CHAPTER ELEVEN: Evan

A busy day ahead: meetings with the bank, with the local representative of the federal Conservative Party (thank you Pastor Dawes), and a new lawyer (he'd had enough of Grafton with his sneer and that air of patronizing superiority).

He was up before anyone and felt in his belly that something important would happen today. He made himself breakfast, and read some scriptures.

Pastor Dawes had given him a daily Bible study guide as part of their business arrangement, and while he was behind on his readings, he knew that he was making spiritual progress, that each time he did fulfill those obligations he was getting closer to something.

Not quite understanding, that was too big a word, Evan didn't feel as if understanding was in his grasp, not yet, but maybe faith.

A big, vague word, but it meant something very specific to him.

It wasn't faith in God that he was finding, though that was there too, but faith in the rules that were leading him to God.

Since he had joined the Church, he was happier than he'd ever been.

That was all the proof he needed, nothing more.

It was hard work, that's true, but that was the point really: the work itself was part of the process.

That it was hard, and yet he still succeeded, filled him with pleasure.

Like rock climbing.

In his previous life, a cloudy time that seemed decades ago, before his mother died, before he met Annabel, before he was saved, he'd always tried to figure out all the answers himself.

And always ended up back where he'd started.

He tried Buddha, and Sartre and Camus, the Celestine Prophecy, the Sufis, and the Kabbalah, astrology and dream interpretation, crystals, diets, workouts and self-realization.

He'd heard it all, laughed at much of it, tried more of it, smoked pot and dated girls who insisted on fasts and yoga and pagan rituals and tarot.

But he always ended up right back where he started: smoking the same pot and pissed off because things didn't go his way, whatever things happened to be that time around.

Pastor Dawes changed all that for him: I can't give you any answers, Evan, he'd said in his office, when Evan expressed doubts about this trip back to Canada. I can't give you any answers, all I can do is show you what Jesus said. I can show you the word of God. It's up to you whether you want to follow God's way, or to ...

Here Dawes had trailed off and closed his eyes, whispering to himself.

Or, he said opening his eyes again, and holding Evan with his gaze, Or to choose another path, another path that'll break God's heart.

Looking out the big picture window at Mount Echo, Evan flipped open his Bible to Isaiah and read:

But the man who makes me his refuge

will inherit the land

and possess my holy mountain.

And it will be said:

"Build up, build up, prepare the road!

Remove the obstacles out of the way of my people."

If mathematical qualities could be applied to people, this new lawyer was the exact opposite of Conrad Grafton: young, francophone, tanned, bright-toothed, well-dressed, enthusiastic. He was small, but fit, with the build of a certain kind of feisty hockey-player: wide shoulders and agile. The sort of powerful little player that was always in your face, always in the corner, his stick always, somehow, between your legs.

Please to meet you, he said, shaking Evan's hand. Would you like some coffee? His name was Mathieu Lavoie.

Matheiu's office made Evan immediately comfortable. Grafton's had old books (reminding him of his father), rocks (reminding him of his brother), and a half-dozen plants in old pots in various states of disregard (reminding him of his mother). But Mathieu's office was pristine: new gyprock, white paint, one plant (a cactus under a fluorescent light on a sparse metal bookshelf), a framed poster above the desk, with a photo of a runner passing the finish line, and the caption: “Winners don’t Quit. That’s why they Win.”

He had a big thick accent, and when Evan told him he and his wife had moved from California, the guy had opened up to him like an old friend, a new drinking buddy. So, you're from California? he said. I love California. We went to San Diego last year, my wife and me with the kids.

They talked for a couple of minutes about places they'd both been, the weather. Mathieu had thought of moving down there a couple of times, but his wife resisted. Her parents were here, and they didn't speak much English, so...

And, he said, you're moving the other way. How come?

Evan told him about his family – but I've been gone so long, he said, I barely remember it here. I love the States. Was so happy to be gone from here, when I was young, when I left. The world I grew up in – in English Quebec – is so stuffy. So ... dead. California is so much more free. I think it's got a lot in common with Quebecois culture down there. Parts of it anyway. They're pioneers, like the Quebecois. Anglo Canadians were more like colonial administrators. We just don't have the same spirit. Different mentality.

As Evan said all this, he wondered just how much was true and how much he was trying to woo the lawyer. He'd never really thought about the similarities between California and Quebec, but he believed what he was saying now. The Anglos here were stuffy compared to their Francophone neighbours, and certainly compared to the free and loose ways of California. But as he saw Mathieu's face light up during the conversation, he pressed on, was more critical of Anglos, more praiseworthy of Francophones, more Californian in his speech and manner of talking. Mathieu told him he went to McGill, so he knew Anglos well, and respected them. I like the English, but it's true, he said, if I had my choice I'd be in California. Or Colorado.

They exhausted their five minute introduction, and Mathieu shuffled documents on his desk, cleared things away. So, he said.

Evan had a good feeling about Mathieu, and had none of that sensation of guilt and shame that had come to him unexpectedly – and unwelcomed – during his interviews with Grafton. He'd been so angry about the shame he'd felt – angry at himself for feeling it, angry at Grafton for inspiring it. But with Mathieu everything he wanted to say came out easily, he felt sure of what he was saying, confident of his project and the way he explained it. The words came out smoothly and naturally: "community of faith," "Christ," "Christian values," "congregation." And with each even reaction from Mathieu he'd gotten bolder and more certain. This, he thought, is what's wrong with Anglo Canadians like Julian, like Grafton. They judge you for all sorts of reasons, but not on whether or not what you are doing is good business. In California he'd gotten used to the dollar being the last arbiter. Here it was different. Or, some places here, it was different. But he had a feeling – inspired by Mathieu – that his mistake was doing business with stodgy Anglos, stuck with their stiff old ways, their bitterness at how much the world had changed. It wasn't about what school you went to anymore, or who your family knew. The thing that mattered now – Evan felt he was grasping something of great import – the thing that mattered now was not who you were, but what you believed.

That's what made the difference these days.

Mathieu listened, and when Evan was done, he nodded and pointed a finger to the ceiling. I tell you what, Mathieu had said, you are right. We need this here. People want answers. People want discipline. Have you read Purpose Driven Life?

And Evan knew he'd found the local business partner he only just now realized he needed.

Evan fumbled in his backpack, and produced a dog-eared and beaten paperback edition. Yes, Evan told Mathieu, I've read it. I read it every day. And Mathieu leaned down, opened his drawer, and pulled out the same book, similarly beaten and well-thumbed, and waved it at Evan, like a cheerful magician producing a rabbit at a children's birthday party. He put the book back into the drawer. Changed my life, he said. Got me on the path to success. I used to be chasing something, and I could never get it. Money money money, women women women. Cars. Cocaine. Everything. The car, the career, the big house, I had everything and I was gonna lose everything.

Mathieu was probably in his mid-thirties. He had huge brown eyes, serious now, wet with emotion. That book saved me. Saved my marriage, saved my kids, probably saved my life. Make me realize what was important.

Exactly, Evan said.

They continued talking, about drugs and women and respect and the difference it made to know there was something beyond their own abilities to decide what was right and what was wrong, about finding answers to their questions by following rules that had been proven over two thousand years, instead of from all that thinking they used to do. Especially when most of the thinking happened after they'd done something stupid and were suffering the consequences. All that questioning and torturing of the soul they used to subject themselves to, while always doing the exact same things.

Let me tell you, things have gone crazy in Quebec, Mathieu said. We were so happy to get rid of the Catholic Church, we said, hey we can do anything now! And that's what they let kids do now: whatever they want, everyone's equal, everyone's great. You're yelling in class, disturbing everyone else? Great. Teacher gets in trouble for sending you out to the hall. Not sensitive enough. Men get told what to do by their women, where to live, what job to take. No respect any more. You see kids in the grocery store telling their parents what to buy – cookies or cakes. Screaming if they don't get it and parents you know negotiate with them, asking with their kids to hey be quiet, and give them what they want. It's not natural like that, and it don't work. And you know what, if you always tell your kids they're great, what they do is good, it makes them lazy, and they never get anything done. Then they become miserable kids. We have the highest suicide rate in North America here. It isn't no accident. You know my wife, she wanted always to negotiate with the kids always wanted to make them her friend. But I tell you what, I did my methods, she did hers. Mine work, hers didn't, so she uses my methods now. You have to love your kids, but you aren't their friend. You're their father. There's a difference. Do you have kids?

Not yet, Evan said.

Mathieu provided Evan with good advice for the structure of their venture, different tax consideration, and a good deal of more subtle information about business out here in the Eastern Townships . He considered pitching the idea of a business partnership right away, but hesitated. No, not yet, he thought. Be prudent. Withhold some of yourself. Don't be too eager. He felt like he was trying to pick up a very attractive girl. He felt exhilarated and full of the promise of success. He'd spent the past week running into so many obstacles, so many challenges, so many trials, and now he had been brought to Mathieu's door, lead there by the mysterious forces that made everything work, and suddenly it seemed like all those closed doors, all those things that Annabel had been on his case about, all those things that he'd been on God's case about, might just come open for him. For him and Annabel. He'd found the keys in Mathieu, a young lawyer from Granby with a practice in Bromont. He said a silent prayer of thanks.

The call from the real estate agent came just as he was walking out of Mathieu's office building into the main street in Bromont. It was a quiet little town, prettied up for the coming summer tourist season.

Sylvain here, he heard through the phone. Good news and bad news. Which do you want first? Good news, Evan said. The seller has dropped the asking price. By a lot. By 20,000.

And the bad?

Bad news is I just got a call from another agent. We work together a lot, and he knows I've got this one listed. Tells me there's another buyer interested. Especially now that the price has gone down. About to make an offer. So … we're in a bit of a race, I think. That is, if you are still interested.

Well, said Evan.

What does your wife have to say about it? You said you were going to ask your wife?

He went right back into the Mathieu's office, and asked: what do you know about real estate?

That afternoon Evan became the sole owner of a parcel of five acres at the foot of Mount Echo, abutting hundreds of acres of unlogged crown land, and a nice hunk of bedrock well-suited for several (white) buildings, a running brook, a small waterfall, a forest of scrub maple, birch, and spruce, at least one owl's nest. The price was just under $100,000, leaving Evan about $150,000 in his inheritance. Technically this purchase was not yet related to the new venture – it was Evan's personal purchase, but Mathieu suggested that he could donate the land to his religious organization, a non-profit incorporated entity they began to put together that afternoon. There would be tax advantages for everybody. He shook hands with Mathieu and Sylvain, and walked out of the office for the second time that day.

As he unlocked the door to his black SUV, he experienced a sudden flash of doubt, which he struggled against. If things went bad, he could always sell the land – maybe at a loss, but it wouldn't be a washout. If the seller had dropped the price $20,000, then how bad a deal could it have been? He knew a little about the prices in the area, and he'd paid a decent amount for what he was getting. That didn't mean Annabel would be happy with him – after all she'd made him promise not to buy it, but that wasn't her place was it? He was not subject to her laws. He was the husband, and this was his money. He felt himself moving from uneasy to frightened, and then indignant, and finally angry. Who was Annabel to tell him what to do with his own money? If he wanted to invest it in the good cause of the Church, she should be happy, she should be supportive. There was more money – he hadn't incurred any debt or limited their options. And as Duddy Kravitz' grandfather always said: A man with no land is a nobody. Evan was no longer a nobody. He was a landowner. And not just of half a house that he'd inherited, but an owner of his own acreage where he would build a future for Annabel and himself, and their son, when she got pregnant. Or daughter, he would be happy with a daughter too. He was the man of the house and he made this decision for them, for her, for Annabel, even if she did not want him to make it. But sometimes a man must follow his heart, follow his conscience, follow his belief in what was right.

He hopped into his SUV.

He prayed quietly, his head on the steering wheel, prayed to God for some kind of sign, and as he reflected over the day it seemed there was nothing but signs. Meeting Mathieu, the Purpose Driven Life, the call from Sylvain just as he stepped out of Mathieu's office, the drop in price, it was clear this all happened for a purpose. He was guided towards this decision, he was sure of it, grew more confident as he prayed, eyes still closed, show me a sign, talk to me, he pleaded. He opened his eyes just as two sparrows, clearly representing Evan and Annabel, flew across his line of sight and soared in a great arc into the sky, and finally out of sight, towards Mount Echo.

He knew he had chosen right.

Annabel, he called out, Annabel!

The sun poured in through the picture window, a bright square of sunshine took up almost the entire floor, interrupted only by the dark stretched shadow of the teak table, it's long legs reaching across the round weaved carpet in front of the fireplace.

Annabel! He called down to the basement, but she was not here. Evan stood in the silence of the house, feeling that peculiar sensation of looking in on himself, of wandering around a museum exhibit. Everything in its place – the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, Annabel's knitting on the floor, the stack of firewood by the stone fireplace – it all looked like props, placed there by some careful museum curator. He felt high, and he realized he had not touched a drop of alcohol, or a joint, let alone anything heavier in seven months. He did not need it. He closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of the house. Home. It was the first time he felt at home here since they arrived. And he realized why: he was a landowner now. He had a place to build his own future and he could relax now, could accept the hold this place had on his past, because now he had fixed his future. $100,000 and five acres worth of future. When he found Annabel, he would take her down there, show her what he had decided, the place they would build their future.

He thought back to his boyhood here, his reverence for Julian, that tanned Adonis who rarely deigned to pay attention to him, remembered how much it meant to him that time they'd gone fishing. It was the end of summer, he was twelve and which would make Julian ... 25 ... between UofT and McGill, he supposed. Strong, and square-jawed, a study in poise, in cool. Julian smoked then, rollies, and Evan remembered the joy he'd felt when Julian asked him if he wanted to go fishing. They'd gathered their gear and gone down to the little fishing lodge – a couple of tiny cabins, a few trout-stocked ponds, owned by an old Pole, friend to their father, who had good-looking but mean dogs who barked like wolves when anyone drove into the wooded drive.

Julian had brought beer in a cooler, his rollie cigarettes, and had shared them with Evan, who had tasted both before, but not with the certainty and help of an adult as assured as Julian. Like Clint Eastwood smoking that cigarette, like an assassin.

You looking forward to school? Julian had asked.

And Evan had told him sure he was, though he wasn't, he hated school: his writing was messy and he could never get his math to work out right, and the homeroom teachers for grade seven were all a little strange, except for Mr. Jacobsen, but Evan always got the worst of the homeroom teachers, it was like a rule, he'd had Mrs. Mofford last year, and Miss Granger the year before and both of them were bitches.. .and he was sure he'd get Macrea or Clavel, both of whom were known to be mean and a little crazy. Julian nodded along, listening: Yeah, Ron Clavel, he said, with a laugh, What a character, as if he knew him personally. Maybe he did, so Evan asked him, and Julian answered, Yeah, I hated him as a kid, but he's such a character when you get a few drinks in him, I didn't understand him till I got a bit older. Want some beer?

Julian caught two nice rainbow trout that day, Evan got one. That was the last time Evan ever remembered really getting along with his brother. He had that trouble at school, and those bad marks, suspensions, expulsions. By the time puberty was in full force, he had to contend with idolizing and hating Julian at the same time. He dreamed of being as good as his brother, but he never was. And all his teachers said, Oh, Julian was always so good at this, what happened to you? Ha ha!

Ha. Such a funny joke.

Eventually just the mention of Julian put him in a foul mood. Julian had won this, done that, had a paper published in this journal, got this recommendation from that professor. When Julian visited home, then left the house, there was always that receding feeling of accomplishment that hung over Evan's failures like a bad odour and inspired sad sighs from his mother. Evan hated the pride in his father's carriage, as he looked out the front window, saying nothing, or nothing out loud, but Evan could hear him anyway: That's what you should be like.

He found himself upstairs in the cottage now, poking his head around, into his brother's room. The manuscript was out on the bed. He'd noticed it before, tucked under the desk, but never seen it like this, spread out on the blue bedspread.

The geological tome. In it's glory.

He wandered into the room – so neat and tidy, except for all the papers on the bed. Julian was even neat, he was that perfect. Enough to drive you crazy. He opened a few drawers, and closed them. Socks, underwear, t-shirts. Amazing how strange another man's socks look, even your own brother's. He looked out the window, at the big birch tree swaying in the wind, its leaves brushing against the window. And there was Annabel, walking into the forest, in a white tshirt, jeans. So sexy, he thought. He considered following her out into the woods, but sat on the bed instead. He flipped at the pages, keeping an ear cocked for his brother. Where was he, he wondered? Not out by the garden. Out in the woods then, off collecting rocks. He wondered whether Julian and Annabel might meet out there in the woods, thought about how awkward that would be. She really despised Julian, and Evan had no illusions about how his brother was reacting to Annabel. She was everything he sneered at: she was religious, a marketing major, a shunner of adverbs. Blond. She said “like” when she talked. Evan had seen how Julian looked at her, how he dismissed her. And God help them both if they ever started talking about evolution. He actually laughed out loud at this, lay down on the bed, feet still on the ground. Happy.

You bought yourself some land today, Evan. You, sir, are a landowner. A man of consequence.

He closed his eyes, and imagined again the chapel – all in white, overlooking the creek. Annabel, also in white, standing behind him, whispering, You were right. I always had faith in you. Faith. I always believed in you.

He folded his hands behind his head. Smiled.

I always dreamed of a man like you, the dream Annabel went on. He stretched his arms out on the bed, a crucifix, feeling himself close to God, close to Jesus, imagining how happy God would be when he built the chapel.

His hand brushed against the pages of the manuscript.

He picked up a sheet, the first page. What exciting bit of rock study would this one be? He laughed. How can everyone be so impressed by a man who studies rocks?

He read the first sentence:

“I have seen God, and I shall proclaim the Word to the world...”

He kept reading as his face drained of blood. He felt very, very sick.

He was outside before he realized where he was, the sound of the slamming door still reverberating in his mind. No. No no no no. Not possible. It's not possible. This cannot happen. But there it is. Julian has out-Godded me. And said nothing to me. Said nothing about it, after hearing why we are here, knowing about my new life, he says nothing. Ignores me, as usual. Evan, his inferior, failure of a brother. I can't even be religious enough for him, I pray and pray and pray to God, but he talks to God and God talks to him, wonderful Julian, you fucking fucking fucking prick, talking to God – I'm sorry God, sorry about this, I am trying to understand why this is happening, I am trying hard to figure this out, I am trying very hard not to be angry, trying to understand why You have done this, but I can't help think Julian did this on purpose, he couldn't take it, couldn't accept that I'm wiser than him, that I realized the true path before him, and so he's pretending to talk to You, to show me that I am not as good him as usual, that he'll get the attention, even from You, that I'm just trying to do it while he's done it already, talking to You, and You talking to him? But no, let me think here. Clear your head, Evan. Is he talking to God? Or just imagining he's talking to God?

And yet, and yet ... that text. Searing. Burned into Evan's mind, beautiful, lucid, convincing, inspiring. And hateful.

He felt emptiness beyond anything he'd felt since he had joined the Church. Suddenly the sureness that had helped him through was gone, that presence, Oh Father, why have you forsaken me? He felt God's eyes averted, distracted, imagined a voice somewhere saying, What's that? Oh... yes... Evan. Evan. Yes, good kid, tries hard doesn't he, but can't get it right, not like his brother Julian, do you remember Julian? Now there's a soul that got saved just right, there's someone who doesn't have to worry about getting through the eye of a needle.

When he was twelve he'd had a puppy, Gumbo, a floppy black lab with big ears and big feet. They'd gone out tobogganing on a cold winter afternoon, down the hill here, on the road, it was near dark, dusk, and a red station wagon drove by. Evan wasn't paying attention, but he heard Gumbo yelp, and realized that he'd been hit by the car. He looked so strange, Evan couldn't say why exactly, but seemed just shaped wrong, and then Evan realized he was bleeding, from his mouth and elsewhere in the depth of the dog's thick, shiny black coat. He picked up the dying dog, who was coughing and sputtering, and pulled him to his cheek, the blood coming fast, rolling down his snowsuit, and he ran, tears streaming down his cheeks, back to the house. The door was locked, and he banged on it, yelling and screaming, swearing. But no one came to answer even though he knew they were in there. He banged louder, swore using every swearword he knew.

And finally he heard his father's voice, that reasonable voice, calling from behind the closed door: That is filthy language Evan, and I am having a quiet discussion with your brother Julian. Perhaps when you've cleaned your mouth, I'll open the door.

Eventually, his mother opened the door to find him slumped on the snowy balcony, the his snowsuit covered in blood, Gumbo dead, and his heart filled with hatred for his father, and his brother, who had chosen to continue their quiet conversation instead of helping him save Gumbo. Both of them were visibly shaken when they realized what happened, why Evan had been making all that noise. They tried to console him. He rebuffed their warm gestures – though they continued to offer solace, from a distance.

I'm sorry, old man, his father said patting him briskly on the back, then retreating, stiff and awkward when it came time for physical displays of emotion (good, make him suffer); and Julian made him a hot chocolate, and kept asking if there was anything he could do, Oh, man, Julian kept saying, I'm so sorry, little buddy.

His mother though was the one he wanted, and she tended to him as he cried on his bed, patted his shoulders and helped him blow his nose. There there, sweety, she said. And he heard the hushed voices of Julian and Cedric Hand discussing how they had ignored Evan in his time of greatest need. He hoped their guilt was deep and painful, as he tried to wipe the snot and tears from his face with the pillow. There there, sweety, his mother said. There there.

He thought all this as he made his way into the woods, along the path back to Julian's little rocky hideaway. He was looking down at his feet, imagining God and Julian talking while Evan banged on the door of the cottage, with his sad, bloody soul in his arms in need of saving. This could not be worse. He had found his path, the greatest path in the world, but also his own, independent path that would let him shine above his superior brother, to break free from his family and its stifling influence, the brutal reality of his failings in the face of everyone else's successes. Evan had found his own glorious way that would prove him to be a leader among men, a light to others, a preacher of the good word, a saver of souls. And just as he had bought the five acres that would help him become a man greater than his atheist brother Julian, just as he had found a place where he alone would be seen as the successful Hand brother ... just as all this is falling into place, Julian goes behind his back and strikes a deal with God that will make my own petty little backwoods real estate deal look like a sham, my own belief a wavering uncertainty, my own relationship with God a pale, sad one-way affair, like a little boy swearing at a door that will not open.

What, oh what, could be worse?

He stood quietly observing with a sort of fascination: it was not anger, nor sadness, nor even lust that overcame him as he watched, crouched behind a maple and a hump of rock. It was akin to watching a dinosaur hatching out from under a hen, or maybe watching some horrendous, act of violence, a torture maybe, dismemberment, the smashing of a little mouse with a hammer – something he'd watched Julian do when one had gotten caught by the tail in a trap. Only here, Julian was smashing Evan with a hammer.

He felt the same numbness, the same shakiness in his nervous system, the same vacant but terrible inability to turn away. He scratched his head, as if he were working his way thought a difficult math problem, unable to make the sums come out right. Is it possible, he thought, that I am seeing what I am seeing? And then the sickness came, the nausea. Nothing dramatic, no vomiting. It was so sick it was beyond vomiting. It felt as if the problem was in his bones, not in his flesh. His molars hurt. Annabel. Fucking. Julian. He laughed, quietly, to himself. Nodded to himself, Yes, why not? Why not? It all makes sense. He gagged but did not vomit.

When he thought about it later, he was surprised at his reaction. But what was he supposed to do? To run at them, tackle Annabel, knock her off Julian? Julian lay on his back, with his pants down around his ankles, she straddled him, gyrating as she did when she was particularly horny and into sex. Should he have shouted at them? Screamed? Thrown rocks? Fists? Smashed them each on the skull with a log?

He did none of that, which surprised him when he was able to calm down and reason it through. He had a temper. But maybe the shock was too much. Maybe the impossibility, the audacity of what he was watching just shorted out all his circuits.

He wasn't quite sure how he made it back from the forest to the house. He realized where he was – in the office in the basement - only after he had thrown the computer screen to the ground (a remarkably unsatisfying effort – all it did was thump to the ground, the monitor didn't even break; didn't even seem to notice the violence it was subjected to). The filing cabinet was by now on the ground, papers and files strewn about the place. Bookshelves were next, and then the framed inspirational posters: these provided more satisfaction, the sound and feel of shattering glass and tactile destruction that one seeks in moments like this. Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail. Smash. You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face... You must do the thing you think you cannot do. Crash. You don't Fail until you Quit! Bang.

He stood in the centre of the room, amid the chaos, and observed his handiwork, with some satisfaction, his cheeks hot with tears, the knuckles on both his hands bleeding. He inspected them for a moment before kicking the metal mesh wastepaper basket as hard as he could across the room. That too was satisfying. He picked up the chair, and threw it against the wall; grabbed the desk and tried to tip it over. This proved harder than he expected, he rocked it but couldn't get the leverage, and he almost got there, but it caught on the wall, and then he just yelled at the desk, Fuck …YOU, he yelled letting it drop back in place, You mutherfucking goddamn fucker, and punched the top of the desk with his already bleeding hand, and this time he felt the pain, first the sharp pain of the raw skin on his knuckles, then a duller pain shooting up through the little bones in his hand. Fuck.

The room was a shambles. Papers everywhere. Many of them streaked with blood. There was less broken furniture than he would have liked, but there was some broken glass, and just about everything in the room had been removed from it's arranged place, and put in another place, often at a different angle altogether. There was a beauty to it, this new arrangement. His own creative energy distributed to this room, a complex transfer of emotional state, from his organic being to the inanimate objects around him. Something like the work of Picasso maybe, or Van Gogh, except those artists used canvas, and he used this room to try to communicate to the world his feelings, the depth of his current experience.

This destruction was his work of art.

Oh hi! Annabel said, Hi, baby! I didn't expect you back till later. How were your meetings?

He did not answer, just sat at the kitchen table, drawing designs with his index finger on the wood of the table. This table should get oiled, he said, it's drying out. No need for that pledge stuff, just a coat of vegetable oil and it'll be fine.

Annabel got a glass from cupboard and, and ran the water at the sink, waiting for the cold. She filled the glass. What? she asked, and laughed. What are you talking about? She drank the water down, as much as she could, and wiped at her mouth.

I said, this table should be oiled. It's drying out. Vegetable oil. A coat. Of. Vegetable oil.

What are you talking about? She said laughing. You sound like a crazy person! Ha! She came over to the table, continued drinking from her water. You aren't going crazy on me are you? Don't tell me the man of my dreams is going to go crazy.

I'm not crazy, Evan said quietly.

What happened to you hands? she asked, her voice suddenly filled with concern. The good wife. A good, faithful, caring wife. What did you do to yourself Evan?

Oh this? He asked. Lifting up his hand and studying his knuckles closely. You mean this? Annabel sat beside him, and took his hand in hers. Evan! What did you do? I was punching the walls, he answered, matter-of-fact, quietly, almost inaudibly, I was punching the walls over and over, and I guess I must have cut myself.

There was a long moment when, he imagined, Annabel was calculating various potential scenarios, before finally seeming to settle on the correct one. She let go of his hand and pulled back from him.

Evan, she said.

Yes? He asked. Yes Annabel?

What was in her face, he wondered, as she calculated further her position and his, so close together, his bloody hands, her pussy dripping with Julian's semen. What was he to make of that face? That stony face. Evan. Evan... I ...

He wasn't quite sure what he was going to do when he stood. He had only a very little violence left, and maybe that was enough. He clenched his fist as he stood – Annabel just sat, docile, quiet, pale in the chair. He studied his fist, caressed the bloodied knuckles, rubbed them into the palm of his left hand.

What do you want? he asked.

Annabel just looked at him, frozen, eyes displaying, he thought – but how could he tell, how could he tell anything about Annabel now? – eyes displaying bits of fear, and sadness, and even pity. That was the worst – she was “sorry,” not just for what she had done, but she felt sorry for Evan. Pity. And that was a little too much for him to take. Quietly, he picked up the chair, and held it above his head. He wasn't exactly threatening her with it, though it wasn't really clear what he was doing – to either of them.

She sat, silent, her face upturned, waiting, almost inviting the chair to land on her.

Yet he did not hit her with the chair. He stood for three, four, five seconds, the chair held above his head, and then pivoted, throwing it with all his might at the huge picture window. They both closed their eyes, as the chair hit the huge picture window.

They waited for the explosion of shattering glass.

Instead, the chair bounced back towards them, with a hollow thump. It grazed Evan's hip, the chairleg catching Evan on the hip bone just above the waist of the jeans. It hurt. Immensely. He winced, and doubled over in pain, said: Fuck, through clenched teeth.

Annabel let out a guttural sound, and then slapped her hand against her mouth. She stared at him with terrified blue eyes. Waiting for him to do something.

And what he did was take the keys to the SUV and walk out the French doors, leaving them open.

He turned the ignition, revved the engine a few times, skidded out the driveway, onto the road, and away from Annabel and his brother.