TRIPTYCH
When the rain finally comes, it comes down warm.
She'd known it would when she lurched awake with that familiar pressure behind the eyes, but had allowed herself the small hope that a cure was on its way, icy and torrential. The ache—brought to heel with pills, but fed scraps under the table by screenburn and desiccation—would shrug off easy when the rain finally broke. That was something you could console yourself with; press like a rag to the temple.
She wipes the grease from her hands, chucks the napkin down, and settles back. Listens to the viscous thud against her car.
Tomorrow technically began an hour-ish ago, and that means tomorrow's shift is in seven. She knows she won't sleep the pain off, because she can only manage that sort of thing when she has loads of time to kill. So what's the move? Really scald herself in the shower and get some coffee down, for one thing. Maybe even eat breakfast. To pull that off she'll have to be up and moving by half-past six, latest, and if she needs at least five hours down before then she should probably be in bed. Now.
Haha. Alright.
At the corner of her eye, she can make out the hickey-neck kid who took her order trudging laps in the sallow light of the dining room. Chairs are already up for the night but he picks one near the window and replaces it. Plops down. Begins flicking through his phone. What a horrible time to be some kid, she thinks. Dizzy with hormones while the world outside grinds down to its sad asymptote. But is it better to be old? Probably not.
She thinks of the woman who's 100% definitely calling in tomorrow. She's called in every day this week suspecting, maybe, that Sal is holding something back. Next time she's put on hold the voice after will be bright with corporate-style contrition. No, no, of course her husband's benefit wasn't voided. In fact, the deposit should turn up tomorrow!
Won't happen. The value was frozen automatically because, according to his underwriting bracelet, her husband had driven straight into a declared wetbulb. But you can't really say all that to an eighty-something , ninety-something widow and expect her to get it. They probably bought this thing on the premise that the benefit was set in stone; the cost might go up or down with his vitals and driving record, or whatever, but the payout was guaranteed. Thing is, going somewhere you can't sweat cool is basically like killing yourself, especially if you're old, so the actuarial people treat it that way. As soon as Claims verified the guy had received advance warning—he'd broiled voluntarily, that is—they seconded the auto-ruling. Case closed.
But, again, you can't say that sort of thing straight-up. And she doesn't hate this woman, whose voice trembles in and out of legibility over some ancient landline. She's never yelled, and people have yelled at Sal for way less. The voice is composed; someone who knows they're right and intends to win the way dripping water bores a hole in cement.
How long were they married, anyway? Imagine that. So old you can't even hold pee anymore, probably, and going to bed with someone who scares it out of you every time their mouth is looking a little too slack in the morning. But maybe after you've checked for a pulse, you brush the hair away from her forehead. And because you're both sort of falling apart, that touch is the main event. Cute? It could be.
It's 1:24 when she swipes into her apartment to find it just the same as before. Not that she'd expect otherwise, but there's a weirdness to it that doesn't wear off. Even the mail she threw on the counter is resting at smack-dab the same angle. It's like a wreck in some ocean trench. No, not that. If Sal's apartment were in the ocean it would have a briny, fishy sort of pulse to it. Probably be less sweaty, too. The AC can't seem to hold its own this time of year so Sal cranks the fan full blast and kicks all her blankets off. The rain is already slowing down.
Wednesday is in-office, which sucks big-time except for Mara. She's the one who referred Sal for this job, but that's too heavy to be thankful for most days because Sal kinda sucks at it. Neither of them likes taking favors, but Sal's always been the one who has to anyway. Crashing on her parents' couch became untenable before she had any real plan—or any real money—and all the decent temp agencies have monthly fees. It was either take Mara's handout or take that high-beam look of hers that makes Sal feel stupid down in her bones.
“Hey girl, what's going on?”
“Setting up. What does it look like?” She can be an asshole in the morning. Or in the afternoon, lots of times. It's never bugged Sal much. Maybe it gives her something to be better at.
“I mean in general. You're an asshole, you know that?”
“Shut up Sal.” She doesn't look up from the drawer she's rummaging in, but Sal sees something warm flit across her lips. “Basically a lot of nothing. I was supposed to be on a date last night, but I got canceled on.”
“Ah I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. They weren't hot or anything. But they messaged first and I thought I should give them the benefit of the doubt. How about you?”
“I'm not really dating right now.”
“I mean in general.”
“Oh. Not much. Bracing myself for that lady. ”
“Scanlon, right? I thought they ruled on that one.”
“They did, but when the escalation people called out she didn't answer. So if she follows up today it's coming straight to me and I get to give her the bad news. I know she's pissed but she won't blow up. It's worse, almost.”
“Devil you know, right?”
“I hate just talking at her. It's so gross. It feels like the job's filling up my mouth or something. You know those fish that become the other fish's tongue?”
“No? Look, I know it sucks but don't get hung up. Nobody stays on the phones for more than a year.”
“I know.”
But she doesn't, really. Mara won't be on the phones forever because she's on top of it. Always. Even back when she dyed her hair wild colors every other week it was mostly about control, Sal thinks. Make the hair what you want. Make the job what you want. Mara knows where the footholds are, or makes them. Sal does not. Mara knew she liked girls at like twelve. Sal did not.
“Hey, wait, did you hear why Jess wasn't in yesterday? She let her phone die and—”
The snide little beep of a customer being tossed in her lap flips Mara's switch. She's practically cooing into her headset. Weird, weird shit. It skeeves Sal out, but maybe that's because she's no good at it. She talks in the same voice as always when someone's on the line.
Anyway, because Sal doesn't hate this woman she did try to vouch for her a bit. And when that failed—because the appeals process was exhausted, and the escalation crew was fed up, and floor-level reps can't make exceptions to policy—she decided to actually be good at customer service for once. Late last year her company bought into this tool designed by a scientist who studied empathy at Brown or something. It' called CARELOG and you can feed it call data to get advice, or a script. It reads weird for sure, but the team leads are pushing it and Sal is tired of disappointing people so maybe she shouldn't be so smug. She boots it up.
That's really hard. I can see why you brought that to me. No pressure, but I want to remind you that Ploughman's Promise associates are allowed two free counseling sessions per quarter. Also, if your mood has been consistently down, or low, after these calls think about talking to your team lead and scheduling some out-of-queue time for a breather. Here's how you can talk to SCANLON, CARLA next time she asks for help:
Hey CARLA! I'm so sorry to hear you've had a frustrating experience with my team. I know this is a difficult time for you, and your family. Losing a loved one is never easy, but unforeseen financial and legal factors can make it even harder. I understand how angry you must feel, but I want to assure you that our Advanced Service Team, and Claims Team, reviewed your appeal thoroughly before it was determined that SCANLON, GENE's LegacyLock+ Policy was ineligible for its original end-of-life benefit.
It was confirmed by investigators that SCANLON, GENE's LegacyLock+ Verve real-time underwriting bracelet did not malfunction, and alerted him to a hazardous environmental condition at least one hour before cessation of vitals. It was also confirmed that SCANLON, GENE's LegacyLock+ Verve real-time underwriting bracelet sent a push alert to his phone notifying him that he was experiencing symptoms of non-exertional heatstroke and offering to contact emergency services 127 minutes before cessation of vitals. There was no response.
The Ploughman's Promise family cares deeply for our clients, but part of caring is knowing when someone else is better-equipped to meet a need than we are. In our changing world, it's easier than ever to feel left behind, but it's also easier than ever to connect with opportunities for community, belonging, and healing. I recommend that next time things feel like too much, you consider reaching out to local services, or even neighbors for support. If you'd like I can put you in touch with—
Jesus. She can't really say that shit, right? Sal conjures up the last funeral she went to. Her uncle's? She imagines saying “cessation of vitals” up by the coffin, standing over his papery face with that turgid smell of preserved flowers in her nose. She takes her lunch. She clocks back in. Old people dump money into their policies and take ill-advised loans. “Cessation of vitals” dropping like stones on a plush red carpet. They mutter themselves in circles while Sal checks to see if there's a POA on file. “Cessation of vitals” bouncing off her aunt's wet cheeks.
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“I'm sorry this has been frustrating—”
Green shag carpet. Brown wall paneling, but not the real kind; or not real nice, anyway. She could tell as much when they moved in forty-something years ago, and moreso five-something years ago when the skein of faux grain began to bubble and flake. Low-slung coffee table with the corners gnawed at by one of the past decade's dogs. Threadbare rocker. End table—taken from Gene's mom's place when she died—with a stack of magazines from the pharmacy, and a tablet who's OS is probably one update at most away from melting down.
“I know this is a difficult time for you—”
55” OLED television perched on an entertainment console they lugged, drenched in August sweat, from a consignment shop to decorate their first house. The screen is marred with burnout pixels and smudges and dust. The console is a slightly different shade of wood from the coffee table, which always bothered her. But Gene was too sentimental for her to get away with pitching either.
“Our Advanced Service Team, and Claims Team, reviewed your appeal and found that the policy still wasn't eligible for its original end of life benefit—”
Shelf of anniversary gifts from his job at Valiant Rubber. Not their anniversary; for his anniversary with the company. A little, squeeze-y stress tire. A small glass block with something she can't make out laser-etched into it, on a light-up base. A framed picture of him at a team golf outing, his manager Tuck's arm slung drunkenly around his shoulder. A model box truck with the company logo on the side. She's spent hours staring at these, bidding herself warm to them, attach some tendon of memory to them which could then be flexed. But no, they're just plastic and glass and metal—mostly plastic.
“It was confirmed that your husband's underwriting bracelet sent a push alert to his phone, notifying him that he was in danger—“
This is an old woman's living room, she thinks. This is the living room of a woman with a dead husband who haggles over his life insurance. And the thing is: The wood paneling was old when they moved in. She knew it was ugly and tacky and gloomy when she set foot in this room for the first time, but if this girl on the phone saw she'd probably think Carla fit right in. Old paneling, old coffee table, old Carla—so everything checks out. When you're young the past is all one big heap. Carla and shag carpet part of a single, musty fabric; even if she's always hated it, and found it too reminiscent of the carpet she played on at her great aunt's house.
“I'm sorry.” It's over then, isn't it?
“Okay.”
“I really am. Like, that this happened. I wish I could—I mean I tried— ”
“Okay.”
“Ma'am? Look, I can put you in touch with—”
“Okay.”
“I really am sorr—”
Carla hangs up. Outside a chickadee pecks halfheartedly at one of her feeders. There have been fewer birds this year. In March she found eight dead ones in her backyard and called fish and wildlife like the news said to. She figured they'd come out and bag the little bodies and take them off somewhere to be prodded and swabbed and the like. But nobody ever came. She dug a single hole for the whole flock and, careful not to touch anything, scooped them all in with the shovel. Afterwards she poured bleach on the shovel—maybe the right thing to do?—and washed her hands until the skin was bright red.
At a little after four she heads into town for her hair appointment. She's been seeing the same girl for maybe the past year. She's like plenty of people Carla's seen before, but nobody she's actually talked to before. Reese, as she's called, is very good at cutting and dying hair for someone who's buzzed off all her own. She has some sort of cartoon character inked onto one of her arms and her nails are occasionally black, but usually unpainted, or so chipped you wouldn't know they'd been painted. These are the sort of things that might usually put Carla off of someone, but once you get to know her (them—that's right) things are a little different.
“So did you hear back from the insurance people?”
“Huh? Oh, about the benefit. Just today, I did. They say they're not paying it.”
“That fucking sucks. I'm sorry Carla.”
“Yeah, it does.” Fucking sucks. She mouths the words while Reese has their back turned, fiddling around with the products at their station.
“What are you gonna do?”
“I'd ask his sister to help, but this is the second sibling she's lost this year. Or maybe it was a cousin before. Don't want to put too much on her, poor thing. And of course she went and got divorced so there's just nobody around for her.”
“Sucks how it costs so much to die. That's the way it was with my brother too.”
“They wouldn't pay his benefit?”
“No. He didn't have anything like that, ever. But we couldn't cover a normal funeral. We had him cremated and just, like, had people over to the house later.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Yeah I guess so. We put his ashes in my mom's garden out back.” Seeing Carla's reaction in the mirror: “The flower part not the edible part.”
“Oh, right. I suppose that's nice.”
The flat, mean blue of the sky is softening a little as Reese begins shampooing her. She can just make it out across the shop from where her head is flopped back in the sink, neck vertebrae gasping against the cold edge of the sink. She finds the hurt of that softens too, when Reese puts their fingers through her hair. She's always hated how she looks with wet hair, but Reese never says anything about her looking like a rat scooped out of the city pool, or whatever else she might look like. This, now, is her favorite part of going to the hairdresser.
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When SCANLON, GENE crosses the border into Arkansas the temperature is 96°F and the relative humidity 93%. The guardsmen, in pit-stained khaki uniforms, watch from their shelter on the margin, cooled by barrel fans while the traffic stews in its own exhaust. Aside from the heat it's an unremarkable day at the I-49 checkpoint. His car battery has maybe half its juice left, and his phone 12%. He'd plug it in but he left the charger at home. His 73rd birthday was two months ago. He is driving to his brother's funeral.
An hour ago, palming up trail mix in the lot of a Fas-Trip, his phone lit up with an alert from the official LegacyLock+ Verve app:
WARNING! You are about to enter a federally-designated WET-BULB HEAT EVENT. Hazardous temperatures have been reported in the State of Arkansas, including counties BENTON, CARROL, MADISON (…) Please seek shelter immediately. PLEASE NOTE THAT if you enter an area affected by hazardous temperatures having received this WARNING, you thereby consent to a temporary suspension of the benefits associated with your LegacyLock+ Policy to remain in place until 24 hours after you leave the affected area. For more information...
He thinks about turning around. But only briefly. He knew the forecast when he started the drive down this morning. Anymore it seems like you can't turn around without catching on some trip wire and finding blame heavy on your back. Maybe it was always like that? Hard to say if the feeling of weight is just his age or if, in some real sense, guardians over him are deserting their posts. It's not like anything was ever perfect, right?
Out the window trees pass in a green blur. Sometimes he slows for a light and realizes they aren't all trees. Here and there, the shapes of power poles, barns, four-wheeled things are choking in vine. Kudzu, that is. He read somewhere you can eat the stuff though it seems like the sort of thing you'd have to be really hard-up to do.
Suddenly, Gene finds that he has to go. It always hits him all at once, which is such an inconvenient thing. If he were thirty-six maybe he'd ignore it, but in the past year his bottom half has shown cruelly what a dumb thing that is to do. His bladder's failed him before. Actually no, the bladder isn't the real issue, as it turns out. According to the doctor who stuck their fingers inside him the real demerit goes to his prostate. He imagines it swollen and indignant inside him.
Because he knows there isn't a rest stop in miles, and he doubts there's even a restroom, Gene elects to pull off at the soonest county road and find a spot away from any passerby to do what the body demands. He brings the car to that unseemly quiet stalk even big machines seem to make nowadays, and turns off onto gravel. Maybe a little more rustic than a county road, huh? But actually, probably, that's better. He hasn't pissed outside since scouts. It's the kind of thing a young boy would do, isn't it? Now, so many decades later, any vague titillation at such a thing is gone.
He finds a clearing maybe a mile down the road and pulls over. It's a nasty little thing; a gnat-filled canker formed around the base of a power pole. The air feels almost solid here, Gene thinks, as he wades knee-deep in the high, dead grass—and then deeper, still—looking for a spot. He doesn't want to be seen. Legality aside, he's never been like the others, who didn't mind just strutting around with it out. When he still went to the gym he went late, late at night or early, early in the morning just to be away from those kinds. In a way things were easier with that doctor because you could use the proper names for things, and almost forget what was under them. He'd wondered if he would feel anything new when that man touched him, but nerves or otherwise, he just didn't. The feeling afterward might've been disappointment. He finds, tossing a furtive glance back over his shoulder, that his head feels heavy on its swivel; the brain seems to lag behind its casing.
Gene finishes up, careful not to look down, and uses two fingers to apply pressure behind the base; make sure his body is good and done with everything. He shakes it off. He zips up and trudges back to the car. And—
The handle slides through his fingers.
He thought he'd had a better grip. He tries again and finds, again, that the handle isn't budging. Ohhh, right. Right. That's right. He has to answer the push from his phone. He jimmies it out of his front pocket and squeezes, but the screen stays black. Placid. The thing is completely dead.
The blame—the air—feels so heavy now. His knees are wobbly, and he finds his arm bracing the rest of him against the door. The metal is hard and hot. He just needs to sit for a while, and think. Around him cicadas fill the late afternoon with a dull roar.
