“Confluence”
William Auten
Copyright ©William Auten
Black water falls harder while the garage door lifts, the dark-wash walls thickening in the night, and Ben stops reversing into the driveway, the storm louder, and retreats. He dials his sister and, sheltering by the door leading to his house, avoids noise and water pooling as rain shreds streetlights. He hangs up after Sydney doesn’t answer and heads into the house when lightning cracks the black, and as he pauses to confirm the garage door closes, the black returns and erases the ghosts of the lighting bolts that broke through.
He pops a beer and flops on his couch. He dials Sydney again, but the connection drops. He flips on the TV and texts Sydney after the scroll flashes the storm’s estimated time to move on. He stops when her call cuts in. “Hey. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
“I know it’s crazy out.” Her voice quiets like she’s hiding. “Can we still get together?”
The meteorologist rewinds the front’s movement, replaying its intensity over the county. He zooms in to street level and traces a dark-green patch—heaviest rain—stringing behind the storm. He circles Ben’s and his parents’ neighborhoods sitting at opposite ends of the city, the river running between them.
“Shouldn’t be much longer,” Ben says.
“The power’s flickered here.” Sydney’s phone rustles in her hands. “Mom and Dad aren’t back.”
“I bet they’re sitting it out. Where’d they go? Tubman’s?” He checks the times rolling under the meteorologist’s elbow. “All-you-can-eat is getting started.”
“Ben, please. I’m alone here, and…”
He sits up when, during Sydney’s pause, she panic-breathes.
“And the bear can only do so much.”
He misses setting his beer on the table; it spills onto the rug and hardwood floor. “Who?”
“And I know where Dad keeps a bottle.” Her voice cracks. “I came across it the other day.”
Ben reties his shoes and shoots off the couch. “Do you have it?”
“No.”
The garage door creaks open; the waterfall rushes blackness back in.
“But I want to.”
He fumbles his keys. “I know. But hold on for me.”
“I don’t want to call my contact at the VA. We were meeting tonight anyway. And by ‘we’ I mean you and me.”
“We are, we are. That’s been our thing, right?”
“Yeah.”
Her giggle relieves him. “I’m on my way.” His car’s bumper scrapes the black-wet street; his tires can’t grip the darkness spread under them. “Drink a Coke if you have that itch. We’ll chase it with pizza after I get there. Save a Mountain Dew for me, OK?”
“Yeah. OK.”
He runs through another stop sign on the way to the expressway cutting across the city.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she says. “I’ve positioned myself.”
After Sydney clicks off, Ben turns hard, nearly grazing a car flashing its brights at him, and accelerates onto the on-ramp.
No one looks at home when he arrives. The neighbors’ lights scatter throughout the night and rain; limbs and leaves blanket soaked streets. Before he unlocks his parents’ front door, the front porch light flicks on. Sydney—pale; her black eyes hard pebbles—lets Ben in.
“I don’t have any pizza.”
She blushes at his joke before turning serious.
He scans the living room—no liquor bottle—and notices a flashlight glowing under the sofa dragged from the windows. Sydney steps out of his hug and wrings her hands until their scars stand up. He turns on a lamp and helps her scoot back the sofa.
“Power’s back,” he says.
She turns off the flashlight and fidgets with it like she’s saving it for other places. “The bear called the power company.” She turns for the fridge and downs a pitcher of purple liquid. “Those thunder cracks were so loud,” she says after gasping. “And that wind. Everything got dark except for the lightning. The bear checked the windows. I positioned myself behind the sofa. On my belly. Just in case.”
Her words—the bear—prickle him. He closes and opens his eyes. “The bear?”
“I came across him in the attic when I was cleaning up there. Mom asked me to because…”
“No, I know. Her new knees can’t take it.”
“She’s got chores for me. It’s good. Keeps me busy. Anyway…” She unclips a coupon from the fridge. “You remember the bear?”
“Not really,” he lies. “I last saw it in the basement, but that was when I moved for grad school.” He dials the pizza place. “Did you find any of that money Dad used to sock away for an emergency?”
She laughs. “I found those letters you wrote when I was learning to handwrite again. And I found the ball I squeezed and that little dumbbell to rotate my wrist with. I’d forgotten Mom sent me pink ones.”
“Dad would’ve sent you ones branded Mizzou.”
Sydney sets the table. Her lips’ scars tighten. “So you don’t remember the bear?”
He turns for the ice-maker. “Not really. Sorry.”
“I’ll send you a picture next time I’m up there.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Maybe it’ll jog your memory. Not to say mine’s any better.”
He keeps her back to her. “Still want that Coke? Or do you want to stick with the purple stuff?”
“Coke. Maybe we can look at it together.”
“I still want a Mountain Dew.” He digs through the fridge, finds a can, but pretending he doesn’t, digs more.
“I can’t get it down. Would you?”
Two cans clang on the counter; Ben fills his and Sydney’s glasses. “Shoot. Sorry. You wanted a Coke.” He dumps their glasses down the drain, and as he keeps them pressed under the grinding of ice, his last image of the bear returns: the size of a toddler in a bag sitting among things stripped to strands and the meals of moths; a red ribbon tied around its throat cinching the bag to its button nose; frozen like a flower under glass.
“Mr. Wichert?”
Ben looks up from his computer. “Hey, Shelia.”
“Your sister is here.”
He checks his watch. “Uh…OK.”
Sheila holds the door open. Sydney, big eyed, slinks inside.
Ben smoothes his slacks. “Hey there.”
“I know I should’ve called before coming over.”
“You don’t need to do that. But I’ve got to finish one thing before I call it a day.”
She rubs the grafts at her elbows.
“But, hey, listen, you being here early means I don’t have to drive home and change before coming over.”
She blushes. “I took a roadblock out for you.”
“You sure did. Have a seat.” He motions to the extra chair across from his desk. “How’d you get over here?”
“Lyft. I can start driving maybe next year.”