Thunderland (12 page)

She turned. “Am I dreaming, or have you come home from work before midnight?”

“I have to talk to you. The restaurant isn’t going anywhere.”

“If you’re saying that about your job, I must be dreaming.” She motioned to her coffee. “Want some?”

“Sure.” Why was she being so cordial? For a couple of days after an argument, she was usually moody, and yesterday they’d had a real nasty fight. Her friendly demeanor seemed odd.

She handed him a brimming mug of java. She wrinkled her nose. “Have you been smoking?”

“A little.”

She studied him. “Whatever you plan to tell me must be bothering you. You only smoke when you’re stressed out.”

“It is important, Linda.”

“Then let’s sit down. I have a few things I need to say, too.” They sat at the dinette table. He gazed into his coffee, pondering how to begin. Unable to summon words immediately, he glanced at her.

Her brown eyes were clear, her gaze forthright, as though she had tapped some well of inner peace since their confrontation yesterday. She had never reacted like this. He looked away from her, shifting in his chair. What was going on here?

“What’s bugging you?” she said.

Now was the time to tell her the truth.

But as he regarded her, he suddenly knew he was not going to confess. Not right now. He had to mull over this strange transformation in her attitude, determine a different approach to exposing his infidelity. If he spoke prematurely, before he understood her unusual behavior, he might regret it.

Or maybe he was only making excuses for himself. No matter how carefully he worded his confession, it would not alter the terrible truth. He had cheated on her, plain and simple. Was there actually a tactful way to tell your wife that you’ve been sleeping around?

She watched him expectantly. He had to say something. He launched into the obvious.

“I want to apologize for yesterday,” he said. “I made a big mistake when I grabbed you. I lost control of myself, and I’m sorry. You had every right to slap me. I promise that I’ll never lay a hand on you again. Can you please forgive me?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“First, I have a few promises of my own to make.”

He pushed the cup aside. ‘What are you talking about?”

She didn’t stop to explain. “Number one: I promise to show you, in every way I can, that I love you.”

He frowned. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn.

“Number two: I promise to support your career.”

“Now
I must
be dreaming,” he said.

“Number three, and this is the big one: if you don’t start treating me and our son the way you should’ve been treating us all along, I promise to divorce you.”

He reared back. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Ten years of misery, baby.” She folded her arms. “Now that you have my promises, I forgive you.”

“Wait a minute, that’s bullshit, Linda. You can’t force me into anything.”

“I’m not forcing you. The choice is yours. More than anything, I want us to become the family we used to be. But if you don’t get your act together, it won’t happen, and there’s no sense in us being married.”

“You’re putting the blame on me, like you always do.” He pushed away from the table and walked to the door. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m going back to work.”

She got up. “Hold on, listen. I’m not blaming you for everything. I admit, some of our problems are my fault. But I’m committed to doing better, Thomas. For us to get back on track, you have to do your share, too.”

He spun around. “Woman, what do you want me to do? I bust my ass trying to support us, I don’t have time to live a normal life. If I get lazy, that place’ll go to hell so fast it won’t be funny, and we’ll lose everything.”

“We’ve already come close to losing everything. I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about our family.”

“You’re not hearing me. I can’t
risk
changing my work habits.”

“I see. Then you value your work above your family.”

“Hell, no. You and Jason are the reasons why I work so hard.”

She shook her head. “No, baby. I know the real reason why you work so hard. You’re brainwashed.”

“What?”

“Yes—brainwashed. Your dad’s brainwashed you. You’re a workaholic like he was, because he taught you that’s how a real man runs a business. But a real man works hard, then comes home and spends quality time with his family. You work hard, but you’ve forgotten your duty to us. Think about it. When was the last time you saw Jason?”

Thomas leaned against the counter. He sighed. “Last week, if I remember correctly. Damn, that’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

“He’s a good kid,” she said, “but he needs you. I need you, too. I only wish you needed us.”

“I do need you, both of you,” he said. “I figured I’d have a chance in the future to spend time with you, do the family thing. There’re so many people out there struggling to make ends meet, and I don’t want us to ever be like that.”

“We’re a long way from poor, Thomas.”

“True. But the very thought of poverty ... it scares me. You know how I grew up, Linda. In a three-room shack crawling with roaches and rats. A nightmare. When Dad opened the restaurant, we finally climbed out of that hell, and I feel like I owe The House of Soul and my dad for saving us.”

Her eyes were kind, understanding, filled with love. So much love that his heart kicked.

He went on. “You ever heard that saying, ‘once poor, never rich’? It fits me. I’m worried that if I cut down my work hours, I’ll be turning my back on my job, my father—and I’ll lose everything. I want to make so much money that we’ll never have to worry about being poor—ever.”

“You can waste a lifetime chasing that dream,” Linda said. “Thomas, you already bring home twice what you earned only four years ago. We’ve got plenty of money socked away in our investment portfolio, and enough saved for Jason to attend almost any college he wants. Face it, we’re doing very well for ourselves.”

“Doesn’t matter. Anything can happen. The stock market can crash; banks can fold; the restaurant can go under-and everything we have would be wiped out, forcing us to live in a shelter or, even worse, survive on the streets, picking our dinner out of garbage cans and begging for spare change. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You need to relax, honey. Forget the doomsday scenarios and live. Enjoy life. Enjoy your
family. “

“I hear you. You’re right. But ... hell, maybe I am brainwashed. I probably sound like a nutcase to you.”

Arms folded over her chest, she watched him, silent.

He bowed his head. “I’ll work on cutting down my hours,” he said. It was the right thing to say, but he wasn’t confident about his ability to follow through; the familiar fear of losing everything gnawed at him. “But I can’t change my habits overnight. I hope you have patience. I have a long way to go.”

She stepped into his arms and hugged him fiercely. At first he did not respond, for as an adulterer, he did not think he deserved his wife’s embrace. But the feeling of her against him, so warm and firm—so
alive
—
overwhelmed
him. He drew her closer and kissed her brow, loving her sweet scent and everything else about her and cursing himself under his breath.

“All of us have a long way to go, honey,” she said, her head resting on his chest. “But if we go together, we’ll be fine. I have faith. Our relationship’s been at rock bottom for so long that we can only go uphill.”

“You’re right,” he said, though he didn’t feel as if he was due to travel uphill. As he ruminated on the shameful truth he had left unspoken, he felt as if he were plummeting into a cold, dark place of unrelenting torment ... and inescapable guilt.

After Jason repaired his bike with spare parts that Brains had found in his garage, he rode home around five o’clock. He planned to ask Mom whether his friends could sleep over. He disliked having to ask her for any favors, but if he refused to ask, the fellas would want to know why, and he did not want to expose his turbulent relationship with Mom. It was easier to ask her and get it over with.

The .22 that Brains had given him rested in an ankle holster, which Brains had also loaned him. Earlier that day, Brains had taught him the fundamentals of using the handgun: how to load it, the correct shooter’s stance, how to aim and fire the weapon, and other basic techniques. Jason did not feel confident enough to battle the Stranger one-on-one, but he felt safer than he had before. His jeans concealed the weapon.

He had also spoken to his girlfriend. After he apologized for not calling her yesterday, he reaffirmed his promise to take her to the Fourth of July carnival that Friday. She had been talking about the carnival for days, and though he had been enthusiastic about it originally, with all this stuff with the Stranger going on, his interest had waned. But if he wanted to keep her happy, he would have to take her. Life goes on.

Once he reached the house, he pushed his bike toward the garage, intending to park it inside since he would be home for the rest of the day. He opened the side door. As usual, his father’s car was not there, but his mother’s Nissan was inside. Sunbeams streaming through the garage window revealed something else in there, too.

He stopped. He told himself that he could not be seeing this. But he prayed that it was actually real.

A Randolph Street M9000. It leaned on its kickstand in front of the car, chrome frame glittering in the sunshine, as shiny and new as a model that had just rolled off the assembly line.

The white Mylar balloon that was tied to the handlebars read in big, blue letters:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Trembling, Jason stared at the Randolph. He admired it from various angles, not touching it, irrationally afraid that it would dissolve like a phantasm under his fingers. Every sleek inch of the chrome bicycle had been obsessively polished; seeing its dazzling luster, it was easy to believe that it had never been touched by a human hand, as though the sheer power of his wishing had created it from empty air.

Finally, he clutched the handgrips.

It’s mine. It’s really mine.

Sometimes, dreams did come true.

He rushed toward the house to thank his mother. When he reached the door that linked the garage to the kitchen, he halted.

He had not told either of his parents about the Randolph. Assuming they would never buy it, he had kept his mouth shut.

He had not spoken of the bike to Granddad, either. Granddad might have bought it for him, but Jason would have felt uncomfortable asking for such an expensive gift.

In
fact, he had not even mentioned the bike to Shorty and Brains. The only person to whom he had confided his wish was Mr. MacGregor, the owner of the bike shop. Not only did Mr. MacGregor not know his birthday was coming soon, there was no way he would have given him one of his store’s finest products. It was impossible.

So ... who had given him the Randolph?

The answer struck him. It was incredible yet sensible, mysterious yet obvious. The phone call last night. The curiously familiar voice. The Stranger.

I know what you need, I know what you want, and I’m going to give it to you.

He looked at the bicycle, at the Mylar balloon proclaiming “Happy Birthday.”