Pull

by Claire Wallis

  I eat my lunch with all the guys, and they don’t even tease me for bringing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with my Gatorade. But when I see what they have, I decide to stop at the grocery store before I come back here again. I want to get some salami and pepperoni, and something called capicola. Next time, I want to bring a meat sandwich on a roll. Just like the kind they bring.

  By the time four o’clock rolls around, I’m nearly as filthy and sweaty as the rest of the guys. I’ve learned how to set up a sawhorse and the basics of how to use a sliding T bevel. I bet my dad is going to be proud of me for learning so much stuff in one day.

  As everyone is lighting a cigarette and saying their goodbyes, my dad comes over to the group and puts his hand on top of my hardhat. He briskly shakes my head from side to side. Then he opens his mouth.

  “Hope the kid wasn’t too much trouble for you boys,” he says. “Thanks for babysitting.”

  Embarrassment heats my skin. My ears start ringing, and I drop my eyes to the ground, looking straight down at my new steel-toed boots. I don’t need babysitting. No way. I want to shout the words at him, but I’m afraid that if I move, if I talk, he’s going to make it so much worse.

  Stupid me to think he would be proud.

  Everyone looks at my dad, but for a long minute, no one says a word.

  “Kid’s a pretty quick learner,” says Danny. He’s an older guy with white scattered in the hair around his ears. “You should cut him some slack.”

  “Is that so?” My dad is staring at Danny with a half-smile. I lift my head and look straight up at him, but he keeps his eyes on Danny.

  “He’s a faster learner than McNulty over there,” Danny adds, nodding toward a guy named Sean who just graduated from high school last week.

  “Real funny, Danny,” says Sean, tilting his head and drawing on his cigarette.

  “Everyone’s a faster learner than McNulty,” says my father. I watch Sean’s head drop as he scuffs his foot into the ground. Suddenly I feel a bit bad for the guy, having to take the heat off of me like he did.

  “Still, the kid ain’t half bad,” Danny adds, nodding toward me. Then he looks at me and winks. I don’t know what it means, but it makes me feel a little more important than I felt a minute ago.

  My father chuckles, and then adds, “You like little boys, do you, Danny? You wanna take him home with you then?”

  “Jesus, Shep. I’m just tryin’ to say something nice about your kid, for Christ’s sake.” My eyes move between the two of them, trying to decipher exactly what they’re talking about.

  “Anybody else got anything nice to say about my kid?” My father looks around at the group of men. “’Cause if you do, keep it to yourself. I don’t need to hear it, and neither does he. He’s got a lot to learn about this world, and the first thing is that there’s nothing nice about it.”

  My father turns away from us and walks back to his truck, calling me to follow after him. As I start to walk away, I feel a hand pat the back of my shoulder, as if it was offering its condolences. As if it were saying good luck. I don’t turn around to see who it is. I just follow my dad and hop in the truck.

  For the rest of the summer, I spend two or three days a week on the worksite, whenever my father sees it fit to take me with him. I have a meat sandwich on a roll packed and ready to go every day, just in case. I eat it by myself at the kitchen table if he decides not to take me. The guys are still nice to me, teaching me things about construction and women, and telling me dirty jokes whenever my father is sitting in his truck. But when he’s around, they clam up. I don’t blame them. Not one bit. I know what an asshole he can be.

  Chapter 31

  David—Present Day

  Clive is in fine form today. Emma and I arrived about a half hour ago, and he put me to work immediately, asking me to shelve a couple of pallets of his heavier items. I laugh to myself when he sends me to the back of the store, knowing the only reason he did was so that he could have Emma to himself. Barbara is in the back, too, talking on the phone in the office. She waves at me when I walk in through the swinging doors. I spend a few hours loading boxes of leaf blowers, lighting fixtures, chainsaws, and three porcelain toilets onto a low cart and then moving them out onto the shelves. A few customers ask me questions as I work, and I’m happy when I have the right answers. Clive and Emma are at the front of the store waiting on customers. He rings them up at the register, and she bags the items and bats her eyelashes. They make quite the pair. Every now and then I catch her looking at me with a smile. She’s happy. And that makes me happy.

  Between customers, the two of them chat it up. Clive is clearly enjoying Emma’s company as much as she is enjoying his. Most of the time they’re smiling and laughing, occasionally touching each other on the arm as they talk. But at one point in their long and animated conversation, their faces both grow somber, and I wonder what they’re talking about. He pats her on the back and then says something that brings a small smile back to her face, like he is comforting her about something. Their seriousness only lasts for a few minutes, but still, it disturbs me.

  When early afternoon arrives, Clive calls me up to the front of the store and thanks Emma and me for lending a hand. He says he has help lined up for the afternoon so we should get out of here while we can. Tim, his sole employee, arrives just as we are saying our goodbyes. After a quick trip to the back office to give our regards to Barbara, I shake Clive’s hand and tell him to call me if he needs more help with anything. He thanks me for the offer and then turns to Emma.

  “Young lady, you remember what I said now, you hear?” His mouth is a soft line, and his head is gently nodding as he talks.

  “I sure will, Mr. Jackson. Every word.” She smiles a tight grin and dips her head in return.

  “And you, David,” he says, turning to me, “you take good care of this girl. She’s a real keeper, you know.”

  “I know.” I put my hand on the small of Emma’s back. “I’ll see you next week, Clive. In the meantime, try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

  “No guarantees on that, son.” He opens the front door and holds it as we walk out.

  In the car, Emma and I laugh about Clive and his plotting ways. When I ask her what they were talking about all morning, she just smiles and says, “You.” I’m feeling very self-conscious about her answer when she decides to add more.

  “He told me they really like having you around. They think you’re less devilish than you seem with all those tattoos. I told him you were only devilish when no one else was looking.” She’s staring over at me with a coy smile.

  “I’ll bet he loved that,” I reply, hoping she’s only referencing our love life and not my life before I met her.

  “He said it was more than he needed to know.”

  “I’m sure it was TMI for an eighty-year-old,” I say as I pull out of the parking lot and head toward the Verizon store. “What else did you guys talk about?”

  “He asked me how we met. When I told him it was when you came to fix my kitchen, he laughed and said he was wondering why the hell you ordered all that fancy kitchen stuff. He said you wouldn’t tell him who it was for, but he knew it was for someone you were trying to impress.”

  “Did he, now?”

  “Yep. And then he asked me if you did a good job on my new kitchen.”

  “And you said?”

  “I said yes, of course. I told him I love it.” She pauses a few seconds before adding, “And then I told him that the only thing I love more than my new kitchen is you.”

  For some ridiculous reason, I start to sweat. “I bet he enjoyed hearing that.”

  “He said he just hopes you love me back.” Her hands are resting on her lap, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her fingers start to fidget. “I told him not to worry. You do.”

  “And he said?”

  “He said he suspected as much.”

  “Thanks for making me look so good,” I say. She chuckles softly and quiets her fidgetin
g fingers.

  “He also said you seem different lately, like you finally figured some stuff out. He said he thinks you may have found yourself the day you found me.”

  I can’t help but shake my head and smile at Clive’s marksmanship. He’s more right than he’ll ever know. “I told you he was smooth,” I say. “But, he’s not just smooth…he’s totally right. I am different. It’s like I have a purpose now or something. Like I’m finally a grown-up.”

  She is quiet for a long moment, looking down at her hands.

  “I know that you aren’t the same person you were the day we met, and it’s good to know that someone else sees it, too. But the thing that makes me the happiest, is hearing that you see it in yourself. ’Cause that’s the part that matters, you know? That’s the part that counts,” she says.

  I lift my right hand and put it on her knee, rubbing my palm against her skin. Acknowledging the depth of her words. “It’s because, for the first time in my life, I have someone to think about besides myself. And there’s more value in that than I ever expected.”

  “I know what you mean,” she says, turning to look at me with clouded eyes.

  “Two of the same.”

  We drive in silence for several blocks, and I can’t help but wonder what else she and Clive talked about. If the conversation went that deep, who knows what else they discussed.

  “So, did you guys talk about anything else?” I ask as we stop at a light.

  “Mostly just general stuff. And then after that, he asked me questions about myself. So I told him where I grew up and a little bit about my family.”

  “You guys looked kind of serious for a while there.” I’m trying to pry without being so obvious.

  “Yeah. I told him about my dad, and he thanked me for my dad’s service to the country. It was a little awkward. Then he asked me about my mom and so I told him about her accident. He looked at me like I was an injured kitten or something. But then I told him that I have you to take care of me now, and the pity kind of went away. He said I picked a good one for that.” I turn over to look at her for a second and her face looks sad. I gently squeeze the top of her knee just before she adds, “No pressure or anything.”

  “Eh." I shrug. “All in a day’s work for a superhero.” She lets out a small laugh, and with it, the seriousness leaves the car like a fly out the window.

  “So, do they even sell Batphones these days?” she asks, the cheerfulness returning to her face.

  “Sure. I’m getting the model with the mini bolas and the camera. Makes it harder for you to get away and easier for me to take pictures.”

  “I’m looking forward to it already.”

  “Maybe we can give it a test run in front of the store clerk?”

  “Whatever knocks your rocks,” she says as we pull into the store’s parking lot. I shake my head, jump out of the car, and walk around to open her door.

  -----------------------------------------------------

  It’s midnight and Emma is finally asleep, wrapped around me like a blanket on a baby. I don’t want to get out of bed, but I can’t sleep. So, I peel her from my body and roll over in the bed, sitting up on the edge. She doesn’t even stir. She’s sleeping like a rock again. The room is fairly dark, but I can see the outline of her body, her skin glowing in the dim light from between the blind slats. I bend over and pick up a wisp of her hair, rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s far softer than the little yellow folded-over Emma I still have in the pocket of my jeans. I move my hand up to the crown of her head and brush the bangs off her face. Then I trail my index finger lightly down the side of her cheek and neck. Again, she doesn’t even stir. She’s so still. And so fucking hot.

  My new phone is sitting on her nightstand, muted, and I lean over and pick it up. I enter the passcode and look down at the screen. It’s backlit by a photo I took of Emma at the Verizon store. I was teasing her about ejecting the mini bolas at her ankles when I casually lifted the phone and snapped the shot. She didn’t even know I was taking it. She’s radiant in the picture, her face clear and shining in a surprisingly beautiful way, even under the store’s fluorescent lights. She’s in profile, with her head kicked back and laughter in her eyes. Looking at her, even in frozen animation, makes me feel like one lucky bastard. I inhale and stand up, walking out of her bedroom and down the hallway, stopping only to pull my jeans on. Once I’m in the living room, I touch the text message icon. There are seventeen messages there. I saw the number when the Verizon guy loaded them into my new phone, but I didn’t want to read them in front of Emma or him. I didn’t want to deal with them then. I didn’t want them to distract me from her. But now, she’s asleep, and I need to handle whatever needs to be handled.

  I open the folder to find a series of nine text messages from Emma, each more frantic than the one before, just as the voicemails had been. I hate every single one of them. They bring the metallic taste back to my tongue. They make my eyes hurt. There is only one text I don’t erase immediately after reading. The one in which she resorts to sexual bribery.

  I will give u the best blowjob of your life if u just show the fuck up. Where r u?

  It’s the only message that doesn’t make me want to rip my own heart out. Inside my head, I hear her voice repeating the words, but she isn’t pleading. Instead her voice is slow and dark and needy. Taken out of context, the message could instigate one hell of a “moment.” But, because of its genesis, I read it once more and then hit delete.

  In addition to Emma’s messages, there is one from Matt—sent on Friday night—that simply says,

  Hope u r ok. Brad took Emma to Cam’s. Call me later.

  I don’t call him because he’s probably sleeping, and I don’t feel like talking. Instead I send him a text.

  Hey. Just got your message. Phone was busted. New one now. All is well. Long story.

  I don’t expect a reply until tomorrow, so I’m surprised when my phone vibrates almost immediately.

  Which is?

  Damn it.

  Had an altercation with a crazy fuck. Couldn’t fight back. Ended up with a black eye, a bloody lip, and a broken phone.

  What crazy fuck? The guy with the gold rabbit teeth?

  No. Just an old crackhead who was trying to make a point.

  Did he?

  Yeah. It’s over though. We sorted it out.

  Emma was completely insane about u not being there.

  I know. She’s okay now, though. We spent the entire day together. All is well.

  Yeah, she texted me Friday night to let me know she was okay.

  She never said a word about texting Matt. I wonder when she sent the message.

  Oh good. Glad to hear she touched base with u.

  Me too. I was worried ’cause Brad was being an asshole. I thought he might make trouble.

  He did, but that’s a whole different story. In the meantime, things are fine with Emma. Thx for giving her a ride home.

  No problem. Guess I’ll c u Tuesday then. New place?

  Yep.

  Ok. Say hey to Emma.

  Will do.

  Later.

  Later.

  I close out Matt’s message folder, hoping that’s the last I hear from him about Friday night.

  There are also four messages from Brad. Two are from late last night, and two are from early this afternoon. The first two don’t say much. They just want to know why the hell I cleaned his clock. What did I do to deserve a fucking ass-riot? one of them says. Whatever. The two from today ask me to get in touch with him. He wants me to call. I think he’s worried about my parting words. About the fact that I said that that was his last mistake. I hope he’s nervous. I hope he’s shitting a brick over the fact that I’m pissed at him. I’m going to let him sweat it out until Tuesday night. I’m going to let him think about it for a couple days. Jackass.

  And the final three messages are from Xavier. The first one hit my inbox at 3:27 a.m. Saturday morning.

  We found
the motherfucker.

  The next one came in at 4:04 a.m.

  He won’t be a problem anymore.

  And the final one arrived at 4:08 a.m.

  Seems that Nikki’s left town. Not worth the effort. We’ll have other ladies available for Tuesday.

  I reply with the following message:

  Glad to hear it.

  And I am.

  Before I slide my phone into the front pocket of my jeans, I reach down into it and pull out my little yellow folded-over Emma. She’s been in there since Friday morning. As I roll her over my fingers, I think about what the real Emma must have been feeling when she opened the bottom drawer of her nightstand on Friday and discovered only emptiness. If she really thought Ricky was outside her door, how panicked was she when the gun wasn’t there? How much fear was written on her face? And Matt—did he see her fear? Did he see her vulnerability? If so, what did he do with it? Did he comfort her? Or did he turn away and pretend not to see? I exposed her, and there is nothing Emma hates more than being weak and vulnerable. Even if it’s just the perception of frailty. But this was real. This was a moment in which she was completely exposed and probably very afraid. And I wasn’t there.

  Fuck me for taking that gun.

  I promise myself, and Emma, that I will never expose her again. From now on, I will only shield her.

  With my new phone now snug in my pocket, I take my little yellow Emma up the stairs to my apartment and tuck her back into my pillowcase. Back into the warmth and safety of her downy home. For some reason, the act makes me feel very tired. Not sleepy, but tired. One step shy of weary. Like I need to take a break and separate myself from all the hard parts of this new life. I almost lie down on my bed and nestle my head into the pillow, but I don’t want the real Emma to wake up in the morning without me, and I know that before I sleep, there’s one more thing I need to do.

  I breathe in and run my hand across my scalp, dropping it down the back of my neck on the exhale. I walk over to my closet. I open the wooden door and crouch down on my haunches to reach for what’s on the floor. I find the backpack immediately and drag it out. As I unzip it, I see the birds on my own arms. They move in silence. I watch the muscles flex beneath my colored skin as my fingers work to pull the zipper open. My hands dig into the backpack and feel around for their target. They sort through the darkness, through the bag’s contents, until the smoothness of metal slides against them. I pull Lucia’s gun out of the backpack and then zip it back closed. I remember the day she gave me this revolver, even though it’s a day I prefer to forget. This is the gun I should have taken with me on Friday. Not Emma’s.