All the Ugly and Wonderful Things (40 page)

“Yeah, I don't think I could sleep either,” he said.

Thinking about how close I'd come to sacrificing my dignity on the altar of Joshua's good looks, I took a thorough accounting of Darrin. He was single, in school, and gainfully employed. He had come through for me out of the blue, and he was still there. If I wanted to stop getting my heart broken, it wasn't enough to stop being self-absorbed. I needed to stop chasing after guys as self-absorbed as I was. I leaned in so that my mouth was in kissing range.

“Maybe we'd both get some sleep if you got in bed with me,” I said. If he'd pulled the
taking advantage
number again, I don't think I could have forgiven him, but lo and behold, he kissed me.

*   *   *

Of course, we didn't go to sleep until dawn. I had finally drifted off, with Darrin's arm around me, when I heard the front door open. I thought about getting up to see what Wavy was doing, but I was naked and comfortable, so I stayed in bed. Then there was a thumping sound, and the front door opened and closed. A few minutes later the door opened and there was more thumping.

I got dressed and went out to the living room, where a pile of large library books was forming next to the coffee table. I picked up a blue, leather-bound volume marked “State Penal Code, 1981 to Present, Volume XXIV.” On the spine was a sticker that said “LAW REF Non-Circ.”

While I was trying to decide what it meant, Wavy came through the door carrying more books, stacked up almost to her chin. She dropped them next to the other books, and went down the hallway to her bedroom.

“Are these reference books from the law library?” I yelled. “You can't check these out, can you?”

“The janitor smokes.”

“You went to the law library, snuck past the janitor on his smoke break, and stole books?”

I could almost hear her shrug.

She came back with a spiral notebook and a pen, picked up the top book, and hauled it to the kitchen table. From there it looked like any other homework assignment. She ran her finger down the index, thumbed into the book, and started reading. Every once in a while, she would stop and copy something into her notebook.

I left her to it, and went back to bed.

When Darrin and I finally got up, she was still working. It was the kitchen table, after all, so I cooked brunch around her. I was worried it would be awkward, but she said, “Hi,” to Darrin, and shifted some of the books, so there was a place to eat. Honestly, I was the only one who seemed uneasy, but that's because I was trying to figure out what was going on with Wavy. She'd gone from destroyed to driven overnight, but driven by what? She hadn't put her ring back on, and there was a gap of paler skin on her hand where it usually was.

When she took a bathroom break, I reached across the table and grabbed her notebook. “No Contact Order” was the header on the first page. Below that was a series of bullet points. Expiration of civil orders. Automatic NCO in cases of DV. Imposed by parole board. Imposed by parole agency. Imposed by sentencing judge.

The header on the next page was “Process for removing NCO imposed by parole board.” The pages after that had headers for different scenarios, waiting for Wavy's notes.

 

13

WAVY

June 1990

For a few days afterwards, I could press my fingers up into myself and find the raw spot Kellen had left. The swelling in my wrist went down after a few days, and left a bruise in the shape of his fingers. Then that faded, too.

I put the ring away in the velvet box the lady in the jewelry store had given me, because I couldn't wear it anymore. Kellen had made me keep the ring, but he hadn't put it back on my finger. That meant it wasn't my wedding ring. When I pressed it to my mouth it was just a rock. The difference between a meteor falling through the atmosphere and a meteorite lying in the dirt.

I didn't regret kicking my electric typewriter down the stairs. Aunt Brenda had given it to me for my high school graduation, and whether she intended it or not, gifts take up space in your heart. I needed that space now. I finished my Spanish essay on a computer on campus. For the letters I needed to write, I had the manual Underwood that Grandma taught me to type on. It was Army green and weighed almost thirteen pounds. It worked fine, and Grandma didn't take up any more room in my heart than a floor takes up space in a house.

When Renee wasn't complaining about the sound of me typing, she was hovering anxiously. I don't know what she thought I would do if she left me alone too long. Get high on correction fluid? Or maybe she thought I would do what I did: write a letter a day to Kellen's parole officer until his supervisor wrote me back.

Dear Miss Quinn,

I apologize for the delay in responding to your letters. To answer your questions: the conditions of Jesse Joe Barfoot's parole were not set by this office. Therefore, we are unable to alter the no contact order. The conditions of his parole were set by the sentencing judge. To have them changed, you would need to file a formal appeal in the district court where he was sentenced.

 

Sincerely,
James Teeter

“What happens now?” Renee said.

“Formal appeal in district court.”

I opened my accordion file folder, put the letter in one slot, and pulled out a Form J-319-7. Modification to Orders of Protection and No Contact. I put it in the old Underwood and rolled it up.

“Wow, there's a form for that?” Renee said.

I'd requested the form, even before I knew I would need it, just like I'd requested copies of Kellen's final judgment from the district court. I took those out, too, to be sure I got everything correct on the form.

It made me sick to see him listed there by the name he never wanted: Jesse Joe Barfoot, Jr. They'd taken away his identity, pressed him back into his father's mold. Kellen wasn't the only one who had his identity stripped away in those records. Every place I appeared, I was
the minor victim
, identified only as WLQ. To protect me, of course, even if I didn't want to be protected. That was what I put in the very small space provided on the form for me to justify my request to have the no contact order rescinded.
I do not wish to be protected by the court's order, as the defendant presents no danger to me.

“Have you considered becoming a lawyer?” Renee said, while I typed.

“Never.” I thought of all the lawyers who'd passed through my life, and I didn't envy any of them the part they'd played.

I drove up to Garringer by myself to file the form and pay the fifty dollar filing fee. After that, I waited. Just like I'd been waiting for years. Renee talked about how electronic mail was going to be the next big thing, but the dented mailbox in the front hall of our apartment building was still my god. Every day I prayed that it would deliver up a letter from Donal or from someone who knew where he was. I prayed for it to bring me an answer from the district court.

I wondered if that was what it was like for Kellen, after he'd written Liam's phone number on my arm. When he was sitting alone and bleeding, waiting for me to come back, had it seemed like a month to him? Had it seemed longer? Had it seemed hopeless?

 

14

KELLEN

July 1990

That first week, I slept at the same dive hotel where I'd stayed when Beth's grandkids came to visit. Most of June, when the weather was good, I stayed at a campground in a tent I picked up from an Army surplus store. Reminded me of sleeping out in the meadow with Wavy, and it was that memory as much as the summer heat that made me give it up. After a couple more nights in a motel, I moved in with Craig, one of the guys at the shop. Him and his wife was expecting a baby, though, and she didn't like me being there when he was out.

By the middle of August, I was back to another crappy motel, and working as many hours as I could, so I wouldn't have to be at the motel except to sleep.

I had my head up under the hood of a Toyota when somebody said, “Jesse,” behind me. There was Beth, with her hair dyed this new dark color of red, holding my baseball bat. Wouldn't have surprised me if she'd swung it at me, but she said, “You forgot this. Thought you might want it. And your winter coat.”

The employee lounge was just a closet with lockers and chairs, but it was kind of private, so I took her in there. I stuck the bat and coat in my locker and counted three hundred dollars out of my wallet.

“Thanks for bringing my stuff. This here's for May's rent and electric,” I said.

“You were only there for a week.”

“Yeah, well, I still owe you the rent.”

She took the money and put it in her purse. Then she just looked at me, so I knew she was waiting for me to say something.

“Look, I'm sorry about what happened. I know that was a lousy thing to do to you. If I'd been thinking—”

“Is it over? Are you still breaking your parole?” Beth said.

“No. I haven't seen her again.”

“If it's over, you could come back. I won't put up with you breaking your parole, but if you promise it's over, we could try again.” I guess I didn't answer soon enough, because she stood up and put her purse over her shoulder. “Jesus Christ. I can't believe I came here thinking you might be interested in a second chance.”

“I can't come back, because I can't promise anything. If Wavy showed up tomorrow, I'd do it all over again. I loved her the first time I saw her and I still do.”

“Love at first sight, huh?” Beth snorted. “How old was she?”

“Eight.”

“That's creepy.”

She said a bunch of other shitty things, too. “You should've stayed in prison if that's how you're going to live,” and, “Nothing like flushing the rest of your life down the toilet over some girl you're never going to be with.” Like I didn't wish I was dead most of the time. Like I hadn't spent some time thinking about where I could buy a gun and solve it. Almost as much time as I'd spent thinking about breaking my parole and seeing Wavy.

After Beth got that out of her system, she asked me to move back in with her. I said yes, but only as roommates. She needed help with the rent, and I needed some place to stay that wasn't gonna get me in trouble with my parole officer.

It woulda been nicer to live alone, but at least now Beth couldn't lay there at night and talk me half to death when I wanted some quiet. She didn't have any business complaining about my deodorant or my haircut or my tattoos. She still did, but I didn't have to pay attention.

The real difference was that Beth couldn't put her hand on my dick and say, “Turn off the TV and let's go in the bedroom,” whether I wanted to or not. I don't think I could have stomached that. Not when I had Wavy burned in my brain. Some nights, when I came home from work and walked into the kitchen, all I could think of was the way she'd stood on the chair and stripped down to her boots. How she'd run her hands over me. No woman had ever looked at me the way she did, or touched me that way. Like she wanted me, like I was worth wanting.

Most times all I could think of was how she'd come there and given herself to me. I didn't even have the decency to tell her we couldn't be together until after. Just desperate to be with her. I was still the same guy who let her give me a hand job when she was all of thirteen.

 

15

RENEE

August 1990

It got to where Wavy wouldn't even let me check the mailbox. If I went to get the mail, she practically tackled me when I came back, and yanked it out of my hands.

“Good thing I'm not expecting any love letters,” I said, while she rifled through the fliers and bills.

“You don't need love letters.” She thumped her hand on the kitchen table half-a-dozen times to mimic the sound of my headboard knocking against my bedroom wall, but I knew she didn't begrudge me the fun I was having with Darrin.

Three weeks later, Wavy's answer came. Or rather an answer. It was a copy of the form she submitted, with the bottom half filled out by hand. The box next to
This matter was not set for hearing
had been checked. Below that, where the form said, “After review of the file and evidence, the court orders that the above referenced Protection or No Contact Order, entered on
September 9, 1983
, shall be modified as follows,” someone had written
NO modification
.
Order remains in force.
That same person had signed the form. Judge C. J. Maber.

“The judge said no? He said no? What a fucking asshole!” I was so pissed off, I couldn't imagine how angry Wavy must have been. It wouldn't have surprised me if she had torn the form up or thrown her typewriter down the stairs, but she didn't. She spent maybe a minute glaring at the form and grinding her teeth. Then she sat down, stuck a piece of paper in the typewriter and started typing:
Dear Judge Maber
.

Contrary to Wavy's usual habits, it was short and polite, just a request to meet with the judge. When she didn't get an answer, though, the letters multiplied exponentially. The sheer quantity of them started to worry me, because at what point did it become harassment to send a letter a day to a judge? At least if the cops showed up, Wavy had returned all the illicitly borrowed law books to the library.

I wasn't home when the letter came, but I knew something big had happened by the way Wavy was tearing around the apartment when I got home from my first class of the semester. She had half the clothes in her closet strewn out on the couch, and as soon as I walked in, she put the letter in my hand. It wasn't even from the judge. It was from his clerk, and it just said,
Judge Maber is available to meet with you on Wednesday, August 15th at 8:00 am. The judge's court session begins at 9:00 a.m., so please be prompt.