First the Thunder Page 19

  But then Kenny lunged in a ducking sidestep toward the fireplace, tossing his drink at Harvey, then seized the set of fireplace tools in both hands, pivoted and swung them in a heaving arc at Harvey’s face. Kenny held on to only the gold-handled shovel, and let everything else fly.

  Harvey turned away, covered his face. The tools sailed past him to bang against the wall, but the heavy metal base of the holder caught him in the chest, a sharp corner stabbing in hard, knocking him breathless. The thing he had been holding in his hand, the weapon he had reached for earlier, now fell to the floor, didn’t even bounce when it hit the carpet. A flash drive. Pink. A small, harmless thing.

  A part of Kenny must have recognized the object, recognized that it was not a weapon, at least not of the conventional kind. Harvey was the weapon. But Kenny was already in motion and did not stop himself, did not freeze the movement of the shovel in his hand or attempt to stop its momentum. The flat side of the shovel slammed against the side of Harvey’s head.

  Harvey staggered and went down on one knee as everything turned black and filled with streaking white sparks. With one arm twisted over his head he waited for another blow, but it did not come. He heard Kenny’s huffing breath, turned his head just enough to look at him, saw him standing there with the little shovel raised like a baseball bat, Kenny poised like a boy ready to step out of the batter’s box, afraid of the speeding pitch, too timid to swing.

  And in that moment when Harvey turned his dazed eyes on Kenny, in that moment when the clouds in Harvey’s eyes seemed suddenly to ignite, that moment when his face went scarlet with rage, some recognition or fear must have ignited Kenny as well, for he put his arms in motion again, drew back and stepped forward and swung.

  Harvey ducked under the swing and dove forward and up, plunged into Kenny with arms outstretched. Together he and Kenny went back over the arm of the leather sofa, Kenny twisting as they fell, and landing atop Harvey on the floor, his knees squeezed together between Harvey’s outstretched legs.

  Kenny drew back the shovel for another swing, but an instant before the blade could make contact, Harvey seized Kenny’s wrist and yanked the shovel free. And then the blade reversed its direction and was slammed against the side of Kenny’s skull, and he fell to the side.

  Harvey pushed away and stood over Kenny as he struggled onto his knees. “You’re a disgusting man,” Harvey said, and was about to toss the shovel aside when Kenny wrapped both arms around Harvey’s legs and tried to pull him down. So Harvey swung the shovel again, this time putting all of his weight and strength behind the blow. The vibration rattled through his hand and up his arm like something alive, a snake in his veins, so to shake it free he swung again, and again, and again, until finally the blade broke off and Harvey was left holding only the handle itself, gold-plated and shining wet with blood, slippery in his hands.

  Harvey stood over Kenny and did not understand what had happened here. The room was suffocatingly warm; his lungs burned with every breath. His pulse was a hammer inside his head and his heart hammered at his chest. His right arm was numb from the fingertips to shoulder. In the distance the television played, the characters mere shadows, mumbled words, a strain of dark music.

  Harvey dropped to his knees beside Kenny and thought he heard a woman screaming somewhere. He thought he heard a dog barking. He thought he would like to turn off that god-awful television once and for all, would like to put his fist through the screen. He thought about Will and wished Will were there to explain all this to him, wished he had the strength to find his cell phone in his pocket.

  Even when Harvey looked up to see Kenny’s mother coming toward him, saw at once the savage horror in her eyes and the small dog yipping behind her, cowering at her heels, even as he watched her stoop to pick up the fireplace poker, he was moving away from all this, walking away in his own mind, strolling down the street in front of Will’s place, heading for the front door, going inside to have a beer with his brother.

  And everything else that happened was the work of somebody else, a man he did not know. Harvey watched it all as if from across the street, as if watching a television screen through a shop window. While now and then a pleasant scent drifted by. The smell of the bakery down the street from Will’s place, of doughnuts and fresh bread. He was able to enjoy the fragrance in a detached kind of way, the way a man who doesn’t eat might enjoy it, with longing and regret, a man who had never tasted sweetness because he possessed no mouth, no tongue, no stomach for this life.

  And when Harvey stumbled out of Kenny’s house a quarter of an hour later, the woman was no longer screaming. The dog no longer barked. The television was silent. A bone was broken just below his left wrist where he had raised it to block the poker that the woman swung at his face, and the flesh was swollen and pulsing, the splintered bone pulsing too. Otherwise as he walked back through town he was as quiet inside as the night itself, no thunder in his head. And the only thought he would permit himself was a wish deep and aching that Will’s place were still open, because he could really use a cold one now.

  50

  Nowhere to go but home. Harvey required no lights in order to see those dark rooms clearly; the details were emblazoned on his mind. The kitchen with its painted cupboards, the noisy ice maker in the refrigerator. The living room with the rose-colored sofa Jennalee had begged him to let her buy, nearly two thousand dollars. He did not regret the expense anymore. He regretted nothing. He settled into his recliner facing the television set, gazed at the gun cabinet against the rear wall, thought of all those seasons of hunting deer and turkey with his father and brothers. Even as he eased himself back and let his arms fall limp beside him, he could recall the scent of autumn leaves kicked up beneath his boots, the fragrance of pine woods in those minutes before dawn when the fog is lifting and the air is chill. It all came back to him then, all the happy moments unfettered by desire, by need, and he understood that everything was slipping away from him now, and it was nearly out of his reach already.

  As he sat there, wanting to sleep yet reluctant to close his eyes, the numbness faded too, all the wounds he had been ignoring, the blows to his head and body, the broken forearm, the heated, throbbing heaviness of something broken in his chest. His hands were stiff with dried blood, his forehead was stiff with it. He tasted blood in the back of his throat. He did not regret the blood because you cannot regret the inevitable, but he was nostalgic for all that he had lost this night, and all he had never possessed.

  He was not startled when the light flared on overhead. There was an inevitability to revelation too. Just as there was to Jennalee’s sharp intake of breath at the sight of him, the abrasive sound of the inhalation in her throat. He could only imagine how he must look to her, as if he had dipped his head in blood, his torn shirt splattered with it and sticking to his chest. He smiled to tell her it’s not as bad as it looks. The pain was there but far away. Everything is leaving me now, he wanted to say. Everything is going.

  “My God!” she said, and stepped as near as the television set, no closer. “What happened to you?”

  He held out his hand, opened his stiff fingers to reveal the pink flash drive in his palm. Then with a tired flick of his wrist he shook it free, sent it falling toward her feet.

  She stared down at it, pink and bloody against the tan nap of the carpet. Within seconds, tears were sliding down her cheeks. Her head moved back and forth in a slow, repetitious denial, no no no as her mouth twisted into a grotesque frown, her forehead tightening, hands sliding up her arms to hold herself, to pull herself inward.

  Her voice was hoarse and weak. Harvey was surprised by how small it sounded, how lacking in confidence. “Did you hurt him?” she said. “Harvey, please. Please tell me you didn’t hurt him.”

  He had no desire to move, to say anything. But knew she would keep talking if he did not speak. “He isn’t hurt anymore,” he told her. His voice was hoarse too, a low rumble from the back of his throat.

  Her respon
se was an explosion, too loud, it blasted and ricocheted inside his head. “What did you do to him?” she screamed. “What did you do?”

  His voice, in comparison, was thick and soft and slow. “What would any man do?”

  Her legs buckled, and she dropped to one knee. Then, slowly tilting, she clung to the side of the television cabinet until she was sitting on the floor. Each sob struck him like a nail of glass fired into his brain.

  He looked away from her face, so twisted and ugly, and noticed that she was wearing only her panties and teddy, that she looked so inelegant there, naked knees spread apart. The soles of her feet were dirty.

  She sobbed, every moan followed by a gasp, the side of her head against the cabinet. Then her eyes fell on the white telephone standing up in its white base on the end table beside the sofa, and she pushed herself up, lunged for the phone and hit the speed dial button and listened to the ring.

  He could hear the ringing too, hollow and distant, again and again. When the voice recording began, she punched the Off button and placed the call again.

  Again the ringing. He said, “Nobody to answer it.” He was about to say, Not even the dog, but she responded with a prolonged scream of “Nooo!” and flung the phone at him. When it struck him on the shoulder and bounced away and he merely smiled lazily, she grabbed the closest, heaviest object she could find, the candy dish filled with M&M’S, the Imperial Carnival bowl on a fluted stem and pedestal base. She seized it by the lip of the bowl, yanked it off the coffee table and sent the colored candies flying, and strode over to him and swung it at his head again and then again, screaming all the while. He sat tilted away from her, his right arm raised to protect his head, but did nothing else to defend himself, only absorbed the distant blows and the distant pain, and thought, as if he were watching the scene from far away, She’s just like her mother.

  When the bowl slipped from her hand and fell heavily to the floor, she stopped screaming finally, was too breathless to continue, and leaned away from him moaning, a kind of whimpering sound he had never before heard.

  He lifted his eyes to hers, could scarcely recognize her now. His voice was whisper soft. “Tell me the truth, Jennalee. Why did you ever marry me?”

  She was as quick as a snake, lunged forward and hit him in the face, three times before his hand came up and shoved her away. She dropped to the floor, where she curled into a fetal position and sobbed. He had not known he was going to shove her. Never intended to do so.

  Seconds passed, maybe more. Every sound she made stabbed at him. Again and again he winced, one jagged shard after another. Finally he leaned forward in his chair and with one good hand pushed himself up. She backed away from him, huddled tighter.

  He stepped around her to the gun cabinet, felt for the key along the top of the cabinet. Found it and unlocked the door. Looked at the guns hanging from their racks, thought of all the good times he had had with them, the .30-06, the 12 gauge and the over-and-under. The single-shot .22 he had owned since he was a boy.

  He wished she would be quiet now. Wished he could close his eyes and go back to the woods.

  But she was leaning up against the coffee table. Banging the heel of her fist on the glass top. Rattling the cherry-scented candle.

  The 12 gauge, he told himself. And lifted it free.

  Boxes of ammunition waited below the guns. He leaned the 12 gauge against the cabinet, took out a handful of shells. Awkwardly hooked an arm around the shotgun and returned to his chair.

  It took him a while to get the shotgun loaded. Because of the pain in his wrist he had to pause several times to catch his breath. All the while Jennalee sat huddled against the coffee table, half turned from him as she whimpered and sobbed.

  Again he stood. Crossed to Jennalee. Touched her arm with the butt of the shotgun. She jerked away as if shocked.

  He laid the gun at her side, the barrel against her naked leg. Returned to his chair. Leaned back and closed his eyes.

  After a while, her whimpering stopped. He knew without seeing that she was looking at him now. He said, “You know how to use it. I’m the one taught you.”

  It felt like a long time before she moved. Time was slowing for him now, and pleasantly. That was one of the things he liked best about the woods. If you take things slowly in the woods, don’t try to force them or rush, you can hear every click and rustle. You can hear the breeze whispering in the treetops. You can feel the woods breathing.

  He could hear her movements, tentative at first, still frightened. Once a doe and her fawn had come out of a stand of red pines to see him standing against a tree, and he had remained perfectly still, breathed softly and quietly. She came into the hardwoods first, left her fawn to stay behind and watch. She came to within ten yards and paused. Sniffed the air. Waited for him to separate himself from the tree. If he had, she would have wheeled around and run leaping back to the pines, her fawn bolting too. But he held his place, became a part of the trunk, a thick growth of bark. And soon she came closer, indifferent, and nibbled at the ground.

  She was standing in front of him now, he could feel her heat. Slowly, so as not to frighten her, he raised his good arm, palm open, and moved his hand through the air until it bumped against the barrel.

  He wrapped his fingers around the cold metal. Drew it closer, until the tip of the barrel pressed against his chest. Then he said, as softly as he could, smiling, “It’s nice.”

  “What is?” she said.

  “Being here like this. Where I don’t need you anymore.”

  51

  She thought the gunshot was the loudest sound she’d ever heard.

  And after a while she laid the shotgun across the arms of his chair. There was not as much blood as she had expected. A round, dark hole in his shirt. He didn’t look real. Maybe he had never been real.

  She went to the kitchen, trembling, the entire house was trembling, a frozen place, so cold. And soon she returned dragging a kitchen chair, which she pulled in front of his. She sat facing him with her bare feet straddling his legs, their knees touching. She leaned forward and picked up the shotgun, ejected the empty shell, rammed another one home. Then she wedged the shotgun’s stock into Harvey’s crotch. Rested the barrel between her breasts. Held it there with her left hand. Now she leaned toward her husband, bent her head and shoulders toward him as the barrel pushed hard against her chest, and her right hand reached out, fingers stretching. Finally she found the trigger, that scimitar moon of metal. Laid her thumb inside its curve. And pushed. And this time she heard no sound at all.

  III

  52

  The bodies were still warm when Laci got the call. Neighbors had reported gunshots. Only two, several minutes apart.

  Ronnie Walters told her, “I don’t know if you want to do this one. It’s family.”

  And suddenly she understood the nature of the peculiar feeling that had washed through her less than two hours earlier, when she had encountered Harvey on the street. She had felt something sinister hovering around him. Something hungry and resolute. And now she knew, without being told, without hearing a name, that Harvey was dead. But that was all she knew.

  She turned to look at Will sleeping with his back to her. She wanted to reach out and lay a hand on his naked shoulder. Wanted contact. The reassurance of flesh.

  “It’s a mess,” Ronnie told her.

  “Who?” she said, though what she meant by it was, Who else?

  “Harvey and Jennalee.”

  “Ahh,” she said, an involuntarily moan, and doubled forward as if stabbed in the chest. Then three more ahhs before she could ask, whispering hoarsely, as if she were choking on the words, “How did he do it?”

  “What it looks like,” Ronnie told her, “is that she shot him first. Then turned the gun on herself. Shotgun. Like I said, it’s a real mess. I can call somebody else if you want me to.”

  But she did not. Did not want anyone else taking pictures of them. Harvey deserved somebody who cared. Jennalee too, she
supposed. But was unable to muster much emotion for her. Not while her heart was breaking for Harvey. For Harvey and Stevie and Will.

  “Give me a few minutes,” she said. “I need to tell my husband.”

  “Take your time,” he told her. “The coroner hasn’t shown up yet. Just be ready for what you’re going to see. If that’s even possible.”

  She wanted to say something but found herself unable to speak. Found herself wanting to lay the phone aside, to lie down against her husband’s back, wrap an arm around his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Laci,” the deputy said. “What a god-awful thing.”

  53

  Leaving Molly alone in the apartment, still sound asleep, was not an easy decision. If they woke her, she would have to be told about her uncle and aunt. And they weren’t ready yet to share that information with her. So Laci wrote a note in blue ink and taped it to the inside of her daughter’s bedroom door:

  We had to go to Harvey and JL’s place. Be back soon. Call if you need us. Love you, Mom & Dad.

  They felt certain that at least one of them would return to the apartment before their daughter awoke.

  Outside, at the car, Will handed her the keys. “You better drive,” he said.

  He wasn’t sure he was even awake. It felt like a dream. His body was heavy and resisted all movement. He didn’t remember pulling on his trousers or the T-shirt, didn’t remember slipping his sockless feet into shoes. He thought he remembered Laci gently shaking him awake, leaning down close, saying whatever she had said, whatever words. Now all he remembered clearly was Harvey and Jennalee both.

  “You’re shivering,” she said as she pulled away from the curb. “You want me to turn the air-conditioning off?”

  He shook his head no, but continued to sit leaning forward, hunched over, hands holding his elbows. When he turned to look out the window he could see only shadows upon shadows, the car’s movement too quiet, everything too hushed. He told himself, I think I’m still asleep.