First the Thunder Read online

  A few months later he found the birth control pills. He had called in sick that day, a Tuesday, with nausea and a pulsing headache, a rumbling in his head. By noon the sickness passed, and he, thinking it would please her, had seared a sirloin tip roast and put it in the oven to slow-bake through the afternoon. Then he washed two loads of laundry, everything in the hamper. Dried and folded all the clothes and put them away in their drawers. And that was when he found the disk of tiny pills, wrapped inside a camisole too delicate to be crushed beneath the cotton pajamas he was putting away. A disk meant to hold thirty pink pills, twelve spaces empty.

  He was in bed when she came home that night.

  “Still feeling bad?” she asked, and brought him a glass of ginger ale, and took his temperature, and looked sincerely pained by his discomfort.

  She’s a good person, he had told himself. Just doesn’t want to be a mother.

  He never mentioned the pills.

  And now, sometimes, he would listen to the silence and wish the house did not feel so empty. He wished he could awake some morning and find toys scattered underfoot, a tricycle in the yard. He knew that when he and Jennalee were older, his resentment might grow too strong to suppress. He already resented how much time she spent at her mother’s house, and resented that she hadn’t taken his side in the Indian argument. What really gnawed at him was that she refused to see what an asshole her brother was, what a smarmy, self-centered dick he had turned into.

  Harvey worried now that he was becoming like some of the older men in town, silent, bitter brooders, never smiling. He worried that he might gravitate back to the bottle and his earlier habits, drinking his way toward self-destruction, having conceded at last that love was not his salvation but his undoing.

  10

  Laci and Stevie came downstairs and into the bar to find Will alone, leaning against the counter, watching TV. “Making money hand over fist, I see,” Stevie said with a grin.

  Will was just about to say something like Is that supposed to be funny? when Laci stepped up close and laid her hand on Will’s arm.

  “Going to pick up Molly at the library,” she said.

  Will stared at Stevie a moment or two longer, then finally turned to his wife and nodded. “You think she’ll want another salad tonight?”

  “We saved her some pizza. But let’s go back in the kitchen and see what else you have.”

  “I can tell you what I have,” Will said.

  She gave his arm a squeeze. “Let’s go look.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, where she turned at the refrigerator and gave him a smile. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Kirby called. He wants to meet me at the Marriott to talk about a new job opportunity.”

  “On a Friday night? At a hotel bar? Why not at the office?”

  “Don’t ask me. Maybe that’s where he’s having dinner first.”

  “What kind of new job?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I do,” Will said. Laci’s boss was barely out of his thirties, a young, good-looking guy who’d inherited the business from his grandfather after working less than a year as the managing editor. He and Will had talked briefly maybe three, four times, and each time Kirby seized Will’s hand as if they were long-lost friends, his grip too firm, the handshake lasting too long. “How are you?” Kirby would ask. “How’s everything going?” And something in the young man’s inflection, the too-earnest interest, would make Will wince and want to pull away.

  “Stop it,” Laci told him now. “I thought you and Molly could come along. She can order something there. And we can all spend an hour or so in a nice air-conditioned room.”

  “Whatever she wants to eat, I can make it here,” Will said. “And for a fourth of what we’d pay at the Marriott.”

  “Come on,” she said. “It will be like a little night out for us. And maybe I’ll end up making more money after tonight.”

  “I can’t just close up the bar. It’s too early yet.”

  “That’s the other thing we need to talk about,” she said. “Let Stevie stay and watch the place.”

  Will raised his eyebrows.

  “You hurt his feelings earlier,” she said. “You and Harvey.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Harvey comes in all ticked off with Kenny over something, which you know and he knows but nobody tells us why. Then you go running after Harvey to calm him down, and I’m left upstairs with Stevie, who is hurt now because you and your brother never include him in anything.”

  “That’s not true,” Will said.

  “You know it is. And so does Stevie. So here’s a chance to show him a little trust. Put him in charge for ninety minutes. What’s the big deal?”

  “He could start a grease fire, for one thing. Burn the place down.”

  She grinned. “Are you saying that would be a bad thing?”

  The way she was looking at him now with her eyes sparkling, her hands on his waist, he had to smile in spite of himself.

  “Plus,” Laci continued, “while Kirby’s wining and wooing me and promising me the moon, you’ll have Molly all to yourself. You’re always complaining you don’t get enough time with her anymore.”

  “This is true,” Will admitted. “What do you think he wants to talk about?”

  “Who knows with him? It’s one crazy idea after another. Last week he wanted to add a literary insert. Let local people submit poems and essays and stuff like that. Jerry in layout said, ‘Sounds like a high school newspaper to me,’ which killed that idea pretty fast.”

  “So this is all for nothing?”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll have a decent idea for a change. All I know is, I could use a raise. I don’t care if he wants me to take photos of old ladies’ pets. If I can bring home a few more dollars every week, I’m in.”

  Will wanted to protest then, wanted to say something to relieve the sting he felt, the suggestion of failure, but he recognized the futility of such a gesture. She was right. She was very nearly always right. They had to seize every opportunity to come their way, no matter how it might dent or damage his self-esteem.

  “Pick me up after you get Molly,” he told her.

  She stood on her toes, leaned close and kissed his mouth. She said, “See you in fifteen.” Then turned and exited the kitchen.

  He remained in place long enough to hear Laci tell Stevie, “Off to the library. See you later. I think Will wants to talk to you about something.”

  When Will came back to the bar, Stevie was standing three feet in front of the television screen, clicking through the channels. Will said, “You want a Coke or something?”

  Stevie said, “I’d kill for another beer.”

  “Tell you what,” Will said, and now Stevie turned his way. “Would you mind watching the place for maybe an hour? Two at the most?”

  “Seriously?” Stevie said.

  “Laci has a meeting with her boss out at the Marriott. She wants me to go along. You’ll get maybe five people in here while we’re gone.”

  Now Stevie came back to the bar, laid the remote on the countertop. “I can do that. No problem.”

  “Anybody wants a mixed drink,” Will told him, and pulled a small book from beneath the cash register, “just look it up in here. More likely it will be draft and bottle beer and a few shots here and there.”

  “It’s all cool,” Stevie said, and allowed himself a smile now. “I got it covered.”

  Will nodded but was still uncomfortable. What if, against all odds, a rowdy crowd of college students showed up? What if somebody’s bachelor party came stumbling through the door? Stevie would be overwhelmed, get confused, start pouring free drinks for everyone, including himself.

  Stevie said, as if reading the look of concern on Will’s face, “I’ve bartended at parties. This will be a breeze.”

  “What parties?” Will asked.

  “People you don’t hang around with. Private parties. Don’t sweat i
t, brother, okay? I got this.”

  “Okay then,” Will said.

  And Stevie said, “So what’s going on with Harvey and Kenny? Who did what to who?”

  Will reached into the well, pulled out a can of Coke, popped the tab and set the can atop a cardboard coaster in front of Stevie. “You remember that old Indian motorcycle Harvey was always working on with Kenny’s dad?”

  “Absolutely,” Stevie said as he reached for the Coke.

  “So apparently the old man promised to leave it to Harvey. But now Kenny says there’s nothing about that in the will. And every time Harvey makes a fair offer on it, Kenny raises the price.”

  Stevie shook his head, took a noisy sip. “He’s a weasel. Always has been.”

  “I’m just afraid Harvey’s going to go and do something stupid this time.”

  “He did seem agitated. More than usual, I mean.”

  Will nodded, but said nothing more. Stevie sipped his Coke, watching and waiting.

  “Okay then,” Will said, and softly rapped his knuckles on the bar. “I’m going to head upstairs and change my shirt. You’re in charge.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain!” Stevie said. He waited until Will had headed up the stairs, then reached into the well for the house whiskey and poured some into his Coke. Then he stood there grinning for a while, surveying the empty room. Then he picked up the remote again. And clicked through the channels.

  11

  In the dimly lit room called French Kate’s Lounge, named after a woman who ran a brothel in the area in the late 1800s, Laci spotted Kirby looking her way from the corner of the bar. At first his smile was prominent, but the moment Molly and Will entered behind her, his smile faltered—a reaction that gave Laci a shiver of pleasure.

  Most of the barstools were occupied, all but one of them by men. Several tables held couples having a late dinner or just drinks and snacks. A flat-screen TV above the bar was playing a golf match somewhere near an ocean, the course impossibly green and the water impossibly blue. Throughout the lounge, soft Motown music played from speakers invisible in the high, dark ceiling.

  To her family Laci said, “There’s Kirby at the bar. Why don’t you guys grab a booth, get something to munch on, and I’ll go see what Smiley wants.”

  “Have fun,” Will said, and steered Molly toward a booth against the near wall, a good place from which to keep tabs on the conversation at the bar.

  Laci crossed toward Kirby, and, when he attempted to put his arms around her and lean in to kiss her cheek—a greeting he frequently employed with his female employees—she extended her hand. His handshake was less than enthusiastic.

  “I see you brought the whole family along,” he said.

  Laci looked down the bar. “Interesting place for a business meeting, Kirby. In a room named in honor of a prostitute.”

  “I met some people here a little earlier,” he said. “The meeting ended just a few minutes ago. What would you like to drink?”

  She smiled at the bartender, who was coming her way. “Iced tea, please,” she told him.

  The barman was a tall, thin young man with a sparse brown moustache and soul patch. “Long Island?” he said.

  “Just plain old iced tea, please. With stevia?”

  “I can do Splenda.”

  “Two, please.”

  When the barman walked away, Laci said to Kirby, after a glance at his glass, “So you’re a whiskey-drinking man?”

  “Maker’s Mark,” he said. “Bourbon.” He took a sip and set the glass down atop a napkin. Beside the napkin lay a key card.

  Laci nodded toward the card. “You spending the night?”

  He glanced toward the booth where Molly and Will sat talking. Then laid his hand over the card, scooped it up and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “It’s where we had the meeting earlier,” he said.

  Laci smiled and said, “I bet it is.”

  Molly said, “The salads here are at least fifteen dollars each! The steak salad is almost twenty!”

  “Get what you want,” Will told her.

  “The salmon is twenty-two!”

  “If that’s what you want,” he said, and hoped she wouldn’t choose it.

  She studied the menu a few moments longer. Finally she said, “Is it okay if I get the grilled chicken Caesar salad? It’s the cheapest. $14.99.”

  “Whatever you want, sweetie.”

  The sadness hit him then like a soft blow to his chest. He had always made a point of never discussing his financial problems in front of Molly. Wanted her to have a happy childhood, free from her parents’ fears and worries. But it was clear to him now that he had not been careful enough, and his concerns had infected her.

  “Get the salmon,” he told her. “I know you love salmon. It’s only a few dollars more.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “What are you going to get?”

  “I had pizza at home. I’m still stuffed.”

  She smiled. “Actually,” she said, “salmon is healthier than chicken. If it’s fresh caught. Chicken can be full of antibiotics and hormones.”

  “Then definitely get the salmon.”

  “If it’s fresh caught,” she told him. “I’ll ask the server when she comes.”

  It seemed that every time he looked at her these days, his chest ached and his eyes filled with tears. Something was slipping away from him, and although that thing wasn’t precisely Molly, it did have something to do with her. And something to do with Laci. And something to do with who he was and had wanted to be. Funny how a matter as trivial as the cost of a salad could remind him of all that.

  “It’s all about images these days,” Kirby told Laci, leaning close to her now, as if sharing a valuable secret, engaging her in a conspiracy. “The immediate impact. Who has time to read anything? Let the pictures tell the story, right? The photo narrative—the latest and hippest art form. And a girl with your talents, you can be right there at the head of it.”

  Laci was having a hard time suppressing laughter. “A new art form?” she said. “You talk like this is France in the 1920s.”

  “Why not?” he said.

  “Because all I do is see something interesting and take a picture of it. I don’t create anything. Art requires an act of creation, doesn’t it?”

  “Found art,” he said. “Think of photography as found art.”

  “I’ve always thought of found art as an oxymoron. An excuse for noncreative people to feel like they’ve done something creative. To me, found art is a form of plagiarism.”

  He shook his head. “You’re not giving photography, or yourself, enough credit. Probably because you haven’t been given the freedom to really explore what you can do with a camera.”

  “What exactly is it you want me to do?”

  “Explore. Get playful. Get sexy. Use your camera to make love to the world.”

  “Kirby, please,” she said, and turned to look toward her husband and daughter. “Let’s not go there, okay?”

  “You don’t like my metaphor?”

  “I don’t like you using this meeting as a way of easing into a discussion we have already had.”

  “Can I help it if you make me think of sex?”

  “What doesn’t make you think of sex?”

  “Maybe the better question is, what would make you think of sex?”

  “My husband,” she said.

  That quieted him for a few moments. He studied the side of her face, took a sip of his drink, then set the glass atop its napkin again. Finally he said, while looking down at the bar, his voice lower and softer now, “Okay, here’s the thing. This job I’m proposing is just the beginning. The website, I mean. It will take a while to reach an audience, sure. And then to monetize it. But I’m confident it can be done. From there the picture gets a whole lot bigger. More websites, each one aimed at a different audience. Women, men, millennials, Gen X, even the, uh . . . what are they calling the prepubescent generation these days?”


  “I’m a photographer,” she joked. “I don’t use words.”

  He nodded, smiling. “This is what I like about you, Laci. You’re not just a smartass, you’re also very smart. I think I could learn a lot from you.”

  Her eyebrows went up and she turned to face him. “I know what you want to learn from me, Kirby. And you should learn it from girls your own age.”

  “So you have no interest in being a part of this project?”

  “I still have no idea what the project is. A bunch of websites filled with photographs? How do you monetize something like that?”

  “How do you monetize a website filled with cat videos? Do you realize how much money that guy makes?”

  She shrugged. “People love cats.”

  “People love a lot of things. And I plan to capitalize on it. Understand that I’m not talking about just this county. My family has connections everywhere. I’ve already lined up investors in Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Harrisburg, and Chicago. We’ll be on computers, tablets, smartphones, every device imaginable. I intend to be the source for visual information everywhere, whether it’s news, fashion, food, recreation, whatever. And I am offering you, Laci, the opportunity to get in on the ground floor with me. As this thing grows, we’ll hire more staff. And you just might find yourself being the director of photography. You’ll get to travel all over the country. Maybe even the world.”

  For just a moment she felt a shiver of excitement at the prospect. Then her head turned—involuntarily, it seemed—and she looked across the room at her daughter and husband. He was leaning forward over the table, talking to Molly so earnestly, while she sat back against the booth, arms crossed over her chest.