About Mine Own Eyes (Added From: The Mere Valley)

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The Mere Valley: A Novel  (Added Content)

 Chapter One: Main Street

Tim rubbed a roll of bills together in his sweaty fingers, forehead bunched and burning as he stood spectator to Herm Burns and his teenage son clumsily loading an antique woodworking bench into the back of Herm’s shiny white pickup truck. He rubbed the bills until they were flaky, enduring the process in its entirety while the sun superheated the cracked sidewalk in front of his hollow store. He shifted back and forth to give his singeing boot heels a fighting chance. The high altitude added an extra kick to summer. That’s what Herm announced when he pulled up over the diesel engine’s clatter, excited especially when he said kick, too enthusiastic for someone delivering secondhand knowledge lifted from a website with “science” in the name.

            “Your mom will love this,” Tim heard Herm grunting to his emaciated son Rory as they wrestled the unwieldy piece. “Parties. She needed a serving table for parties.”

            “Great,” said the teenager, insolently slamming the tailgate closed, spitting like a pretend cowboy through closed teeth onto the curb. It instantly evaporated. “An old table. Exciting stuff.”

            Tim almost smiled. Rory’s comment was predictably tone deaf and age-appropriately stupid. He might’ve been similarly dismissive toward his father in his formative years, but he couldn’t see backwards with clarity, recent events being what they were, clogging up the works and such.  

            Herm left the son leaning on the truck to fiddle with his androgynous bangs as he walked cautiously over to Tim with an outstretched hand, pink and bloated from underuse. His smile was bleached spectacularly white for a man that had seen a long run of years. The teeth were more absurd contrasted against Herm’s wrinkles and the various spots of undefinable irritation on his face. “I’m sorry about everything,” he said, raising his beaten dog eyes to Tim’s face and then raising them higher again, to the sign providing them a momentary slice of shade. “I guess this is awkward.”

            “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Herm. Like I said. Thank you for responding to the ad. Every bit helps.”

            He upped his tempo to escape the mood. “Did you count that? We just hit the ATM and Linda was on the phone the whole time. The Valley Fest and all that. Anyway, I didn’t double check. Cash is a little out of date. You should get Venmo. Anyway make sure. Don’t want to short you.”

            Tim held up the roll and slipped it into the front pocket of his old jeans, hoping a forced smile was clear enough signal. The matter was as closed as his family’s business.

            “Okay,” Herm said. “We’ll see you and Shayna around town. Bennie’s this Friday, maybe. That blues band from the city is playing again.”

            “We’ll see,” Tim answered sharply, for Herm had blundered onto another landmine, forgetting that Shayna was staying with her part-time tutor sister past the county line. Tim was sure most everyone in town was privy to their discord. Mere Valley was growing fast but it couldn’t outrun the speed of spreading words. Rumor still traveled quick as Mercury in the burgeoning tourist destination.

            When they finally pulled away, Tim grimaced as his grandpa’s bench already starting to slide in Herm’s truck bed. In ten minutes it would be brutalized and chipped, but that was the least of it. Herm’s wife would have it transmuted to serve champagne or unpronounceable finger foods to people Tim couldn’t imagine if he tried. He walked languidly back inside, ignoring the store owners standing across the street watching, fingers ready to call the sheriff’s office. Maybe it’d even make the big city news, another past-his-date white guy with a deflated mountain of dreams going crazy, disillusioned by a life sadly but deservedly sanded down to the nub. Those looking on were people he’d known for decades, but they posed imperiously like ready-made gestapo initiates, arms crossed and faces bunched up to focus through waves of heat.

            “How’s everyone,” he called out, summoning a short wave to the audience before turning back inside, doing one last sweep around the store to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He told himself out loud not to think as he circled the square footage. Semple’s Hardware was officially no more. The third generation would be the last. His grandfather and dad were gone, along with his woodworking bench and everything else. He sat in the middle of the floor and looked at the counter, using his memory to fill the empty space. He’d learned most things about life from the old timers that used Semple’s as a base of operations, the ones who’d mosey in smelling of chewing tobacco to buy a single washer or nut; all of it a pretext to wile away days telling stories and gossiping like old women in sitting rooms. He found himself pounding the indestructible hardwood floor, whispering a list of things he might’ve done differently without swallowing, until the drool started leaking out from between his lips.

            “Hi there. Are you Timothy Semple?”

            He rose up like a man with younger legs, embarrassed and without an excuse in the world. He might’ve been able to explain away his odd behavior to an old friend, but here was a stranger. “Uh, yes ma’am. We’re not open.”

            She nodded back with a little smirk that confirmed the obviousness of his statement then asked if the counter was okay for setting down her box. Before he could unlock his jaw, she said, “I’m Reny Davies. Dru Davies’ niece.”

            “Of course,” he said.

            “Okay,” she labored in saying. “You’re confused. I’m setting this down, Timothy Semple. It’s heavy.”

            “Of course,” he repeated, scratching his messy hairline and watching her stretch her arms and back after relieving the burden. The combination of profile and motion put an extra spotlight on her figure, curvaceous and youthful. Nothing overly tight, not like the women his wife tried to keep up with, sweating buckets in spinning classes, being yelled at by some guy named Cade until their backs rippled and their thighs resembled Barry Sanders’.

            “That’s better,” she sighed, wiping her neck and then her hands with a blue bandana pulled from a patched back pocket. “Nice to meet you, Timothy Semple.”

            “Hi,” he said while she looked around his rangy frame to assess the surroundings. “Just Tim. It’s been kind of,” he stumbled, “do I know you?”

            “Dru Davies bought the space. Today’s the first of the month and I just got to town to start setting up the shop.”

            Tim looked at his watch like doing so made for good deflection. “I shouldn’t be here. I was just meeting a guy for one last,” he said, talking as much to himself while he started for the door. “It’s not important. I’ll get out of your way, Ms. Davies.”

            “It’s totally fine, Tim,” she said, starting to sift her things. “And you don’t have to sprint. You’re officially my first friend in Mere Valley.”

            He passed her by with a nod and half an awkward smile, allowing himself a moment to recognize signs of beauty before attempting to dismiss the thought. Just stop you moron. She’s younger than you can put a number to. Twenty-something. Never mind.  

            “This has got to be hard, Timothy.” The painfully obvious declaration was loud, made by Merritt D. Lennox, Jr. Tim noticed the gang of busybodies increasing in number and milling intensely, filling up the block on both sides, growing ever more ready for drama. He could feel the big pretty eyes of the new tenant on his back. Lennox Junior’s megaphone voice was enough to take her away from her moving box and come outside into the sun. He had to get away. This was one of those life moments, he told himself. Where a man finds out what he can endure. In seconds he called upon better men’s memories to make the moment small, war stories from his father and grandfather about outlasting some god-awful enemy, being near death and riddled with disease as they all slept in a bed of their dead buddy’s guts or some such. “Just really sad to see an institution like Semple’s get swept up,” yelled Junior. “I wish—”

            “You wish what, Merritt?” The borrowed memories were gone. The world was only heat and him and his failure, the last being clearly on display for his old friends and the new girl. And Merritt. Oh God, Tim wished he hated the youngest Lennox. That he didn’t made everything worse. “Do me a favor, buddy. Whatever you think or however you think it, don’t say you wish there was something you could’ve done.”

            “That’s fair,” Merritt said, tipping his semi-effeminate suede cowboy hat to Reny Davies as Tim’s boots slapped pavement in search of his rusty two-tone Ford F-150. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just came to pay my respects.”

            Tim tightened the keys in his hand until his palm drew blood. The metal sank deeper into his skin as he fought the urge to turn around and put Merritt on the ground.

            Enough. Hurting Junior would do nothing except get him in predictable trouble with the richest family in town and set fire to whatever tenuous future he had left.

            “I’ll see you at the job on Monday,” Merritt yelled. It was impossible to know what purpose Junior thought he served by being there. Some sort of simple-minded decency, Tim told himself. It certainly wasn’t malice. Malice was monopolized by Lennox’s father, Merritt, Sr.

Finally he reached his old truck.

“Lennox’s Hardware Home and Garden is really lucky to have you, buddy.”

            Tim bit down on his lip as he tried to jiggle the lock. “You got to be kidding me,” he said.

            “You need some help?” Junior screamed from somewhere.

            “You got to be kidding me,” Tim repeated, letting go of his now bloody keys and looking for something in the bed of his truck. He found a two-by-four that he’d forgotten about. Mumbling, he grabbed it and started beating the door to the F-150. Merritt called out, asking if everything was okay. Across the street, they were taking pictures with their phones. The girl was looking left and right with her mouth cupped, watching as the sad man from her aunt’s new store proceeded to inexplicably smash the window of an old pickup in the middle of main street.

Chapter Two: Gable’s Bistro

            Tim never actually made it inside his truck. He stopped short of breaking the windows after what turned out to be an exhausting exercise in rage dispersal. By the time he arrived at Gable’s the video of his outburst had made the rounds on goddamned social media. Gable had seen it from four separate angles. Two versions had color commentary already added in. One proclaimed Semple to be a “madman.” The other said he was “Just really, really not okay.”

            Sun shot across the room but stopped in a line short of the bar. It was less than an hour until she opened at four, but Gable stopped her thousand preparations for a moment and poured him a tall glass of bourbon. She’d even turned his stool to an extra angle, signaling readiness for whatever he had to dump at her feet. “You can talk about it or not,” she said, flinching from the sun and while patting the top of his flagging head. When he finally gained the strength to look up, she was holding out a rag next to his hand.

            “Thanks,” he said. The words came out cracked and dry. He hadn’t taken a drink yet. Rarely drank at all. But he would today. Gable knew it. He appreciated that she knew it.

            “No problem. But hurry up and wrap up that cut. No bleeding on my bar. Was that from the two-by-four?”

            He shook his head. “I think I squeezed my keys too hard.”

            “You’re not hugely impressive right now, young man. Far less handsome when you look like you’re stroking out.”

            The pressure around the wound caused him to wince. “If we put our heads together I’m not sure if we could come up with anything like impressive in a long time.”

            “Now we’re just doing self-pity.” She let out half-playful moan. “You know how that makes me uncomfortable.”

            “Sorry. I didn’t mean to come here, Gabes. You’ve got things to do.”

            Gable rubbed his sand dune hair and sighed, like seeing every inch of her face was of vital importance. “I owe you a lot,” she said. “God, as if you need to hear it—we’re friends, jackass.”

            “Yep. We are. Friends.”

            “So, take that drink and do some breathing. I’ve got to finish getting ready. The oldest and the richest start coming as soon as I open. You know how it works around here.”

            “You make it sound like a stampede. Can 80-year-olds move that quick?”

            She lightly applied an admonishing tap on the spot where she’d tousled his hair. “The wife still not talking to you?”

            “No. I doubt my little display will help, either. No way she doesn’t hear about it.”

            “And see it. You’re Valley viral. Whatever. Start fixing things tomorrow. Tonight, we’ll get drunk. Maybe break some more stuff. I’ll bring over some of my ex’s crap to burn. Then,” she said, betraying enough sadness to make him sadder still. “We toast a few more times to Semple’s Tools.”

            He held up the bourbon with dignity, like it was his last. His purple-blue eyes were brilliant with watery emotion. “Thanks, Gabes.”

Chapter Three: New Job

            “Are you the manager?”

            Tim turned around fully expecting to see one of his old “friends” with a smug look on his face, already laughing at the red Lennox Hardware work vest he was wearing. Instead, it was a pale man with a hair lip and eyebrows dark as crude. His name was Clyde, an underling from Mere Valley’s only law office. They’d met a few times around town, but it was obvious Clyde didn’t remember their encounters.

            “I’m the manager,” said Tim, sticking out the TIM on the left side of his chest to make the nametag a little more visible. Manager Tim had learned through the course of the day that it was easier than going through the old ways, shaking hands and saying howdy and all the other friendly anachronisms of his rotting carcass of a family business over on Main Street.

            He looked at his watch and waited for Clyde to finish rooting around his slim briefcase. Maybe the name of the tool was written down in there. Tim didn’t say a word. Now he was genuinely interested in what Clyde was seeking. Until he spoke.

            “You’ve been served,” he said. A thick manila envelope was thrust from the innards of the case and into Tim’s hands.

            “Served what?”

            “Take it.”

            Tim gripped the paper out of pity for Clyde more than anything else. The guy looked ready to make a run for it. In fact he did, hard soles thwapping out the door and into a used German sedan with impressive quickness. Tim watched the entire escape with curiosity and a growing unease, holding a malfunctioning power drill and the slumping envelope, one in each hand.

            An older woman with an orange wig named Betha Brooks was one aisle over and pushed over a section of oil filters to the ground to make a hole for her face. She meant to snap him from his addled state. “Timothy Semple. You give me those eyes, young man.”

            He regained a measure of focus. Filters were at his feet. It was a mess. Mrs. Brooks was reaching through the aisle so that her translucent hand came out on his side, like a breech in a sarcophagus. She was snapping her fingers with superhuman quickness. “Okay, Mrs. Brooks,” he said, bending down to address her through the makeshift tunnel. “This isn’t twenty years ago.”

            She finally stopped snapping. “What’s that supposed to mean, Timothy Semple?”

            He stood tall and looked around, grateful that Lennox’s huge store was slow. The place did steady business but relied on the internet for most of their sales. “It means,” he answered, trying not to tack on any attitude, “I’m a grown man and you’re not teaching high school English anymore. You can’t go around snapping at grown men.”

            “Don’t make me come over there.” Her withered hand turned to a little fist.

            Tim softened his tone even more before answering, remembering that one of the gray hair regulars at Semple’s told him that Mrs. Brooks was going through the early stages of dementia. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brooks.”

            Her hand relaxed. “Always making things hard on yourself, boy. So much potential by the wayside.”

            “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for noticing.”

            “What did you do to make that sweet girl want to break up with you?”

            It was a strange situation. He didn’t know if Mrs. Brooks was mentally in the present or if she thought he was still a teenager. Funny thing, she’d be right about the “sweet girl” either way. He’d started dating Shayna in high school. They must’ve broken up and gotten back together three or four times senior year while Tim was under Mrs. Brooks’ tutelage. But it was a game back then. They were inevitable. The popular prettiest girl. The popular handsome boy. Since they were ten years old, only just a matter of time. Each separation was just an excuse for making up. Shayna would fling herself into his arms at a full sprint and they’d roll around and be done with it until the next breakup.

            That’s how it used to feel. Before divorce papers and working for a soulless corporate chain and dad dying and Mrs. Brooks having dementia and the whole rest of everything exploding into a fine powdery cloud of shit.

            The arm got yanked back and Mrs. Brooks’ face was replaced by a younger one. More pretty than mature, full cheeks and thick red lips. “Sorry about that, Tim. Mom gets all fire when she’s out shopping.”

            “Hey there, Leann. Don’t worry about it.” He leaned down close to the opening and whispered. “How’s she doing?”

            “Oh… good days and bad days.”

            He dropped his shoulders, sensing a tide of specific pain behind her clichéd response. “I’m truly sorry, Lee. You know…”

“Go on. It’s okay.”

“I was just going to say, it’s important to let yourself enjoy the good days. Easy to use them for recovery and preparation for the bad ones.” It was loose and unsolicited, but Leann was a native of Mere Valley and it was the naked sort of thing people from the same tribe could say to one another, sad unhelpful words somehow spiritually necessary for the survival of a community.

He tightened his mouth and hoped he hadn’t gone outside the lines. Leann was and had always been there, sometimes prominent and sometimes somewhere in the background. Despite the ebbs and flows, they were the same age and by small-town-default knew just about everything there was to know about each other.

            “How long did your dad end up living with you?” she asked. “Three, four years?”

            He softened his look, not wanting to let on how hard it was. She didn’t need to hear it. She was living it and as living went on, his old friend would come to know pain and helplessness he lacked the sad poetry to explain. “Three or four years. That’s right.”

            “Wow.”

            “She looks great,” he said, lowering his voice playfully low. “And still knows when I’m up to no good.”

            Leann laughed and turned her head, asking her mother not to stray. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you, Tim.”

            He needed a moment. It was a heavy yoke to see her going through something that slow and taxing, something that chips away. He leaned with his hand on a metal shelf and felt the cold, trying to decide if he felt bad for Leann or for himself, having to think about it all again. The confused trips to the bathroom and Shayna trying to be supportive until they broke against each other and not having the time to be everything to everyone, in the process becoming almost nothing.

            “Sir, do you work here?”

            He turned around and beheld a flat-faced balding guy about his age wearing tight seersucker shorts and a vintage Cubs shirt fraying around the arms. It was one of the newest new additions to Mere Valley. “Hey, Ron,” Tim answered.

            “Wow. You know my name. That’s so great!” Ron was put off and overenthusiasm was his refuge. It was always hard to calculate the Transplants. Money and coming from someplace big to someplace small had strange and varying effects on people.

            “Sure, I remember. You came by Semple’s a couple times when you first moved. I helped you fix that hot tub.”

            “Right, the hot tub.” The transplant stuck a sandaled foot out sideways and placed his hands on his thick hips. “That was a really good job. Life saver, Jim.”

            “Thanks.” Jim. He didn’t have the energy to correct Ron on his name. Didn’t know who who’d it embarrass more.

            “I went to that same place of yours, but it wasn’t the same place. Doesn’t matter. Do you know a lot about toilets, Jim?”

Chapter 4: Plans Change

            The weekend. Tim had two days off with absolutely nothing to do. This new life had stops and starts, something natural enough for the average person, completely foreign to a small business owner. He hated the lack. Hated the idea of getting used to it. Life as a regular sloth was a special breed of torture.

            The sound of a truck with a bad piston skidding to a stop in his gravel driveway forced him to look up from the couch. For a second he thought it might be Shayna, but no. “Timmy boy! You alive in there? I’m done taking the silent treatment. Get on out here, son.”

            That Hoyt’s voice didn’t provide an instant influx of joy informed Tim that he was officially, certifiably depressed.

            “I’m coming in, you bastard. All depressed and shit.” He looked up at Hoyt, same as he ever was, close to flabby but still youthful enough. “You are crap,” he said, “staring at me like I’m a runway model. There’s websites for your needs, son.”

            Hoyt Thompkins was his best friend. Most of their earliest and happiest moments were shared. Being grown, it was a little different, but not much. Hoyt had his kids and an ex, but he was still the same Hoyt, thick or thicker than family.

            “I’m sorry, man.”

            Hoyt took an empty beer can and bounced it harmlessly off Tim’s weary face. “Let’s skip the patented Semple self-examination and get out there. Let’s do Cotter’s lake. If we start now, we can get up there by sundown when they start biting.

            “It’ll still be too damn hot,” Tim said, shaking out cobwebs.

            “No, I checked the weather. Cooling down tonight. If you’re going sober I brought water, if you’re going drunk I brought beer. Grab that douchey pole of yours and let’s do this thing.”

            “Maybe—”

            He was in the truck and halfway through a beer a few minutes later. Hoyt had his pickup just about floored, as if he was trying to build up momentum for the steep grade into the mountains ahead. Tim’s matted hair unlocked and blew in the pounding wind while Hoyt sang Toto’s “Rosanna” in an undefinable shifting key, joyously scathing to the ear and far from the original. Halcyon memories of ditching class twenty-something years ago were undeniable.

            “I know what you’re doing,” he yelled, cutting Hoyt off from trying the high Rosanna-Rosanna just before the snappy pre-chorus.      

            “Meet you all the way!”

            “Turn it down, H.”

            “Meet you all the way!”

            “Turn it down or I’m jumping out.” Tim threw the almost finished beer across the cab.

            “Shit, man.” Hoyt started pulling the truck over to the side of the road. “What’s the matter with you? Messing up my ride, the nerve.”

“What’s the matter with me?” he asked back, scoffing at the irony as the fat underinflated tires found forced rest in the long grass next to the simmering state road.

            “We’ll just sit here, man. Hell, I don’t give two shits. All day. We don’t even have to fish. Fuck. Fucking rainbow trout and beer with your boy ain’t kosher? Captain Burdenville in my car.”

            Tim let Hoyt’s proclamation sit there while they stared again toward the mountains. Two or three shiny German sedans and one Italian sportscar passed by at the thoughtless speed of rich people. “Turn around.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I want to do something stupid and destructive.”

            “That right?”

            “To someone I hate. That deserves it.”

                                                            ______________________

            Hoyt took one to two silent seconds’ pause before yanking the wheel left. They rocked over the uneven ground and started back to town. He reached into the cooler for a beer to compliment his drive and offered a stream of suggestions, some tame, some insane. It went on like that for five minutes. Tim sipping pilsner as an add-on to the three or four shots of tequila from earlier, Hoyt saying he’d seen this or that damn dumb thing in a movie, watched this or that damn dumb thing on YouTube. He spoke fast and with the sincerest brand of seriousness; the tone was that of startup company’s founder pitching his lifelong passion project to iron-jawed venture capitalists.

            They parked about a quarter mile from the Lennox Estate entrance. Back through town, through his sipping and Tim’s untethered brainstorming, he’d never actually told Hoyt where to go.

            Old friends. Best of friends.

            “What’s it gonna be?” asked Hoyt after the truck’s post-turnoff quake and belch. “Whatever we do, it’ll be hard climbing those walls. You know, I saw this movie—”

            Tim released himself from his role as captive audience and rounded the truck bed, looking for something that would cause the elder Lennox a little bit of money and little bit of stress. He spotted an orange spray-paint can, one Hoyt used at his construction site jobs, and began to shake it, salivating as he eyed the carefully choreographed ivy that danced so well down the red bricks of Lennox’s fortress.

            Hoyt picked up a can of his own and stood at his shoulder. He was a little disappointed Tim hadn’t listened to any of his ideas and slightly concerned about the choice of paint; his concrete company was the only game in Mere Valley and the color might turn suspicion toward him. “Fuck it,” he said, shaking the can to sync up with Tim’s, stretching his neck like they were about to break out of huddle. “What are we going to write?”

            No response. He could see that his vengeful friend was mostly blinking eyes and a pulsating chest. “So, we’re going to draw something? How about something classic, like Assholes or Dicks? We could draw assholes. Or dicks. Or assholes and dicks. Timmy boy, give me something.”

            Tim stopped shaking the can and dropped his head, mumbling curses at himself. This was his employer. He’d lost fair and square. A sick parent and changing times had wiped him out. Progress. A little bad luck here. A couple of missed payments there. Lennox was an asshole, but he wasn’t worth getting Hoyt in trouble (though that wasn’t a hard thing to accomplish) or losing his own new job.

            He grabbed Hoyt’s can and squeezed him tight but friendly by the neck. “You’re a wild man.”

            “Glad you appreciate it. Katie didn’t appreciate it.”

            “No. She did not,” Tim laughed, trying not to. It was hard for any man to lose the love of his life, especially one that was a good time. “Sorry, pal. We should’ve gone fishing.”

            “That’s okay. We can do that tomorrow. You don’t have to work Sunday’s either.”

            “Perks of the employee.” Tim said employee like someone might say taxes or Nazis or leprosy.

            It was still early into the evening. They sat with fresh beers on Hoyt’s tailgate and traded things to laugh about. Tim unconvincingly mentioned getting back in triathlon shape. Hoyt said something about taking a road trip to Mexico since neither of them had ever been much for beaches or hard drugs and they could use some fresh experiences. Like most lifelong friendships, there was a measure of reminiscing, fragments of fantasy about younger days.

            “What in shit?” Hoyt said.

            It wasn’t long for Tim to catch up. Merritt Lennox’s dense white hair was unmistakably luminescent in the dusk. His incandescent Ferrari convertible adopting the turn and slope was one beautiful, foreign, horrible thing. His passenger’s elegant neck and auburn hair. Her laughing, head tilted up to let the mountain air sweep under her sculptured chin.

            “There’s no reason for that,” Tim said.

            “No way,” Hoyt said, sipping his beer.

            “Because I’m thinking of all the reasonable explanations for that.”

            “No way,” Hoyt said, pouring down half a can.

            “It’s not possible what we saw. No. Things couldn’t be that bad for me.”

            “I think it is that bad,” Hoyt said, finishing the beer. “Merritt Senior and your wife.”

Chapter Five: Getting Out

            The bulletin board in the Mere Valley jail was located in a strange place, on the pale cinderblock wall opposite the row of four seldom-used cells in the back of the building. Some might say it was quirky or folksy in its ineffectiveness and lack of eye traffic, the bulletin board placement. Part and parcel of the small-town charm. In the same vein as the whole jail and police station setup, sharing a wall with Gib’s Outdoor Store. Besides being the sheriff, Gib was a nationally renowned fly-fisherman and venerated expert on most anything concerning quiet, primordial things in life.

            Emphasis on quiet. Gib could stand in a stream for ten hours and say nothing about the biting cold or the drilling mosquitos or the kids in town hooked on drugs. He could cover himself in wet leaves for a day without so much as an audible breath, waiting to shoot down a buck worthy enough to merit the monkish effort.

            Taciturnity served a man well, Tim thought. The ability to hold one’s tongue was a trait he’d always admired but never had the strength or resolve to attain. He was never silent as much as he was biding time to say the next thing.

            “Gib, you want to let me out?”

            The sheriff was visible through the bars and out the open door that lead to the cells. It was more than cracked, like Gib wanted to check on Tim every so often without getting up from his chair. He was dressed in a lightweight denim shirt and waterproof hiking pants, very relaxed and un-sheriffy, tying a fly of his own design.    

            Tim didn’t expect an answer the first time. He’d wait and try again. Perhaps read the bulletin board for the fiftieth time. Flyers for the Mere Valley Preservation Society, The Small Business Association of Mere Valley, and the Local Wildlife Initiative were three that stood out. Tim was the president of all three. If the last few years were any indication, he was crap at his job. “Did you move the bulletin board back here so I’d have to look at it?” he asked Gib.

            No response. No surprise.

            When he felt the hot air sweep through and watched Gib stand, he could smell a change in the air. It was a novel scent. He imagined Old Lennox with his decrepit thin lips kissing her on the cheek as he gave her the bottle of whatever she was wearing. The old lech. What did that make her? What did that make him? He saw Gib say something that looked like one or two words to Shayna that of course he couldn’t hear and clutched onto the rusty bars, pushing and pulling them like a mental patient sure of his sanity. At that time, Gib’s quietude really was about the most aggravating thing in the world.

            Shayna was in the hallway with her back against the wall opposite the cells. She was more beautiful than ever, he thought happily and quickly, soon dismissing the thought that it might be the absence or the wanting what you can’t have or the fact that Old Shitbag Lennox was putting it to her. She seemed simultaneously sad and scared, like he was some caged animal and they’d already fed him a last meal before the meat grinder. “I didn’t do anything,” he said. “Really, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

            “What did happen?” Her tone was about as affect-free as a man could expect from a separated spouse talking through bars. Tim appreciated it and tried to match her equanimity.

            “Gib got crazy. I think it’s a police overreach situation. He grabbed me up, threw me in the car—cuffs and everything. Took me down here like a common criminal. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”

            “Gib said three hours.”

            “That doesn’t sound like a lot, but with the confinement and the claustrophobia…”

            “Tim,” she sighed with a thorough eye-rubbing, “you don’t have claustrophobia.”

            He rubbed a fingernail up and down one of the bars until a bit of rust flaked off. “I didn’t know either. This whole thing, I’m telling you. Not my finest hour.”

            Her head dropped. Her voice saddened. “It’s been some time since anything like your finest hour.”

            She wasn’t trying to be mean. Her tone was somber, reflective, the tone adopted specifically for bygones. He bent over from the pain, wishing she’d brought more anger, something more natural to defend against. “You can’t honestly be seeing him,” he said, starting to gasp with every word. Maybe he did have claustrophobia.

            Gib was looking over his shoulder from the office with tight lips. He was shaking his head slightly. A silent warning. A visual aid.

            “You’re lecturing me about behavior from inside a jail cell. Do you understand how typical this is?”

            Tim knew just where she was going, and why Gib was shaking his head. He felt like he knew everything—a feeling he decided to engage further. Stepping to the back wall of the cell, he began: “I don’t know how many times I have to say this, but I’m sorry. I think you know I’m sorry because you know me better than anyone in the world. Divorce papers at work? We’ve never even used the word. How are you feeling, by the way?”

            The words were coming so fast it was hard to know if she could make them out. His last question was the most important and should’ve been the first question, the one about her health. Shayna looked great at the time of her diagnosis, after all. No one knew about the cancer while it was growing, not even her.

            This was when Gable moved back into town and was staying with them. For two months it was a great life. Business was okay and he was starting to put a dent in dad’s debts. He was making headway with the city council about keeping the big chains out of town (selfishly and for the good of the Valley), and he was helping Gable with her business. The three of them got along. Shayna was a talented doctor but could adjust to people that lived with less precision, people like Gable and Tim. She told him that it looked exhausting, trying to run a business, to make yourself important to others. Tim told her that it made sense to him. She’d made herself important by going to college and getting the grades and becoming a heart specialist, one of the best in the state.

            He’d never really thought about cheating on his wife until he was doing it. He felt lonely and Gable was around, feeling lonely. They didn’t set out to do it, but maybe they should’ve known. Shayna worked a lot and Gable was attractive and full of energy and for whatever reason always seemed to spark off of Tim’s personality.

            The good doctor came home early in the middle of Tim’s first and only time with Gable. It was the worst moment of his life. Worse than his dad dying or losing the store or realizing the community had started to turn on him.

            Tim hadn’t knowingly cheated on his sick wife. It was fact, insofar that he didn’t know. In other ways he had done exactly that. As far as perception, rumor, and feelings, he was the guy in town that slept around on a saint with a terrible disease, a woman who helped babies and little kids with their hearts.

            However you unpacked it, he was an asshole. That was beyond question. He carried the title around like an anvil every minute of every day. Six of the heaviest months imaginable. Was it too much to ask for a break?

            Probably. Of course. Grace never made that much sense. Why should it now? And yet.

            “Can you get Gib to let me out? We can talk and I swear I’ll be cool.” He couldn’t really swear, he realized, not with the thought of Old Shitbag Lennox foisting his lizard body upon her. “I swear I’ll be cool,” he repeated.

            She crossed her arms and looked at the floor and to the side, full of shame, heavy-eyed. “I talked to Lennox and Gib. They’re not going to press charges if you agree to sessions. Six weeks.”

            “Counseling?” Tim was already starting to lose his cool. Shayna was reaching inside her bag for keys. She knew the signs and was ready for leaving. He took a breath. “I’ll do whatever I have to. Just come home. It’s us, Shay. Us.”

            “I told Gib to let you out after I’ve been gone for five minutes. Stop being such a dick, and don’t try to find me. No grand gestures. I’m serious.”

            Tim took shook out his big hands and stepped back, letting his stomach rumble. There was acid building up inside. It might’ve been all the drinking and fast food, or it might’ve been his present station. Hard to say. “Are we ever going to talk? I just want to know how you are.”

            She found her keys. The time with her was over, and though it was mostly horrible and humiliating and torturous, it was still a chance to look at her. To feel her through the air, whatever metaphysical signals she put off. His anger turned to sadness and he was forced into fighting tears. He had to get her back. Had to be willing to do anything. No grand gestures.

            What the hell was he going to do?

Chapter Six: Gangbusters/Session One

            Somehow the fates made it easy for Tim to do what Shayna wanted, to stay away. As soon as he walked out the door he was met with several texts. An old buddy of his father’s needed help with his washer. A simple job turned into several hours of time killed with the obligatory slow conversation of the aging. And then Gable needed help at the restaurant; one of her refrigerators was out and this was “literally the worst thing ever.” He fixed it before the evening rush of the moneyed, before lathered men and perfumed women drifted in with their casual wear outfits worth more than Tim’s entire wardrobe. She kissed his cheek with the microsecond she had and told him that he was an angel, and thank you, and that he should go home. He ended up fixing a few more things in the back until closing. In part he was spectating. Gable was amazing, franticly orchestrated, like the most prepared athlete on the field holding back just enough. He slipped out without saying goodbye, unwilling to upset her wonderful rhythm.

            The next day, he slept until the late afternoon. Fortunately, the depression was so heavy that he only got up once for the bathroom before going back to bed. It was weird sleep and he dreamt of better days and Shayna’s face and Gable’s hands and sad memories of his parents but anything was better than that Sunday void that he was avoiding with body and soul, Sunday stewing in the knowledge that all the proper choosers and decent doers were enjoying their days, surrounded and safe from the darkness.

            Tim’s first counseling session the following day didn’t get off to a blinding start, despite going in with a fairly even attitude. He expected problems, considering the counselor, but he had already talked himself thoroughly into being the better man.

            Samuel opened the front door of his two-story remodel with a smile. “Hello, Timothy. You look handsome as ever. Could’ve been in Hollywood. Oh, I’ve already told you that. Almost on time. Come on in and have a seat wherever you feel like it.”

            Tim checked his watch. He was ten minutes early unless the thing was broken. “Hey, Sammy,” he said, walking through the wide entranceway, admiring the 50s style wood paneling he had installed last year after convincing Samuel (Sammy) that a retro-classy feel could look cool and warm the place up.

            He knew the house well enough to find the big room toward the back, Sammy right on his heels asking him carefully how things were going. Tim tried to ignore the fact that his counselor was manifestly happy at the prospect of lording over him for the next month and a half. Still, whatever he had to do. Bring on the indignities. Bring on the pain.

            Step one to back to Shayna and the good life.

            He opened the sliding doors to find two unexpected but familiar faces.

            “The big man himself,” said Leah Sander, sitting in a leather chair cross-legged between the two shiny armrests, a feat only accomplished by someone with the size and flexibility of a grown woman with an almost frightening obsession with fitness. “Come on in and join the party, big man.” The words were only able to find their way out through tiny pauses in her laughter. Tim thought of the Great Escape.

The German with the spotlight being the haughty laughter.

            “Okay,” he answered. “Hi Leah.” Tim would’ve asked more or turned to Sammy to offer a wondering look, but he was yet to address Ray Millstone. “Hello, Ray. You’re—here.”

            Sammy made his way around Tim with flushed cheeks and a smile too wide to be construed as anything but mockery. The sloppy sound of him rubbing his wet hands together forced a wince from Tim. At this point Ray decided to chime in. “The big man,” he growled. It was more gravely eruption than greeting. “The damned big man has come to grace us with his presence.”

            “Let’s be kind,” said Sammy, adopting a tone for kindergarteners. “Timothy’s going to fit right in. We’re all here to help each other.”

            Timothy was big enough to know what was going on. He’d been forced into a situation almost impossibly uncomfortable. It was group therapy. And everyone in the group had something against him.

            “The thing is,” Sammy said, sitting down in the room’s only comfortable chair, crossing his legs like a villain at the height of his powers. “With all the new people coming into town and me being the only therapist, I arranged to do the court-mandated sessions all at once.”

            “This can’t be,” Tim said. They all heard the dread in his voice. It didn’t take a therapist’s antennae. Ray growled happily. Leah sneered so hard her nose almost caved in on the rest of her face.

            “Why don’t we get started,” Sammy said, holding up a yellow legal pad and setting it back down on his soft thighs. “Take the first step. Every great journey.”

            Tim took a chair. He had to take a chair. There was defeat in his knees. Tremble in his hands. He had no doubt, anymore. There was a higher power. There had to be, to set up something like this. This was more than Machiavellian. This menace was ancient, having made its calculations eons ago.

            The first session went a little rough, but Sammy said that was okay. Putting someone with anger and depression (Tim) in the same room as a drug addict (Leah) and an alcoholic narcissist with OCD (Ray) was never going to go off like gangbusters.

Chapter Seven: Might Need Pads

            Tim and Gable sat in low light at the bar, both exhausted in their own style. The restaurant was doing better and better and the post-closing silence was warm and easy. They sipped an expensive wine from a small French vineyard and talked about their days. “I’m not sure how to feel anything but bad for you,” Gable said. “Did you record it?”

            She was referring to his therapy session. He took a sip of wine and tried to act like he had a palette that could distinguish it from any other, then said, “No, I didn’t record it. It didn’t seem like the right thing to do.”

            Gable smiled and leaned on her hand, looking unsurprised and naturally gorgeous with her hair up and an undetectable amount of makeup. “I knew you wouldn’t do it. Good for you.”

            “With the others in there, you know.”

            “It’d be an invasion of privacy,” Gable said, tapping her knuckles on the bar.

            “Exactly. And even though Leah Sander is a psychopath and Ray Millstone is crazy and they both want me dead, it would be pretty messed up to air out their dirty laundry.”

            “Which isn’t your style.”

            “I don’t like to think it’s my style.” The banter was unchallenging and semi tongue-in-cheek. Just the ticket.

            “Let me fix you up something really quick.”

            Usually Tim would object, but he was still thinking about therapy. What a festival of shit. “I’d really appreciate it. But only if you eat with me. You’re getting too skinny.”

            She kissed him on the cheek. After the sounds of a master chef commenced, he put in his ear buds and listened back to the end of the session. Yeah, he recorded it. But only for himself.

            Leah: I don’t want to sit next to him. He disgusts me. What he did to Shayna. You don’t get any worse. It’s like having to sit next to a Nazi.

            Ray: Leah, he’s nothing like a Nazi.

            Tim: Wow. Thanks, Ray.

            Sammy: Good job, Ray. Yes. Showing support for another person is a good sign.

            Ray: You’re all so slow! Slow slow slow slow slow slow. I was trying to say that the Nazi comparison is inadequate. He’s much worse. Much worse than a Nazi! Read a book Leah. He’s more like a plague or massive volcano or a terrible earthquake.

            Tim: Sammy, how is this helping anyone? And why are you smiling?

            Sammy: I’m not smiling. I had something stuck in my back teeth. Awful when that happens.

            Ray: They say electric toothbrushes are best. Maybe you need a new toothbrush. Maybe a visit to the dentist. Very few people take proper care of their teeth. These are basic facts and statistics and you being a doctor, well, not a real doctor, you think you’d know about proper oral healthcare or at least be up to speed with a layperson like myself. I use a different brush for each side of my mouth and only use them once. Once is all. Only once. The germs. The germs. The germs—germs—germs!

            Leah: You people make me want to do drugs more than I’ve ever wanted to do drugs. You are the worst!

            At that point, the recording became unintelligible except for some popping sounds. Ray actually tackled Tim and his chair as one single unit, sending them all awkwardly to the hardwood. The old man delivered several undefended rabbit punches before burning himself out. Tim let it happen, Sammy hiding his smile and Leah showing off her screaming. This was his penance. It had to be a penance. There was no other word for it.

            “What are you listening to?” Gable asked, emerging from the back.

            “Ah… Snow Patrol. I know it’s an old favorite but I like how they don’t bother rhyming.”

            “I love that band. And hardly anything about snow.” She went behind the bar and poured him another glass of wine like she was still on the clock and he was customer in need of impressing. Tim couldn’t think of anything stranger. To be in a hell and a heaven of his own making in the span of an hour was strange stuff. That it was all sort of related made it stranger and convinced him that the cosmos were conspiring against him in ways never heard of. He had to be ready for the challenge.

            “What’s with the face?” she asked.

            He couldn’t imagine what he looked like. He ignored the question and toasted to her success. They ate and laughed and kept it light. She had something on her mind, he could tell, and he wanted to kiss her.

            Nah. He gave her a long hug and went home. Three beers and one cigarette. He looked at himself in the mirror for a few minutes, examining the bruises left by Ray. Five more weeks. He thought about breaking out his old football pads before sadly laughing himself to sleep with a slight buzz.

Chapter Eight: Maimed or Killed

            After only a short time working at Lennox’s Hardware, the back warehouse had become something of a sanctuary for Tim. When a well-meaning high school kid named Brock ran a forklift through the sheetrock of the bathroom wall, it made sense for him to take full charge of the heavy machinery. He patted Brock on his bony back and told him it was an accident before sending him out to the floor to work at literally anything else, sparing the youngster from the thought that he might’ve impaled someone to brutal death as they took their afternoon constitutional.

            It was almost closing when Merritt Lennox Sr. came striding in with a question that reached Tim all the way in the back as he was sorting through a new lumber delivery. “Semple! What’s this I hear about you ruining my wall!?

            The new warehouse was big enough to give Tim a good thirty yards to think about how he was going to handle this encounter. As they came to face each other, he realized a thousand yards wouldn’t have made much difference.

            “I’m giving you a lot of rope,” he said to Tim, looking leathery and old but only relatively so. For a guy in his sixties, Merritt still carried around a lot of muscle. His tailored fancy business-casual western covered over the flabbier parts of his physique. And that hair. It was thicker than Tim’s and cut by a woman with a weird name moved fresh up from the city to cater to Mere Valley’s new rich population. It fell nice and evenly and made Tim a little jealous only because it was such an obvious indicator of their respective places in the world.

            “Hello, Merritt,” said Tim, wiping the sweat sitting atop his eyebrows. “What’s this about the wall?”

            He honestly wasn’t trying to coy. Not really. It was a complicated situation. Was his new boss talking about the wall that he’d defaced or the one the kid had put two big holes in?

            “If you can’t even operate a forklift, why should I keep you on?”

Tim crossed his arms and looked down, grateful not to be discussing his drunken misdemeanors. He was almost excited enough to start telling the truth, that it was Brock’s mistake. “Mr. Lennox, I’m still getting used to the equipment around here. I’ll repair the damages myself. I’ll cover the expenses, of course.”

            Lennox stuck examined the damage with one of his snakeskin boots. “Just get it done. And I suppose I’ll see you tonight. Do you plan on speaking?”

            “I might say a few words.”

            Lennox’s phone rang and he turned away and away and out like Tim didn’t exist and they didn’t just have an extremely tense conversation.

            About five minutes later Brock came back to thank him. He was growing up with a single mom and the influx of rich folks made everything in town more expensive. They needed the money just to make rent and the basics.

            “Don’t worry, kid,” he said. “Just ask when you don’t know something. There’s dangerous stuff around here. Tim offered a little smile. “Not to be dramatic but you could get us all maimed or killed.”

            Brock started to say something else but he shood him away, already feeling too much like his father.

            Alone in a big empty warehouse seemed appropriate now. He needed the space for thinking. Merritt Sr. was either unusually clever or Machiavellian or both and it left a great deal on Tim’s plate. Did he know about the kid’s accident and come charging with accusations anyway?

            Did he bring up the meeting later as some sort of warning?

            Powering down the warehouse, he realized he could go in circles forever. Lennox might be doing a thousand things for a thousand reasons. None of them really mattered. Reconciliation with Shayla was his game, and perhaps with time, the restoration of his reputation. If only he could do it without getting maimed or killed.

Chapter Nine: Settlement

            In the old high school basketball gym, setting of former glories, Tim stood behind a mobile podium of his own design near center court, trying to imagine how anyone could honestly be neutral about anything. While each side of the gym hollered holy hell at the other across a walkway in the middle, it didn’t seem like there was a lot he could offer the situation. The only people not screaming were up in front, sitting on the side of the Transplants; it was the looker who’d come into his shop the day he was selling off the last of Semple’s history. Her aunt, he assumed, the shop’s new owner was next to her; an older, thicker version, but still attractive, blond hair pulled up and held by a pen. He was looking at them intensely, or so they must have thought. In actuality his eyes had simply stopped as he started trying to think of the most dispassionate and neutral people in history. He considered Switzerland and how great a job they’d done at staying out of things. He’d always heard they’d stayed out of things. That was the line about Switzerland. Was it really true or just sometimes true? How the hell did anyone stay out of the World Wars? How could they be called World Wars if this one country was skiing while everyone else was blowing each other up? He told himself to stop thinking. This was no time to abandon Switzerland. This was a time to be Switzerland. Precise. Cool. Detached. Knife-like and versatile. He shook his head and furrowed his brow. But that’s a whole country. They’ve got an entire system for staying detached. Mountains and banks and wooden clocks and a whole well-oiled apparatus for keeping out. What was one man to do, especially with roots in Mere Valley going back to the first settlement?

            “You know, I was just thinking,” he started, predictably causing the mic to squeal before settling down. More than a few curses were hurled his way, but he didn’t stop. “My great-grandfather Silas Semple used to tell me stories about this place, how the first time it didn’t work all that smooth.”

            Someone from the townie side screamed you’re useless!

            Someone from the transplant side screamed we don’t care!

            Maybe it was the odd look in his eyes. Something quieted them down and eventually they all took to their folding chairs.

            “The first people to make it to this valley were tough and brave, he told me. I think it’s more likely that they were just desperate for something that couldn’t be taken away by the whims of folks with bigger and bigger ideas. Hell, each and every single one of them probably had a slightly different reason for coming out here.”

            What’s your point?

            We don’t care!

            “I know you don’t care, Ronnie. I’m going to finish anyway. Those folks that first made a place here didn’t turn unneighborly all of a sudden because new people kept showing up. They found a way to live together without stepping on toes.”

            The pretty girl from the store stood up and held a tablet by her head. “This historical website says that the initial settlers wiped out a large population of a Native Americans before being massacred themselves in a vengeful bloodbath.”

            Tim let out a breath of deflation. “Thank you. What was your name, ma’am?”

            “Reny Davies. We met the other day.”

            “They’re the ones took over your family store!”

            “Thanks again Ronnie. Glad you picked tonight as your first time to come out.”

            “You betcha boss.”

            Tim noted that old Ronnie wasn’t trying to be horrible. His grizzled approach was forged from years of busting balls at Semple’s hardware store—good times with familiar people, where insults flew from one side of the store to the other, where histories were laid bare for everyone to enjoy and for the embarrassed party to know brief and deserved shame.

            “If we just set aside our personal gripes for a second and move ahead to Valley Fest,” he said, almost stripping the varnish from the podium as his grip tightened for an immediate reaction.

            “Why are you planning this?” asked an older Transplant with hair plugs and a needless sweater draped over his back.

            There was some grumbling in the crowd. Tim allowed it to run its course. Hair plugs had asked a decent enough question, though he wasn’t about to go into the history of Valley Fest, how it was his father’s favorite day of the year and how Tim had volunteered to carry the torch when dad got too sick to handle it.

            The Townies knew the story all too well and didn’t need a tortured recapitulation.

            The Transplants didn’t seem the types to care at all about some folksy yarn about traditions and the taking up of mantles. Valley Fest had money behind it now. The resort. Resorts, probably. There were powerful people wanting to make it into something corporate and commercial. Many of the townies loathed the idea with every fiber of their beings.

            Standing in the middle with the mantle was Tim. Hair plugs was right. He wasn’t the man for the job. It was time to stop pretending.

            “I’m more than willing to step down,” he said, tripping up a hundred separate conversations. “You appoint someone new and you can do what you want with it.”

            To say Tim felt good would be making it too simple. He was relieved, surely, but there was a regret mixed in. A feeling like his father wouldn’t approve. Funny thing, his father probably would be one of the only people in the world to understand. Tim needed to focus on getting his life together. Getting back out on his own. Getting his wife back. There were more important things to do than Valley Fest. Almost anything in the world was more important than Valley Fest. He looked up and allowed himself to picture the skies beginning to open.

            “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

            The sunlight was gone. The rest of gym took their seats and stopped talking altogether. Standing at the back end of the gym was Merritt Lennox Sr., patriarch and successful proprietor of crappy merchandise. It was like he had positioned himself as far away from Tim as possible, so they’d be forced into talking obnoxiously loud to one another.

            “Have you changed your mind already, Timmy?” He shouted/asked.

            Tim didn’t know how to respond. The old man just wouldn’t let go of his balls. He was downright obsessed with his balls. Even now, when he was trying to abdicate his last piece of community responsibility, this bastard had to put his nose in. It wasn’t enough to put him out of business. It wasn’t enough to take his wife, God, the man took your wife. Now he was trying to twist the blade, just your fun. Lennox was a sadistic psychopathic monster. At the very least, a real asshole.

            Somehow, he managed a question. “Do you have a candidate in mind, Mr. Lennox?”

            “I was just getting to that, Timmy. I think this is a perfect job for Merritt Junior. He’s been talking to me about getting more involved in Mere Valley. This would be a nice little jumping off point.”

            The gym turned half to grumbling and half to happy chatter. Tim Semple looked back up and saw nothing but a lack of insulation and a dangerous amount of asbestos.

            “I get it,” Tim declared. He had to be careful. He couldn’t go into specifics, how he got that by saying Merritt Junior could do the job, Senior was heavily implying that it was a job that any moron could do. Any moron like Tim. It made sense now, why Junior had showed up the day he shuttered Semple’s for good. It was on Merritt’s orders. Just to add to Tim’s embarrassment.

            “What do you get, honey?” Betha Brooks asked. She’d changed her wig to a light brown.

            “Hi there, Mrs. Brooks. Glad to see you out tonight.”

            “Why wouldn’t I be out? Don’t make me call your mother, Timothy.”

            Leann Brooks pulled her mother down and mouthed sorry toward the podium. It didn’t work. The former schoolteacher was back up, ready to fire. “I don’t know what this interloper has on you, Mr. Semple, but it seems like giving the Festival over without so much as a fight… it’s not the boy I know.”

            “Don’t be such a pussy,” Ronnie said. A few others offered similar sentiments.

            “Maybe we should put it to a vote,” Tim said, trying to save his job and Valley Fest. It was a tough spot. And it’s not like he didn’t realize that most of the Townies still hated his guts. They just hated the “interlopers” more.

            “Pussy!”

            Okay. Enough of that. “From what I know of the rules, I haven’t done anything to warrant dismissal. Let’s just go like we have been. Next meeting a week from tonight. I’ll ask everyone to get along and fully expect to be ignored the second I turn my back.”

            He hit his knuckles on the podium and walked toward the backdoor, like walking off stage while the Sharks and Jets sparred over the choice of weapons at the next rumble.

Chapter 10: What’s Her Name/Fun

            Tim was walking listlessly down the street where he had grown up. It was only a block from Sammy the therapist’s house. It was strange looking at the remolded older homes, knowing he couldn’t afford one. Nothing this close to the mountains sold for less than two million. He imagined his dad bought their house originally for less than a hundred thousand. A few random thoughts went through his mind; something about the downfall of America and the Federal Reserve, things he’d been lectured to by a vet named Bob Blazer back at the store more times than he could count. Tim smiled thinking about crazy Bob and his crazy ideas. Tim tried to recall some of them. Ancient civilizations. Atlantis being in Antarctica. Evolution being a myth. Global technocracies. Tim would nod his head and never argued. Bill was a harmless guy with a CB radio—besides, who was he to gainsay good old Bob Blazer? He was just a guy pretty decent at fixing things. Even better at screwing them up.

            “Hey there, Tim.”

            He looked over to the street and bent down, squinting his eyes. It was the girl. What’s her name, the niece of the other what’s her name that took over the shop. She was smiling. He could barely hear a thing over the music.

            “Oh. Hey.” He kept his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants. He looked like crap. His t-shirt had holes in it. No sense in putting a show for the girl.

            “You walk here often?” she asked with a little shake of her head and a smile. Her teeth glistened. He didn’t give her credit the first two times he’d seen her. What’s her name was an absolute smoke show. Off the scale. It was almost enough to stir him from his lonely reflections and dread of the upcoming session. But not quite.

            “Is this your car?” he asked. It was a brand new silver supercharged Audi. The idling engine sounded like gods sleeping soundly. He figured it for a hundred thousand at least. Dad’s old house.

            “No way, dude,” she said, finally turning down the music. “This is my aunt’s. You guys haven’t met.” She gripped the perfectly tight leather of the steering wheel. “But it is sweet.”

            “She must do well.”

            “She kills it. Kills it like the whole way. Oh, sorry about the meeting the other night.”

            “For what?”

            “You were facing hostiles. Trying to make a point. I sort of rained on your parade with my google search.”

            He honestly couldn’t remember. There had been a lot of yelling.

            “Remember? When I said the thing about the massacre and the other massacre?”

            That did the trick. “Oh yeah. No big deal. I was talking out of my backside anyway.”

            “I thought you were going to have a heart attack. And then it dawned on me. You need to have some fun.”

            The idea made him laugh. The last time he had fun he ended up vandalizing property, spending time in jail. “I’ve had enough fun.” He dropped his head so far she could hardly see him. “The fun is over.”

            “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. What are you doing tonight?”

            “I don’t think—”

            “Nothing like that. I’ll come by your place.” She handed him her phone and told him to put in his “digits.” He was a trained seal. He was a frigging weathervane.

            “I don’t think—”

            “Cool. Text you later. And you look like you’re dying. Are you dying?”

            “No immediate plans.”

            “Then stop looking like that.”

            She sped off before he could answer. The car was out of sight in seconds. His thoughts returned with violence to the upcoming therapy session. On second thought, maybe death would be preferrable.

Chapter 11: Session Two

            He showed up a few minutes late. It wasn’t on purpose. The goddess girl in the fancy car had him disoriented for reasons obvious to any man and other reasons he couldn’t get a handle on, the ones making him disoriented.

            Sammy stood up and tilted his head with a matronly look on his swollen face, hands clasped. Leah the drug addict and Ray the alcoholic narcissist with OCD said hello in unison, like they’d been trained. No doubt that was exactly the case. Their enthusiasm was so nonexistent it almost made Tim laugh out loud. “Sorry I’m late.”

            Sammy used two hands to take one of his. Tim felt weird but went with it. “We’re just glad you came back after those little hiccups last time. Everyone is sorry and wants this to work.”      

            “Yeah.” He looked for a chair. Of course, the only vacancy was between Ray and Leah. “Yeah.”

            Leah went first, talking about her week. There was a neighbor across the street that was watching her. Stalking her. She was sure of it. Yes, the cops came. Yes, she told them all about it. But the cops don’t believe a junky, even though she hadn’t used in three months. The cops didn’t care if she got raped and butchered in her own house. The guy across the street was clean shaven with a clean record, which of course is the only measure of a human being in the world. They talked to him, Sammy. He’s a perfectly straight arrow, they say. He’s working for the fucking resort and it’s a really fucking good job and he’s only staying in my crappy old neighborhood because he’s waiting on his beautiful new house to be built near the mountain. Wife and kids, they say. Well I say where’s this wife and these kids? Who leaves their people like that for months?”

            “And you haven’t slipped?” Sammy asked, using that same tilted head addressing Leah. She wasn’t even looking at him. Her head was down almost touching the one leg she had pulled up on the chair. It looked horribly uncomfortable, Tim thought, also thinking that Leah probably hadn’t felt comfortable in quite some time. Lots of fidgets and ticks and scratching, sometimes inexplicable head movements.

            “No, Doc. I haven’t slipped. And why do you even ask? Are you not going to fiddle with my piss?”

            Tim put a hand over his mouth to hide another smile. The girl had a point. She had a few, actually. He raised his other hand.

            “Would you like to say something?” Sammy asked.

            “If nobody minds.” He nodded at Leah and took the measure of Ray. “And no tackling.”

            Sammy uncrossed his legs and leaned into their little confab. “We actually talked about that before you got here. No tackling, trying to be civil, etc.”

            “Leah,” Tim said, “that sounds frustrating. Hell, I’d be freaked if I thought someone was watching me. Things like that are hard to prove anyway but I get what you’re saying.”

            Sammy didn’t seem on board with Tim’s offering. “Wait a minute. The police checked into it. You’re fine, Leah. It’s just, you know…”

            “What? That I’m a paranoid bitch who blew Jerry the chiropractor to buy drugs?”

            Ray had been silent up to that point. He sat up. “I never heard about that. Used to go to that guy. No wonder he left town in such a hurry.”

            Though his patients were all relatively calm, the therapist was growing more perturbed by the second. “Was that all, Tim?”

            “Thanks, Semple,” Leah said softly into her shirt sleeve before casting shadowy eyes at Sammy. “Like it’s not already hard enough staying clean—without some creep and his binoculars.”

            “You blew Jerry the chiropractor?” Ray asked.

            “Okay,” Sammy interjected, accidently dropping his little notepad onto the hardwood as he tried in vain to direct traffic.

            “No, I’m just saying. Sorry. That must’ve been horrible. He was not an attractive man.”

            “Drugs will make you do some crazy shit, Ray. But I’m not crazy.”

            Ray scratched at his chin, always scruffy, never clean, never fully bearded. “I never thought you were crazy.”

            Though she stayed silent, Tim could feel Leah wanting to thank Ray. She didn’t, and God knows why. They hated each other, those two. Or thought they did. Or thought they were supposed to. She couldn’t break the rules of mutual loathing. There were lines made of pride and they were not to be crossed. Maybe someday. Not now. Not in the presence of others.

            Sammy sought to regain the helm. “You need to be proud of yourself, Leah. Despite everything, you haven’t slipped. That’s the main thing.”

            “You haven’t checked my piss yet.”

            Sammy didn’t react at all. In that moment, Tim learned some respect. The therapist was a petty weasel, sure, but he could be humble. He could do his work and care about others.

            “So I’m next, suppose.”
            “Yes. Ray. How’s it been going?”

            Tim crossed his arms and stuck his chin against his chest, preparing for that which could not be predicted.

            Ray wasn’t drinking. He had to say that, and even if he was, he couldn’t really be honest about it. That was how this whole thing worked. Get caught walking down Main Street naked once maybe twice and they say you need counseling, but it’s all because what I can’t tell you, Doc. You say I can tell you, that’s it’s safe here, but it’s not safe here. And I’ve got good things to say, Doc. More money than I’ve ever known about, that’s for sure. But nobody can know how. And that’s why I got naked, most likely, wanting to be seen. Of course there’s the notion that nobody is ever really seen and there is a degree of truth to that, but mostly the week has been okay. No, that’s not true. I’m feeling more comfortable here than normal and don’t know why so I’ll say that it’s my son. He still won’t talk to me, says that I never talked to him when he was a kid so why should he be the hero and talk to me. Tried to forgive, says he. I believe him. We were facing each other. I followed him to the coffee shop even though you told me I was supposed to leave it alone. Did it anyway. He’s my son and he’s got a wife and a little girl with curls and maybe it’s fair that I’m forced to live like this but it doesn’t feel fair. I don’t want to talk anymore so do your babbling and then we’ll get to this moron (Tim) and then we can all shuffle back to our GLORIOUS flatline lives, undetectable amplitudes, unobservable oscillations.”

            “Well, there’s a lot there,” said Sammy, writing this or that in his little notebook.

            “Pebble-dust falling into an ocean of infinite infinites.”

            “We understand the sentiment.” Sammy stopped writing and bit his lower lip searching for something to say.

            Although Tim was still slightly defensive toward his comrade-in-therapy, he decided to make a comment. “I’m with Sammy on this one.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean, big man?”

            Sammy followed with something similar, less aggressive but equally incredulous.

            Tim looked at Ray. “I get the last part, about our lives not even making the back page.”

            “Exactly.”

            “But it can’t be that unimportant. You care so much about your son and his family and this other mysterious thing you won’t talk about. If it’s all nothing, Ray, you’ve got a lot of it.”

            Leah made squeaky noise. “Wow. That was insightful.”

            Ray seemed angry now. “I thought it was insightful, actually. Especially for this idiot.”

            “That’s what I was trying to say.”

            “You were making fun, witch.”

            “Old drunken crazy fucking bastard. I’ve been behaving. You are so terrible it makes me want to do drugs.”

            “Everything makes you want to do drugs. That’s why you’re a drug addict. The chiropractor. Who else? The taxidermist? Oh, you are everything that’s wrong with everything.”

            “You’re an alcoholic. That’s worse.”

            “How is that worse!?”

            “It just is. It’s not the 1950s you prick. Oh, you miserable prick, it’s no wonder your son never wants to talk to you again.”

            As Tim sat in the middle of their conversation, it occurred to him that he felt better. Less disoriented. He was doing something. Having an effect. It wasn’t fun. Funny, though. The goddess girl. Maybe this was she meant. Strange. He didn’t imagine it quite like this. He couldn’t imagine why a deity was the least bit interested in his state of mind.

            They shouted horrors at each other for a solid half minute. Leah’s drug-weathered teeth, Ray’s oily old man smell, Sammy holding his floppy cheeks as they turned a scary molten lava flow red.

            “I’m going to talk now.” Tim let the statement sit until the others quieted from curiosity and fatigue.

            “Go ahead,” said the beleaguered therapist. He was at his end, sweating the top of his collar damp. 

            “I’m not sure why I have to be here, but while I am let me say—things are going to get better. They have to.”

            Sammy perked up in his chair and tapped on his notepad, like something in that he’d scribbled was responsible for this “breakthrough.”

            “Don’t get me wrong, I still want to beat the shit out of people that make me mad, still want to get drunk and mess around with women irresponsibly.”

            “I feel like we were making progress and then it went in a different direction.”

            “No, I’m trying say that I want to get over this crap that’s holding me back. It’s no good for anyone. How am I going to get my wife back if I can’t keep it together?”

            No one answered. To the others, even Sammy, Tim’s shot at reconciliation seemed like a pipedream. “I get it. But I’m starting small. Like maybe having fun. Then the next thing. Then the next.”

            “Positive steps,” Sammy said, writing furiously now with wide, excited eyes.

            “Sounds like bullshit,” said Ray.

            “I’ve got to agree with the drunk.”

            “Thank you, Leah.”

Chapter 12: Turf

            Tim had no idea that people could text so much for so little reason. He was to meet up with the glorious angel girl at eight at a spot down by the river talked about by the locals because she wanted to do something out in nature. She’d always been a city girl, see. This and what felt like hundreds of her other biographical details had been conveyed to him before nightfall came. He had a headache from staring at the cell phone screen.

            When she emerged from the beautiful Audi, it was clear she was none too pleased. Sitting at a park bench covered in graffiti with him was Gable. Drinking beer and facing them in a lawn chair was Hoyt. Backup, apparently. When he told Hoyt that he was meeting up with the new young girl in town, Thompkins insisted on being there. Just in case he got tempted to do something stupid. His friend also felt it incumbent on himself to bring Gable into the mix for moral support. And so they all were. Tim with a beauty and a couple of babysitters.

            This was life as a grown man, he thought more than once.

            “I see you brought some friends,” said the beauty.

            “Well,” Gable got up and offered a hand after a pause. “I guess the boys aren’t much good for manners.”

            “Hey,” Hoyt said, trying not look overly impressed by the beauty’s beauty.

            “I’m Gable.”

            “Reny Davies. Oh, Gable that owns the restaurant in the square? I’ve been in there so much. Such good food. Me and my aunt go there all the time.”

            Gable seemed won over. The men shrugged as the new acquaintances walked off to a cooler stationed near the bank of the river, talking with best friend rhythm.

            “That girl’s damn hot so it’s a good thing we came,” said Hoyt after a spit. Tim was trying not to feel like an asshole caught between two worlds, but that’s exactly what he was. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch his best friend in the face or hug him. “You know? Really frigging hot. Like the kind that makes a man not want to try to get back with the only woman that he’s ever loved.”

            “Point taken, pal.”

            They grabbed enough beers for everyone and went back to the bench. Gable and Reny were talking about some TV show about rich people in England or something. Tim figured he’d let them talk. Hoyt wasn’t having any. “Honestly, the things women waste their time on,” he said, ostentatiously cracking open a beer and offering one to Reny like he hadn’t just been really insulting. “Go on. It won’t drink itself.”

            Tim put a hand over his face but opened his fingers wide enough to see what would happen next. It was a maneuver typical to his character; reluctance to getting involved was usually half-hearted. He was surprised when she smiled and compensated Hoyt with a happy thanks.

            “You’re mighty welcome. Anyway, I’m just kidding. Besides, dudes do our fair share of time-wasting.”

            Gable shared a surprised look with Tim. Had they just witnessed a measure of charm and humility from Hoyt?

            “Anyway,” Gable said, grabbing a beer from Tim, “Reny was telling me she’s from the big city.”

            “Yeah, she told me. Texted me, actually.”

            “Which big city?” Hoyt asked.

            “New York. I went to art school there. Now I’m working at my aunt’s studio and building my own portfolio. I’ll never be as good as her, but it’s what I love.”

            “Must be,” said Hoyt. “Enough to bring you all the way out here. Must be kind of boring compared to the big city.”

            As Reny and Hoyt sank into a rhythm of question and answer, Tim and Gable walked down to the river. They were silent and would be until she decided to say something, he decided.

            “You’re glad we’re here,” his old friend said.

            He turned to her but answer.

            “You’re glad. You need help, man. No, not therapy. But help. There’s a lot going on with you. I think we’ve all done a pretty shitty job at looking after you.”

            Tim didn’t know how to take Gable’s statement. It wasn’t something he could argue with. Still, the most basic parts of his manhood felt threatened. “Maybe I do need looking after. Like a little kid needs looking after.”

            “Yep,” she said, walking through his sarcasm. “Or a little puppy. Or someone in an old folks home. Lots and lots of help.”

            “What about a little plant? Those are really fragile. Constant care. Sunlight but not too much. Water but not too much. Total oversight.”

            Gable laughed and patted him on the back. “Aw. You’re a fledgling.”

            They stood and listened to the water, enjoying the night and the cool as it fell over them. He thought about the spot they were standing. So many times he’d come down there as teenagers, full of dreams, minnows with ideas of growing strong. They knew they’d all be conquerors, Tim most of all. And then his mother got sick. He delayed college to help run the store and take care of her. While the conquerors went off on their adventures, he stayed. It wasn’t that he had to. His father wasn’t the type to ask something like that. Tim did it because it felt right. Or maybe he was scared. Or maybe he liked the idea of being a conqueror but liked the reality of Mere Valley more. He had a feeling he could stare at the river forever, watching its constant changing roll on and on, and still the unvarnished reason for his staying would never come.

It’s complicated, he thought.

            “What are you going to do about Valley Fest?” Gable said.

            “Guess I’m going to my best.”

            “Think it’s a good idea?”

            “I’m not up to it, you mean.”

            “I’m not sure anyone is. This town is turning into the Bloods and Crips over this thing. There you stand in the middle.”

            “We stand,” Tim announced, nudging her slightly with a dip of his shoulder. “You said I needed help.”

            She checked her footing and sighed. “It’s amazing the speed at which I’m starting to regret putting that in your head.”

            They turned around and looked at Hoyt and Reny. The pair were comfortably close on the park bench, eyes locked as conversation flowed. His friend appeared at ease and happy. The girl appeared completely interested. “Can you explain that to me?” he asked Gable.

            “Well, if those two can hit it off, maybe there’s hope for the Valley.”

            He put a friendly arm around her as they started walking back toward the others. It wasn’t the night he had planned on, but he felt some peace. Not so alone. That was something.

            As they sat down on the other side of the bench, two cars loaded with teenagers pulled up on the overlook. It was mixture of girls and boys, already revved up and probably already a little drunk. One of the bigger ones asked what they were doing in his spot, belly laughing with a brunette wrapped tight under his arm. Tim recognized the face but couldn’t remember the kid’s name. “You old guys can leave us these ladies if you want.”

            Hoyt started to stand up but got pushed down by Reny. She walked over to the big kid and talked for about thirty seconds with her hands firm on her hips. Hoyt said he didn’t like where this was going. Tim agreed. They were moved to action but before they could build steam she was on the way back. The kids moved down to another spot closer to the river without another word of shit talking.

            “No problem,” Reny said, sitting back down and finishing her beer. “Nothing to worry about.”

            “What the hell did you say?” Hoyt asked, rubbing his hair.

            “I told them that if they tried to interrupt our party, you two were going to make them cry in front of their scrawny little girlfriends. I said it would be slow and bloody and they’d never get laid in this town again. Word would spread. The infamous beatdown by the river would be all over the internet and not only would they not get laid in this town, they’d be lucky to ever touch another woman. I explained that once you get bitch-made into pathetic little pussies, it’s almost impossible to come back.”

            She smiled and said she was going to get another beer.

            “Wow,” said Gable.

            “Yeah,” said Tim.

            “It’s official,” said Hoyt. “I’m in love with this woman.”

Chapter 13: Checkout

            It was a short staff situation at Lennox’s Hardware Home and Garden. They’d had some ongoing troubles finding people willing to work. Hourly part-time gigs once suited high school kids. Not the case anymore. Now the young spent every minute of their formative years either falling into complete despair or trying desperately to fill up their resumes with the kinds of extra-curricular activities that would force fancy universities into begging to have them and their hundreds of thousands of borrowed dollars.  

            “What do you mean by despair?” Tim asked Francis Beaver, his assistant manager. They were both on checkout duty at the front of the store and now there was a lull. The only one around was Dave, the customer service guy in the kiosk next to the exit. He emerged yawning from his new edition of Guns and Girls to see what was going in checkout.

            “What do you mean what I mean?” Francis snapped back. He turned around toward her cashier lane and saw nothing to indicate that she was even slightly sorry for coming across like an insolent dictator. There was a lot going on with Francis, Tim knew. She thought his job should’ve been hers. Maybe she was right. Then again, one would hope for a manager to be at least a little affable and slightly presentable. Francis was neither of these things. She dressed as a vagrant and made no effort toward her hair, a seemingly unsustainable curly ball of white chaos that defied physics and added another two feet of height to her short, starved stature. Tim would never say anything negative about it, of course. Nobody else ever had, apparently, either too afraid or forecasting criticism to be a futile endeavor. And thus the ball grew and grew. Francis became more eccentric and more accepting of herself and less accepting of the world, as is usually bound to happen. In the meantime, though, she could fix anything and knew everything, from lighting to lawncare.

            “I mean, Francis, what does despair have to do with taking an hourly job?” he asked, tone obviously stern. His assistant manager couldn’t be as brittle as she liked. He was, after all and like it or not, the damn boss.

            She rubbed over her nose and cheeks, casting all sorts of spells and curses against Tim.

            It was a bit much, even for her. He’d asked a question. She was acting like he’d killed her pets and made her watch while he skinned and cooked them for supper. “Francis, are we talking about you?”

            “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

            “Okay,” he said, looking around to make sure there weren’t any customers within earshot. “I’m asking if you have despair. Because you’re acting like someone with, you know, despair.”

            “You asked why we can’t hire more people,” she said, looking at everything but never at Tim’s eyes.

            “I did. And now for some reason we find ourselves here. You look like a bomb that’s about to go off.”

            She started to laugh. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh. The sound was awful, the sound of an animal that spends most of its time underground. He wished she’d go back to cursing him. “I am like a bomb. Tick tick tick.”

            “Okay.”

            “But a bomb is anger. Potential energy. Frustration. Not despair. For someone that’s supposed to be good with people, you sure got it all wrong, Semple.”

            He crossed his arms. “No one says I’m good with people. Mostly they say the opposite.”

            “Ah, whatever you want to think. The poor, tortured soul. The martyr. Talk about despair.”

            He looked at his watch. They weren’t too far from closing time. Dave in customer service was wide-eyed; he’d abandoned his magazine and seemed to be enjoying the scene in checkout thoroughly. Tim sighed and started to turn around. It didn’t seem like there was a lot of ground to be gained with his number two. “Dave,” he said, “could you at least try to seem like there’s something you could be doing?”

            “Sure boss,” he said, returning abruptly to Guns and Girls.

            “So that’s it?” asked Francis.

            For a moment’s distraction, he thought about the haircut he was getting later. Maybe because he needed a haircut. Also, and more likely, because he talking to Francis.

            “Well, you seemed to be irritated. Remember the bomb thing from five seconds ago? That seemed like a good stopping point.”

            “Well I wasn’t done.”

            He turned back around and told Dave to keep minding his business. “Okay, where were we?”

            “I was trying to tell you something about despair, why we can’t hire anybody.”

            “Please do.” They were two words, two syllables spoken with as little affectation as possible. He didn’t want to give her anything to work with.

            “I’m trying to say it’s hard to find hope.”

            She’d made some kind of turn. She was looking him in the eyes. “Okay.”

            “The young ones see a simple town that used to make sense being taken over by rich people they have nothing in common with. It’s disorienting to the young mind and does something to the spirit used to spring ambition and the desire for hard work.”

            “You know, she’s got a point there, boss.”

            “Thank you, Dave.” Tim couldn’t help but wear a puzzled look. Francis Beaver had never done much talking except to explain how to rebuild something or complain that something wasn’t fixed. These wondrous depths were previously unknown mysteries to the world. At least they were to Tim.  

            “That makes some sense, Francis.”

            “I know it makes sense.”

            “Okay.”

            “But what about that one kid who’s been working here?”

            “Brock?”

            “Yeah, Brock. Seems like a good worker.”

            She smirked and laughed a little. Tim’s shoulders went up. Somehow he’d already forgotten that awful sound. “Suppose he tries, but the boy might burn down the store before it’s all over.”

            A true assessment. “Well, we were all young and dumb, Francis. He’ll get better. Like you said, he tries. That’s not despair. That’s the opposite.”

            Tim put up a hand when he noticed an older gentleman holding a shower rod and a toilet seat approaching slow and steady, asking if he was in the right place to pay. “I get lost in this cave,” he said, smiling deferentially, like his age was what had him confused.

            “You’re not the first one to say that, Mr. Hughes,” Tim said, waving him over.

            “Are you trying to buy something good or something cheap?” Francis asked.

            “Cheap usually costs more in the end,” Mr. Hughes said with a wink. “Money and time, both.” The sentiment forced loose a smile from Tim. It felt comforting and warm, like something from the lips of his father or one of the windy crew back at Semple’s Hardware.

            “Well then,” said Francis, “you’re going to want to put that garbage down and go back. Ask the guy working aisle fifteen that I sent you and that I looked mad.”

            Tim put up his hands and nodded. “I can go get the stuff if you want, Mr. Hughes.”

            “You know, I’m not dead yet, Timothy.”

            “No, sir.”

            “Plus, this darn walking means I won’t have to round the block with my wife’s dog so much this week.”

            Winsome Mr. Hughes turned slowly and made a methodical, determined push for aisle fifteen.

            “You’re good at your job, Francis,” Tim said.

            “What was I saying before?”

            “About the kid,” Dave chimed.

            Tim sighed.

            “Right. That kid isn’t normal. He’s an exception. You know it and so do I.”

            “Hire older people. They need things to do. Half of them would work for free I’m bettin.”

            Tim wasn’t opposed to the idea. He’d considered it, actually. But something about people older than him working as subordinates didn’t sit right. It was uncomfortable, maybe. He wasn’t sure. It could be that his assistant manager was right. “I’ll think about it. Really. Anything else?”

            Francis seemed pleased enough, in the way she wasn’t currently scowling. “Fine, now that we’re getting along.”

            “I wouldn’t go that far, but…”

            “It doesn’t make sense that you took this job. Working for the guy who put you out of business? Shameful stuff, Semple.”

            His cheeks turned red as he found himself ready to officially shut down the conversation. Quitting while he was ahead seemed a smart and immediate strategy. “Let’s just end this on a good note.”

            “You think I don’t like working under you because I’m more qualified.”

            “Or… we could just keep talking.”

            “But it’s the fact that you let him push Semple’s out of business.”

            Would people ever let it go? It wasn’t as if he didn’t fight with everything he had to keep the family business. All the Townies knew. Francis sure as hell knew. She also knew that his father was horribly sick and stayed that way a long time until he finally passed. Tim wasn’t a wizard with money but he did his best, paying to keep the store going and Shayna’s medical school debts and dad’s doctor bills. He didn’t have a mint. Maybe they were all right about him, that somehow he blew it. The thing that made it worse—no one ever suggested how they would’ve handled it differently.

            “People look up to you, Semple. That’s why they’re so disappointed when you screw up.”

            He felt like firing her. It was something he could do, a pathetic bit of power he had. “I didn’t screw up.”

            But he had. He’d cheated on his wife the day before she found out she had cancer. He cheated once and on the worst possible day he could’ve done it. But he had.

            And everyone in town knew it. Maybe they didn’t know every detail, but they knew enough.

            “You can get it all back,” Francis said.

            “What are you talking about?”

            “How do you fix something that’s really fucked up? Let’s say, a water heater.”

            “One step at a time, like anything else.”

            Francis came close to smiling. It was almost as unsettling as her laughter. “The homegrowns will appreciate it if you make ValleyFest right.”

            “I planned on it.”

            “And then you start to figure out how to get your business back. The rich are moving in whether we like it or not. There’s going to be plenty of work for builders.”

            “Francis, are you saying you want to help?”

            “What do you think we’re talking about?”

            Tim thought about Lennox, how his two highest ranking employees of his flagship store were talking about how to get destroy him in the checkout section. It was a thought that made him happy. He’d never been the best at accepting help, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

            “You don’t have much to lose,” Francis said. Even thought it was meant as a sort of encouragement, it still kind of stung. No matter. He was feeling something. A rush of excitement.

            And she was right again. He didn’t have much to lose.

Chapter 14: Shayna and Everything

            Tim was starting to get used to texting. He had to, with Reny and all the others helping him with ValleyFest. His phone was no longer a burden. It was a tool. But he hadn’t figured out how to put it on silent.

            “Are you going to turn that off and take this seriously?” asked Linda May London, Shayna’s best friend since diapers. She was the unofficial mediator of this encounter, one in which he was hoping to make inroads to reconciliation with his wife.

            “Sorry about that,” Tim said, turning the phone on its face and smiling at Shayna. Her hair was up the way he liked, showing her perfectly long neck the way he loved. God, she was a beauty. To his right and her left sat Linda May in chair higher than theirs. Tim wanted to make a joke about how she missed her calling as a tennis referee but he stopped himself. Shayna wouldn’t like that. And this was all about inroads. Reconciliation. Inroads. “I’m actually thinking this ValleyFest thing might come off all right. I’m getting help.”

            Shayna looked puzzled and sat on whatever she was thinking, taking a few moments before responding. “You hate help. And you hate the Fest. What’s with the conversion?”

            “I’m just really glad to see you,” Tim answered.

            “This is why I’m not running back into your arms,” she snapped. “You didn’t even hear what I said.”

            “I—”

            “Wait,” she said, calmer now, though her words carried more weight. “I didn’t mean to yell, but it’s really annoying when you feel like you’re not being listened to.”

            “That makes sense,” Tim said, voice a little shaky. Shayna had the power to weaken him with her opinion, the way no one else on the planet ever could. He decided to nod at Linda and give himself a moment to take reset. His estranged wife was not going to make it easy on him. That was clear. He only wished they could’ve met somewhere public—not Linda May’s house. It smelled like children. Not a bad thing, necessarily, but her kids were some of the human reasons why Tim had always had trepidations about procreation. They were lunatics. A buzzcut boy whose entire life goal seemed to make violence on grown men’s genitals. A ginger girl who screamed at everyone and everything and who was old enough to explain her rage though she never did. Linda May called them her angels. Tom London, her husband, was mostly absent and wholly absent-minded. Tim had known him all his life and they’d traded approximately ten words over the duration. Tom was in the other room watching a recorded sports commentary program, hanging around in case there were any “Timothy Semple” type moments.

            “You’re not talking.”

            “What, babe?” Tim said, blinking his way back into the moment.

            “Please don’t call me that,” Shayna said.

            I’ve been calling you that since we were fifteen, he almost said. “Sorry.”

            “How’s work?” she asked, looking at her watch before rolling sighing toward Linda May.

            Tim reminded himself that Shayna had every right to be fractious, though he expected she might ease up by now. Nope. “Work is sort of weird. Working for someone else and all.”

            “It’s not my fault that you’re working for Lennox.”

            It’s true. It wasn’t her fault. It was nobody’s fault. She didn’t give his dad a terrible disease that took away every dime that they had. It wasn’t her fault that a bigshot asshole like Merritt Lennox Sr. had moved into their town and undercut Semple’s hardware just because he had the capital to do so. “That doesn’t mean you have to date the guy,” Tim mumbled through dry lips. It was a mistake, he knew, but one that almost had to be made. One of several elephants he couldn’t stand having in the room. “It can’t be fun. Old people are gross, unless you’re also old. Then I guess it’s alright.”

            While Shayna rubbed her reddening forehead and seethed, Linda May decided to offer a comment: “I think Merritt is handsome. There’s nothing wrong with someone having life experience. He’s made a great run out of being responsible.”

            Tim drummed his fingers on the table and failed at stopping himself from making a disgusted face. “Well, I’m sure glad we got to hear your point of view.”

            “This is useless,” Shayna said, making like she was going to get up. Tim stood first. “Look, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m trying to get it together, and I know I’m a thousand miles from home. Just don’t give up. You’ll see.”

            “Even if they change, how do I ever trust you again?” Shayna asked, tears forming in her eyes. There she was. Her big heart, wanting to believe the best—her big brain, telling her to be skeptical. “Are you still hanging out with your buddy?”

            “Hoyt? Yeah, we still hang. And no, we haven’t vandalized anything since that one day.”

            “I’m talking about her.”

            Of course she was. When everything was said and done, it all came down to one act of complete and total recklessness. He couldn’t even remember what it is was like to be with Gable. Yes, Tim knew that he’d been with her. Just none of the details. Regret, maybe. It still didn’t seem real or possible. No matter how tricky things had gotten with Shayna, the idea of fooling around still seemed all kinds of crazy. Shayna was the one. Always had been. That’s why he was Linda May’s kitchen, slings and arrows and anything else that might come his way. “There’s nothing between me and Gable. But yeah, we’re still friends. They’ve been hard to come by. That’s the truth of it.”

            Linda May scoffed. Shayna crossed her arms and seemed to consider what he’d said. Maybe he’d gotten through. “I want you to take a look at those divorce papers. Really take a look.”

            “Shay—”

            “I’m not saying we’re there yet. But you need to think about what you want. Why you did what you did.”

            It seemed like somehow they’d stumbled on diplomacy. He was ready to call it a day. They hadn’t blown up at each other. Sure, a few jabs here and there, but nothing too bad. And he’d gone from getting a divorce to maybe getting a divorce. Progress. “Okay. I should go.”

            “That’s probably best,” said Linda May.

            Tim smiled at Shayna and turned to see the little buzzcut standing there. He started to say hello to the little boy but was cut off by a sharp punch to the balls. Down he went like a rock.

            Slings and arrows.

Chapter 15: Not Softball

            It was a cool night for the first time in weeks. Air from the mountains was sweeping through Mere Valley at a steady clip. Tim was grateful. He was sweating enough already, rooting on Hoyt’s pitching from his position at shortstop. It was the championship game of the town baseball league. The best of the Townies versus the best of the Transplants.

            Just a stupid game. And officially it wasn’t the best versus the best, that was the reality of it. When the Transplants started stacking one team with all their most talented players slowly throughout the season, the Mere Valley residents had no choice but to defend themselves by acting in kind.

            That was thinking, anyway. Rational adults being rational and whatnot.

            Tim found the whole thing to be pretty ridiculous, though watching Hoyt throw brought him the same joy it did when they played back in high school. His friend had the arm of a demon back then—and though time and total disregard had robbed him of more than a few miles per hour and taken the sharpness off his breaking ball, the other team wasn’t making much contact.

            There had to be at least two thousand people at the game. The high school stadium they were playing at was packed to the point of collapsing—not to mention all the other onlookers surrounding the field, watching from lawn chairs or pickup truck beds.

            The whole thing was ridiculous. The adult league had been softball up until that year. Then one of the Transplants made a comment that softball was for losers at a town meeting. This, of course, could not be countenanced by the Townies.

            We’ll beat you at any game!

            Then let’s play a baseball. A real sport!

            Baseball it is, dicks!

            Tim couldn’t remember every particularity of the exchange, but that was the long and short.

            He watched Hoyt look over to stands by third base and wink. No doubt who it was for. His friend never stopped talking Reny Davies except to talk about how he felt about Reny Davies. In all their time as friends he’d never seen Hoyt so smitten. The most the guy had ever said about his ex was that she was pretty good in bed and that at some point she stopped being good in bed.

            “Come on there, Hoyt!” Tim called, trying to get his boy to stop mugging for his lady love. It would’ve been comical, really, but the Transplants had a real hitter up there. Some guy named Brett or Brick or something, some asshole who started four years at Yale or Brown or some damn place. Tim couldn’t remember his name—only that he’d done some grout work for him and that he was a miser for his money despite owning a house up the mountain worth tens of millions.

            The first pitch was a strike that stung the catcher’s mitt. Hoyt turned to Tim and did a condescending thing with his face, like, of course I’m gonna throw strikes.

            Tim stood up straight and rubbed his glove, spitting and squinting under the lights, not giving anything away. He never did with pitchers. Nothing more than a little encouragement and a little nod. Other than that, he treated them as skittish horses. Fragile.

            Hoyt would probably prefer temperamental for a label.

            Brick fouled the next one sharply down the third base line. That meant he was ahead of it and the good contact meant that Hoyt hadn’t fooled him much at all.

            “You’re good now,” Tim said, taking a second to look into the stands. He saw Gable sitting next to Reny Davies and her aunt. What was her name? Dru, that’s right. I wonder if Shayna’s here. She has to be. Unless there’s an emergency surgery going on right now, she’s here. Shayna loves baseball. Loved it, anyway, But maybe she’s changed.

            He couldn’t see her.

            Another foul ball. This one sharper and farther down the third base line. Tim called time and approached the mound. Hoyt rolled his eyes like a chastened child wanting to get back to his toys.

            “Just giving you a breather,” Tim said. “This guy’s no joke.”

            “I’ve got him. That’s two strikes, no balls.”

            “Maybe you don’t give him something to swing at this time. Get him to chase one high or in the dirt. You trying to prove something?”

            “Yeah. I’m trying to prove that I’m better than this Ivy League prick. More man. Manlier. I want Reny to see. I’m not an old man, that I’ve still got it.”

            Tim put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and nodded. “Right. I was just making sure this was just about baseball.”

            Hoyt’s next pitch was fast but straight down the pipe and the prick had it timed to perfection. Tim’s feet were idle as he watched the ball over his shoulder out into left field. Billy Johnson tried to make a heroic catch, only to slam his 40-year-old body into the wooden fence. The prick was almost to second and charging hard. Tim ran to the edge of the outfield to be the cutoff man while Billy attempted to gather his wits, pretending he hadn’t broken something or ruptured something or caused internal bleeding. It didn’t look good. The prick passed behind Tim. Finally, Billy managed a weak throw that met Tim’s glove on a weak crawl. He could hear Hoyt yelling Home! over and over. Yeah, Tim thought, I know this dick is going for an inside-the-park homerun.

            He turned and fired the ball at the catcher Gene Snyder. He went for accuracy because the prick/dick was a hell of an athlete but not the fastest guy he’d ever seen and any kind of a decent throw would have him dead to rites. Hoyt had taken position behind the catcher in case the relay was off. It wasn’t. Tim nodded, glad to have done his part. The prick/dick would get called out and they’d go into the next inning still tied. Billy Johnson out in left was probably going to need an ambulance, sure, though that was a worry for five seconds from now.

            Home plate was completely blocked off. Gene Snyder knew what he was doing, more or less. That left only one option for the Transplant and there was absolutely no way he was going to try to go through the catcher. This was a stupid community league game full of has-beens and never-weres, completely meaningless and simply not worth it—

            “Oh shit,” Tim said, running toward home plate.

            His predictions had proven all kinds of wrong. Gene Snyder was down for the count. The ball had been knocked out of his glove. The crowd was going crazy, half crazy with joy and half crazy with anger. Hoyt was yelling at the umpire, a guy from the next county over they’d brought in to be neutral for this friendly little game. Tim tried to pull his buddy away but it was proving to be a tough task. Hoyt was kicking dirt on the umpire’s shoes and bumping his once-hard pecs against the ump’s chest protector, all the time yelling at the prick/dick, calling him every other name in the book.

            “Throw this bum out of the game!” Hoyt yelled, spit and tobacco flying everywhere. Tim had him by the waist now, squeezing with all his might.

            “It’s a man’s game,” said the supercilious Transplant. “Maybe you should get some men on your team and we’ll play again sometime.”

            “That’s enough,” Tim said.

            “Oh, hey Semple. Restrain your boy there. And come by next week. I have a sink or two you might be able to fix. Loser.”

            The other players were gathering around. Things looked like they might get out of control. Hoyt wasn’t calming down. The fans looked like they might start in on each other. It was a real shitshow.

            “Take your Townie trash and go home,” said the big prick/dick, stepping over Gene Snyder’s near lifeless body.

            “That’s enough,” Tim said, finding strength to throw Hoyt to the dirt. He approached the Ivy Leaguer with three strong strides and said, “Hey.” The prick/dick turned enough to show his jaw. Tim met it with a haymaker that flattened him right out. The whole scene went quiet except for Hoyt who said fuck yeah that’s my boy.

            It was like he had thrown fire onto a pile of kindling. The whole place lost its mind. Fights broke out everywhere. Tim knew he had done the dumbest thing he could’ve done. Before getting knocked out by the Transplant’s third basemen, he caught sight of Shayna in the stands. As he was going unconscious he thought, this probably isn’t the best way to get her back.

Chapter 16: Aftermath

            For the next few days, Mere Valley was an exposed wound. Locals didn’t say much at all and what they had to say was negative and specifically aimed toward the Transplants. The Transplants, naturally less bonded together than the Townies, were now a more cohesive unit, made so by the adhesive effects of the brawl at the baseball field.

            It could’ve been worse, really. After the protracted fracas, only seven people were hospitalized for minor injuries. No fractures or permanent damage. No arrests had been made. Zero arrests. The sheriff wasn’t around that night; he was returning from a big money gig as a fishing guide. His two fresh-faced deputies were at the event but found themselves too overwhelmed to act. It was hard to blame them. To arrest a local would incur wrath from their kind. The ostracization would be swift and brutal. Taking in a Transplant would be as unpleasant, though for different reasons. With their resources and general sense of superiority, lawsuits for unlawful imprisonment would almost certainly come down on their heads.

            So in a way it was like it never happened. They were all part of a little town away from the world, able to quarantine the situation. No newspaper articles. The few social media posts were getting little traction. There was something old fashioned about it. It was almost quaint, how personal it was.

            Quaint like the Sharks and the Jets. Like the Hatfields and McCoys. All the ones with fluffy endings.

            Tim was doing the dishes when the doorbell rang for the second time that morning. He’d had a big breakfast, courtesy of the old lady who lived across the street. Not thirty minutes before she had set the plates in his hands and winked. While he bent down to smell the cooking, she kissed him on the cheek and told him he’d made her proud by knocking out that “son of a bitch Transplant.” Before he could respond, she was making her way back home, tiny careful steps, a sweet old lady brimming over with sulphuric malice for her enemies and glorious loyalty to her own kind.

            “Coming,” Tim said, turning off the faucet and carefully drying his hands. His right was cut and swollen from the punch heard ‘round the Valley. He tossed the dishrag on the side table next to the door and opened it hopefully, almost like he was expecting to receive gifts from town elders all day long.

            “Mr. Semple,” said a man in suit that looked expensive and shiny white teeth. Behind him were two new large SUVs, filling up the small amount of driveway space behind Tim’s pickup.

            “How are you?” Tim asked, trying to figure out what this could be about. The guy was about his age and nervous, like standing on a porch was somehow wrong or illegal.

            “I’m fine Mr. Semple, and I’m actually very sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning.”

            “That’s okay. Can I help—you?”

            He nodded and smiled just a little bit. “Good gracious, how is it that a grown man can still forget to introduce himself?”

            Tim didn’t know what to say. He smiled back, thinking of all the things he still forgot to do as a grown man. Quite a list.

            “My name is Andreas Bastille. Andy will do just fine though.” Tim watched the visitor look down and close his eyes as if he was chastising himself, as if he’d messed up the delivery of key dialogue.

            “Are you okay, buddy?” Tim asked. He was giving the new arrival a full assessment now, noting his slight frame and strange looks, two things his clothes and teeth might make one miss on an initial pass. “You seemed sort of stressed out.” It was a generous characterization. The squirrely little fella was checking his loose gold watch and looking back over his shoulder and sweating off the tip of his pointy nose and into his protruding eyes. “Do you maybe need to come in and take a load off?”

            He looked like a metric ton had been lifted from his feeble shoulders. “Thanks so much, Mr. Semple. That’s really great of you.”

            “No big deal.”

            As they walked into the living room, Tim threw some laundry into the corner to make room for a seat. “Sorry I’m not the most organized type dude.”

            “That’s quite all right.” Andreas Bastille sat down on Tim’s lumpy couch with too much aplomb and almost tipped over until he settled down into one of the cushions. “That’s nice.”

            “What kind of accent you got there, Andy?” Tim asked, taking a seat in the recliner across the coffee table. “I can’t quite place it, not that I’m the cosmopolitan type that could.”

            “You’re noting that I’m strange and different, trying to do it elliptically so as to not be rude.”

            “Well hell,” Tim said, leaning back to full recumbency in his chair. “That’s a heck of a leap, Andy.”

            The guest stood up and fiddled with his watch again. Tim thought about offering to take out a link or two. He’d gotten pretty good at it over the years and the little fella seemed like he could use the help. “You don’t recognize my name, Mr. Semple, but the Bastille family is the primary investor in the ski resort and hotels that are going up in Mere Valley.

            So, one more snake slithering its way into his life. Tim’s first instinct was to catapult himself out of the recliner and place himself face-to-face with Andreas Bastille. Instead, he forced himself to appear calm and unaffected, the way a man with actual strategic intelligence might act given the situation. “I thought the Boldens were the bigshots on this deal? They’re the ones on the commercials, on the brochures. You sure you know who you are, Count Bastille?”

            My family is not like the Boldens. We like to conduct business with more discretion. We are good at what we do—though, a little eccentric. One of those strange rich dynasties you might’ve read about and forgotten.”

            “Nah, I don’t read about rich dynasties, normal or otherwise. Why you here, man?” Tim was concerned, beginning to match the guest’s perspiration level. He was just starting to get back in the good graces of the town, after all; having foreign money men in his living room would have an unraveling effect if anyone were to find out. “Because I’m a pretty busy guy around here.”

            Andreas Bastille stopped his jittering and took a breath which seemed to quell his overactive nerves. “I’ll cut right down to it. I want to undermine this resort project. And I want your help.”

            Tim had more than a few questions. He let them rattle around a bit and ran a hand through the thick of his hair. He scratched his bare knees and made a crooked face. He had more than a few questions. “Sounds interesting. Couple things right off the bat though.”

            “Why hurt my family’s company, and why ask for your help?”      

            Tim’s face was a strange mixture of annoyed and impressed. “Those—that’s just about where I was going.”

            “Because you’re looking for redemption and I’m looking for revenge.”

            “Wow. Do all rich people know tons of personal things about strangers? It’s awesome. Also very weird.”

            “I thought it best to be blunt, Mr. Semple.”

            Tim sat up in chair and started pacing the room. “You can go on. No, seriously. I was lying about being busy.”

Chapter 17: Driving Fast Cars

            Tim was listening to the Eagles when Merritt Lennox Jr. smacked into the back of his pickup truck right in the center of town. As mad as he was after the initial impact and realizing who’d hit him, he was able to calm down faster than he believed capable. Maybe it’s the therapy, he thought, sizing up the damage with a slow breath. Or it could be the conversation I just had with Bastille, he thought, tapping on Junior’s folded hood with a sympathy wince to make sure he was okay. Or maybe I’ve got a real shot. A real shot to show her I’ve changed.

            “What are you thinking about?” Junior asked Tim, holding his forehead. Gable came running out of her restaurant with an ice pack and handed it to the hardware swooning heir. He tried refusing it, vaguely pushing the offering away. His tongue dangled from the side of his mouth, like a dog who’d run himself too hard.

            “Take the damn ice pack,” Tim said, checking the surroundings to see how many people were looking on. Not too many. A small miracle.

            “Mr. Semple, I’m really sorry. I’ll pay for the damages. We can wait for the police to show up and everything, file a report. I’ve been in accidents before.”

            Tim almost smiled. The “kid” was in his mid-twenties and yet still spoke with an accidentally confident tone, prideful that he knew something, that he’d experienced something on his own enough to remember what proper human procedure was. “Go with Gable inside, get some water. I’ll call the cops.”

            Before he could offer a different idea, she was leading him by the arm. Tim made a quick call to the sheriff’s personal cell but it went straight to voicemail. His thick rusty bumper might’ve moved a quarter inch. He’d be the only one to notice anything. Maybe Hoyt if he was sober and happened to be looking real close.

            Lennox’s Porsche 911 was in a much sorrier state. “Damn shame,” Tim couldn’t help saying. The car was a beautiful silver and brand new, turbocharged perfection with those classic German lines shaped just new enough for its own identity.  

            “That’s what the bastard gets, thinking he can drive his fancy Nazi car wherever and however he wants.”

            “Hello, Mrs. Millstone,” Tim answered, addressing the older woman standing on the other side of the crash. “You better get out of here.”

            “And why on earth would I do that, Timothy?”

            “Because then you’ll have to explain to the cops that I had to slow down because you were crossing the middle of the street paying no mind. This ain’t a place for crossing, we both know.”

            She smiled and scurried down the alley between Gable’s place and the new quirky furniture store like a geriatric bank robber on the getaway, the bottom of her famously favorite robe fanned out behind. Tim tried his best to keep a straight face in case she turned around.

            When he stepped inside Gable’s it took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the intimate lighting. As his vision cleared he realized she was standing right in front of him, so close that if he bent his knees he’d bust his chin on the top of her head. “What’s with the closeup, Gabs?”

            “Who did you call?” she asked, turning a little and using both her hands to direct his attention toward Junior sprawled at a table in the corner. It reminded him of an old-fashioned game show assistant showing off wares.

            “The sheriff. He didn’t answer though. Probably fishing or something. I’ll call the station for one of the deputies.”

            She punched him in the gut stiff enough to force a lumpy feeling to his throat. “Hey, woman. You think I do crunches for a living?”

            “Shit. Sorry. I’m freaking out.”

            Now he was doubled over and she was kneeling to catch his eyes. “Yeah, I figured on there being some sort of problem when you hit me.” He stood up slowly to make sure his breakfast tacos stayed put. “Before you say anything, it was the kid’s fault. Or maybe Mrs. Millstone’s, but let’s leave her out of it. Lady’s got enough problems.”

            She looked ready to hit him again, this time with something sharp from the kitchen. He was missing something and it wasn’t all that obvious. “He’s drunk,” she said. “And high.”

            “What?” Tim asked, finally giving Lennox Jr. his full attention. “Hey, Young Merritt, you’re not shitfaced are you?”

            He was met with something of a response: Junior slumped over the corner of the table and planted face down on the velvety carpet, dragging Gable’s fancy table setup down with him.

            “I think you might be right about the kid,” Tim said, rubbing underneath his thick lower lip and nodding.

            “That little bastard. Go ahead and call the cops. I tried.”

            She started like she was going over to give him a few body blows for good measure. Tim suggested, “We should wait a second. Mostly because I’m interested. Just before now you didn’t want me calling, is that right?”

            “Well, I was thinking, he could get in real trouble. DUI, reckless endangerment. Vehicular…things.”

            “And if I’m following, you were willing to cut the kid slack for hitting my truck but not busting your dishes?”

            “My dishes are worth more than your truck, Tim.”

            He thought about it for a moment, looking into Gable’s eyes. They were strained and squinting in anger. Finally, he said, “Okay, that’s a fair enough point. Still can’t believe you hit me.”

            “Get over it you lug.”

            “Wow. Lug. Good one.”

            “I’m going over there,” she said, noticing Tim start to do his patented mental drift.

            So much to consider. He could really have Lennox Sr. over a barrel, here with his substance-abusing kid almost killing him. Blackmail. Leverage. All kinds of dark shit. Of course, he’d probably have to call Hoyt in on the job—he was having trouble imaging what any of that would look like. He wasn’t exactly Machiavelli when it came to reprisals.

            “No,” he said to himself. Then to Gable, “Try to get him up and around. I’m going to move his car behind your place.”

            She waved him away with a backhand as she knelt down lamenting broken glass and porcelain dishes.

            Junior’s 911 started right up. Tim figured it would since the engine and most of the important stuff was in the back. He slowly turned it into Gable’s parking lot and put it in a spot hard to see from the road. It was the only time he’d ever driven a Porsche and figured on it being the last.

            After parking his own truck in the alley, he called Merritt Senior.

            “What do you want?”

            “Come get your son. He’s at Gable’s place down in the square. The kid’s not hurt but he needs you.”

            As the old man started yelling questions, Tim hung up the phone and put it on silent. Either Senior would come or he’d send one of his lackeys.

            He went back inside and found the vacuum while Gable finished the initial cleaning. They had everything nice and tidy by the time the elder Lennox appeared in the doorway. “What the hell did you do to my boy?”

            “Hey. It’s my dad!” Junior was just about coming around again. Not enough to sound regular. Tim figured it was either drugs, booze, or a concussion.

            “You know, I think maybe he’s got a slight concussion,” Tim said, ignoring Senior’s seething tone. It was easy enough to not be intimidated; the old man was fully clad in golf clothes.

            “I’ve had enough of you, Semple. You’re fired. And my lawyers are going to take whatever else you’ve got. You don’t go after my family. Pathetic piece of shit. I’ve tried to play nice for Shayna’s sake, well that’s all over.”

            Tim started to protest and then decided instead to pause and think. Gable marched over in the interim and placed herself between the two. “Mr. Lennox, collect your son and go.”

            “You should stay out of this, honey.”

            Tim’s winced and had one thought. Oh boy.

            She smiled up at the rich man and put on her nicest face, eyes wide open and accepting. “Honey,” she laughed. “That’s great. I’ll say it again one more time. You’re not going to do anything to Tim. Because I witnessed the crash. Junior was drunk, not paying attention. That’s the sort of thing people get arrested for. We both wanted to protect him. I wavered. Tim didn’t. God knows why he of all people would ever help a member of your family, but it’s true. I’ll go to the sheriff and swear to it. Courts. Bibles. Judges. I’ll swear up and down.”

            “Dad,” Junior slurred, doing his best to stand up, “it was my fault. I think Semple’s a good guy.”

            Senior’s overly tanned face was raging red as he continued staring through Tim. “Maybe I was out of line.” The words oozed out of his dry lips like battery acid.

            “I’m glad nobody got really hurt,” Tim said, aware that he was presenting himself graciously and also aware that this was a moment where being gracious was pretty damn easy. He had the high ground. Senior was looking up from the bottom. Up to a Townie local, the worst of them all. Tim imagined his insides about to burst.

            “Let’s go, son.”

            “Think you should apologize,” Tim said, just before father and son made the door.

            “What?” Senior snapped.

            “Not to me. To Gable. I don’t know, seems like the thing to do.”

            His eyes wandered up and to the left as if he was pondering some future humiliation for Tim. “Forgive me, miss. I shouldn’t have been rude.”

            “You called her honey,” Tim said.    

            “I shouldn’t have!”

            That was the last of it. Gable backed up and sat down on one of the barstools without turning, watching the father help his son into another fancy car through the window. Tim walked over and sat down next to her. “Geez, Gabes. Thanks for jumping in like that. You put him in his place.”

            She swiveled left to face Tim and absent word or warning kissed him. She wanted it to last, it seemed clear, the way her hands were pulling him in. He made an anemic attempt at pulling away. Nothing that could be classified as true defiance. Tongues mingled and breaths grew balmier until she finally pushed on his chest for separation. “We can’t be doing this.”

            Tim felt her words sink into the marrow of his bones. Of course they couldn’t. If he intended to get back his wife, carrying on with Gable, especially Gable, was the worst way to go about it. Her reasons for backing off, he knew, were different. Her restaurant was starting to really get off the ground. If people found out that it was her Tim cheated with, that would be the end of things. Her reputation would be swept away, along with any and all business.

            But then she pulled him back. They continued with increasing fervor until they collapsed to the floor. Tim couldn’t help himself. She looked perfect, the low light mixed with streaks of yellow coming in hot from the windows. He could stop at any moment. No he couldn’t. And why? Gable was a beautiful woman. They were close. It’s not like Shayna was keeping her own counsel, gallivanting around town with Senior. What the hell was that about, anyway? If she wanted to get back at him a chainsaw would be less gruesome. Or maybe one of those woodchippers, like in that movie. What was that movie?

            “You’re thinking, Tim,” Gable said, pulling him down between her legs and kissing his neck. “Stop thinking, Tim.”

            As she unfastened his belt he said it too: Stop thinking, Tim.

Chapter 18: Different Ways

            The big town meeting was later that night. Plans for ValleyFest would begin to take shape in earnest. There would be a vote to decide whether Tim should be removed as chairman. First, though, he had to go back to therapy.

            His entrance and hellos were ignored as he entered, as Ray and Leah were already candidly arguing while Sammy appeared to be stricken by something happening on his smart phone.

            “What’s going on?” Tim asked Sammy, figuring he had the best shot at getting through to the uptight therapist. Despite the warm weather he was snug in a knit sweater, starched collar from a dress shirt underneath clinging to his unimpressive neck.

            “Timothy, do you know that the world is going to run out of water in the next fifty years?”

            He barely heard the question. Ray and Leah were really going at it now. Tim heard the words whore and psycho and not much else. “Out of water in fifty years? That can’t be right. What about the ice caps and all that?”

            “What about them?”

            “Well, I thought they were melting. I thought there was going to be too much water. Now you’re telling me there’s not going to be any.”

            Sammy pulled at his collar. Tim could see the red irritation where it was sinking into his pale skin. “Are you mocking me?”

            Tim sat down in the chair closest to Sammy and farthest away from Ray and Leah. They were positively apoplectic now. It seemed if ever there was a time for a therapist to step in, this would be it. But alas, the water. “No,” he said, blocking out the now near hysterical ravings of the other two patients, “I’m not mocking you.” He tapped Sammy on the knee and got him to look up from the phone. “That thing’s just trying to scare you so you’ll look at it some more.”

            “But it says here there’s contamination and evaporation and overpopulation—”

            “Exaggeration,” Tim said, cutting him off. “I mean, sure, those things are all happening, but we’ll figure it out. People always do.”

            “What if we don’t figure it out, though?”

            Tim put his arm around Sammy, wishing he could find time to worry about little things like the future of the planet. “Then we’re all dead, I guess.”

Sammy mumbled and whimpered into his dainty hands. Tim looked around the room, desperate to find something to divert his attention. He thought about leaving then thought he’d better not. Leaving would mean an extension of this strange sentence he was carrying out at the law’s insistence. Better to get knock it out. No, he had other things to do.

            “Hey Sammy,” he said, shaking the counselor’s shoulder in a friendly way. “I was just looking around here and saw you had some floorboards warped over there by the fireplace.”

            “One of my guests spilled water and let it sit. It’s not a big deal, Tim.”

            It wasn’t a big deal. Then again, if he had to listen to Sammy fret about doomsday and listen to Ray and Leah’s feral disputation, he might be sucked into madness. The house was infected, seemed like, but he had an idea. Something positive for him and perhaps everyone else. Nothing wrong with all parties benefitting.

            “Do you still have the boards in the basement?” he asked Sammy.

            “Yes, Timothy. They’re right where you left them.”

            “Still in the box? Straight and dry?”

            Sammy slumped and nodded and went back to looking at his phone, pondering the end of all hydrogen dioxide, seemingly unconcerned with the water problem at hand. Tim left the room and all its problems for the basement, returning with the spare strips of hardwood and as many tools as he could carry. No one noticed him at first. Not until he ripped up the first rotten piece of ruined floor. “What are you doing?” Sammy asked, almost shrieking. The yanked wood and the volume of his reaction moved Ray and Leah to silence.

            “You doing some remodeling?” Ray asked.

            “Just relax,” Tim said, setting down a small crowbar gently on the gray stone that ran up to the fireplace. He had everyone’s attention. That was good. Now he’d find out if there was any sense in obtaining it. “I thought we could all work on this. This floor needs fixing, and Sammy’s down in the dumps. Maybe today—just today—it’s better than sitting around talking about everything that’s wrong.”

            The idea didn’t come from nowhere. Tim knew Ray and Leah both to be decent craftsmen from their time spent at Semple’s Hardware over the years. Leah had remodeled more than one room of her old house and Ray was all around good with the tools. Sammy didn’t know a dang thing about restoration or building except what to buy, but it seemed a decent prospect he’d be grateful for the repairs once they were done.

            After the therapist/homeowner’s consent they went to work and got floors down and drying in less than an hour. After Leah and Ray left, Tim took one more look at the job and started to clean the area. It was good work.

            Sammy seemed to agree. He crossed his arms and leaned slowly toward Tim. “That was a really nice job, Timothy Semple.”

            “Well, Ray’s fine with a saw. Leah’s no slouch either. Knows how to set wood. Just the right amount of glue. Got a fine touch.”

            “That’s not what I meant,” Sammy said, standing far enough away not to disturb the freshly laid boards. His phone was on the other side of the room and he had a small satisfied smile on his face. He was as close to looking calm as Tim had ever seen. “You did my job for me, better than I could’ve. I haven’t seen those two locked in like that… ever. And you were too.”

            “I don’t mind saying,” Tim sighed, wiping his forehead with a rag before stuffing it in his back pocket, “you seemed happy yourself. Not fretting about a thing.”

            “Well, I had to keep a watchful eye. This is my precious home, after all.”

            It wasn’t the best attempt at humor. Even so, Tim nodded in acknowledgment. “And you know I can’t stand seeing a place I redid myself get messed up by some jerk who can’t carry a glass. Wouldn’t be right.”

            “You’re being evasive,” the therapist said. He was right. Of course he was. Tim was trying to talk about anything besides his feelings. Things that could be mended with some sweat and a few tools were so much easier. “You’re being evasive, but that’s not always a bad thing. Well done. One less session.”

            Tim gave Sammy a simple heartfelt nod.

            “There could be hope for you yet, Mr. Semple. Though you better stay the course.”

            “Sure thing, Doc.”

            “And we’ll somehow try to forget about the other night when you punched that Transplant in the face. A speedbump on the road to recovery.”

            “Sure thing, Doc.”

Chapter 19: Trial

            The speeches went long that night at the town meeting. Tim sat up at the front, hearing his name being spoken over and over with different honorifics. Tim the Good. Tim the Bad. Tim the Adulterer. Tim the Hero. And so on and so on, until he was just about able to tune it out. He would talk last after all had their say. It had the feel of a trial the more it went on, with every resident of Mere Valley sitting in judgment one way or the other.

            In the front row he noticed three people specifically. There was Gable with her warm dark features, shaking a sneakered foot playfully as it hung from a leg crossed over her knee. Next to her was Reny Davies, hair pulled up in a beautiful mess, somehow managing her usual supermodel girl next door look and demeanor. Beside the young woman was Hoyt, sporting a new shirt and facial hair trimmed to something more defined than scruff. Every so often Tim would look up and see them smiling and suppressing laughter as they exchanged whispers.

            In the back, Tim could see Shayna standing with arms folded. If she had feelings about Tim or the way the meeting was going, there was no way to tell. He wasn’t surprised. Even in tensest moments, his wife possessed the ability to remain calm. It was a quality he was so far from possessing he didn’t even try to understand it. But he did admire it. There she was, a beautiful statue, probably fresh from the hospital, saving some kid’s life, here to listen to the town talk about the dumbass who had the gall to cheat on her and ruin everything they had and break the town’s heart. Standing away from her was Merritt Senior, with five or six people in between. Tim could only speculate, but he figured it was Shayna’s wish not to parade their relationship in front of the town, especially with a possible divorce on the docket.

            And at the very back he spotted little Andreas Bastille, slipping in unnoticed sometime during the third speech highlighting Tim’s lack of fitness as a person or as a leader of ValleyFest. The wealthy developer kept himself at distance from the rest, standing underneath the backboard on the opposite side of the gym.

            Outside it thundered. They might get rain. If it was any kind of storm there’d be flooding, waters chasing to get to the nearest desperate rivers and streams. It happened once or twice a year in the Valley. Nothing too dramatic, nothing to rival the stories from the old newspaper clippings that hung up in the library. A couple of times early in the century the town all but washed away.

            The old days. When things weren’t so perfectly steady.

            As more thunder sounded Tim popped up in his seat and noticed that the podium stood empty. He took a heavy breath and blinked hard to clear his head, thinking it was finally time to make his case.

            His rising was premature. Merritt Lennox Sr. was making his way slowly down the little aisle between the Townies and the Transplants, snakeskin boots clapping the lacquered wood. The noise echoed through the gym as the crowd quieted to nothing, leaving only tension and his echoing footsteps in the air.

            “This shouldn’t be personal,” said Senior, looking dismissively over his shoulder at Tim for about a half second, as if that was a quarter second more than he deserved. “This town’s moving forward. New people. The new resort. There’s no limit to the amount of investment and wealth we could all be looking at here. We’ve got cultural icons like Ms. Davies setting up shop where there used to be defunct businesses. That’s why my son should oversee the ValleyFest, with my help, of course. It’s not just another event. This is a signal of the future. A lot of eyes are going to be on it. And frankly, the job’s just too damn big for Timothy Semple.”

            Tim’s let out a breath as he felt the attention of everyone in the gym. Looking up, he locked eyes with Gable, anticipating her next move. She’d want to hit back, to tell the story of Junior driving drunk. He mouthed no and shook his head until he was sure she’d stay still. Gable striking out wouldn’t do her any good. She’d feel guilty for being a rat. Then she’d feel shitty when Merritt Senior found a way to shut her down. When he saw her sink back and cross her arms, he was relieved.

            “I say we put it to a vote and be done with it. Time everybody in this town looked forward. Good things are ahead.” Senior didn’t say thank you and didn’t look at a soul as he walked back down the aisle. Thinking about it, Tim couldn’t imagine Senior saying thank you. He was the one doing the town a favor, after all. Even though he was getting rich, it was still somehow charity. That’s what Tim imagined, anyway.

            “You better say something, Timothy!” said one of the older Townie ladies. It sounded like his old teacher, the one losing her memory.

            “Enough talk!” said a Transplant, senatorial and much louder than necessary.

            “All right, now.” Tim took to the podium and leaned on it, gripping the finished wood like an oversized walker. “Just a little more talking. Then I promise we’ll get to voting.” Tim rubbed sweat from underneath his chin as he cleared his throat and continued. “The people of this town have the right to put anyone they want in charge of this thing. Heck, y’all know I never wanted to have anything to do with it in the first place. This was my dad’s thing. Some of you never met him, but he was a good guy.”

            More than one old Townie called out in agreement.

            “And maybe I’m not such a good guy, but I’m getting it together. I’m asking for a little faith, here. My dad wanted me to really step up, and this is my chance. It’s some kinda chance, anyway.”

            Thinking about his father in bunches was a recipe for an emotional showing. Tim gripped the podium harder still and looked at Hoyt. His friend offered a wink along with a relaxed, comforting smile. It helped. “And it’s going to be the best ValleyFest ever. I mean that. Y’all new to town don’t need to worry about a dumb Townie blowing it. Those here that know me know that I usually have my heart in the right place. Give me that chance—is all.”

            The moment he sat down the gym filled up with the noise of a hundred little debates. Almost everyone in town relied on the Fest for one reason or another. It was a vital week for local businesses. People came from all over the state and spent their money. The trailer park filled up. The hotels were overbooked. It mattered in real terms. Bottom line terms.

            And it mattered to the new arrivals. They were here on the promise that this was the new place to be. Mere Valley was a secret that was just starting to get out. They’d bought property and moved their families figuring that they were on the ground floor of a burgeoning community set to become The place to live and thrive, a place for members of the rich and successful set, a place to be envied by other less worthy members of the rich and successful set.

            So there was a lot to discuss.

            Townies stuck their noses up as Transplants tried to make them see reason. Transplants stuck their noses up believing that the backward Townies were incapable of reason.

            After about a half an hour of jawing, the matter finally came to a vote. “Wouldn’t you know it,” Tim said, shaking his head. “It’s right down the middle. A tie.”

            It was hard to believe. Some in the crowd started to call the count into question. He heard several accusations of fixing it.

            “You do that at your peril,” Tim said, “and I’ll discuss it private with any takers. The count was done twice and in good faith by Mrs. Rosewater.

            “Goddamn right it was,” said Mrs. Rosewater. She was eighty-two and didn’t bother to stand up. Sixty years of these meetings meant she didn’t stand for anybody. “I may be old but I’m a hell of a lot sharper than you California types. God knows I’m sharper than the ones I grew up with around here.”

            Mrs. Rosewater was sharp. And didn’t have a lot of friends. The only one that understood her was her husband and he’d been dead for almost twenty years. It seemed understanding Mrs. Rosewater took a lot out of a man.

            No one questioned anymore.

            Tim hated what was next. He was going to have to vote for himself. Those were the rules. He only voted in case of a tie. Shit, he thought. I’m going to look like a real asshole.

            But there was no choice. The only other choice would be to let Senior take over. Shayna would see him as quitter. So would the town. He’d slink away. Probably start drinking even more. Gable would be disappointed, even if she didn’t say anything.

            Then again, voting yourself—no doubt, an asshole thing to have to do. Shit.

At the far end of gym the doors snapped open. Jimmy, one of the more popular high school athletes in town burst in. He slipped and fell to on the slick wood. Tim could see he was soaked from high-tops to letterman jacket. “We need some help out there, Mr. Semple! He huffed. “Storm’s tearing up the town!”

Chapter 20: It Pours

            Tim ran down the center aisle and helped Jimmy to his feet. Crowds started moving toward the set of doors the teenager had come through. “Wait a minute!” Tim said. “Nobody go out there yet.”

            Tim had his hands on Jimmy, waiting for the boy to catch his breath. He looked like he’d just been swimming through depth charges. Hoyt arrived from the locker room with towels and a first aid kit. They’d spent enough hours in the gym to know every inch of it, and nothing had changed since the old days.

            “Here you go, Jimmy,” Hoyt said, rubbing the kid’s hair with a towel that had been washed a thousand times or so. “You okay, pal? Any cuts, anything worse? You look alright. Better than alright. Still breaking hearts, same as an hour ago.”

            Hoyt’s light tone was intentional. It was the right thing to do for the kid. Even if the situation was shit.

            “I’m not hurt,” Jimmy chattered. “But there might be some people still stuck in their cars. The water came down Brooks Street and started getting higher. It’s pooling in weird spots. I don’t know if the fire truck or the police—I don’t know. I was chest deep more than once.

            “Thanks Jimmy,” Tim said, placing another towel around his shoulders. “You’re a brave guy coming over here to tell us.”

            “The lights were on.”

            As two older women each took one of Jimmy’s arms, Tim looked at Hoyt. “The lights.”

            “Ah, shit.”

            They weren’t going to say it in front of everyone. They didn’t need to. The kid had come to the first place he saw with electricity. That meant half of town was already in the dark from loss of power. The school and everything else was on higher ground, but that wouldn’t last.

            And then it went dark. Two seconds of silence. Then muttering. Then exasperation. The rising discordance of a groping, scared mob.

And then they came back on. Tim looked around. Most people seemed frozen. Probably waiting for the same thing to happen again. Or wondering if it had happened at all.

            He looked at his oldest friend and nodded. “The generator.”

            “This place has one,” Hoyt said. “But not everyone’s gonna have one.”     

            “Not many at all, I’d imagine. Go and get some flashlights from the janitor’s office. Whatever else you think might be good.”

            Hoyt responded with a yep, though it was hardly enthusiastic. The night ahead was going to be rough, best case.

            Shayna squeezed her way through a few of the Transplants and took Jimmy’s wrist. “She smiled at the kid and asked him how he felt. He was fine, he said, chest puffed out now, wanting to show himself off undaunted to the best-looking doctor an adolescent could hope to have.

            “Nothing like hormones, hey Jimmy,” Tim said.

            “Speaking of male stupidity,” Shayna followed, “Do you plan on going out there?”

            “That’s the plan.”

            Shayna said no more. The examination of Jimmy the Wet and Horny was everything. All of a sudden he didn’t exist. Tim didn’t try to retrieve her attention. He knew what she was thinking, just about. Their arguments in the past generally centered on his proclivity to charge ahead and put it all on the line. Like when he gave all of his time and money to keeping the store going when his dad got sick. In a way she admired it. But somehow it annoyed her. Tim figured either his wife tended to be unreasonable, or she was capable of reasoning at a higher level than he could comprehend.

            They’d never really sorted it out. 

            Hoyt came back and squeaked to a stop on the gym floor, hands full of flashlights. “I don’t know how water resistant these are.”

            “Give me one of those.” Merritt Lennox held out a strong calm hand. The gesture had the desired effect. Hoyt did as commanded. “If there’s people that need help, I’m going out there too.”

            Tim took note of the faces around him. Some were simply scared, worried about property and other loved ones in town. Some faces were meek and down, ashamed that they weren’t going too. He looked at Senior’s face, full of pride and purpose. He was obviously trying to make sure Shayna noticed his resolve.

            This friggin douche, Tim thought.

Chapter 21: Streetwalking

            An hour later, the water was beginning to recede. They’d managed to pull a couple from their waterlogged vehicle and three more townsfolk that hadn’t managed to get home from work, slowly guiding them back to what used to be Semple’s Hardware using ropes to tie together. An idea Tim got from high elevation mountain climbing in his younger years. Tim didn’t know if it was the right method, but no one objected so far and so far it seemed to be working.

            The rain was easing back. He began to relax as they helped the antique dealer Mr. Davis and one of his employees inside his old shop—the new Davies Gallery. It was on the high side of the town square and he knew there was a generator. He’d left it there, after all.

            Seemed a good place to operate from.

            “Do you think we should go back out?” Hoyt asked. He looked tired, water dripping from his hanging chin. Everyone wore similar expressions. Their little search party ended up including Hoyt, Senior, and Andreas Bastille.

            Hoyt was more out of shape than he wanted to let on.

            Senior was old. A miserably tough old, but old nevertheless.

            Andreas Bastille was enthusiastic enough, though tenacity could only give a man so much in a tough fight.

            “Give me a second.” Tim went outside and let the weather have him. Water ran over the toes of his boots. It was trending calmer still. Less wind. Less rain.

            Back inside, he asked if everyone would stay put. The worst seemed to be over.

            “What about you, Semple?” Lennox asked, wiping the wet from his fat lower lip and spitting on the floor. Tim didn’t know if the gesture was meant as an insult to him or to the new owners. He only knew it made him raw to have Senior standing where his father belonged, spitting where his father should still be.

            “I’m going to head back out,” Tim said. They all watched him as he checked two flashlights and threw the rope around his head and shoulder so it hung on his body at an angle. “Y’all should stay here.”

            There were a few objections. Mr. Davis said he’d done enough. Hoyt said the rain was dying off. Merritt Senior said he was a damn fool to go back out alone. Tim almost asked the old man if he’d come with him. Maybe there’d be an accident and the gray-haired bastard would get washed away, a blight washed away by Mother Nature.

            Tim really hated seeing him in their old store.

            Andreas Bastille shook his hand and nodded before returning to the people they’d rescued sitting on the floor. Semple wasn’t sure what the new arrival was up to. Maybe he was nice, a down-to-earth rich man with a heart of gold. His reasons, whatever they were, clearly pinched Senior’s balls—that much was obvious—and okay by Tim, at least for the moment.

            “Keep the lights on,” he said. “Others might come to it.”

            Once outside, a strong gust blew water off the sidewalk and from the sky harshly into his face. A reminder to not get cocky. He moved downhill to where the water was still collecting in large swirling pools. Before long he was on a side street. It was dark except for the flashlight and he had to be careful, pushing on methodically between a few abandoned cars and then over a downed telephone pole.

            A few more minutes and he thought about turning back for the store. Alone and with a little time to think, it seemed ridiculous to be out there. He was trying to prove something, probably. The desperate attempt of a man on the way down to make a meaningful contribution.  When conventional methods of achievement come to naught, throw yourself in harm’s way.

            Or something like that.

            The wind and rain picked up again. He was up to his crotch in water, starting to feel the cold down to bone. His hands were in a particularly bad way; they were shaking and stripped of skin from where he’d pulled people along with the rope. I’m done, he said. When he turned to go back, he saw a tiny light down at the end of the street, about thirty yards away. At first he thought it was a figment, because the light was too small to be a flashlight or a lantern. He was more sodden and exhausted than he realized. Then it occurred to him. It was the light from a cell phone, waving back and forth.

            It took several minutes to make the short distance. Now the water was swirling and running chaotically. It was a dangerous spot. The banks of the river were on the far side of the buildings in front of him and the water was trying to get back to get back its home.

            The cell phone continued going back and forth, more erratic as he got closer. He signaled with his flashlight and moved carefully. It was mess. There were tree branches and items of every kind floating quick and collecting at the end of the road, building into a kind of unstable dam. A piece of a table crashed into his backside and knocked him headfirst into the water where he cracked his head on the metal base of a lamp.  

            The rain stung at the fresh cut in his head when he came back up. A series of lightning strikes added more context, strobing the scene enough to take better stock. He could see who he was after. A young woman named Jayla Wills. Tim knew her better as the mother of Brock Wills, the youngster who worked at Lennox’s hardware. The one he’d covered for with the forklift. “Jayla!” he called out, “it’s Tim Semple! Are you injured!?”

            “Not injured! Freezing! Please help!”

            Ms. Wills was flattened out, clinging to the top of her old car. The rest had been submerged. It was shifting a little as Tim approached, banging his shins on unseen obstructions with every step. The buildup of debris was getting worse and worse. He could go no further. If he moved closer to Jayla’s car he might get trapped by the onslaught of wreckage moving down the road.

            He threw the rope. The third time she caught it. With it wrapped around her waist, she slipped carefully into the dangerous, swirling water. There was nothing else to be done. Tim could see that the car might be washed away any second. Then there wouldn’t be anything he could do.

            She wasn’t far now. “Keep coming,” he called out, beckoning with one hand on shining the flashlight on the water in front of her.

            When she collapsed into his arms, he could feel the stiff cold in her body. She was a stubborn woman, he thought. Trying to save what she had when everyone else gave up.

            Admirable. And completely understandable. However dumb.

            “I can’t go anymore,” Jayla Wills said, arms locked around his neck.

            “You gotta. We can’t stay here another second, Ms. Wills.” Despite the wind and the rain, he didn’t have to shout. Her ear was next to his mouth while she hung on.

            “I think one of my legs is broken. I can’t. I can’t!”

            Tim believed her. He was getting pummeled. The rain was steady and the flow down the road stronger than ever. Another series of lightning strikes showed him how dire the situation was but also gave him an idea. Walking back up the street would be impossible against the current. She was injured. He was hurt, probably worse than he knew.

            The buildings on either side were still standing. That’s where he’d take the woman.

            He didn’t ask for permission and she didn’t fight it when he threw her over his shoulder. His flashlight hand was out in front and to the side, lighting the way and helping with balance. The destination was Henry Spade’s insurance shop. He knew the place well. It had a back entrance that led into an alleyway with a steep grade upward back toward the center of town. All he could think was to get through that office and get higher. Behind him, cars were starting to slip and slam together. Large pieces of furniture and detritus were colliding and cracking as the pressure of the water built.

            “How you doing back there?” he asked Jayla Wills, moving a bookshelf and a broken TV carefully out of the way before grabbing onto one of the support pillars that held up the overhang in front of Spade’s.

            “This sucks,” she screamed. “When the hell does it ever flood in this town? I thought they were just stories.”

            “I was thinking the same thing the other day. We good to keep going?”

            “You’re driving.”

            He smiled. Almost laughed. Out of place yet much needed considering their present position. “We keep going then.”

            Most of the furniture in the insurance office had already been washed away. He made it through to the back with only a slight bruise from a big oak desk that caught him on the hip. “No problem,” Tim said. It was quiet enough inside so they didn’t have to raise their voices.

            “Whatever you say, Semple. Don’t drop me and I won’t complain.”

            “I’m driving.”

            “You’re driving.”

The water in the back of the office was only up to his ankles. Progress. He pulled the door opening into the alley with a grunt, fighting the water and its inherent heaviness. The alley looked good. Water was coming down but it was shallow. Nothing like the nightmare they’d just escaped.

            He moved quickly up the incline. His jeans were soaking and strangling his legs but underneath they’d taken some damage that might bring down once he got full feeling back. Tim asked Jayla if she was still with him. She said yes with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. She was glad to be alive. Yet there was always reality to deal with. Her leg would cost money she didn’t have. The car was destroyed. Did she have car flood insurance? Her son would have to work more. He couldn’t work more. Not if he wanted to keep his grades up.

            Jayla started to cry as they got to the top of the alley. Tim could see his old store down at the end of the street. As the rain started to taper off once more, he could see the glow of the gymnasium rising above the other dark building in town.

            He set her down against on the curb and asked if there was anything he could do.

            She told him that he’d done enough. Life just kind of sucked. They were soaked and busted up, sitting in the middle of a natural disaster, she said.

            When he tried offering something like comfort he tipped over instead. His injuries, turns out, were a little worse than he thought. Jayla’s screaming for help was the last thing he heard.

Chapter 22: R and R

            Though there aren’t too many people that would proclaim a fondness for hospitals, Tim was a man who resented them more than most. When he came to and figured out where he was, the only instinct he had was to get the hell out. It wasn’t a hospital. It was setting for a huge portion of his life’s woes. A building that didn’t do a damn thing in the end but swallow his father up. A building where Shayna went to everyday and took a nasty helping of her spirit and almost all her time. The only time he ever wanted go was when she got diagnosed with cancer. Ironically, that was the only time he was told to stay the hell away. Shayna’s support group never included him. He wasn’t guessing. Every member of her support group made it clear that his being around was just about as bad as the cancer she was trying to beat.

            Not wanting to hear he was something like cancer, he eventually stayed away and hoped and prayed from everywhere else.

            When he yanked off the sensors and pulled out the IV, it set off the gadgets. He figured on it but didn’t give a shit.

            Hoyt was first in, followed by a short nurse and a tall doctor. They all pleaded with him to get back in bed.

            “Come on brother, don’t go crazy,” Hoyt said, staying a couple feet back.

            The nurse wasn’t so tentative. She put both her pudgy hands on Tim’s shoulders and forced him back down. “Mr. Semple, what are you trying to do?”

            “I think it’s—purdy obvos.”

            “They got you on some drugs, big dog. If you go wandering out of here you won’t make it far. Why keel over on the street when you got a nice bed. Come on, now.” Hoyt took a little step closer. Tim noticed his friend’s clothes, strangely. Most likely because they were strange. His looked fresh and they weren’t tucked into the tops of his boots. He was wearing a shirt with a collar. It was as disorienting as the drugs.

He managed to slip the nurse’s rugged grip and get to his feet. She was hollering louder than hell when he realized something was wrong. About a half a second of action came to nothing as he collapsed on the floor, bare-assed as the hospital gown came apart, crawling like a lunatic in the general direction of the doctor’s shoes. He tried to swear. In the end he found himself placed back in bed by two larger men, arms lashed to the sides of the heavy plastic port and starboard until a generous dose of benzodiazepines were floating through his system.           

            “Now you’re calm,” Hoyt said, getting right to the business of undoing the straps. “Better already.”

            “Not sposhd to let me undood. I hurd.”

            His friend didn’t stop. “I’m not letting you go, even though I could. Even though that’s what you want. But we’re not letting these bastards tie you up like a damn criminal. You’re a damn hero, after all.”

            Tim looked away and blinked, trying not to go to sleep. Falling asleep at the hospital might mean he’d never wake up. He’d seen it happen before. He was just so tired. And what the hell was wrong with his leg? Something more than a sprain, by the way he went down like a wet sack of potatoes.

            Hoyt threw the straps into the corner and sat down, listening to the semi-sensical thoughts running through Tim’s tired mind. How he should’ve done more for his father. Better doctors, a better hospital, more money. More and more and more. He wasn’t up to the task. Hoyt went ahead and cried. He was alone with it. Tim wouldn’t remember the show of emotion, not the way he was. Remembering Mr. Semple reduced to like that wasn’t easy for him, either. He was more of a father to him than his own.

            They finally fell asleep. Tim first, talking right until unconsciousness fully seized him. Hoyt not much longer. Then Gable came in and after a minute or so dozed off in a chair on the other side of the bed.

            Shayna poked her head in. She was a doctor, after all, and Tim was convalescing where she worked. After an intense, quick check of his chart she walked faster than normal down the hall to the elevator. Damn near a trot.

Chapter 23: Progress

            It was a nice day and Tim was glad to be outside, under the sun. He hadn’t gotten around much in the last week, grimacing each time he thought about using crutches.

            It was a nice day, perfect for weather for the cleanup crews trying to get the salvageable parts of the lower sections of town repaired and cleaned up. The irredeemable was mostly gone already. In seven days almost the entire town had come together and helped out to make it possible.

            It was a nice day. Too nice for frigging therapy. Tim was attempting comfort on a wooden bench in Custer Park when Sammy, Leah Sander and Ray Millstone came strolling up the well-manicured hill, almost like three regular people. They almost looked casual, even comfortable with themselves. The park was in perfect shape, on the high side of town and completely unaffected by the events of last week.

            “Don’t even think about getting up,” Sammy said, swinging a bag around to his front and showing it off with the pride of a brand new mom. “I brought chairs. You don’t move a muscle.” Tim was about ready to get out of town. Since his exit from the hospital, everyone in Mere Valley was hailing him as a hero. The rich and poor, the young and old. He was already having to deny things about the night of the storm, like the story had turned into a legend in record time. It should’ve felt good, but after being ostracized for so long, it was uncomfortable skin to wear.

            It’s a nice day, he told himself. Stop being a baby.

            The others circled and adjusted in their foldup seats. The birds were singing. It was as pleasant and clear as it got in the Valley, the air warm but clean. A little breeze. The storm had broken the horrible heat that had been testing moods for the last long while.

            “I think it’s worth acknowledging that this is Tim’s last time with the group,” Sammy said, clapping silent and dainty with his fingertips. “Do you feel like you’ve made progress with your anger and yourself in general?”

            Now, Tim thought, that is an interesting question. A surprising question, and Sammy wasn’t usually capable of such a feat. “I think so.”

            He knew it wasn’t a sufficient response. The way the others were hunched forward in anticipation showed their desire for more. “I think so. But get back around to me. I need to think about it a little more. Sorry, y’all.”

            And so he spent the next thirty minutes listening to the others and thinking about himself, splitting time in his brain. Leah said she was still clean and sober, though it wasn’t easy. Some wanderer named Griff or Greg pissed her off by sleeping with her and stealing her wallet. She was going to work on not sleeping with so many different people. It was usually unpleasant and it was more like a compulsion, more like the drug and alcohol addictions she was having to do therapy for. For crying out loud, sex with strangers without alcohol and drugs was pretty much lame, unless you actually cared about the other person, and who was she going to care about—more important, who was going to care about her enough for her to let her guard down enough to start caring the other direction. Anyway, she was working on it. Things weren’t so bad. The storm didn’t mess up her place or the place she worked. That was nice.

            Ray was a little less sanguine. He went on about how over the years he had warned, via mail, the mayor, the governor, the town council, his neighbors, and everyone he could get in touch with on his Ham radio that Mere Valley was set for a major flood. All the signs were there. Apparently there were at least three places in the state where the government was performing unnatural experiences with weather phenomenon, learning how to manipulate and weaponize the atmosphere for damn reasons he couldn’t explain but reasons weren’t what the bastards were real big on.

Sammy instructed everyone to take a deep breath. The sounds of children playing in the distance and the rustling of leaves all around were good medicine. And so, Sammy explained, it was time for Tim to expand on his feelings. Just a little more and he would be done. The mandate would be fulfilled. No big deal.

            “I feel pretty good, actually,” he said, cheeks turning red. “It’s like a whole new me—at least that’s what everybody seems to think—so maybe it’s true.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Ray. He was unsurprisingly suspicious of the vagary.

            “Yeah, I guess that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Well, since a long time, I’ve been sort of looked at sideways by this town. Enough to where I thought about just leaving all together. I know everyone that was born here talks about it, but I’m serious. It crossed my mind more than a time or two, serious as can be.”

            “And now you think things have turned?” Sammy asked.

            “Well, I was thinking to myself before y’all got here that I might leave town on account of it being hard to get used to the smiles and the waves. This man-remade deal is a new suit. But on the whole I should be thankful, be glad I didn’t get hurt too bad and that we managed to help some folks.”

            He was lucky. The whole town was lucky. Folks from the state emergency board said it was a miracle nobody had been killed or taken life-threatening injuries. Tim was the most banged up person in town, and he only had a nasty muscle contusion that would heal in time and a bump on the head. Probably something nearing a concussion, but nothing that a football player didn’t get two or three times a game. And he’d managed to do something good.

            “The main thing is, I’m grateful. Shayna even wants to talk. Not argue. Actually talk. Like she’s willing to see another side of me. Not the idiot I was.”

            “You did good, buddy,” Leah said. “Even I don’t harbor much resentment towards ya. Maybe forget all that shit about resenting not being hating so much.”

            Her point, though unique in its delivery, did a good job of reinforcing his own. Something like hope came welling up. He sat there nodding with closed lips, acknowledging them with resolve not to make more of it than he already had. He wasn’t going to start going on about how happy he was. Then again, his leg didn’t hurt that bad. Things were good.

            Sammy took out a piece of paper and started writing. Tim figured the therapist was taking notes, like always. Not so. “Here you go,” he said, getting up to deliver the paper into Tim’s hand. It was a certificate saying he’d completed the anger management course and that he was free from the grip of the court. Tim had done his time. Grown. Become a hero. Turned it all around. “You’ve put in the work. It wasn’t so bad, after all. I think it’s okay if you admit that now.”

            “I’ll admit it,” Tim said. He was settled. Solemn. A slight smile on his face and not much else. Just another fella sitting on a bench in a lovely park.

            “We should finish up,” Sammy said, turning to Ray. “Do you have anything else going on, Mr. Millstone? Anything you want to get off your chest?”

            The ashen conspiracy theorist snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah. What do y’all think about the folks being forced to sell out?”

            “Who’s being forced?” Tim asked, looking up from his certificate of freedom.

            “Shit. Half the local town businesses, buckaroo. The big shots are buying out most of them out. And there’s not stopping it. The perfect storm. I’ll say. The shits. They never miss a trick. Never miss it. This whole thing was planned. And if it wasn’t, it still was.”

            Tim missed the rest of Ray’s speech to think about things for himself. It made sense. That’s why the Transplants were so eager to get the town cleaned up. They were swooping in, taking the disaster as an opportunity. Most of the businesses destroyed or partially wrecked in the flood were small and month to month, like he had been. Probably with insurance that barely covered the wreckage if it covered it at all. The rich bastards. Ray was right. They never missed a trick.

            Tim stuffed the certificate in his pocket and stood up. “Sons of bitches.”

            “What’s wrong, Tim?”

            He didn’t address Sammy’s question, turning around to pick up one of his crutches. “Sammy, I’m all signed off. It’s official?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good.”

            Tim began to beat the park bench with one of his crutches until it shattered in his hands, imagining the hurt he’d like to put on Lennox Senior and all the rest of the bastards.

            The others had backed away during the outburst. He heard Sammy say something about it being completely inappropriate.

            “But I’m cured,” he said, sitting up with the certificate in his hand.

Chapter 24: Not Great

            Tim stuffed the certificate in his pocket and made his way down the hill, out of the park. Being down a crutch, he decided to abandon the other. Wincing along, struggling but determined, he found Shayna standing against his truck in the parking lot.

            “What are you doing?” she asked, taking off her sunglasses and giving him a thorough up and down scan.

            “I need to find somebody.” He meant Andreas Bastille. Maybe the billionaire could help him with the Transplants. It was the only person he could think of. Not that he was about to tell Shayna. She’d think it was stupid or crazy. Hell, he had no idea what she was thinking anymore.

  Tim hobbled by her unceremoniously, standing at the door, fumbling for his keys.

            “I’d like to talk to you,” Shayna said. Tim noticed a fresh tone to her voice. It was something like the old days when she didn’t hate his guts. “Could you slow down for a minute?”

            He wasn’t so mad that he didn’t recognize the moment. Perhaps an opening. A start to getting back together, things anew, patching things up. It was what he wanted more than anything, after all. He looked at the paper in his left hand. It certified that he wasn’t a freaking lunatic with antisocial tendencies. So he tried focusing on that. “I’ve got a minute or two,” he said, relaxing his taught face and turning to her proper.

            “I saw you in the hospital but I didn’t want to bother,” she said, looking at the pavement. “And she was there, so, you know.”

            “Shayna—”

            “No, I’m not trying to start anything. Shouldn’t have brought that up.” She was talking fast. “It’s fine. You did good, Tim. I’m proud.”

            He knew this, whatever it might be, wasn’t easy for her. It was weird enough for him. And the fact that she was dancing around Gable being at the hospital and not hammering him with it was a minor miracle.

“We’ve only been friends. It was the one time.” He could tell as soon as it came out that she didn’t want anything to do with it.

            “Really, Tim, it’s okay.”

            “Yeah.” He knew that it wasn’t, not completely, but he’d leave it alone for now. Rome wasn’t rebuilt in a day. Or whatever. “How’s your health?” he asked. It was a safe subject. And he really did care.

            “Perfect. Clean bill. How’s your leg?” She smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to be on crutches?”

            “Nothing against them, doc. They just weren’t working for me.” He hoped that would be the end of the crutch segment of the conversation. The part about him smashing one and abandoning the other wouldn’t make for good catching up material. The fact that he was leaning on the truck for support wasn’t aiding him, probably. Shayna noticed everything. It wasn’t like he was going to fool her.

            “Okay, you’re a big boy.”

            Thank you.

            “I like your hair,” he said.

            “I haven’t changed it.”

            “I like it anyways.”

            “You’re a crazy person. But you know that.”

            “I know. I just came from therapy.”

            Shayna started laughing. It reminded him that she used to laugh all the time. She would almost make a spitting sound at first, like it was something she’d been holding in for days. For a woman so beautiful and dignified, Tim found this one quirk to be endearingly unladylike.

As he began to talk about his triumphant psychological journey, Gary Gasden hastily stopped his truck in the road close to where to Tim and Shayna were standing. Gary was the kind of guy who was perfectly nice until he wasn’t. Either way, he wasn’t much for quiet. He was yelling for the cars behind him to drive around while he idled and rolled the passenger window down to talk about what Tim assumed to be pressing business. Mere Valley wasn’t New York City but it had a few busy roads and this was one of them. Apparently, Gary didn’t care about the inconvenience it was causing his fellow townsfolk.

            “What are you doing, man?” Tim asked. He had yell over Gary’s empty passenger seat to be heard.

            “What are you doing, Semple? Your father would be ashamed. Consorting with the enemy as well. That’s just great. Just when I thought you were back to your senses. She’s warming Lennox’s bed while he helps take the town from us. Makes me sick.” A car honking behind stopped him for a few seconds. “Are you going to let this happen? This could be the end of everything. We’ll all have to go. Starting over. The people that made this town a nice place. Why do I need to be explaining this, boy?”

            The situation was annoying. Complicated. No, Tim thought, it was complete shit. He was trying to mend fences with Shayna, or at least start to. Then again, Gary had a point. She was warming Lennox’s bed. An old-fashioned way to say they were screwing. Gross. But that didn’t give Gary the right to come rushing up breaking balls. Tim wasn’t on the Transplants side and he’d never been. He was the heralded hero of the storm, the guy who risked his life, and who cared if deep down his courage came from not knowing if he cared about his own.

Tim put a hand on Shayna’s shoulder and asked her to wait for a second. He stepped over to the passenger side of Gary’s truck and asked him to lean over so he could hear him clear. As he did, Tim grabbed the middle-aged welder by his flannel collar and pulled his top half across the bed of the truck. Still holding on, he stepped back a little, toward the rear of the truck. “Apologize. Yell at me all you like. Shayna’s not going to be your punching bag.”

            “I won’t do it.”

            Tim pulled him tighter and whispered. “Gary, don’t make me beat you here in front of her and the thirty cars honking behind. They’d probably cheer it on, considering you’re messing with their day.”

            The older man was still angry but he knew that he was beat. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Semple. I get riled up sometimes. It won’t happen again.” She could barely hear the words. He was low on oxygen and in considerable pain from being thrust against his vehicle’s middle console.

            “That’s okay, Gary,” Shayna said with a wave. “How’s Geraldine?”

            “She’s fine. Same old.”

            “That’s nice to hear. She is so lovely. And patient. You got yourself a winner there, Gary. But you already know that. Managing your moods like she does.”

            “I better go,” he said, pleading with his eyes for release.

            “You best.”

            He was down the road a half second after Tim released him. He stood there for a minute calming down, receiving more than one thank you from the cars now freed up to go about their business.

            When he walked back to Shayna, he was expecting approval. He’d stepped up to the mark in the name of her honor, after all.

“It’s going to be like this, isn’t it?” she asked. “You get honks and waves of support. Me the subject of disapproving eyes.”

“Don’t let Gary get you down. I’m pretty sure the road back isn’t supposed to be perfect. Got to start somewhere, though.”

            “Who said anything about a road back?”

            He looked at her and crossed his arms, trying not to put a lot of weight on his bad leg. It was burning extra hot now, having used it for leverage in the education of Gary. “Nobody said anything, but a guy can hope. It’s my new glass half full approach. Therapy works wonders.”

            “Tim, don’t—”

            “In light of my recent heroics, can we just leave it there for now?” He smiled like a little kid trying to extort a treat with cuteness.

            “You’re an idiot,” she said, hitting him on the shoulder lightly and shaking her head with a smile she wanted to contain but couldn’t.

            “Thank you,” he said. As she walked away he felt something light up inside. It was a tiny step, maybe—still, the first step was always the hardest. That’s what every bullshit psychiatrist, podcaster, inspirational speaker, motivational speaker, preacher, writer, poet, and philosopher said. Or maybe they didn’t. What the hell did he know.

            He knew he’d just made Shayna smile. That’s what.

Chapter 25: Bigshot

            For a man of wealth and power, Andreas Bastille was surprisingly low-profile. After an hour of searching the internet, Tim found maybe twenty pictures and a half dozen articles that mentioned him. “It’s almost like he’s not even part of the family,” Tim said, scratching his head and moving his leg slightly to keep the blood flowing.

            Hoyt was on the other side of the couch watching television while Tim scrolled away on his laptop. “So, the bigshot may not be such a bigshot?” Hoyt asked, not bothering to look away from the screen. A panel of guys were arguing about football. Apparently it was very interesting.

            “What are you still doing here? Aren’t you taking Reny out?”        

            “Hell yes I am,” he said, turning off the show. Tim had stumbled on a subject more interesting than journalists expertly talking about sports they most likely never played. “Taking her to Gable’s.”

            “Nice,” Tim said, reading something about a charity started by Andreas Bastille. Something about getting fresh water and decent food to people in war-torn countries in all corners of the world.

            “Hey, gimp. Don’t act so surprised. I’m capable of romance.”

            “It’s because she’s frigging gorgeous.”

            “Dude. So hot. You should see—”

            “Hoyt, I love you like a brother, but I know where this is going. Maybe spare me the details this once.”

            His friend didn’t respond, choosing instead to head for the kitchen. Tim closed the computer and turned around, wondering if he had been too curt. “I’m sorry if that came off wrong. Maybe I’m jealous.”

            Hoyt returned with two beers and a smile. “Hell, you’d be crazy if you weren’t jealous. I’m the man. You can be the hero all damn day if I get the girl.”

            Tim tried not to react like he was in the midst of serious relationship problems.

            “Oh. Shit dude. I wasn’t thinking.”

            “Give me that beer. And don’t apologize. It’s a miracle you can function at all trying to keep up with that twenty-something.”

            “If my heart gives out, so be it,” he said, plopping back down on the couch. “I just wish I didn’t like her so much. It’s gonna suck when it doesn’t work out.”

            It sounded like his friend was sulking as he turned the TV back on. Maybe that was the case, Hoyt was lamenting the inevitable future. Or, his buddy was trying to make the situation sound bleak to make up for being thoughtless a moment before. Tim didn’t say anything. Hoyt liked to play the good-natured good-looking good-timing man but he was more complicated than that. He had a knack for manipulation, inadvertently learned from parents whose favorite hobbies were emotional and psychological torture. When one left and then the other, Hoyt was sent to live with a grandfather who mostly ignored him, the type of old school crooked-backed fella who used his experience in war to justify being an asshole about everything to everyone. His charm wasn’t dark, but no one with charm used it for entirely selfless purposes.

            “You never know, it could be something,” Tim said, deciding to keep it simple. He figured he’d remind Hoyt that Gable’s place was pretty nice, the kind for quiet conversations and your best duds you wouldn’t wear to a funeral, but he was interrupted by the door.

            “Bigshot,” Hoyt said, turning off the TV.

            “Just relax,” Tim said, setting his beer down before rounding the couch to answer. He tucked his shirt into his jeans and then pulled it back out when he realized he had no belt. A little late for putting on airs, he thought, opening the glass storm door with a howdy.

            “Good day,” said Andreas Bastille, standing on the doorstep with his hands clasped in front and a large cylindrical tube underneath his right armpit. “This is the right time to come, Mr. Semple?”

            “Hell yeah, man.” Tim found himself almost pushed into the wall as Hoyt shot up and waved Bastille inside. “It’s cool to meet you. And Timmy here says you like to fly under the radar. That’s legit. Like Bruce Wayne.”

            “I wouldn’t say that,” answered the billionaire.

            “Take it easy, Hoyt. Let the man have a clear path inside, at least.”

            “That’s fine,” said Bastille. He wasn’t particularly handsome next to Hoyt and Tim, but he had a calm self-assurance that could cause someone to call him beautiful. It was the European thing, Tim thought. All that sitting around and taking naps on the vineyard, sipping those little cups of coffee or whatever so you don’t get too worked up or too many lines on the skin. The internet said Bastille was in his early 40s. He didn’t look a day over thirty.

            “Are you going to help with all these assholes?” Hoyt asked as they all sat down at Tim’s handmade polished dinner table. It had been in the family for generations, but it had never been used to host someone as influential as Andreas Bastille. Maybe the governor back in the day. Grandpa Semple had some power, he knew. Heard stories, more like. The original Timothy Semple died before Tim really got the chance to listen firsthand.

            “I would like to help of course,” said the businessman, answering Hoyt’s question while looking at Tim. “As in everything important, or even trivial, there is much to consider.”

            “I think it’s going to be worse than we even thought, now that the storm’s done its thing.” Tim took a breath to rub his leg. He’d been too eager to get to the door. But he almost welcomed the pain, holding a degree of satisfaction, that it meant he was moving in the direction of something that mattered.

            “What’s in the cylinder?” Hoyt asked, sitting back in his chair and crossing his workman’s arms.

            “It looks like plans,” Tim said.

            “Plans. Yes. Do you think we could step out to the back?”

            “Whatever you want to do,” Tim responded. He stood up and led the way to the back sliding door. They stood on the concrete slab, looking out over the property and beyond. Tim’s house was built on three acres and wasn’t beautifully maintained. He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the riding mower and the grass was tall.

            “This is a proper view,” Bastille said. “Yes.”

            The foreign businessman was standing between Tim and Hoyt, and they were able to trade a short judgmental man couldn’t detect from his shorter vantage.

            “I suppose it is,” Tim answered, looking out as Bastille open up the cylinder and extracted a rolled-up paper or document. Setting the cylinder down he asked them to help unfurl it.

            The sketch was detailed and busy. An artist’s rendering rather than a detailed blueprint.

            “I thought you should see this,” he said. “It’s almost like it was drawn up from this exact position. Somewhere very close to here, certainly.”

            Tim held the right side. Hoyt the left. They were looking at the future according to the rich and ambitious descending upon Mere Valley. The properties between them and the mountain would have to be torn down for the grand vision depicted on that big white piece of paper. Family homes and small ranches, many going back to the initial settling. Maybe there’d be fair offers. Maybe they’d just get steamrolled by lawyers or, God held them, the government.

            While Tim thought about what to say, Hoyt said, “Well shit.”

            He considered it one of his best friend’s more airtight commentaries.

            “We need a hell of a plan if we’re going to stop this from becoming a reality,” Tim said, letting go of his side to let it wave and eventually drift down to the ground. He didn’t want to see it anymore. It made his stomach sick. “I don’t know,” he said, so soft that the others barely heard.

            “He’s thinking,” Hoyt said to Bastille.

            He was. And about a great many things. Why did Bastille have to include him? He was hardly equipped for a fight like this. All he had was family history, and what was that against mountains of money? Maybe fighting the developers was pointless. Hell, maybe it was wrong. A lot of people could find work if the big shots built resorts and condos and brand new villages made to look old and quaint. Why was it Tim Semple’s job to keep others from getting jobs of their own.

            “I need a beer,” he said, walking to the back door. “Bastille, we need to talk details. Build some trust.”

            “You okay?” Hoyt asked, still holding the sagging plans.

            “You get to your date. That girl is way too hot for you to be showing up late. And don’t talk about any of this to her. Or to Mabel. She’s got enough going on, running that restaurant. Fact she’s my friend me puts her business at risk.”

            “I’m your friend. Don’t you worry about my risk?”

            “You’ve been a walking risk since your first steps. The girl, Hoyt.”

            “Right. Priorities.”

Chapter 26: Horse Sense

            For the amount of trouble Tim had gotten into with Hoyt over the years, they’d never worried too much about the law. Not to say that small town justice was pleasant. Sometimes more acute, though less enduring. Besides the odd trauma here and there from an overzealous deputy or rookie looking to make a point and solidify a reputation. Courts were only involved if the trouble was deemed serious. The true miscreants they’d gone to school with were either dead from drugs or dead by others who felt they had a stronger claim to sell it. In that way, Mere Valley was very much like most small towns out west.

            Tim was out walking the mostly dirt roads around the rim of the valley when he spotted the sheriff’s horse a few hundred yards ahead coming up and out of one of the little streams that ran off the mountains. A lot of them tended to dry up later in the summer but some spots stayed wet enough for proper fishing until they froze over again.

            The sheriff stopped his big mare in front of Tim by the rusty gate at the edge of the Durell’s property. They had about fifty acres. Nothing fancy. Just a little house with a well and a barn, some assorted livestock, and a hell of nice view. Not an unusual setup for one of the valley’s original families, better than some, not as good as others. Over the years they’d sold parcels off to keep up, but they were holding the line fairly well. Three generations lived on the land. Tim had met the little ones at church back when he still went. One redhead girl and a chubby blonde boy. One elder left, the grandmother.

            “Hey there, Sheriff,” Tim said, patting the horse on its neck and squinting up at Gib. “You mind turning out from the sun? Hard to have a look.”

            His wish wasn’t granted. Gib kept his mount in that same spot, sun high and just behind his head. “How was the therapy?” he asked. “I heard you did good. Got to say—ya surprised me a bit there, making all your sessions, not fucking up.”

            Tim quit trying to look up. He put his hands on his hips and spoke uncomfortably loud, down in the direction of the mare’s legs. “Well, you and the judge said that’s what needed to happen. Figure, who am I to say different?”

            As he finished with his answer, he thought hard about Gib’s behavior.  The sheriff’s normal custom would be to see Tim, wave from afar, and go about his business. Tim had never met a man less inclined toward conversation. Gib made a great deal of money as an expert hunter and fisherman; two things that required silence. “What’s going on there, Sheriff? What brings you riding all the way out here?”

            The horse tried to shift but Gib gave her a tug as a reminder that he wanted her to stay put. “I’ve never much of an opinion about you, Mr. Semple.”

            “Well, I don’t know what to say to that.”      

            “That’s your thing though, isn’t it? Talking?”

            If it was unusual before, now it was officially uncomfortable.

            “No, you don’t understand.” Tim was trying not get to get irritated. It wasn’t working. Gib had poked too many times, not exactly spacing out the slights.

He closed his eyes and counted. First, interrupting his day. Second, suggesting he was an especially predictable fuck up. Third, offering confusing insults. “It’s hard to know what you meant. So here I am, squinting. Not from the sun, but from not understanding. See, you said you never had much opinion about me. That’s a tough one, down here from where I stand. Cause it could mean you think bad of me, or you don’t think of me at all. On top of that, neither makes a hell of a lot of sense. Seeing as how I thought we were always friendly and more than once have gone out fishing. The word friend comes to mind. Came to mind, anyhow.”

            “Ever think about leaving town?” Gib asked. It seemed he had a set course. Tim couldn’t steer him off it.

Tim spit and wiped his brow. It was getting hot again. He should’ve worn a cap. But he wanted to look respectful. This wasn’t an aimless stroll. Visits to make. “Thought about leaving about as much as I’ve thought about anything.” He smiled at Gib. “Except for women. Seems most men’s curse to pay them more than their share of mind.”

            “You don’t take anything serious,” Gib said with a grunt, dismounting from the horse. He gathered the reins and stood next to Tim strangely close. They had the whole valley, but here they were. Dancing badly. Stepping on each other’s shoes.

            “I’m taking this seriously. Whatever it is.”

            The wind picked up and blew some dust into Tim’s eyes. He blinked and put a hand up to block more. Gib didn’t move. His sunglasses were tight to his rigid face, looking like a prototypical cop for the first time. “You should stop doing what you’re doing.”

            Tim didn’t feel like denying it. Hell, there wasn’t anything bad in it. He was trying to be a good neighbor and worn folks of the resort plans. Most of the ones he’d talked to already had pretty good notions. Some were more worried than others. “I’m the furthest thing from a HOA posterchild, sheriff. Not like I’m being a bother.”

            Gib spit again. Some got on Tim’s boot. “Let me decide if you’re being a bother.”

            This sudden change didn’t make sense. Or could be, it did. Tim might’ve outshined Gib a little by helping out with those folks during the flood. The few police and firefighters in town hadn’t done anything to exemplify heroism. Was it that petty? Or had the unassuming town sheriff shed his skin, choosing now to reveal his true nature.

            “Did the Transplants buy you, Gib?” Tim asked.

            “What did you say to me?”

            “Don’t get so mad. It’s not like I want to believe it. Just trying to figure out what’s got you so far up my ass today.”                       

            Gib scoffed and put his hands on the top edge of his bullet proof vest. It was a bit much, Tim thought. There hadn’t been a shootout in Mere Valley since Mr. and Mrs. Gustaf traded bullets in their front yard in the 80s. Fifty years of marriage and getting by. The final straw was a dispute over what they were going to watch that night on TV. No one died. Mr. Gustaf took one in the shoulder. He couldn’t see as well as his wife.

            “Stop going around, trying to be a hero.” They were just about on top of each other. Gib’s tactics were subtle like a car horn.  

            “The sheriff riding around on his steed tells me.”

            “Doing my job, Semple.”

            “You’re not good at this, Gib. It’s real obvious. Because I’ve seen you—you know—doing things you are good at. Haven’t met a better outdoorsman, since maybe my dad.”

            “Balls on you.”

            Tim took a step back and put his hands up slow. As much as he wanted to do something stupid, he figured maybe it was time to try something different. He took a breath and thought about why Gib would act this way. Money. Power. Reputation. One of those. The usual shit that turns normal people into creeps. He could think of lot of situations. A group of guys come into his shop one day. Tell him they like the way he does the sheriff thing. Tell him if he wants to keep doing it and to keep his outdoor business in good condition, he needs to be their friend. Friends with benefits. Maybe in the future he gets a reality show. Richer clients. Articles. Merchandise. Franchise. The future, who knows.

All you have to do is be a friend.

            Tim didn’t need to imagine it. The same thing had happened to him. All he had to do was sell. He told them no thanks and lost anyway. Maybe Gib was choosing better. Nah. To hell with all that. Gib was being a pussy.

            “Makes sense,” Tim said, hands still in the air.

            “What makes sense?”

            “You weren’t born here.” Tim didn’t love pulling that card. It was cliché. Hard to think of a more predictable battle line to draw. But it wasn’t like I was reaching. “See you around town, Gib.”

Chapter 27: Maybe Next

            Following the raw exchange with the sheriff, Tim found myself calling Gable. He didn’t feel like kicking feet up with Hoyt for the usual—talking women, sports, retelling jokes and making reference to things done or places traveled.

He wasn’t in the mood to talk to Andreas Bastille, even though the billionaire was probably owed an update on Tim’s recruitment/goodwill tour of the valley. He was an ally, and, far as he could tell, a pretty decent dude. He thought they might be real friends one day. Just not yet.

He came close to calling Shayna. Things seemed like they were trending well. Her eyes were getting softer when she talked to him. Her head was starting to tilt, just enough for Tim to notice. He’d never understand his wife all the way—she was too smart and too complicated and he’d made too many bullshit mistakes—but he ventured she was remembering why she loved him. That she in fact had loved him.

Early days, though. Redemption usually being a longer road than anyone would like.

They were drinking at her restaurant’s bar. It was a weekday and everyone was gone, including the staff. Going to one or two of the local watering holes was considered and rejected.

“We don’t really go out in public,” Gable said. It was in the middle of another subject and felt shoehorned in, words spilled onto the wrong page. She was overzealously licking her full limps, no doubt unaware. A thing, when she was nervous or agitated.

Tim thought maybe it was just one of those things. Maybe she was tired of talking about the thing with Gib. She didn’t look okay, and it was all of a sudden. A little weird. He pretended it wasn’t. “Okay,” he said, lifting his elbows off the bar. They were sitting at the corner so they wouldn’t have to turn sideways to talk. “We don’t go out in public.”

            She didn’t respond right away, so he had time to think about it. Gable was right. She usually was. But that didn’t mean he understood. And most of the time Tim felt like he understood her. Gable wasn’t the same kind of hard to understand as most women. Which is why this had him so confused. Funny, he thought. Or ironic. Something like that.

            “We don’t go out in public because we can’t go out in public,” she said, taking down a healthy portion of house red and pulling her hair up.

            Tim squinted from all the thinking and decided to drink some beer before responding. “That’s not true. We can go out. Why couldn’t we?”

            “You’re such an asshole.”

“Did you have a bad day or something? Is old Mr. Pulaski still pawing at you when he comes in here? The guy’s 84. Yeah, he disgusting, but he’s down to a nub. I guess go ahead and smack him, it’s just he might—”

            “Stop,” she said, snapping her fingers and walking toward the kitchen. It was clear he was meant to follow, so he did, almost falling as he attempted a swift exit from his barstool.

            The bright kitchen lighting was unwelcome to Tim’s senses. He preferred the subtle lighting of the restaurant. It made him calm. Almost nothing was great if you blasted it with light. Overexposed. Usually followed by underwhelmed.

            Fitting, considering the state Gable was trying to put him in. Tim knew criticism was coming and simply wasn’t in the mood. So he told her. “Don’t start, Gabes. I could’ve hung out with anyone tonight. I chose you. You’re my first choice.”

            She took a pan that was hanging from a hook above one of the cooking surfaces and threw it at him. It chipped a porcelain tile from the wall behind his head.

            “Are you serious?” he yelled. The thing looked like it weighed a ton. And he wasn’t exactly cruising around on his leg. “You could’ve killed me. Talk about escalation.”

            She grabbed a pot this time and held it up. He stepped toward the door. A swift about-face was most likely the best resolution, but he didn’t want her to see him as a coward. She’d seen so many of his streaks and if cowardice was one, he didn’t want them finding out about it together. “Why did you help me?” Gable asked, breathing hard, chest moving in and out with noticeable force.

            “Why did I help you with what?” Tim asked.

            “Don’t be a shit.”

            “Wasn’t trying to be.”

            He hadn’t seen her like this in long time. She was the steady one in his life. This situation was reminding him of times with Shayna, when the rancor started to swell. Gable was there back then, offering solace. Solace fell to lust, which turned to regret. And now friendship. And apparently, violence.

            “I helped you because I could,” he said, trying to focus on her question. It was hotter in the kitchen. Damn the lights. Too harsh. They sang a nasty note that skipped his ears and dug direct through his skull. “And because you needed help.”

            “You felt guilty. That’s why you helped.”

            He thought about it and nodded, scratching his scruff. “Sure. There was some guilt in there. None of it was your fault.”

            She grabbed the end of a metal workstation. She had strong hands. The hands of a great chef. The squeezing was audible above the tone of the lights. The kitchen wasn’t big enough for this much tension. Tim felt like running away. At least going back out and having another beer. This felt like it could only get worse.

            And then she let go. Her head slumped over. “Dammit it’s bright in here.”

            “I know,” Tim said, glad that the anger had left her voice. Concerned that it was now replaced with sadness. He thought about making a joke about the idiot that chose and installed the lights but decided self-deprecation wasn’t exactly suitable for the moment. Not that he had any better ideas. “Bright.” An ironic response, considering how clueless he was feeling.

            She leaned into a metal freezer with a careless thud. He could see she was crying, trying not to.

            “I’m not being funny, Gabes. I really don’t understand.” He started toward her.

            “No. No hugs. Or whatever you were thinking of doing to rectify.”

            He stepped back. “Right. Should I go?”

            “Should you?” She used a sleeve to wipe her face. It scared him to see her shaken. He took a breath and decided to get down to it. He could walk out of there stupid but he wasn’t leaving ignorant.

            Tim opened his mouth. No words came. He wouldn’t close it, though, as if some part of his brain was fighting the rest, overly hopeful that the fool in the kitchen with the pretty woman would finally have something useful or intelligent to say.

            “You look like an idiot,” Gable said.

            “Good. Nice to look and feel the same.”

            “God, why don’t you just run back to her? Throw yourself at her mercy. Crawl. Beg. Debase yourself.”

            “Run back to Shayna?”

            Apparently it was the wrong follow-up question, because it seemed to light a fresh fire under Gable. “Go. And don’t forget to tell her that we kissed the other day. Tell her that I was the one you fucked. I’m sick of her not knowing. I want the whole town to know.”

            Tim wished she had knocked him out with the pan. It would’ve been more pleasant. The way she said fucked, it was the harshest, dirtiest thing he’d ever heard.

            “You’re pissed. And you don’t mean that. Any of—that.” She couldn’t. If he admitted that Gable was the one he slept with when Shayna was sick, the town would turn on her. The restaurant wouldn’t last. The people would run her out of town. There would be the other face to add to the sordid story, not some nameless character concocted by Tim’s imagination. Mere Valley would ruin her life. The pitchforks would come out, for the same reasons they usually do. The world and the people in it aren’t perfect and it feels good to find flaws, feel like there’s some contribution you can make to the war effort. No matter how pathetic or petty. Wars begin and are given breath by the same fetid fuel. 

            “I’m sick of lying, Tim. I want to be a decent person. Just decent.”

            “That makes sense.” He could understand that. Mostly. “But I’m not sure you’re thinking straight.”

            “Maybe not, but I’m being honest. Honest that I love you. The three minutes a day I have to think about men. A man. They’re about you. Better if it wasn’t true. Just is.”

            Tim asked her not to make any decision while she was wound up. It sounded like good advice. The advice he’d heard when he was pissed off or breaking down. The kind of advice, he realized, only serves to piss someone off or advance the breakdown process.

            He wasn’t helping.

            Gable was crying into her stained sleeves when Tim told her he was leaving. It seemed like the only thing to do. He was beginning to comprehend another level of his selfishness. He loved Gable. Maybe not the way she loved him. Or just maybe. Either way, he’d pushed someone dear to the brink without even considering the possibility that it could happen.

            If he was going to find redemption, it wouldn’t be tonight. Maybe never. Gable couldn’t wait, but she had to. He decided to walk around the quiet and the dark of the sleeping town, totally alone and on a bad leg. He inspected half-finished repairs from the flood. It seemed appropriate.

Chapter 28: The Conversation

            Tim couldn’t imagine how the day was going to get any better. He was at Lennox’s Hardware, the first day back from his leg injury. It was slow going. The aisles seemed to go forever as he tried to ignore the pain. Pulling out a rag to wipe his brow, he laughed, thinking about all the time he’d spent squeezing around in his father’s little store, carefully crowded with parts and messy with old friends and their loose tales. A much happier world.

            “Hey buddy, can you tell me who’s in charge of lumber?”

            “Uh, sure,” Tim said. “It’s Blake Davis. He’ll take care of you. I’ll get him on the walkie.”

            “You okay there?”

            “Yeah,” not wanting to mention his slow-healing wound. “Sorry about that. You ever just get lost in thought?”

            Tim didn’t recognize the customer. He wasn’t local, though he looked the part, the way locals didn’t try to look like anything special. He had work boots that had seen time and hands swollen and calloused from real work. After Tim got exchanging a few clipped syllables with the head of the lumber department, he told the stranger that he could meet him five aisles over and three back.  

            “Buddy, the more I do that kind of thinking, the more I think it don’t do me any good. Anyway, keep your head up.”

            As he walked away, Tim’s immediate response was to put his head down. The customer hadn’t been rude, but it felt like he was being talked down to. Maybe he looked that pathetic. Messed up leg, crappy job. Thinking about whatever the hell happened with Mabel. Thinking about Shayna. The kind of thinking not doing any good.

            Like the man said.

            After labeling some new items in the garden section, he looked at his dad’s old watch and let his chin fall against his chest. The shift was almost over. He had plenty to do after work, but all he could think about was putting his leg up and watching a game.

            “You asleep standing up, Semple?”

            Tim wasn’t startled by the surly question. He raised his head slowly and opened one eye, then the other. “No,” he said, focusing on the figure of Merritt Lennox, Sr. “But that would be a handy trick.”

            “Are you giving me lip? I come around the corner, you look like a little girl lost in her damn dreams.”

            He didn’t want a confrontation. He decided to apologize. Make excuses. Whatever he had to do to avoid Lennox’s fury. “It was just a moment, Senior. I’ll get back to it.”

            “Come back to the office.”

            As the businessman rushed by him, his cowboy boots slapped the concrete floor. Tim marveled at his energy, wondering where it came from. Purchased testosterone, maybe. Those injections that kept JFK going through the Cold War and the Cuban Missile Crisis and all those women he had on the side. Maybe the old guy’s primary fuel was habit, the minute-to-minute desire to win and gain and subdue and conquer.

            Tim, however, couldn’t afford fancy drugs. And he possessed the same lousy energy as any guy his age. That, and the leg made it impossible to keep up. “Can we just do this here?” Tim asked. “The office is—I didn’t even know you had an office. Where is it?”

            Lennox wheeled around and charged him, stopping just about on Tim’s toes. “You work for me, or did you forget?”

            Tim looked slightly away to avoid Senior’s aftershave and the plume of white chest hair rising from his starchy shirt.

            “I’m not trying to make a statement,” Tim said, wanting to step back for comfort’s sake, not wanting to out of stubborn pride. “It’s my leg. Not quite all the way back, you know.”

            Lennox crossed his arms and let a breath full of scotch and red meat on Tim’s face.

            “Late lunch?” Tim asked.

            “Are you trying to get fired?”

            “I’m trying to avoid a walk, is all.”

            “The big hero. All you do is talk about that stupid leg.”

            “I’m almost positive this is the first time I’ve ever mentioned it since the hospital. But yeah, I’m milking it for all it’s worth.” It might’ve crossed Tim’s mind before work or earlier during his shift, but now he knew it was inevitable. Returning to serve under Lennox wasn’t an option. This would be his last day. The only question was whether he’d quit or be fired.

“You know what, Merritt. I’m gonna do us both a favor and resign my post.”

            The older man’s gravely laughter was as unpleasant as his breath. “What a loss. I don’t know how my empire will recover.”

            He was right, Tim thought. It wouldn’t be much of a loss. Not yet, anyway. “How’s the news going to go over with Shayna? The Locals? They’re more on my side of things, these days. Guess when you have all that power and money it doesn’t matter.”

            The businessman looked steamed enough to pull the Colt 45 he carried on his hip from time to time. “That’s right, Semple. You’re nothing in the grand scheme.”

            “I ain’t been to church since my dad passed, but I’m fairly sure we’re all sort of just passing through. Think throwing your weight around makes you something more than a blip in that grand scheme?”

            “You arrogant prick. I gave you this job as a courtesy. Should be on your damn knees.”

            “Nah. Did I mention my leg hurts. And you gave me this job because you shut me down and wanted to save face. Then there’s placating my wife. Oh, and because I actually know what I’m doing.”

            Lennox started to walk away but then circled back in front of Tim. “Semple, I was trying to do you a favor. And ask the forty Locals here that have jobs if they like what I’ve done. You are a self-righteous prick.”

            Tim laughed. “Wow. Is that right?”

            “That’s exactly right. I grew up in a town about this size. There were guys like you. Popular and good at everything. Sports. Girls. Then you act like king of the sandbox for the rest of your life. I wasn’t a natural at anything. Had to go out into the world. Make myself something.”

            “It’s a touching story.”          

            Tim started to say something nasty but found himself momentarily stuck. Lennox’s eyes were a little watery. It was the first time he’d ever seen or heard vulnerability from the old man. He was always too busy being an asshole.

            “I wanted to do more. The night of the storm. But I’m not as strong—oh what the hell difference does it make.”

            It was unexpected. Tim had never thought of life from Lennox’s perspective. He was usually too busy defending himself wallowing in one form of self-pity or another. This was strange. He needed to escape before he started feeling bad his (now) former boss. Because there was no reason to delay. It was time to go to war.

Chapter 29: Therefore, Clyde

            Valleyfest was different from year to year, but one could say it always stayed within certain humble boundaries. It resembled the kind of small-town weeklong celebration that happens in communities all over the country. People sold art and trinkets of varying quality.  There were local plays and concerts. Even the folks that lived on the outskirts of Mere Valley would venture in for a show, a raffle, a tractor pull, or maybe just to show their face and let everyone know they were still alive.

            “I’m thinking it’s gonna be different this year,” The mayor said to Tim. His name was Clyde Blankenship. He was bald and round and red-faced as ever, pacing around his office in a tan suit and a scotch in one chubby hand.

            “Clyde,” Tim said, sitting still in an overstuffed chair, “you can’t let this stuff get to you.”

            “I try to stay out of things,” Clyde answered sternly. It was the first thing he had said with any force. Characteristic, Tim thought, since Clyde had a genetic predisposition for riding the fence. He was a mediocre lawyer who had a relatively decent practice due to the lack of competition in the area.

            Tim always liked Clyde. They were separated by fewer years than one would think, considering the mayor looked anywhere from fifty to sixty. He had been elected because of his ineffectiveness, Tim thought. The Locals felt like they had nothing to fear from Blankenship. No agendas crossed his mind. Wielding power didn’t seem to get his blood going. Tim would never say it, but Clyde was looked on by most as an empty suit. They had to have a mayor. It was written in some charter somewhere. Therefore, Clyde.  

“And what do you mean, Timmy? What stuff is getting to me?” Clyde drummed his as fingers as he took to his battered oak desk. It was as tall as some bars, more like a barrier than a place for two people to sit and talk.

            “I shouldn’t have said that. Honestly, you’re doing great. Easing the way for all these Transplants to buy up all the land, handing the keys to the right people at the right time. It’s solid work, frankly, and no simple task.”

            “There’s a lot of moving parts, Timmy. And, well you know, things change.”

            “Boy, that’s for sure, Mr. Mayor. And change never seems to come in order. Like I lost my wife and my dad’s business to a guy who doesn’t give a crap about this town besides what he can take from it.”

            Clyde wasn’t the best lawyer in the world, but he wasn’t an idiot. He scratched the sides of his head where there was still some hair before wagging a puffy finger at Tim. “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it’s not going to work. I don’t try to get in anyone’s way, whether they’re from Mere Valley or Timbuktu. I take a lot of pride in that.”

            Tim had to pause and reflect on his approach to the conversation. He hadn’t come in thinking that he would need to manipulate old Clyde. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Just be honest. “It might be time for picking sides, Mr. Mayor.”

            “I don’t determine the property values around here.”

            “Maybe not. But you got a bunch of resort people trying to come in here and price the rest of us out. Don’t tell me it doesn’t happen, because it happened to the guy sitting in this chair.”

            “And I hate that. But there was nothing illegal in it.”

            “You can stay out of. I don’t blame you, Clyde. I just thought we should have a talk. Seems like a long time.”

            Tim pushed himself up with a slight grunt, the leg still not quite healed.

            The mayor put his hand out to shake. “You did a good thing, helping those people in the flood.”

            “I’m trying to do better. Hell, maybe I’ll do all the way right, eventually.”

            Clyde smiled. Though yellow from years of smoking, somehow it was pleasant enough. “Let me think about this whole thing. Taking sides and all.”

            “Yeah. Have a think.”

It was a reasonable place to leave things. Tim didn’t expect an ally in the mayor. Not really. Aligning with Tim and the Locals would mean opposing some very powerful forces. There would be battles. Punches and counterpunches. Ostracization. Dirty looks from people that had never before failed to return a smile or handshake.

            Clyde wasn’t a bad guy or a coward. He was a lot like a lot of men Tim knew. Himself included. A few too many losses on the scorecard and barely any stomach left for more fighting.

Chapter 30: People or Personal

It was terrible. Tim was in the town square, surrounded by people he’d known all his life, people he’d known a little while, and some he’d never seen. They called to him, a crowd clamoring for help or guidance, only nothing he said made things better. He looked down and saw boots and sneakers and sandals closing, almost with uniform precision, like a Greek phalanx, they moved as one. How could it be? Most of them didn’t agree with each other. Hell, even the ones that were on the same side didn’t agree. Mere Valley was a town of individuals, salt of the earth but quirky as hell. The Townies were descendants of the kind of people crazy enough to come all the way out in the middle of nowhere over mountains and down canyons and across rivers, because they couldn’t think of anything better to do. The new folks were strange in a different way. Most of them didn’t even like it. Maybe they liked the look of the mountains in the distance or the rivers that ran along the roads, but that wasn’t enough. They had to bring home here. Nature is great, but not like, really. Five-star nature is better.

Fine. He would think about it some more. Why was it up to him, anyway? He was a loser. Lost the family business. Lost his wife. If you gave him five bucks it’d fall out of his pocket before he could get down the street.

            Tim had never seen a mob or a riot in person. Not a riot. Civil unrest. Peaceful protest. A body politic overcome by insatiable bellicosity. On TV, maybe. When the first object hit him, he started running. That didn’t help. They clamped down on him harder, charging from all sides. The sweat and breath of hundreds descended upon him along with the stored-up hatreds and all the slings and arrows they’d been keeping from God for God knows how long.

            He was knocked to the ground. The punches came down from all sides. He couldn’t get any air. The sky was black above. Not long. Because he was afraid, he started blaming people. Mostly his father. When he got sick, everything went to shit. Now he was about to be taken out by a group that could only agree on one thing: they hated Tim Semple.

            This was his nightmare. He wasn’t used to bad dreams. The clock read ten-thirty. Short on breath and sweaty, he sat up and blinked rapidly as oxygen returned where it was most desperately needed. Even after he realized everything was fine, it still took him another minute or so to really believe it.

            This wasn’t the greatest of auguries. He looked at the mirror after splashing water on his face. The need for a serious trim and a serious shave became glaringly obvious. Especially now.

            Hustling into a reasonably clean pair of jeans and his best flannel shirt, he started making calls and sending texts. After an hour, a small group had formed in his living room. Shayna and Mr. Bastille were stationed on the couch at a polite, awkward distance. Sammy was sitting in Tim’s recliner upright and on the edge, hands on his thighs like it was a therapy session. Maybe that’s how it would end up.  

            Hoyt stood by the sliding back window, smiling and talking with Reny Davies. Anyone a tiny bit human and therefore a tiny bit judgmental would ask themselves what the hell they could possibly be talking about. Tim was slightly upset to see her walk in with his best friend as she wasn’t invited, but the more he thought about it the more it was okay. Reny had seen him at a low that was hard to match, that day he finally sold off and surrendered the last of Semple’s Hardware. He hoped now to provide her with a different impression.

            Bastille was there to advise. He thought Sammy would be interested. Shayna was always in his thoughts and probably knew him better than anyone in the world ever had. The only notable absence was Gable. They hadn’t talked since their fight in the restaurant. Tim was dying to get that sorted. He wanted her there. But with Shayna and all the confusing feelings—even start unscrambling that one made his head overheat. A regular guy only had so much bandwidth.

            “Where’s Gable?” Hoyt asked.

            “She’s not coming,” Tim said with a soft, strange smile. He felt nervous and there was no way around it. Standing in front of the TV holding court in his less-than-impressive rental wasn’t an image anyone he’d wholly pictured leading up to the moment itself.

            “That’s weird,” Hoyt said.

            “Why’s that?” Shayna asked, choosing to look at Hoyt’s girlfriend.

            “Because, Naysh, our boy seems to have summoned, what do you call it, an inner circle. The few and proud. Well, besides Sammy. Don’t know why you’re here. No offense, buddy.”

            “That’s okay, Hoyt,” Sammy said, rubbing his thighs. The guy was a saint, martyr, scapegoat and whipping boy, all rolled up in a downy comfort blanket.

            “I’m running for mayor.”

            Ten seconds went by. It seemed like too long. Tim decided to follow up.

            “You guys can respond. This is an interactive show.”

            That didn’t work. Not wanting to push it, he thought maybe he’d study their faces.

Sammy wasn’t much help. He’d pull the same tight mug whether he was in the thick of a school shooting or a garden party.

            Hoyt was looking down and covering most of his face. It sounded like he was whispering something to his new friend. She had most of her face obscured behind Hoyt’s mangy head. Not a lot of help.

            Shayna was the most transparent. Not a shock. She was never one to hide feelings. Her face was saying a lot and not of it was particularly encouraging.

            Bastille had sat up straight. Perhaps some encouragement, though it was hard to tell. Tim didn’t want to assume anything.

            “Okay,” he said, starting to sweat a little, “it’s been a full minute of y’all just not responding. That’s—actually amazing.”

            “You say mayor, bud?”

             “You heard me Hoyt. Now somebody, come on.”

            “How do you feel about it?”

            “Ah, for shit, Sammy. First it’d be good to get some feedback. You’re asking how I feel about something I just asked you about.”

            He was about to walk out. That, or tell everyone to go on. It was on the tip of his tongue when Bastille finally chimed in. “Tim, don’t be discouraged. I’m guessing that these people care a lot about you and they’re just a little surprised. I’m also guessing you’ve never mentioned anything about it before. Give them a little time to be surprised and contemplative. As for me, I think the idea has merit.”

            Tim had never felt like actually kissing another man until that moment.

            “What about Clyde?” Shayna asked. “I actually don’t know the rules. Does he have to resign or something?”

            “I can have my lawyers look into it for you if you’d like.”

            “Thank you, Andreas.”

            Sammy stood up and gave Tim a quick, tight hug. “You’ve made progress. You sir don’t ever get to make fun of me for my job again.”

            “So a good idea, Sammy?”

            “Oh, why heck not.”

            “What the point, though?” Hoyt asked. “I’m cool with whatever, brother, but I don’t think being mayor or the frigging Pope’s gonna do a damn bit of good when these assholes decide to turn this place into something’s it’s not.”

            “So do nothing. Just trying to try Hoyt, but noted.”

            That was enough for his best friend. He said he was going to bounce and walked out fast with Reny Davies trailing close behind.

            Shayna put her hands on his shoulders, standing away the distance of her arms. “If you feel strong about it, maybe it’s the thing to do. The place needs someone to stand up for it.”

            “It was weird that I called you guys over to tell you all at once, I’m realizing.”

            “A little weird,” Shayna said. “Also, not really. Maybe you’re excited. Wanting to share.”

            They left shortly after. Tim unbuttoned his shirt and sat down to think and to write notes.

            Don’t think everyone is going to react the same to everything.

            Hoyt seemed way more pissed than he should. Maybe things are going bad for him and he’s cranky because I’m being all go-getter with it.

            That’s two best friends not doing well. Gotta iron it out with Gable and Hoyt, pronto.

            Shayna’s not swooning but she’s not hating either. Interesting.

            Maybe mayor.

Chapter 31: Contagion

            Turns out the idea of keeping his mayor idea to a small circle was a tad naïve. By the time he stopped in at Mel’s diner that afternoon, word had spread. Even one of the illegal immigrant kitchen guys gave him a thumbs up. Tim smiled and returned the gesture before taking a corner booth. Mel slid in the seat across. Her pale blue uniform was stained fresh from that day and carried countless faded stains from days past. She set her thick forearms on the table and asked Tim if he’d heard that he was running for mayor.

            “Yeah, Mel. What the shit? It was my idea.”

            “Don’t get all ruffled.”

            “I’m not ruffled. Weird, is all. Told a couple people a few hours ago, now everybody’s staring. I think Sergio winked at me.”

            “Sergio doesn’t care about you running. He’s always thought you were hot.”

            “Oh. That’s better—I guess.”

            Mel had grown up with Tim. They were the same age and had gone to school together, both inheritors of family businesses. Tim couldn’t help remembering the time she let him take her shirt off down by the river after some beers one middle school night. It was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him up to that point and he would always be grateful.

            “Can we talk about the thing?” she asked.

            “The thing? Oh, yeah. Let’s go have a look.”

            She led him into the side of the diner to a section that had been taped off. There was extensive water damage, from the ceiling to the floor.

            “This all happened during the flood?” he asked.

            “No, it was always like this. You just didn’t notice the thousand times before.”

            “Sorry.”

            Tim started to say it was okay but stopped. His friend from childhood was starting to get emotional. It was something he’d never seen. Mel wasn’t the type. She was her father’s daughter, tougher in spirit than all the boys. Her forearms weren’t thick from idleness and overeating. They’d carried a hundred million plates to a hundred million customers over the years. If Mel was stout in places, it was only out of necessity.

            “I can fix this.”

            “How much?”

            It wouldn’t be cheap. He didn’t answer immediately.

            “Dammit.”

            “What?”

            “You’re thinking, which means it’s gonna be a mint and you’re trying to figure out how to make it affordable.”

            “That’s… accurate.”                       

“Forget it. You don’t got the time.”

            “Just hold on.” Tim had to do some math. Technically, he had no job. Running for mayor and running ValleyFest weren’t official gigs. He had a feeling they would stretch him thin, sure, but Mel was an old friend and she needed help.

            The bell rang as the diner’s front door opened. Tim squinted that way and Mel let out sigh. “Who’s that?”

            “You need glasses, Semple.”

            “Suppose I do. Who is it? Why you making noises?”

            The diner wasn’t that big. Before she could answer he knew who it was. Tye Lucian. Another one from the old days, but definitely not an old friend. Tye was about the biggest son of a bitch Tim had ever known. Lucian had a smile full of nice teeth and played pretty good football back in the day. This apparently gave him reason to hassle every girl in Mere Valley. After a few years coming up together after everyone resolved on the fact that he was a born asshole, he pretty much kept to a small crew of like-minded small-town sociopaths. Tim hadn’t seen him since graduation. He looked better than before, so much that something about his face or body had to be fake. Or maybe he just worked out a lot. Tim read a magazine article that men their age in great shape were real prizes to behold, based on scarcity if nothing else. Turns out most dudes around forty had other things to do besides going to the gym and eating like women so they got pudgy and gross.

            “What do we have here?” Tye asked, looking back and forth at Mel and Tim and back again. His hands were clasped down by his crotch. Tim didn’t answer right off. He was still trying to figure out what it was that had changed.

            “Tye,” Mel said. “What brings you to town?” The six or seven geriatric customers still eating had stopped to watch. They sensed drama on the air, maybe. The universal mystical pull of watching younger people that still cared caring about things.

            “I thought that was you, Mel. Couldn’t quite tell till you spoke. Your voice hasn’t changed, at least.”

            “Nice suit, Tye,” Tim said, looking down at the water damage.

            “You don’t like it?” Tye asked, unclasping his hands and crossing his arms.

            “Well, I was actually thinking you look pretty good. Stupid, but good.”

            “See you’re still a prick, Semple.”

            “I try not to be, actually. I mean, who can claim to be a prick when they’re standing in front of prick greatness? That would be downright cavalier.”

“You know, I’m glad you’re still a prick.”

            Tim thought about responding then didn’t. It seemed like the prick thing was a preamble. Mel was smiling. She had a nice smile and stupidity had a summoning effect.

            This qualified.

            “I’m glad,” Tye continued, “because it’s going to make ruining the rest of your life that much better.”

            It was big statement. It’s not everyday someone comes back from your past and threatens to ruin the rest of your life. It caused Tim to look up at Mel. He’d never seen her smile like that. Tye Lucian walked out of the diner so fast his fancy suit caught wind and sailed a bit at the back.

            “So I’m thinking this is a four maybe five day job. But I’ve got to poke around before I can say certain.”

            Mel’s smile disappeared. She gave Tim a smack on the shoulder that hurt a little. “What? You want me to say three days?”

            “Who cares about the stupid job. Did you hear what he said?”

            “Yeah. Pretty weird. And I still can’t figure it out—something about him was off.”

            “He’s in shape, dumbass. Probably doesn’t drink as much beer as you. And obviously a nose job.”

            “Tim clapped his hands. “I was gonna say that. Yeah. His nose sucked so bad before. But that’s what I knew. So it sort of sucks now, even worse.”

            “Why does he want to ruin your life, moron?”

            Tim figured it had something to do with his place in the community, but there was no way to be sure. “I don’t, Mel. There’s been people not liking me my whole life. Never made any sense.”

            “You better figure it out, Timmy.”

            “Brightside, he didn’t threaten to kill me.”

            “You have issues.”

            “So they tell me.”           

Chapter 32: Voluntary

            It was a place he never imagined coming to voluntarily. Sammy’s. He’d been compelled there by money, back in the day, fixing up the old place back into shape. Then the anger therapy sessions. Definitely not something he’d chosen. But here he was, knocking, actually asking Sammy if he could come in and talk.

            “Is this a bad time?” Tim asked. “I’ve never come—you know, without the court order laying it out and everything. Should’ve called.”

            Sammy said that he was in the middle of something with his boyfriend. “Sorry. Don’t let me mess up your deal.”

            “No, he hung up when I came to the door. It’ll blow over. Things always do.”

            “Always? That’s a hell of a good attitude you got, Doc.”

            “Get in here.”

            Tim was pulled into what was called the “Therapy Room” with surprising force. Sammy was talking fast. He was worried things were really wrong. The fact that Tim was there at all. That he was giving him compliments without sarcasm. A few other things Tim didn’t quite pick up on.

            “Doug mentioned you were running for mayor.”

            “How does your boyfriend know? Wait, is that what y’all were fighting about?”

            Sammy issued a soft smile. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

            Tim’s first instinct was to laugh and make some kind of joke. Why was it ridiculous to ask if he was the center of an argument when it seemed he had suddenly become the center of the universe? He figured Sammy wouldn’t find it funny or cute, so he decided to shoot straight. “I’m conflicted.”

            The therapist made a small, thoughtful noise and rubbed his chin. It was fairly annoying to watch. “It’s only, conflicted isn’t a word—isn’t even a concept I’m used to from you.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “It’s a good thing. Don’t get upset.”

            “I’m not upset. Maybe I am. I don’t even know what the hell we’re talking about Sammy. Can you please stop rubbing your chin?”

            He held up his hands. “I’ll stop. And then I’ll say what I think. Then you’re going to stop fiddling like a child waiting to be released from detention and simply listen.”

            It was a command issued with confidence and authority. Tim squeezed his lips shut and leaned back into his chair.

            “I’ve known you a long time, Tim Semple. You’ve been conflicted since high school. In fact, you might be the most conflicted person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Most people our age have more or less settled into certain inveterate modes of behavior. Even their rebellions are predictable manifestations that only prove their essential nature won’t change. With you, I’ve seen actual recalibrations. The kind that allows you to admit that you’re conflicted, when before you would’ve called people that say that sort of thing pussies or assholes.”

            Tim nodded. “Think I’m with you. What’s inveterate?”

            “Shut up.”

            “Right.”

            He wanted to take every word Sammy said as gospel. Wanted to. It was tempting. It was flattering. It was nice to think that time hadn’t worked like hardening cement, forever keeping his feet in place. He figured feeling stuck was maybe one of the worst things in the world, and right there in that room it finally starting to dawn on him that stuck was exactly how he’d felt for so many years. Now here was Sammy, not only saying that feeling stuck and being stuck were two different things; he had more or less figured it out.

            “Don’t overthink it,” Sammy said, writing down some notes in his ever-present notepad.

            “How do you know I’m overthinking?” Tim asked. Was he giving off a particular odor? Sammy wasn’t even looking at him. Here he was, pulling back the curtains on Tim Semple with his hands tied behind his back. “My mind could be as empty as my bank account.”

            Sammy stopped writing and set the notepad on the floor. “Maybe it’s time to move away. Start over.”

            “I didn’t see that one coming. Damn dude.”

            “Of course you won’t move away. You have all these things to do. Your love life. The future of the town might rest on your shoulders. There’s the family name to think about. And you’re just starting to be more than an overgrown child.”

            “Then why’d you tell me to move away?”

            “It was a suggestion,” Sammy cleared his throat. “Because I felt like it, and because I felt like proving a point. Even if you were in a state of perpetual meditation, an empty mind would be unlikely for a guy spinning all your plates.”

            “So… fucking with me.”       

            “A bit. But I wanted to prove that I can guess what you’re thinking fairly accurately. I was paying attention during your therapy. The things you didn’t say, the things you did. It’s sort of my job.”

            “Fair enough. Guess I’d get a little snippy if you questioned my grout work.”

            “You’re an interesting man, Tim. Choosing to deal with your traumas was a decision that could’ve been avoided. People tend toward avoidance. It’s not cowardice. But it’s not bravery.”

            He wasn’t giving up on the whole trauma theme. In one of the group sessions, Sammy had suggested that the loss of his father was a bigger deal than Tim was willing to admit. The therapist said that it wasn’t only the loss of the only family he had—it was the loss of the person that understood him best. They were best friends, Sammy said. Everyone in town talked about it. How it was like some fantasy old timey TV show relationship. But it was real. They were perfectly different people, but they always respected each other for what they were. The proud teacher and the one that strives to make the teacher proud.

            Thinking about his father made him sad or pissed off. Sad, of course, because he wasn’t there. Pissed off, because his father went out without a dark spot on his heart, despite a slow and brutal end and a life littered with unavoidable unpredictable bad breaks. Pop always was smart. Too smart to run a store. Tim knew it. Hell, everyone in town knew it. But the man never complained. Hard not to love a man like that. As a kid, he assumed everyone’s dad was the same. He learned how wrong he was the first time visiting Hoyt’s house. For a little kid in a little town with a proper father, the discovery of truly angry man was a defining moment. It didn’t seem possible to be mad at everything.

            Sammy held out a box of tissues. “Come on, Doc. I don’t need those.”

            But he did.

            After a minute or so his face was dry. “Sorry about that.”

            “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Most people do it.”

            Tim stuffed the used tissue down his pocket. “I don’t want to be most people.”

            “You’re not.”

            “Is this where you piss me off so I stop crying? It’s working, so you know.”

            Sammy set down the box of tissues and crossed his little arms. “You’ve never wanted to be normal, Tim. At the same time, you’ve always carried yourself as a regular guy. Man of the people.”

            “Pretty regular, Doc. Go to any library and you’ll find exactly zero books about me.”

            Sammy cleared his throat and shook his head slightly. He seemed disappointed. “What are you going to do, Tim?”

            “About what?”

            “About everything. Mere Valley. Your life.”

            It wasn’t like he hadn’t been asking himself the question. “I want to help. Just not sure if I’m looking to help others or myself.”

            Sammy smiled. “Those goals often complement each other.”

Chapter 33: Because

            The Boldens decided that town council meetings were too big. Too many opinions. That’s what they’d said to Tim over the phone.

Whoever he was talking to. When they pulled up to the riverfront chateau of Gordo Bolden, he told Hoyt he couldn’t believe the size of the place.

            “No shit,” Hoyt said, pushing up the bill of his fraying baseball cap and letting out a whistle. “Didn’t even know this place existed. How’s that even happen?”

            The land near the river was thick with trees and a good distance from any main roads. But that’s not what Hoyt was getting at. It was damn near unbelievable something that size could go up without people in town getting wind. “Looks like a damned hotel, Timmy.”

            “It’s a rich guy’s house,” Tim said, trying not to sound overawed. Hoyt rolled his eyes and gave a sarcastic thumbs up.

            There were men in dark suits standing by the front door and a few more at different spots on the grounds, asking for raised hands and a search before entering. “Yeah,” Hoyt grunted, longing for the regular annoyance of the TSA, “make sure you get both balls in your hands. For shit’s sake, bro.”

            Tim laughed quietly until he received similar treatment, looking up at the panels of dark glass above the entranceway for a distraction. After they were cleared and directed on, Hoyt left his zealous frisker with a goodbye insult. Tim thought of Gable and how she would love the place because her love of architecture and design almost matched her love of food and the artistry behind its preparation and presentation. Silly, but he wished she was there. When he was invited, his first thought was to bring Gable along for help. She could deftly talk to rich people and make them feel good about themselves. He’d seen it at the restaurant—her smiling and nodding at their bland jokes, allowing them a little bit of peace if they were decent enough to feel some humility or even guilt about their good fortune.

            With Gordo Bolden, though, it might not matter how pretty and white Gable’s smile was or how soft her eyes. He wasn’t some guy who was good at shorting stocks. His parents were public school teachers. He was an inventor and innovator, someone who had made truckloads of money in all kinds of industries and mostly stayed out of the limelight. He was famous, ironically, for his complete lack of a social media presence. Tim had about an hour to look him up before the meeting. It wasn’t all that fruitful. A lot of articles in business journals that weren’t exactly gripping to read. A few pictures. Enough to know him when he walked into the room and said hello.

            “Hello. I’m Tim Semple.”

            “Hoyt.”

            “Gordon. Y’all don’t seem too impressed.”

            “Talking to big shots has sort of become a normal thing around here,” Hoyt said, crossing his arms and adding a wry expression.

            “We know you’re an important man. Formidable. But we don’t really know why we’re here. Maybe all the room for awe is getting taken up by plain curiosity.”

            “I like that,” Bolden said. “I heard you were. Likeable.”

            “Well, at least to those who don’t hate me.”

            “I can relate to that, Tim Semple. And just so we’re clear, this isn’t meant to be some strongarm session.”

            The two natives of Mere Valley nodded slightly and silently.

            “So, not quite taking me at my word.”

            He grabbed a couple beers and they sat and listened to him say what was on his mind. He had a pleasant round voice and a pleasant round face and a friendly beard. Tim and Hoyt sank further into their chairs as he talked about himself, his plans, the state of Mere Valley, fishing, and a little bit about his three ex-wives and six children. Somehow, all of it was interesting. Gordo Bolden put care behind words so the dispensation of basic information sang like a good story.

            Tim felt like an old friend of Gordo’s already.

            “Has anyone ever told you they remind you of someone?” He heard Hoyt ask. It was one of those sappy questions that fit anyone better than Hoyt. Obviously, he too was under the spell.

            “I’ve heard it a time or two, Hoyt. Hey, y’all come and have a look at this.” Gordo closed his legs and gave a quick look to each side, clearly an indicator to flank him on his couch. They sat carefully while he played for a few seconds on an iPad. “Take a look,” he said, leaning back and holding the device out. The screen was filled with an image of a guy in a hospital. He was wrapped up like a mummy and had limbs in straps and elevated. Only one eye wasn’t covered. “Who’s this?” Tim asked. It felt like the answer was obvious. Also obvious that the question was necessary if they ever wanted to move on from looking at the picture.  

            “I’m sure you guys can figure it out.”

            “Damn,” Hoyt whistled. “I’ve gotten busted up before, but that seems like a stint in hell.”

            Bolden smiled and lifted his head a little to rub the hairs under his chin, a bit like a dog. “Nobody found out what happened. They had a hell of a time keeping it out of the press.”

            “Some sort of accident?” Tim asked.

            “No, Tim Semple. I was abducted by a very angry group of Eastern European businessmen.”

            “You’re shitting me,” Hoyt said. “That’s movie shit.”

            “Well, it wasn’t the businessmen themselves—it was somebody they paid. Real hardass special forces guys along with former secret police types that didn’t seem to give a good dang about who I was or what I was trying to do. Went to bed on a business trip in Hungary one night. The next, I’m in a dungeon three countries away. Apparently the clean energy deal I was working on in one place didn’t sit cozy with the government of another. Pipeline politics. Anyway, they took me.”

            “Not all they did,” Tim said.

            Bolden used a leg from each of them to leverage himself to his feet. He let out a few little coughs before turning to answer. “The beatings came every day. Men in masks. For forty-five days. That’s how long it took to negotiate my release.”     

            “But you’re rich,” Hoyt said. “Man, super rich. They can’t just abduct people like you.”

            “They can. They did. They beat me until they got what they wanted from my company. And I understand.”

            Tim was starting to think that Gordo Bolden wasn’t charming because he was raised right or some book on tape about influencing people or whatever. Now he was starting to think Gordo could win you the way an insane person wins you until they bludgeon you to death in the back of their panel van. “What do you mean, you understand, Mr. Bolden?”

            Gordo smiled wide. His big beautiful teeth stood out in the midst of the big beautiful beard. “The deal I was doing was going to hurt some people. Now, it was probably going to help more people, but that help doesn’t help the people getting hurt.”

            “Weren’t—ain’t you pissed at your people?” Hoyt asked. Tim thought it was a decent question. I mean, hell of a lotta time being Mr. Taken. Think they’d be quicker than forty-five days.”

            Gordo started to answer and then cut himself off. His eyes started wavering, like he might get emotional. Before that might happen he said, “I’m not angry at anyone. When you try to do things in the world, strange things can happen. It’s dang near impossible to know how your actions or your wants are going to effect everybody. Predictions are hard. Especially because we don’t even know we supposed to be predicting most of the time.”

            It was a bit of a ramble, for sure, but because of its even delivery, Tim stayed with it. “Sounds like the law of unintended consequences. Or something like that.”

            “There you go,” Gordo said, snapping his fingers and then pointing at Tim with the same hand.

            If they could’ve kicked Gordo out of his own room for a second, Tim might’ve asked Hoyt if this invite and all the chatting was intended to be a threat or a warning or a friendly heads-up. Maybe just a weird hello. Hoyt probably would’ve thrown out a few guesses, same as he might. To hell with it. “Mr. Bolden, thanks for bringing us out here and talking about stuff. Maybe you’re too smart or we’re too dumb. What is it you’re wanting?”

Chapter 34: Vows

            Shayna was sitting on his porch when he pulled up to his house. He watched her drinking a beer as his engine coughed and rested. She had her feet up on a rusty bucket, old cowboy boots he’d bought her something like fifteen years ago. The sun was going down and the air was unusually damp for Mere Valley. Shayna’s little shorts and low-cut top were made for the weather or to make him crazy. Or both.

            He walked up carefully, like there might be landmines in the drive. “What brings ya?” he asked, squinting in the ebbing light.

            “Hope it’s okay. I figured you had beer.”

            “And you know I always put a key under the pot.”

            “It always bothered me when we lived together. Pretty unsafe.”

            “Just kept slipping my mind. Anyway, it worked out this time. How’d you know I’d be back?”

            “Didn’t. I helped myself to a—two beers, thought I’d wait and see if you came home. Had just about given up hope.”

            Hope. It wasn’t a word Shayna used a lot. As a doctor she felt obliged to keep herself grounded. Not a lot of sense in hope when a good diagnosis or treatment would do so much more. They never talked about religion or faith very much, knowing it would probably lead to nothing but another argument.

            “Well, I’m glad you didn’t stop by for nothing,” he said, leaning against a peeling porch beam. “You appear to be fairly comfortable in that there lawn chair, Doc. Looking a tad small town, you don’t mind me saying.”

            “Getting back to my roots. How much of our lives has been spent sitting on porches, looking at the sky?”

            “Whatever the percentage, not enough.”

            “The sage Mr. Semple.” Tim looked down. She was jabbing his reflective character. It wasn’t a big deal; just an old move that stung more than it should.

            “Sorry. It was supposed to come out as a compliment.”

            “No big deal. Good to see you, Shayna.”

            “Thanks. And I am sorry. Trying to corral my bitchy side a bit more these days. How’s the injury?”

            Saying fine wasn’t enough. Shayna insisted that he pull down his jeans to have a look. Tim protested for roughly a second before succumbing. “I have neighbors.”

            “If the Drews or the Appleyards want to throw a fit, let them. I doubt they’ve looked outside in years.”

            Tim sat on the porch rail and let her take charge. She made him move it around and said, “Dude, we get it. Pull up your pants. Pervert.”

            “Very funny.”

            “You’re good at healing. Go get a beer. I’ll take another.”

            Returning to take the chair next to her, Tim smiled wryly. He wanted to say something obvious. Just like the good old days or this feels familiar. Instead he gave his wife a look, bothered in a good way by the sweat on her neck and chest. The quick memory of his father in the old store telling him to always nod his head to the prettiest girl in town cause he might not get a chance to agree or disagree next time. That’s an eager line behind you, son. She knows it, even if she doesn’t. Women are smarter. Don’t fool yourself, we’re the fools.

            “So was it the leg?” he asked, setting down the beer.

            “The leg?”

            “That brought you over. Not sure if I ever heard why you stopped by.”

            “You know, I try to make a gesture and drop in to say hello—”

            “Shayna, shit. It was supposed to come out like a criticism.”

            “Kidding, Semple. Relax. I don’t know, it seemed like the time. According to the community and mine own eyes, you’re making changes. It’s at the very least interesting. Kind of want to know what’s going on in my husband’s head.”