Cloudy

THE ROCKING WAKES BONNIE. Though not in bed, she is down and moving. One eye flutters open, sees clouds; the other, stuck. She floats over tall grass, men in reflective stripes on either side. A heavy blanket and wide straps suppress panic. The sun low, sinking, strange for lunch time. It comes back. The bug.

*

Bonnie limps back to her car across from the neighbors with the happy dog. There sits the tall white shepherd up by the house. She heard Alice died, maybe right after Megan, but there she is. Bonnie opens the door of her gold Camry; the shepherd’s ears prick.

The sleek ghost glides down the needle-padded yard. Head stiff, ears up, eyes fixed, Alice floats in the green shade. Bonnie loves Michigan’s soft-needled humble state tree, a prolific volunteer even at the bottom of the mitten. The dog weaves the pines, rushes to greet her.

“Alice.” A gasping, a flood, tenderness for the shepherd, her former life, everything missing, drops Bonnie to one knee, spreads her arms. Alice stops short, wrinkles her snout, draws her lips back, flashes long white canines. Snarling, growling—not Alice. Alice didn’t have a square black nose. Alice didn’t snarl. Roaring, the dog flies, strikes hard, knocks her back.

“No! Bad dog! No!”

She covers her head, scrambles to her knees, to her feet, pivots to the car, feels teeth puncture muscle, left calf. Screaming, Bonnie punches its head, knuckle to eye. The dog shakes, head whipping cartoon-style. Staggers into the car; the dog recovers, lunges again, jaws snapping. Yanks her leg in, slams the door against its nose; the dog howls, springs away.

Hand shuddering key to ignition. Blood. Rabies. Hospital. Highway. Pounds the gas pedal, leg throbbing. At the entrance ramp, the weather on the radio. She doesn’t give a fuck about the weather. On her shin, red blooms; on her thigh, a black bug bigger than her thumb crawls. Shrieks, swats, jams the gas pedal, cranks the wheel. The Camry flies off the ramp into the swale. Floats up then down, sees blue then green; she has plenty of time to think. Maybe—the air bag explodes. Time, sound, the past explodes.

*

Head elevated, almost comfortable, sleep beckons. Much later in the day than it should be. Can’t be much past lunch. She feels either nauseous or hungry. As they rock her, the men talk.

“That smell, is that what I think?”

“Yep. Urine. It happens.”

Another part of the day returns.

*

Bonnie parks at the neighbors as Rob won’t answer the door if he sees her car. She walks to their mailbox, bumps it closer to the road, pulls out a furniture store flyer, high school newsletter, credit card offers. None addressed to her. Why should they be, after almost six years of marriage, of living in the perfect house they spent months shopping for. Like those years never happened. Like Megan never happened. Bonnie drops the flyers to the ground.

Cutting between the spruce, she crosses to the white-sided, mold-tinged house. At the bottom of the front steps, in a plastic cauldron, a one-armed scarecrow with a toothy grin stakes a petrified chrysanthemum.

Bitch, it’s March—no April—not October.

Bonnie stands close to the door, out of side window view, gives the knocker three solid taps. She puts her ear to the door. Nothing, but they’ve ignored her before. Counts to twenty then bangs the door with her fist. The booms echo and rattle the windows.

“Rob. Rob. Rob.”

Kicks the door until pain in her big toe stops her; turns and lands a sharp backward kick with her heel. Deflated, Bonnie hates him for not being home. This could be different, if only Rob considered her feelings, her needs. She limps to the Camry.

Bonnie slips the eggs into the plastic bag, tosses the carton on the grass and marches back. Rob’s Charger sits on asphalt beside the garage door. She arcs the eggs high, watches them slow and pause against blue before coming down one by one on the hood with a wet splat. The twelfth hits the opening between the glass and the hood, running onto the wiper. Now as empty as the thin white bag stamped with a red Thank You, she holds the bag up to the breeze, releases it to float high into the Bradford pear, once her favorite spring tree. Now she wants to push it over. Why should the bitch sweeping winter out of the garage hear humming bees in the pink-white flowers. Or while doing dinner dishes at the kitchen window smell that perfume.

Through the window Bonnie sees bitch’s car, the red Chrysler Le Baron, two-door, its ragtop up. She tries the sash, slides the window up and leans through, shimmying up to her hips, balancing before her weight thumps her to the floor. An unfamiliar bike leans against Rob’s, both caked with mud from the river trail, Rob’s favorite. Propped behind the bikes stands their giant Santa, his dented metal grin smirking at her like nothing changed. But everything is broken. A rushing fills her ears, maybe her blood boiling. She’s doesn’t have much time to think, since she really has to pee. If she wants to fuck something up, she better hurry.

Because she really has to pee.

The car door—unlocked. Bonnie clutches the wheel of the Le Baron with one hand, pulls her leggings down with the other, hovers, pees a timid stream right down her leg. Relaxing, she angles more, pushes her rear back further and then can’t hold it. The stream drums leather; the buzz makes her giggle. Empty, good empty, she angles out of the car, shuts the door, pulls up her pants, tips herself out the garage window and drops, the process orderly, almost dignified.

Mission Possible.

Bonnie staggers to her feet and limps to her car.

*

The men still rock her up the long hill. Shame at the memory of urine drumming leather flushes her face, one eye fixed on the dark clouds above. The men talk, quiet but not whispering.

“No obvious injuries, expect for the blood on her pants and the swelling.”

“Maybe she’s in shock.”

“Or still drunk.”

“Or both.”

Bonnie reviews the day: checked the mail, banged the door, egged the Charger, peed the Le Baron. Breakfast—no, the eggs were for lunch. Oh. Left the apartment early to get breakfast but had Bloody Marys instead of hangover hash.

*

Bonnie wakes godawful early to a terrible hangover. Night before worst in a while. She pulls up to the Egg Shop in Petersburg—closed. Though barely sixty spring degrees, the door to the bar down the block stands propped open. Must be a three-shift month at the nuclear plant on the lake. Bright morning light makes it hard to see inside but she guesses one shadowy head is Bill’s. Hair of the dog could be better than corned beef hash.

“Hey there, Billy.”

Third stool from the door, he stares at last night’s baseball game, recorded for the third shift. Droning announcer voices mingle with overhead music. She knows that song—Brandy.

“Three two,” she says.

“Damn, Bonnie.”

“I didn’t say who was three. Go Tigers.”

She takes the stool next to him. The bartender, arms crossed, glares at her. She waves.

“Morning, Andy. Bloody Mary. Double shot. But not spicy—too early.”

“Comin.”

Staring at the television, Bill’s eyebrows go up. On the bar in front of him a beer and box of Marlboro Lights, silver lighter on top. He says nothing. She lays her hand on his shoulder.

“Well, how are you, Bill? I’m so happy to bump into you.”

Andy sets a glass of water with ice in front of her; a slice of light from the door plays through it.

Deep breath. She does her best to look cheerful but considering telling Bill about Rob’s text chokes her up and puts her back in that place where she can’t say words, can’t talk about the hole. She leans over, looks into Bill’s face, smiles. Bill doesn’t react.

“Come on, you’re not mad. It just came out. I just wasn’t paying attention. You’re not mad. You’re grounded, Bill. Everything rolls right off. I admire that. Did you have a good shift?”

“Fine.”

Bill takes a long pull from his beer, maybe in a rush to finish.

She hears that old song their mother loved, about Brandy the waitress, in love with a sea captain who doesn’t love her back. Her mother said it was the most popular song her freshman year in college and sang it so much, Bonnie knew every word.

“Bill, let me get you another beer. It’s been awhile. I’m so grateful for you, for your listening and caring.” Bonnie waves at Andy, points down at Bill’s beer. “I’m in a bad place right now, Bill. No one thinks about me. Everybody goes about their lives like I don’t exist. Bill, I’m completely alone.”

Andy walks over.

“Miller draft, Bloody Mary mild, double house shot.” He looks up at the ceiling, adding in his head. “Thirteen. No, fifteen.”

“Whoa! That water glass moved. Did you see that?”

Andy looks down but shakes his head, side glances at Bill.

“Thanks for the beer, sis, but that’ll do it for me. I’ll settle up when you’re ready, Andy.”

Bill wants to leave. She tries to block out the song. Brandy was cursed; she is, too.

“You’re welcome, Bill. My pleasure. Happy to do something nice for you. You’re the only one I can talk to. I know Rob cares, but he won’t talk.” Her voice catches. “He just shuts me out.”

“Bonnie, no crying. I’m exhausted. Let’s talk about anything else. How about this weather?”

She doesn’t give a fuck about the weather.

“Bill. Remember how much mom loved this song? Don’t you hate the way it fades out? What happened to Brandy. Does it say? Did I just miss it? How could I forget something so familiar?”

Bill doesn’t answer.

“Rob won’t answer when I call. He doesn’t even answer the door.”

“Bonnie, you go over there again he’ll put another protection order on you. You’ll wind up in jail and lose your place and I’ll wind up on my couch again. I can’t take that. Kills my back.”

“He texted me last night, Bill.” Bonnie doesn’t want to get stuck at Bill’s either. Her hermit brother’s house is a moldy cave. “He’s marrying the bitch. That bitch I thought was my friend.”

“She is your friend, Bonnie. She wanted to help you both. You had that, thing, in common.”

Bill stares at the television, frowning, won’t look at her.

“You mean tragedy? So, you’re on her side?” Bonnie leans over and puts her face between Bill’s and the television. “Did you already know?”

Bill just stares at the television over her head. She sits back. Andy passes by.

“Ah! Did you see that? My water glass, it moved again! Really, it moved.’

“There’s no side, Bonnie. If there was, I’d be on yours. I’m your brother. No one planned any of this. You and Rob just deal with things different.”

“Why won’t he talk to me? And he’s holding my mail. I know he’s got a stack of it in the house. Wait! It’s Andy’s shadow! Every time he walks by, it looks like the glass moved.”

“Bonnie.” Bill turns and looks at her. He looks twenty years older than her, not ten.

“It’s my home, Bill, not hers. I miss my kitchen wallpaper, you know, the blue cornflowers. The way the curtains in the bathroom get sucked against the screen before a storm. The irises by the back door, those are from Aunt Marie’s garden. The fucking apartment doesn’t even have a back door.”

“Why go over there, Bonnie? Get an address change. Forward your mail.”

“I did. It was only good for a year.”

“Get another one.” Bill turns and looks at her. “Look, I just did a double shift, and I have to be back in a few hours. I need sleep.”

Bill swallows the last of his beer, pick up his cigarettes, slides off the bar stool and lays a five and a single on the bar.

“Ok, Billy. Maybe see you tomorrow?”

Bill keeps going. Baggy folds in the seat of his jeans, stiff walk, narrow gray-blond braid down to his waist. Thin spot at the crown of his head, getting thinner. She is lucky to have him for a big brother.

Bonnie doesn’t order another Bloody Mary, maybe because the scent of stale beer floats up from her lap and reminds her of the night before, falling asleep in the Lazy Boy watching ‘African Queen,’ beer in hand. A sure sign of sliding, of winding up in the same place as when she first moved out and assumed Rob would beg her to return.

Bonnie drives to the truck stop for a carton of eggs but instead of going home to make lunch, goes to the house, planning to say she wants her mail. Rob can’t call the police over that. She won’t say her heart’s breaking for the second time.

*

The day returns in stereo, on a loop: drumming urine, crashing eggs, snarling dog, exploding airbag. All because of Rob’s text. Until then, she’d been going to meetings, seeing her counselor, applying for jobs.

Day drinking is bad.

The men lift her into the back of the ambulance. She closes her one eye to the flashing lights, not wanting to see the inside. That feeling will return, being drained by the inconceivable turned real, filled with a lead cloud, restrained only by the hard gray surfaces and tiny lights that don’t illuminate. The ride will be painful; the nightmares will return; the lead cloud will swell.

“Mrs. Peterson, Bonnie, can you hear me? You’ve been in an accident. Can you tell me how you feel? Are you in pain, Mrs. Peterson?”

Flat, unsympathetic voice. Of course, pain. Alone, empty, unneeded, unconsidered. Heart in pieces, uncomforted. The men have no idea of her losses. Tears on her face, Bonnie opens her mouth. A whisper slinks out.

“My needs are not being met.”

Louder, voice cracking.

“My needs. Are not. Being met.”