Everything You Are(98)

“Yes,” Braden answers. His voice sounds distant, different.

“Are you alone?”

“No, Mitch is here. He’s . . . leaving. I want him gone, but he’s drunk. It’s dark and snowing and I tell him to give me his keys.”

“And does he?”

“No. He says, ‘So I crash. Problem solved for you.’”

“What do you say to him?”

“‘Give me your fucking car keys, Mitch.’”

“You’re smiling,” Len says.

“He doesn’t give me the keys. I shove him. It feels good to shove him. A release. But then he says, ‘What the hell, man? Out of my way.’

“I tell him I’m looking out for my sister.

“He says, ‘What are you gonna do, fight me? I’d drop you and your precious hands like a fly meeting a fly swatter.’”

Jo squeezes her own hands into fists. There’s a lump in Phee’s throat that feels like a golf ball. Celestine whines and thumps his tail.

“My hands don’t matter anymore,” Braden says. “I’m giving up the cello. I’ve got nothing to lose. I want to hit him. Only, he gives in. Drops the key ring on the counter.”

“And then what happens?” Len asks.

Phee holds her breath. This is the telling moment. Whether Braden will remember beyond what he’s already told them or not.

“He takes the beer outside,” Braden says. “Makes a fire in the pit. And I . . . I put the cello in her case and close it. I tell her this is goodbye. I can still hear the music, even though she’s locked in the case, and I think maybe I need to bury her or burn her to make it stop.”

Again, he goes silent, and Len prompts him.

“But you don’t.”

“No, I . . . start thinking about Mitch again. Blaming him. It’s all his fault. He did this. He pushed Lilian into the affair, and it’s all his fault that I have to give up music. I need to go talk to him, tell him to stay away from Lil and the kids. Make him swear he’ll keep this whole thing a secret. I tell myself I just want to talk to him, but really I want to hit him.

“I’m furious, desperate. As soon as I step outside, the wind hits me, cuts right through my shirt, but I don’t go back for a jacket. It’s snowing like crazy, wind blowing, drifts above the tops of my tennis shoes, but I don’t feel it.

“Mitch is sitting in a camp chair beside the fire, still drinking. When he sees me, he . . . asks me to talk about it. Offers me a drink.”

“What do you do?” Len asks.

“I sit down. I start drinking. And we just sit there. I’m thinking a little more clearly, tell myself I just need to make him agree to keeping his mouth shut and then I’ll go.”

Braden stops talking again. Phee looks around the circle, all of the faces watchful, waiting. Allie still plays, tears flowing down her cheeks.

“So you drink for a while,” Len prompts. “And then what happens?”

“And then I just tell him, ‘I’m going home to her. You need to keep your mouth shut.’ He doesn’t answer. I tell him I want him to promise to break it off with Lilian, that nobody else needs to get hurt. We won’t tell Jo, or the kids. This stays between us.”

“What does he say?” Len asks.

“‘Who says you get to decide?’ That’s what he says.

“‘My wife. My kids,’ I tell him.

“‘Trey’s not,’ he says. He starts laughing, like the whole thing is a joke. ‘We could fight for her,’ he says.”

Braden stops talking. He just lies there, breathing rapidly.

“What are you feeling?” Len prompts.

“Everything is black around the edges, I’m so mad. I punch him in the jaw. He’s drunk, he’s not ready, the chair tips over backward. He stays right there in the snow, legs in the air. Still got the can clutched in his hand. My hand hurts, but it hurts good.

“‘That the best you can do?’ he says. He sets the can in the snow and rolls over onto his hands and knees, staggers up onto his feet. He spreads his arms out wide. ‘I’m a sporting man. Let’s make it fair. You get one more hit free before I flatten you.’

“I . . . I lunge at him, head butt him in the chest. We go down together, me on top. He says, ‘Missed your chance, music boy. Should have taken what I offered.’

“I . . . I punch him in the nose. Blood splatters on my face. Mitch, he’s stronger, heavier. He flips me somehow. I’m on my back, can’t breathe. Snow down my back, down inside my jeans. He’s gonna hit me, any second, only he doesn’t, he’s . . . he’s crying. Blood dripping down on my face from his nose, tears and blood all over his face.

“‘You and that fucking cello,’ he says. ‘You made this mess, and now I’m the bad guy.’ He says it broken, not mad anymore. I feel desperate, sick, I don’t want to puke while I’m lying on my back. He’s drunk, crying. I tip him off, get up.

“Mitch gets up, too. He . . . doesn’t look good. He’s breathing too hard, through his mouth because of his nose. His hand is pressed against his chest. I think maybe I’ve broken his ribs.

“He lunges at me, and I just . . . step aside. And he, he trips on something. His arms are flailing. He goes down on his hands and knees. And then he’s just, he’s not there. Like, he disappeared.