The Smoke That Thunders Read online

  “Right, Peter? Riggght?” Chad’s tone became that of a beggar heaping guilt on one unwilling to part with what is his to keep.

  “Yeah. Sure. That’s true. I suppose so,” Peter said, thinking, I’m not giving in to this manipulation.

  “Go on. Tell them about Kingsbury’s class.”

  “I don’t think so, thanks.” Peter felt his face turning red.

  “Come on. It was years ago. I’ll tell them,” Chad said.

  An unwanted thought came to Peter: Go ahead and get it out. It won’t hurt. Why not? Maybe it’ll help her. His mouth opened before his brain commanded it to remain shut, “Whatever. It’s stupid, but I’ll tell.”

  “Great. First time ever revealed!” Chad declared.

  “We had this class, Theories in Social Psychology, or some such crap. Chad and I were giving this class presentation. Chad was done with his part. He’d gone first. Right, Chad?”

  “Luck of the coin toss. My presentation was, if I say so myself, incredibly impressive.”

  “Forgettable. Incredibly forgettable, just like everybody else’s. Wish mine had been so forgettable. Okay, anyway, halfway through, talking about the individual’s need for acceptance, ways society denies acceptance and thwarts individualization and whatever bull I had come up with, halfway through, I sneezed.”

  “Yeah. Listen to this.” Chad nudged Sarah’s shoulder with his.

  “Not just any sneeze. It was a pretty bad sneeze—”

  Chad interrupted, “A pretty bad sneeze? No way! It was wild, three – yes, THREE – rapid-fire sneezes, each more powerful, building up to crescendo which released a spew of phlegm and snot traveling at least six feet, right onto two girls in the front row. It covered them!”

  “Yes, thanks, Chad. It’s true. It covered them.”

  “Ag nee sis, man!” Sarah let out the South African expression used for expressing disgust.

  “Ag sis,” Cindy said at the same moment.

  A smile grew on Peter’s face. He laughed and continued. “Of course, they screamed, jumped up, and ran toward the door, both declaring me a bastard. But you know … I don’t know why … but no one in the class blinked an eye. No one reacted, like they completely ignored it.”

  Cindy said, “Too embarrassed for you. Rather polite.”

  “Anything but. Anyway, I skipped to the last page of my notes, finished in ten seconds, and sat down. Even Kingsbury had mercy. He just said ‘Class dismissed.’ That’s when everyone started. As they hit the door, everyone exploded in laughter. That’s my story. That was the most humiliating day in my life, and I will never talk about it again. And just for the record, I would gladly trade places with you, Sarah.”

  “Tell them what you did then. I love this bit. Tell them!” Chad said, containing his laughter.

  “No. I didn’t do anything.”

  “He did. Peter was the biggest hippie-looking guy on campus at a time when hippies were going out of style. He was like the Neanderthal man on campus. He had a disgusting beard down to here and hair down to here. He had no lips, no ears, no eyes. So he disappears and comes back clean-shaven. He cropped all his hair off, right down to a damn crew cut, just like that.”

  “Trying to hide? Disappear?” Sarah asked.

  “Sure. I didn’t want anyone pointing and saying ‘There’s the bastard that covered those cheerleaders in snot.’ I didn’t go back to class until the day of the final, and no one had any idea who I was.”

  Cindy said, “You don’t seem like the hippie type. Long hair, tie-dyed shirts, smoking dope and all.”

  “I was no hippie. I was just an unkempt guy.”

  “That’s an understatement. Tell them that story. Tell why you morphed into a pseudo hippie,” Chad said with enthusiasm.

  “No way.”

  “Oh, go on then. What’s the story?” Cindy asked in a high-pitched voice that came across as childlike.

  “It was dear Peter’s fall into the abyss, his Sartre years – a tragic story of unrequited love that threw the poor wretch into the depths of an unrelenting living hell.”

  Peter said, “Don’t mind him. He’s well-polished in the art of exaggeration.”

  “Tell them about her.” Chad’s request bordered on a demand.

  Peter took a slow breath. He saw two pairs of eyes that appeared interested and caring. Perhaps talking about her will bring a bit more relief, a bit more distance from the most humiliating and debilitating experience of my crappy life. He told the story of her, of Norwood, of a wasted trip and his road to nothingness. “Ironic,” he concluded. “I grew the hair, a beard, to disappear, because I didn’t give a rip about anything anymore. Then over a sneeze, I cut it all off … to stay invisible.” Peter stopped and looked at the two females; he felt exposed, vulnerable. Before the two could offer any sympathy and pity, Peter turned to Chad. “All right. I think it’s your turn. What about you, Chad? What’s the most dreadful moment in your pristine life?”

  Chad declined the invitation, but Sarah insisted. “That would only be fair. Right, Chad?” Her incredible brown eyes looked intently into his blue eyes.

  He rubbed his face with both hands and leaned back in the booth. He then looked at his friends and spoke, “Okay then. When I was thirteen, one day I forgot to take the trash out. The garbage men had already come and gone. My dad went into this rage, got on me like it was some huge, unforgiveable sin of omission. He called me all sorts – lazy, retarded, bastard, a worthless son, and some other things I won’t repeat. He said, ‘You’re useless. You’ll never amount to anything, will you?’ He went on and on about the damn garbage. As I walked out the door to get in the car with mom to go to school, I mumbled, ‘You’re such a fu… such an effing bastard.’ My dad heard it. Before I knew it, he’d caught me by the shoulder, spun me around, and slapped me in the face. Then he said, in a very calm, self-righteous voice, ‘You are not to use such language in my home.’

  “I went on to school. After second period, the teacher called me to the front of the classroom and asked what happened. I didn’t know what she was talking about. Then she pointed to my face and said, ‘There’s a large bruise on your face, Chadwick. Tell me what happened.’ Without thinking, I told her my dad had slapped me. Told her it was no big deal, and I walked off. During fifth period, they called me out of class. A fat lady, with a hairy chin, from CPS (Child Protective Services) was there. She asked no end of questions. I told her Dad and I had been throwing the football around the night before and it hit me when I wasn’t looking. I told her things were fine with Dad. I said, ‘No way! My dad’s never been abusive to me. That’s stupid.’

  “I went home, scared senseless. I kept telling myself she believed it and there was nothing to worry about, that nothing would come of it. When I got home, Dad was already there. I walked through the door, and he slapped me again, right in the same place. He screamed at me, ‘Don’t ever tell anyone our business again!’ He took me upstairs and beat me with a belt, where no one would see it. He kept asking, ‘Who’s the effing bastard now?’ That day, I decided my dad hated me, and I determined I would always hate him.”

  Chad’s lips started to quiver. He pulled in his lower lip and bit it. He looked at Peter with wide eyes, begging him to say something.

  After seconds that seemed like minutes, Peter nodded and said, “Sarah, what about you? What’s a dark secret that mars and shapes your life?”

  Sarah shook her head. She looked at Chad for a moment and then gave a single nod. With little eye contact, she told her story. “On my thirteenth birthday, I went with three friends to Johannesburg to shop, and then we went ice skating. It was great, celebrating being teenagers, feeling grown up. We came home at four forty-seven.” Sarah stopped and looked down.

  Cindy reached over, took her hand, and squeezed it. “Don’t. It’s okay.”

  Sarah tilted her head and said, “No, it’s okay. It’s only fair since they told us their stories. Anyway, we got home. Dad was lying on the curb. He�
��d vomited on the pavement, and he … he’d urinated on himself. You see, he used to go on these binges … used to, but not anymore. They’d last two or three days. So, two of his drinking mates had brought him home and just pushed him out of the car. I helped him up as best I could, but his legs refused to move. I propped him up to get him to the house. My friends and someone’s mother, they just watched. They were too embarrassed or too disgusted to help. They were certainly too embarrassed to come in for cake and pressies. I told them things were fine. I told them Dad just didn’t feel too well. My mom finally saw and came out to help.

  “We went in, cleaned up the stench, and stuck him in bed. We sat down and opened my pressies. No one said a word. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. There was no point.” As Sarah finished her story, a stoic look was etched on her face, as if declaring she had resigned herself to the fate the world had thoughtlessly thrust upon her.

  “God. I would have left him out on the street, ignored him and had my cake and presents. I would have locked him out forever.” Chad said, completely serious. “You should’ve just walked past him with your friends and said, ‘Oh, that’s just my old man, sleeping off his latest binge. Don’t worry about him.’”

  Sarah glared at Chad. Her eyes flashed with a piercing anger. It quickly faded. With a hint of guilt in her tone, she said, “He didn’t do it again. He doesn’t go on those binges anymore. He still drinks a little, but just enough for a slight buzz. He never gets drunk anymore.” She paused and looked Chad in the eyes and said, “He is a good father. He is. I’m lucky. I am. He’s a good man.”

  Chad blinked several times. His head started to shake, but he stopped it and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Peter was sure he knew what Chad’s unexpressed thought was, How could such a father steal this daughter’s love and loyalty? A young, beautiful woman, who deserves nothing but respect.

  Sarah turned to Cindy. “Cinders, your turn. Tell them one of your family secrets.”

  “I’m sure everyone has had quite enough,” she said sheepishly.

  “Oh not all. We can’t leave without the privilege of opening a chapter into the hidden life of this feisty little redhead,” Chad said.

  Cindy glared. “Feisty? Feisty!”

  Chad laughed. “Aren’t all redheads supposed to be feisty? Actually, didn’t you kind of just prove my point? But what secrets linger beneath? What tragedies distort your view of life?”

  Cindy expelled a quick breath and then breathed in slowly. “If I must. My dad … well, he’s in prison. He was, or I guess is, a con artist and a smuggler. He is charming enough to be a second-rate con artist but not smart enough to be a cunning criminal. Dad’s a brash but likeable transplanted Scott, but I’m sorry to say he’s an incurable sociopath.”

  Cindy told stories of her father using her and her younger brother as decoys when he smuggled diamonds, drugs, and guns to and from South Africa. Often he would get by customs without a second look simply due to his two adorable redheaded children. “There was one trip, when I was about ten and my brother was eight, we were going into Rhodesia from Mozambique. He had placed a machine gun in my suitcase and another one in my brother’s. On the top of his own suitcase, he’d put some rare antique revolver – supposedly a rare gun from the First World War. They asked to search the suitcases, so he quickly opened his, revealing this intriguing pistol. The guards gathered around, admiring it. Dad put on this boyish look and profusely apologized, acting as if he was so utterly embarrassed that he’d forgotten all about it. They, of course, assumed this man did not have enough common sense to be a smuggler. They just sent us on our way.”

  “Did you know about the machine guns?” Peter asked.

  “Ja. He would just tell us they were guns he was going to sell, with the attitude that everyone has a couple of guns to sell when they travel around.” Cindy stopped and intertwined her fingers and placed her hands on the table. Staring at her hands, she continued. “When I was fifteen, not a cute little kid anymore, Dad put a quarter-pound of heroin in my backpack. We were going to South West Africa. We got through customs with no problems. We were sitting on a bench in the airport, waiting for our ride, who we found out later was Dad’s contact. Dad went to buy some sandwiches. Then a policeman came around with a dog, an Alsatian. The dog went crazy. Before I could think, they grabbed me, and in a blur, I was in this empty room, surrounded by five policemen, all barking out questions.

  “I knew my backpack had one of dad’s projects, as he liked to call them. I had no idea it was drugs, heroin. He’d always said, ‘If there’s ever any trouble, tell them you don’t know what they’re talking about,’ so I told them I had no idea it was there and no idea how it got there. They got more and more irate, screaming at me and threatening me with years in jail. I thought … I really thought Dad was not going to show up. I thought he would let me go to prison.

  “Before Dad could find me, they took me into town and put me in a rank cell with drunks, druggies, and prostitutes. The smell of urine and vomit made me sick. I was scared stiff. I sat in the corner on the floor and soon felt wet … it was urine. I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look at anyone. It was three hours before Dad tracked me down. He told a bunch of lies that didn’t fly, but when he finally confessed, they dragged him off, and they put me in someone’s office. I had to stay there until the next afternoon when Mom and my brother finally came and got me. Dad’s been in prison ever since. He could have gotten a life sentence, but he informed on the dealers or sources or whatever they are. He says he’s changed. He wants to move down to Cape Town and help his brother run a hotel when he gets out. Mom believes him.”

  “Why hasn’t she left him, just divorced him?” Peter asked.

  “She’ll never leave him. She says she still loves him and still thinks he’ll change. I try to love him, but I can’t trust him. It’s awful hard to love someone you don’t trust.”

  Chad proclaimed, “Geez! We’re all so blessed with such model dads – except you, Peter McKnight, you poor thing. His mom and dad are so damn normal it’s disgusting. That must have been rough growing up in the Leave It to Beaver family.”

  Peter shrugged.

  The four exchanged awkward looks as the realization dawned; they had dared to betray family secrets and expose ugliness meant to remain hidden at all costs.

  Sarah looked at her watch and gasped. “It’s late! I need to get home. Maybe we can … um … meet next week?”

  Peter nodded with little expression. Cindy grinned like the Cheshire Cat. Chad said, “Sounds great. Or should I say, lekker, man?”

  CHAPTER 10

  The Unspeakable Spoken

  Wednesdays never arrived soon enough for Chad. He spent each week anticipating his opportunity to be with Sarah, and each day he fought an overwhelming desire to push the relationship forward.

  Chad knew well his propensity to let emotions have their way – to take the lead and then dissipate as swiftly as they had come. He was used to pitching a tent; putting it up quickly, disassembling it with even more haste, and then moving on. With Sarah, he desperately yearned for more; he would lay a foundation solid enough to build something worthwhile, something that would promise much more than he had experienced in a thousand previous transient and worthless relationships.

  ***

  During their fourth rendezvous at Jackson’s, a realization surprised Peter – a realization that evoked sorrow and fear. As he sat with Cindy, devouring greasy pizza and talking about nothing and about everything, it occurred to him that this was the first time in three years he had let a female into his world.

  At that dawning moment, he excused himself to go to the loo. He stood looking in the mirror, demanding that this dreadful sadness and inexplicable fear go away. Why is this so hard? Why does it feel so awful, so strange? Why doesn’t this feel good, exciting? Why doesn’t this give me some kind of hope? Hell! What is wrong with me? There were no answers; he only knew he did not like the emotions this female evoke
d. He spoke to the mirror: “You tell her, here and now, that you appreciate her friendship and enjoy being with her, but warn her! Tell her this can never be more than friendship. Do it now!”

  Cindy’s eyes beamed when he returned, as if he had been gone for months. Her animated expression made him feel even more uncomfortable. He again told himself, Tell her! Explain things to her... NOW! He said nothing.

  That night in bed, Peter stared toward the ceiling and muttered to himself, “One thing I am sure of is that she is not my type. Being friends is okay, but that is all it can ever be. I’ll tell her next time.”

  Later a discomforting dream stirred him out of his sleep. He found himself wading into the surf, bitter cold stinging his ankles. He told himself, Don’t go any further. However, once he became used to it, it started to feel good, so he waded a little further out. It was painfully frigid on his thighs and waist. He told himself, Don’t you dare go any further! Again, he became accustomed to it and enjoyed the chill, the freshness. So he immersed himself in the deep water. It was too much. He screamed for help, but it was too late. The hidden tide pulled him under. He was drowning, dying, and then ... then he awoke. As he got out of bed, he told himself, I will tell her next time. No further, Peter. Don’t you let this thing go one blasted inch further.

  ***

  “Roger! Sure I do.” Chad had answered the phone and greeted the caller as if he were an old friend. He gave Peter a bewildered look.

  Peter whispered quickly, “He’s that pastor from some church in Jo’burg, the guy Simon knows. We met him at the braaivleis. You know, the tall, loud one?”

  Chad nodded his head in recognition. “It’s great to hear from you ... Oh yeah, of course I remember. Yeah, we’d appreciate the opportunity … I’m sure it will ... Sure, that would be great. Yes, we can be ready … It’s no problem …Yes. Eight is fine.”

  Peter’s eyes berated Chad as he hung up. He groaned, “Nooo! Are you nuts? I’m not going to his church. When is this supposed to happen?”

  “Sunday, for the church service and dinner after. Someone from the church will pick us up Sunday morning at eight o’clock.”