The Between Years

freak snowstorm the first week of October.

CHAPTER 6
    Randy fished the key from his pocket and touched it to the lock, but it fidgeted first. It slid in halfway then became stuck, and he had to force it in the second half. When he turned the lock, he felt like he was trying to push a boulder over.

    The rusty knob grinded when he turned it and the door was jammed, so he set his duffel bag down to shoulder the door open. A musty smell filled his nostrils the moment he stepped inside, forcing a cough. He left the door open a moment to let some cool air seep in, since he feared he would grow dizzy from stale air.

    The duffel bag thunked when he dropped it onto the floor. He kicked his shoes off, wiggled his toes, stretched, and basked in the relief. His jacket felt too constricting, so he shed it off, and it too went the way of the duffel bag. Then he threw his hands over his face. The point of no return had been crossed and he couldn't scramble back to his old life now if he wanted to.

    Regret had consumed him before he stomped out the door, and it tried to bind his hands when he fired up the engine to his Chrysler Intrepid. Worse still, he felt lost, out of his element. Acting out of rage had never been his style, he knew that much, which was why he couldn't understand why his blood had boiled for hours, and the urge to gnash his teeth hadn't died.

    Certainly, Carol wasn't that unreasonable, he thought. They'd been married for nearly five years, and he thought he'd mastered her every intricacy, but how she'd changed in the last six months astonished him. He swore he wasn't married to the same woman anymore. Disagreements used to be handled peacefully, with respect and reason, but now even the slightest dissent devolved into a fight. He thought their life together had been happier in university, and the beginning of their marriage, and he doubted he could withstand such misery forever.

    Randy reflected on the woman Carol had been. Ten years ago, he remembered her as a lean, dynamite red head in his first year Introduction to English Lit class, whose frequent intelligent remarks backed up her good looks. He could never picture himself with a partying, sorority airhead anyway, so Carol had always seemed like a perfect match. She had been assertive enough to chase after what she wanted, but coy enough to make the first move then lay low and let what she wanted come to her.

    Having spent last night in the back seat of his car had sobered him. His chest still felt tense, his fingers still tingled. He reflected on how his right hand had almost flown last night, how it would have felt so goddamn good, amazing, had he not choked back his rage. He decided that not slapping her had been prudent on numerous levels. Instead, he had gazed deep into his wife's eyes and wondered if he hated her. No, the animosity didn't run that deep, he told himself. He was angry, downright pissed in fact, but he would collect himself. He still loved her, but that love had changed. Admitting that sliced through him more than believing he hated her had, but he wouldn't try and make sense of that.

    He sucked in a deep breath and coughed again, but the air still felt good, still helped him to clear his head. The musty smell aside, the house embodied separate scents of cookie dough, pancake batter, baking bread, oil paints and turpentine, all smells he invariably associated with his grandparents. He wondered if he had imagined those smells, or if they were so fresh that he could stroll into the kitchen and find them all laying out on the counter. The house had stood empty for nearly a year, and would be a place for him to stay, away from Carol, away from his parents, away from the world. In a way, he felt like he'd been called home.

    How he had admitted to what had happened between he and Carol to his father, he would never figure out. No, we're not divorcing, Dad, just separating. But we're not really separating either. He'd said that much without tripping over his words, yet he still felt his insides tighten. In the small hours of the morning, he'd shown up at his parents' house with only his duffel bag. He needed a place to stay, but moving back in with his folks, even temporarily, wasn't what he'd had in mind. Dad had walked straight to the key rack to grab the key to Randy's grandparents' house before he could suggest it, and before Randy could ask.

    Memories. On the drive over, he reflected on how he had spent the happiest moments of his