Brambleman (24 page)

Charlie celebrated the first day of spring by
digging in the dirt at Thornbriar with his children. After school,
he took them to Pike’s Nursery, where they picked out yellow
snapdragons, orange marigolds, and purple petunias for planting. He
also bought fertilizer and grass seed in hopes of bringing the dead
lawn to life. A while later at Thornbriar, the kids worked
diligently in the flowerbed—until Ben used his trowel as a dirt
catapult and ended up with Beck’s teeth marks imbedded in his arm.
Charlie ordered them inside. After he sowed the grass seed and
covered it with straw, he did the same.

Dirty and sweaty, Charlie stood in the
kitchen, wishing he’d brought a change of clothes. Surely he still
had some jeans and a shirt somewhere. He found what he was looking
for in a black trash bag in the corner of the master bedroom
closet. He checked the dresser for socks and underwear. Nothing for
him, but—
Hello
—he found a Victoria’s Secret nightie. His
eyes narrowed suspiciously.
So this is what she’s buying with
the money I’m giving her
. Although he knew he shouldn’t rummage
around in his wife’s drawers, he lingered.
Whoa
. Purple
thong panties. Definitely new. Jealousy mingled with arousal as he
slipped them back in the drawer.

He figured he had enough time to take a
shower before Susan got home. Not quite. She walked into the
bedroom as he was toweling off. “This isn’t your place anymore,”
she said, her expression grim. “Don’t take liberties.”

Without saying a word, he dressed, hugged the
kids, and left.

Charlie’s heart was cracking anew, now that
he suspected Susan of cheating on him. Perhaps it had been going on
for a while, and that’s why she’d kicked him out. And now she aimed
to do better, as her mother would say.

* * *

For several days afterward, Charlie and Susan
said little to each other. A week later, while he was fixing
meatloaf, she announced her plans to travel to Charlotte for a
weekend banking conference: “I’ll be gone from Thursday until
Sunday, and I really have to do this to have a chance at a
promotion and a raise.” She sighed. “So can you take care of the
kids—here, not at your rathole—while I’m gone?”

This from the woman who hadn’t even thanked
him for planting flowers. He stared at her, chopping onions
rhythmically, trying to think of a way to deliver an insult while
maintaining moral superiority.

“If you can’t,” she added, “I can leave them
with Mom.”

Damn, she was good
! “I’ll do it,” he
said, with tears in his eyes.

When Thursday came, Charlie stayed overnight
at Thornbriar, crashing on the family room sofa, since the master
bedroom door was locked. He broke in anyway, just to see what she
was hiding. Thirty seconds’ worth of snooping confirmed his darkest
fears. Her sexy lingerie was traveling with her. “You skank!” he
cursed, slamming the bedroom door shut.

Charlie was morose for the rest of the long
weekend. He didn’t want to be in the house, so he took the kids out
and stayed on the move, going to Bayard Terrace and then to the
cemetery with Kathleen to visit Thurwood’s grave. Of all the places
he went during that melancholy time, he liked the graveyard best.
Not a good sign.

* * *

One day in mid-April, Charlie finished
editing a chapter shortly before noon and decided to do yard work
at Thornbriar before picking up the kids. When he stepped inside
the house, he could tell something was amiss. Sirius was outside,
and the kitchen light was on. He hadn’t expected to find Susan
home, but he heard the shower running. He checked the garage and
saw her car. Was she ill? Susan
never
took sick days unless
she went to a doctor or hospital.

What was the etiquette for walking in on an
estranged spouse?

As Sirius pleaded for entrance at the patio
door, Charlie moved toward the bedroom, having decided to tell
Susan his intentions. He stood in the bedroom door and prepared to
give her a shout, but he was struck speechless by the sight of an
unmade bed and clothes strewn everywhere, not all of them Susan’s.
A pair of men’s dress shoes lay on the floor. They seemed
tiny
compared to Charlie’s size thirteens.

Part of him recoiled in horror. Not the part
that controlled his feet, however. He tiptoed to the open bathroom
door and peered in. He saw two figures through the shower stall’s
translucent glass. Susan was on her knees, though his view was
blocked by a hairy-backed man who groaned and hit the glass with
his fists as she did something she hadn’t done for Charlie since
she’d been his girlfriend, back when she was still trying to
impress him. He recoiled from the sight, and feeling like a morally
outraged burglar, slunk to the garage. He waited a few minutes for
his pulse to slow and the throbbing in his head to subside. He knew
the man had to be Bryan Speeler, Susan’s boss. He’d seen Speeler a
few times at social functions; Susan often touted his many virtues.
But Speeler was
married
. Wait a minute. So was she!

Flustered, Charlie started to leave, then
stopped. He had a job to do. He wasn’t going to let her abominable
actions rule his life. His hands shook as he opened the garage
door. He rolled out the lawn mower and pulled out trash cans to
hold straw and grass clippings. And then he had a bright idea. He
placed the cans in the driveway beside the van to block Susan’s
exit, then closed the garage.

He started mowing, humming in accompaniment
to the machine’s roar. He’d cut half the yard when Susan appeared
in the front door, dressed for work and scowling. He killed the
engine and gave her a big smile.

“What are you doing here so early?” she
asked, trying unsuccessfully to sound friendly.

He pointed to the yard, and shouted, “Had to
get the straw off.”

She shook her head. “Call next time. We could
have lunch,” she said, sounding completely insincere—just like
Uncle Stanley.

When he thought about what she’d had for
lunch, he struggled to keep from gagging. “Next time, maybe.”

“Well, thanks for working on the yard. I have
to get back to the bank.” She glanced at the driveway. “Can you
move the trash cans?”

Susan went back inside; he kept mowing. A few
minutes later, the garage door rolled up. Charlie killed the mower,
then sauntered over and stood beside the cans. With the van in the
driveway beside him, Susan’s exit was now blocked. As she backed
out her Honda Accord, Charlie looked for Bryan in the passenger
seat, but no one was riding shotgun. Charlie made a show of picking
up the barrels, but instead of moving them out of the way, he
dropped them on their sides. Susan hit them with a double
thump
. The sound of crumpling plastic stopped her.

Time for a vehicle inspection.

“Hey!” Charlie shouted. Leaving one of the
cans stuck under her rear bumper, he walked around to the passenger
side, peering in like a cop looking for a bag of dope. He was
perplexed, but only for a moment.
Ah
.

“What?” she snapped. “Move the cans.”

He went behind the car. Instead of picking up
the barrels, he reached into his pants pocket, pulled out the key
fob that Susan had neglected to confiscate, and popped the trunk.
“Whoops,” he said loudly as he looked in on the curled-up banker,
complete with suit and tie. “It appears that we have a hostage
situation.”

Bryan shielded his face with his hands, as if
expecting a beating.

Charlie grinned. “Dude. We were married three
years before she made me get in the trunk. Come on. Get out. Make
her let you ride in the front seat. You couldn’t have been that bad
in bed.” He offered Bryan his hand. Bryan refused it. Charlie
glanced around and shrugged. “Then again, maybe you were.”

Bryan tumbled clumsily out of the trunk.
“It’s not what you think.”

“Sure it is,” Charlie said. “Anything else
would be worse.”

Susan gripped the steering wheel, staring
straight ahead.

“That’s all right, honey!” Charlie shouted as
he pulled the trash can out from underneath the bumper. “I
understand. Always carry a spare!”

He resumed his work, pulling off the mower
bag to empty it. Bryan adjusted his coat and tie, then dusted off
his pants and climbed into the front passenger seat. Susan,
crimson-faced, backed out and squealed off, laying tire tracks on
the street.

Charlie finished his yard work and, a couple
of hours later, picked up the kids from school. He was grateful to
be with the two people who could help him fend off the psychosis
that was spreading out its tendrils within and around his soul. He
avoided the defiled house and bounced around the neighborhood,
stopping anyplace that could provide a diversion: Dairy Queen, the
library, Duck Lake Park. At dusk, he took Beck and Ben back to
Thornbriar, a place he now found intolerable. He couldn’t stop
pacing, and when he was on the verge of pulling out his hair, Susan
called him on the home phone. “Are you there?” she asked.

Clearly, her nerves were jangled, too. “Of
course not.”

“Just like you to be contrary,” she said.
“It’s been a rough day. Could you go so I can come home?”

“Just leave the kids alone?”

“I’m right outside.” He walked with the
cordless phone to the living room window. Sure enough, she was
sitting in her car on the street, her turn signal blinking.

“Don’t we need to talk?”

“No. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I was in the house, Susan. I know the trunk
thing wasn’t mob-related.”

Click
. He turned to the kids, who were
coloring pictures at the kitchen table. “’Bye, kids. I gotta
go.”

“Mommy’s not here,” Beck said.

“She’s right outside. You won’t even have
time to misbehave before she gets here.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Ben said, mimicking
one of his father’s favorite expressions.

He hugged them, then dashed out the door,
giving Susan a jaunty wave before driving away.

* * *

Morning came. Charlie couldn’t keep his mind
off the vulgar spectacle of his wife’s infidelity, plagued as he
was by the vision of Bryan’s hairy back against the translucent
glass wall. It was a sunny day, and hammering in the distance
sounded like music to him; he didn’t want to sit brooding at the
desk in Talton’s study. When his cellphone trilled, he hoped
someone wanted Charlie the Handyman to tear up something and
rebuild it, so that he could convince himself that such a thing was
possible.

“Charles.” It was Susan, sounding stiff.

He heard the whine of a drill in the
background. “Where are you?”

“At home. I took a personal day.” She spoke
in staccato. “I’m changing the locks. I should have done this long
ago.”

Anger shot through him like a geyser. “I pay
part of the mortgage—”

“Not enough, and nothing I can count on. God,
Charlie. You come in and hand me grimy twenty-dollar bills like
you’ve been panhandling.”

He stood up. “And you take them. I’ve got
rights.”

“I don’t want to argue with you.”

“I need to take care of the kids.” He paced
around in a tiny circle, almost stepping on himself.

“I’ve made arrangements with a parent in the
neighborhood to keep the kids after school. I’ve been considering
it—”

“Ever since
Bry
—”

“Don’t go there,” she snapped. “We’re
separated. And he’s going to leave his wife.”

“That is
so
daytime TV.”

“Don’t.”

“I have a right to see the kids. We have
joint custody, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“You gave up that right when you walked out.
Look, Charlie. You can see the kids on weekends. Take them to a
movie or the park. The weather’s getting nicer. No way are they
staying in that dungeon of yours, though. And you can’t come here,
snooping around.”

“Fine!” he yelled. “Don’t take them up to
Varmintville, either, then! That’s poison they feed them up there.
‘Nigger’ this and ‘Nigger’ that.”

“It doesn’t even come up when you’re not
around.”

“Oh, so I make everything worse.”

“
Finally
you get it.”

“You’re not going to get custody,” he
said.

“You know how it works.”

He did. She had motherhood, income, and
house. Three strikes and he was out. And yet …

“There’s the matter of adultery,” he pointed
out.

“It doesn’t matter what you say. You got
kicked out for domestic violence and exposing the kids to porn.
You’re on record with the police as mentally unstable. You really
want to take me on?”

“None of that’s true, and once upon a time,
the story was that I walked out.”

“Well, you said you got kicked out. I’m just
going by what you’ve been saying.”

“Sounds better for you, doesn’t it? So you
decided you’d do what you had to do, and that’s that.”

“Pretty much. I’ve got to think of the kids.
I may move to North Carolina if I get a promotion.”

“You must really hate me.”

“You must really hate
me
, running off
in the night and coming back to constantly mock me.”

“First I left, then you kicked me out, now
I’m back to leaving. Would you please make up your mind?”

“I don’t have time for this. Face it,
Charlie, it’s over. Give it up. Writing’s not working for you. Get
a real job. Get a life.”

There was so much to say. He hung up on
her.

So there it was. The marriage was over and he
was locked out. Getting her to beg him to return hadn’t worked out
so well, after all. She got to have sex and he didn’t. She got to
keep the kids and he didn’t. She got child support and he didn’t.
No fair.

His nerves were too jangled to work on the
book, so Charlie spent the rest of the day doing odd jobs for
regular customers. (Despite his agreement to be Kathleen’s
full-time caretaker, he still snuck in a considerable amount of
moonlighting.) He couldn’t keep his mind off the kids, however. At
2:00 p.m., he had to resist the urge to drive to Gresham
Elementary. Instead, he went to Home Depot and bought mulch and
fertilizer for Mrs. Williford’s flowerbed.