The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 01

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In my brother's shadow.
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4.71
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Part 1 of the 4 part series

Updated 11/01/2022
Created 09/26/2011
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Rehnquist
Rehnquist
3,881 Followers

INTRODUCTION: A few weeks back, Cloacas made a strong comment on a story. He proposed that the whole husband-runs-away genre was silly from day one, and it's high time we all put the whole damned thing to bed and come up with something more original. Unfortunately, originality has never been my strong suit, and I was already half way through this, my third and final attempt to get this story written, and didn't want to stop. So sorry about that, Cloacas. I still think you were right, though.

I know, third and final time. The first attempt was scrapped when it just didn't seem right. I took the wife's point of view, and it didn't work. I couldn't find the voice. The second attempt went way better, and I was almost a hundred single-spaced pages into a third person point of view story when I just couldn't make any headway. Another month wasted. Then, driving to work one morning, I decided to change the whole focus and write it from the husband's point of view only. That's always been easier for me, but I still had a problem. The problem? Well, neither of the prior incarnations had any of this first part in it. I've never been much of a fan of the stories that begin with we met, we fell in love, we were so happy and I was so perfect, and then she up and cheated on me. Still, the long intro of the type I detest seemed necessary to properly set up the story.

Thus, you are forewarned: This is going to start out slow. When you get to the later chapters, though, you'll be able to remember all that's here and see why I did it this way. It was the only way to make the husband-runs-away scenario believable and, if I succeed, compelling–compelling in that the husband has to run away.

This will be the first of four parts, all roughly equal in length. They will be posted on consecutive days, so you should have all of this with little or no delay.

Thanks for taking the time to read, and please take a moment to drop me your comments.

ONE

I stood on the balcony of our condo, looking out over the wide brown ribbon of the muddy Mississippi meandering by four stories below me. The sun had nearly reached the horizon, but it didn't seem in any sort of hurry to finish its daily trip. Instead, it just sort of lazed there, right on the cusp of dipping down, the muggy summer air hanging on the horizon and dulling it to a creamy lemon color. That lazy old sun, I swear you could just look straight at it forever and never go blind.

The dull, hesitant sun seemed the perfect metaphor for my situation.

For my marriage. My life. Everything I knew.

Everything.

I looked down at my hands on the railing. My wedding band stood out, the same dull yellow as the disappearing disk on the horizon.

I don't know if it was the poet in me or the curious kid coming back to the surface.

Whatever it was, I slid the ring off of my finger and stared at it for a moment. Then I reared back and threw it for all I was worth.

Straight at that lazy old lemon sun.

* * * * *

I have to admit it: They all played it perfectly. Truth be told, though, I don't suppose it was really that difficult. God knows I'd wanted Sandra Truelson since we'd first met in junior high school. She was everything a fine Southern belle was supposed to be. Pretty, demure, strong-willed, witty, intelligent, and . . . and just really pretty and incredibly cool in all ways you can name. Five feet four inches, slim, pert breasts, soft blonde hair, and bemused blue eyes that seemed to laugh at some inside joke concerning everything and everyone around her. Her dress was always conservative, and her make-up always lightly applied. All told, she was the perfect daughter for every family photo op that came her daddy's way.

Unfortunately, despite my obvious ardor for her, Sandy's idolatry was forever firmly fastened on my older brother, Stevie.

Stevie was everything I was not. He was tall and athletic with a full head of thick, curly brown hair, dimples when he smiled, and an easy grace and charm that won people over at the first firm handshake.

Stevie would eventually follow in our own father's footsteps. Everyone said it, and they were all right. He had that easy manner overlaying a fierce competitiveness that seemed central to all political powerhouses. He was definitely my father's son, and he'd someday succeed Daddy as the Senator from the Great State of Tennessee. To do that, he needed the perfect Southern belle by his side. Again, most everyone agreed that Sandra Truelson was that perfect Southern belle to be there in his own climb to the top. She'd look gracious and charming and give him a brood of perfect young 'uns with full heads of hair and toothy, dimpled smiles.

The fact that her own daddy was the Speaker of the State House sure wouldn't hurt, either.

* * * * *

I'd just gotten to bed after playing a gig when the phone rang.

"This better be important," I mumbled.

"It's Stevie," Mom sobbed. "He's dead. A car accident."

I don't remember much of the next week that followed, though certain images are still clear in my mind. I remember Sandy at the funeral, dressed all in black. I remember thinking her gauzy veil was the perfect compliment to the dark gray storm clouds sweeping toward the crowd gathered at the cemetery. I remember Mom and Dad just hustling past the gaggle of reporters shouting out questions as they ducked into a long, black limo and drove away. I almost chuckled. Imagine that, Dad avoiding reporters while in the middle of a hotly contested primary race.

"Maybe we should go now, son," the deep rumbly voice of the minister said as he took my arm.

I remember looking around and seeing no one else there anymore. Just me and him and the cemetery people trying to get that gaping black hole filled in before the rains came and turned it to muck.

* * * * *

Daddy won that Senate primary in a landslide, thanks in no small part to voter sympathies at the tragic loss of a young, charismatic son cut down at the beginning of his undoubtedly brilliant career.

Looking back on it, that's obviously where it all started.

Say this for the political gurus: They knew every angle and dreaded wasting any opportunity no matter how sleazy.

I think Faces said it best: I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger.

It's just so hard to believe your own family could do something like that to you.

* * * * *

A year and a half later–the day after Thanksgiving–Daddy sat me down for the talk. We were in the den, his office away from the office. It was all overstuffed chairs and dark wood paneling, deep burgundy carpeting and a massive oak desk. This was maybe the third or fourth time I'd ever been allowed inside for more than ten seconds, which meant serious business was at hand.

"What're you gonna do with your life, Mark?"

"What d'ya mean, sir?"

"I mean," he said, fixing me with a stare and sipping his bourbon before continuing, "you can't just put off adulthood indefinitely. You can't just keep bouncing from bartending gig to bartending gig while carrying on this silly ass dream of being a famous rock star some day."

"You think maybe you'll let me finish law school before I rush out and conquer the world?"

"Don't be a smart ass."

I said nothing, preferring to grind my teeth and seethe with fury. He stared, then I saw something click in his eyes. I waited to see how he would change course.

"It's your last year," he said. "Six, seven months and you've got to go out and get a job. Have you given that any thought?"

I smiled. "I've applied to the Public Defender's office," I lobbed at him. "In Memphis."

Now it was his turn to grind his jaws.

"Memphis," he finally said. "Public Defender's office."

"Exactly."

He shook his head. "Not gonna happen."

"Why not?"

"Because no son of mine is gonna be defending a bunch of crackheads and child molesters, that's why. Jesus, can you imagine what the press would do if you actually got some of these scumbags off?"

"Congratulate me on giving meaning to the Constitutional guarantee of innocent until proven guilty?"

"Don't push it. You know what I mean. You're not going to work for no damned Public Defender's office."

"And you'll stop me?"

He nodded. I went expressionless, knowing full well he could, and would, call in a few chits and get me blackballed.

"Then what? What plan for my life have you made out for me?"

I'll give him this, he held a straight face and didn't give me a condescending smile at my acquiescence.

"You're set on Memphis?"

I nodded. "I need to get out on my own. Can't do that here in Nashville, Dad. You know that, right?"

He nodded, sipped the rest of his bourbon, then stood to refill his tumbler. When he turned back to me, I was shocked as he held out a second tumbler toward me. I took it and sipped, the smooth amber liquid coating my tongue in smokey goodness before burning its way down my throat.

"You're right. You need to get out on your own and make it on your own."

"But?"

"But there's no reason you can't accept some help from your old man to get started, right?"

"What kind of help?"

He put the tumbler down and leaned forward. "I've talked to Jim Parker at Parker and Smythe. They've got a few openings, and he's definitely interested in you."

I closed my eyes and leaned back, directing my voice at the ceiling. "You're saying you agree I need to get away, and your idea of me getting away is to go to work for your campaign committee chairman?"

"You won't be working on my committee, Mark. He's got two openings for new associates. One helping out some partner who does nothing but appeals, the other doing corporate litigation. He says you'd be a great fit at either one."

I sighed and lowered my head, looking at him. He seemed so earnest, so unbelievably caught up in his own bullshit that even he believed it. Unfortunately, I wanted to believe it, too. Granted, he'd sandbagged me. He'd known I would insist on Memphis and made a plan to deal with that contingency. But the plan really was perfect.

"Tell him I'll take the appellate associate position," I said.

"Not the corporate litigation slot?"

"Appellate," I confirmed. "That'll at least keep me pretty much away from all the corporate bigwigs who only want to cozy up to me because of you."

He sagged, but only slightly. "I'll call him this afternoon."

"Fair enough."

I stood, tossed back the rest of the bourbon, and put the glass down.

"See you at dinner, Dad."

"You're not even going to thank me?"

"For what?"

He didn't respond.

* * * * *

Just shy of a month later, I was helping Edwina clean up the glasses and plates strewn throughout the lower level. Yet another Christmas party had come and gone, and with it the dozens of political powerhouses and their accompanying toadies who had dropped by to pay homage to David Roberts, Senior Senator from Tennessee.

"Mark," my mother said. Her voice had an edge, the edge that told me I shouldn't be stooping so low as to assist the hired help in cleaning up before the latest soiree.

"I'm just gonna finish up here, Mom. Get Edwina home to that passel of grandchildren waiting for their visit from Santa."

I looked at Edwina, and she smiled at me. It was a nervous smile, though. A smile that told me to get the hell out of here before I got her in more trouble than I already had. I took the hint and carried the tray full of dirty dishes toward the kitchen.

"Did you see Sandy Truelson tonight?" Mom said as I stacked the dishes in the dishwasher.

"Yes."

"You talk to her?"

"A little."

"Just a little?"

I turned and faced her, leaning against the counter.

"What's this about, Mom?"

She pursed her lips, then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think she's sweet on you."

"Really." The melodramatic whisper seemed a bit much, and her conclusion just a tad farfetched.

"Debra and Pat both said she's coming out of her doldrums," Mom continued. "Pat and your father talked, and Debra cornered me to see if maybe you were interested. She said Sandy's been asking about you. Pat said the same thing to your father. Nothing out in the open, but she's definitely interested."

"Strange," I said. "I didn't really get that vibe when I talked to her."

Mom gave an enigmatic smile, which only proved her next point. "We're good at hiding our feelings, you know. We're not quite so out in the open as you men always are."

Unbeknownst to me at the time, I'd frequently harken back to these words all these years later.

"Anyway," Mom rattled on before I could say anything, "we were thinking maybe you could call her up and take her to dinner. The Christmas party at the club is tomorrow night, and I know for a fact she doesn't have a date."

"And you want I should call her at the last second?"

"Why not?"

"Because maybe she doesn't want to go."

Mom only gave that smile again. "I'm pretty sure she does. If the right man calls."

"Why're you so hot to trot for this all of a sudden?" I asked.

She looked hurt, but she'd given me that same mock hurt look a million times. I'm pretty sure all mothers practice that look in front of a mirror.

"Fess up," I said.

"Is it my fault I want to see you happy with the girl you've always had a crush on? The same girl who was . . . ." She dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips, wiping away tears I couldn't see and wasn't sure were there. "The same girl who was almost a part of this family once? Who's always been like the daughter I've never had?"

Mothers. Is it me, or are they also hands down masters of playing the martyr card? Even when it doesn't pull the heartstrings, you still go along with it just to shut them the hell up, right? I think it's genetic.

I sighed. "Fine, but on one condition."

She looked up, her face brightening already. "Yes?"

"You send Edwina home now to be with her family. And you don't give her any . . . any guff about me helping her."

Mom was genuinely puzzled at my request. "Why? She's paid to do this, Mark."

"And for once you can show some appreciation, Mom. Jesus, it's Christmastime."

"Don't you blaspheme on Christmas!"

I waved her off. "Yes or no?"

"But who'll clean up this mess?"

I shrugged. "I suppose I will."

"But you need to get to bed."

"It's almost done. I'll get to bed soon enough."

"But– "

"Yes or no?"

She turned to the doorway to the other room, her jaws tight. After all, what was the sense in being a belle of the New South if you had to clean up after your own parties? Then she turned back to me.

"Fine. I'll send her home."

I smiled, stepping away from the counter and toward her. "Then I'll call Miss Sandra Truelson as early tomorrow as good manners allow."

Mom stuck out her cheek as I neared, and I leaned in and pecked her lightly.

"And thanks," I said, looking at her briefly. "I guess."

She smiled. "I'll let Edwina go now."

* * * * *

I'll be damned, but Mom was right.

"You're calling me at almost the last minute–on a Saturday, no less–and you think I have nothing better to do than go to this silly old Christmas party with you?"

Sandy's words didn't match the light, playful tone in her voice. She was teasing, something of which she'd long been a master. Teasing in such a way as to make me feel silly once I realized I was asking one of the most beautiful, sought after young ladies in Nashville to accompany me to a prestigious party at an exclusive country club only hours before the party was to start. But there was another side to the teasing, the side that was actually self-deprecating, falsely pumping up her own image only to laugh at it. It was what made her so goddamned endearing to everyone who knew her. She could laugh at everything and everyone, but particularly herself.

"Well?" she pressed.

I grinned. "I guess that that's exactly what I'm doing, Miss Sandra Jean Truelson."

"You sound pretty confident in yourself, Mark Roberts."

I laughed, and so did she. "Well, I understand you declining and all, Sandy. I mean, I have no doubt that your dance card is undoubtedly full for this and every other Saturday night in the foreseeable future. I just thought I'd take a chance."

"Oh really? Take a chance?"

"Exactly. Take a chance. No matter how small."

She laughed. "Well," she said, then paused for a moment before continuing, "I'm flipping through my social register at this very moment and can you believe it? I happen to be available this evening."

I grinned. It was a game, but I could picture her devilish grin on the other end of the phone as she played the game out to its conclusion. Probably twirling a lock of her soft blond hair between thumb and forefinger, eyes glittering, slim, toned legs crossed with raised ankle tapping.

"That being the case," I said.

"Yes?"

"Yes what?"

"You said, 'That being the case.' Well? That being the case what?"

"Didn't I already ask you out to the party?"

"No. You asked if– "

"I specifically asked if you would be so gracious as to accompany me to the party. I know I did."

"It's not polite to interrupt a lady."

"It's not polite to correct a gentleman. Or to leave him hanging."

"Am I doing that?"

"That's exactly what you're doing."

"Okay, Mark Roberts. Then I won't leave you hanging any longer. What time will you pick me up?"

"Six?"

"Bit early, don't you think?"

"Not for the chance to spend more time with you it isn't."

She gave a quick, high laugh. "Damn you're good. Smooth even."

"So six it is?"

"Six it is."

* * * * *

Dad loaned me the Caddy to take her.

"That damned thing'll never do," he'd said, waving his arm in disgust at my Ford Escort.

At five to six, I pulled in front of Pat and Debra Truelson's white Georgian-style mansion and parked just in front of the looming porticos. Pat Truelson answered the door himself.

"Mark, come right in," he said, holding the door open wide. "Sandy's still getting ready upstairs. Won't be ready for a few minutes still. Join me in the study for a little nip?"

"Of course, sir," I said, fidgeting nervously.

Speaker of the State House Patrick Truelson was everything a Tennessee politician needed to be. He had at least five inches on my five nine, and his body still appeared just as solid as when he'd been an All Southeast Conference linebacker for the Vols. His hands were enormous, his face long and pleasant, his head of hair a perfectly swept back mane of black and gray. Even in jeans, a light blue Oxford shirt, and a gray cardigan sweater he looked through and through a man used to leading the way in everything he did. Think about it: Do you realize how hard it is to look good in a cardigan these days?

"Don't call me sir," he said, leading the way into his study. "And for Pete's sake, don't you dare call me Mister Speaker." He exaggerated his deep Southern drawl on the last one, pronouncing is 'Mist-uhh Speak-uhh.' He reached onto his desk, picked up two tumblers of bourbon, handed me one, and waved me to a chair next to his. "Just call me Pat, okay?"

I nodded, trying to smile.

"So what are your plans, son?" he asked as I settled in and took a sip of my bourbon.

I looked around the study as I answered. "I'll be graduating soon, sir. In May. Take the Bar Exam in July, get the results in September or October, and settle into a long, hopefully happy life of practicing law."

His study was nearly identical to Dad's, right down to the burgundy carpets. I wonder who copied whom on the style or if there was just one interior decorator to call when a powerful politician needed his study to look cold and imposing. The only real difference was that Dad had a marble bust of General Lee on a pedestal, whereas Truelson had a bust of Tennessee's very own General George Gordon.

"You like that?" he asked, seeing my eyes on the bust of Gordon.

Rehnquist
Rehnquist
3,881 Followers