The Ascent(67)

“I’m calling the police,” David said. He staggered to the kitchen and grabbed a portable phone.

“Hannah,” I said.

“I don’t want to hear it. Get up. Goddamn you. Get the hell up.”

“Please …”

“This is assault,” the son of a bitch said from the kitchen. “This is breaking and entering and assault.”

“Come in here, you f*cking weasel, and I’ll show you assault,” I said, standing. David did not respond, and I looked at Hannah. It killed me to see my wife standing in front of me, a golf club over her shoulder. What killed me even more was she was dressed for bed … in this f*cker’s house. “Come home with me. Please. We’ll talk things out. I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you.”

Tears streamed down her face. “Get the f*ck out.”

“Sweet—”

“I can’t do this right now. You’re attacking me when I’m weakest. That’s unfair.”

“Your leaving me is unfair!” I shouted. “I come home to an empty goddamn house—that’s what’s unfair! Goddamn it. Come home with me!”

“I can’t do this. Please, Tim. If you love me, you’ll leave.”

David walked in, wielding the portable phone like a handgun.

I wasn’t going to win this—the realization fell on me like a piano down a flight of stairs. My face burned; my pride burned. Breathing heavy, I straightened my shirt and shot a glare at David.

He took a step backward into the kitchen, holding up the telephone

to prove he was serious about calling the cops.

“Fuck you, dude,” I said. I turned to Hannah and my soul softened. “One last time. Please come home with me.”

“No,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I can’t.”

“All right.” I went to the door, paused with my hand on the knob, then pulled it open and stomped onto the concrete porch. I left the door open behind me, but the second I stepped out, Hannah slammed it. A moment later, I heard the lock click into place.

My head was filled with butterflies. My vision was as clear as it had ever been—I felt I could see for miles without restriction—and my veins were pumping full of lighter fluid.

I climbed into the driver’s seat of my car and sat for what could have been an hour, watching traffic slide up and down the block and tourists dip in and out of bars. Parked in front of me was an old 1928 Mercedes motorcar convertible, with running floorboards and a spare tire on the trunk. It had a vanity license plate—4N WORDS.

“Son of a bitch,” I uttered and twisted the door handle. I popped the trunk and grabbed my tire iron, feeling its heft in my hands. A malicious grin spread across my face. I marched over to the motorcar and stared down at the front grille.

“Fucking bastard,” I murmured and smashed out one of the headlamps. It exploded in a shower of powdered glass. “Asshole.” And I smashed the second headlamp, swinging like Babe f*cking Ruth, taking the son of a bitch over the wall. “Home run,” I said, grinning. “That one’s outta here.”

“Tim!” Hannah shouted from one of David’s upstairs windows. “Goddamn it. We’re calling the police!”

“This one’s out of the park,” I informed her and swung the tire iron into the motorcar’s windshield, shattering it. I brought it down again and again until the interior upholstery was blanketed in triangular shards of glass. Exhausted, I dropped the tire iron in the street and held my hands up in mock surrender.

Hannah poked her head through the window, and I could see David pacing behind her.

“Go home!” Hannah yelled. “Go home!”

“You go home,” I told her. It wasn’t about me; it was about her, all about her. “You go home.”

The window slammed shut and the light went off.

A car full of college kids cruised by, hollering at me from the windows.

I kicked the tire iron at them—it rebounded off the car’s rear bumper, a good kick—and got back into my car. I cranked the ignition, and as luck would have it, the goddamn car wouldn’t start. I tried it again to no avail. A third time, though, and it kicked over, the engine just as angry with me as my wife.

What the hell happened here tonight? I wondered. Car horns blared at me as I pulled out into the street and cut drivers off. Will someone tell me what the hell just happened?

I sped home, the steering wheel greasy with my sweat. In fact, I ran my hands along the steering wheel, surprised at the amount of perspiration. It wasn’t until I stopped at a traffic light that I realized it wasn’t perspiration but blood. I held my hand up in the glow of the traffic light. It was covered in blood, the bandage completely gone, having unraveled at some point during the evening’s events.

Behind me, car horns honked. I looked up and saw the light had turned green. Gunning the engine, the tires squealing, I raced home, caught somewhere between an agonized laugh and a child’s lost cry.

5



“FIVE.” SAID ANDREW. “FOUR … THREE … TWO … ONE.”

Amazingly, the hail stopped. Not exactly at one but within thirty seconds of it. It was a curious enough feat for Chad and Hollinger to glance over at Andrew.

“It’s done,” Andrew said, climbing out of the tent. “Let’s go.”