Chapter Two: Big Jim’s Peanut Butter Bars

           The milk man’s truck backfired just as it did every morning, and Ezekiel’s eyes popped open. He sat up in bed. He looked out the window. The milk truck backfired again, more quietly as it turned off Ezekiel’s street onto the next. The city was dark. Except for the backfire of the truck, it was silent as well. As he stretched his arms above his head and sighed, he thought of the coming dawn. He thought of the pale sun that would peek its head over the horizon like a bashful little boy. He thought of the world filling with golden light.

           Ezekiel dropped his feet onto the cold floor. He smiled. He loved mornings. No matter how stressed, worried, frustrated, angry, or depressed he was the night before, sleep would wash it all away, and he would be filled with a feeling of rebirth. His brother, Isaiah, the constant reader and information collector, had once spouted off to him some theory of how toxins build up in the body: “Scientists have found that certain toxins get deposited in your bones,” he said, and though Ezekiel did not know if Isaiah had told him the truth, each day as the sun set, Ezekiel would feel all the energy sucked out of him. He would feel a pull to the floor. He would feel the first sluggish sensing of sickness. He would feel the toxins of daily life. Stress. Stress was the worst. Each day his mind spun from one worry to the next.

           “You’ve placed a burden on yourself,” Daniel had told him brusquely a few years back. It was during their parents thirtieth anniversary party. The house was packed. He, Ezekiel, was making sure everything was running smoothly, and when he asked Daniel for help, his brother shook his head.

           “This is too much for one person to handle,” Ezekiel answered his brother. “There are five of us, and everyone should pitch in and help.”

           “You’ve placed a burden on yourself,” Daniel responded. “You know you could just pass off running the party to one of the aunts, but you won’t. Because you don’t trust that they’ll do it right. Delegate. It’s not my problem.”

           Ezekiel had been angry with Daniel for several weeks after, but looking back at those five-year-old comments, he thought Daniel had a point. He thought Daniel did not have to be such an ass about making that point, but he thought Daniel had a point.

           And Ezekiel would have followed his advice, if it had not been for sleep. Sure, he was so highly strung during the day that he could not stay awake past nine fifty-two, but sleep existed. And sleep was glorious. And sleep took that worry and stress—sleep took all the toxins and washed them away.

           Ezekiel stood to his feet. He grabbed yesterday’s pants from a chair and pulled them on. He walked over to his small cooler on the ground and pulled open the lid. He grabbed the butter and eggs, dropped them on the small stove, and in two minutes, a pat of butter was melted in the pan. In two minutes more, an egg was sizzling, and a piece of bread was warming on the pan next to it. He did not have a toaster. He barely had enough space for a stove in the small apartment, but he had a cooler to keep food cool. He had something to make food, and that was enough for him. Especially in the morning, especially when everything was new.

           Ezekiel dropped his eggs and his warmed bread onto the plate. He picked up the plate and a half cup of cold coffee from the day before, opened the door, and stepped out to the patio.

           It was the day before summer. The air was cool. Goosebumps rose on his skin. The world was dark, but the first rays of the sun rose like a shimmering crown on the horizon. He lowered himself into his small, half-broken yard chair and looked at the dark neighborhood. It was a better neighborhood in the darkness. During the day, the grunge of the place was evident. Broken windows, peeling paint, rotting wood. In the morning it was dark, and as far as he and his good humor knew, that darkness hid the gleaming beauty of a perfect city.

           Ezekiel leaned back in the chair. He brought the bread up to his mouth. As he bit into it, it smeared into his teeth and onto his tongue. He leaned his head back. He closed his eyes and chewed. All the little eddying qualms from the night before were gone, and he focused on each little thing. The soggy bread in his mouth. The scratch of the fork on his plate. A car in the distance. Buttery eggs.

           In those dark morning moments, he did not exist in the same way. Time did not exist. He was a dot, a punctuation mark floating, floating through something or somewhere, on a different plane, a spiritual plane. And he, this little dot, floated from the taste of the eggs, to the texture of the fork, to the slow light of the sun filling his eyelids. Each of these consumed his consciousnesses. He did not feel time, and an hour passed in a moment. And then another. And every morning, it was always this way until the sun rose and was red in his closed eyes and hot on his skin.

           “Ezekiel!” The voice bit into his ears. The taste of the eggs and toast lingered in his mouth. The plate was on the floor. The drone of vehicles filled the air. His name was a well-honed knife, and it sliced from his ears down to his mouth.

           Ezekiel opened his eyes. His eyes filled with pain. His vision filled with light. Slowly, his vision cleared, and a jagged crack of worry formed within him. He sighed.

           “Claire.” Her name sounded like a hallelujah on his lips. He forced a smile. He forced his eyes to crinkle. He knew it was not a real smile unless his eyes showed it, but he also knew that even if his eyes showed it, it was not a real smile at all. He could feel the fakeness, the heaviness of the smile on his face as if it were a mask.

           She was beautiful. Drop-dead beautiful. The kind of beautiful that walked down the street and turned heads and caused accidents. A blonde bombshell. When he had met her, he could barely keep himself on his feet. All the blood rushed through his head, and he knew that if it was the last thing he did, he would be with her. She was a woman that started wars, that sent a thousand men to their deaths, a woman whose face gave a man a vision to accomplish what had only ever been fleeting, childhood dreams.

           He had seen her that night. He had been captured by her beauty. He had fallen in love with her. During the first years of their relationship, she had always put him at ease. It was the power of her perfect face, her cooing voice.  He would feel the unsteadiness of anxiety, but when he looked at her face, when she spoke to him, he would forget all his worries, like something holy had touched him and swept all his cares away. It felt even better than the cleansing of confession.      

           Now, that uplifting transcendence was gone, and her voice sent him into neurosis. Morning was peace. She arrived. Peace went away. A subtle anxiety he did not even notice replaced it. The base of his neck tightened. He looked over to her, and he smiled his fake smile.

           “Claire!” The big, fake smile was frozen on his face as he said her name again.

           She waltzed up to him. She bent down. She kissed him on the lips. She did not smile. She instead stood back up and pulled open the door. “Have you eaten yet?” she asked.

           “I had some bread and eggs,” he answered. “And some coffee,” he added and lifted the cup toward her.

           She shook her head and a smile formed on her face, a smile an adult would use if a child had just said he ate peppermint for lunch. “I thought we were going out?” she said. “Did you forget again?”

           Ezekiel swallowed. He glanced across the street. He looked back at Claire. He shook his head. He sighed. “I, ah,” he said.

           She wagged her head. She looked at him in the eyes and a small, affectionate smile brightened her face.

           Ezekiel did not notice the smile. He tightened his jaw and slipped further into worry.

           She stepped through the door into his small apartment. The door slammed behind her, and he sighed.

           He loved her. He knew that. He knew if he knew anything, it was that he loved her. It was a love-at-first-sight story. He had been swept up in her, and they would be together the rest of their lives. He did not have a ring yet, but he did not need a ring. She would let him know when he needed a ring. She would give him a subtle, nonverbal nudge. He would go get the ring. He would propose. It only mattered when she wanted it to happen.

           Ezekiel swallowed the knot of nerves that rose in his throat. He wished she swept his worry away as she once did, but that transcendent balm was gone. It faded slowly, without him noticing. He had awakened one day. He had met her at a café for lunch, and the gears in his brain seized with worry.

           When Isaiah confronted him about her, Ezekiel had been filled with worry that maybe his decision to date her was the wrong one. But he mulled it over, chewed on it, ruminated, meditated, analyzed, and he concluded that he was the problem. It was his thoughts about Claire and himself. If ever a person was perfect, it was Claire. If ever an angel descended from Heaven and came to live among humanity, it was Claire. If ever the Holy Mother herself was reborn, it was in the form of Claire. If anything was wrong with her, it was that she was too perfect. She was perfect, and, as he measured himself against who she was, he knew he was not good enough. He knew he never could be good enough. He wanted to give her everything she deserved, but being only mortal, he could not. So, he worried. When he forgot about her, the worry would subside. If by himself, he only had himself to measure himself against. She would arrive, and suddenly he was a tadpole in a puddle; she was the ocean itself. He was chaff; she was pure gold.

           “You coming in?” she called out to him. “If you’re taking me out, you’ve got to change into something nicer.”

           “Uh…” He pushed his thoughts down. He glanced at the door. He reminded himself that he loved her more than anything and he smiled. “Yes,” he cried back, “I’m coming.”

           He stood up. He glanced at the alleyway. It was ugly, so ugly. The apartment buildings were square and gray. Each was soot-stained, and the people who were now poking their heads out for the morning were just as ugly as their neighborhood.

           “Coming!” he cried again. He flung open the door. He stepped in. And he looked at that angel that had descended from Heaven to be with him, Ezekiel, such an ugly person in such an ugly place.

           “What should I wear?” he asked.

           She smiled over to him. “I picked something out and put it on your bed.” She motioned to his bed. He looked to see a pair of slacks, a belt, and a checkered shirt. “But, Ezekiel”—she always called him Ezekiel—“we really need to get you some nicer clothes, dear.”

           He nodded and walked over to his clothes. He picked them up, and he entered the bathroom. “Well,” he spoke through the door. “Once I get a damn raise it won’t be too hard.”

           “Ezekiel, I told you I don’t like you talking like that!” Her voice was sharp.

           He pulled on the pair of pants. “I just—Claire, you know I deserve more, and—” He sighed. “It’d be good to be paid what I’m worth. I could understand if the economy was worse, but it has never been better, and I—”

           “But don’t use those words,” she cut him off. “You know I don’t like those words. So, why do you use them? You shouldn’t be using them at all.” She sighed. “What would your mother think?”

           His tongue ran across his front teeth. “Mother curses more than I do. That’s for sure,” he muttered to himself as he buttoned his shirt.

           “What was that?” He heard her through the door.

           “Yes, dear,” he said.

           “Good.” He could hear a smile in her voice as she said the word. “Are you ready?” she asked.

           Ezekiel flung open the door. He nodded to her and looked down at his outfit. The shirt was not his nicest. He did not know why she preferred this particular one. The slacks were old. The belt was an odd color, but wearing these clothes was a small thing he could do to make her happy. Even if it was somewhat of an annoyance to have to change, he knew compromise was part of any relationship.

           “Ready,” he said. He smiled at her, a big smile. A fake smile. He was not happy today. He was tired. He was worried like he always was. He felt mechanical, but he wanted to make her happy. A smile was such a simple thing, such a small thing. He did not feel like smiling, but it was such a small compromise.

           “Are you wearing those?” she asked. Her voice was filled with incredulity.

           “What?” His chest tightened with worry. He was sure he had not missed anything.

           “Those shoes.” She stared down at his feet.

           “What do you want me to wear?” he asked.

           She sighed. She shrugged. She met his eyes and gave a half-hearted, pained smile. Her eyes did not emote at all. They were filled with the same incredulity.

           “What?” he asked again. His voice was laced with stress.

           “Nothing.” A smirk curled up on her face. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. We need to get going anyway.”

           Ezekiel watched the back of Claire’s head as she reached toward the door handle. His eyes ran down each of the silken strands of her beautiful blonde hair. He took a deep breath in. He licked his dry lips. A thought was on the tip of his tongue. He searched his consciousness: What had he done wrong? Should he change his shoes? Into what? It would not be a problem. It would take five minutes. Words budded in his mind, but before he opened his mouth to speak, the phone rang.

           He let a breath out. Claire turned. Her eyes locked with his, and as he stared into hers, he realized those eyes held no happiness, only annoyance. She had not and would not say that she was annoyed, but he could tell. And his worry burned like fire in his chest. It felt like bugs scurrying in his head. Termites, burrowing, gnawing. Gnawing. Gnawing. Gnawing.   

           The phone rang again.

           Burrowing. Gnawing. Eating. Consuming.

           The phone rang a third time.

           “Are you going to get that?” Her voice betrayed a quiet annoyance.

           He jumped toward the phone and snatched it off the receiver just as it began to ring again.

           “Hello.” His voice wavered as he spoke into the phone.      

           “Ezekiel.” It was his father’s deep voice.

           “Dad,” he answered.

           His father coughed. It was a cough that had been around more than a year.

           “Ezekiel, are you busy this morning?” He coughed again, a wet, spongy cough. “I know you get up early.” He drew in a shuffling breath.   

           “I…” Ezekiel looked at Claire. He met her eyes met again. Her mouth pursed. Her eyebrows rose, and then her attention shifted from him to the dirty street outside the window. A keen annoyance. He was sure of it. “I’m not too busy. Ah, Claire and I are grabbing some breakfast, but, uh, what do you need?” he asked.

           His father cleared his throat. “I’ve—” he coughed again. His voice wheezed out. “A shipment just came in. I was wondering if you would come over and help put it away.”

           Ezekiel pursed his lips and bit the tip of his tongue. “Iya…” He sighed. “Have you tried asking Isaiah or Jeremiah?” he asked.

           His father cleared his throat. “Isaiah and Jeremiah are busy,” his father answered.

           “Well, I’m kind of busy too, Dad,” he answered.

           “It’ll take fifteen minutes, probably ten,” his father responded quickly.

           Ezekiel closed his eyes and shook his head. He brought the hand that was not holding the telephone up to his face, and he rubbed his eyes. “Okay, fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes. And that’s it.”

           “I’ll see you in ten.” His father did not say goodbye. Before Ezekiel could respond, he heard a click and a dial tone.

           Ezekiel dropped the phone onto the receiver and looked up to the door. He saw Claire. He saw her eyes, the impatience. He thought about breakfast. He thought about telling Claire about stopping at his father’s shop. He knew how the conversation would go. He would tell her. She would smile. She would say how proud she was that he was helping his father. He would apologize. She would shake her head and tell him not to apologize, but he knew annoyance would burn within her. In every similar situation, he had seen the impatience in her eyes. He had felt the prick of those thorny eyes more than once.  And no matter how fast he moved, she would be waiting and her annoyance would be compressing into anger.

           “Who was on the phone?” She pulled the door open as he asked the question. A smile lit up her face, but her eyes were still flat with annoyance.

           “Ah, my dad,” he answered as they stepped into the alley way.

           Though he was not aware of his anxiety, it had not gone away. It was a quiet tinnitus. Because it was ever-ringing, he was only as aware of it as he was aware of the clothes he was wearing or his wristwatch or his tongue resting in the middle of his mouth. He could attend to it if he remembered, but when distracted, it slipped into the background like the low hum of traffic. It was an ugly, little gremlin. Its hands were on the controls, driving his emotions, driving his thoughts, but it was such a thin thing, such a light thing, that he forgot he was carrying it around at all.

           Ezekiel did not remember the specifics of that drive. He did not notice Claire’s suggestions on how he could improve his driving. He did not hear her command to pay attention or her chastising voice that told him he should not swear or talk over her. He just nodded his head and said, “Okay,” and continued to drive. Claire went on about her hair. Then she went on about her friend Kathy’s hair. Her conversation flowed to fashion. She talked about her new jacket. She asked him several questions. She told him where to go, and he answered with nods and affirmatives. But he did not really hear any of her words. He did not hear of the colors. He did not hear of the cut of the blouse. He did not even realize he was driving. He thought of his father and his duty to the man. And he thought of Claire, her golden hair, her angel face, and that pull of responsibility to both of these people. He was a tiny asteroid sling-shotted around one star and around another to be flung once more around the first.

           “Ezekiel.” Her sharp voice broke him out of his cyclical thoughts.

           “Hmmm?” He glanced over to her. Her eyebrows were knitted. Her face was dark, disapproving.

           “You missed the turn,” she answered.

           “What? What?” He shook his head in surprise. He looked at the road. He had already passed the turn, if he had intended to go straight to the café.

           He passed another turn.

           “Ezekiel!” she sang out. “Ezekiel, you missed another turn!”

           He shook his head. He coughed. He knew he had to tell her.

           “Ezekiel,” she sang out again, a third time as he passed the third turn.

           “I, um…” He felt anxiety rise. “I need to stop at Dad’s shop,” he said. He made a right turn, the opposite of what she wanted, and he waited. Worry held him by the throat, and he waited for every atom of the world to explode.

           Claire took in a breath. She glanced out her window. He was not sure of the expression on her face, a smile, a slow decision, anger? Her tongue searched the inside of her lower lip. Her eyes burned. Then she turned to him, a slow turn with piercing eyes, furnace eyes, hellfire eyes, worse. He could not begin to find the words to explain what he saw in those eyes.

           “Ezekiel.” Her voice was calm. If he was not fully aware of those beautiful eyes burrowing into his brain, he would have even said her words were sweet.

           He did not answer, though he knew she wanted him to answer.

           She pursed her lips and tilted her head. “Ezekiel,” she said again, just as calm, just as honeyed.

           He glanced over. He felt frozen. He felt as if he were a stone man. His tongue was swollen. He could not swallow. He could barely breathe.

           “Ezekiel.” When she said his name the third time, he could see the smile on her face. Her voice was as sweet as dripping honey.

           “Yes.” His voice was weak. He felt weak. He felt weak as a bone burnt to ash and blown away by the wind.

           “Why are we going to your father’s store?” she asked. A hand reached out and touched his shoulder.

           He opened his mouth to speak, but it was too dry. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, but he dared not glance over again. He closed his mouth. He willed it to produce saliva and opened it again.

           “Dad just needs help putting a few things away,” he answered. “It’ll—”

           “You promised that we were going out for breakfast today. You were the one who made the plan. And you were the one who forgot.” She turned from him. He was glad. She turned back to the window and continued to speak, but anger gave her voice a razor edge. “And now you’ve got to help your father.” Though her voice cut with anger, it somehow maintained that same, ironic sweetness. “And I know what you’re thinking, Ezekiel John Fleet. You’re thinking that it will take a few minutes tops, and we’ll be on our way.”

           Ezekiel sighed. He did not even try to respond to her at all. She turned back to him just as he pulled up to the curb in front of his father’s shop.

           “Do I mean nothing to you?” The sweetness went away with the question, just as it always did. And her voice cracked, just as it always did. And she cried, just as she always did.

           “Helping your dad move things into his store means more than me? Means more than us?” Tears rolled down Claire’s face. Her voice was a pathetic sob. But despite her indignity, she was still beautiful. She always was beautiful, even when Ezekiel was too tied up in worry and stress to notice.

           Claire continued in animal bellows with those tumbling tears, and that angelic face, and as she did, Ezekiel watched as cars zoomed by on the street and he sat motionless. And she yelled. He watched. She yelled. His chest tightened. His mind filled up with the tilter-whirl flashes of worry, and she showered his arm with tears of rage. It was when she slammed her fists on the dashboard that he swung open his door and jumped out of the car. Not out of courage. Not out of being done with her.  It was pure avoidance. Pure flight. Pure fear. He heard her hands pounding the window and he saw her face pressed up against the glass as he passed in front of the car.

           And he sighed in relief as the bell on the door rang, the shop door swung shut, and her voice disappeared.

           “Ezekiel.”

           Ezekiel looked up to see his father behind the till. A smile was on his face. Ezekiel scowled back at his father.

           His father’s face washed over with concern. “Are you alright?” he asked.

           “Can you get Isaiah or Jeremiah to help you next time?” he answered. His voice bit with the annoyance of being inconvenienced.

           “Isaiah is at school, and I couldn’t get a hold of Jeremiah,” his father said.

           “Daniel then,” Ezekiel almost shouted.

           His father scowled back.

           Ezekiel shook his head. He forced the tension out of his body. He brought a hand up, ran it down his face, and sighed. “Dad, I… It’s been a stressful morning. Claire and I were going out, but I forgot. And then you called.” He met his father’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

           His father nodded and gave him an understanding grunt. “Hard times. I know. I married your mother. And they’re getting even harder, it seems. These wars, they’ve done something to us, especially this last one, with the destruction.”

           Ezekiel stepped up to the counter. He let his keys dangle from his hand. He watched them as they spun then let them drop. He looked up at his father. “What do you need, dad?” he asked. “I’ve got to go quick. Claire’s out in the car, and she’s mad. And hysterical.”

           “Got a shipment. They would drop it right in the back door but no farther. Early this morning. Everything needs to go in the closet.”

           Ezekiel pushed himself off the counter. “Alright,” he said.

           His father nodded to him. “Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes,” he said. Then his father looked at the front door expectantly.

           Ezekiel made his way through the colorful shelves to a dark hallway that led to a heavy metal door. The door swung inward to a dusty room, an office. A small desk covered in papers was in one corner. A small bookshelf sat against the wall. It was filled with pulp-fiction detective novels. They were his father’s guilty pleasure. Ezekiel thought they were dull, but he thought there was worse literature than a mind-numbing mystery-thriller.

           The boxes his father had spoken of were piled next to the bookshelf. Three stacks, less than ten minutes of work. He picked the first up. He looked down at the label: candy bars. Also, his father’s favorite and the favorite of almost every other person in the country. Big Jim’s Peanut Butter Bars. The stupid face of a farmer in coveralls on the top of the box smiled up at him. It was not just the nation’s favorite candy bar. It was also President Dalimore’s, and Ezekiel wondered whether that had anything to do with its popularity as well.

           Ezekiel carried the first box into the store. He went over to shelf and set the box on the floor. He popped it open, and, grabbing handfuls, began filling the shelf. By the time the shelf was refilled, half the box had been emptied, and Ezekiel barely noticed. He swung it up onto his hip quickly. He almost ran over to the storage closet, and before it settled on the floor of the dusty room, he was already halfway to the office. As he swung open the office door, he glanced at his father. The old man cleared his throat. Ezekiel followed his eyes to the door, and Ezekiel thought of Claire. Her beautiful face filled his mind as he looked back into the dark office. He saw the calmness in every feature, but he saw the fury in her eyes.   

           Fear fluttered in his chest. He tried to breath out the tension. It dissipated slightly, and he wished he did not have to go back out to that car. He did not want to be here helping his father, because he was always the one who was here helping his father, but he knew what was worse. When he was done, he would walk out to the car, and even if Claire spoke to him as sweetly as could be, he knew she would be angry. He knew her eyes would still burn. He knew that every single syllable she said would have subtle disapproval. Maybe she would not shout, but he almost preferred when she did. Because when she did shout, at least he was justified in running away. When she did not shout, when her voice was as sweet as a moonlit minuet, he was trapped. A weight pressed his shoulders and stilled his feet and forced him to stay.

           He dropped the second box and waltzed across the room for the third. As he picked it up, he fantasized about going out the back. Leaving the car. Leaving Claire. Taking the day off from everything, all responsibility. He could go to the park. He could climb a tree. He could look up at the sky, find images in the clouds, and he could let day drift to afternoon, drift to evening. And he could sit in that tree all night and start summer off outside watching the slow rise of the sun.

           But he would not do it. He could not do it. He felt trapped. This body was not him. He was a little bug. He was an insect. His limbs were tied, and he was suspended at the center of this human body, floating in some sort of odd, empty outer space. And he had flipped over onto his back. A year ago, maybe two, he could have slipped out the back, but today, he was helpless. He was squirming, writhing. Water from somewhere was rising to cover his little bug body. But not water. A quagmire. A little while longer and any hope he had of feeling free would be gone.

           He moved the rest of the boxes and told himself he would do better. Claire was angry because he had forgotten a breakfast he had planned. It was his fault. If he had to deal with her being angry, it was a small comprise. A tiny inconvenience. And he loved her, and because he loved her, he would deal with this tiny inconvenience.

           He sighed as he dropped the final box of candy bars into the closet. He looked down at the smiling farmer face. “Stupid, happy idiot,” Ezekiel muttered to himself. He reached down into the open box. He pulled two candy bars out and put one in each front pants pocket. Then he closed the box and went out into the store.

           His father looked over to him. Ezekiel felt a little rush of worry that his father saw the candy bars in his pockets, but then he told himself not to worry. His father would not see them. The man had never caught on all the other times he had taken a candy bar here or there.

           “Ezekiel,” his father said. Ezekiel sauntered over to the till.

           His father grunted. “I haven’t seen that girlfriend of yours in a while. You’ve been dating three years now?” he asked.

           Ezekiel nodded.

           His father’s eyes narrowed. “Have you got a ring yet?”

           Ezekiel sighed.

           “Three years, Ezekiel,” his father continued. “And you don’t have a ring yet? Three years of dating. You’re twenty-two years old. She should already have a couple babies. You don’t live forever, Ezekiel.”

           “Dad, I—”

           “Your mother and I were already married by the time I was twenty-two.” His father’s words came out quickly. “We were married for three years already, three years.”

           Ezekiel turned from his father. He leaned against the counter and gazed out the window. His father continued to tell him what he should be doing, but he did not hear him. He looked at his old, beat-up car. Claire still sat in the front seat. Her face was filled with anger, beautiful, beautiful anger. Her hair was golden. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes burned silver.

           He wondered where he went wrong. He must have gone wrong somewhere. He was sure of it. Thoughts had crossed his mind, every so often, that God was punishing him for something, but Ezekiel knew blaming his own stress and worry on God was not right. If God was punishing him, it was not because of the arbitrary nature or decision of God. No. Ezekiel had sinned or maybe not even sinned; Ezekiel had erred in some fundamental way, and God, in his perfect justice, was punishing him. Maybe God was the heavy hand upon him, but it was his own fault.

           “…you don’t get married soon, that girl won’t be waiting around forever. Eventually, she’ll figure out that you aren’t going to buy her a ring, and when she figures that out, she’ll be gone the next morning.”

           Ezekiel sighed.           

           “Everyone knows it. Well, everyone over the age of thirty knows it. We got married at eighteen. Nineteen. You would think with a war just as bad as the first that you would learn that certain things are important.”

           Ezekiel turned to his father. “I’ve got to go, Dad,” he said. He hoped his father would hear the anger in his voice.

           His father did not answer. Ezekiel could see the tension in the man’s face.

           “I’ve got to go,” he said again.

           His father nodded.

           Ezekiel walked toward the door slowly. He was glad to be leaving, but he did not want to go where he was going. He sighed as he grabbed the door handle and pulled the door open. His body felt stiff as he moved outside. He looked to the car. The beautiful woman still sat in the front seat. She stared forward as if she did not see him, but he was sure she saw him. She must have.

           As he crossed in front of the car, she stared through him. And he would not look at her. He could not. He was frozen with fear as he opened the car door. Even though she looked over at him as he sat down, he avoided her eyes at all costs and would only look forward.

           And she was silent. So silent, once again.     

           She turned back to the windshield. She sighed.

           “How was your father?” She sniffed after she asked the question.

           “Um.” Ezekiel bit the inside of his lip, but he did not answer.

           “Are you going to start the car so we can go to breakfast?” Her voice was filled with venom.   

           Her voice made him jump, and his hand lunged to his pocket. His pocket was empty. He brought his other hand to his other pocket. Empty as well.

           “Ezekiel.” She sighed in anger. “Start the car.” Each word was soft. Each was clear. Each irate.

           “I…” His hand went to his breast pocket then both went to his pants pockets. He glanced over at her.

           “I’m hungry, Ezekiel.” Somehow her words were filled with even more anger.

           A hand went up to his face. An expletive went through his mind. His keys. He had driven to his father’s store, so he had the keys then. He hunched down and ran a hand across the floor, but he felt only dirty carpet.

           She growled next to him. His throat thickened with worry.

           “Start the car,” she barked.

           “The keys. I lost the keys,” he answered quickly, almost panicked.

           “Then why are you still sitting in the car?” she barked again. He jumped up, opened the door, and was out of the car in one swift motion. His heart raced. He walked quickly, wrapped up in worry. He opened the door. The bell rang above him. His father looked from the counter.

           “Key,” he muttered. “I forgot my keys.” He was not sure his father heard him at all. Ezekiel walked to the counter. He saw them by the till and snatched them up quickly. The bell rang behind him. His father smiled a wincing smile at him. Their eyes met. His father opened his mouth. Ezekiel waited for the man to speak. He knew he had something else to say, and he was feeling guilty about storming out of the shop moments before.

           “Put your hands up,” a gruff voice barked behind them. Ezekiel jumped. “Hands up,” the voice barked again. Ebenezer Fleet’s hands shot into the air. His eyes were wide, but there was no fear in his face.

           “Ezekiel,” his father muttered, “put your hands up.”

           Ezekiel’s eyes squinted in confusion. His father motioned to him with an upward nod of his head.

           “What?” Ezekiel muttered back.

           His father nodded behind him. Ezekiel turned from his father toward the rest of the store.

           “Hands up, kid,” the man barked. He brandished a gleaming pistol.