Look How You Turned Out

by Diane Munier

  Marcus is looking at me. He has his hands on Juney's shoulders as that one is standing now.

  "Look at you two," I say. "Both so cute. My heroes."

  Marcus makes some kind of sheesh noise and Juney looks up at him. "Sorry."

  He doesn't reply. "Goodnight, Bedilia," he says.

  He leads Juney from the room. Juney looks at me long as he can, and he's gone. And I'm relieved. His father's rescue might possibly save him from returning to an indigenous state. His routine and his bed will help.

  And so I spend an endlessly long night of incarceration in Lowland General while Jessica is probably at Billy's shaking a tail-feather weave or something. Justice sucks.

  But in the morning, Marcus comes in my room pushing a wheelchair. Juney is with him, and I direct him to grab my fall bouquet, and I'll hold the roses. Marcus leans over my chair, and I look up and feel a little dizzy, and he's right there, and he says, "All in?"

  And I think of a couple of things—the v-problem for sure, but that maybe I'd say that to him someday soon, my feet making the moose antlers either side of his head, and I'd be saying happily, "All in?"

  And the other thing is how I feel about him, how we feel about one another. All in. And all in.

  So I look up at him again, get the swimmy head again and say, "I love you. Marcus."

  Juney is listening, of course so I break away from Marcus's completely mezmerizing and taken off guard gaze and I look at the little one at my side. "You too, Junior," I say. "It's love."

  Juney looks at his dad like, what do I do with this? But it's more than gratitude for getting me out of the hospital, so they both need to deal.

  I feel Marcus's kiss on the top of my head, and that's no small thing as I have two greasy ponytails so my stitched wound can be undisturbed. Then his voice close to my ear, his half-swallowed, "Yeah."

  "Love you too," Juney says.

  Marcus's hand is on my shoulder. He squeezes there. Once we're in the hall, Juney shifts his flowers to one hand and reaches for one of mine, so I do the same and the knot we make heads out.

  Chapter 40

  The road that ran between our houses became a gulf that Marcus swam all that next week, back and forth and back and forth. Did I say he swam? No, he walked on the water, he skipped lightly across it.

  Originally he discussed how I could stay with his mom Elaine. Sweet, but crazy. I knew Elaine, sort of, had witnessed her faithful shuttling of Juney for years.

  It seemed freaky to think I'd become what, her patient? Bonding time around what, her making my lunch?

  No way I was allowing that, or needing that.

  But Marcus was swamped with work, he argued like it was a given he'd been commissioned with my welfare.

  If I stayed with Elaine, Juney would be with me he said.

  If I stayed home, Juney could be with me, I pointed out. And Juney wanted to stay with me. Other than dizziness, which passed if I moved slowly, I was a-okay. Juney still had off the rest of Saturday and all day Sunday, then he'd be back in school, and I'd be fine to drive, go see Dad, live my life, look at the dust in my checking account, maybe get a job.

  So the rest of Saturday I had nurse Juney, boloney sandwiches and Cheetos for lunch, and a big fat game of Life.

  Sunday Marcus worked, and Elaine came to take Juney to church and to lunch. When she brought Juney home, she came in to visit me. For the first time, I noticed how Marcus and Juney got their color of hair from this small quiet woman.

  "He couldn't wait to get back to you," Elaine said.

  "Oh," I said from my place on the couch, "I'm sorry."

  "No," she said sincerely. "No. I…I'm so happy for him. For them. They obviously…are glad you're back."

  I nod. I still look like I've run into a door. She is not shy about noticing.

  "Juney told me about," she points. "How terrible for you."

  Surely she's met my assailant. She withholds comment. I can't help but like her. I want to anyway. She doesn't resent me. I didn't know what to expect as mothers are a bit of a mystery, but she is a good one it seems. Juney adores her. I always felt that unlike me, he had someone at least. And I was right—not about the self-pity, that doesn't help anyone, I always had Teresa in a pinch anyway, but about Juney having someone very close to a real mom, I was right about that.

  Before she leaves, she asks if she can do anything for me and I assure her I'm fine. Then she tells me she wants that son of hers to bring me to lunch as soon as I'm back on my feet. I thank her, and she goes.

  It is Monday before I am finally alone. I drive over to the hospital and spend the morning with Artie. We have a long talk about my future employment.

  "How about you run Billy's for Marcus and me?" Dad says.

  "You don't need me for that. You can do that…and Marcus."

  "I don't want that much responsibility. I'll be more of a silent partner. I talked to Marcus, and we both agree you could do a lot for that place. We'd be glad to have you."

  They are both so full of boloney. "Dad, all I'm asking for is my old job back. I'm going to talk to Billy about it, and you two can decide later if you want to keep me on. I don't want you to worry about making my way for me. I'll figure it out."

  "Bedilia, we are nothing but glad to have you home. Don't talk like it's some hardship for us. You know that's not true. Anyway, you don't talk to Billy, you talk to Teresa. She handles everything now."

  "She pretty much always did when it came to anything in the kitchen. Billy wouldn't turn the books over to her, though. He was the decision maker came to everything else."

  "He doesn't have much choice now. The dementia is getting pretty bad."

  I groan. "I hate to hear that, Dad. It's like I went away and so much changed so quickly."

  "Come 'ere," he says, and I obediently move closer to his bed. He stares at my fading shiner. "Marcus is damn lucky I know how crazy he is about you. This should have never happened," he means the rainbow on my face. "You're not the one needing to figure it out so much as he is. And he's doing that. Him running Billy's…now that's a stretch. He loves police work. He was made for it. He was no more suited to that gal Jessica than David was to Saul's armor. He's been off his game. You'll figure it out, you've always known what's what. But best thing that'll come of me being laid up is him figuring it out."

  I keep staring. He has major bed hair, and he's still in a good bit of pain, but his eyes are bright. He doesn't miss a thing.

  "What?" he says.

  "You're like…the wizard of Lowland or something. The man behind the curtain. It's kind of diabolical."

  He smiles. "It's only diabolical if you don't mean well, Bedilia."

  "Oh really? Did you know I wouldn't make it in Chicago?"

  "I wouldn't put it that way. Of course, I knew you'd make it. I also knew you'd come to your senses. Eventually. I hoped you would."

  "You think I'm like Mom."

  "No. I think you're like Bedilia. She's a little bit of two people don't forget, and a good dose of her own stubborn self. But you're bright like your mother, always have been. I didn't think it would be enough around here. Maybe I was wrong. Anyway…remains to be seen. Like I said, you'll figure it out."

  We're silent for a minute. Funny how I can see he's flushed up some dishonesty in himself. "Dad…I'm staying."

  "You're young…."

  "Dad…I'm here."

  He lets out a breath. "No pressure from me, one way or the other."

  "Course not. You know what I said about Marcus and me. You think I'd walk away from him? And Juney?"

  "No. If you decide it's him…that won't change. I think you love like I do."

  I mean—if I love like my parents then what are my options? Either I love like Dad, incessantly even when someone has been gone for a lot of years. Or I love like Mom. And her love is a five-minute shit storm and a short, but permanent see ya.

  But Dad says I'm my own. And I plan to love Marcus Stover very well.

  That af
ternoon I am making a sandwich when Marcus comes in the back door.

  "Not locked I see," he says meaning the door.

  "Good to see you, too," I say, because… it always is.

  He is holding a ream of paper. Or a dozen pages at least.

  "What's this?" I ask as he sets it on the counter beside me. I can already see they are pages on Vaginismus.

  I snatch the papers like it's my undies he's confronted me with. "Seriously?"

  He snatches an apple from the bowl and leans beside me at the counter. "Been doing some research," he says before taking a big crunchy bite.

  I have this glare/smirk like I'm pretty horrified. "No way. Name your priorities. Right now."

  He laughs. "Juney," he takes another bite and talks with his mouthful, his cheek bulging in a tantalizing way. "Sheriffing this crazy burg," he chews, then looks at me. "Your little vagina." Another bite. He chews some more, he swallows.

  "What? I knew it," I say laying the pages down.

  "I'm off tomorrow," he continues, "and I thought you might like to drive over to Mom's with me so I can fix her sink then we can go to lunch or shopping, see a movie, whatever you big city girls like to do."

  "Me…and my…vagina?" My eyebrow lifts.

  "I promised Artie we wouldn't be sneaking around."

  "Oh. Is that when you confessed what we did at Teresa's?"

  He smirks now. "You know what I mean. You deserve to be courted…a little."

  "Right out of Artie's mouth…courted. The 'little' comes from you."

  He laughs. "Pretty much." He finishes the apple. "You and the asshole from Chicago…he make it worse?"

  "Oh," I say putting the mayo knife in the sink, "just go for the gold why don't you?"

  "Did he? That's probably why you developed this vagina problem. That asshole didn't know what he was doing."

  "Sneaky. You want a…blow by blow?" Big smile.

  He shrugs. "I'm not going to turn it down."

  "You've had how many women?"

  He shrugs again. "You'll be the only one that matters."

  "Smooth." I shift around a little. "Okay. Ditto then. You'll be the only one that matters."

  He unfolds his arms, turns to the side and puts a hand on his hip. "But you haven't had any others…right?"

  He's not laughing. I shouldn't give this to him. "I only tried with…White. Burst your ideas about me?"

  "Well, you had to have tried to know…the deal," he says, his eyes kind of half-closed. "So what…he make it bad?"

  "You want it to be bad don't you. I told you, no trauma."

  "Heck with him either way," he says pitching his apple core across the kitchen to land perfectly in the trash can.

  "You are so…." I hope he'll pick it up and at least define what he is. But of course, he doesn't.

  "I can't ask a simple question?" he says.

  "My sexual history is a simple question? For you maybe. But you don't answer me about yourself. Not so simple there, huh?" I say.

  "What do you want to hear? There was Angela, obviously. Jessica a couple of times. Obviously."

  "Oh…did she make it bad for you? Or really good? A or B?"

  "Considering it had been five years it didn't take much." He puts up his hand, "Not to demean her. I'm just saying…it wasn't love. You asked me that. It…wasn't."

  I am two inches mollified. "Then it's strange that it happened at all, right? No love at least? That's just you using her.”

  "Like you and White. Exactly."

  "What happened to big city guy seducing Bo-Peep…now you're comparing Jessica to me? Two Bo-Peeps?"

  "No. I'm talking mutual use maybe. Yes. The thing I tried to avoid, I caved. Alright? Should I crawl on my belly for you while I'm at it?" he says.

  "Ug I hate that. But yes, crawl a little while I think it over."

  We are very quiet, and the sounds of the house take over, and I stare at the Mayo knife, and he stares at the floor.

  "Angela your first?" I say.

  "No. One prom night. Alcohol involved and premature ejaculation on her dress as I remember."

  I laugh loudly. "Disgusting."

  "Yeah. A couple in college. Alcohol again. One in law school-Angela."

  "You're a whore on alcohol. But you must have loved Angela."

  "I did try very hard to love her."

  "Do you still…what's it like now…when you think of her?"

  "Certain memories…having Juney. Anything good between us…it just went to hell. Then it got run over a few times."

  "So I will be number six?" I say, but I'm soft in my voice, in my mind. It's…okay. Except for Jessica. But I'll deal. He's thirty-four.

  It's the past. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change….

  "Five…technically. What we can have…a first," he says. "I'm crazy about you…Bedilia."

  We look at one another. Me too.

  "Can we please make out?" I whisper.

  He laughs, and we're together quick, and I am against the counter, the sink, and he's over me, and his sweet mouth is on mine and his hands on my back, up and down, and my arms are around him, and I'm pulling him close, and he's pulling me close. He laughs a little. "They'll hear you up the street," he whispers, and we're kissing again, and my hands are running over him, up his neck to his face, and I'm like a succubus.

  "Bedilia," he's laughing. "I'm going to have a heart attack."

  "Was it like this with her? Did you go to her shop…did you…was it like this?"

  “You're all I think about. I love you. I'm possessed…." He laughs, but it's forced.

  "Me too. I didn't love Myron White, oh come on get real! I tried. I was such a weak sell-out. I just got swept up…tried to make it work…but I knew even then…I left here so torn up over you. It's always been you."

  He pulls me to him, is squeezing the air from me, but I can't tell him to stop.

  "Bedilia, marry me. No sneaking around. I want you all the time. With me. There's nothing else. No one else."

  "It's quick. Too quick?" I've been home a week.

  "How? It's been years of…burning." He lays a kiss on me that buckles my knees. Fortunately, he's got me so pinned I stay on my feet. Not that I care. I'm so in love.

  "You aren’t worried about…my spazz…problem?" I gasp. “Shouldn’t we…try?”

  "Bedilia." Then a muffled, "We should try the more acceptable form of commitment first…like an engagement ring…right?"

  "Yeah…I guess." I say smiling sweetly as I look into his eyes. Oh…his eyes.

  One more kiss on my mouth and a sizzling look back at me before he goes out the door.

  I let out a big breath and smooth over my hair. In front, I watch him pull away. He means it about marriage. I look over at his house. I would be over there, watching him pull away from that angle…instead of this one. That would be my home. I get my coat and find my shoes and fish Marcus's key out of the pot where we keep keys.

  I soon fit that key in Marcus's front door. Inside, it's dim, and it doesn't smell. That's good. I enter and shut the door.

  It's a little sad, and it's plain. No doubt about it, these guys need me.

  I go immediately to the window and look back at Artie's. Artie's is more alive. It's the better-looking brother, similar in style but just more. I see the crow's nest up there. I wave and thankfully no one, nothing waves back.

  Marcus has a fireplace, well-used. Over it is one picture, an Indian holding up a buffalo's skull. Yeah, that thing is going.

  He likes books. He built shelves, and they're full. Books about nature, biographies, novels, Law books. He's practically Moses when it comes to that stuff. But practicing law, yeah I agree with Artie, can't see it. He likes the outdoors too much.

  The kitchen is functional. Wood countertops. I remember when he put these in. I check out the food. A lot of boxed stuff.

  Tsk. Tsk. I'll be changing t
hat. He loves my cooking. Used to come in the kitchen to 'watch me cook.' Yeah, stare at me is more like it, but back then I really thought it was about the food.

  The kitchen opens to the back porch and windows that show the woods. This is like a family room, another used fireplace, television over it. Yep, I could clock some hours here, cooking and being. Yeah, I can save this place from its current state of arrested development. I love the open shelving he's put in. I love the wood on the walls. It just needs the right equipment. Some color. Me.

  I wouldn't check out his bedroom, would I?

  Yes.

  The door is partially ajar. I push it wide and go in. It smells like him a little, and that's a good thing. The bed isn't made in the truest sense, but there's an attempt, the cover pulled up, a little smoothed. The furniture is masculine, a tall chest, a tall dresser, dark colored. It's not cluttered. A bathroom off of this. Nothing fancy but neat. The seat is up on the stool, but it's clean. Cleaner than mine possibly. I'm impressed. There's a hamper, and the jeans I love are on the floor near it. I resist the urge to pick those up and hold them for a minute. Yeah, weird, not that weird stops me, but if I bend over, I'll get dizzy.

  I'm looking at his stuff, his toothbrush. I picture mine beside it. All I can think is that I love him.

  Then I hear something coming from the kitchen. First thought is that he's caught me. Then I hear the sobbing. Second thought is that Elaine is in here sobbing. And that's weird. But I make it to the kitchen, and it's Jessica.

  She's got two hands on the counter, one of those heavy duty mixers pulled forward, the cord wrapped around her dagger nailed hand. Her head is bent, so there's a hair curtain that could keep out the sun. But she's boohooing.

  So I'm standing in the doorway that leads to the hall, and the bedrooms and I'm waiting for her to lift her head. When she doesn't, I say, "What are you doing here?"

  She looks up then, rocket-socket fast. There are tears and snot and streaked makeup. Her eyes show her shock that I'm here. She uncoils the cord from her hand and goes for a paper towel, fortunately, placed further yet from me. She rips off a couple and starts to wipe the tidal stream.

  Then she goes back where she was and starts pulling drawers.