by Karen Cimms
Hearing Billy’s key turn in the lock, Kate struggled to get up off the living room floor, where she’d been packing books. The door banged open, followed by the crash of his guitar case into the large box leaning up against the wall.
“What the fuck?” He slammed his palm against the light switch. Nothing happened.
“The bulb blew out, remember?” she said from the end of the hall. “And that’s a crib. Robbie and Luann sent it. I couldn’t exactly ask them to bring it back in a few weeks, could I?”
“You should’ve just told them to take it back altogether.”
She pressed her hands against the ache in her back. “Why?”
He looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Because I don’t need Robbie and Luann buying my kid a crib. I can buy my own damn crib.”
Where was this fresh spate of anger coming from? Puzzled, she followed him into the kitchen. “I didn’t think—”
“No. I guess you didn’t think how I’d feel being made to look like I can’t take care of my own family.” He opened the cabinet over the kitchen sink, then slammed it hard enough to make her jump.
“No one thinks that.”
“Forget it.” Grabbing the keys he’d just tossed on the counter, he headed for the door. “How come there’s never any goddamn aspirin in this house?”
“Wait,” she called after him. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Not now. I gotta get outta here.”
The door banged shut.
She leaned against the counter, wondering what she’d done to trigger his latest blowup. Everything was getting to him lately, but it had escalated after the Video Music Awards on TV the other night. As the camera panned the theater, they’d caught a glimpse of Asher Drake. She had nothing to do with Billy’s not getting the gig with Asher’s band, but it was her fault he was stuck doing session work during the day and playing two-bit clubs at night. He hadn’t said it, but it didn’t take much to imagine what he was thinking.
She pulled the baking dish from the oven. Not only wasn’t his foul mood passing, he’d gone from sulking to just plain angry.
When Billy returned a couple hours later, Kate was asleep. Tired and hungry, he pulled a foil-covered plate from the refrigerator. He’d had plenty to drink at Kozakowski’s, but he grabbed another beer anyway. He pulled off the foil and picked up the cold pork chop.
As he began to eat, he saw the note propped against the sugar bowl. There was just enough light coming through the curtained window to read Kate’s handwriting.
Billy,
I called Luann and thanked her for the crib and told her we couldn’t accept it, as we already bought one. She insists we return it and use the money to get whatever we need. I told her it was too generous and we couldn’t accept, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I’m sorry,
Katie
She’d drawn a small heart next to her name.
If it was even possible, he felt worse. He was turning her into a liar on his behalf. She didn’t get it. He crumpled the note and threw it at the trash can. It bounced off the wall and rolled onto the floor.
He pushed the plate away and sat in the dark with the walls closing in around him, a cold, fatty pork chop cramping his gut, a wife asleep in the other room, and another mouth to feed on the way. On top of that, his cousin and his former girlfriend were buying things for his baby he couldn’t afford to buy himself.
He grabbed another beer and kicked the refrigerator door closed. Then he sprawled out on the couch, flipping channels until he came to MTV. He grabbed his unplugged Epiphone from its stand and silently fingered the lead break to “One,” note for note, along with Kirk Hammett.
Maybe he should be writing. He hadn’t written any new music for a while. He should take what he was feeling and write, put this angst to good use. Problem was, he had nowhere to work. He couldn’t ask Kate to leave or go sit in the bedroom so he could be alone.
Of course, that might be preferable to blowing up at her over nothing. It was like a punch in the gut to see hurt in those big green eyes, knowing he’d put it there. But she never fought back. It was just so easy to blame her, and he was a big enough jerk to do it.
His mood shot from ugly to black with the next video. The song haunted his nightmares. He could play it in his sleep. He wanted to turn it off, but he couldn’t move. Asher Drake was touring the country with a new hit single and smiling from his seat at the VMAs, and now Bailey Swift’s fucking video was on MTV. And here he sat playing his unplugged guitar on his fucking couch, in fucking Bayonne, wondering how he was supposed to make ends meet.
When the video ended, he set his guitar down and headed for the kitchen. He pulled a bottle of Jack from the top shelf of the pantry. Not bothering with a glass, he settled onto the couch and drank until he didn’t care about the music awards or Bailey Swift or his cousin, the fucking crib-buying lawyer.
It had been awhile since she had woken up alone. At first Kate panicked when she saw Billy’s side of the bed empty. She was only slightly less worried when she found him passed out on the couch. Empty beer bottles on the coffee table and the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor explained why. With MTV still playing in the background, she assumed he’d sat there half the night, drinking away his disappointment. She gathered up the empties, and as she disposed of them in the kitchen, she found her crumpled note on the floor next to the trash.
Billy was angry and frustrated, probably with himself, but he must be blaming her as well. Why wouldn’t he? You couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing Bailey’s stupid song. If she was alone, she’d turn it off, but when they were together, neither moved, as if they didn’t want the other to know how bad they each felt.
She scraped his dinner into the trash, then poured herself a bowl of cereal. He wouldn’t go on the road now, not with the baby due soon, but afterward, she would insist he pick up where he left off. It was the only way, if they had any hope of staying together.
After breakfast Kate got dressed and went out to the courtyard with her copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, but she couldn’t concentrate. Not with the sky such a brilliant blue and the sunlight glinting on the Hudson. A walk might be just what she needed. She had packing to do, but given the way Billy had been snoring, he wouldn’t be waking any time soon.
At the little park at the end of the block, she settled on a bench overlooking the water, the sun warming her face. She watched the boats. Some sailed under the Bayonne Bridge into Newark Bay. Heading north, they would pass the Statue of Liberty. If they went south, they would head out to sea. At this moment, she wished she could be on any one of them, sailing the smooth seas, not a care in the world.
A pigeon strutted nearby, poking in the grass and along the sidewalk. Another hopped onto the bench beside her and cocked its head, as if checking up on her.
“I’m sorry.” She spoke low so not to frighten them. “If I’d known I was coming, I would’ve brought you some crackers.” They took off in an angry rush of feathers.
“You always sit on park benches and talk to yourself?”
Hurt bubbled up at the sound of Billy’s voice. He came around the bench and sat beside her, hands thrust in his pockets, close enough that his arm touched hers.
“Nice day,” he said, tilting his face toward the sun and closing his eyes. He didn’t speak again right away. When he did, he apologized. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. I just feel overwhelmed sometimes.”
She nodded. “What are you feeling that—”
“I said I was sorry.” There was an edge to his voice. “Could we just drop it?”
She chewed her lip, and nodded.
They sat, neither of them speaking, watching the boats. After a while, she dipped her head enough to steal a glance. He was staring at the water, his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and she wondered if he imagined himself heading home to a safe harbor, or out to sea in search of adventure.
Chapter Thirty-Four
> Her meat loaf had been a hit at dinner. Its return engagement around midnight, not so much.
It had taken some convincing, but Kate finally understood that meat loaf really was Billy’s favorite. To make it special, she had seasoned and toasted bread for breadcrumbs and chopped onions until she cried. She mixed it gently by hand, adding one egg and just enough water to hold it together. Then she lovingly patted it into a loaf pan and topped it with a tomato sauce flavored with green peppers, yellow mustard, and brown sugar. She wanted it to be perfect, wanted to do something to make him happy, to make him see he hadn’t made a mistake.
It was a lot to ask of a meat loaf, which might explain why it was now trying to kill her.
Her gut burning, Kate hoisted herself out of bed. Her antacid tablets were still on the coffee table in the living room, where she’d been eating them like candy since dinner. She popped two chalky tablets in her mouth, then headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.
As she padded back to bed, she felt a tightening in her groin. It spread until her belly was as hard and dense as a basketball.
The next contraction came while she sat on the edge of the bed, followed by another a few minutes later. She felt a flutter of excitement. The baby wasn’t due for another week, but still. She pumped her fists into the air. Yes!
With all the packing she’d done for the move, she hadn’t had time to pack for the hospital. Holding on to the edge of the mattress, she shimmied to her knees and dragged her suitcase out from under the bed. Getting up wasn’t as easy. She carelessly threw a handful of panties into her bag, then tossed in her new nightgown, robe and nursing bras. When she was done, she snapped the suitcase shut and set it near the bedroom door.
The contractions were sporadic and pain-free. Unlike the indigestion, which was tormenting her. She chewed a couple more antacid tablets, then climbed back into bed. Too excited to sleep, she practiced her Lamaze breathing, drawing lazy circles over her belly while she waited for Billy to get home.
She awoke a few hours later to another contraction and an empty bed. The couch was empty as well.
Other than the staggered beams from street lamps, Avenue C was dark and deserted. Lights from Staten Island flickered on the small patch of river she could see from her living room window. Empty parking spots dotted the street, but there was no sign of Billy’s van. Invisible bands tightened around her chest. When she felt the baby press against the palm of her hand, she stroked her belly.
Her eyes focused on her reflection mirrored in the glass as her belly grew hard, then relaxed beneath her fingers. Watching the street wouldn’t do her any good. She forced herself back to bed, where her imagination offered up all kinds of frightening scenarios.
It was after five when she heard a loud thump outside the apartment. The door banged open. There were two sets of voices, neither familiar. From where she lay on the bed she could see three dark figures silhouetted in her doorway.
She wanted to scream, but nothing came out. Her shaking hands twisted the sheets up to her neck. The men made their way into her apartment, the hall light reflecting on the white-blond hair of the shorter man—Gordon, Billy’s rhythm player. The taller man was unfamiliar, but she could see that they each had a shoulder under Billy’s arms. His head flopped on his chest, and his legs appeared to be made of rubber.
She scrambled out of bed.
“What happened?” she cried, flipping on the light and moving as quickly as she could.
He appeared to be unconscious. His eyes fluttered and his jaw hung slack.
“Where can we drop him?” Gordon asked, gasping for air. “This sonofabitch is heavy.”
She pointed toward the bedroom, but they only made it as far as the couch before dumping him roughly on the cushions. He rolled onto his stomach with a groan.
“What’s wrong with him?”
The taller man laughed. He had a long beard caught up with several rubber bands. “He’s drunk. What the fuck you think’s wrong with him?”
Gordon shot him a look. “Kate, this is Snatch. He’s new. Keyboard and background vocals.”
“Snatch?”
He started to explain how he’d gotten his nickname.
“Not now,” Gordon said.
Billy’s shirt tails were out. His hair was damp and knotted. It spread across his face and into his open mouth. The stench of sweat, stale alcohol, and cigarettes coming off the three of them was nauseating.
“What happened?”
“He’s drunk,” Gordon said with a shrug, as if that was all she needed to know.
Snatch started to laugh, but stopped when he caught the dangerous look she gave him.
“I dunno why he was drinking so much,” Gordon said. “I’ve never seen him this drunk.”
Neither had she. She couldn’t decide if she was angry, afraid, or just extremely disappointed. Scratch that. She was disgusted.
“Where are Denny and Steve?”
“They left soon after we were done.”
“If you were playing at the college, where were you drinking?”
“There’s a bar not too far from the student center. We went to have a couple beers.”
The mess lying on her couch clearly had more than a couple beers. “Bars close at two.”
“Yeah, but he wanted to keep playing, so the owner let him. When she locked up, we just jammed and drank.”
“Holy shit! You’re pregnant!” Snatch announced loudly.
She couldn’t tell if he was completely wasted or just incredibly stupid.
“Do you want us to move him into the bedroom?” Gordon asked.
“No.” He was hers to deal with. “Thanks for bringing him home. Is the van still in Montclair?”
“Almost forgot.” Gordon pulled the keys from his pocket. “It’s around back. I figured you weren’t in any position to be without a vehicle.”
“Thanks. At least someone’s thinking.”
“Sorry, Kate. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”
“No, thanks.”
“Cool,” said Snatch.
After locking up, she returned to the living room. She felt another, much milder twinge as she watched Billy snoring on the couch. The contractions had been intermittent, and none of them painful. False labor, most likely. She rubbed a hand over her belly. But what if she did go into labor? What if her water broke? Or the contractions that had started during the night came back, regular and painful? What would she do? Drive herself to the hospital?
Billy moaned and let out a long, loud burp. She couldn’t remember ever being this disappointed in anyone.
She pulled a bucket and trash bag from under the kitchen sink and arranged them next to the couch, close to his head. She contemplated getting him out of his clothes, but at that moment, she didn’t really care if he got sick all over himself. At least he was on his stomach. She yanked his wallet from his back pocket, plucked out three twenties, and tossed it on the coffee table. Then she got dressed. On her way out, she grabbed her suitcase and the keys to the van. She wanted to slam the door, but what was the point?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Shrieks and shouting pierced Billy’s eardrums. The sound was shrill enough to cause pain in his temporal lobes that seemed to shoot straight out his eyelids. A foul taste filled his mouth, and his tongue felt as if it were made of cotton. Keeping his eyes clamped shut, he reached for his pillow and fell hard onto the living room floor, hitting his face on the rim of a bucket and banging his shoulder into a corner of the coffee table.
Shit. He peered through one eye, trying to figure out where he was and why.
The afternoon sun was blinding, and the noise was getting worse. It was only children playing in the courtyard, but it might as well have been multiple air raid sirens. He dragged himself onto the couch, cursing as he pulled off his shirt to survey the damage, which included a large scrape across his upper arm. A huge red knot on his shoulder was already turning purple.
“Kate!”
he cried, painfully regretting the volume of his own voice, which caromed off the inside of his skull like billiard balls after the break. The silence that answered was dull and flat. He stood, swayed, then made his way to the window, where in spite of the threat of another hot late September day, he slammed it shut, wincing at the bang as it crashed down.
If there had been a gun in the house, he might have shot himself to stop the pain in his head. He stumbled to the bathroom. After peeing for an impressively long time, he found a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet. Praying for relief, he opened it. One lone tablet stared up at him.
“Fuck!”
He swallowed the pill without water, but with his mouth as dry as the Sahara, it stuck. Coughing to dislodge it from his throat only intensified the agony. Maybe one of the neighbors had a gun.
“Katie!” he yelled again, then shushed himself loudly. He held his throbbing head with both hands as he staggered toward the kitchen, feeling his way with one eye open just a sliver to avoid the bright, white light from the sun, which he was certain had moved closer to Earth just to sear his retinas. Squinting, he looked for a note, praying he’d find one telling him she’d gone to the store for more aspirin.
There was no note. And no additional bottle of aspirin, either.
“Where the fuck are you?” he yelled to the empty apartment.
The stink of the night before was strong on him, and though he longed to climb into bed, he was clearheaded enough to know he’d catch shit if he stunk up the sheets. Maybe the hot water of a shower on his head and neck might be some panacea for the pain. It wasn’t. Wet, nauseous, and suffering from a Guinness record-breaking hangover, he climbed into bed and passed out.
When the phone rang a couple hours later, his head was still throbbing but not so badly that he was praying for a quick death. Why the fuck wasn’t she picking up the phone? He pulled the pillow over his head to drown out the noise, determined to sleep until the pain was gone.
After a few minutes, the ringing started again.
