The Art of Dying

Astraphobia.

Ten percent of humanity feels anxiety of varying degrees when storms approach. The roll of the distant thunder, the flash of lightning, even the slight difference in the air can cause debilitating fear. Me? I welcome it. From the time I was a dirty-faced runt with my nose and palms pressed against a window, I begged my parents to allow me outside to play among the drenched, broken limbs, stinging rain, and rushing water. As an OCS candidate standing in formation in high tide, nose dripping and cammies saltwater-soaked, I’d force myself to stifle a grin so my drill instructor didn’t try to kill me twice in one day. Downrange, soaked in shit weather, watching lights rip through the sky, and feeling the boom that followed pushed me past exhaustion so I could fight another day.

The low rumble, the shadows cast on the wall, the smell of rain just minutes away, the impending threat, and the promise that whatever mundane or impossible task ahead was about to get a whole helluva lot worse made me smile like a fool. My parents never understood my connection with storms, my friends and teammates thought it was just my brand of crazy. But its chaos is dependable; a chance to survive. As the clouds move on and I’m still standing, it reminds me once again that our strength lies not in controlling God’s wrath, but in the act of surviving it.

The moment I laid eyes on that fiery ginger from Tennessee, though, I knew there would be nothing left of me. That girl was a hurricane.

Day 1.

chapter one.

Kitsch

Anger is magic. A good rage can make the pain disappear when you land a punch, when a relationship ends, or when you’re benching so much weight your asshole feels like it’s about to punch through your boxer briefs.

Yeah, I said it.

Anger can help you fight a fighter and leave a lover, and that anger—along with at least seven shots of Jameson Whiskey—is what helped when Cubby, a local, low-level Hell’s Angels wannabe sucker punched me in the basement bar of Bart’s Tavern.

What the… I said from the floor, immediately scrambling to my feet to tackle him back to the ground.

Sometimes my fist connected with his face, sometimes I missed and felt my knuckles pound the stained concrete behind him, peeling back the skin from my knuckles a little bit each time.

Okay, okay! Sully said, pulling me back. You’ve made your point, Kitsch! I went for Cubby again, but Sully yanked me back by the shirt. Your C.O. gets wind of this and you’re fucking toast! Stop!

I lowered my head, breathing hard. Cubby might’ve gotten one in on me, but now he looked more like Sloth from The Goonies than the bully from algebra class.

He crawled to his feet and then limped toward the stairs, one of his eyes already swollen shut.

This fuckin’ guy! I yelled to no one. We’re not in high school anymore, ya fuckin’ hillbilly!

Was that really necessary? a woman at the end of the bar asked. Even though she was annoyed, her accent was charming, even friendly. Definitely not a Bay Stater.

And you are?

She ignored my question. You know that’s Alecia’s brother. He was just defending her honor.

Her elbow was perched on the edge of the bar, the ivory sweater she wore hung off one shoulder. She looked straight into my eyes, completely unaffected by the fact that I’d just bloodied a man’s face right in front of her.

I kept trying to think of a response while she stared at me wholly unimpressed, but I kept getting lost in the biggest, greenest eyes I’d ever seen. She was a stunner and petite, maybe five-foot-five, her copper hair falling several inches past her shoulders in soft curls, her sweater and jeans hugging subtle curves that would most certainly cause a distraction anywhere she went. She was the kind of beautiful that made a man want to hold his breath. Inexplicably, I decided to make myself sound like a typical Masshole from the southern outskirts of Boston.

I don’t give a rat’s ass who it was, I said, wiping the blood from my mouth. He punched me in the face.

The woman didn’t flinch as she said her next words, staring me down with fearlessness I’d never seen anywhere but on the battlefield. You fucked his sister. The F bomb she’d just dropped sounded out of place saturated by her sweet southern twang. We may be in the first decade of the twenty-first century, but brothers will never stop feeling a certain way about that.

Sully stood next to me, his extra-large pot belly hanging over his belt. He hooked his arm around my neck and patted my chest with his free hand, smiling at little red. In his defense, Kitsch has fucked everyone’s sister.

I turned to him, blank-faced. Shut up. I stared at him a little longer. And get a fuckin’ haircut. You’re startin’ to look like Billy Ray Cyrus.

Sully smiled. Thank you. We don’t all have to keep it high and tight.

The woman walked past me, headed for the door, and without thinking, my hand shot out to grab her wrist. Who are you?

She looked down at my fingers wrapped all the way around her delicate arm, and in one quick motion, she slid her wrist from my grasp and slapped me. Hard.

What the hell was that for? I asked, grinning. I wasn’t about to do what I wanted to, yelp while holding my hand against my throbbing cheek—the same one motorbike boy had just hit.

I don’t know you, so don’t touch me.

Unable to keep my eyes off her, my gaze followed her every step as she pushed through the double doors of the bar and turned the corner for the stairs.

She fuckin’ hates you, bro, Sully said, laughing through his words.

Seriously, who is she? I asked, still staring at the doorway. I think I’m in love.

That’s Mack. Well, her name’s Karen Mackenzie, but she hates it. Don’t call her that.

I turned to him with a frown. Karen Mackenzie? I let her name simmer in my mouth.

Just Mack, brother. I’m telling ya, she gets really pissy when you call her by her first name. She lives in a three decker a block over from your parents’ place.

She…? Since when? How do you know who she is, and I don’t? We didn’t go to high school with her, did we? It’s just townies and commuters here so she works in Boston, I guess?

Slow down, he laughed. She showed up with Mason Hughes after you left for boot.

Mason Hughes? I repeated, my face screwing into disgust. I thought that piece of shit moved away. Wasn’t he going to be a country singer or something?

Sully laughed. He was gone for a summer. Went to Nashville for a few months and quit when he realized his small-town charm only works in small towns. Came right back here to Quincy with Mack. He left again within six months, but she stayed. I hear she was glad he left, but now she hates every swingin’ dick within a hundred-mile radius. She’s clearly caught wind of your whore ways.

I didn’t touch Alecia.

He nudged me with his elbow, hard, snapping me out of a daze. You might as well give up now, bro. Get going before the rest of that stupid fuckin’ biker club shows up to avenge their mascot. Sully slapped my shoulder and then walked away.

I took the stairs two at a time and pushed through the main door, my boots crunching against the gravel in the parking lot. No brake lights. She was already gone.

The low rumble of motorcycle engines was getting closer every second, so I scrambled to get my keys out of my jeans pocket as I jogged to my truck, hopped behind the wheel, and kicked up rocks as I tore away from the Tavern, toward my parents’ house. I’m no pussy, but I’m also not stupid. I had my Glock locked in my glove box, but I wasn’t trying to take anyone’s life over a stupid bar fight, and that was the only logical ending if I clashed with Cubby’s friends.

I blasted some Hank Williams to grace every neighborhood between the bar and my parents’ house with some decent music, turning it down just a tad as I pulled into the drive. The windows were dark. Expected, but still jarring. I stayed put, gripping the steering wheel as I stared at the chipped paint and the shutter hanging from the parlor window.

I’d let their house go to shit since the funeral. After years of neglect, I’d been home a full four days while on my month-long leave to move across country from Norfolk to Camp Pendleton in California, and I hadn’t done a damn thing to it. Feeling neck-deep in grief was no excuse to disrespect their home the way I had.

I slid out of the driver seat of my Chevy, slamming the door before trudging inside. Like every night, I found the clicker and turned on the television so the house didn’t seem so empty. An enlarged photo of my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary hung above the brick fireplace.

I’ll go get some paint tomorrow, Dad. And I’ll rehang the shutter, too. I glanced over at the sink. And I’ll do the dishes, Ma.

A quick shower and a double whiskey to take the sting from my raw knuckles would’ve been a nice wind-down if someone hadn’t rapped on the screen door.

Go away! I yelled as I tightened my towel around my waist. Red and blue lights chased each other across the wood paneled wall. Fuck, I groaned, walking toward the door. I pulled on the knob. Yep?

A police cruiser sat behind my truck in the driveway, and Officer Kelita Vazquez was frowning at me from the other side of the screen door, her hand on her belt, her dark hair slicked back into a low, tight bun. She was four years older than me and had joined the Army right out of high school. The small scar on her cheek bone was a reminder of the mortar blast in Afghanistan that sent her packing. She was medically discharged, and not long after she healed from her injuries, she went the public servant route. Her puffy coat seemed to swallow her barely five feet, two-inch frame. She was all of a hundred pounds, her high cheek bones made her look more like a model than a cop, but if we got into a tussle, I knew I’d walk away limping. I’d seen her scrap enough in middle school and high school to know Kelita Vazquez fought dirty. No one dared to mess with her by the time she was sixteen, and now she had military training and a badge.

Hey, Vaz.

"Don’t hey Vaz me, she said, lowering her chin to look at me over her black-rimmed glasses. Her breath instantly crystalized in the cold, joining the steam coming off her cruiser in the atmosphere. What happened to your knuckles? They look fileted."

I opened the screen door and waited for her to step inside. Isn’t that why you’re here?

Well, there was a call about a fight at Bart’s Tavern, she said, ignoring my offer to come inside. Then we got noise complaints of loud music coming from a lifted white truck from houses between the Tavern and this area. What the fuck do you think?

I think I’ve been working on my truck’s busted radio today and skinned my knuckles more than once, so you’re at the wrong house, Vaz.

She scanned me up and down with her narrow eyes and then peered around me to see the inside of the house. Damn, Kitsch.

I know. It’ll be cleaned up tomorrow.

You have a frat party in here?

Just me.

She peered up at me, then took a step closer. Get your shit together. Your dad would have your ass.

Yes, ma’am. I stared past her into the night, too embarrassed to make eye contact.

And get that hand looked at. Cubby isn’t going to press charges, but they might come after whoever hit him.

They can try, I said.

She took a step toward me. Can’t believe you went up to Boston and joined the fucking Marines.

Yeah? So?

I remember you talking to recruiters your senior year. Your mom didn’t want you to do it.

Well, she’s not here anymore to worry about me. And after the towers fell… I needed to feel like I was doing something to fight back.

She sighed. Fine. Then at least keep your fucking nose clean.

Will do.

I watched as she returned to her car. The red and blue lights went dark, and she slowly backed out of the drive.

I closed the door and turned the bolt lock. The wooden floors creaked under my feet as I walked to the back of the house, past my parents’ darkened bedroom. Just four months before, Dad would be snoring from his side of the bed, closest to the door to protect Ma. She’d be sitting up, reading with a small light, her glasses barely hanging at the tip of her nose. I wondered about their last moments in Ma’s Lincoln, if they were holding hands, if they were talking or singing along to the radio, or if they were just comfortable in the silence as they enjoyed their Sunday drive.

I lay down in my bed, images of the front of the car teetering over the cliff’s edge, Mom looking over at Dad with fear in her eyes, and Dad offering the only thing he could, one last smile to say he loved her before the tire slipped and the car fell end over end to the bottom, ninety feet below. Dad had told everyone who’d listen that the Y2K scare was a bunch of bullshit and then didn’t even get the chance to gloat about being right.

Just when I decided to look for a bottle of whiskey to help me sleep, there was another knock at the door. This time, more aggressive.

God dammit, Vaz! I said, sitting up. I coughed a few times before spotting a pair of sweatpants in the corner. I slipped them on and stomped to the front door. Before I twisted the bolt lock, I realized the absence of flashing lights on my wall.

I side-stepped to the window and peeked out the blinds. Cubby stood on my porch, one eye swollen shut. He was holding a baseball bat, and six of his brothers were standing behind him also holding their weapons of choice.

I reached under the entry table, pulled my third favorite pistol from its holster and then opened the door with my free hand, keeping my handgun hidden.

Evening, boys, I said.

We got some business to tend to, Cubby said with a smirk.

No, I think it was settled back at the bar, unless you just want your eyes to match?

Cubby’s smile slowly vanished. Don’t make us pull you out of your house, Kitsch. We’d hate to tear anything up.

I narrowed my eyes. You got your ass beat, Cubby. You gathered your boys and rode all the way here in single digit temps so they could try to do what you couldn’t? How does that make you feel like less of a pussy?

Cubby slid his bat across the wooden boards of my porch and then swung at a front window, shattering it.

I closed one eye tight. You shouldn’t have done that.

Before I could take a step, a pop went off, making Cubby and his cronies yelp and duck.

Standing by the curb holding a Ruger 9mm in the air was Mack, wearing pink silk pajama pants, a fluffy white robe, and brown suede boots.

What the fuck, Mack? You’re shooting at us? Cubby yelled.

Get back on your bikes and go, she said, taking a few more steps. Don’t make me have to explain to Alecia why I blew out your kneecaps.

I pulled my Sig Sauer and pressed it against Cubby’s cheek. He froze.

You should listen to her, I said, pushing it further into his skin.

He nodded quickly.

All seven members rushed to their motorcycles and revved the engines, wasting no time to disappear down the dark street.

I put my Sig back into the holster under the table and then held the screen door open to invite Mack inside, but she was already on her way home.

Hey! I called after her.

She turned.

You shouldn’t’ve done that, Mack. You just made an enemy of that entire club.

She shrugged.

You walked over here? I asked. I guess you heard the bikes?

I assumed they’d show up eventually. I live two houses down in that triple decker on the back side. It’s not far.

The Looper’s old place?

She nodded again.

You knew I lived here?

Your parents were T-boned by a dump truck and shoved over a cliff. You’ve been the main topic of conversation in Quincy since before I moved here.

Her frank way of describing Mom and Dad’s death stung. Oh.

Good night.

Wait, I said, jogging down my steps and across the yard, stopping just a few feet from her.

She shifted her weight, already annoyed with what I was about to say. Her copper strands were pulled up into a messy bun, her face freshly scrubbed and lotioned.

Thank you, I said. You likely just saved me from murder charges.

They’ll probably burn down your house or something.

Nah. It’s not the first time me and Cubby have traded punches. He’ll get over it. Besides, they know it’s not my house.

I don’t think they care. Things have changed around here since you left.

Is that so? I asked.

Yep, she said.

I can walk you home.

No, thanks.

You’re clearly able to take care of yourself, but I’d like to return the favor somehow.

Not necessary, she called back as she walked away. Her fluffy boots shuffled across the asphalt as she crossed the street and passed between houses.

I stood in the middle of the road among potholes, staring at the dark space Mack had disappeared into. Neighborhood dogs barked, but not so loud that I missed her chain link gate clang as it opened and shut.

Definitely in love, I said, walking backward a few steps before heading back inside.

chapter two.

Mack

So, let me get this straight, Alecia said, trying not to laugh. Cubby tried to defend my honor, got his ass kicked and then you shot at him when he bashed in Kitsch’s window?

"I didn’t shoot at him. I shot into the air. He had half the club with him and they weren’t going to stop."

Alecia threw her head back, her body shaking with laughter, the straight strands in her short ponytail falling even farther down her back. Her sky-blue eyes twinkled when she righted herself and smiled at me.

Alecia Kent had pretty much stopped growing in the eighth grade like I had. We’d never be leggy, six-foot-tall supermodels, but Alecia was a bad ass Tae Bo bitch with platinum blonde hair, a thick Boston accent, and the most beautiful, kind eyes I’d ever seen. She stood out in her town, her daddy and boyfriend asking her to fight the constant nagging she felt to go through CLEET and become a cop and stick with being a radiographer. Besides Tae Bo competitions, she took boxing classes and we had weekly dates at the gun range—where we’d met. The first time she’d said wicked, I was sold. Alecia was the person who ignited my theory that maybe men weren’t our soulmates. Maybe our soulmates were our girlfriends.

Seriously. Besides him punching my stupid brother, what did you think about him?

I shrugged. I don’t know. He’s cute, in that high-and-tight, clean-shaven jar head kind of way.

Alecia shook her head at me. I just got one question for you. Did you see the size of those hands?

That doesn’t mean anything. And I don’t think he’s even six feet tall.

Alecia made a face. He’s close. And you’re what? Five-five? What do you care?

Ladies, Nita said, pushing her glasses up her crooked nose. Patient in the waiting room. Did you not hear the printer?

Alecia stood up taller. I’ll go.

I’ll help, I said.

Alecia stood outside the dressing room with her hands in her scrub top pockets while Mrs. Ross undressed, and I smiled as she updated us on her hammer toe and gout.

You’re here for a chest X-ray, though, correct? Alecia asked, looking over the order.

Yes, yes, Mrs. Ross said, exasperated. Dr. Porter said so. Who knows why, it’s my foot that hurts. She pulled back the curtain and waddled into the exam room, following Alecia and answering questions about her medical history.

I lined up the machine as Alecia placed a lead skirt around Mrs. Ross’s middle.

Oh! I don’t need that. Done with babies a long time ago.

I bet you still have bone marrow you don’t want radiated, Alecia said with a wink. She positioned Mrs. Ross against the board.

I stood behind the lead-lined wall.

Take a deep breath in, Alecia said, walking back to join me. Hold it. Alecia pushed the button. Breathe. Alecia returned to Mrs. Ross, repositioned her, then repeated the process. Breathe.

I’ll clean up, I said, seeing Alecia was satisfied with the image.

I’ll walk her out. Mrs. Ross, please follow me.

Alecia listened as Mrs. Ross talked about her grandson, and I stayed behind, sanitizing everything the patient had touched. I followed up on the computer and cleared the exam out, looking up to smile before seeing it was Nita.

My smile faded.

I saw you were five minutes late this morning, she said.

I yawned just thinking about waking up to my alarm. I turned off my alarm clock when I meant to hit snooze. I’ve already moved it across the room. Won’t happen again.

Nita nodded and left, passing Alecia.

Did she say something to you about being late? Because she came in after you.

I rolled my eyes. Nita was my ex-boyfriend’s mother. She’d gotten me the job, but once Mason left, she’d made it her mission to make me miserable enough to quit. Unfortunately for us both, I could barely afford my bills, much less save enough to move home.

Hello! The Pike was crazy this morning and the staties were out thick. You’re lucky you live close, Christy said, practically bouncing in. Her golden curls bounced, too. I could never understand why she was always so happy to come to work. Nita hated her as much as she hated me. Christy’s arrival meant Patricia would be coming in soon to sit in her favorite chair where she’d stay until her shift was over, complaining about how everyone else was lazy. Nita, of course, loved Patricia. They’d gamble together on the weekends and hide in Nita’s office and gossip while Christy did all the exams.

Another paper kicked out of the printer. I’ve got this, Christy said, pulling it off and scanning the order quickly. It’s a portable in ICU. You girls can go home.

I’ll stay until Patricia gets back from her exam to help cover the ER, I said.

Patricia is in Nita’s office, Christy said with a contrived smile. Go ahead, I’ll page her if we get an order from the ER.

I envy you, Christy. I’ve never seen someone work so hard to love her job, I said, taking my coat off its hanger and sliding my arms through the puffy sleeves.

Patricia in Nita’s office? I’m shocked and surprised, Alecia said without emotion, going into the break room to gather her things. There are dozens of hospitals in and around Boston. Why work for someone so… you know. The woman who raised Mason to be the way he is.

I stopped putting on my mittens long enough to point at her. Don’t you dare leave me.

She laughed. C’mon. Let’s stop at Ody’s on the way home.

I can’t. I was exhausted this morning. I need to hit the hay early tonight.

One drink, she said, holding up her index finger.

That’s what you said last night, and I didn’t get home until midnight.

She hooked her arm in mine and drug me into the hallway. Our sneakers stuck to the residue left behind from the disinfectant they used on the floor. That’s your own fault. I was in bed by nine.

Can’t we just drink boxed wine at home? It’s cheaper, and we don’t have to tip or worry about random idiots hitting on us.

I want to be around people who don’t smell like sanitizer foam or moth balls.

Then why are you hanging out with me?

Alecia belted out her signature cackle before opening the thick metal side door of the hospital. Winter air immediately blasted me in the face. I gasped, and as usual, Alecia laughed at me.

Aren’t you used to Massachusetts weather by now? she asked.

I will never get used to air that hurts my face. How do you get used to air that hurts your face?!

Alecia laughed and kept hold of my arm until we reached her Nissan Pathfinder. See you in a minute. Drive safe.

For the whole mile, I said.

Oh, and if we see Kitsch tonight, you should give him a chance. He’s really not a bad guy.

I wrinkled my nose. "Don’t start. I’m not interested in anyone residing in your recycle bin."

He kissed me goodnight, dummy. I didn’t go home with him.

You didn’t? I blinked.

She shook her head. That was the rumor going around and it made Lucas jealous, so I didn’t deny it. Who did you hear it from?

Maybe it was Allie Smith, I don’t remember. You mean your current boyfriend Lucas? Or do you also have an ex named Lucas?

We’ve been off and on for years. He was my ex at the time. She winked and slid into the driver’s seat, twisting the key in the ignition.

I pushed her door closed and walked to my car, stopping when I saw a note tucked under the windshield wiper. Shit, I said. I looked down to scan my doors for dents before scanning the chicken scratch written on the wrinkled paper. Instead of an apology for a door ding or fender bender, it was a few sentences from Kitsch.

Hope you had a good day. I’d like to buy you a drink at Ody’s tonight. No strings attached, just to say thanks.

I sighed, carrying the note with me as I sat behind the steering wheel. The geriatric engine of my green Ford Escort struggled in the cold, but I kept