by BJ Knapp
Of course, Keith arrives just as I am about to go out. He has a camera strapped around his neck; he stomps up the deck stairs and kicks off a pair of hiking boots—Tim’s hiking boots. I can’t help but raise my eyebrows while he claps the mud off the soles over the edge of the deck. Where is his brain? He borrowed Tim’s hikers without asking—after we were caught kissing last night?
“I didn’t think Tim would mind,” Keith says when he spies me staring at him with my mouth agape.
I snort in response. “And you wonder why I think you’re an asshole,” I shoot back at him.
He ignores me. “I heard some birds in the woods and had to go check them out.” He gestures to his camera. “You have a hawk nest out there. I got some pictures of some babies.”
“Um, Keith?” I ask. Is he really going to talk about birds after what happened last night?
“You also have some juvenile Canada geese out on the pond. Loads of them. They’ll be grown and ready to fly south before we know it.”
“Keith. Would you just stop talking about the fucking birds for a minute? Do you have any idea what I am going through right now?”
Instead of listening, he turns and walks into the house without answering my question.
“And you wonder why people don’t like you,” I call after him. I wait for him to come back, but he doesn’t. I go inside and hear his bedroom door close upstairs. What is it with people walking out on me lately? Doesn’t anyone want to talk things out?
Nope, he’s not getting away with this. I stomp up the stairs and pound on his door. “Keith! We need to talk.” I get silence in reply from the other side of the door. “Obviously I know you’re in there. Remember how you said you want to be more likeable? Well, this is a bad start on that, Keith.”
He opens the door. “Brenda, can we just not do this right now? I have a lot on my mind.”
“Are you kidding me? My husband didn’t come home last night after he caught us kissing, and you have a lot on your mind?”
“My mother called last night. She has a lump on her breast, and she’s waiting for the test results to come back. And I cannot be there with her right now. All I want to do is jump on the next plane and go to Sydney, but I cannot.”
I remember when we were at that stage with my mom. Waiting to find out whether your loved one has cancer is agonizing. I was in college then and still living at home; I was able to be there for her. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Keith right now.
“Oh, Keith,” I say. “I am sorry.”
“My mum is my best friend. She’s the only one who has no expectations other than my happiness. She doesn’t care about my reviews on Amazon or my reputation on Twitter. She is my key to my son. I am not allowed to see him anymore, but she is. She is the one who keeps me abreast of the changes in his life. I do not know what I will ever do without her.”
“Keith, a lump isn’t always a tumor. Many times it’s just a lump. I know that waiting for news on this is very difficult. You really just have to push yourself through your days until you get news.”
“I get that. I figured that getting some pictures of the birds this morning and texting them to her would distract me and make her smile.”
“I know you’re under a lot of stress right now, with the album, your mom, everything. But seriously, taking Tim’s boots after last night wasn’t cool.” I pause. A wounded look crosses his face. “Keith, seriously. You’re going to kiss another man’s wife and then wear his boots?”
“Well, when you put it that way,” he says, and shrugs. “Okay, I am sorry. I won’t touch Tim’s things again.” Wow, an apology. But am I considered one of Tim’s “things?”
I glance down at my watch; it’s time to go to work. Work won’t care that my home life is in chaos, but the last thing I want to do is go in today, when really all I want to do is go off somewhere with Tim and reclaim our marriage.
When I get into work, I duck into my cubicle and try to run down the clock. I can’t focus on anything, and I watch the number of unanswered emails in my inbox tick higher.
Amanda comes into my office and glances at my phone, which is switched to “do not disturb” mode. She raises her eyebrows at the display that now reads eight new voicemails, but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead she asks, “Hey, did you approve the proofs for the brochure?”
“Yes, I did. I left a message for Emily. Did she not get it?” Oh, shit, this would be bad if we had to expedite the printing because she didn’t get the message.
“Oh, she got the message alright.” Amanda pulls a brochure out of the box. “Brenda, what the hell?” She holds it up to me; I take it from her fingers and examine it. Oh, shit. This cannot be happening. “Boxter?” Amanda says. “Really? We have 50,000 of these things, and they’re useless. Expensively useless.” She gestures to the box on the floor.
This seriously cannot be happening. I reviewed that proof. I know I did. I clutch my hands to my head.
“No. Fuck. No.”
“Yes. Fuck. Yes.” She tosses one at me. “This is bad, Brenda. Majorly bad. Didn’t you review the proof?”
“Yes, I... Oh, my God. I missed it. I cannot believe I did this.”
“You need to fix this. We have these going out to the stores—FedEx just picked them up from the printer’s this morning. They are on the trucks going out to the brand new store sites all over the country. You have got to find a way to stop them from getting there. If Baxter corporate sees these, we’re sunk.” She pauses for effect. “I have to go now to catch a flight to New York. You need to make this happen.”
Right there, I can feel the balloon inside me deflate. My hopes for promotion just went down the tubes. She walks out of my cube, and I immediately get on the phone.
“Emily, it’s Brenda. Do you have the tracking numbers for the FedEx shipments that went out for Baxter? Will you please email them to me?” Then I tap my fingers on my desk until my incoming email dings, and I start clicking on the links to see where my packages are. Six of them went out. Two of them show that they’ve already arrived. One was signed for by an E. Miller, and the other one was signed for by G. Lee. I am sunk.
I slouch down in my chair. Amanda is going to kill me. What the hell am I going to do? I kick into action and call FedEx.
“Please, I am begging you. Don’t deliver those boxes.”
“Ma’am, there’s nothing we can do. They’re on the truck. We can’t reach the driver.”
“It’s 2015. You mean to tell me the driver doesn’t have a cell phone?” I ask, suddenly beyond irritated. “Or a CB radio? Or anything? What about emergencies?”
“Sorry ma’am. I am afraid it’s not possible.”
I hang up the phone. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. I press my fist against my forehead. Tears well up in my eyes. I can’t let anyone see me cry at work. I have to get out of here.
I sneak out of the office, not even acknowledging Joy on my way out. I walk down to the beach and kick off my sandals and walk along the edge of the surf to the rocks at the far end. I am still barefoot, so I don’t want to climb onto the barnacle-covered rocks. I want to keep walking, but there’s no other option than to turn back. My mind is blissfully blank, and I want it to stay that way.
It’s pretty awesome to escape to where I can be completely alone, with no Keith, no Tim, no Hydra, no Amanda. Even thinking of all of them for a moment causes the exhaustion to set in. I can feel it weighing on my shoulders; I feel like I just packed on fifty pounds. My limbs are heavy and my feet ache from walking barefoot on the sand. I can see my shoes where I left them at the other end of the beach, and it suddenly feels like they’re miles away. I feel like I will never reach them if I keep walking. So I stop and lie down on the sand; just for a minute to rest. I’ll get up in a bit and keep walking. I should go back to work, but I just can’t.
***
I must have dozed off. I rub my eyes, not realizing that my hands are covered in sand. I feel the sting in my eyes as I wipe the grit ou
t. When I glance at my watch, I realize that it’s seven o’clock. I left work at three. My stomach is growling. I didn’t have the heart to eat my lunch today; it’s still in the fridge at work with my name written on the bag. I can stop to grab a few burritos on the way home. Maybe Tim will be there, and we can talk this out.
When I get back to the house, I hear Toni talking on the phone in the kitchen. Tim’s car isn’t there, and I am beyond disappointed. I haven’t talked to him all day, and I feel like somebody poked holes in my lungs. Suddenly I can’t seem to catch my breath. Why can’t he just come home?
Toni hangs up the phone and takes one look at me when I come in. She probably knows the answer, but she politely asks anyway, “How was your day, love?” I am pretty sure that she and everyone in the crew know what happened by now.
I wordlessly flop into a chair at the kitchen table while Toni brews a cup of tea. She sets it in front of me. I take a sip and feel the hot tears run down my cheeks. She brushes the hair off my face, and, surprisingly, I feel a bit comforted.
She sits down and takes my hand. “Brenda, it’ll be okay. Don’t cry, love.”
“I don’t think it will,” I whisper. “He’s really mad.”
“Well, of course he is. You would be, too. But Tim loves you. He will forgive you.”
Toni sits with me for a few minutes more, but I don’t know what else to say. I grab a napkin from the holder and blow my nose. I know that she has work to do. I can tell that she’s getting antsy; I tell her I am fine.
She squeezes my hand and smiles at me before getting back to work. I wait at the kitchen table until the sun goes down, but Tim doesn’t come home. The band comes in from Del’s and plunders the kitchen for dinner. Keith walks through the kitchen without glancing my way. I hear his footsteps going up the stairs, and then his bedroom door closing.
I fidget with the salt and pepper shakers until they fall over. I don’t bother to right them. I stand up from the table and call Tim’s cell—straight to voicemail. So I call the shop. The machine picks up on the sixth ring.
I grab the burritos and my keys and get into my car. He can’t ignore me when we’re face to face, can he? I have shattered the trust of the one person who means the most to me in the entire world. Maybe I can lighten the mood and win him over with a burrito, at first. Surely he’s hungry, and he’ll laugh that I’d brought one to him. Once he laughs, we can talk again, and I can tell him exactly how sorry I am.
Chapter 19
WHEN I GET TO THE SHOP, the windows in the garage bay doors are dark. I pull around the back where Tim has a separate entrance for his office; I see a faint glow coming from the office window. I walk up to the glass, wipe away the dust, and peer in; I see him sitting at his desk, staring at the wall. I gently tap on the glass and watch him jump up, startled. He turns to face the window. I hold up the cylinder shape covered in foil, the sure sign of a burrito. He looks at me, no expression on his face. I try to smile and wave the burrito up and down, trying to make it more enticing. I try the door, but it’s locked. I have a key, but I don’t feel right about unlocking the door and barging in. I’d rather he let me in, figuring it’s a sign that he actually wants to talk to me.
At first, he doesn’t move to get up, just continues to stare at me. I can tell he isn’t just angry—he’s royally pissed off. Tears fill my eyes as I press my hand against the window pane. “I love you,” I mouth. He glares and shakes his head at me—not a good sign. What’s great about Tim is that, when we’ve fought in the past, he’s always been able to say he loves me, even when I’ve pissed him off. Not this time, though.
A mosquito buzzes by my ear; I swat at it then replace my hand on the window. I wonder how long he’ll make me wait out here. How long will he sit there and glare at me? How many mosquito bites will I get out here? I can’t read his poker face. Is he trying to decide whether he wants to let me in?
“Tim,” I call out, “will you please let me in?” He stands, walks to the door, and opens it. The orange glow from the sulfur light shines on him from above and makes his skin yellow. It casts a shadow on his eyes and makes them look even angrier. He’s not saying anything. Not a good sign.
I freeze in the doorway. I don’t think I can handle getting into a fight right now. There is a distinct possibility that our marriage could end tonight. Maybe standing outside the window and getting bitten by a thousand mosquitos is better than going into his office and getting divorced. I would do it for him; I owe him that much.
A moth flutters down from the security light and into the open door. I watch it fly straight into his desk lamp and hear its body click against the lightbulb repeatedly until Tim speaks.
“You’re letting bugs in,” he says. “Are you coming in?”
“That depends,” I reply. “Are you going to leave me?”
“No, Bren,” he says, sighing. “I am not going to leave you. Just come in.”
I step into his office. Even though I’m not convinced he’s being truthful, I feel a little relieved. At least he’s speaking to me, which is a start. It’s cleaner than normal in here. A mechanic’s office is always grimy. In the past, when I’ve commented on how grungy it always is in here, he’s asked me if I wanted him making money on the shop floor or working in here, cleaning his office. When he’s put it that way, I’ve had to agree. I’ve always had to fight the urge to clean when I came in here, though. He says that he doesn’t want me to, because he’ll never find anything I’ve put away. But really, I think that he doesn’t want me to feel like I have to clean up after him, and it’s sweet that he thinks that. Now, I see that all of the grimy fingerprints are gone, and his paperwork is filed. His desk is spotless, and the floor has been swept clean.
“Tim, I am so...”
“I don’t want to hear about how sorry you are,” he interrupts. “I just don’t. It’s a bullshit thing to say. I mean, would you be sorry if I hadn’t walked in?” He takes the phone off its cradle and fidgets with the cord. I watch him meticulously untangle it. He doesn’t look up when he speaks again. “The thing that bothers me the most is that I’m wondering if you would have told me about it, if I hadn’t walked in on you and Keith.” This time he looks up and makes eye contact. “Would you have told me?”
I open my mouth to answer and then close it again. I struggle to find the words so I can gently tell him the truth. I am pretty sure I would have kept the kiss to myself. I mean, what’s the point in telling him and intentionally hurting his feelings for no good reason? Talk about pouring gasoline on a fire. But then, if I tell him that I would have told him, I’d be lying to him. And I don’t want to lie to my husband. Any way I slice it, I’m screwed.
“So, you wouldn’t have told me?” he asks, looking up. He sets the phone back into the cradle, leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms. “Brenda? If I’d asked you whether you’d kissed Keith, would you have told me?”
Tears form in my eyes. What the hell am I supposed to do? What can I possibly say?
“Brenda!” His stern voice startles me. “Would you have told me?” His jaw is clenched; he is getting even madder, if that’s even possible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this mad.
“No!” I blurt out. “No, I would not have told you, okay? Is that what you want to hear?” Well, at least I’ve told the truth. He can’t hold that against me on top of everything else at this point.
He leans onto his desk and rests his head in his hands, deflating right in front of me. I hate it when he gets this way; and it’s even worse when I know that I’ve caused it.
“I am not going to lie to you, on top of everything else. I owe you the truth.”
“Bren, you don’t owe me the truth. What you owe me is not going around kissing other men.”
“It was just one time, Tim. It’s not like I go around—“
“One time?” he interrupts. “And how the hell should I know that? It’s not like you’d tell me anyway.”
He has a good point. I look down at the
chipped nail polish on my toes and try to formulate a response. What could I possibly say to make him feel better right now? Talk about a no-win situation.
“How can I possibly trust you now?” he asks.
“Tim, I’ve told you the truth—that’s gotta be worth something.”
“You told me the truth by telling me you’d lie to me. If I flat-out asked you, you would lie to me.” I hadn’t considered that. Good point, Tim. “I want Hydra out of my house by the end of the week.”
“Tim, if they leave early, we have to pay to accommodate them until they get into another house and we don’t get the money that they’re going to pay us.”
“I don’t care about the fucking money. It’s been way too much of a disruption to our lives and our marriage. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this. It was a stupid idea, one of the stupider ones you’ve ever had. I don’t have time for this shit right now. I cannot handle this. I can’t have my mother calling me to bitch at me about her fucking purse and her car, now, either.”
Great. Portia’s insinuated herself into the fight now, too.
Tears run down my cheeks again. He runs his hands through his hair. He hates seeing me cry, but I know he won’t comfort me. It’s my turn to comfort him, but there’s no way he’ll let me right now.
“I am not coming home until they’re out,” he says and gestures to the couch. He’s put away his pillow and blanket, presumably so the guys in the shop won’t know he’s staying here.
“Are you serious?” I ask. “That thing is filthy.” He raises his eyebrows in response, and I shut up. After a pause, I ask him, “Do you need anything?”
“No.” He points to the duffel on the floor—he probably went to pick up a few things while I was at work today. Great. Now he won’t even come into our house when he knows I’ll be there. He walks across the office, opens the door, and gestures for me to leave.
