Book Excerpt: The Water Lord by Matt Minor

 

Book Excerpt:

1. Tryphena

“John David!” I called out from the back porch of the cabin. “You’d better get on the road, baby. It’s getting dark!”

John David stood against a blazing sky. In the foreground, his hair disheveled by the wind, his silhouette dominated the naked winter trees that shook on the horizon. 

“John David?” I called again, plaintively. 

He broke from his frozen stance and started toward me. In his black suit, white shirt, and black tie, he looked the image of the poet Tennyson as I remembered him from an old high school textbook—before the beard and accolades kicked in. But the dragon-coiled cane that cast a hip dignity, and the awkward limp that bestowed humility—these…these were all his own. 

I slipped inside. He exited the dying flames and entered the house. 

“I hate leaving you on Sunday. We’ve barely had any time together. I should just wait ’til morning,” he lamented.

“You’ll regret it, baby, you know you will. You hate getting up early.” 

“I know you’re right. I just feel guilty.” 

“We’ll have our honeymoon when the legislative session is over.”

“June? That’s seems like a lifetime from now.” 

“It will be here before we know it.” 

“What about getting away for MLK Day?” he asked, setting his cane against the sofa. Before I could answer, he clasped me by the waist and pulled me toward him. 

“Careful, baby,” I warned. I worried he might lose his balance.

“I’m fine. What do you say?” 

“Where would we go?” I asked as I snuggled into his well-dressed chest. 

“Somewhere within driving distance: The Hill Country, New Orleans.” 

“Mmm, both sound nice,” I purred as the spell of his cologne overtook me. I looked up at his chiseled face, a woman in love. “Your hair is getting so long,” was the only thing I could think to say.

“You think I should cut it off? Some of those bastard legislators look at me like I’m a hippie loser.” 

“They’re just jealous, baby. Don’t cut it. Hell, don’t comb it. Just own it.” 

“So what about next weekend?” 

“I have to study, John David.” 

“Think about it.” He released me, and then, with a slight wobble, reached for his cane. 

“John David, please be careful!” 

“I’m fine,” he coolly replied. 

As he went into the bedroom to pack his things, I went to the kitchen to organize his meals. Post-stroke there was very little that he could really eat that he liked. I had to get creative. I’d spent the previous week poring over cookbooks, and the weekend grilling chicken and fish with various low sodium marinades. As I stuffed the fillets in their respective-sized baggies, I found myself laughing inside. What domesticity. If only the college girl I was a few years ago could see me now: in the kitchen cooking for a man! She would probably flip out. 

Actually, I had never been so content. I should have known that it wouldn’t last. A woman in love is a fool. But if foolishness is the price of happiness, however brief, so be it, I say. Occasional lamentation is always better than lifelong bitterness. 

With his meals neatly packed and stacked on the kitchen table, I stood and waited for John David to kiss me goodbye. He repeatedly blew past as he came and went from the truck and house. His last stop was the kitchen table and my lips. We kissed for what seemed like ten minutes as I dangled from his arms. His grip was strong and abrupt. Not what one would expect from a man who had suffered what he had. I felt as if I’d just jumped from a merry-go-round revolving at top speed upon release. He had that effect. 

I followed him to the driveway. “Call me when you get to your apartment,” I told him as he sat in his recently restored pickup with the window rolled down. 

“I will, Tryphena. I love you.” 

“I love you too, John David.” We pecked. 

I watched as the ’74 Ford wound its way out the front gate of our property and onto the highway. Back in the cabin, I set about doing domestic things. I folded laundry, loaded the dishwasher, and vacuumed the den rug. I’d finally sat down to go over my legal materials when the landline rang. It was a local number I did not recognize. 

“Tryphena?” 

“Yes,” I answered. I was confused, as I did not recognize the voice. 

“This is Karl Cook. Commissioner Karl Cook!” he sounded alarmed. 

“Yes, Karl…how are you? Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“No worries, is JD there?” 

“No, actually he just left for Austin. They’re on the floor in the morning, voting on House rules, or something. Do you have his cell?” 

“No, I don’t. Would you mind giving it to me?” 

“Of course not. Got a pen?” After I gave the number, there was a pause. “Something wrong, Karl?” 

“Yeah…, yeah there is. Do you know who Chip Carlson is?” 

“Hmm, doesn’t he have something to do with the county water district?” I vaguely recalled an introduction at John David’s victory party that past November. 

“Right!” he shouted. “Chip’s the General Manager…or was…”

“What do you mean, was?” 

“They found him dead this morning.” 

“Oh my God! He was young!” 

“Just turned thirty-two last month.” 

“How did he die, Karl?” 

“He killed himself.” 

“Oh my God! That’s terrible. How, if I dare ask?” 

“He hanged himself from a beam in his den. His wife found him this morning. Police think he did it sometime yesterday.”

And his wife just found him this morning?” 

“She just showed up to get the last of her things. Chip and his wife were getting a divorce.” 

I paused as I remembered her and how she had fawned over my new husband that same night. Then I responded, “That’s just terrible.” 

“Yeah, I guess he just couldn’t take it. That and the other thing…” 

“What other thing? What do you mean?” 

“Are you familiar with what’s going on in Betsy?” 

“The town?” 

“Right!” Why is he shouting? “No, as matter of fact, I’m not.”

“It’s a mess, Tryphena. Look, I hate to be rude, but I need to call JD before he gets too far down the road.” 

“Oh, of course! I’m sorry, yes Karl, please call him. You take care now.” 

I placed the phone on the charger. I knew it would only be so long before I got a call from John David. I was too distracted now to study. I returned to my chores with a careful patience, like a woman waiting news from a war front. As I folded John David’s underwear, I suddenly found myself dwelling on a macabre thought: What if I were to find my husband dead? Numerous awful scenarios flashed through my mind. They were so dramatic
that I felt compelled, along with the news I had just received, to pour myself a glass of cognac. 

As I sipped the sniffer, my thoughts were drawn back to a few years before. Back to when John David was in the hospital having suffered from both a gunshot wound to his abdomen as well as a stroke on the left side of his brain. The bastard doctors wouldn’t let me see him because I was not his spouse or immediate family. He was still married to that beast first wife of his, Jessica. She couldn’t have cared less. In my darker moments, I would grow angry when reflecting back on it, believing that perhaps the doctors were just being racists. They were mostly Indian, so it didn’t exactly line up with my own prejudices. (I later found out that his wife had left instructions prohibiting anyone but immediate family from visiting). It wasn’t until John David was cognizant that they let me see him. All of that was bad enough. I couldn’t imagine actually finding his corpse, particularly if it was my fault. 

The phone rang. 

“John David!” 

“Jesus Christ, I just got off the phone with Commissioner Cook!”

“I know. Karl told me what happened. It’s terrible.” 

“Chip and his wife have a young son, too.” 

“I can’t imagine killing myself, let alone hanging myself.”

“Yeah, I mean…Ian Curtis the lead singer from Joy Division did it that way, but he was in Joy Division. Chip was a general manager of a water district. Apparently, he just hung there until he was dead. The police don’t believe his neck was ever broken. It supposedly took a while. Goddamn, Tryphena.”

“Karl mentioned something else other than his divorce, as the culprit, I mean. He let me go so he could call you. What was he talking about?” I asked.

“The town of Betsy has gone dry…stone cold dry.”

“You mean they have no water?” 

“Not a fuckin’ drop.” 

“How in the hell did that happen?” 

“Mismanagement, plain and simple. The board members are desperate, so they started sucking it out of the ground like drunks.” 

“They can do that? Aren’t there statutes? I thought these water districts were created to protect and conserve the resource.” 

“They were created to serve the people with money, Tryphena.”

“Of course, stupid question.” 

“The board is all rich farmers. Chip was their plant. Wagoneer Water District was created by Halliburton Crane last session. Need I say more?” 

“And Chip is now their scapegoat.” 

“Sure looks that way. How convenient for them. It’ll be interesting to see how much they throw Chip Carlson under the bus to save their collective asses.” 

“Where are you now?” I asked, hesitantly.

“On my way home. I’m going to have to be excused from the floor tomorrow. I have to deal with this now. I’m meeting Karl in the morning, at his office.” 

“Oh,” I sighed. “I guess no MLK Day vacation?” 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Karl and the Commissioners Court are going ’round and ’round about this. I’m needed.” 

“I understand, baby.” 

“We’ll get our day in the sun. I promise. Will you tell Mason to call the speaker’s office in the morning and let them know I’ll be absent?” 

“Sure, I’ll text him.” 

After our call, I killed the cognac and looked out the window at the absolute night. Though I felt my short-lived hopes had been foiled, I couldn’t help but suddenly be a little excited about John David coming home for what appeared to be an extended stay, or at least another day. Who knows, I thought…maybe we can still fit a trip in?

I showered and put on my sexy peach negligee. I put on The Blue Nile, an obscure 1980s band he was currently obsessed with. We had spent the weekend making love and watching movies: Hitchcock; Reds; Woody Allen. Although I was a little sore, I just couldn’t get enough of the man. Yes, I pondered, if that same college girl were to see me now she would be so shocked. Living with a white man almost twice my age in a secluded cabin in the woods? 

In its own way, it was…idyllic. Maybe that’s why it couldn’t last. I had grown up with the notion that one’s plate should always be guarded. Leftovers were saved, never discarded.