First the Thunder Read online

  Finally Will said, “How about if we steal the bike?”

  “And do what with it? I couldn’t ride it anywhere. Besides, he’ll just turn it in on his insurance. Probably end up with twenty thousand dollars for all I know.”

  “So . . . is it the bike you want, or something else?”

  “What are you talking about?” Harvey said.

  “Sounds to me like what you really want is some kind of revenge. Just to mess him up somehow.”

  “Maybe I do. Maybe I’m tired of him getting everything he wants. Things that were never his to begin with.”

  “Okay,” Will said after a pause.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay, that’s maybe something I can help you with.”

  “Help me how? To do what?”

  “We just have to come up with something. Something equal to what he’s done to you.”

  “You have no idea what he’s done to me.”

  “So you’ve told me. Vaguely.” He waited half a minute.

  Harvey said nothing more.

  “Fine,” Will said. “Because I’ll tell you what. I don’t like him much either. Never have.”

  “No shit?” Harvey said, and he looked at his brother at last.

  “So if you want to teach him a little lesson about fairness and such, then okay. I’m with you all the way. Mainly because I don’t think you have the brains to pull something off without getting caught. Especially after asking for my gun in front of Laci and Stevie like you did.”

  The hint of a smile creased Harvey’s mouth. “You never liked him either?”

  “What’s to like? Back when you two were in school together, you’re this big football star, right? And what’s he? He’s in the freaking band. Plays the piccolo or some such thing.”

  “Fucking flute.”

  “Same difference. It’s still a girl’s instrument no matter how you look at it. So you’re the star athlete and all, you’re the one set the All-Conference rushing record, he’s the one with his little twinky fingers flying up and down. And who gets elected class president? Who gets voted Homecoming King?”

  The anger built in him, and it made him feel stronger, more capable. “I was only in ninth grade but, I don’t know, that really pissed me off for some reason. There was just something about him I didn’t like. What I could never figure out was why you wanted him as a friend.”

  Only then did Will realize that he had been jealous of Kenny all those years—quiet, soft-spoken Will, the younger brother, a nuisance to be tormented or ignored. Even now the resentment lingered. Even now it burned.

  Harvey said, his voice huskier now, “The worst of it is that Jennalee thinks he’s like the perfect man or something.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s his sister. That’s just loyalty talking.”

  “She’s my wife. She should be taking my side on this. On everything.”

  “Can’t argue with you there,” Will said. Then, “Maybe she just doesn’t want you risking your life on a motorcycle.”

  “She couldn’t care less,” Harvey said.

  And again Will was too surprised to respond. He’d always thought they were the perfect couple, that theirs was a fairy-tale marriage. He said, “Things okay between the two of you?”

  “What did I just tell you?” Harvey said, his voice too loud. “She ought to be taking my side on this. Not his or anybody else’s.”

  So it was a dangerous subject. Will decided to avoid it. He said, “What really pisses me off about Kenny is how easy he’s always had it. Jake was right; Kenny’s never had to work for anything in his life. What’s he make as the superintendent of schools—fifty, sixty thousand?”

  “Huh. More like eighty or ninety,” Harvey said.

  “Whew,” Will said. “I used to watch him when you two were painting houses together. You were the one did all the hard work, all the scraping and patching.”

  Harvey nodded. “We’d come across some dry rot or termite damage, you know what his response would be?”

  “Slap some extra paint on it?”

  “Slap some paint on it and collect the check.”

  “Then why in God’s name was he your friend?”

  Harvey said nothing, but squinted at the dirty pavement as if trying to discern the answer down there, some justification for the choices he’d made a quarter century ago.

  Will considered his own resentment, searched all the feelings he had never before examined. Kenny had an easy way with women, that was one thing. He’d been so nonchalant in high school, wore nice clothes that set him apart from all the other kids. And he was a smooth talker, all the teachers loved him. Girls in Will’s grade and even younger seemed to melt when Kenny smiled their way. Will’s friends had spoken of him with unabashed admiration, said, I hear he gets laid anytime he wants; I hear he did so-and-so backstage after school yesterday; I heard he’s poking the substitute teacher.

  He made Will and his friends feel second-rate. Was that why Harvey now hated him too? She thinks he’s like the perfect man or something, Harvey had said.

  Will and Harvey stood there in the gathering dark, both silently angry. Finally Harvey said, “All right, bright guy. What are we going to do about him?”

  “Give me a day or so,” Will said. “I’ll think of something.”

  “This better not be a trick of some kind just to get me to cool off.”

  “No, I want to do this,” Will said, and even in the stink and gloom of the alley he felt a kind of malicious glee embolden him. “I could use a little fun in my life.”

  7

  When the movie was over, Stevie picked up his empty baskets, crumpled napkins and the pizza box and carried them into the kitchen. Laci followed with her own plate and napkins. Stevie threw the paper in the trash, then opened a drawer for the plastic wrap and laid out a long sheet on the countertop.

  “I’ll take care of that,” Laci said. “You don’t need to hang around to help.”

  “No problem,” he said, then placed the remaining pizza atop the plastic wrap.

  “Do two slices separately for Molly,” she said. “You can take the rest of it home with you, if you want.”

  “Okay,” he said, then was silent as he carefully wrapped up Molly’s pizza, and returned the remaining slices to the pizza box.

  “Everything all right?” Laci asked.

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Same old stuff.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Just Will. Not wanting me to go along to talk to Harvey.”

  And with that remark and its wounded intonation, she saw Stevie in a different light, as if the angle of light slanting in through the window had actually changed, had risen to illuminate his features, the softness of his eyes and the slack, frowning mouth. For a moment he reminded her of the pensive subject of Caravaggio’s Boy Peeling Fruit, half his face in light, the other half in darkness. “I don’t think he meant anything by it,” she said.

  “They say they don’t. But they do. Always have.”

  She moved closer now, laid a hand on his arm and stepped into his field of vision. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged.

  “Tell me what you mean,” she said.

  “They think I’m worthless. You know? Like I’ve got nothing to contribute to anything.”

  She moved even closer and laid a hand on his forearm. “I’m sure it’s not personal, Stevie. It’s just birth order, that’s all. You’re their little brother.”

  He nodded and blinked, but he looked so sorrowful standing there that an ache arose in her chest and her eyes began to sting. She was just about to put her arms around him when he turned away and scooped up the pizza box.

  “Thanks again,” he said, and headed for the door.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Tell Molly I said hi.”

  8

  When Will returned to the bar, he found the room empty, Merle’s empty glass on the bar, a twenty-dollar bill folded and wedged beneath the g
lass. He considered turning the air conditioner off until another customer arrived, but knew how quickly the room would grow stifling, and how quickly a customer might turn on his heel and head back out the door if he stepped in and breathed such heat. Besides, Will could usually count on a customer or two until at least ten. Somebody would show up soon.

  In the meantime he wiped the bar and made sure the tables were clean. A part of his mind was still on the conversation in the alley, but a larger part had already returned to his own dilemma. If business didn’t pick up soon he would have to think about putting the bar up for sale. But who would buy it after taking a look at the books? Only an idiot like me, he thought.

  He wondered if Kenny kept any money at home. Maybe he collected gold and silver coins. But they would be in a safe. And Will was no thief. Had never had so much as a traffic violation. Still, the thought was consoling: a man Kenny’s age, never married, close to a six-figure income—he surely had a bundle squirreled away somewhere in that big old house. And if he didn’t, his mother surely would. Kenny’s comings and goings would be easy to track. Even in summer the school board met once a month. But where was Louise during those couple of hours? Probably sipping martinis in front of the TV, half-asleep with that piebald Jack Russell in her lap, ready to erupt into shrill barking at the slightest sound.

  Stick to reality, Will told himself. What can you do to bring in more business?

  Maybe a karaoke night. From what he’d seen on TV, singing off-key with a group of other drunks seemed to be popular.

  But that’s just one night. You need at least three good nights a week to turn this place around.

  Maybe a pizza night. Sell slices at cost, add a little extra garlic salt, keep the cold beer flowing from the taps.

  The problem is, he told himself, who’s going to come? Most of my customers are over fifty. Even that bunch of golfers earlier. They don’t come here for the beer or food, they come because they are lonely, have nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. Their children, the few who still live around here, are too busy raising their own families to be spending fifty, sixty dollars a week in a bar.

  Will crossed to the cash register, took the little pad and pen he used for orders, and made a calculation. Fifteen hundred dollars, he thought, and wrote “$1500” on the pad. Didn’t sound like much. But if he could make an extra fifteen hundred a week, he would clear a little bit, start paying down the principal on the mortgage.

  He divided the number by fifty. The answer was thirty. He needed an extra thirty people every week to come into the bar and spend fifty dollars each.

  Thirty extra people. How the hell was he going to get an extra thirty people a week in there? Every week. And at fifty dollars a pop? He couldn’t think of a single customer who, over the last few months, had parted with even half that much.

  And now he remembered—bitterly, with a burgeoning anger turning his stomach sour—a guy named Rogers he had worked with back in the strip mines. In warm weather the crew would find a patch of shade at noon every day and, often leaning against a pile of dirt or coal, open their lunch boxes and talk about their families, politics, sports, or other employees. They were all making good money then, but they also knew that bituminous strip mining was on its last legs. Too many regulations, too much pollution. The coal burned dirty, went up as smoke, came down as acid rain. The market for soft coal was shrinking.

  One day the men took turns revealing their plans for the future. Two of them were taking night and Saturday classes at the community college, one in computer programming, the other in certification as an HVAC technician. A third man joked that he planned to live off his wife, an RN, until she kicked him out. Rogers planned to move his family to North Carolina, where a job in his brother-in-law’s furniture factory was promised.

  Will was the youngest man in the crew, and so spoke last, and then only when asked. “What about you, Junior?”

  “I’d like to have my own business,” Will said. “Don’t know what kind yet, though.”

  “Beer joint,” Rogers said.

  Everybody laughed, because on those few nights when Will joined the others at Enid’s after work, Will always limited himself to a single beer, and was always the first man to leave.

  “I’m serious,” Rogers said. “Think about it. When times are good, people drink to celebrate feeling good. And when times are bad, they drink even more to forget about how miserable they are. And who better to run a bar than a guy who doesn’t like beer?”

  And, for a short time, Rogers seemed to be right. But then came the new interstate extension. Then came the millennials, craft beer and California wines and organic food, yoga and veganism and Health is Happiness. Will’s customer base moved away, died off, joined AA, went low-carb paleo keto whatever.

  Will studied his pad. Thirty new customers every week. Thirty new Merles spending two and a half times as much as Merle spent per visit.

  “Screw you, Rogers,” Will said to the empty room. “Screw you and me both.”

  9

  When Harvey returned home that evening, after he unlaced his work boots just inside the back door, then came forward to the kitchen threshold, Jennalee was walking toward him, smiling, on her way out. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a white silk shirt—still, in his opinion, the prettiest woman in town, still slender and naturally blonde and as graceful as a breeze. He could see her nipples through the blouse and sheer bra and something caught in his chest at the sight of her.

  “Hi!” she said brightly, and told him that she was going across town to the ten-room Victorian Kenny had lived in, with his mother, all his life. It bothered Harvey that his wife always said she was “having dinner at home with Mom” instead of “over at Mom’s place.”

  He said, “How about staying here for a change and having dinner with me?”

  “I had dinner with you last night, didn’t I?”

  “Most people, you know, when they get to be adults, they’re happy not to have to be spending four or five nights a week with their mother and brother.”

  “You see your brothers practically every day, don’t you?” She asked this with a smile, sweetly, then leaned close to him, her hand on his waist. He felt the warmth of her skin through his shirt. Her touch still dizzied him.

  She said, “You know, when we lost Daddy last month, the thing I regretted most was not spending enough time with him. And now Mom’s getting up there too and—”

  “She’s barely seventy years old.”

  “How old was Daddy? Seventy-six. And how old was your dad? It can happen at any moment, just like that.”

  He took a deep breath to steady his voice, didn’t want to sound whiny. “My point, Jennalee—”

  She snuggled against him. “I know what your point is, sweetie, and I agree with you. Now you take that casserole out of the oven in about ten minutes, okay? And enjoy a nice quiet dinner by yourself. I’ll be home around nine or so and we can make some popcorn and watch TV together.”

  He knew that the way she held him now, rubbing both hands up and down his back, one knee between his legs, he knew it was a ploy she used, a way to defuse him because she did not like confrontation, did not like voices raised in anger and she especially did not like to be circumvented in any of her choices. He knew that her momentary closeness was a mere device yet he could not resist the smell of her, the vagueness of apricot in her hair still as blonde as a teenager’s, still as cornsilk-smooth. And he could not resist the clean scent of her skin either, the subtlety of Obsession in the nape of her neck, the heat of her breasts pressed against him. He breathed her in and closed his arms around her, hands pulling at the tail of her blouse and then sliding underneath, fingers finding the cool smooth wonder of her waist.

  “Baby, I’m going to be late,” she said, but as he leaned down to lay his mouth against the side of her throat she tilted her head back and exposed her neck to him. Gratitude swelled in his chest but he could not ignore the swift surge of fear that washed through hi
m too, a heat racing up the sides of his face and into his temples, this fear for the loss of her, the only woman he had ever needed, as essential as air, a compulsion as inexplicable as death. Sometimes when he held her he felt himself speeding around the curve of a dirt track at a hundred miles an hour and the rear of the car beginning to slide, but he would hold the speed, unrelenting, correcting with a tiny turn of the steering wheel, and pray that this would not be the last race of his life, that he would not soon roll and lose all control, would not go crashing into the wall and never see the finish line again.

  And then his mouth was on hers and his hands fumbled with the snap of her jeans, fingers so thick with dumb desire that she had to take over finally, guiding him into the living room and onto the sofa. And this was the thing that kept him from crying out in the anguish of his desire, that she had never told him no, never pushed him away with a damning look or excuse, had never once denied him. This was what he clung to, how he gauged the truth of her love.

  But it was always a temporary affirmation, and as always he was left to deal with his fear and gratitude alone, as weak-legged and hollow as ever, this time with one hand braced against the sofa’s back as with the other hand he reached, quivering, for the jeans bunched around his ankles, while Jennalee tucked her blouse in and made her exit through the kitchen, her face as bright and cheerful as ever, her body as graceful as a breeze.

  As she headed for the door he called out to her. “Tell your brother for me that what goes around comes around.”

  A pause; he could picture the way she cocked her head now, smiled in confusion. “Excuse me?”

  “Just tell him,” he said.

  Now he envisioned the way she rolled her eyes before answering. “If you say so.”

  Then she slipped away and left him standing there in the living room, hollowed out, weak and alone.

  Harvey watched television alone, the casserole dish on his lap, bleeding its heat into his skin. He kept the volume low on the TV, wished there were other sounds to hear, something flesh and blood and real. He wished they would have children, that an accident would occur. He’d had himself tested a couple of years ago without telling Jennalee he was going to, then was surprised by her reaction when he told her that everything had checked out okay with him. Instead of being happy she was angry that he had done it. “Why would you do such a thing?” she’d demanded, then immediately turned and stormed into the bedroom and locked the door. Later she explained that she wasn’t really angry with him. “It’s just that it means it must be me,” she said. “I’m the problem.”