They’re On The Edge

Fire Marshall Willy post of Jason Isbell’s Relatively Easy

Reginald Wallensis balances the tray as he trudges up the flight of stairs. The cup of orange juice is less full than when he started. With each step, his dress shoes sink into the carpet, masking the creak of the antique “escalier.” As he approaches the door, Reginald readjusts the tray to turn the handle. The hot omelette is positioned right under his nose now, and the savory sausage and cheese scent drift upwards.

Reginald sees his wife stir at the groan of the door. The white comforter covers all but the top of her head; red curls peek out.

“Honey, how are you feeling?”

The comforter expands and contracts with her breathing.

“Will you eat something? I made you an omelette.” He places the tray on the nightstand. “You’ve got to get some food in you. There’s some orange juice here. Vitamin C will make you feel better.”

A light moan.

Was that her or this old house? he wonders. “I’ve got to head off to work, honey. I’ll pick Colin up later. He has baseball practice, right?”

A grunt.

“Love you, bye.” The door closes with a tap behind him.

After hustling down the stairs, he scurries to the kitchen to find Colin with a bowl of oatmeal. Half brown sugar, half oats.

“That all you’re gonna eat, bud? I can whip up some eggs if you want. There’s some sausage left over, I think.”

Colin replies before Reginald can open the fridge. “I’m okay. Trevor and I are gonna stop at Mickey D’s anyways.”

“Is he picking you up? I can take you.”

“Yeah. His mom says it’s no problem. It’s on the way for them.”

“Okay good because I am L.A.T.E.” Reginald grabs his briefcase from the counter, the slick leather making a slight creak as it skims across the marble.

“Dad, is Mom okay?”

“Mom’ll be fine.” He grabs his water bottle from the fridge. “It’s one of those colds you just gotta wait out.” Keys in hand, he steps out the front door

As he nears the car, Cara Burnard and her son Trevor pull up in front of the house.

“Hi Mr. Wally!”

With a nod, “Trevor.”

A wave to Cara, but no response from her.

Man, the woman’s got something up her ass. Gotta loosen up.

Colin comes running out the door to the car, his backpack hanging off his back by a sole strap.

From the rearview mirror, Reginald watches them pull away. As he makes his way to the office, he rehearse the sales pitch he’ll have to make to investor Frank Pool in an hour. You got this. You’re a champ, Reggie. As he stops at the first red, he takes a long swig from his water bottle. The diluted, spicy brine slips down his throat and calms his nerves. You’re a champ, Reggie.

He knows he should be practicing the pitch, but there’s an itch he’s got to scratch. Merging onto the freeway, he dials Audrey’s number and waits at the tone.

“Hello?” says the silky voice.

“Hey babe. I’m taking you out to lunch today.”

“Reggie, I have work.”

“Cancel.”

There’s a grunt on the other end. “What about Patricia?”

“What about her?”

“Um… she’s your wife? And now she knows about us?”

“She’s fine with it.”

“She didn’t seem fine with it.”

“Well she better learn to be fine with it. She’d have nothing without me. I’m the best husband she could ask for. I’ll pick you up from the Salon at 3:00.”

Dallas Kensington walks up the pristine granite staircase and enters the white mansion through the mahogany double doors. Kevin shuts the doors behind them, letting the slam echo through the halls.

“Should I have Ben make you something to eat, Sir?” His heels tap against the marble floor as he makes his way to his post by the staircase.

“Yeah, that’d be great. I have to head over to the recording studio later, but can you clean all this crap up while I’m gone?” He gestures to the boa feathers and panties strewn across the floor.

“Is Shelby coming over again? I could have Ben mix some drinks. I know she likes the fruity ones.”

Dallas slumps onto the couch with his back turned. “God, no. That woman is exhausting.”

“Isn’t that.. ehm.. the point? Sir?”

A light chuckle from Dallas and he switches the television on, muted. “No, just some of the guys. Kraig and Luke and Malachi. We’ll just grab some beers and order in. You can leave early.” He lays his head back against the backside of the couch as he closes his eyes, a signal he’s finished talking.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Barely touching the edge of sleep, Dallas’s phone buzzes, vibrating against the glass coffee table upon which his feet are propped. Royce is strewn across the screen, a name almost wiped from Dallas’s memory.

He hesitantly answers. Hello escapes his lips, arching up an octave at the end like a pubescent teenager. Again, “Hello?” good and gruff.

“Hey, Dallas, Man, didn’t know if you’d pick up. How is everyone?” Correcting himself, “How is the.. eh.. the work going?”

“Work’s good, we have a tour coming up in a couple weeks.” He sits up, eager to know why Royce has called after so many years of silence. “What’s up with you?”

“Oh, you know nothing. The usual. Oh! Your tour! That’s right, Lana and I bought tickets for your Albuquerque concert.” He clears his throat. “Super stoked, Man.”

“Oh, you should have told me you wanted tickets. I would have gotten you some.” Get to the point, Royce.

“Eh, that’s no problem. I like to splurge on the Mrs.” He chuckles. “She’s always loved your music. I mean! So have I, we all love your music.”

Dallas senses that Royce is on edge. Silence hangs over the line.

“Yeah, thanks, Royce. I know what you meant.”

“By the way, Congratulations!”

“Yeah, the tour is gonna be a blast. Can’t wait.”

“No, on McKayla's engagement. He looks like a great guy. Super happy for them.” Dallas is speechless as Royce continues his rambling, “And the wedding venue is super nice, you pay for that? Haha.”

Nothing but the hum of the fan up above.

“Dallas?”

Dallas hangs up the phone and sits frozen. My McKayla? My sweet McKayla? He slowly rises off the couch and walks up the stairs in a trance. He opens his closet and walks past the watches, rows of shoes, and belts to the very back where he keeps his old photo albums.

He pulls down a dusty pink album. Flipping through the pages, he skims her life from diapers to high school graduation. He notices, however, that he gradually disappears from the pictures starting in middle school. The divorce. By the last six pages, compiled with high school photos, he is completely absent. My overdose. Only his ex-wife remains. I won’t even have pictures of the biggest day of her life.

Hours seem to pass staring at the pages. His phone buzzes. Time to head to the studio. He slams the album shut and puts it back in place. Then he heads back downstairs and out the door.

The last time my mom called me, she asked about Taylor. How is she doing, are we buying a house, when’s the wedding, how many grandkids? I wasn’t ready to tell her that the girl she now thinks of as a daughter left me for her neighbor. That they’ve probably been sleeping together for months, right under my nose. All those times Taylor told me I had to go home so she could get some work done, or all those nights she said her best friend Maya was sleeping over so we couldn’t have dinner, she was probably right next door. I haven’t even met Maya. It all probably began with him receiving her mail, and they’ve been mixing up mail ever since.

But I did tell my mom. Delicately. That screech through the phone line sent me right upstairs with a bottle of sleeping pills.

The time before that, my mom asked me how work was going. I knew that she genuinely cared now. She wasn’t just asking out of pettiness like she used to do in my college days. “What can anyone do with a philosophy degree?” I can still hear that disapproving tone in that back of my brain. I didn’t want to tell her that my freelance journalism ambition was going nowhere.

But tell her I did. I even told her about my new gig, stacking books at the public library. She was the one who hung up the phone that time. Right after muttering something about money being spent on my college education. I had some help falling asleep that night too, and I didn’t wake up until two days later.

Yet, I’d give anything to hear her voice right now. I’d give anything to get out of this cement box. I’m sitting on a bench that was once probably white or beige, but it’s stained green and orange. I managed to avoid the clumpy spillage to my right. It’s shiny, so pretty recent. I didn’t expect them to actually have pull up bars in here, but I guess precinct 32 knows a criminal is nothing without his figure. The barred door opens, and the officer manages to cram another body in here. The man walks towards me; the only empty bench spot in right next to me, the orange mess. He sits down, and I hear the faintest squelch. Uncoincidentally, it smells even worse in here now.

It’s been 15 hours hours since I called my mom’s office. I left a message of my arrest and $750 bail, and of course, an apology. At the time, I was happy not to have to tell her directly. But now, after spending an entire day hungover, dehydrated and avoiding eye contact with 20 sets of eyes, I would take her harangue if that meant she’d get here with more urgency.

The officer returns, but he’s got no brawn with him this time.

“Williams,” he barks, “You’ve got bail.”

I’m giddy walking down the hall. I know I should be dreading seeing her disappointment, but I’m so grateful to be out of there. I know what I’m going to say to her. Mom, this really put everything into perspective. I’m gonna work to turn everything around. You raised me to be resilient. Thank you. I love you.

But when I reach the front office, there’s no one I recognize. The officer tells me I can leave, all the paperwork is done. But she’s not here.

As I walk home alone, I have time to think. Not that I didn’t in that cement box, but it’s more freeing thought now. No stench or claustrophobia distractions. I try to tell myself, It’s a good think she didn’t wait to see you. She loves you—she paid your bail—she’s just upset right now. But I know deep in my heart that this time she’s given up. And she won’t be calling anymore.

#fionasparents