The District Manager (18 page)

A great characteristic of the country is that little ever changes. This can be both bad and good. Bad, because the same terrible aspects of human nature that find manifest in the nooks and crannies of civilization continue festering like bacteria. Good, because the topography remains unmarred, pristine. The wild paying no heed to humanity, humanity in unison with the wild.

Tires pause at a certain gate. Brown dust softly puffs into blue sky. Freshly harvested corn fields reach out with endless fingers into a certain horizon.

I open the gate.

The bone in my gut has disturbed the wasp nest that has made its home there.

I press the pedal and pull up what remains of the trail that leads to the peculiar little home Ann and I once made together.

A rotation around the sun can work peculiar things in a man. You grow up learning to hold it in. You grow up keeping your feelings close to the vest. No one wants to see a man cry, no matter what they might propagate. It’s just unnatural. And no re-engineering of the human map is going to reroute that truth. Nature is unmovable. When a man cries he cries alone. No matter if he does it publicly or not, it is a solitary practice.

The lock is stubborn, most likely from the bending and subtle twisting of the house’s humble frame under the elements. But with modest force it turns. I gaze down at my fingers, gripping the knob and what appears before me is the calcium beneath the burnt skin.

A hot tomb-like musk hits me with a rich staleness. Regimented light shoots in across the floor and wooden walls, breaking up in beams a worn but egotistical sun.

I’m afraid to look around, to turn my head.

I can’t control this.

No one is present.

I feel my knee caps burn as they press the hard floor. A puddle of tears like the soiling from an untrained pet expands between my aching knees.

I’m okay now—I don’t know why I came here—but I think I’m okay.

Dirt and dust line the baseboards of every room. The photos of us and of family and friends that Ann and I cared to frame remain undisturbed atop the wood burning stove. I’m hesitant to shed artificial light on this place. I don’t wish to disturb it. For more than a year, it has lingered here tucked away from any human endeavor. Only the occasional sound of our neighbor’s tractor mowing the several acres around the house has been heard—by whatever there is to hear it.

I open each door and peer into each small room, but only briefly. Cobwebs have accumulated in the corners of the ceiling and walls. Bits of insect carcass dangle in tangles of silk. A small dead scorpion rests at the bottom of the mineral stained tub.

Our old office is filled with the most natural light as its only window faces due west. I view the many spines of books left behind: hardback volumes of
Southwest Conference Football, World Book Encyclopedia,
old textbooks on history. I think I might slide a binding out for inspection, but pause. They are like the trinkets of an Egyptian tomb. Ann’s impressive credentials hang crooked on the wall.
Should I straighten them?

Then I enter it…our bedroom.

The bone in my gut is shifting. It’s reawakening the wasp’s nest.

As I look around the room’s expanse, with its high ceiling, following the arch of the roof, its sagging bed frame with a medieval tapestry we bought at the Renaissance Festival hanging just above the headboard, I feel a sense of panic: the same panic I felt earlier in the car.

I have to sit.

My rib cage feels caged. My lungs can’t get enough air.

Okay, I can go in now.

The room is growing dark. The sun is setting. I dare not turn on the light.

Ann’s closet is before me. I haven’t touched anything inside. I have never cleaned out the dead.

I notice a vial of perfume sitting on the long eloquent expanse of her dresser. The oval base leaves a clean print amid the flakes of dust. I press the nozzle and feel the droplets of scent coat the hairs of my arm like morning dew on grass.

This smell recalls a hundred thousand memories.

Now her closet...

The small opening at the corner of our bedroom is barely visible as the night closes in. Only the sleeve and leg of her lighter garments distinguish themselves. I step forward. My boot is met by a litter of shoes.
She had so many shoes.

I feel the cloth of several blouses. Hoping maybe, just maybe, they’ll fill with flesh. But they just linger lifeless, like flags of surrender. I grab the cuff of one and bring it to my nostrils, drawing in a full breath. The musky scent of old clothes long unused travels the cavities to the brain.

Whatever it was I was looking for here I haven’t found. I must leave before I spoil this place any further.

I’m pulling off the dirt road on to the pavement. Darkness seals the deal.

Part III

SEPTEMBER

September is a ray of hope for those of us exhausted from the summer months. Yes, it’s still hot, but the days start getting shorter and the nights get a little cooler. Love of summer is a passion of the young, and the well-off old. For those in or approximating the median of life, the only positive is that there are no school zones to slow us down as we hurry, hurry, hurry…

Even better, the weekend was drawing near and that meant time with Brenna...

I’ve learned from my previous mistakes.
I keep telling myself that as I wind my way to Brenna’s residence. There’s no Will this weekend and I must confess I am grateful about that.

I can’t believe I’m intimidated by an eight-year-old boy, or is
he
seven?
I just can’t identify with kids—no matter the age.

Besides, there’s that something that pushes at my gut like a dull butter knife.

I try to refocus on the weekend as I drive over to Brenna’s place.

The yard is overgrown when I arrive. Seems her little patch of area has had more rain recently than others in the area. A large branch from one of the trees on her front lawn has broken off and extends over the mildewed walkway. The leaves that litter the fallen bough are beginning to die. I have to walk around to make it to the front door. The grounds as a whole teem with a sort of tropical profusion—late flowers still in bloom, and even a banana tree in the flower bed that hugs the left face of the house.

I approach the front door and knock.

Brenna tosses open the front door in a style uncharacteristic of her. Her brown hair is down and slightly curled. It dangles gently over her right eye in well-defined swirls. She looks a little tipsy.

“Well, good evening, mister,” she says, mischievously, cocking her hip. Her long dress is white and coats her body like milk. She likes to wear white and I like her liking it.

“Well, hello, Brenna.”

“No roses?” she asks as she carefully places her hand on her right hip. She raises one of her eyebrows.

Was I supposed to bring roses? Is this second date protocol? Am I that stupid?

“No roses?” she asks again, this time like a disappointed child on her birthday.

“No roses,” I perk up. I remember that I have something far better… “No roses,” I repeat, “however, first let me ask, are you free this Sunday afternoon?”

I know she is. I’m just giving her a dose of her own medicine.

“Why yes, Will’s father is taking him to school Monday. I’ll be picking him up.”

“Fantastic,” I announce like an auctioneer about to bestow a winning bid. I remove an envelope from my suit coat and wave it, saying, “Inside…inside…”

“What, what is it?” she asks jumping up like a little girl. Her hands now clenched together in anticipation.

“In this here envelope…” I say, in the best game show voice I can muster.

“Oh, come out with it, silly!” Brenna demands.

“In this envelope here…are two tickets to the Texans home opener this Sunday!”

“Oh my God! Oh my God! How did you get these?” Her sandals repeatedly defy gravity. I can’t help but notice her perfect bouncing breasts.

“Compliments of Haliburton Crane, State Representative for House District 100.”

“Okay, forget the roses! You’re awesome, Mason, totally awesome!”

A scoundrel would have probably taken her back inside her home and… But I’m no scoundrel. Besides, I’m nervous.

Brenna is definitely buzzing as the Expedition cruises into the big town in search of our destination: a wine bar before dinner. I have the music playing (ZZ Top) and she’s grooving all over the passenger’s seat. I’ve never quite seen her like this and it is a pleasant surprise. She’s usually really reserved, some might say stiff.

I bought some condoms at the Walgreens earlier in the week. I’m glad I did.

We find the wine bar in a part of Houston called Montrose. This establishment is as posh as it is hip. I like it immediately when we walk in because it’s dimly lit, almost dark. The music playing sounds all piano.
Perfect for conversation.

It’s still early, with the sun just setting. We get our drinks and take a seat. What I find so cool about this place is they have tables fitted into the corners and enclaves. The actual floor area is littered with pairs of large, cushioned chairs, like something you’d find in a nice living room.

The shadows darken as what is left of the day goes down in the few windows that allow it through at all.

We’re chillin’ with our wine. Her already supple features are further softened by the low purple light.

“So what’s it like to work for the county judge over in Fort Bryan?” I ask her. It’s not just idle conversation, I’m genuinely interested.

“He’s not so bad, actually. I worked for the last D.A. we had for a bit. He was a total asshole. I mean this guy was totally in love with himself—and never wrong!” Her disdain is palpable. “But the judge is okay. He loves his wife. He’s honest. He takes care of his employees.” As she mentions this aspect of her boss she sits up in her chair and arches her back.