by
Al Bruno III
Chester Bush sat on his front porch, waiting for the sunset and what the sunset would bring. It was a warm spring day, cloudy with a hint of rain. He had multiple windows open on his laptop; with each one, he checked for news in a city a time zone away.
Three days ago, at 7 a.m.o'clock, a tornado had come through the town of Drummond, Oregon, destroying everything in its path. Chester could read the incoming stories from his comfy chair and watch the video feeds from local and national news sources.
The body count kept rising. It seemed that for every miraculous survival, there were three lives cut short. The tornado had destroyed the firehouse but spared the police station. It had avoided the school but leveled an entire wing of the hospital.
There was booze in his free hand—expensive brandy in a cheap glass. His ex-wife Rosie would have said that was typical of him, and she would have been right. He had a lousy house full of expensive toys and a rusty car with a high-quality stereo system. That was just the way he liked it.
They used to sit on the porch of their home on Watkins Street—back when the house was theirs, not just hers. Back when their fights were still playful and their silences still comfortable. Rosie would stretch her legs across his lap, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and narrate the lives of their neighbors, one lit window at a time.
"See that one?" She nodded toward a glowing square of light. "He lives alone, but his 'best friend' visits every day. What do you think that means, huh?" She shot him a knowing grin. "And over there? Their daughter sneaks out her bedroom window every Sunday. And across the street—the ones who blast their music every night? They're falling out of love. Mark my words."
"Jesus, Rosie," Chester had laughed. "Maybe they just like music."
Now, years later, he sat alone on his own porch listening. One of the browser windows Chester had open was streaming the feed from Drummond, Oregon's AM radio station. The traffic reports and right-wing pundits had been replaced with constant updates. They took calls and tried their best to help people track down loved ones who had gone missing in the disaster.
Chester was two years away from sixty and was proud of how well he handled the technology at his fingertips. Too many of his friends shied away from it all, intimidated by learning something new, afraid of looking foolish when they made a mistake. Chester had no fear of mistakes.
His cell phone rang, and he dropped his drink in his fumbling to get it to his ear. He hung up almost immediately—another one of those damn idiots looking for the previous owner of his cell number.
There had been a time when he would have cursed the person on the other end of the line out until they hung up, then called them back and cursed at them some more. All through his life, his temper had been a problem—but not anymore. Had he finally mellowed, or was it just that, at the age of fifty-eight, he didn't have the energy for feuds and fights? How many times should a man have to repair punched walls and replace thrown glasses?
Once, Rosie had thrown a glass. Not at him, but near enough. It had shattered against the kitchen tile, the sharp scent of whiskey filling the air.
"Goddamn it, Rosie!" he'd yelled. She was angry this time, and it was totally his fault. Over the years, it had become easier to antagonize her than to make her laugh—easier than trying to fix what was breaking. Chester didn't know when, but at some point, he'd started enjoying it. "You really are crazy."
"All I want is a little consideration." Her voice was raw, "I'm your wife."
"Then stop acting like you're my goddamn mother." He paused, "No. Stop acting like your mother."
She'd gone quiet then, breathing hard, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Then she left, she left, and he didn't see her for days.
When she returned, the broken glass was still waiting there for her to clean up.
Chester blinked, his focus snapping back to the puddle of spilled brandy spreading across the bare wood floor. He frowned at it for a moment, then closed his laptop. There wasn't anything new it could tell him anyway.
He already knew that the house on Watkins Street, the house belonging to Rosalie Price, formerly Rosalie Bush, had been flattened by the tornado. Just like every other house on that unlucky street.
Chester retrieved a towel from the kitchen, then got down on his knees and dabbed at the spilled brandy. The house he had shared with Rosie for seven years was gone. It seemed almost hard to believe. The last time he had seen the place was after the signing of the divorce papers.
Their last conversation had been in the driveway, a manila folder on the hood of his brand-new truck between them. It was drizzling, and Chester had watched raindrops bead on the windshield of his car while she signed her name—once, twice, three times.
She clicked the pen shut, looked at him, and for a second, he thought she might say something. He braced himself, ready to fire back at whatever last shot she had left.
But she only exhaled, long and slow, before sliding the folder across the hood into his fingers.
"There," she said. "That's that."
He made a show of peeling out of the driveway in his truck, tires screeching, leaving behind rubber and smoke. It embarrassed him to think about it now. But back then? Back then, he'd told himself, Boy, I sure showed her.
He hadn't watched her walk away. At the time, he'd thought that was some kind of victory.
He brought the wet cloth and glass back into the kitchen, gave them both a quick rinse, and set them out to dry. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of getting another drink, but he decided he'd rather be sober.
For now, anyway.
The sun had fully set, the sky a darkening purple.
Thirty years. That was a long time to be angry, but it kept his other feelings a safe distance away. Better to be angry than to look back. Better to be angry than realize, after two more failed marriages and resignation to a quiet bachelor's life, that he had been most of the problem.
Three days ago, everything had changed. News of the disaster sent him scrambling to reach out to old friends any way he could—phone, email, text. Within hours, he had confirmed that all his old buddies and the family he'd left behind were safe—shaken but otherwise untouched.
Then they told him about Rosie's house.
At first, Chester just shrugged off the news, but as the day wore on, it tugged at him until it became a sickening worry. It robbed him of his appetite and the ability to sleep. In the silence of his house, all he heard were old conversations. When he closed his eyes, they filled with decades old memories.
The next morning, he started making calls. He reached out to old friends and family again—in his growing desperation, he even contacted a few enemies. He called civil authorities, searching for answers. Finally, he phoned the local radio station, pleading for anyone who might have information.
That did the trick.
Headlights in the driveway pulled Chester from his thoughts. He hurried to the porch steps, squinting at the woman stepping out of the taxi. At first, he barely recognized her—her hair was short and graying—but even in the fading light, her eyes were unmistakable.
"Do you have any bags?" he asked.
"I don't have anything," Rosie said. She moved slowly, cautiously, her arm held in a sling.
"Come inside." Chester paid the cabbie and guided her through the door. "I'll get you something to eat."
She hesitated, studying him. "You've been drinking."
"Nerves, I guess," he replied.
She paused in the doorway. "Why are you doing this? You didn't have to—"
Three days ago, at 7 a.m.o'clock, a tornado had come through the town of Drummond, Oregon, destroying everything in its path. Chester could read the incoming stories from his comfy chair and watch the video feeds from local and national news sources.
The body count kept rising. It seemed that for every miraculous survival, there were three lives cut short. The tornado had destroyed the firehouse but spared the police station. It had avoided the school but leveled an entire wing of the hospital.
There was booze in his free hand—expensive brandy in a cheap glass. His ex-wife Rosie would have said that was typical of him, and she would have been right. He had a lousy house full of expensive toys and a rusty car with a high-quality stereo system. That was just the way he liked it.
They used to sit on the porch of their home on Watkins Street—back when the house was theirs, not just hers. Back when their fights were still playful and their silences still comfortable. Rosie would stretch her legs across his lap, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and narrate the lives of their neighbors, one lit window at a time.
"See that one?" She nodded toward a glowing square of light. "He lives alone, but his 'best friend' visits every day. What do you think that means, huh?" She shot him a knowing grin. "And over there? Their daughter sneaks out her bedroom window every Sunday. And across the street—the ones who blast their music every night? They're falling out of love. Mark my words."
"Jesus, Rosie," Chester had laughed. "Maybe they just like music."
Now, years later, he sat alone on his own porch listening. One of the browser windows Chester had open was streaming the feed from Drummond, Oregon's AM radio station. The traffic reports and right-wing pundits had been replaced with constant updates. They took calls and tried their best to help people track down loved ones who had gone missing in the disaster.
Chester was two years away from sixty and was proud of how well he handled the technology at his fingertips. Too many of his friends shied away from it all, intimidated by learning something new, afraid of looking foolish when they made a mistake. Chester had no fear of mistakes.
His cell phone rang, and he dropped his drink in his fumbling to get it to his ear. He hung up almost immediately—another one of those damn idiots looking for the previous owner of his cell number.
There had been a time when he would have cursed the person on the other end of the line out until they hung up, then called them back and cursed at them some more. All through his life, his temper had been a problem—but not anymore. Had he finally mellowed, or was it just that, at the age of fifty-eight, he didn't have the energy for feuds and fights? How many times should a man have to repair punched walls and replace thrown glasses?
Once, Rosie had thrown a glass. Not at him, but near enough. It had shattered against the kitchen tile, the sharp scent of whiskey filling the air.
"Goddamn it, Rosie!" he'd yelled. She was angry this time, and it was totally his fault. Over the years, it had become easier to antagonize her than to make her laugh—easier than trying to fix what was breaking. Chester didn't know when, but at some point, he'd started enjoying it. "You really are crazy."
"All I want is a little consideration." Her voice was raw, "I'm your wife."
"Then stop acting like you're my goddamn mother." He paused, "No. Stop acting like your mother."
She'd gone quiet then, breathing hard, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Then she left, she left, and he didn't see her for days.
When she returned, the broken glass was still waiting there for her to clean up.
Chester blinked, his focus snapping back to the puddle of spilled brandy spreading across the bare wood floor. He frowned at it for a moment, then closed his laptop. There wasn't anything new it could tell him anyway.
He already knew that the house on Watkins Street, the house belonging to Rosalie Price, formerly Rosalie Bush, had been flattened by the tornado. Just like every other house on that unlucky street.
Chester retrieved a towel from the kitchen, then got down on his knees and dabbed at the spilled brandy. The house he had shared with Rosie for seven years was gone. It seemed almost hard to believe. The last time he had seen the place was after the signing of the divorce papers.
Their last conversation had been in the driveway, a manila folder on the hood of his brand-new truck between them. It was drizzling, and Chester had watched raindrops bead on the windshield of his car while she signed her name—once, twice, three times.
She clicked the pen shut, looked at him, and for a second, he thought she might say something. He braced himself, ready to fire back at whatever last shot she had left.
But she only exhaled, long and slow, before sliding the folder across the hood into his fingers.
"There," she said. "That's that."
He made a show of peeling out of the driveway in his truck, tires screeching, leaving behind rubber and smoke. It embarrassed him to think about it now. But back then? Back then, he'd told himself, Boy, I sure showed her.
He hadn't watched her walk away. At the time, he'd thought that was some kind of victory.
He brought the wet cloth and glass back into the kitchen, gave them both a quick rinse, and set them out to dry. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of getting another drink, but he decided he'd rather be sober.
For now, anyway.
The sun had fully set, the sky a darkening purple.
Thirty years. That was a long time to be angry, but it kept his other feelings a safe distance away. Better to be angry than to look back. Better to be angry than realize, after two more failed marriages and resignation to a quiet bachelor's life, that he had been most of the problem.
Three days ago, everything had changed. News of the disaster sent him scrambling to reach out to old friends any way he could—phone, email, text. Within hours, he had confirmed that all his old buddies and the family he'd left behind were safe—shaken but otherwise untouched.
Then they told him about Rosie's house.
At first, Chester just shrugged off the news, but as the day wore on, it tugged at him until it became a sickening worry. It robbed him of his appetite and the ability to sleep. In the silence of his house, all he heard were old conversations. When he closed his eyes, they filled with decades old memories.
The next morning, he started making calls. He reached out to old friends and family again—in his growing desperation, he even contacted a few enemies. He called civil authorities, searching for answers. Finally, he phoned the local radio station, pleading for anyone who might have information.
That did the trick.
Headlights in the driveway pulled Chester from his thoughts. He hurried to the porch steps, squinting at the woman stepping out of the taxi. At first, he barely recognized her—her hair was short and graying—but even in the fading light, her eyes were unmistakable.
"Do you have any bags?" he asked.
"I don't have anything," Rosie said. She moved slowly, cautiously, her arm held in a sling.
"Come inside." Chester paid the cabbie and guided her through the door. "I'll get you something to eat."
She hesitated, studying him. "You've been drinking."
"Nerves, I guess," he replied.
She paused in the doorway. "Why are you doing this? You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did." Chester smiled. "Besides, it's too quiet around here."
As Rosie stepped inside, she murmured, "I bet that changes fast."
"I bet you're right," Chester said, following her in.
Behind them, the porch door swung shut.
As Rosie stepped inside, she murmured, "I bet that changes fast."
"I bet you're right," Chester said, following her in.
Behind them, the porch door swung shut.
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