Given in Kind

Randall stood in his own hallway like a stranger on the subway, overcoat on shoulder, briefcase in hand, breathing the faint and familiar odors of domestic bliss — a whiff of Shalimar and Glo-Coat; a hint of caramelized onions; the earthy comfort of collected coffee grounds. Estrangement made this blend become strange … exotic.

Ran hon, that you?

Yeah babe. Be up in a bit.

He placed his coat on top of the luggage in the foyer. Keeping the briefcase, he crossed the kitchen to the door leading down to the basement, then felt for the switch and worked his way down the steep wooden steps. They creaked as if pained … each board with a different complaint.

The light overhead cast a glare on the bench. He opened the case and pulled out a plum-purple, flock-surfaced, palm-sized box. It was a perfect cube with a hinge at the back. Opened, it revealed a plush velvet pouch, rhubarb-red, tied off with a tasseled drawstring. Randall listened for a moment for movement upstairs. Then he untied and eased the drawstring to extract an engraved bronze tabletop lighter — a globe of the world with striker and wick where the pole would be. Where Santa keeps his workshop. Continents and sizable countries were etched into its surface. Here Canada, there Greenland. Australia, India … and Africa’s vast sprawl, true to scale.

Randall got down to business. Three years in the Corps of Engineers had taught him the chemistry of powder, the physics of blast radius, the precise choreography of fuse and flame. For two of those years his sappers roamed the 38th parallel, testing how little a charge it took — when properly placed — to reduce a bridge to splinters or a tank, including crew, into tortured abstract art. Back home, he’d continued with recreational shooting, hand loading his rounds on the basement bench: measuring powders, gauging pressure, flaring and pressing and crimping, concentrating power as an end in itself. Along the way, he’d acquired the rock-steady hands of a brain surgeon — which, in sense, he was determined to be.

He unscrewed the globe at its equator and set about packing powder, inserted a percussion charge, and finally replaced the wick with an ultra-fast fuse. Anyone looking for a light wouldn’t know disappointment.

He carried the globe up the steps like a warm soufflé, despite it being safe to handle. One should never tempt fate; never assume that you’re secure; never trust a thing or a person to behave as promised. He placed the lighter on the living room bar cabinet — bait for Burt, who chain-smoked two-and-a-half packs a day and grabbed for anything within reach as a birthright.

Margo came down the stairs like silk slipping off a bare shoulder. Randall watched the fluid movement, the grace that had hooked and then held him those years ago, the subtle symmetries that suggested all was balanced and true. She offered a smile as he stepped toward the landing.

All set to go? Won’t you be late?

It’ll be all right. Went late at work, then had to finish a thing here. But gotta go now.

Then the expected and appropriate embrace and brief kiss. She felt and smelled familiar and friendly … and indifferent. The distance that appeared and kept going after Burt arrived.

He picked up the luggage.

Be back in four days. You know the hotel and number.

Watch out for rogue redheads. Try to stay out of trouble.

Steering clear so far.

He pulled out smoothly from the drive, but gunned the Caddy once he made it to the freeway. The transmission whined from below while the windows made a faint, distant whistle. He popped the glove compartment to check on the stuffed manila bundle: pristine new license, new passport, travelers cheques, a sheaf of bank and stock certificates. Autumn air bled through the vents brisk and steady, sparking memories — football games; hot dogs; chili with a dollop of sour cream; Margo smiling behind enormous sunglasses. Back before Burt joined the firm, before he became a family friend, then a frequently invited visitor, then a special friend of Margo’s. Probably on his way over right now. Probably wanting to share a cigarette — if not before, then certainly after.

Randall gunned it even harder, grimly glad to hear the drivetrain roar.

Burt stood in the living room, smirking like a naughty schoolboy.

We’re all set, babe. Certain and dead simple … dead certain because it’s so simple.

She was perched on the couch, a shorebird ready for flight. He helped himself to a splash of Crown Royal and tipped it back in a single motion, checking his watch as he lowered the tumbler. She corrected her lipstick in the cabinet’s reflection.

When do you think? How long?

When he comes off the freeway at the airport turnoff he’ll need to brake hard. I’ve taken that drive with him what … a dozen times? Always likes to push it, likes to feel the precision engineering at work. Actually said that to me once. That brake line’s set to snap like a gray strand of hair.

He poured another splash, but this time tapped the lip of the glass. There was rattle like chattering teeth.

Eighty-foot drop on that side. Should be a lot of little pieces.

She shivered. A delicate tremor made of several sensations.

He’s always handled his own maintenance, so they’ll blame it on a cheapo second-hand part.

Burt’s hands had found her shoulders, thumbs tracing slow circles.

And us?

He shrugged.

Three months later, grieving widow finds comfort in the arms of her hubby’s good friend. It’s biblical, almost.

He kissed her neck, breathing the warmth below the nape. Margo smiled.

Poor Randall. Obsessed all his life about how things work, but missing the important details. Eight thousand shares of Raytheon, another twelve of Boeing, but can’t make one plus one equal … one.

Damn, you’re cold, baby. That might be the hottest thing about you.

Cold?

She leaned back against him, hand roaming. Call this cold?

Sorry sugar, but your husband’s getting close to that turn.

She made a moue.

We’ll have plenty of time later. And money enough for a nice change of scenery.

He produced a silver case, flipped it open, and drew a pair of cigarettes. At which point he noticed the lighter on the bar.

Nice hardware.

Randall’s always picking up gadgets.

She took the cigarettes from his fingers.

Kiss me at least, and make it last a few weeks.

Which he did. When they finally let go she placed a cigarette in his lips and reached to her side for the lighter.

Raising the other one to her mouth, tips close enough to be fired by a single flame, she lifted the globe and whispered as she felt for the striker.

Light, lover?