by Diane Munier
"That's it. You can't believe I turned you down," I say waiting for the cup to finish being filled.
"For this?" he looks around. "Come on."
I take his cup to the table, round it, sit across from where he stands.
He pulls out the chair and drops. "You're scared of the future. You ran back here like a little rabbit. If it was Mom and my sister, I talked to them. They'll behave. Mothers are like that, no one is good enough for their sons. And I've had a lot of women that want what I'm offering you."
I hear Marcus's ax take a clean whack against the wood. "Offering. It sounds like…a package."
"What's wrong with that?"
"I don't know. Probably nothing. I'm just the wrong girl."
"Are you…with him? Can you?"
"You did not go there."
"Of course, I did. We were never free from him. He was in your head so deep."
"Is THAT why you're here? You want to know if I can have sex with him? So you can what…be exonerated…for what?" I push back my chair.
"Bedilia wait," he reaches across the table and grabs my wrist. "You're taken with this guy, and he's like a body-guard. Is that what you want? He's got some hold on you. I can see what a domineering ass he is. If you need help…if you'd come back…see that therapist…."
I put up my hand. "Look, I bear you no ill will. You can take that coffee with you. I have more cups."
"I'm sorry. You look so tired, baby. In Chicago…you glowed."
"Don't call me that. It's over. I'm sure your family is waiting for you. All those miles…you really can't afford to fall in somewhere."
He grins but I see the sad, like Artie must have seen in me, heard in me, in Marcus. "We'll start over. Pull yourself together and come back to Chicago, Bedilia."
"I'm not coming back," I say.
"You don't feel anything for me…for us?"
The back door has opened, and I feel the cold air.
"First of the year," he says. "Don't say never. Your apartment is empty."
I don't walk him to the door. I hear him let himself out.
Marcus walks into the kitchen. "What's first of the year? Your apartment?"
There is a deep throbbing pain building over my eyebrows. "I need to lie down," I say. I get up, holding my head together.
He doesn't follow right away. I'm on the bed for a few seconds of shocked floating before he enters. He sets a bottle of water on the nightstand. "Here," he says nudging me. He has two Ibuprofens in his hand.
I sit up and take them. "Thanks."
I lay back down, and he helps cover me.
"That moron upset you," he says.
I don't open my eyes. "I'm fine."
"I'll…be right across the street," he says.
Without looking, I reach up and grab a handful of his shirt. I pull enough he gets the hint.
He takes my hand, loosens the hold. "Bedilia…try to sleep. I'm right over there."
Now I do open my eyes. "What's the matter?"
He's shaking his head. "Unfinished business, like we said before. You need to rest, and I do too."
"We were resting. It was perfect."
He smiles a little. "I need a run. I've got laundry. I don't have a Lamborghini, but I do have a sink full of dirty dishes and some bills to pay."
"Don't do this," I say lifting up on my hand. "Don't you dare compare yourself to him or something."
He smirks. "Yeah. I'm not. He's a rich jerk. But…I'm not your rabbit hole…or your turtle shell, Bedilia. That's not who you are either. I want to be. I'm just wicked enough to fall into that. There's no one I'd rather scrape up on the rebound."
My eyebrows lift up to my hairline. "Stop. Don't say anymore you are…wrong."
"Yeah. I'm not sure. We both need to sleep. I'm…slowing the freight train down. I'm hitting the brake. For everyone's sake."
Chapter 28
I think I'll just ignore everything and everyone. Is it possible to ignore Marcus? I'm going to try. I'm going to clear my head and think of nothing but white fuzz. I'm so tired.
Just when I'm entering nirvana, my eyes pop open. "What the heck does that mean…put the brakes on?" I whisper.
And I'm not your rabbit hole, I'm not your turtle shell? I said that in love asshole. I was feeling loved and safe because of you. Jack ass!
If my head didn't hurt so much, I'd throw open the window and scream toward his house.
But I lay there, certain any hope of sleep is now ruined.
When I wake up, it's three hours later, which makes it ten in the morning. I feel like total crap. My first thought might be Marcus but my second is Artie. Then Juney. Myron barely registers.
I know I've been away from Artie for too long. I frantically check my phone, but no one has called. Well, Myron has texted, but I'm not reading those.
I strip and get in the shower, but I'm moving slower than I need to. The hot water is wonderful, but it also depresses me.
Back in my room I braid my wet hair and get dressed. I go in Artie's room and throw together a bag. Once I'm in the truck and pulling out of the driveway I note that Marcus's truck is gone. Well, I already noted that from the crow's nest, but now it's official.
My heart barely thumps. The holidays can be such a downer. And I'd had such high hopes. Wasn't it just yesterday Marcus and I were cooking, Juney was in the living room. Dad was at work. We were like a family.
This would be a great time to have a mother. I have heard other girls complain about their moms, but this would be a great time to have one. I know it's lame to feel this now after all this time of her being otherwise occupied, and maybe if I really had a mom she would be so obnoxious I wouldn't tell her a thing, but my fantasy mom would be about perfect right now.
If I had her, I would ask her, what the heck do I do now?
I know what Ranita would do. She'd wrap herself in cellophane probably, stuff a fat dubee and be ready to rumble the minute she got Marcus to herself.
Well, I don't know for sure. My fantasy mom would hold me while I cried and tell me I was too good for all of them. Then she'd take me to Hawaii all expenses paid while I "healed."
There has to be someone in the middle. I know there is, and I go there. Billy's. I know they want to monitor Artie's salt, but a slice of pumpkin pie can do a lot for a man.
I go around to the kitchen door because she has the front locked for the holiday.
The kitchen is warm and smells great. I'm a little regretful cause those turkeys I smell are the ones we brined.
"How's it going?" I say.
She's standing at the stove, an industrial sized pan of onions and celery, chopped by Marcus, are browning there. "My favorite smell in the kitchen," she says.
"Yeah," I agree. Then I just think, go for it. "So you and Dad?"
"Me and dad what?" she smiles while she stirs. She's dressed up, purple shirt. Looks nice. Her hair is pulled into a bun.
She doesn't like loose-haired cooks or kitchen workers or waitresses. I should know. "Tie it up," she used to say to me when I worked here. Well, she only had to say it once. Smartest waitress she ever had. That's what she said about me.
"You and dad," I'm rolling my hand. I'm a little afraid of her answer. I mean…it's my dad.
"You find out about Benny and Coy?"
"What about them," I say while the room swims. Those are her two grown sons.
"They're Artie's," she says with this gleam, this smile.
She has me for a minute, then she's laughing.
They're a couple of perverts. Well, they were in high school. They're okay now but I had to put up with those two all the time I worked here. "Not funny," I say.
"You don't want a couple of brothers?" she cackles.
"Please," I say.
"Yeah, those two…early grave for me," she says moving to the giant stainless refrigerator. She takes out one of the pumpkin pies. "I had to make two babies with that bastard from upriver."
Yeah, it's a sad story. Teresa's
an overcomer.
"Speaking of that," I say moving to the big work table where she's slicing pie for Artie, "that guy Myron White showed up from Chicago."
She looks at me as she lifts the slice into a plastic wedge. "Oh. He want you to come back?"
"I'm not going back. It was…well, Marcus was there."
We stare at each other a few seconds. "Okay."
"First off…you've heard of Operation Love Boat?"
"The television show?
"Okay, no, forget that. I mean…I came home pretty well knowing…I even left, for that matter, left for Chicago knowing I was in love with…Marcus Stover."
"Yeah," she urges me on. She's not running out screaming so I'm encouraged.
"You can't tell Dad."
She laughs a little. "I can't un-tell him either, but sure."
"What…what do you mean…un-tell."
"Can't take away what he's already figured out."
"Dad has figured what out…that I love Marcus?"
"That Marcus loves you."
I can't seem to grasp this, but I can. I do.
"Dad believes that Marcus loves me?"
"Yes," she says like she's talking to a lunatic.
"Why? I mean…on what grounds?"
She laughs, she shrugs, she puts a lid on the pie. "Your dad notices things," she says.
"He was always careful," I repeat this as I've heard Marcus say it several times.
"When you left…not so careful."
"How so?"
Teresa shrugs. "He wasn't so good. Artie could see it, that's all."
"Thing is…Marcus was there, early this morning when Myron showed up."
"Oh, fudge. Did he kick his ass or something?"
She used fudge and ass very closely there, but I make myself move on.
"Why would he?"
"Well, you love him, and he's there at the house. Then the other one comes, and your dad told me that you said that other guy fired you, and Artie was all wound up saying Marcus slapped the table or something he was so mad."
"Oh. Okay. Yeah. Dad told you that?"
"Sure. And about conflict of interest. He didn't like that. Oh, and doing you a favor to fire you."
Dad's mouth is even bigger than I thought, but he's been telling the town my life story for…ever.
"So Marcus was just…." I nod, looking at the shelves of pots and pans and canned food. I don't know how to explain it.
"He says we have to wait. He's got to talk to Dad and break up with…."
"Jessica," Teresa fills in.
I look at her. Of course, she knows.
"Yeah."
"She has claws that one."
"Fake probably," I say.
"They still hurt. Maybe worse."
"Gee. That's encouraging."
"Wear something pretty. He'll come around."
I stare at her. It can't be that easy. This isn't the fifties…or sixties. Or seventies, I can't tell on Teresa with her dark skin.
"You young people worry about everything. It's not that complicated."
"It is for me," I say softly. I take a big breath. "I have a condition. I…can't have sex like a normal person."
Her eyes get big. "You don't have a…?" She makes a circle with thumb and pointer.
Even technology has offered me nothing as innocent and simultaneously raunchy.
"I have one," I say. "It's like very touchy."
"Most are," she says mischievously, and I catch the howling groan I nearly spill.
"What if I can't do it? What if I finally get there with Marcus and I can't do it?"
She smiles. "Practice makes perfect." She’s like a cat on the purr.
Chapter 29
When I get to Dad's room, I immediately notice how full the windowsill is becoming with cards and plants and bouquets.
How have they found these creations on Thanksgiving? Then I remember the market is open until five, and it sells the bouquets, and several of them are the same dyed carnations with the same sad plastic turkeys roosting in the baby's breath and fern filler.
Dad sees me at once, even though the nurse is adjusting his leg. He yells out from the pain. "Not the hell like that," he says as she moves the leg a careful inch. "Go slow!"
I am standing there. I'm sorry for the nurse, but it's really hard to watch Dad be in such pain.
"Here's your pie," I say setting it amongst an array of crap on his table.
"He's had a steady line of visitors," the nurse says.
"Why the hell do they want to stare at me in this bed," Artie grouses.
"He doesn't want to see anyone," the nurse continues.
"That's okay," I say to Dad. "You don't have to see anyone."
"Why the hell do people bother people in the hospital?"
I have some possible answers, but who cares anyway.
I sit on the miserable couch and stare at his pee bag. Dad looks at me. "Did you get any rest?"
"Did you?"
"Hell no. You can't rest in this place."
"Now Artie," the nurse says, "you better settle down."
"I'll settle down when you quit coming in here and poking on me."
She finds this amusing. "He's so cute," she tells me.
I look at Dad. He's anything but cute. He's mad.
So we are left alone for a minute. "You going to watch the parade?" I say.
"Hell no. I don't care about that."
"Since when?"
"You want to watch it turn it on," he says.
I clear my throat. "Marcus come by?"
"No."
"Maybe they wouldn't let him in."
"They know he can come in. And Juney. And…Teresa."
"Do you want your pie?"
"I can't eat."
"Why not?"
"I'm too damn nauseated."
"Teresa is going to bring you a plate…later."
"She can come. But I don't want food."
"Oh. Sorry." I tap my feet.
"You look like you want to be someplace else," he says.
"I don't."
"I do," he says. "Where's Marcus?"
"At his mom's I guess."
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"You look like something is the matter."
"So do you."
"I just had a foot-long bolt shoved down my bone."
I'd take a foot-long shove, just to see if I’m anywhere around normal. Maybe not a foot-long, but six point five inches maybe…well, I Googled that and yeah…six point five. According to Teresa, I should be able to get over the hump, no pun. It's encouraging. And Marcus might love me. Also hopeful. But trusting Teresa's info is like using Wikipedia to write a dissertation.
"Hey, Dad…Myron came by today. Myron White from Chicago."
He keeps staring at me. "Marcus know?"
"Yes. He met Myron."
"And?" Dad is so grumpy faced.
"Myron offered me my job back." I am digging for vindication in the eyes of my father. I think that need comes more from me than him. By a mile.
"Did you tell him to take a hike?"
"Yeah. Pretty much."
"You have to have conviction, Bedilia. Or people will walk all over you."
"I have…I told him to leave." Didn't I? I meant to.
"What did Marcus do?"
"He…," I remember Dad's penchant for handing out my confidences like they're condoms at a whore's convention. "He didn't like it."
"Was there an altercation?"
"Of course not," I say though there were moments. "But Dad, well Marcus and I…we've begun negotiations…you know?"
"Negotiations for what?"
I shrug. Am I really doing this? "Dad…Marcus and I were…we were realizing we might…be more than friends. I mean…I'm not sure it's happening after Myron showing up, but I think it's happening anyway."
"What's happening, Bedilia? Be specific."
He already knows but I'll play the game. I move to
his bed, pinch the thin blanket between my fingers and roll it back and forth.
"Stop that," Artie snaps. "You're pulling the cover over my leg. I don't mean to snap at you, honey."
Focus. Focus. "Dad…I care about him…Marcus."
"Oh, son of a…, you have to be careful not to jar the bed."
"I didn't touch the bed."
"He's a good deal older than you."
"Ten years," I say.
"Twelve," he says.
"I don't care."
"Of course, you don't, you're twenty years old."
"Twenty-two."
"Round it off, Bedilia."
"Dad…I know you're not against this. I know. So why are you fighting me?"
"You have to be sure. He'll take it seriously, Bedilia. He's a grown-ass man, as Teresa would say. He won't do this lightly."
"I'm not some…feather…flitting…."
"Alright," Dad grabs my wrist. "He has a girlfriend."
"She's a mistake," I say with certainty.
"That doesn't make her go away. He's mad at himself. He gave up. You do realize he was waiting, right?"
"He never gave any indication…."
Dad lets go of my wrist. "Trust me. I warned him off way back."
"You what?"
"He knew I was right. You were too young, and he had Juney to consider."
"Dad…."
"He wanted to come clean before you went to Chicago and I told him I'd accidently shoot him and lay him up right here in this place if he so much as moved a big toe in your direction. And don't think it wasn't hard for him, but he won me over when I saw he could put his needs second to yours."
"Dad I…."
"I was wrong."
"You were?"
"I should have stayed out of it. Once you got through school…not before. Now get that damn nurse back in here."
Once I'm back home looking frantically through the bag I haven't unpacked, I finally find it, a dress crumpled like a newspaper on moving day.
I dump the whole thing on my bed, and there it is…my Chicago life. I pick up that dress and take it to the mirror and stand there like a putz as I hold it in front of myself. Not good for Washington. I settle on leggings, my brown leather boots to the knee, a tight black sweater. It looks like I'm not trying which is the only way I can have confidence.
