War.

by Shannon Dianne

  Boom!

  NAT

  Bop…

  JON

  He snuck me.

  NAT

  “You’re going to kill him!” Danielle’s screaming.

  But Mac can’t hear. He, Jacob, and the rest of the crew have Jon laid out on the floor. They’re pounding on him. They’re stomping on him. They’re about to kill this man. I can’t even see Jon under the pile. The bar crowd starts to scream and run at the precise moment that Malcolm and Jake drag Jon off of the floor and bring him crashing down and over the bar counter, knocking over drinks, glasses of green martinis and brown bourbon hurtling onto the floor. Jon collides with the wall of liquor bottles behind the bar. Like a row of dominoes, they all fall down, some colliding on the ground with large thuds, other breaking around him, most of them falling on him. The smell of vodka, rum, and Scotch floods the room.

  Matt runs up to Jacob and grabs him. He doesn’t take a swing; instead he’s pulling Jacob away. But Jacob’s drunk, he’s stressed; he’s fighting Matt off. Matt’s refusing to hit him. The truth is, right now, Jacob has no idea why he’s fighting. Right now, he’s fighting for Malcolm. Jacob has no idea that Jon’s the person who called the cops on him earlier. All he knows is that Jon’s the person who called Danielle on Mac just now. That’s all Jacob’s needs to know in order to smash Jon’s head in. Mac is his blood. Jacob’s in-laws call themselves Mac’s cousins. They’re all fighting for family. Normally, I’d be right beside them.

  But I need to get the tape.

  “Who’s fighting!” people are screaming as they run towards the front and exit doors.

  “Can you tell who’s fighting?”

  Of course they can’t. Everything’s a blur of button-ups, swinging arms, polished Cartiers, blinding Rolexes and platinum wedding bands. No one can tell who’s who.

  “Malcolm! STOP!” Danielle screams out as security stands by like they’re attempting to enter a double-dutch game. Even these big boys are afraid to jump into the brawl, especially since Malcolm has just climbed over the bar in search of Jon among the rubble of liquor bottles. Marlon goes after Malcolm. Jacob’s brother-in-law, Pauli, goes after Marlon, pulling him back by his neck.

  “No!” I hear a woman scream. I turn and see Jasmine running over to Pauli to get him off of Marlon.

  “Somebody do something!” Marla yells as she sees that Malcolm has located Jon and pulled him up to his feet by the neck. Jon stumbles to his feet, heaves a couple of deep breaths and then starts to square off. They may have just got the best of Jon but he’s got stamina. He’s a ball player. Former college athlete.

  But Mac is, too.

  Jon and Malcolm start going for blood.

  Unfortunately for Jon, Mac learned how to box in high school, at St. Bernadette’s. He did it for fun, nothing too serious. But he casually practiced it for the four years that we were in high school. He even kept at it while at Princeton during undergrad, when basketball season was out. He knows a few tricks. He’s quick. He’s methodical. He’s a fighter.

  He gives Jon a quick jab to the jaw with his right hand … a straight shoot to the face with his left hand … a Bolo Punch uppercut with his right … a swinging hook with his left … a straight shoot to the face with his right.

  Jon’s in defense mode now; his hands are guarding his face, trying to deflect Malcolm. Malcolm’s hooks are quick, his uppercuts are dazing, his straight shot is eye-watering, his jabs send an electric charge through you. Or at least that’s what Jacob said when he and Mac got into it one night, sophomore year at Yale, over something we all forget but still laugh about to this day. If I remember correctly, it may have had something to do with some Brooklyn girls and Jasmine and Mac fucking up on a midterm exam because he was exhausted from entertaining two women who he didn’t want to come over anyway, all while Jacob was laid up with Jasmine on the couch, getting a good night’s rest. I can’t remember exactly what happened but I do remember the fight.

  “Malcolm! Are you fucking crazy? Stop!” Danielle yells. I’m sure Danielle didn’t hear what Marla said just a few moments ago, since she was laying it into Mac. She didn’t hear Marla ask Jon if Malcolm was the reason he called her. For all Danielle knows, Mac saw Jon, is probably tipsy, and is beating his ass just because he’s mad at her. The crew, on the other hand, is letting Mac and Jon have a fair fight, now. Or as fair as it can be with a man who’s dazed as hell from a right hook he wasn’t expecting, given by a man who’s been a recreational boxer since he was fourteen.

  But I don’t have time to worry about that.

  I need to get the tape.

  “Nat! What the fuck!” Frank, the owner of Pirahna’s, says to me as he runs towards the bar. Frank’s a graduate of Princeton’s business school and a former teammate of Mac and Jacob on Princeton’s basketball team. Known him for years, but it’s the first time we’ve tore his shit up like this. He looks at Mac and Jon boxing behind the bar, then at the women in short black dresses and tall black heels running out of the bar without jackets and purses, into the below-freezing Boston night. He looks at the broken glass of hundred-dollar booze bottles and two hundred-dollar wine bottles along the floor. He sees the upturned shiny oak tables. The chalkboard bearing the night’s drink specials is swaying back and forth by a single nail. He sees Danielle trying to find a way behind the bar so that she can grab Mac away from Jon. He sees Dylan, the husband of Jacob’s youngest sister, holding her back, not letting her get within twenty feet of the brawl. He sees Jasmine, hitting Pauli in the face, trying to get him off of Marlon. He sees Matt struggling to hold Jacob back. He sees the waitresses and bartenders running for cover. And he also sees that security is too afraid to get anywhere near Mac…and his hands.

  “WHAT THE FUCK!” Frank yells as he points to the scene.

  He’s a good guy—Italian, so a bit overdramatic at times—but still a good guy. He runs his hand through his hair and adjusts his tie. There, now he’s better.

  “What the hell happened?” he asks me calmly.

  “Just a small tiff,” I assure him. “But do me a favor, take me to the security room and give me the tape that has this massacre on it.” I gesture around to the scene. “And of course, this is all is between friends.” I gesture around to the scene again.

  “Jesus.” He turns around and waves for me to follow him to the security office. “What the hell did the poor sap do?” he asks as we walk through a door that says ‘The Pack Only’ and down a hallway with black and white photos of Sinatra, Dean, Sammy and the Rat Pack at a Vegas club. “Mac’s giving him the hammer. Shit. I haven’t seen that happen since he and Jacob got into that fight sophomore year.”

  “By the way, can you remember what the hell that was about?”

  “Something about Biggie and Lil’ Kim...I don’t know. But the best part of the fight wasn’t why it happened, it was the fact that it did happen.” He and I laugh as we walk into an office with the word ‘Gotcha’ on the door. Every inch of the walls are filled with cameras, shiny grey safes and a security system loaded with blinking red and blue buttons. Frank heads to the security system.

  “That’s Jon St. James out there,” I say as I take a seat on a chair that sits in front of a wall of surveillance screens.

  “Ah, Danielle’s ex. Comes in here often. The waitresses say he’s rude to the white ones, gives extra tips to the black ones. I said it was bullshit.” He opens up a compartment in the security system. “I mean, come on, he married Danielle Rouge, a woman with red hair and—what is it that Mac says?—eyes the color of bourbon?”

  “Rum.”

  “Rum…” He shakes his head and smiles. “He’s so fucking doped up over that woman, it’s unbelievable. Anyway, no way can Jon marry a black woman who looks like that and not like white women.” He takes out a tape. “Or at least a good Irish girl. Here.”

  “Thanks.” I get up from the chair and take the tape from him.

  “Now, can you get out there and stop Mac? I’m not trying to ha
ve a homicide at my place.”

  “Will do.” I pat him on the back.

  “We playing ball tomorrow?”

  “Ten a.m. sharp.”

  “I’m not on Mac’s team this time. He’ll be sore by tomorrow morning and will likely play like a pile of shit.”

  “Don’t try it. We draw straws, as usual. You know the drill.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Frank slaps me on the back before he and I walk out of the security room, back through the hallway with The Rat Pack and out onto the bar floor. With fresh eyes, I can see the damage that’s been done while Mac and Jon are still going for blood. Frank leans against the hallway door, crossing his arms at his chest and his legs at the ankles. I guess I should go over there now and break this up. I start walking back to the mayhem.

  “Send us the bill,” I say over my shoulder as I slide the tape into my pocket.

  “Will do.”

  JACOB

  “I am done with you! Done,” Danielle leans over and screams in Malcolm’s face.

  “Ed can you—”

  “Rolling it up now, Mr. Blair,” Ed, the chauffeur, says to Mac as he seals up the partition. Danielle waits until the black glass slides up and we all hear a muted thump. Her eyes focus back on Mac whose gaze is down on the ground.

  Danny, Nat, Mac and I are all cruising through the streets of Boston in the Mercedes E Class limo Mac got Danny. Nice. Very thoughtful. She has Ed, her faithful driver, pick her up when she makes plans for a night on the town with the girls. Right now, we’re headed for our condo building. And to say this ride is awkward as hell is an understatement. White headlights, green streetlights, red stoplights, blue cop lights, all flash and swirl, blink and gleam on us while Danielle’s lighting Mac’s ass up.

  Nat saved Jon’s life five minutes ago. From there, my sisters’ husbands left out of the east exit of Pirahna’s to hop cabs back to Cambridge. Nat, Mac, Danny and I left out of Pirahna’s kitchen exit and called Danielle’s driver, telling him to meet us in the alley. I have no clue where Matt went; I’m sure he’s nursing Jon and calming a hysterical Marla. I did notice that Jasmine and Marlon left together, running out of a side exit, Jasmine pulling him along. Let us now pray that there were no cellphone cameras that recorded the evening’s events.

  I watch Mac run a hand over his face. His button-up is bloody, he keeps flexing his hand and he’s damn sure gonna have a bruise on his jaw tomorrow. Other than that, he looks pretty damn good. Proud of him. I make a mental note to tell him so later.

  “I want you out of the condo,” Danny says. And here it comes. Mac briefly closes his eyes before opening them and then turning to Danielle.

  “Danielle, please,” he says, his voice low. Nat and I look out the windows of the limo. A man needs privacy when he’s begging his wife.

  “I don’t feel safe with you.” Huh? I steal a look at her and watch her flip her hair over her shoulder. I gotta say, I know it’s the wrong time to think this, but Danny’s always been prettiest when she’s pregnant. I make a mental note to tell her so later. Her skin reflects this golden color, her eyes seem to be a brighter brown and all she seems to develop during pregnancy is a nice round bump. I see Mac run his eyes over her bump quickly.

  “Are you kidding me? Come on, Red. You’ve got to be kidding me. You don’t feel safe?”

  “For you to just…just…snap like you did. For no reason? No. I want you gone.”

  “Red, did you hear Marla?”

  “What?”

  “Marla? Did you hear her ask Jon if I was the reason he texted her and asked her to come? Jon planned that shit, Red. Come on. He called you all down there because he wanted—”

  “FUCK JON!” she yells out as she brings her head an inch from Mac’s face. Malcolm shuts his fucking mouth. “You were sitting at the bar, laid the hell back, buying that bitch a drink! Jon planned that, Red…no shit, Malcolm! I knew Jon called Marla down there for a reason, you fucking idiot! He pushed her off on me an hour ago and then he asks that we come join him for a drink at Pirahna’s? I knew that’s where you went! I knew something was wrong earlier when Jasmine came upstairs with a busted lip. I’m not a damn dummy! Stupid ass!”

  She shoves him in the shoulder.

  “That would be you! You’re sitting at the bar buying this bitch drinks! With money that you make to feed and clothe and house your fucking family! Isn’t that what the hell you were doing?” Mac says nothing. “Answer me!” Splat! She crashes her right hand slab-dab on Malcolm’s left cheek. He clenches his jaw but says nothing. “Fucking answer me!” She grabs a hold of his shirt and yanks him towards her. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw again. “Open your fucking mouth and tell me why!” She shoves him backwards and his shoulders hit the window.

  Nat and I exchange a look. Should we say something or are you just as afraid as I am?

  “Do you know what that bitch is doing right now? Huh?” Danielle scoots over to Malcolm and pulls him to her by his shirt collar. “She’s fucking texting and tweeting…telling all of her Facebook friends and fucking Twitter followers that Malcolm Blair bought her a goddamn drink.” She shoves him away again. “And his wife is nine months pregnant. And they already have a kid!”

  “Two,” Mac whispers as he drifts his eyes down to the floor.

  Nat and I look at each other again. Did you catch that? No? Damn.

  “What?”

  “Two,” Mac says again in a near whisper. “We already have two.” Danielle glares at him, her breathing labored, no doubt from the little girl that’s sitting on her lungs. Silence passes through them and the Benz as she continues to look at him.

  Silence.

  “I want you to pack your belongings and get out of the condo,” she finally says.

  “Please, Danielle.” He looks up at her with tired eyes.

  “Pack—”

  “Please. I’m…” he drifts his eyes up to Nat and me. We lower our eyes down to the floor. Dude, it’s no time to have pride. Just say it. “I’m begging you.”

  “I want you out,” she says it but her voice doesn’t sound as convincing. Either she’s exhausted by now or she’s looking at Malcolm’s pathetic ass and feeling sorry for him.

  “Red,” Mac runs a hand over his face. “I’ll never do it again. I swear to God. Never. Again.” And I think I sense some of Danielle’s resolve weakening. “I’ll just put it all out there right now: when I go out to the bar and a woman approaches me, I give her a drink. It’s bar language for, get lost. They know what it means. They know I’m not asking for them to sit around. They know I’m not asking for conversation. They know that I’m trying to be polite. They take the drink and they leave.”

  “So this has been going on for a while?” That’s a trick question, Mac; don’t answer. He pauses. Good job. Mac’s an attorney. He’s used that tactic before.

  “If I’m out and a woman comes over to me—”

  “Even though she knows you’re married.”

  “Even though she knows I’m married. If I’m out and a woman comes over to me, I give her a drink and she always gets the message. And that message is that I’m married.”

  “I’m not doing this.” Danielle turns and looks out of a window, shaking her head.

  “I swear to God—”

  “You know, Jon may have been an asshole, but I never worried about him seeing other women.” Mac clenches his jaw. She’s hit him right in his weak spot. “It wasn’t until the very end, the very end, when he and I were over, that I suspected he was seeing Marla. And by that time, who cared? We were over. But during our marriage, never. So you can judge him all you want,” she looks at Mac. “But when it came to women, Jon not only said no, he didn’t even entertain them. So fuck you and your excuses and your polite goodbyes. Be a fucking man and tell those bitches to get the hell away from you, if that’s really what you want. But chances are, because you’re a Blair, and we all know how hard it is to keep your dick in your pants. So I suspect that you like the attention.”<
br />
  She looks over at me. Now how did I get dragged into this?

  “Jacob, Cadence, Malcolm.” She looks at me and smiles while shaking her head. “The three of you are the biggest fucking losers that I know.” She lets out a sardonic laugh. “You all have women who will give you their lives, and babies and their fucking devotion.” Her smile fades as her eyes start to water. “And yet you’ll still fuck your wife’s sister, you’ll fuck her best friends’ friend.” She turns to Mac. “And there’s no telling who you’d fuck. Considering that you were once engaged to Laura’s crazy ass. You apparently have absolutely no standards. You’re the biggest fucking loser of them all.” Mac face starts to change at the thought of Danielle considering him a bigger loser than Cadence. Now he looks mad.

  “One time, Red? One time you catch me and you put me in the same category as Cadence?” Nice of you to not say my name too Mac, though I have a feeling you wanted to.

  “One time that I caught you.”

  “I will never. Do that. Again.”

  “No you won’t. At least not to me.” We pull up to the curb of our condos. “You’re not welcome in my home anymore. I don’t care if you paid off the mortgage on that condo or not. It’s no longer yours.” She picks up her purse from the seat. “You are no longer needed or required.” She points to the door. “Now open that door. Get out. And hand me your keys.”

  “Red,” he rubs both hands over his face. “I’m fucking begging you.”

  “Get. Out. Now.”

  JON

  “I can tell you this much Marla, I don’t care how mad you are, I’m not leaving out of my own damn home. Not the condo that I paid the mortgage on. Not happening.”

  “Yes you will, Jon! And you’ll leave right now!” She points to the front door. Is she serious?

  “Listen, I’m not in the mood.” I rub my jaw and head to the bathroom, sliding my coat off and dropping it over the back of the couch. Once again, I live in a home surrounded by fluffy and feminine shit. I thought Danny was bad with her paintings and ‘throw’ pillows as she calls them. But Marla’s worse. Much worse. She has the house decorated like a Buddhist temple. There’s a damn gong in the corner that Nicky drives me crazy with. It’s meant to notify everyone that it’s time for prayer. He uses it to notify everyone that it’s time for dinner. There are the his-and-her yoga mats by the windows. The green ceramic Buddhas on the end tables. The pictures of Buddha framed on the wall. Green and blue couches that are arranged according to the room’s feng shui. Purple orchids in every corner because their meaning is ‘many children’. And the damn incense that Marla burns that sets the smoke detector off two and three times a day. What’s funny is that for years, I was a yoga head. I liked to wear oils instead of cologne. I didn’t eat meat. I liked the thought of Buddhism and good energy…until I had to live it. Until I wake up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water to find out the living room’s feng shui has changed so our couches did too. One moment I’m walking towards the kitchen, the next, my legs are in the air, my head’s in the middle of the couch cushions. These days I’ve got to walk around my damn condo at night with a flashlight. This shit is driving me crazy. And she wants to add a baby to this confusion?