STONE: Her Ruthless Enforcer: 50 Loving States, North Carolina

by Theodora Taylor

  I sit up to look at the video feed on one elbow, just in time to see a figure entering her room. It’s Stone, and Stone has a bottle fisted in one of his meaty hands. Motherly instinct wars with confused curiosity as I watch him go over to the crib.

  “Hey, Garnet…I’m uh…Stone. Pop, I guess. Whatever you want to call me. I got a bottle. You want it or you only about the tit in the morning?”

  He waits, as if he’s expecting her to answer. Then when she doesn’t, he tries to hand it to her. “Here, take it. I bought it for you.”

  Okay, wow, mercy replaces curiosity, as I climb out of bed to save both the baby and Stone.

  By the time I make it into her room, she’s crying, because she can’t figure out how to pick up the bottle of breastmilk by herself and Stone’s resorted to bribing her. “What do you want? Apple juice? Candy?” He pulls out his billfold. “I got money. How much you want to stop crying?”

  Apparently, Garnet isn’t nearly as easy to bribe as someone working for the state. She cries even harder when Stone waves a Franklin in her face.

  “Thank fuck you’re here,” Stone says when he sees me in the doorway.

  Ayayay, language. But I’m laughing too hard to chastise him as I pick up poor Garnet.

  “Yeah, you need to give her a tit,” he tells me. “I was trying to feed her. But it went sideways real quick. Now she’s mad.”

  “She’s not mad, she’s just hungry,” I tell him.

  But instead of latching her on, like I usually do in the mornings, I make a sudden decision. “Here, hold out your arms.”

  “Like this?”

  Stone holds his arms straight out in front of him. Like he’s at a blood draw.

  “More like this…” I correct. Settling Garnet on one hip, I crook one his arms, and then the other. Like he’s a Ken doll. You know, that one bald Ken doll, who’s capable of killing a man twelve different ways, but doesn’t know how to hold a baby.

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Stone says as I settle Garnet into his arms.

  “No, it’s a great idea,” I answer.

  Panic flashes across Stone’s face, when Garnet starts to bawl, like I’ve handed her off to a bear. “Look she’s already crying. She wants you.”

  “She wants her bottle,” I correct, fishing it out of the crib.

  As if trying to prove my point for me, Garnet calms down as soon as I plug the bottle into her mouth. And, she continues to suckle even after I replace my hand with Stone’s.

  “See?” I tell him after a few moments of peaceful milk guzzling. “Babies are easy. They just want to be held and fed.”

  Stone nods. “Yeah, this ain’t so hard,” he admits. “No wonder Luca doesn’t mind doing this shit.”

  I wince. “We’re going to have to have a conversation about the insane amount of language you use around children. Especially now that Talia’s here. But yeah, you’ve got it. Congratulations.”

  A few beats, as if he’s trying to figure out what a real human should say, then he answers, “Yeah, thanks for showing me.”

  We both watch Garnet suckle the bottle for a few more moments, then he adds, “And…uh…sorry about last night.”

  He’s not looking at me, but I’m full on staring at him. With my mouth wide open. Did the word “sorry” really just come out of Stone Ferraro’s mouth?

  Should I say it’s alright, so that maybe he’ll develop a positive association with saying that word in the future? Or use this unexpected apology as a natural segue into a gentler conversation about his prescription drug abuse? Which is still a huge problem, no matter how many cute babies suckling bottles you insert into it.

  “You don’t have to worry about those drugs anymore,” he tells me, as if reading my mind. “I flushed all of them down the toilet this morning. You were right.”

  “All of them?” I ask, shaking my head, mind fully blown by the “you were right” cherry on top of the unexpected “sorry” sundae he served up this morning.

  But unfortunately, I have to point out. “That might not necessarily be a good thing. If you’ve been taking them since your teens, it’s probably better to see somebody. A psychiatrist, like I said last night.”

  He goes quiet again. So quiet that for minutes on end, there’s no sound in the room, except the sound of Garnet cooing around her bottle.

  Which means she’s done. I should take it from her, but I remain frozen in front of Stone as I wait for his answer.

  “Okay,” he says, his voice gruff, but lacking its usual menace. “If that’s what you think it takes for me to be a good father, tell me where to go to get my head shrinked. For Garnet. For Rock.”

  Okay, well, I wouldn’t have put it like that. But Stone putting it like anything, quite frankly feels like a win, a huge one.

  “I’m just worried is all,” he says. “I’ve done things. Easily. If I’m some kind of monster on the drugs. How will I be off of them? I mean, I’ve been popping pills ever since I was twelve.”

  “I don’t know how you’ll be,” I admit. But then I think of what Keane said a few months ago. “Maybe you’ll surprise yourself.”

  Just like he’s surprised me. For the first time since I met him at my kitchen table, I reach out to touch Stone on purpose, tentatively laying a hand on his arm.

  He tenses. But doesn’t push me away. And, it feels….

  Wow, I can’t believe I’m thinking this. Especially after the way we met, the way we got married, and the way we ugly fought last night.

  But this morning….

  This morning feels like a fresh start.

  Chapter Twenty

  “It’s not a matter of if I’ll get hit by a car, but when.”

  One of my visually impaired clients told me that back in New York, grumbling about the rise in popularity of hybrid and electric cars.

  The morning that began with what has now become Stone’s new routine of feeding Garnet her morning bottle was definitely a fresh start. But waiting to see how he responds to coming off his unprescribed pill habit feels like waiting for a car to strike.

  I brace for impact, expecting his new drug-free status to disrupt our relationship in some meaningful way.

  Maybe he’ll wake up next to me one morning and say, “Wait, this is stupid. I don’t even like you. Why the hell did I insist we get married? Thank God, I’m off those drugs.”

  Or maybe he’ll turn to me one morning, and decide to touch me for real, to cover me with his body and…

  I always cut myself off right there. It’s a fresh start for Stone, but not for us. And if Rock and Amber taught me anything, it’s that hoping for any kind of happily ever after is a fool’s game. At least for me.

  But the truth is, not much changes in the weeks following his pill flush.

  He’s still Stone. He still doesn’t talk much. Still looks irritated when I ask him too many questions. Still…ahem…wifes me on the regular, without asking for anything in return.

  If Stone has resumed having sexual needs, he either truly doesn’t want me that way, or is getting them met from someone else during the four days he’s in New York.

  I try not to indulge myself in the ego-crushing game of “which of these options would hurt you the worst?”

  Instead I track Stone’s encouraging progress in other areas.

  For instance, he’s become a smidge more tactful. “I think you and your sis should stay on with us,” he told Cami a few days after he flushed the pills. “This is a better neighborhood. Gated. Plus, you’d be saving me some dough on rent.”

  I’d been pleasantly surprised when Stone had actually pitched this solution over the dinner table as opposed to commanding Cami and her sister to stay put, like he did with me.

  Cami pushed one of her now properly moisturized curls behind her ear, before answering. “I don’t know, we’ve already put you guys out so much. I mean, Tia Mari’s been having to cook extra for us. And Talia can’t walk home from school if we’re living here.” She finished he
r counter argument with an apologetic look directed toward Stone. “I’ll figure out how to pay you back for rent, I promise.”

  “Or you can transfer the kid here,” Stone answered. “This neighborhood’s got great schools.”

  “But—” Cami started to protest.

  “And cooking for six is easy for me,” Aunt Mari interrupted with a pfft and a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “At least the two of you have manners. Those boys of mine used to attack my sancocho like wolves, without a thank you are a please.”

  “Yeah, I want to go to school here. Please, Cami,” Talia pleads. “I want to say here, with Tia Mari and all this good food. And I like learning Spanish with her by TV.”

  With that testimonial, she held her empty bowl and says, “Por favor, Tia. Can I have so more.”

  “You see, she said por favor!” Aunt Mari declared, picking up a ladle and waving it in the little girl’s direction, as if that one phrase of Spanish was a perfect illustration of her dubious teaching methods.

  “You’ve got to say here,” Aunt Mari insisted, scooping two more spoonfuls of the tasty beef sancocho stew she’d made for dinner into Talia’s already empty bowl. “At least until we see what will happen when Alejandro discovers the woman he married is actually his fiancée’s evil twin sister.”

  “He’s going to be so mad!” Talia exclaimed, practically begging her sister to let them stay with her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Cami said, still looking unsure.

  As silly as I found Aunt Mari and Talia, I also jumped on their reassurance bandwagon. “Cami, please say yes. It would give me so much more piece of mind to have you stay here.”

  “And there’s always free babysitting, if you’re looking to make yourself useful,” Stone added, around a jaw full of beef.

  I could tell our arguments were getting through her pride wall when Cami nodded and said, “Yes, I want to make myself useful. I want to pay the both of you back for everything you’ve done.”

  “Well, free babysitting and not worrying Naima to death is good start,” Stone answered. “So you staying or what?”

  Obviously Cami agreed after we all ganged up on her. Stone has a somewhat familiar, but technically new way of continuing to get what he wants. Even if he no longer issues blunt commands or shoved women in the back of cars to get them to comply.

  Same old Stone. Just a tad, tad bit nicer.

  He’s also become slightly more expressive since ditching the pills. He smiled when Talia brought home a first trimester report card full of As and Bs. “Better than I ever did,” he told her, grabbing a magnet to stick the report up on the fridge.

  And he even laughed once when Garnet fell on her butt during an ill-fated attempt to stand on her own.

  But other than a super occasional smile and a new routine of feeding Garnet her morning bottle whenever he was in town, not much changed.

  I wouldn’t say I was surprised. I wasn’t expecting miracles, especially since he was still in the process of finding a good therapist with availability when he was in town.

  But a slight disappointment begins to set in as the weeks click by and nothing changes for good or for bad. Halloween passes, then Thanksgiving, and then suddenly it’s December.

  And I have to consider weird questions, like, should I get the husband who will probably be dumping me as soon as he finds a good therapist and comes to his senses a gift?

  I discover that Stone has my digits when my phone lights up with a New Jersey number in mid-December, while I’m wrapping donation presents for our agency’s annual holiday drive.

  “I’m at a toy store. What do you think the kid wants for Christmas?” he asks in answer to my tentative “Hello?”

  “Garnet?” I ask, scrambling to catch up.

  “Yeah, Garnet. I already got Talia a BB gun.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk about that,” I answer. “But I’m assuming since Garnet’s not old enough to really know that it’s Christmas yet, she’ll want whatever age appropriate gift you find in the toy aisle. Maybe ask an associate to make sure it’s age appropriate. You know, like not a BB gun.”

  He chuffs. “I like how you always say ‘we’ll talk about it’ when you really mean hell no.”

  He’s being sarcastic, I know. But a weird part of me want to asks, “Do you really like it? Like me? Even a little bit?”

  Instead I clear my throat and ask, “So are you coming down for Christmas? I wasn’t sure, since you spent Thanksgiving in New York.”

  “Yeah, Luca’s flying the whole family out to the Tourmaline in Mexico, and I’m not about that resort shit, so I’ll stay down there with you.”

  I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or resigned to having to pass the holidays with us.

  “I’m sorry you won’t be able to spend Christmas with your family.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Stone answers. “You’re my family. I would’ve been down there for Thanksgiving, too, if you wasn’t insisting on keeping all of this secret.”

  God, the hope…it’s like a stalker, always lurking around the shadows of my heart. Waiting to pounce on any positive thing Stones says. Yes, our marriage is mostly pretend, but I like the idea of Stone wanting to be here with us more than he wants to be with his huge Italian family in New York.

  At least he does for now.

  I swallow, unable to say, “Sure let’s shout from the New York rooftops that we’re married, right before you decide to dump me.”

  So instead I decide to let him know, “Next Christmas I’ll probably need to take Garnet to Santo Domingo. Let her meet her grandparents.”

  “Okay,” he says after a long beat of silence.

  I wait for him to say something else about me not wanting his family to know. Maybe bring up his mom, Peg, who I’m fairly sure still doesn’t know Garnet exists.

  Only to be surprised when he says, “I found a head shrink. But she can only meet on Wednesdays. So starting in January, I’ll be down there four days instead of three.”

  My brow lifts with surprise at his announcement. “All to meet with a therapist?”

  “Nah, I got business, too. Few things I’m starting up on behalf of the Ferraros. And like I said before, all of you. I like you guys. Like what we have.”

  His voice sounds softer than usual. Sincere as opposed to its baseline of sarcastic.

  And, I know how this will all end, I do. But my stupid heart…it warms at his words, and the thought of him not just deciding to stay on an extra day in North Carolina, but also wanting to stay. Because of us.

  “See you in a few days,” he says when I find myself too caught up in my battling emotions to answer.

  Then, in still typical Stone fashion, he doesn’t wait for me to answer before hanging up.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I wake on Christmas morning in Stone’s arms.

  I must have rolled sometime in the night. Our bodies now lie so near to each other’s, we’re sharing the same pillow, and our lips are almost close enough to touch.

  Stone’s dark eyes are already open, and staring back at me.

  “You alright?” I ask him, worried for no reason I can explain.

  “I’m fine,” he answers. “Trying to decide how a normal person would react to you rolling over on to my side of the bed.”

  I should be offended. He’s acting like I purposefully chose to invade his space while I was sleeping. But before I can stop her, Too Nice Naima wonders out loud, “Is that something you struggle with? Figuring out ways to respond to situations in a way that quote-unquote normal people would?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Well, right now I’m trying to figure out how a normal person would answer that question, so I guess so.”

  My lips quirk, fighting to contain a smile, as I say, “Sorry for rolling over here in the middle of the night. My body sometimes has trouble making the switch between when you’re here and when you’re gone.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  We trail off into silence.
Then he says, “Got something for you.”

  He turns and pulls a small package wrapped in gold foil out of his nightstand drawer. “If you don’t like it, just let me know what kind of jewelry you prefer, and I’ll do better next time.”

  The same doubts and reservations swirl around my head at his “next time.” But they all cut off when I open the box and find the latest Fitbit Smartwatch.

  I happily gasp. “This is exactly what I wanted!” My first generation Alta stopped working a few weeks ago. But how did he know…

  “Yeah, I was hoping Aunt Mari had at least this one right,” he says with a wry half-smile. “She also suggested a gift certificate for a year’s worth of blowouts and a diamond tennis bracelet. But neither of those sounded like you.”

  “No, blowouts and tennis bracelets aren’t me at all,” I agree, my heart fluttering. “I can’t believe you talked to Aunt Mari.”

  He shakes his head at me. “Why can’t you believe that. You’re my wife.”

  I look back at him helplessly. An unspoken “for now” ringing in my head.

  “Um, I also got you a gift. Just a small one.” I tell him, changing the subject. “But it’s downstairs.”

  He doesn’t answer. His eyes just bore into me, like he’s trying to read my soul.

  No problem whatsoever with sustained eye contact, I note in the case file I’m still trying not to build on him. But I can’t tell if it’s due to his long conditioned aggression or his even longer conditioned disassociation.

  Either way, it feels intimate. No matter the cause, in this moment with his eyes gazing into mine, it feels like something more.

  We haven’t kissed. Not once since right after the judge, whose name I can no longer remember declared us husband and wife. But right now a kiss, feels like the natural conclusion—the only conclusion—to this Christmas morning conversation.

  “Merry Christmas, Stone,” I whisper, leaning forward just a couple of more inches on the pillow.

  Like a lot of women who grew up way too Catholic, I don’t have a lot of experience in bed. But man, am I good at making out.