Kinder Than the Lightning

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”

—Bob Dylan

I

Coming into the place, Toppers, from a light drizzle, I ran my hand through my damp hair, took a seat next to my friend Cecilia and ordered a Hopadillo from Marianne, behind the bar.

"I'm going to divorce him," Cecilia said, as I adjusted my posture next to her.

I laughed out loud, loud enough for the guy at the table behind us to glance in our direction.

She was quiet / and / then

"I'm not playing.”

In the echo of my laugh-out-loud, Marianne, bridging the gap, put my beer in front of me. Cecilia was looking at my profile, deciding what to do next, wondering how stupid I was willing to be. As she looked at her wine glass, she considered pouring it on my head, unappreciative of my response to her on-again / off-again divorce plans.

It was the first day of June in Sendera, Texas. Hot, humid. Shorter shorts. I like that. But so are the tempers. Don’t like that so much.

I glanced at Marianne, the all-listening Marianne, for a hint but she was hiding her cards.

I feign a reaction to the replay on the TV above us.

Uggh, I exhale as the Texans choke on a third and short.

“Ready for another glass, Cecilia," Marianne coaxed.

I glance at my partner's wine glass, almost empty.

(Yes. Yes, please, another one.)

“No" Cecilia said. A silent beat. "I'm fine."

Oh, shit.

Marianne threw me a "you're an asshole" look, granting me a hint. I turn to Cecilia, raising the stakes, and open my hands, pleading with her, "Come on. How many petitions have I prepared for you? How many times have I heard this? Please. What's different this time?"

Marianne moved near the beer taps, near us, wiping a cloth along the bar, as I leaned toward Cecilia, pressing my case.

"Seriously, what's changed," I challenged, all in now. This is how stupid I’m willing to be.

"What's different this time is I'm not using you."

This amused Marianne and she came to us, picking up a bottle, and began pouring wine into Cecilia's empty glass.

“Thank you, baby," Cecilia told her, smiling, looking away from me as Marianne downgraded her sideways glance at me to "you're a jerk" and continued a slow pour, studying Cecilia’s face.

"Sissy, please,” I persisted, hands still open, my voice an octave higher, “I’m sorry. You’re serious. I know that now. Fifteen minutes at noon tomorrow, sit on the couch, answer a few questions about the kids, I'll do the petition, I promise.”

“Fuck you, Steve."

This pleased Marianne, grinning, as she finished the pour. I smiled at Marianne, hopeless. Marianne smiled back at me, shrugging. One down, one to go.

“Come on,” I said, turning my attention back to Cecilia, “We’ll do the petition, then I'll buy you lunch," I suggested. She considered the offer.

“And my drinks," she countered, pointing at her filled wine glass and moving her middle finger in a counter-clockwise motion over the wine as she said “drinks,” enjoying my discomfort.

“And your drinks," I conceded.

"You know," I started in, not sure if she was going to listen to anything I had to say at this point, "I feel for him. This isn't going to be easy. It's going to be very sad for him."

“Yea, maybe," she replied.

Then she started in. (Shouldn’t have poked the bear.)

"You were real sad after my sister dumped you."

She waited for the effect. I put on my expressionless face, watched the Texans get intercepted. I’m playing 2-7 like American Airlines.

"I mean really sad."

I'm not playing this little game with her. She's getting me back for not taking her seriously to begin with. I purse my lips, still holding the best bluff.

"Really, really sad."

Not going in, nope, watching the game, beer in hand. Pretty sure J.J. is going to sack Brees.

"Like pathetic sad little man sad. You know, like--"

"Got it," I said, perhaps a little too loudly, shutting it down, Marianne glancing at us.

Victorious silence from Cecilia.

“I'm still sad," I protested, mucking my cards.

“No,” she replied, “you’re a lot better.”

I remember driving from Corpus to Sendera, sobbing on the phone about how badly I had fucked up our lives (me and my ex), hoping for voicemail but instead hearing her voice, “What did you do, Steve?” And then I confessed. I broke down and I confessed everything, saving my life. She saved my life. Such a simple act. Answering the phone.

I’m a lot better now, she says. I’m a lot better now.

That’s a question.

II

A

The last remnant I have of Amber, after overturning the coffee table and burning down the house, is sorrow.

I hold that piece in my hand daily, turning it over and over, searching for other pieces: the regret pieces, the sex pieces, the betrayal pieces.

Something happened to those pieces when I kicked that table over and lit the match—except for this one, this dominating sadness, this piece I hold tightly in my sweaty palm. If I look down and it is gone, that last unhappy fragment, if I was truly no longer fucked-up about our break-up, then Amber was finally gone—completely gone. That couldn't be. I'm not well—not well enough for that.

“I don't want to be better,” I protested to the air in front of me.

Cecilia didn't hear me, ignored me or just didn't want to deal.

(Things were changing.)

Cecilia was divorcing her husband and resigning as Captain of Us. She was kicking me out into the storm, a Force Nine blowing.

I believe this is the part of the story where I bravely step up to accept my commission. From this moment on, all of our conversations would be about her. No more Steve commiseration. She, understandably, had enough of sad Steve stories: Barrios, you are over Amber. I need you to be over her and to concentrate on your crew. Put on your cap, Captain. Pay attention to me, your crew of one, you selfish prick.

B

“You can’t tell when things end,” my niece had said.

This little waif of a girl telling me, Uncle Steve, maybe it's in the middle.

Then me thinking, hell, maybe Natalie is right. This fifteen year old girl who can't end a story is more tuned in than most adults.

So, yea, Sissy, here in the middle of the story, I can be Captain of Us if that’s what you want. I can steer us into the perfect storm. I can take over if that's what you want. But I'm not ready. Captain of Us? Fuck, I’m not even the captain of me.

C

Two weeks later, we are headed to Armadillos, down the street from our office. Derek greets us as we walk in. He looks at Cecilia and confidently says "white zin," then furrows his brow at me and tentatively says "First Street," to which I don't respond (not my beer), then lightens his expression and exclaims, "Hopadillo!" I smile. As we take our seats, he prepares our beverages and I hand Cecilia a file-stamped copy of her divorce petition.

“Wow,” she says, slapping me on the back, shoving the doc into her oversized purse, “I’m impressed.”

We talked about everything that night: life, love, present, future, past, anger, belief. She is a devout parishioner; I am apostate. We didn’t finish. We have not finished, Natalie dear—we’re in the middle.

We ended the night early, Derek unceremoniously kicking us out at 11, in the midst of our conversation.

I was looking forward to continuing the private talk the next night at Toppers after work and Sissy assured me that we would finish as I walked her to her car, closing the door on her as she buckled her seatbelt.

She clicked the passenger window of her white Honda Accord down, push-buttoned on the engine, foot on the brake, and said, “Kick off at 7.”

III

A

The next day after work, getting a head start, I took my usual seat at the bar a little after 5 and Marianne put a sixteen ounce Hopadillo in front of me. I asked her how Derek was doing and she told me he was off tonight and, God, she wanted to go home. She asked me how Cecilia was and I told her she would be joining me in a few hours. I took a sip of my beer. I texted Macy, “Jeez, the first drink of the day is amaze-balls.” Then I texted Bryan, “Toppers.”

I ordered food and had a few more beers, switching to Love Street after the Hopa broke me in. I was working on a story on Evernote when Cecilia texted me, “I lied. I can’t make it. Eve’s friend is doing a quincenera this weekend and I’m helping the practice.” Around the same time, Bryan texted, asking if it was okay if he brought his friend Skylar along. To Cecilia, I responded with a smiley face and an “okey doke” followed by a thumbs up emoji; to Bryan I responded, “Of course!” I went back to working on my short story for Lawyers Quarterly and another beer from Marianne.

The remainder of the evening became a bit fuzzy. I know I went to my truck a few times for a smoke break, windows up. I know Skylar left or was leaving or wanted to leave her boyfriend. Skylar and I, a few hours later, would end up at my office. Fade to black as she locks the door, her back to me.

I dated Skylar (She calls herself “Skye.”) a few times afterward.

B

1

Early one Saturday morning, drapes in my bedroom drawn together, the sun was not shining, a light drizzle falling, I was looking at another manic depressive afternoon.

I received an unexpected text from the ex.

It was dark and cool inside. I was lying on my back, glad to be inside, seriously considering going back to sleep, listening to Dylan, his voice fading out—not a word was spoke between us.

She only asked how I was.

(I was tangled up in blue.)

2

I relished telling Cecilia intimate sexual details between Skye and I

/ however/

my conversations with her sister,

long percussive excursions deep into the dawn when the husband was out of town,

remain a secret.

I was directing the rig now, dancing between the masts.

IV

The courts here in Collin County schedule contested cases on Mondays—Tuesdays if there is a Monday holiday—while Fridays are reserved for uncontested cases. The 60 day waiting period for the Cecilia Sanchez divorce had gone by in a flash so I set her case for Friday, August 25, 2017.

But before we get to that, there was this:

The Friday before the divorce, a week out to be exact, a tropical storm formed in the Gulf of Mexico, threatening Louisiana and South Texas, including my little town of Sendera on the coast between Houston to the east and Corpus Christi to the south. My brother Jake decided to stay and protect the homestead, the Barrios legacy slowly fading, while I sought higher ground with my sister in Kerrville, a double wide high in the hill country, on a break from her third husband. I figured a couple of days with her, then head back to the practice on Sunday, prep the week ahead, the highlight of which would be procuring my best friend’s divorce on Friday.

He teased us the next day, making landfall at Barbados and St. Vincent, slowing back down to a tropical depression, my sister’s legal questions exhausted.

I will make Cecilia’s divorce.

My plan is to finish off the weekend, stay away from my brother-in-law’s pills (never an easy task), get back to Sendera on Monday, use the balance of the week to get back to normal, then Sissy’s divorce at the end of the week, followed by a No Exes Allowed (not even the lovely and talented Amber) party at Armadillos.

Meanwhile, lying on the futon in Kerrville, Skye was one hour away to the west and asking me to stay with her and her daughter. I felt it would not be an optimal situation for me to stay with her and her pre-teen kid. Let’s wait until the following weekend when she’s with her father.

Meanwhile, in the Gulf, Harvey—like the postman—rang twice.

Jake called me on Monday as I was getting out of the shower at the trailer, looking forward to packing, with news: water’s no good, he said, can’t shower. Can’t drink or cook with it without boiling it first. Fine, I replied. (One more day, I muttered to myself.)

Tuesday he called again. Electricity is out. I’m in the dark. (No generator at the homestead.) Okay, stay another day, I said again.

Wednesday, another day, another call. Thinking about coming home, he asked. Yes! I’d love to! Is all good?

Harvey had receded from south Sendera, collateral damage settling in, but now he was being annoying, brooding off the coast, toying with us. Hurricane Harvey was gaining strength. More strength than the first time.

Mandatory evacuation in 4 hours, he said. (This is going in the wrong direction.) If you’re not out by then, you ain’t getting out. No ingress, no egress. All I could do was sigh and write about it.

Okay, stay another day, I said again, this time through gritted teeth.

On Thursday, my brother did not call. He did not need to. Harvey 2.0 directly hit Sendera this time, no more teasing. It was all over TV.

Sendera was cancelled, including the Friday docket.

Cecilia’s divorce, as well as our sectarian conversation, would have to wait. As it turned out, Hurricane Harvey hit on the day her divorce was set, Friday, August 25. I was still in Kerrville, Cecilia in Sendera, Skye in San Antonio, Amber alone in Sugarland.

V

A

Judge Johnson finally got around to re-scheduling the Sanchez divorce for Friday, September 15th. Kids were back at school, and fall—at least on paper—had started. Cecilia’s husband had signed a waiver, the decree and the income withholding order. The judge jived us about why we had skipped the last hearing, smiled at Cecilia’s low cut blouse and good-naturedly granted the waiver divorce, wishing us a happy Friday. A raucous party would follow that evening at Armadillos.

But before we get to that, there was this:

I woke up at 7:00 a.m. on the Friday of the divorce. Usually my dockets start at 9:00 a.m. The clerk, however, bunched Sissy’s waiver divorce with the pro se divorces set at 10:00 a.m. I did not know at the time but I would need that extra hour.

Out of bed, I showered, walked back to my room with a towel wrapped around my torso and was greeted by an unwelcome chirping. Fuck, it’s not even 8 yet. I had two missed calls and a text. The text was easy. It was from my niece Natalie. I’ll get to that later.

Missed call. Skye.

Missed call. AM.

Amber (AM) wanted to talk, I thought. Her husband, Paul, had probably just left the house. I pictured her reaching for her vibrator. She’ll wait.

Skye never raw calls. She always texts first. Something’s up. I hit dial. She picked up.

Turns out, after a thirty minute conversion, that Skye thought I should have spent the evacuation with her and her kid. It’s a trust thing, she says. You don’t trust me, she’s almost yelling. (Wait, what?) I was ONE hour away, she is actually yelling now. No, I say, (thinking of the kid’s father), it’s optics, babe.

There is silence.

I realized later that she thought I meant the optics of her and me whoring around and not the optics of a middle school kid waking up to a strange man running around her house in his bathrobe and slippers.

You know, Barrios, I find it really hard to be interested in someone who is not interested in me.

My face paled. Not at what said. Meh,I get it. But she called me by my last name. Barrios, the fading legacy now dead. She was done.

She was done.

“Skye,” I said. “Skylar.”

“If you don’t want to be around US, you don’t want to be around me.” She reduced herself to a voice on my cell, cold and ladylike.

“It’s not—,” I started.

“Call me back when you grow up,” she said.

I said “Skye” again to a live line and then I said “Skylar” again to a dead line. It was 8:35 a.m. I laid back down. Closed my eyes. I nightmared.

I was coaxed out my disturbance by this thought: this day could not get any worse.

I still owed Amber a call. I gave her half a smile, pushing the sheet down to my waist.

I called AM. Voicemail. I hung up. Closed my eyes again. Did not nightmare. Time slipped. I pictured Amber loosening her silk bathrobe, ready for my return call, her nails brushing across her abdomen.

Before I could continue, she phoned. I picked up, smiled and said, “Steve.” She echoed me. “Steve,” she said, an octave lower.

She continued, “Paul went through my phone.”

“He never liked me, “ I replied.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “I need to stop. I love you, Steve. I just can’t. It’s not fair.”

She might have said “it’s not fair to him “ but I had already hung up on her, my face burning.

This was not the first time she said she loved me and then walked away.

I got up to re-start the day, this fucked day, getting dressed, stressed and distressed.

I was straightening my tie in the mirror, getting ready to do Amber’s sister’s divorce and I yelled to my empty room:

YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT IT’S NOT FAIR!

I picked up and threw my stupid round Alexa (that bitch) against the wall, watched it bounce off.

She’s a bad bad girlfriend.

B

At 9:30 a.m., I made it to docket call.

An hour later, after Judge Johnson, in an unusually chipper mood, granted Cecilia’s divorce, I remembered the text from Natalie.

I texted my niece back, “What’s up, love?”

“Can you come to Rob’s house tomorrow at 7,” she texted. “We’re having some family thingy thing dealy do. He asked me to tell you.”

I exhaled tension I did not even know I was holding. I was standing on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse, across from the gazebo, my coat off, draped over my left arm, forehead sweating in the Sendera sun. Cecilia drove by, honked. I looked at her car passing by, waved, thinking about the party at Armadillos to come, Rob’s party tomorrow.

“Of course, Nattie,” I texted back, “you tell Rob I’d love to.”

I smiled, looking forward to seeing Natalie, listening to her talk about her day, her dog—hell, anything.

The sun was shining.