Fiction Friday: In The Mist

Today’s “Red Writing Hood” fiction prompt was to write a scene based on a picture. I was going to include the picture, but it turns out to be rights-reserved, so I’ll send you to the original instead. Two weeks ago I introduced you to Alison, whose marriage is on shaky ground. Now we hear from her husband Carlo…and get a glimpse of why.

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Carlo eased the pickup to a stop down the street from the church. Slowly, he stilled the engine, but he did not remove his hands from the steering wheel. Instead, he laid his head on them, listening to the steady plunk on the roof and the hiss of tires furrowing the wet pavement outside. Fitting, that the rains should begin today.

Carlo breathed deeply, as if to draw the strength to face the coming task from the stuffy air inside the cab. The busyness of the day had shielded him, keeping him at a distance from the tight spot within his chest, the one that cried out for attention he dared not spare. For the first time, he wondered what this day must have been like for Alison.

As if the thought of her stirred the connection between them, his head jerked upright. He saw her seated on one of the wrought-iron benches that stood back to back between his parking place and the stone façade beyond.

He got out of the truck and pushed the door shut with an almighty squeak of rusted metal. He hunched his shoulders while he raised his umbrella, then hurried up the street toward his wife, who sat statue-like on the bench, showing no indication that she felt the rain slowly soaking her expensive wool coat. It gave him a moment’s disorientation. Surely this hunched, lifeless woman, her bedraggled hair more gray than blond, couldn’t be his lively, vivacious bride?

Hesitantly, he touched her shoulder. “Alison?”

She looked up then, and he recognized the contours of the face, knew the unfamiliar form was indeed his wife.

He swallowed. “Are you ready?”

Her eyelids twitched. Small as the gesture was, Carlo shrank from it, for it contained a repressed fury he had rarely seen her express. “It’s done,” she said. “I took care of it all. While you were babysitting your precious wines.”

Her bitterness cut so deep, it sent a shudder through him. “You…you didn’t wait for me?”

She straightened further, stood face to face with him, despite the disparity in their heights. “Wait?” she said softly. “Wait? How long was I supposed to wait? I’ve been waiting for you to prioritize us for twenty years, Carlo. I’m not waiting anymore.” She gathered her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “Your son will be buried with full military honors on Tuesday. Visitation will be Monday evening at church. If you can manage to carve the time out of your busy schedule.” The hardness broke upon the crest of a sob. She hurried off into the gathering darkness without acknowledging the hand Carlo stretched out toward her.

He sank onto the iron bench as the rain picked up, pattering the nylon umbrella.

The ache in his chest, the one that had been building all day, exploded, hurling awareness of all the things he’d been too busy—or too careless—to acknowledge. Missed opportunities paraded across his consciousness, flaunting his devotion to his work, changing it from value into vice.

He looked up, and through the gloom of mist and rain, he saw a single light gleaming orange in the windows of the perpetual adoration chapel inside the church. He focused his prayer there, forming the words with a desperation he’d never experienced before.

Please, God, he thought. Please don’t let me lose her, too.

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