Can't Get Much Worse - Chapter 1

The Great Substack Story Challenge - II

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            Downtown, the birds sing in rounds and the squirrels play tag and all the trees along Madison Ave. wave to each other. On the corner, a crowd gathers around the hotdog man to watch him flip his wieners in the air and catch them in the bun. In the distance, a street performer strums a power-chord rendition of “What a Wonderful World.” His tenor voice breaks on the refrain. The sidewalk is packed with the office crowd lunch rush. A large truck rumbles past and for a moment, all I smell is diesel.

            Lauren groans. Bear, her doodle, yips.

            I inhale a deep breath and smile and say, “It’s the smell of people working hard and earning for their family.”

            Lauren rolls her eyes. We’re meeting my husband, Eric, and her boyfriend, Arnold, for lunch. Bear tangles his front leg in his leash.

            “Your relationship is so weird,” she says.

            She means my silver-lining challenge. If I can go all of today without being negative once, my husband promised to behave when my mom visits.

            “I miss sarcastic hot-take Kate,” Lauren says. “I could really use ready to rant, cynical and unhappy Kate.”

            “Not today,” I say.

            Lauren squints, pouts, and flicks her fingers at me.

            “Love shouldn’t be transactional,” she says.

            I agree. But, I also remember how before Eric and I started giving each other daily challenges, every night after we tucked Dawn in, he would spread out on the sectional couch and scroll through his phone and I would be at the kitchen table looking at my laptop and our only conversation would be to coordinate pick-up for Dawn’s after-school dance practice. Now that we have these challenges, our nights are filled with checking in and reviewing how we did. We tease. We encourage. And Eric’s eyes linger on my face like when we first started dating, back before Drew and Dawn were born.

            “One,” I say, knowing Lauren will back off if I speak math. “I want to do it for myself. Two, I want to do it for Dawn. I don’t want her ending up like her brother and holding a grudge, silent treating me for over a year now for something I didn’t even mean when I said it. Three…”        

            Lauren interrupts, “Did you see the news about dark chocolate? Every brand is full of lead and cadmium. Doesn’t that make you mad?”

            I do love a mocha.

            “Great!” I say, “I need to eat healthier anyway.”

            “You’re impossible,” Lauren says. “Yesterday, you would have called the cops on that drifter.”

            “Yeah,” I say and run my thumb over the cracks spider-webbing my phone. “But accidents happen.”

            I reach down and pet Bear and say, “I’ve been meaning to be more present in the moment.” 

            “You’re lying!” Lauren says, singing the last syllable.

            At the end of the block, protesters wave placards and chant, “The people, united, will never be divided!”

            “Should we cross the street here?” Lauren asks, “Or do you want to go chat with the mob that wants you fired?”

            “Not me, specifically,” I say.

            We cross the street to the less shady side. I shield my eyes.

            “Lots of studies show sunshine improves mood.”

            It’s less crowded on this side of the street, but Bear darts in front of the tallest man I’ve ever seen, who trips into me, knocking me into Lauren. Her purse spills onto the sidewalk. Bear yips. The giant apologizes and continues on his way. I help Lauren gather her belongings: keys, wallet, phone, and a positive pee-stick.

            “Oh my god, Lauren!” I shout. “Congratulations!”

            Lauren bites her lip and clenches her fists.

            Hunched low to the ground, strangers stepping wide to walk around us, she whispers, “It’s not Arnold’s. Please don’t say anything.”

            Arnold is my best friend from college. I introduced him to Lauren. Last week, I helped him shop for an engagement ring.

            “Drop a contact?” my husband asks, all of a sudden standing behind us.

            Eric holds two Burrito Palace bags. Arnold holds out his hand for Lauren while straw-sipping from a large fountain cup.

            “Let’s eat at the park,” my husband says. “Someone crapped on the floor in Burrito Palace, they’re still cleaning it up.”

            “And you still bought lunch?” I ask, gasping. “I’m not eating that.”

            Lauren arches an eyebrow.

            I quickly add, “Until I get a kiss. I love picnics!”

            Eric sees the pee-stick in my hand. His luckiest-man-in-the-world-smile falters. His take-on-the-world-for-me posture crumbles.

            “Christmas was a long time ago, Kate,” he says, choking on my name.

            “Eric, honey,” I say. “Let’s discuss this later. In private.”

            “Not cool, Kate,” he says, wincing.

            He starts to bend, like his stomach hurts. Arnold looks away and pretends to watch the protesters across the street. Lauren takes my hand and digs her nails into my palm. Her watering eyes plead, “please.”

            Bear continues to yip.

            Eric curses and throws the bags against the sidewalk. Beans and cheese and sour cream and salsa splatter my shoes. I can fix this later. He knows I would never cheat on him. I flash Eric my trust-me face, but he’s already clenching shut his eyes and walking away.

            At least this day can’t get any worse.

            Before I can crack that thankfully now no one has to eat the toilet tacos, an explosion like thunder but ten times louder rocks the block. Passersby shout and look up. Bear darts into the street. A car lurches around the corner and flies down the middle of the avenue. Lauren screams and rushes after Bear, pulling me after her. Brakes screech and the car flips and spins and lands wheels up beside us. Bear quits yipping, tucks his tail between his legs and runs to me. I pick him up and hold him tight.

            Four masked men clamber out of the upturned car. A security guard runs toward us from the direction the car appeared. In the distance, alarms wail.

            Three of the masked men reach back into the upturned car to grab their bags. The fourth rubs his arm and hacks a familiar cough before pulling off his mask. He looks at me and grins his you-caught-me grin, like when I would find him rummaging through the pantry for a chocolate chip granola bar before dinner. 

            “Mom?” he says, staggering towards me. “Good to see you. Been a while.”

            It’s my Drew.

            I wipe my eyes on my shoulder. I ask why he isn’t in school.

            “Dad,” he says, addressing Eric, who has returned, stunned at my side. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

            Someone shouts halt. One of Drew’s friends pulls a gun from the back of his pants and shoots at the security guard who drops down and shoots back. Drew’s friend collapses onto the street.

            Drew jumps and waves his hands. We used to call him ‘flipper’ during the tense moments in movies we watched on Family Fun nights.

            The other two masked men raise their hands. The guard stands and shoots them both. They fall and as the guard steadies his gun at my Drew I scream and throw Bear high into the air.

            “No!” I cry. “My dog!"

            “Bear!” Lauren shouts, “Somebody save him!”

            I hiss at Drew to go.

            The guard holsters his gun and runs under Bear and drops a knee as he cradle catches the doodle.

            “Damn, lady,” the guard says, “How did you throw that dog so high?”

            Then someone shoots him in the head. The security guard falls over and drops Bear, who runs to Lauren.

            My Drew says, “Thanks mom,” and tosses me the gun he just used to shoot the security guard. “Like you said, it’s all a mountain of dirt.”

            And my Drew runs away.

            I drop the gun and step back, tripping on the curb and landing hard on the sidewalk. The asphalt stings my tailbone and jars my spine, but I feel like I’m still falling down a bottomless hole. Eric rushes to the fallen guard and two-fingers his neck. Three police officers arrive and surround him, guns drawn. He stands, raises his hands, and steps back. I shut my eyes.      

            I hear a stranger with a calm, deep voice attempt to deescalate. Another witness shouts, “not that guy! He’s trying to help. The killer went that way.”

           Footsteps run past me. A light breeze brings the smell of pennies. I feel Eric’s hand on my shoulder. I open my eyes and push it away. Sirens reverb off the buildings and street as strangers point and record and chase the loose dollars that fall like autumn leaves.

            “You knew?” I ask.

            Eric holds up his hands, palms out. He says, “Drew told me he dropped out a few months ago. Not that he robbed banks.”

            I don’t want to hear it.

            I gag back the urge to curse and claw and kick and cry and hit and hurt.

            At least my son is talking to me now.

[To be continued next Thursday on

Getting Through The Day

]

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Text (c) 2023 by Wil Dalton.

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