by Paula Cox
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Yeah. Why not?”
Why not?
“That’s nice of you, Moira. Especially since we only just met.”
“Well, so what? Everyone’s only just met at one point or another. Anyway, if you’re really going to go into this nursing thing full-force, it might be good to live together. I could help you with the coursework, applying for courses—everything.”
I’m beaming, a smile so wide my mouth hurts, as though my lips are surprised to be twisted into such an unusual shape. The only downside is I wouldn’t be living with Jude anymore, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t still see him, be with him. And maybe it’d be good not to live in the middle of the twister that is Jude’s life, surrounded by blood and death every day.
“It sounds good to me,” I say. “Really good. Thank you for the offer. Let me think about it.”
“Ha, it’s not completely selfless. Like I said, I need somebody to split rent with. I swear, I don’t know how anybody can live in New York without being a millionaire.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
We talk for a while longer, mainly about Jude and my meeting with Mickey, the change that’s occurred in me.
“I feel like a new woman,” I say. “Does that sound stupid?”
“Not at all,” Moira says. “It’s a good thing. I don’t know you very well, Emily, but from what I do know, I think you deserve to be happy.”
“Well, I think the rest of today is going to be pretty darn good. I’m just going to pick up my last paycheck and then go back to the apartment. If Jude isn’t there, I’ll just call him. And then…”
The evening stretches in my mind like a yawn, a lazy, sleepy, content yawn. I think of Jude and I on the couch together, my head rested on his shoulder as we watch a nature documentary; and then I think of the bedroom and all the steamy, fire-hot delights it holds. I think about riding him, bouncing, taking and giving pleasure like I’ve never felt before, like I never believed a woman like me could feel. I think about the rest of my life, something I never allowed myself to do before because the prospect was too grim. But now, a light is shining on my life, pushing away the nasty darkness. Nursing, a roommate, a boyfriend…Almost like a proper person.
“Alright, I should go—”
My time on the payphone runs out. The line goes dead.
I replace the receiver and walk into the street, a spring in my step. People eye me curiously as I lope down the street like some excited animal on its way to a meal.
Finally, I make it to the bakery.
It’s quiet at this time of day and Mrs. Montgomery is the only staff member still here. A few customers sit at the tables, a couple of students on laptops, two old men in the corner with their pastries resting beside a checkers board. When I walk into the bakery, Mrs. M gasps, bringing her hand to her mouth. It takes me a moment to understand her reaction, and then I remember the black eyes.
“Don’t worry about them!” I cry cheerfully, dancing around the counter.
“My dear,” she mutters. “My sweet child.”
“The pain is gone now,” I say, thinking how that’s true not just of my eyes. “Really, Mrs. M, I’m fine. I’m just here to pick up my last paycheck.”
“At least let me get you a coffee.”
Before I can protest, she takes me by the elbow, leads me to a table in the back amidst crates of hot chocolate, coffee, and flour, and sits me down. She leaves me and returns about a minute later cradling a mug of coffee which throws smoky tendrils into the air.
She places it on the table and drops into the seat opposite me.
“Poor child,” she says. She gestures at the coffee. “Drink if up. It’ll make you feel better.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” I sip the coffee to placate her.
She reaches into the pocket of her apron and hands me an envelope. “Your paycheck,” she says.
“Thank you,” I reply, tucking it into my pocket next to Moira’s cell number.
“You seem…happy.” She sounds bemused, as though a person with two pitted black eyes shouldn’t be happy. And she’s right, I think. I shouldn’t.
“I am,” I say. “I know, it’s strange. But, Mrs. M, this has been a strange, strange day.” I realize my words must make no sense to her.
She squints at me as though searching my face. “I never like to pry into other people’s lives, sweetheart. Keep your own counsel, that’s what I say. But I have to say, Emily, I know that your brother beats you.”
“That obvious, is it?” I say, and then take another sip of coffee.
I don’t sound scared, embarrassed, ashamed, worried, or depressed as I would on any other day, in any other mood, when I make the admission. It’s like a lifelong weight has been hefted from my shoulders. Before, I was stumbling through life with Patrick’s bear-like body pressing me down into the earth. Each step was a struggle. Every breath was wheezy and pained. Every inch gained meant a tapestry of bruises and a bath of blood. Now, hitting me so hard it’s like a buckshot, I feel as though Patrick is lying on the floor behind me and I’m free to walk without his weight crushing me down. I don’t have to stand by him. I have a new family now. No matter how often I think it, it hits me anew. It is, easily, the biggest revelation of my life.
“It is,” Mrs. M says after a pause. “But, I’m not the prying sort, you know, so I kept my suspicions to myself. But today, Emily, it’s very strange. You seem like a different person. I see the black eyes, but you’re glowing, too.” She shakes her head. “Have you moved out of your brother’s apartment? Is that it?”
“That’s part of it.” I nod.
She breathes a sigh of relief, as though she’s been waiting for me to do that for a long time. I’m shocked. I knew Mrs. M was a nice woman, but I didn’t know she cared this much for me. But then, you didn’t think anyone cared for you, did you? You thought the only lifeline you had was a seven-foot-tall man who beat the crap out of you every chance he got.
“And you’re going to press charges?”
Ah, the transformation isn’t as complete as it could be. My body seizes at the thought; my smile slips.
“Oh, no,” I murmur. “I can’t do that.”
“Oh.” Mrs. M reaches across the table and places her hand upon mine. “Forget I mentioned that, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I am. Thank you.” I swallow. I don’t want to do it, but it has to be done. “I might be leaving you in the near future, Mrs. M. I’m thinking about going into nursing.”
Mrs. M claps her hands giddily. Suddenly, she’s forty years younger. “Oh, that’s wonderful. You’re a caring person, Emily. You’d make a great nurse.”
I finish my coffee and then stand up. “Well, I better get going,” I say.
“Your man waiting for you?” She winks.
“You disgust me, old woman.”
She giggles. Together, we make our way into the front of the store.
The door opens; he walks through.
It’s a testament to the effect this long, beautiful, transformative day has had that I don’t seize up immediately. I don’t become the mouse. I don’t shrink away.
But I can’t deny there’s a burning in my chest that wasn’t there before, an aching in my limbs, and suddenly my eyes begin to pound afresh.
Patrick swaggers into the center of the store, gazing around dead-eyed at the students and the old men, and then walking up to the counter.
“Now listen here, young man,” Mrs. M says, “I know who you are and you have no business being here.”
“Shut up, hag,” Patrick spits, arms spread, giant fists clenched. “I’m here to talk to my sister.”
Before I can respond, he lurches across the counter and grabs me by the front of my shirt. He brings his face close to mine, his breath washing over me, reeking of beer and tobacco.
“I’m here to talk to this fucking slut.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
&
nbsp; Jude
In my excitement for news of Emily, I forget that Boss is the boss.
I charge at him, legs still shaking somewhat from the whisky, and screech to a halt so close to him he takes a step back. He holds up his forefinger and immediately I remember who this man is. I take a step back.
“Jude,” he says.
“Sir.”
“Have you spoken to her yet?”
“No.” I shake my head with so much force I think my neck will snap.
“Ah. Walk with me.”
I walk at his shoulder, passing by the bar, and joining the main street. We stroll past stores, amidst pedestrians, walking aimlessly. It seems all I’ve done today is walk aimlessly. Boss doesn’t say anything for a long time and I know better than to press him, though my heart is smashing against my ribs in longing. All I want is to hold Emily in my arms. All I want is to feel her body against mine. All I want is to walk into the living room and see her on the couch, looking cute as hell, smiling at me with those perfect lips, watching me with those huge green eyes.
After around five minutes, Boss drops onto a bench. I sit next to him and we watch the flow of pedestrians.
“She’s an amazing woman, Jude,” Mickey says, drawing his words out as though he has all the time in the world. Just once, I think, I’d like this man to be as blunt as his reputation.
“I know that.” My breath comes heavy and frantic, as though even my lungs are trying to pull Emily in. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my mind. Damn, but my mouth is dry, drier than the Sahara.
“We talked for a long time,” he says.
“About what?”
“About lots of things. I told her that she’s part of the family now. That seemed to help her. She thought we’d killed Patrick, Jude. She was in shock.”
“I know,” I murmur. “That was my fault. She assumed it and I did shit. Now I don’t know where she is. Where is she, sir?”
Mickey shrugs. “I don’t know. But I’m sure she’ll return to you at some point. She loves you, boy.”
“And I love her.” There’s no shame in admitting it now, no shame in showing this part of myself to anybody. I love her, need her, as I have never loved or needed anybody in my long brutal life. Anna is the tiniest pinprick of light compared with the all-consuming beam that is Emily, a brightness in my life I’m sure I’ll never be able to live without. “I love her a lot, sir. A whole lot. I just need to see her.”
“She’s changed,” Mickey says. “She isn’t her brother’s pet anymore.”
“It seems everybody knows everything about her apart from me,” I say, unable to hide the bitterness from my voice. “You, Moira—everybody’s seen her except her boyfriend.” Boyfriend. Did you just say boyfriend? I did, and I don’t care. It’s the truth. I won’t hide from the label anymore.
Mickey chuckles. I want to grab the man by the throat and demand that he tell me where Emily is, but that’d end only in me clawing at the lid of a coffin, slowly running out of air.
“Her love for you is fierce. I could see it. She didn’t know who I was, at first. Just some old man feeding the ducks. She told me all about her life with her brother. I think it appeared to her as though I persuaded her he was a bad man, but the truth is it was inside of her all along. It just needed somebody to bring it out.”
“You,” I say, and again there’s biting bitterness in my words. It should have been me!
Mickey chuckles again. “No, Jude. Not me. I may have been the person who was there when she came to the realization, but it wasn’t me. I can tell you that for a fact. It was you, Jude. You’ve given her strength and confidence. From what she told me, she used to be a quiet, mousey thing. She’s not a quiet, mousey thing anymore.”
He’s not going to tell me where she is, is he?
I make to stand. “I need to find her, sir.”
He nods. “I know, I know. Young love.” His tone grows wistful. “I’ve been thinking, Jude. That brother of hers still needs to be dealt with, but I’ve taken a shine to that girl. Perhaps he doesn’t need to be killed. Maybe injured, or pushed out of the city, or some other non-lethal method.”
Standing up, I look down at Mickey in disbelief. “Are you sure, sir?”
“Yes. I’m sure. She’s a nice girl and if it can be helped, I’d like to stop her from being hurt. But he needs to go, of course. Business is business, after all. I’ll leave the details up to you. Kill him if you like; let him live if you like. As long as he stops dealing drugs on our corners, running protection rackets on our stores, that’s fine by me. At least that pedophile Barry is dead.” He waves a hand. “Go find her, Jude. Go be young and in love. Don’t waste your time listening to the droning of an old man.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say. “I’ll think about what you said.”
“Jude,” he calls, when my back is turned.
“Yeah?” I say, without turning.
“Take good care of her. That girl deserves some happiness.”
“I know, sir. I will.”
With that, I leave him, thinking: Please, God, just let me get to the bakery without another distraction!
Chapter Thirty-Four
Emily
If it happens once, it is a tragedy and it will haunt you forever.
If it happens twice, you need therapy.
If it happens three times, you will wake sweating in the night and panting for breath.
And if it happens almost every day from when you’re a girl, all of those nasty things will still happen to you, but they will be dulled by the numbing sense that this is just routine. Day in, day out, a fist, bared teeth, hate pouring like lava from you brother’s eyes.
When Patrick first grabs me, I freeze up. Some beaten, downhearted part of my mind thinks: Well, here we go again. The sense that I somehow deserve this comes over me. The bakery falls into background noise. An old man stands up, screeching his chair, but it’s like the echo of an echo, far, far away. Mrs. M screams, snaps, wails; I barely hear her. One of the students starts muttering something, trying to be brave, face turning beetroot-red, but his voice comes to me like the squeaking of a mouse. But that can’t be right. I’m the mouse, aren’t I?
This numbness lasts for around ten seconds, during which time Patrick drags me over the counter and shoves me up against the wall. I flop like a fish in his grip, completely paralyzed. All the confidence I was just feeling, all the spirit, drains out of me. I am an empty vessel.
Then Patrick brings his fist back, aiming it at my face, and for the first time in my life I think: Why? Why should he be allowed to do this? Why do I have to be his punching bag? Why do I have to take all this shit? What did I ever do to deserve it?
Nothing, I realize. Not one thing. I never did anything to deserve this other than be related to him, and as far as I can work out, that isn’t a crime.
The vessel fills up; confidence and steel pour back inside of me. I grit my teeth. My expression gives Patrick pause. He tilts his head at me, as though curious at this new behavior. Usually I’m either passive or doing what any normal person does when being attacked: screaming, begging. Now, I’m doing neither, just staring at him.
“No,” I say. I don’t speak loudly, but my voice seems to carry a long way.
“No?” Patrick repeats, as though that word, coming from my mouth, is impossible to understand.
In his surprise he loosens his grip on the front of my shirt. I don’t think. Using every small muscle in my small arm, I shove his hand away and dance to the other side of the bakery, near the counter where Mrs. M stands. The old man—a red baseball cap on his bald head, hands leathery, wearing a faded blue suit—steps into the scene.
“You shouldn’t be doing that, young man,” he says.
“Don’t,” I whisper, standing near Mrs. M. She puts her hand on my shoulder.
Patrick’s about to address the old man when one of the students begins talking. A wiry-framed teen with a knot of yellow hair. “There’s man threateni
ng a woman in…”
Patrick lurches across the room, grabs the cell, and hurls it against the wall. “Don’t get involved,” he growls, looming over the kid. “This is between me and my fucking sister. Who the fuck do you think you are?” He shoves the kid in the chest. Not particularly hard, but Patrick’s a huge vending machine of a person and his not particularly hard is, in fact, particularly hard. The kid stumbles, trips, and lands in his chair with a thump. Nobody else makes a move. Even the old man takes a step back.
