Crosscut

by Meg Gardiner

  He unlocked the glove compartment. “Put the Glock in your backpack.”

  I looked up and down the street. Nobody was in sight. Nikki and Carl were both at work, and there was no sign of Martinez and Sons or their truck. The breeze tingled against my bare arms. I put the gun in my backpack.

  He lugged out his hardware, snapped the wheels on the frame, got out, and came around the truck.

  “And don’t dis Beavis and Butt-Head. They’re cultural touchstones. We’ll get a boxed set,” he said.

  I got my arms around the three dozen red roses in the backseat and we headed toward the garden gate. A smile entered his voice.

  “Though the kid should start off with Bugs Bunny. Then Road Runner, and The Simpsons.”

  The kid. That disjointed heap of emotions jostled inside me again. Crazed, sweet, jumpy joy.

  “As for music, Clapton needs to come before Hendrix. No, wait. Maybe Creedence.”

  He was going like a runaway train. That was his method of handling uncertainty: talk, work, argue politics, swim three miles. Go. Keep moving. But never like this.

  “But item number one is swimming lessons. Babies are natural swimmers, so we get the kid in the pool right off the bat. Oh, man—I’ve got it. We’ll have a water birth.”

  This was busting the speedometer.

  “Though on second thought, getting you to relax in the water is like giving a cat a bath. And I have a bad feeling that when you go into labor, you’ll be a biter.”

  And in all his talk—of how do you feel, are you okay, do you need to stop and rest—there was one question he hadn’t asked, hadn’t hinted at. The huge stinking obvious question, the rhino snorting in the backseat.

  Was it his child?

  Anybody looking logically at the situation would have come up with two theories to explain how I became pregnant. One: that we’d defied expectation about his fertility by miles and miles. Or two: well.

  But he never gave one breath of doubt. I saw nothing in his eyes, his words, or his crooked persistent smile but complete belief in me. Not for the first time, I thanked the kismet that had brought him into my life.

  I opened the gate and scanned the garden, seeing only the hibiscus and jasmine and the thick ivy pouring down the fence. Shade from the live oaks flurried on the lawn. At the door I peered through the glass. The living room was empty, the lights on in the kitchen. I turned the key in the lock and stopped still. The dead bolt was unlocked and the house silent.

  “The alarm,” I said. “It should be on but it’s not.”

  Jesse pulled me back from the door. “Give me the Glock.”

  I fumbled through the backpack and handed him the gun. He set it on his lap. Shit. Maybe I should hold it. He was a dead shot, but I could run and rack the slide simultaneously.

  “Stay here.” Shoving the door wide, he went in. “Hello?” My vision was jumping. He cruised toward the center of the room, glancing around. At the dining table he slowed. He grabbed a piece of paper. As he read it, his shoulders relaxed.

  “It’s okay.” He spun around. “Here.”

  Tension poured out of my fingertips like rain. It was a note from Carlos Martinez.

  2:45. Gone to Coast Plumbing Supply. Back half an hour.

  I crumpled it up. “Got to have a word with that dude.”

  Jesse headed for my bedroom door. “How did he get in to begin with?”

  “That’s part of the word I’ve got to have with him.”

  He wheeled into my bedroom, craning his neck. I dropped the backpack on the coffee table, walked to my desk, and hit play on the answering machine.

  My cousin Taylor’s voice cooed at me. “Hiya, hon. I dropped by some photo spreads and descriptions for you to look over for my book project.”

  A folder sat on my desk. I sighed.

  “So sharpen up your editing pencil and—”

  I pushed delete. As I did, the phone rang. It was Abbie.

  “Becky and her little boy. I want to vomit. A mother and her child, I can’t . . .”

  There was a broken pause.

  “I know,” I said.

  “Wally’s dad’s going to take the kids to his place up in Independence. I’ll pack up their stuff and get school assignments and get up there this weekend.”

  “Good.”

  “Real good. He’s an ex-marine. He’s the guy I want standing watch over them,” she said. “Let me give you his address and phone number.”

  I grabbed a pencil and paper and scribbled them down.

  In the background her kids squealed at one another. Abbie’s voice sounded so ragged that listening to it hurt.

  “Evan, this is the pit at the bottom of the world.”

  “I know. You get your family someplace safe.”

  She lowered her voice. “Hayley thinks it’s a special trip with Grandpa, but the older ones know something’s wrong. Dulcie looks real tense. Goddammit, that look sends a pang through my chest.” She exhaled, hard, and gathered herself back under control. “She’s murmuring something to Travis, probably, ‘Is Mommy wacko?’ Yeah, he’s nodding. But there’s no way I can keep them from sensing it. I’ve never felt so afraid in my life.”

  In the background, one of her kids said, “Mom?”

  “Just a sec, kiddo.” She came back to our conversation. “Listen, don’t pass this information around. I’m only telling you and Tommy. This town leaks gossip like a sieve.”

  “I promise. Watch yourself, Abbie.”

  “Really. I’m thinking of trading in that big-ass van for a Hummer with a freaking gun turret on top.”

  “You and me both. Seriously, be careful.”

  We said good-bye.

  Jesse came back into the living room. “Bedroom’s clear. Toolbox is open in the bathroom, and Carlos left half a sandwich on the counter.”

  I folded the paper with Mr. Hankins’s phone number and stuck it in my pocket. “Let me pack up.”

  The breeze blew the front door open and it knocked against the wall. Papers swirled off my desk. In the kitchen, something tipped over and rattled around. Jesse stopped, gazing at the tall kitchen counter.

  I shut the door. “Think we’re safe. You can stand down.”

  I headed toward my bedroom. He grabbed my arm.

  “Wait.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He pulled me back. “Sit down.”

  His tone was tense. I sat on the arm of the sofa. He tossed his head to flick his hair out of his eyes. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to speak, and caught himself. Uh-oh.

  He took off his gloves and set the gun on the coffee table. Tossed his head again and breathed deeper.

  “Say it.”

  He took both my hands in his. “The whole drive up here, I’ve been struggling with how to ask this.”

  My spirit cringed. Don’t tell me he wanted to ask the huge stinking obvious question after all. He reached into his shirt pocket. Crap, what did he have in there, an instant paternity test?

  “And last time I asked, things didn’t end up where I thought they would.”

  Wait. “Last time?”

  “So I’m just going to do this. Skipping the bit where I get down on one knee.”

  In his hand he held a small black box. He opened it. I saw the ring.

  “Marry me.”

  The diamond was so big and brilliant that I feared staring at it could damage my eyes. I heard myself: the disbelief and laughter and nascent tears in my throat.

  “You lunatic,” I said.

  That had the wrong effect on him. He pulled the box back, wounded. I grabbed his hand.

  Now I was laughing and crying. “Certifiable, howling-at-the-moon lunatic.”

  “Evan, please.”

  “Can’t I see if it fits?”

  He gave me his wryest look. Taking the ring from the box, he slid it on my finger, clasped my hand, and kissed it.

  He started to speak again, and I put my fingertips against his lips. “Impetuous, gallant, w
onderful lunatic. Come here.”

  He swung onto the sofa and I kissed him. “When on earth did you get this?”

  “While you and your dad were talking to Swayze. Told you I was going shopping.”

  I laughed, wrapped my arms around him, and kissed him again. He grinned at me.

  From the kitchen came another rattling noise. And the high-pitched sound of my cousin’s voice.

  “I can’t stand it. I cannot stand it any longer!”

  Jesse flung his arms out and grabbed the back of the sofa. I jerked straight up, shrieking, “Shit.”

  Taylor popped up from behind the kitchen counter.

  “I heard.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Y’all are getting married. Oh, my Lord.”

  I leaped all the way to my feet there on the sofa and clambered over Jesse toward her. “What the hell are you doing here? Get out.”

  “Wait till I tell everybody.”

  She was pressing her hands against her cheeks as if she’d just been voted Miss America. I launched myself off the arm of the sofa and lunged across the living room toward the kitchen.

  She put out her arms. “Stay back.”

  She was wearing an outfit from Dazzling Delicates’ Weekend Fireworks range: a gray pin-striped push-up bra with lapels. A bow tie at her neck. I couldn’t see what was below her waist because the counter blocked my view, but I doubted it was tap pants. In front of her lay a judge’s gavel. I threw myself across the counter at her. She squealed and jumped back, knocking magnets and photos off the fridge.

  “No, stay there,” she said.

  I raked the air with my hands. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Why? Don’t you like my attorney outfit? You should adore this. It’s ‘Love Court.’ ”

  That explained why she was wearing Atticus Finch eyeglasses. She kept her hands out, gesturing me back.

  “It’s for gals who want to show their men how conservative yet provocative they can be. Every lawyer should have one. And what’s wrong with you anyhow? I’m happy for y’all.”

  “This is not your news to tell. You leave my house and you keep your mouth shut.” I grabbed the gavel. “Or I will shove this so far up your ass that you’ll be spitting splinters through your teeth.”

  “Evan, please. There’s no call for potty mouth.” She stared apprehensively at the gavel in my hand, and her grape-jam eyes widened with amazement. “That is one honking huge rock. Where on earth did he get the money for that?”

  I went stark still, stretched prone across the counter.

  She stared mesmerized at the ring. “Did he hold a fund-raiser? Get sponsored in a marathon or something?”

  “Jesse,” I said. “Get the gun.”

  Slowly I pushed myself back off the counter. Tater rolled her eyes.

  “Y’all are such kidders.”

  “Jesse?” I said.

  Shooting a glance over my shoulder, I saw him sitting in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head.

  “I’m not touching this,” he said.

  Hoisting the gavel, I crept toward the side of the counter.

  Tater’s hands shot out again. “No. Don’t. You have to stay there.”

  “Why?” I crept another inch.

  “Because when you came in I was sentencing the prisoner.”

  Brain burp. “Sentencing . . .”

  I leaned sideways, peering around the counter, hearing Jesse call out, “Bad idea.” But I couldn’t stop myself.

  I jumped. The gavel flew out of my hand. “Shit. Oh, crap.”

  Tater put her hands to her head. “I can explain.”

  I turned in a circle, and another one. “Damn. Carlos.”

  On the floor behind the counter, squirming to pull up his knees, sat my bathroom contractor. “No, Miss Delaney, you have this all wrong. I’m—”

  “Get out. No! Cover up. God.”

  But he couldn’t cover up. His hands were manacled behind his back. I kept turning in circles.

  “Taylor, cover him up.”

  Carlos was a spectacular piece of man flesh, but from now on when I thought of him I wouldn’t see his smoky brown eyes or bronzed chest and six-pack, or remember the slugger who knocked ’em out of the park for Santa Barbara High, or even recall the stunning male tool set he was fighting to conceal.

  “Now, Taylor.” I stormed away from the counter toward the living room.

  From this day forward, when I thought of Carlos Martinez I would see the message written in marker on his naked thigh: Doin’ Hard Time. With an arrow pointing at his groin.

  Taylor said, “It’s art, Evan. A-R-T. We were setting up for the photo shoot. For the B-O-O-K.”

  The gun lay on the coffee table. Jesse saw my expression and put his hand on top of it, shaking his head.

  Behind me Taylor’s heels clicked on the floor, quick little steps like a miniature poodle’s. Tick-tick-tick. She came out from behind the counter. Jesse inhaled.

  She had whipped on a trench coat and cinched it up, but not before we saw the bottom half of her ensemble: the fluffy white mules, the nightstick and little bullwhip hanging from her leather belt, for the chain-gang boss inside every lawyer. And the tiny G-string, in prison-guard blue. Too, too tiny.

  Jesse slapped his palm across his eyes. “I’m blind.”

  From the kitchen floor Carlos whimpered, “Taylor, where are you going?”

  “The key to the manacles is in the bathroom.” She tick-tick ed past Jesse. “And you, buster. Hope you can rely on that big old sense of humor to keep you entertained after the wedding, ’cause Evan is definitely not into warming up her audience. If you catch my drift.”

  She huffed into my bedroom. A second later we heard her rattle into the bathroom.

  Jesse drummed his fingers on his knee. He pressed his lips together. Pushing backward, he spun and headed after her through the bedroom door.

  “Taylor, turn around,” he said.

  From the bathroom came the sound of the door bumping the wall. Tater’s voice, alarmed. “Hey. What are you—”

  A squeal. Clattering. Tater wailing like a teakettle: “You freak, what in the Lord’s name—”

  Scuffling. Tater screeching, and two hard sounds, slap, slap, and her heels approaching double time. She ran tick-tick ing out of the bedroom with her hands on her butt.

  “He spanked me.”

  Her Atticus Finch specs sat askew on her nose. Her eyes were bulging. Jesse wheeled out of the bedroom. She pointed at him.

  “That psycho spanked me.”

  He cruised past her. “Shutting up would be an excellent idea.”

  “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”

  He whirled around. “Evan didn’t tell you? I have CTIS.”

  “Oh, my word.” Her mouth was round. “What’s . . . ?”

  “Intermittent severe CTIS, the worst kind. It makes me go batshit crazy.”

  Carlos wobbled to his feet behind the counter. “Taylor, the key. Please.”

  Jesse advanced on Taylor. She backed away.

  “Ass whacking is stage one. From there it gets worse.” He gave her a zombie stare. “I see dead people. In your hair.”

  She backed around the sofa. “Keep away.”

  He pursued her. “Stage three gets nasty.” He grabbed his cell phone. “I get the uncontrollable urge to phone your husband. So I’d haul my ass the hell out of here. This second.”

  We all heard the front door open. “Taylor?”

  Our heads turned in unison. In the doorway, plumbing supplies in hand, stood Miguel Martinez.

  He beheld the tableau. His truck keys fell from his hand. The plumbing supplies fell from his hand. His head swiveled toward the kitchen and he gaped at his brother.

  “Miguel, what is this?” he said.

  As one, Taylor, Jesse, and I looked at the man in the kitchen. “Miguel?”

  He ducked back behind the counter, looking plaintively at his twin. “Carlos, I can explain.”
/>   The man in the doorway stretched his hands toward Taylor, beseeching. “How could you do this to me?”

  Her finger veered toward the kitchen. “No, no—that’s Carlos.”

  Naked boy quailed, “Chica, no. I’m Miguel.” He looked at me. “And don’t worry, Miss Delaney, I was never going to put this on the clock.”

  That, in hindsight, was when I began feeling dizzy. I saw Tater push her To Kill a Mockingbird glasses up her nose. I heard Naked Twin tell her to check his tattoo, it had his home run total, and my head began spinning. Her heels clicked. She said, “I’ll be damned.” Carlos—fully dressed, heartbroken Carlos—bolted out the door. Taylor grabbed a big box labeled WEEKEND FIREWORKS and ran after him. Miguel dashed out from behind the kitchen counter shouting, “The key!”

  He was in full swing. That was when I fainted.

  The room fuzzed back into being. The view was white and the floor lay hard beneath my back. I was staring at the ceiling.

  “Lie still,” Jesse said.

  My feet were up on his lap. I waited while color returned. Yellow came, and black shadow. The soprano hum cleared from my ears.

  “Tell me they’re gone,” I said.

  “With a boot up their butts. One of yours. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Turning my head, I saw his shirt. Gray brightened to blue and white. His hand was squeezing my ankle.

  “I put in a call to Dr. Abbott,” he said.

  “Okay.” Cautiously I pulled my feet down and sat up.

  “Easy.”

  The dizziness subsided. “I’m all right. It’s just everything. And I didn’t eat all day.”

  “You’re going to the doctor anyway.”

  Taking my hand, he pressed his fingers against the pulse point in my wrist. His face looked strained.

  I squinted at him. “Severe intermittent CTIS?”

  He waited for a few seconds, counting my pulse, before he glanced down. “Cousin Tater Intolerance Syndrome.”

  I smiled. “Did you fire Miguel?”

  “Did you want me to?”

  “No. I need him to lay the shower tile.” The zinging sensation faded. “Twist his nuts off with a pipe wrench, maybe.”

  “I got you something else. A fifty percent discount on the remodeling.”

  I held out my hand and let him help me to my feet. “Reason number ninety-seven that I love you.”