The Stormchasers: A Novel (40 page)

“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.

Karena spins and walks back.

“Fuck you, Charles,” she says. She pushes his shoulder, hard. “I want you out of here, you hear me? I want you OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

She screams this last in his face, then runs into the kitchen. Through the dining and living rooms, out the front door. But she can hear Kevin’s engine starting up when she is halfway through, and by the time she gets to the curb, calling his name, he is, as she has known he would be, already gone.

B
ecause Karena is right behind Kevin and because she drives like a maniac across the river, she catches him as he is going up the front walk to his house. Karena springs from her car and runs after him. “Wait,” she says. “Kevin! Please!”

But when Kevin turns from his stoop he gives her a look that stops Karena right where she is. His face is just as she feared it would be: flat, closed. His mouth and eyes narrow lines. It might as well be a plate that someone painted features on.

“What,” he says.

Karena bends over, trying to catch her breath. She is panting as if she has sprinted across the city instead of driving.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I’m sorry, Kevin. I’m so sorry—”

“Great,” says Kevin, “see ya,” and puts his key in the lock.

“No!” Karena says. “Just one minute, just give me one minute to explain—”

Kevin crosses his arms like a hostile bouncer. He looks at his watch. “One minute,” he says. “Go.”

“Okay,” Karena says. “Thank you, Kevin,” and then she wastes precious seconds stammering.

“First of all,” she says, “I am so sorry—”

“You already said that,” says Kevin. “Forty seconds.”

“But I am,” Karena says. She steps forward to touch his arm. “You’ll never know—”

Kevin looks down at her hand as if it were a slug. “Do NOT do that,” he says, and Karena snatches it back. Kevin checks his watch.

“Fifteen seconds,” he says.

“Oh!” Karena cries. “Kevin, Charles is crazy. You know that! You know how he gets when he’s manic, he’s evil, vindictive, he’s cookin’ with gas—”

“Time,” says Kevin. “Good night.”

“Please,” Karena says. “Please just one more minute—”

“Why?” says Kevin. “Why, Karena? What difference does it make? We could stand here all night and I doubt you’d be able to explain this incredibly fucked-up situation. Let me ask you one thing. Is it true? About the Motorcycle Guy?”

Karena looks away, at the streetlight, concentrating on its cold glare to keep from crying. Even so, she feels her chin trembling and eyes swelling, her face blotching up. She knows her hair is in witchy disarray from rushing over here. She is ugly, so ugly she can’t stand to have Kevin look at her, too ugly to belong to the human race.

“That’s about all the answer I need,” Kevin says. “Thanks.”

He pushes open his front door, and Karena is galvanized.

“It was an accident,” she yells. “It was just a stupid, awful accident! We were kids, Kevin. Eighteen. It was our eighteenth birthday, how’s that for irony. Charles was totally manic, he was out of his mind, he was being physically abusive to our mom. I went chasing with him to try and stop him, and he drove us into that storm, and we thought . . . we thought it might be a deer . . . Oh, shit,” she says, sniffling, “what a fucking soap opera.”

“That’s a very interesting and terrible story, Karena,” Kevin says from his top step, and when Karena glances up she sees he is looking down at her as if she were a new species of bug. “I just wish you had told it to me before.”

“I tried,” Karena says. “I mean, honestly, no, I didn’t, but I wanted to, Kevin! Oh my God, if you only knew how much I wanted to! I felt so bad about keeping it from you—”

“Did you?” says Kevin. “Boo hoo, poor you. Meanwhile, from the very beginning, what’s the one thing I insisted on, Karena? That you tell me—the fucking—TRUTH!”

“I already said I wanted to!” Karena yells back. “But how could I? Put yourself in my position. It’s not the kind of thing you can go around saying every day, like when I was eighteen my brother and I ran into somebody—”

A shadow moves in the downstairs front window, behind the branches of the fir, and the slats of the blinds are twitched apart. Mrs. Axlerod. Karena can see the woman’s pin-headed silhouette.

“Kevin,” she says in a much lower voice, “this isn’t a conversation I can have on the street, all right? Can’t we please go inside?”

Kevin shakes his head.

“I don’t think so,” he says, and at the thought that she may never see the man cave again, the black leather couch and the geodes and
The Weather Wizard’s Cloud Book
on the toilet tank and the cloud mobile twirling gently over the bed, Karena starts to hyperventilate. She doubles over again and puts her head between her knees.

“Oh, fuck,” she hears Kevin say.

After a minute, he comes down the steps. His Samba soccer shoes stop in the sidewalk square a foot from Karena’s head. She focuses on them until she can breathe again, then straightens cautiously, blinking gnats of light from her peripheral vision.

She smiles tentatively, but Kevin’s flat expression doesn’t change.

“You know,” he says, when it’s apparent that Karena’s not going to pass out on his lawn, “I have to say, it’s not exactly ideal to have a girl-friend who’s guilty of vehicular homicide. In fact it’s pretty fucking far down on my wish list. But if you’d told me about it, Karena, we might have been able to figure something out. We could have put our heads together and decided on a way to deal with it.”

Karena starts to tell him again why she couldn’t, but Kevin holds up a finger. “Please do not interrupt,” he says, “I am not finished speaking. What I was
going
to say is, boy, am I a jerk. I must be a real tool, right, Karena? Because the silly thing is, I was just starting to trust you. And I was starting to believe
you
trusted
me
. Oh, I always knew you were slippery. I knew you were always hiding something, that you’d been damaged in some way. Look how long it took for you to tell me the real reason you were on the tour. But once I put two and two together and found out you were Chuck’s sister, I thought, Jesus, man, pay her out some rope. No wonder she’s skittish. And meanwhile it’s not like I find a woman every day who’s beautiful and smart and funny and astrotravels in bed, so I figured, okay, if it’s just Chuck, I can deal with it. He’s a known quantity, and everybody’s got something.”