you’re halfway around the bend. You’re having a last-straw crack-up. One thing too many, one thing more than even Job had to handle. Because Rusty was healthy one minute, gone the next. Because she was the first woman in years that could take your bullshit and keep smiling while she gave it back with a double scoop. And because you just spent the day burning everything you own.”
“I’m not half done.”
Thorn heard the rage in his own voice, but was powerless to stop it. He was skidding down an oil slick highway with no brakes, the steering wheel useless in his hands. Sugarman in his headlights.
“Okay, so I’ll be gone till a week from Sunday. I’ll have my cell. You need me to come back, call me. You understand what I’m saying?”
“That’s one thing. What’s the other?”
“You need to promise me you’re not about to take your own life.”
Thorn said nothing.
“I’m not leaving until I get your word. I won’t have that on my conscience. You understand me? If I have to, I’ll chain you to a palm tree till this thing blows over.”
“You couldn’t manage that.”
“Don’t try me, Thorn.”
Thorn stared into Sugarman’s eyes and said nothing.
“Okay, if that’s how it is, then I’m staying.”
Thorn turned to watch the haze moving past the dock lights, teased into action by a draft off the Atlantic.
“Go on your trip, Sugar. Make your girls happy, hike the canyon, take some snapshots, buy them all the pizza they can eat. Tell them Uncle Thorn sends his love.”
“Is that your promise? You’ll not harm yourself?”
“Go on, Sugar. Be with your family. I just need to get rid of a few things. Simplify, start fresh. Really. I’ll be fine. Go.”
Sugarman studied Thorn’s eyes for a minute.
“Okay,” he said finally. “But you know this will pass. It doesn’t feel like it now, but it will.”
“I know it will,” Thorn said. “It’s already started.”
In tense silence they carted boxes of books from the house to Sugar’s dinged-up Honda. When the car was packed, Sugarman got in, started it, and gave his headlights a farewell flash.
Thorn raised a hand and waved at the lights. It took all his strength.
After Sugar was gone, Thorn decided he was too exhausted to toss more furniture into the fire. He had just enough energy left for his clothes.
That shouldn’t take long. Thorn’s wardrobe consisted of a collection of threadbare cowboy shirts and flowered Hawaiians and T-shirts from local bars and tackle shops. Some shorts and jeans he’d had for thirty years, Jockey shorts so droopy they wouldn’t make decent cleaning rags.
He gathered up the shirts and pants and an armload of socks and gym clothes he’d worn in high school and a black pea jacket Kate had given him when he went away to college in Baltimore. He’d dropped out after only two months, long before it got cold enough to wear the thing. It was heavy and reeked of mildew.
He threw the clothes in the fire. Threw the bedsheets in. Threw in his towels and baseball caps and running shoes and boat shoes and an old Timex Dr. Bill had awarded him at his high school graduation. It was still counting off the seconds when it disappeared into the flames.
Stashed at the bottom of Rusty’s lingerie drawer, he found her father’s Colt .45. When Rusty was five, the tortured man had pressed that pistol to his temple. Somehow he’d only wounded himself with the first shot and managed to pull the trigger a second time before his skull blew apart. A drunk and compulsive womanizer who couldn’t keep a job, he’d beaten Rusty’s mother for as long as Rusty could remember. The two gunshots woke Rusty from a nap and she stumbled outside to find the old man’s body slumped against her swing-set. Her mother kept the pistol and passed it along to Rusty before she died. A ghastly reminder of the man’s final hateful act.
Thorn filled a liquor box with Rusty’s underthings and set the pistol on top and carried it out
“I’m not half done.”
Thorn heard the rage in his own voice, but was powerless to stop it. He was skidding down an oil slick highway with no brakes, the steering wheel useless in his hands. Sugarman in his headlights.
“Okay, so I’ll be gone till a week from Sunday. I’ll have my cell. You need me to come back, call me. You understand what I’m saying?”
“That’s one thing. What’s the other?”
“You need to promise me you’re not about to take your own life.”
Thorn said nothing.
“I’m not leaving until I get your word. I won’t have that on my conscience. You understand me? If I have to, I’ll chain you to a palm tree till this thing blows over.”
“You couldn’t manage that.”
“Don’t try me, Thorn.”
Thorn stared into Sugarman’s eyes and said nothing.
“Okay, if that’s how it is, then I’m staying.”
Thorn turned to watch the haze moving past the dock lights, teased into action by a draft off the Atlantic.
“Go on your trip, Sugar. Make your girls happy, hike the canyon, take some snapshots, buy them all the pizza they can eat. Tell them Uncle Thorn sends his love.”
“Is that your promise? You’ll not harm yourself?”
“Go on, Sugar. Be with your family. I just need to get rid of a few things. Simplify, start fresh. Really. I’ll be fine. Go.”
Sugarman studied Thorn’s eyes for a minute.
“Okay,” he said finally. “But you know this will pass. It doesn’t feel like it now, but it will.”
“I know it will,” Thorn said. “It’s already started.”
In tense silence they carted boxes of books from the house to Sugar’s dinged-up Honda. When the car was packed, Sugarman got in, started it, and gave his headlights a farewell flash.
Thorn raised a hand and waved at the lights. It took all his strength.
After Sugar was gone, Thorn decided he was too exhausted to toss more furniture into the fire. He had just enough energy left for his clothes.
That shouldn’t take long. Thorn’s wardrobe consisted of a collection of threadbare cowboy shirts and flowered Hawaiians and T-shirts from local bars and tackle shops. Some shorts and jeans he’d had for thirty years, Jockey shorts so droopy they wouldn’t make decent cleaning rags.
He gathered up the shirts and pants and an armload of socks and gym clothes he’d worn in high school and a black pea jacket Kate had given him when he went away to college in Baltimore. He’d dropped out after only two months, long before it got cold enough to wear the thing. It was heavy and reeked of mildew.
He threw the clothes in the fire. Threw the bedsheets in. Threw in his towels and baseball caps and running shoes and boat shoes and an old Timex Dr. Bill had awarded him at his high school graduation. It was still counting off the seconds when it disappeared into the flames.
Stashed at the bottom of Rusty’s lingerie drawer, he found her father’s Colt .45. When Rusty was five, the tortured man had pressed that pistol to his temple. Somehow he’d only wounded himself with the first shot and managed to pull the trigger a second time before his skull blew apart. A drunk and compulsive womanizer who couldn’t keep a job, he’d beaten Rusty’s mother for as long as Rusty could remember. The two gunshots woke Rusty from a nap and she stumbled outside to find the old man’s body slumped against her swing-set. Her mother kept the pistol and passed it along to Rusty before she died. A ghastly reminder of the man’s final hateful act.
Thorn filled a liquor box with Rusty’s underthings and set the pistol on top and carried it out
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