Snow Angels (23 page)

He stands, strong, ready to do this now. Any doubt, any weakness, has left him, and faith fills that emptiness. He is the light and the way. The woman from last night was right, he thinks; loving Jesus is never boring.

In the refrigerator he finds some lunchmeat. Olive loaf and chipped ham. He doesn't bother with bread, just rolls the meat into tubes and pops them in his mouth. He stands, holding the door open, digging through the drawer for some cheese, when his throat closes and heaves. He lunges across the drainboard and, sick, braces himself against the counter, his retching echoed and amplified by the sink. After the first jerk he has nothing to throw up, only bitter yellow strings. The effort makes him gasp, raises tears. He runs the tap, swishes a mouthful and spits. When he straightens up, he finds his headache is back.

He goes to the front window, afraid someone may be coming. The road's empty. The snow falls. It's barely past three and he wants to sleep. He sits in his chair and hauls the shotgun onto his lap again, turns toward the road. The afternoon is beginning to fade, the light in the room gray, shadows deepening in the corners. Glenn thinks of her at her mother's, sitting at the kitchen table, making excuses for losing Tara, for screwing Brock. When he was working at the scrapyard, he used to think of them doing it in the bed he'd paid for and he'd have to drive out in his ridiculous cart to the back fence and smash something. He liked that job. She took that from him too.

He paces, he sits at the kitchen table. He tromps upstairs and kneels by Tara's bed, brings the bunny back downstairs with him and props it on the couch. She'll be home soon, coming in the front door. He'll have to get her purse away from her, find the gun. The rest he has planned. He needs to be strong, to believe.

Back in his chair he nods off, wakes with a shock as if stabbed in a nightmare. Four forty-five. The room is dark; outside, the streetlamp is on, the sky a shade lighter than the pines. He thinks of Bomber and hopes he's asleep. He puts his coat on and pumps the gun, turns to the window and waits.

He'll know when it's her. The Maverick has orange
turn signals on the grille, inboard of the headlights.

The snow drops through the streetlamp. The furnace clicks on, ignites with a whoosh. The sun is down now; Glenn is amazed how much light there still is. The wall along the staircase is striped with the shadow of the banister. He's marveling at it when he hears a car and turns to see the two dots of its lights in the window.

It's too far to see the turn signals, but when it glides beneath the streetlamp, the color gives it away. It's her.

He slides out of the chair, crouching, keeping an eye on the lights. As they near the drive he scuttles over to the door and stands, the gun held across his chest. He can feel the weakness descend on him again, and he remembers Elder Francis's teaching. His mercy is of this world, and worthless. His flesh is grass.

O let the evil of the wicked come to an end.

The car door thunks. He's got to get her purse. He presses his back against the wall beside the light switch.

But establish Thou the righteous.

Footsteps on the porch, then jingling, the crunch of the key in the lock. The bolt turns with a click; the door opens, swinging toward him.

She reaches for the light switch and he grabs her arm, spins her inside before she has time to react, scream, anything. Her purse falls to the floor between them. She sees the gun and tries to back away, but he has a good grip on her wrist.

“Glenn,” she says, “oh my god, oh my god, Glenn.”

He's too close to point the gun at her. He pushes her backwards onto the couch and scoops up her purse. She's crying. He breaks the gun over his arm and retreats to the corner by the door, bumping it shut.

“Please,” she says, and stands, her hands out in front of her. “I didn't do anything. Glenn.”

“Calm down.” He can't get the thing open; she's begging him. “Please,” he says, “just be quiet.”

The clasp gives way and everything pours out at his feet. The revolver bounces on the carpet. It's bigger than he remembers, a cheap knockoff of a Colt. He watches her as he kneels to pick it up. It's loaded, heavy in his palm.

“It's your father's,” he says, half asking. “I remember it from the other night.”

Annie shakes her head as if this isn't happening. “Glenn,” she pleads.

“Shhh,” he says. “Quiet.”

He rounds the couch, the revolver at his side, pointed toward the floor. He gets behind her, and she turns to watch him.

“Turn around,” he says. “Don't worry about what I'm doing.”

He leans the shotgun next to the TV.

“Turn the lights on,” he says, but she doesn't budge. “I don't want to be angry with you now. Especially now. So turn them on. You can move, it's all right.”

She keeps him in sight as she backs around the couch. He doesn't even have the gun on her. When she flips the switch, the windows blink with a colored light. He bends down to see in the front yard the small dogwood strung with bulbs.

“Now lower the blinds.”

She does.

“Thank you,” Glenn says. He sits down on the couch. She's stopped crying, interested in what he's up to, looking for a way out. “Are. you supposed to work tonight?” he asks, though he knows she's due in at six.

“Yes.”

“Did you eat yet?”

“No.”

“Do you want something?”

“Please don't do this.”

“Shhh,” he says.

“Please, Glenn, just let me go. I'll leave here, I'll go somewhere, I swear—”

“Don't talk. It'll only make it worse for both of us. I don't want to do this either.”

“Then don't.”

“No,” he says. “We're going to do this. We're going to do it and that'll be it. I'm tired of this crap and I want it over.” He sees that he's waving the gun around to make his point; she's mesmerized by it. He lays it beside his thigh where she can't see it. “Sit down,” he says, gesturing to the chair by the window. “Sit.”

“What do I have to do?” she says.

“Shhh. Take your boots off.”

“No.”

“Please. Take your boots off.” He stands and lets her see the gun, and she starts unlacing them. “And your socks. Leave your coat on. You can undo it, but keep it on. All right, let's go into the kitchen. That's it. Turn the hall light on. Good. And the switch to the right here. Very good. And have a seat at the table. Turn the chair sideways so your legs aren't under it.”

With his free hand he opens the cupboard by the oven and, making a racket, pulls a large pot out. He turns on the hot tap, lets the water warm, then fills the pot. Still holding the gun, he places the pot on the
floor by her feet. He lays the gun gently on the linoleum and dips both hands into the water, presses them to her cold feet.

“Oh god oh god oh god,” she heaves. “Glenn, please, Glenn.”

He rubs the water over her bones, over the meaty sole, the toes. He cups a handful and rinses her feet clean.

As he's finishing, she kicks him in the chest, but not hard enough to move him. He holds her legs while she curses him, screaming and flailing at his head. One or two blows make him flinch, but she's not strong enough, not big enough. He's been ready to do this a long time. He pushes her off, holds her by the throat, but she won't stop. He covers her eyes with his other hand, presses her against the chairback so she chokes. She can't see the gun, can't reach it, and finally she tires, reverts to crying. When she's done, he fetches a dish towel and dries her feet.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I am. Don't you know I love you?”

She doesn't say anything to this. She's hanging her head, no longer looking at him. Her neck is red where his hand was. The gun doesn't interest her anymore.

“You don't have to believe me,” he says.

“Fuck you,” she says.

“Let's go.”

She won't stand and he has to pull her up by one arm. He pushes her ahead of him toward the back door, but she falls down. He sticks the gun in the back of his belt and lifts her, walks her to the door as if she's drunk. He clicks the spotlight on and the backyard shines, the snow twinkling, shadowed blue. His footprints from this afternoon are gone.

The snow makes him blink, flakes tickling his ears. Wind, traffic. Before they reach the woods, she's begun to mumble from fright.

“It's all right,” he says, rubbing her shoulders. “It won't be long. Everything's going to be all right.”

Her feet sink into the snow. He wishes it could be any other way, and, unsure of himself, picks her up, keeping her arms where he can see them. She's weeping, curling herself around him for comfort. He hopes she's quit. This is the hardest part.

He sticks the gun in his coat pocket and, with her on his lap, slides down the hill on his bottom. In the darkness, water rushes over the spillway. The constant sound helps him. He holds the back of her jacket and steers her along the shore. From far off comes music, a fragment of some march everyone knows, all drums and trumpets. Above, a truck passes on the interstate, erasing it. She stumbles ahead of him.

“No,” she repeats, twisting the word, “no, no, no, no, no.”

“It's all right,” he says, “it's not long now.”

They cross the bridge over the spillway and follow a slippery trail along the creek. It's overgrown; they shoulder snow from the bushes. Branches whip their arms. He checks his coat for the gun, closes his hand around the grip. He doesn't want anything long and drawn out, just to get it done. He doesn't know how to do this.

The creek stops at the pipe going into the hillside. The water's high, gurgling tinnily. She stops. He stops.

“Kneel down,” he says.

She understands, and kneels facing the water, the soles of her feet sticking out behind. He takes the gun from his pocket. He touches her hair, what he loved about her first, bends her head forward.

“Tell me when you're ready,” he says.

“I'm ready,” she replies.

“I'm sorry,” he says, but waits, half turns to hear the music.

“I'm ready,” she says again.

The gun bucks and she splashes. Birds frightened by the shot flap above him, invisible in the dark. She's floating, only a hand clenching and unclenching, trying to grip the water. Glenn empties the gun at her,
stands a second staring at the holes in her coat, the whiteness of her feet, then runs.

Crossing the spillway, he notices he still has the gun, and drops it in the water. He falls on the hill, claws his way to the top, where he sees the lights of the house through the trees. The snow is heavy but running is effortless. The music's gone. He can't hear a thing, only this wildness inside. It's done, he thinks. He did it.

He throws the porch door open, the back door. He runs down the hall, through the kitchen and into the living room. The shotgun's where he left it. Forgetting his plan, he rushes out the front door and across the yard. The water tower dwarfs him.

Bomber barks until Glenn tells him to quit. The windows are frosted over. Glenn gets in, tossing the shotgun onto the passenger seat. The truck turns over on the first try but the wipers won't go. Keeping the lights off, he searches under the seat for a scraper, but like everything else, he's thrown it away. Somewhere he's lost his gloves, and he has to attack the snow with his bare hands. He does the front window and his side, gets in again. He opens his window and sticks his head out to back up the road, and then forgets the trash barrel, rams the bumper into it.

“Fuck.”

The wheels don't grab at first; he fishtails past the
mailbox, the engine roaring. He knows he's panicking and squeezes the steering wheel to regain control over himself.

“Lights,” he says, and flips them on.

As he nears the stop sign, he sees the Hardestys are home, the curtain drawn across the living room window. Waiting for a car to pass, he breaks the shotgun and tucks it under his seat.

“Okay, take it easy.”

He looks at Bomber but has nothing to say to him.

Passing the middle school, he hears sirens, probably on the interstate. He's right, he can see the red sweep of the lights coming on the other side of the bridge's hump.

“Shit.”

Two, maybe three. He's fucked, probably by Clare Hardesty—or his parents, he thinks. His original plan was to make it back to the lake, but that's not going to happen. He swings into the high school lot, thinking it's not a bad substitute. Butler for the lake, his false home for his real one. Born of the water, not this world of clay.

It's past six, but a few cars are just leaving. He sees a tall boy lugging a tuba, another with a snare drum under his arm. It's the band he heard. A group of them cross the lot in his headlights. Behind him on Far Line a state trooper shoots by, siren whining. Glenn's
not paranoid; he can hear more in the distance. They'll want his ass bad but he won't let them. He never planned on surviving this.

He cruises past the front doors, where a few kids are waiting to be picked up. Bomber watches them, wagging his tail. He's been cooped up too long, probably has to pee. Glenn follows along the building to the end, then turns the corner. The back part of the lot is empty and well lit, the dumpsters snow-covered. They used to throw stones at the vapor lamps so they could make out here. He remembers the exact parking spot, the third from the end. He pulls into it and kills the lights, keeps the heater going.

“Do you have to go out?” he asks Bomber, who mobs him.

“Okay, okay,” he says.

Before opening the door, Glenn holds him, nuzzles his bristly head, breathes the doggy odor of his coat. The fucking bunny, he's forgotten it again. The thought of it on the couch is enough to make him break down.

Bomber doesn't understand, and licks his tears.

“You're my buddy,” Glenn says, and hugs him again, feeling his ribs give. He opens the door for him. Bomber leaps and twists in the snow, only partly showing off. Glenn thinks he's beautiful; he could never be happy like that.