The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 01

CHAPTER TWO

When I awoke the next morning almost an hour before the alarm, Whitney was curled up in bed beside me, snoring softly. That surprised me. The manual seemed to indicate someone should be sleeping on the couch here. Then again, what the fuck did I know? It's not like divorce was a common thing for me.

Nope. This was the first time.

I thought back to our wedding and the words of my best man.

"You sure this is what you wanna do?" my brother Mark said then.

I only smiled.

"It's not too late," Mark continued.

"Really," I assured him. "She's the one."

"Okay," he nodded. "Just remember: If there's one thing you never want to be, it's anyone's ex-husband. So no matter what it takes, you keep your shit together, okay? And make sure she does, too."

I only laughed. "Will you quit worrying?"

That conversation kept playing in my mind as I went to the hallway bathroom and brushed my teeth, shaved, and showered.

How could I do it? How could I keep my shit together when I didn't even know what I'd done wrong? How do I keep her shit together when she's already given up on us and--obviously--hitched her future to some other horse? I just had no idea how to proceed.

"Morning," Whitney said from the now-open doorway as I stepped from the shower.

Without thinking, I stepped back into the shower and draped myself in the shower curtain.

"Jesus, Luke," she said, her sad face turning angry. "It's not like I've never seen it before."

"Yeah," I said, fighting to keep my voice low and my emotions in check. "Back when we were lovers, right?"

Her anger turned to astonishment, like I'd slapped her in the face. Part of me was overjoyed at scoring a direct hit, the kind of hit I'd taken the night before; the other part of me was ashamed to be so intentionally striking back. After a few seconds, overjoyed won.

"Now if you'll excuse me," I said, "I'd like to finish getting ready. I'm pretty sure the master bath is still there if you need it."

She stared for a few seconds longer before closing the door.

* * * * *

I was dressed in jeans and a golf shirt, reading the paper and drinking coffee while Kyle ate his cereal and toast. Halfway through my second--and final--cup of coffee, Whitney appeared from our bedroom.

"Hey, Mom," Kyle chirped up.

"Mornin', sweetie," she said, stooping to kiss his cheek before turning to pour herself a cup of coffee.

I felt her eyes on me, but I just concentrated on reading the paper.

"You sleep okay last night?" she said.

Looks like the Cubs were going to have another shitty season.

"Dad," Kyle said.

I lowered the paper. "What, little man?"

"Mom asked if you slept okay last night."

"Oh," I said. Then I smiled at him. "No."

"Me neither," Whitney said.

I ignored her and went back to reading the paper. She gave a light sigh, and I sensed the energy leave her body.

"Can we talk?" she said.

I lowered the paper again, fighting to stay impassive in front of Kyle.

"About what?"

"Last night."

"There's more? You're gonna somehow top yourself?"

She shot glances to Kyle, who was busily munching his cereal while reading the comics page.

"Please?" she said.

"Now?"

She shook her head. "Later. Tonight, maybe. When I get home."

"Tonight then," I said, raising the paper back up and reading--for the tenth time or so--that the Cubs had no real pitching prospects and were still going to suck.

* * * * *

I was piling my notes and books back into my briefcase at the conclusion of 20th Century American History. I could hear the doors clanging as most streamed out, and I heard snatches of conversations between the few students who were still milling around, undoubtedly planning some party or date rather than plotting the theses of their term papers.

"You okay, Professor?"

I looked up. Heather Farley was standing a few feet in front of the lectern, her angelic face an exaggerated mask of concern. Twenty-one years old, an apparently natural blonde with long, straight hair all shiny and combed, and a body that would make Pope Benedict look more than once.

"I'm fine, Ms. Farley," I said. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"You don't seem fine," she said, her voice lowering so the others in the room couldn't hear her. "You seem distracted. And upset."

I tried to smile, but it never reached my eyes. You can tell these things.

"Welcome to life," I said, trying to introduce a measure of levity. "Some days just aren't as good as others."

Heather looked at me, saying nothing. Her bright green eyes bored into mine and held there, her lips pursing.

"So if there's nothing else," I said, breaking the reverie by snapping my briefcase shut, "I've got to run."

"If you need to talk to someone, I'm a real good listener."

"I'll keep that in mind, Ms. Farley."

"Okay."

She turned, scooped up her book bag from her desk, and walked out.

My eyes followed her ass every step of the way, and I finally took a breath as she disappeared into the hallway.

"Pretty sweet, huh Doc?" Tony Granger said, grinning broadly as I turned to look at him.

"Indeed, Mr. Granger," I agreed. "Pretty sweet indeed."

If the faculty lounge rumor mill was to be believed, Heather Farley had comforted at least one faculty member during her three years at Chadwick College. Before, I had always considered the offending professor a bit sleazy for taking advantage of her.

Now, I envied the hell out of him.

And I'm pretty sure he wasn't the one who took advantage of her. I was willing to bet it was the other way around.

* * * * *

"So who do I see?" I asked.

"And you're asking me why?" Doug Morrissey said.

"Because you've gone through this before."

"And you're asking me to re-live the whole goddamned thing?"

"No," I insisted. "I'm just asking you what lawyer I should call. I mean, come on man, I don't know shit from attorneys."

He sighed, his puffy cheeks and tendrils of whispy hair all sagging with the breath expelled from his lungs.

"Just tell me who you used," I pleaded with the English Lit professor.

"Don't use him. He was clueless. Absolutely pathetic."

"Well, did you see anyone else that may be worth a damn?"

He nodded, grimacing at the memory. "Germaine's attorney. Rebecca Galarza. She works for Erik Taylor. I think they're partners now."

"And their office is here? In Grant City?"

He nodded.

"And they're good? She's good?"

He looked at me, frowning. "Remember my sixty-one Triumph? My pride and joy?"

I nodded.

"I think Germaine used it to pay her legal fees. My car to pay her damned lawyers. And she got it in the divorce, along with most everything else."

"Sorry," I commiserated, thanking God I didn't have some beloved, cherished token to have to give up in the divorce. Well, nothing except my battle dioramas in the basement, but Whitney would never want any of those.

No, I had nothing to lose in the divorce.

Nothing except Kyle, which was everything.

"You okay?" Doug said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"What if I lose him?" I asked. "Kyle. What if she gets custody?"

He reached across the table and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Listen to me, Luke."

I looked at him, tensing at the tone in his voice.

"Is there any way this can be fixed? And I mean any way."

"I don't know," I answered. "Honestly, I never even saw this coming. I don't even know what the fuck is going on, you know? This is so totally out of left field."

He nodded, shaking his head.

"Because this is really going to suck, my friend. Big time. Take my word for it: As bad as you think it's going to be, it's going to be worse. So if you can stop it, I recommend you do so immediately if not sooner."

For the second time in twenty-four hours, I felt cold and shivery all over.

CHAPTER THREE

Kyle and I were hunched over the kitchen table, him working on an addition and subtraction worksheet, me filling out a client questionnaire I'd been given by the receptionist at Taylor & Galarza, Attorneys at Law.

Whitney walked in the door shortly after five. Kyle's face lit up, and he leapt from the table and ran to her.

"Hey, baby," she said, scooping him into her arms and hugging him tightly with her jacket still hanging from one arm. "How was school?"

"Okay," he chirped, then wriggled from her hug and ran back to the table, scooping up his homework.

My eyes followed him every step of the way, from the hug back to the table then down the hall to his bedroom where he was stashing his homework to finish later.

"Hey," Whitney said, placing her hand on my shoulder.

I turned and looked up at her, then looked at her hand on my shoulder. She snatched her hand away like my eyes were scorching her skin.

"Sorry."

I went back to the questionairre, dutifully filling in the blanks.

Whitney sat across from me at the table.

"So you didn't even bother waiting for us to talk, did you?"

I looked back up to her and raised an eyebrow. "Wait for what?"

"To see a lawyer." She nodded at the questionnaire I hadn't bothered to hide from her. "They're good, by the way. God knows you could've done a whole lot worse."

"Could I have done better?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. Not really my field. I only know what I hear around the courthouse."

I nodded.

"Why the big hurry?" she asked. "Why couldn't you at least wait for us to talk?"

I put the pen down and folded my arms over the questionnaire.

"Is it going to do any good?" I asked. "Have you already changed your mind? Decided to give us a chance maybe?"

I watched the emotions stream through her eyes and over her face. She was trying to think of the right thing to say, and her lips started moving a couple of times. But she was conflicted, clueless on how she wanted to proceed.

And that's why I had the questionnaire out in front of her. I decided the best thing to do was to force her to immediately consider the costs of her choices. Get her off the damned fence and get her thinking long and hard about what she was contemplating.

"Kyle, honey," I said over her shoulder to my son, who was running back out of his room, "can you go back into your room and finish that homework? Mom and I need to talk, then we'll all eat, okay?"

"Sure Dad," he chirped, then turned and went back into his room.

When I turned back to her, Whitney's eyes were on the table in front of her.

"Okay," I said. "You wanted to talk. We've got about a half hour before he's done with his homework and dinner's ready. So what is it you want to talk about?"

"Why are you rushing this?" she said. "You've already seen a lawyer, for Chrissakes. I mean, Jesus H. Christ, Luke, what's the sudden hurry?"

"If I hadn't forced the issue last night--if I hadn't caught you out there in the garage and made you talk to me--you would've never told me. Not until you were already gone. Not until you already had your own lawyer lined up and all your shit together, right?"

She said nothing, but her face confirmed the simple fact.

"Well, Whitney, I don't think I want to get blindsided again, okay? I don't want to show up one day with the locks changed or with you and Kyle gone to live your new life with my replacement."

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"Really? Really, you wouldn't?" I laughed. "That's funny. Then what is it you've already done?"

"I just told you I'm confused. I'm not happy, and I need some time to get myself squared away. For my own sanity."

"And you told me that getting 'squared away' probably includes another man. A man you're supposedly not already screwing and already making future--"

"I told you I wasn't doing that," she flared. "And I'm not. It's just been a . . . we've just . . . ."

Her face told me she'd already said too much and she knew it.

"You've just what, Whitney? Just held hands? Just had a few intimate lunches? Maybe just a hot make out session or two? What have you and Mr. Right just been doing?"

She pressed her lips together. "This has nothing to do with him."

"You're right. He's tomorrow's problem. No, this is all about you and me. All about you suddenly--and without even telling me why--just suddenly deciding you're not happy with me. So what is it you're not happy with? The fact that I'm the one who damned near single-handedly keeps this house running? Does the cooking and most of the cleaning and more than my share of the laundry? Makes sure Kyle's homework is done and he's fed and clothed? Is that what you're not happy with?"

"Your hours are lighter than mine," she said, her eyes avoiding mine. "You know that. It's always been that way. You never used to care."

"And I don't care now," I said, fighting to keep my voice low. "Don't you see that? When's the last time I bitched about any of this? Huh? When? Have I ever thrown any of this in your face? Ever insisted you cut back?"

She was silent.

"Well have I?"

"No, Luke. You've never done that."

"Then why, Whitney? What the hell is it?"

Tears were streaming down her face, and she shook with silent sobs. I got up and fetched the roll of paper towels, putting them on the table in front of her.

"Don't I at least deserve some sort of explanation?"

She nodded. "I just . . . I don't know. I'm just not happy."

"Then get a different job," I suggested. "Why are you starting with us? Instead of changing your job and seeing if that makes it better, you decide to change husbands? Families? That's really your first choice here?"

She turned and looked out the window, wiping her cheeks and blowing her nose and getting her emotions under control.

"If it's really everything like you said last night, then why don't you see if just changing one thing would fix it? Maybe get a different job? Maybe go into private practice and see if you can cut back on your hours or change fields of practice or something? Why are you trying to change everything?"

Her stare remained out the window, and her voice when she spoke was so low I had to lean over to hear her.

"I feel like running away sometimes. Getting away from everything and everyone. Just going, I don't know, maybe to a small cabin in the mountains."

Then her lips twitched, and a small smile played at her lips.

"Except when you're with him," I guessed.

The smile disappeared in a flash and her face froze at my accusation.

"You're not denying it, Whit."

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. "He's just so easy to talk to. He cheers me up, makes me think everything's going to be all right."

"Maybe because he's the one you've been sharing your problems with. Maybe because you haven't been talking to me for months now."

She turned and faced me. "But you've already got so much on your plate. You already do enough for us."

I smiled at that. "Really? If I do so much for us, then why couldn't you take just that one small step to save us? Why are you going to someone else for your comfort and allowing us--our whole family--to disintegrate? You really think I have so much on my plate I'd have resented the request to keep us all happy? Keep us together?"

Her body sagged like a puppet. Head, shoulders, posture, all of it just collapsed into the chair.

"But you already do enough. I feel so guilty all the time. Like you're the only one doing anything around here. Like you're Perfect Mom and Perfect Dad all rolled into one. Like I'm not even needed."

I reached my arm across the table. She stared at my hand for a moment, then placed her tiny hand in mine.

"If you want to do more," I said, trying to smile, "I'm more than willing to let you. Cut back on your hours some. Maybe just try to get home about this time every night. I'm more than willing to let you do more, take a bigger part in all the fun stuff you're missing out on."

"Like cooking," she smiled.

"And cleaning, homework, mowing the lawn. The whole shebang."

Her hand squeezed mine, and her head lifted.

"I don't know if I want to do that."

CHAPTER FOUR

The next night, Whitney again arrived home shortly after five. By five-thirty, we'd all eaten, and I got up from the table.

"Where are you going?" she asked as I walked toward the basement door.

"To the basement," I said. "You clean up for a change. I'm going to go play with my soldiers."

"I thought we could talk some more," she said.

"Then you know where I'll be," I said, not hearing whatever she was saying to my retreating back.

Once in the basement, I flipped on the lights and was greeted by a sight I'd not really seen or spent much time around for three years. Raising a son has a way of making you cut back on your hobbies.

Laid out before me in the long, narrow, low-ceilinged basement were a series of tables. On each table was a diorama of a turning point in time, the turning point of a great or famous battle from history.

I walked to the first table and stopped. Thermopylae. The Hot Gates. I had constructed the mountain to the west and the sea to the east. Along the narrow strip of beach, King Leonidas and his Spartan warriors, along with scattered soldiers from other Greek city-states, were waging a titanic struggle to hold off King Xerxes and his vast Persian Army. The Persians outnumbered the free Greeks fifty-to-one or more. And hidden in a meandering mountain pass, about to flank the brave Greeks, a string of Persians were creeping down toward them. The Persians had been given the route by a traitor. And so the brave Greeks were attacked from the flank and the rear and died to the man. The three days Leonidas and his men held off the Persians gave the rest of the Greek city-states time to plan and mouth their successful defense to the invasion.

I pondered this for a moment before going to the second battle scene from Gettysburg. No, this one wasn't Col. Chamberlain's valiant bayonet charge down Little Round Top, nor was it Pickett's suicidal charge up the exposed slope straight at the Union center. Instead, the scene was from the first day--nearly the first moments--of the battle. Brig. Gen. Buford's cavalry dismounted and fighting alongside the 1st Brigade of the 1st Division of the 1st Corps. The Iron Brigade. Together, they are fighting and dying to hold off the stream of Confederate soldiers from Archer's Brigade who are attacking them down the Chambersburg Pike, the main road into Gettysburg. By holding off this charge at great cost, the Union kept the high ground, which made all the difference for the rest of the pivotal clash. The cost, though, was great, including the best general in the Army of the Potomac. I leaned in and stared hard at the figures I'd crafted. The figures gathered around the splayed body of Maj. Gen. John Reynolds as he lay dead in the opening minutes of the battle, felled by a sniper's round or just a wild bullet from the clash. Because of their courage and sacrifice, the battle was all but preordained from the opening volley of bullets.

There were two more complete battle scenes, and one half-finished diorama. There was a cutaway view of the tunnels being dug--and explosives being packed--beneath both trench lines of the Ypres Salient, one of the worst meat grinders of World War I. In the other, Hannibal and his Carthaginian forces--along with various allies--were snapping shut their double envelopment of the superior Roman forces at Cannae. And thus the Carthaginians reached their zenith in the Second Punic War.

I barely glanced at those two. The meat grinder and the crushing double flanking movements were not nearly as poignant to me just then as the cost of traitors and the need to hold the high ground at all costs.

I stopped at the last table, running my fingers over the harsh, destroyed landscape of Stalingrad. It was all there on the biggest diorama I'd ever tackled: The stark shells of bombed out buildings, Pavlov's house, the tractor factory, rubble-strewn streets, the pocked hill at Mamayev Kurgan overlooking the remains of the city and the River Volga beyond. It had taken months to get the landscape just right, and the only figures inhabiting it were boats packed with reinforcements crossing the Volga amidst explosions of fake water. It was time to start making the various Russian and German soldiers and weapons, time to start populating the dying city with dying men.