop who’d killed their son. Maybe she thought it would hurt him as badly as he and Regina had hurt her. It didn’t hurt him though, only made him angry, unless they were one and the same. The kid he’d just met, Brandy, was trying to keep up with him as he hurried toward the main entrance, Brandy saying, “Hey, what the hell’s the matter?”

  Maybe she’d find someone else to take her far from here. That wasn’t Raul’s future anymore. He was going to prison, he was certain, because nobody was going to pull him off the bag of shit until after Raul had stomped his head into the floor. He’d deal with Geneva later. Maybe things would get better between them eventually. Maybe they would only carry each other’s memories like ghosts, be haunted until their deaths by what was and what could have been mended.

  There they were, twenty feet ahead of him and he was gaining speed, his heart racing, sweating profusely. Ten feet away, his imagination filled with wild scenarios—of blood and retribution—and the fat cop and Geneva standing at the endcap of a beef jerky stand, the cop talking low and laughing; Geneva standing stiffly beside him, heard the slap of his shoes maybe, because she began to turn and look over her shoulder, her purse strap sliding free of her shoulder, her eyes wide, startled.

  Five feet away and Raul could smell them. He could see the slight discoloration, the redness in Geneva’s eyes, but only for a second, because the cop had turned too, and he had a small pistol, mostly hidden by his beefy hand, and a split second was all it took for him to raise it and pull the trigger.