Chapter 3
"Sorry, I should have said W.W.'s a rabid cat full of bad pennies, always turning up." - Saul Goodman (Cinnabon 3 Manager, "Moving up!")
Marie Schrader stroked the soft, delicate skin of her palms and remembered her husband's touch. The familiar feel of crying emptiness welled, tears flowing before the dawn. Waking was her daily burden, another quiet day without him, cold morning light laughing at her pain filled eyes. She wanted the world to be as dark as her thoughts, for always.
They caught him, and still alive. Marie clenched her teeth at the idea, to the point of breaking. The things she wanted to do to him, that traitor, that monster Judas - my own blood.
I'm taking that blood back.
Hank would have been the one trying to distract her from such thinking. He would have told her such venom only kills her, tears at her mind and spirit, creates a monster inside. He loved her heart, caring, kind, tender, even when he was being an ass to her, and he knew many times he was.
Why can't you be here with me? This plea was so loud in her, so longing, so constant, she was surprised the cosmos didn't just appear Hank out of nothing before her and end this farce of her human existence. You're supposed to be here, Hank, you're supposed to be here. This wasn't part of the deal.
Yes it was, babe. Hank would have said that with a grin on his face, always partly joking, all serious.
Not-By-Him! She gnashed her teeth again, tasting faint iron and copper. Some army drug cartel could have killed you, some cross fire shoot out could have killed you, some high junkie, not Him.
A meth kingpin fits into those scenarios, sweetie.
He was supposed to have loved you! You loved him.
There was silence to that question. Even in her own mind, that question would forever bring silence.
Marie sat up abruptly, wiped her tears with a cold hand, drank water from a vigilant glass on her bedside table. For a minute she thought of nothing, her mind blank to everything around her, invisible to the uncaring cosmos. Then she tried to remember all the places Hank kept his guns.
...
Flynn Lambert was sobbing in Skyler's embrace. This was not an unusual thing of late, but the news of Walter's capture unleashed tidal waves of conflict through his young soul. She wished she could take it all away for him, take it on in some way even when her own life was dying.
"Please Flynn, shhh… shhh." She tried to make her voice soothing between her own quiet sobs. She forced her tears back, resolved. "Look, we're not responsible for him anymore, he abandoned us long ago, it's just as if a stranger was on the news."
Flynn shook his head violently against her chest. The volume of his sobs grew quieter, but shook his fragile psyche and body more. She had to concede to the deep, bottomless hurt. "Ok, Flynn, ok… you're right." Her breaths were catching again. She opened her eyes wide so they could dry, looked around the dingy rooms, the old pictures, the shreds of memories. She wished the morning would come faster, to have something besides all these shadows here. Then she wondered if there would ever be a real morning for them again. Whispering to her son, saying the hopeful things that must be said, "We'll get through it all, my baby, we will… we will."
…
Jesse dreamt. For most of the night he slept soundly and dreamless, wrapped in black exhaustion. The heat of the New Mexico sun roasted the air in his metal cocoon, and he became restless. He was in his cell again. They removed the tarp over his prison when they remembered, if it wasn't a late beer and gun cleaning night, and sometimes they would get to him by noon. By then he could hardly breathe the superheated air of his cell and was licking the dripping cement walls for condensation. Uncle Jack finally scolded his guys, making them each take a morning shift to "make sure he lived through the week. It was good meth and money, and it don't cost much to feed him, need I say more?" They did what Uncle Jack said, but took a lot of shortcuts in their responsibilities. Fire hosing his cell at night, with him in it, of course, was one of their favorites, figuring the water and cooling evaporation would extend some of the morning. And it "makes the stink less in there," they laughed.
Tarantula in a jar, Jesse thought many torturously bitter nights and burning mornings. I'll make you pay back for each piece, somehow.