Intended for Harm

by C. S. Lakin

  Levi. From the Hebrew word meaning “adhere.” Not only would he cling to her, but now she vowed she would cling to him, this helpless tiny life growing inside her. Jake could rant and threat and scream all he liked. If he was to be a circling shark, then she would build a cage.

  And what a strong ironclad cage it would be.

  Strong enough to keep every threatening thing out and her baby safe.

  Jake dreaded the moment he unlocked the door. Every time, every day. He never knew what chaos he would find, what drama would sweep him up, chew him up without a second thought, spit him out indiscriminately. Getting through a workday without a hysterical phone call was a rare occurrence. And when he didn’t get called, his gut tensed in worry. He couldn’t just take a leave off work, but he couldn’t risk entrusting his sons to her care, at least not right now. So Jake had swallowed hard and hired full-time care for Leah, seeing the way she walked through rooms invisible, heedless of the boys’ needs, strangely unaware of their clamoring presence. And with Levi’s health complications, there was no telling what disaster would descend. She had fought his decision, but he brokered no concession. He only hoped Leah wouldn’t scare off the nurse he’d picked. He requested one who wouldn’t be bullied or intimidated by an unstable woman’s ranting, and so far Doreen had held fast, a brick wall, bless her. He had to hope Leah would pull out of this ennui, and that the medicine he was putting in her orange juice each morning would conjure a miracle.

  He stood at the threshold to his apartment door, listening, waiting. The Halloween decorations strung overhead snapped in the harsh wind, Mylar ghosts winging about his face that made him think of Scrooge and inexorable judgment. Maybe he should have been sterner, thrown out the cigarettes and booze, regardless of her defiant fits and threats. Levi was the one made to suffer for her indulgences—his low birth weight, pulmonary distress, difficulty nursing. Not that it helped to point such things out to his wife, who was already drowning in guilt and misery, feeling entirely unfit and overwhelmed, churning in a whirlpool of self-recrimination.

  After assessing it safe to enter, Jake opened the door and found Doreen sitting on the couch, her large dark body an anchor between the two boys, their eyes glued to some TV program. Jake thought he recognized Lee Majors, the six-million-dollar man, pulling some bionic stunt. He laughed silently, with bitterness. I doubt even you could find a way to fix this mess, he told the smiling, confident actor on the screen. The sound was turned down, and Doreen looked over at him as he came in and took off his coat, hanging it on the rack by the door and exchanging the imposing, blustery night for what darkness he might find within the brightly disguised rooms of his home. As if 110-watt illumination could dispel such darkness; everyone knew a brighter light only lengthened shadows, forcing them into corners and hidden cracks where secrets could abide without discovery.

  Reuben and Simon leapt off the couch and ran to him, barnacling onto his pants legs, vying for attention. He stooped down and embraced them, mussed up their hair and took their sloppy kisses and sticky hands.

  Doreen hefted her body from the couch and gathered her things. She gave Jake a look—one no doubt well-worn from years of home care, meant to calm and reassure, inspiring hope even if ungrounded. Jake willingly believed all her look told him.

  “She’s lying down in the bedroom,” she said, in answer to his unspoken question. “The baby’s been fed and changed, doing just fine.” A practiced smile. Honed.

  Jake let out the pent-up sigh he’d been unknowingly holding in.

  “Daddy, come see my Lego house!” Reuben pushed through Simon’s possessive embrace of Jake’s legs, throwing him off balance. Simon fell to the floor, then struck his brother with his fists in a squall of fury. Reuben cried. “Daddy! Ow, Simon, stop it!” Reuben smacked Simon on the side of the head, which elicited a yowl that would rival any cat’s.

  “Now, boys, hush up. Your mama’s tryin’ to sleep,” Doreen warned with a menacing tone. “You’ve been so good up till now. Don’t spoil it. Your daddy’s been working hard and just wants to come home to a little peace and quiet. Reuben, take Simon’s hand, apologize for knocking him down.”

  Reuben scowled but obeyed. Simon responded by kicking Reuben’s shin.

  Before Reuben let out another cry, Jake pried the two boys apart. They quieted at his rough jostling. Jake looked at Doreen. “Thanks so much. I really appreciate—”

  “Mr. Abrams, there’s no need.” She bent over and patted both boys on the head. “These ones, they’re just acting up. When you’re not here, they’re little angels—aren’t you, sugar?” She tickled Simon under the chin but he pulled his head away and scowled. Doreen chuckled and looked back at Jake. “Jus’ acting out for you, is all. Have a good evening, Mr. Abrams.”

  Jake opened the door and the fall wind made an immediate incursion into the living room, blowing everything loose into the air, pieces of his life not glued down. Papers and hopes and dreams.

  “My oh my,” Doreen said, fastening her scarf. “I think a storm’s brewing.” He thought her comment implied a double meaning. At least it did to him.

  “Drive safely,” Jake said, nodding in gratitude. Doreen nodded back. “See you tomorrow night.”

  Jake waited until he heard her old Chevy engine turn over and the headlights streak the leaf-strewn street with yellow mist. He half listened to his sons as they babbled alongside him, as he went into the kitchen and poured a tall glass of water, as he followed them into their room and marveled over their Lego constructions and finger paintings and army men posed to fight off an attack of plastic dinosaurs. Reuben pressed a button on his large red cassette player and started dancing to the song, an upbeat children’s rhyme set to guitar and sung by a man who reminded Jake of Arlo Guthrie singing “Alice’s Restaurant.” When he felt confident the boys could entertain themselves for a while, he slipped out of the room and walked down the hallway to his bedroom.

  He pushed the door open, his stomach clenched, always clenched these days. He was in a complex maze, wandering long hallways, banging into walls, hitting dead ends. Hunger grew into a yawning chasm, confusing him with a need to eat something that would fill his stomach and the need to hold his wife, find nourishment in her arms, compensate for the deficiency draining his soul of essential vitality. A soft light on the nightstand splashed across Leah’s face, smoothing her features as she snored quietly. Levi, barely noticeable bundled in his yellow patterned receiving blanket, lay tucked in the crook of her arm, his cheek pressed against her bare shoulder. The picture laid out before him, on the surface, would be interpreted by most as the sublime moment of motherhood, madonna and child, divine bliss. Most wouldn’t know what was wrong with this picture. Most didn’t see what went on during waking hours, or late in the pit of night, when Leah’s demons came to call, if not ringing the doorbell then kicking down the door.

  Levi stirred first, maybe hot under the covers. Leah stretched, opened her eyes, saw Jake and smiled. He studied her, waiting for the mask to rise and darken her features. Waiting for the brewing storm to cloud over her gaze, rumble through her, threatening squalls and tornados. Instead, a refreshing flutter of calm met him and drew him close. She opened her arms to him and he sat beside her as she moved Levi to make room. Her skin was hot, smelled of clean sheets and baby.

  “Hey,” he said, moving a strand of hair from her cheek. She pulled him closer and kissed him. She hadn’t done that in a long while.

  She rubbed her forehead. “What time is it? I didn’t think I’d fall asleep. Did the boys eat? Is Doreen still here?”

  Jake answered her questions, noted the missing anxiety, the absence of panic. He let out a breath, felt the boulder lift from his chest. As she pulled down the bedcovers and reached for him, his stomach grumbled, a loud roar, but Jake could no longer distinguish which hunger cried louder, as skin touched skin and his body responded in a powerful aching need, a need to take his wife deep into himself, to absorb her on a molecular level, utterly cons
ume her.

  And this time, miraculously, she welcomed his passion, not reacting as if he were competing for attention, ripping her away from her maternal concerns. She opened up to him, intoxicating him with her welcome.

  “We shouldn’t,” he whispered, barely able to get the words out. “You’re not back on the pill and I don’t have—”

  She quieted him with her lips, making his eyes roll back in painful pleasure. “I’m nursing. Don’t worry; nursing prevents ovulation . . .”

  He let her mumble of words console his last snag of resistance. Knowing this window of opportunity could pass by with the speed of a bullet train, he surrendered to her, forgetting his boys in the next room, his baby sleeping on the other side of the bed, his fear of tomorrow and the next day and the next. There was only this coveted, rushed moment, this urgency and need to hurry, to take what could be taken before it, in turn, would be denied him for who knew how long. He grabbed her like a drowning man sucking air, thrashing for something to cling to, to keep him from sinking. He pinned her beneath him so there would be no escape, no sudden change of heart.

  Into the vast ocean of sheets, she sank with him.

  1976

  Take It to the Limit

  You know I’ve always been a dreamer

  And it’s so hard to change

  But the dreams I’ve seen lately

  Keep on turning out and burning out

  And turning out the same

  So put me on a highway

  And show me a sign

  And take it to the limit one more time

  You can spend all your time making money

  You can spend all your love making time

  If it all fell to pieces tomorrow

  Would you still be mine?

  And when you’re looking for your freedom

  And you can’t find the door

  When there’s nothing to believe in

  Still you’re coming back, you’re running back

  You’re coming back for more

  Take it to the limit one more time

  —The Eagles

  “I thought you’d be happy that I landed a full-time job. I know it’s over the hill, but it’s a regular paycheck.” Jake steadied five-month-old Levi, who kept trying to roll over and off the couch. Three boys in one small living room used up every inch of space until Jake could only claim the small cushion he sat upon.

  “But now you’ll be gone all day, leaving me with the kids,” Leah answered, weaving through the toys littering the carpeting like colorful plastic flowers sprouting up in the brown shag grass, a wild garden, out of control, and noisy as well. She set down a laundry basket toppling with clothes and went into the kitchen.

  “But I’ll be home every night, instead of working till dawn. We can have evenings together as a family again. Sleep together instead of taking shifts.” He had trouble thinking with Simon’s constant squealing, who clung to Leah’s leg as she pussyfooted around him, filling a pot with water for spaghetti, setting the table with indestructible plastic dishes illustrated with bright magic markers in abstract designs—some art project Reuben and Simon had brought back from daycare. As hard as it was to swallow, he’d acquiesced to his mother’s determination to help them out by paying for two days of daycare a week, which instead of giving him more time to spend with his family ended up being consumed by his need for sleep, coveted hours that allayed his exhaustion from cleaning and vacuuming and dusting dead-quiet offices until dawn.

  As menial and mindless as that work had been, the silence his employment afforded him paid him back in more than just cash. There, without the clutter of Leah’s roller-coaster emotions and the boys’ maddening energy, he could think clearly, replay words and choices and mistakes. He often stumbled into bed as dawn seeped through the slats in the blinds full of insight coupled with remorse, with confusion never trailing far behind. He’d always thought life was something you made, formed, took hold of and shaped. He never imagined it would be a force of its own, shapeless but determined, sweeping him up like a tornado and depositing him miles away from where he set out, his head jumbled with dust, disoriented.

  Leah dumped a package of noodles into steaming water, then turned and looked at Jake. Simon still clung to her leg, and she stroked his hair. Reuben called to him from the bedroom and he stood to go see what his eldest son needed help with. He met Leah’s reproachful eyes.

  “This’ll work out, Leah. You’ll see. Builder’s Emporium is a place where I can learn some skills, move up in the ranks. After a while, I’m sure I’ll be promoted to supervisor. And I need this experience, running a department, working with customers—”

  “And how many years are you talking about now?” Her words were vitriolic, and Jake stiffened. He didn’t want his mouth to open, but it did of its own volition. She had pushed him to the limit one more time.

  “Don’t start. You threw that dream of moving to Hawaii away when you threw those damn pills out.”

  His words sailed across the room and sagged in the kitchen, heavy with steam, dripping with hurt.

  As if on cue, Simon reached up, whiny, needy, and Leah pulled him into her arms, then spun back to face the stove. Jake sighed and lifted Levi, carried him into the boys’ bedroom, set him down in the playpen filled with stuffed animals. As he listened to Reuben explain the pictures in his coloring book, he heard pots clang and water run. He berated himself for blurting those words out, but she needed to hear them.

  He realized after a while that he wasn’t really listening to Reuben. His son was standing on the other side of thick glass, a soundproof partition, gesturing and moving his lips, blinking his eyes. Jake was moving through his family like a ghost, whisking in and out, fluttering a curtain, rattling a chain. Hardly a presence to be reckoned with. Maybe now with this new job he would become more substantial, enter the established rhythms of life with his wife and children, his spirit merging with their spirits, adhering to a common timetable.

  Leah leaned into the doorway, her expression unreadable as she announced dinner was ready. Jake lifted Levi—how light he felt—and followed Reuben to the table, where Simon was already twirling his fork around his plate, chasing noodles that escaped him.

  “Here,” Jake said, reaching over and cutting his son’s spaghetti into small pieces.

  Simon screeched. “Now I can’t get them on my fork!”

  “Just scoop them up, Simon.” Three years old and had to do everything his way, the only right way. He was so much like Leah. Jake swiveled his head, listened. He called out, “Leah, are you coming?”

  A minute passed. Jake opened the jar of pureed applesauce and stuck the spoon in. Levi sat placidly in his high chair, breathing as usual through his mouth, lethargic, bleary-eyed. Jake worked to get his attention, to interest him in eating. He was so much more delicate than his other sons, quieter, more serious. But the doctors had assured them he was fine, if a little below standard on weight, height, and motor skill development.

  Jake turned at the sound of heels clicking on the entry linoleum. Rather than come into the kitchen, Leah headed for the door. Jake barely had time to note what she was wearing before it registered she was going out, before she had the front door swung open to the February rain pattering on the floor.

  “What . . . where are you going? Aren’t you eating with us—”

  Leah wouldn’t look at him, but popped open her purse, rummaged through it, found keys. She stared out at the street, at the night, as if hearing its siren song. Jake’s stomach fluttered and he felt sick all over.

  Simon ran to her and pulled on the hem of her very short skirt. She had on black tights and high heels that strapped around her slender ankles. Her brushed hair, its sheen illuminated by the overhead porch light, fell down to her waist, but patches of skin exposed by her backless blouse peeked through. Jake wanted to grab her arm and yank her back into the living room, lock the door. He couldn’t move, not even a finger. Some unnamable emotion had him bound and besp
elled.

  Leah jiggled the keys in her hand as she stroked Simon’s hair. She leaned down to him, but it was clear she was talking to Jake.

  “Well, it’s mommy’s birthday—not like anyone remembered. And I have a party to go to.”

  Reuben stopped eating, his fork midway to his mouth. “Can I come too?”

  “No, sweetie,” Leah said with saccharine in her mouth, “this is a grownup party.”

  “I’m almost grown up!” Reuben scooted back from the table, about to run over to her. Simon started to cry. She shook him free, checking to see if his fingers had left print marks of tomato sauce on her skintight skirt. Simon’s cries turned into howls.

  Her face tightened and closed up, shutters drawn, shades down, unreadable. She slung words at Jake as she headed out into the dark and stormy night, as Reuben—off his chair and frozen in the middle of the kitchen—sobbed silently.

  “Don’t wait up.”

  Leah stood in the doorway facing the alley, sucking hard on her cigarette. Behind her, the applause was dying down, but it still ricocheted in her fast-pounding heart, pingponging against the fleshy walls and reverberating into the well-lit night. The streets of Hollywood were happening: sidewalks filled with people: spilling out of clubs, drinking in shadows on street corners, making deals, arranging trysts or paying for sex, drugs, whatever else could be sold from under the folds of a jacket. A police siren wailed in the distance. A hint of summer teased the air. And with that came the stirrings of her irresistible, irrepressible need to be on the beach. Even now, knowing the water would only turn her skin blue, it called her, and she longed to immerse herself, naked and free, into its pulsating heart.

  “That’s the best set you’ve ever done.”

  Leah turned at the sound of the deep, sultry voice—Barry, the bass player. Under the dim outdoor city lights, his rich-brown skin gleamed, and his chocolate eyes swam with affection and coke. Her own skin buzzed, not just from the hit but from the rekindled thrill that came from an adoring audience. She never knew she could touch others in that way, with her words and chords, linking them to her, her songs reeling them in, her feeling their attentiveness, their need, all rolled up with hers. And she had Barry to thank. She never would have taken the leap and climbed up on the stage without his warm smile encouraging her. That, and the two lines of coke he’d convinced her to blow. Performing was the greatest high she’d ever known. And like a drug, her need grew proportionately. Each time she played and sang and she absorbed the audience’s response, her need to perform again festered in her, to where it became hard to step off the stage, set her guitar back in its case. Go home to a house heavy with judgment. A landslide waiting to tumble on her head. Lines from that Stevie Nicks song ribboned through her brain. “Took this love and I took it down. Climbed a mountain and I turned around. And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills, till the landslide brought me down . . .”