Calamity (7 page)
He rubbed her thigh and spoke in a quiet, soothing voice, like cooing to a baby—oh, the irony. “Hey, babe. I brought your toast. You need to eat. You’ve lost more weight. I can tell. You should take a shower, so I can wash these sheets, air out the room. What do you think?”
She mumbled something, which was a good sign. She wasn’t fully in the depths of sleep then. Anthony had discovered that while it might appear she was constantly sleeping, she actually had a few modes that varied in levels of
out-of-itness
. When under the heavy hand of her magic pills (her own Pillie Billy), she was completely out of it, practically comatose. When falling into or coming back out of that state, she could respond in small grunts and mumblings, and the occasional full, though sometimes incoherent, sentence. When the pill wore off and she waited too long before taking another, she became restless and irritable.
He knew he should break her of her addiction, but he didn’t want to face the beast that would rise from the bed once her Pillie Billys were gone. He had to talk to Dr. Carroll, he knew, but he kept putting it off. What could he say but
Chloe is addicted to those pills you gave her and if you don’t cut her off she’s going to sleep away the rest of her life
? He’d call later today. Sure, sure he would.
“You want to eat some toast?” he asked.
She squirmed under the sheet, grumbled something. She was headed into comatose country.
“Come on, honey, just a few bites.”
She rolled over so suddenly that Anthony’s hand was almost trapped beneath her thighs, which had shrunk into small pieces of driftwood. Face half-buried in the pillow, eyes closed, she said, “Not now, no.”
With that, Anthony was back to that day last month when Chloe’s screams broke through the entire house and Tyler ran out of his bedroom to find out what happened, who had gotten hurt, and Anthony had already known before he made it upstairs—the heavy stone in his gut told him so—that something terrible had happened to the baby. He took the stairs two at a time and didn’t trip, though he almost wished he had. If he had fallen, broken an ankle or something, the rest of the day would have played out much more directly. They would have waited for the ambulance that Tyler called instead of grabbing their newborn (face bulging dark blue) and speeding down Route 84 in Chloe’s car to the hospital. The paramedics, who arrived three minutes after he had sped out of their driveway, would have been there to administer CPR or some type of aid instead of Anthony pushing the car to ninety-five miles per hour while Chloe screamed for him to go faster for Christ’s sake
go faster he’s turning purple he’s fucking dying Anthony don’t you hear what I’m saying our child is dying and you’re behind a fucking truck
. And the paramedics might not have saved the child, but they would have been there at least to help shield him and Chloe from the horror they glimpsed when he passed a truck on the left side shoulder, the car’s tires lost their grip, and the car tumbled off the side and into the median ditch, the slope steep enough to flip the car once and Chloe screamed as the baby slipped from her grip and hit the ceiling only to crash back into her lap when the car landed right side up. The paramedics would have placed a sheet over the baby but instead he and Chloe stared down at their newborn’s dark purple face and the blood gushing from his right eye socket, Chloe repeating again and again like a secret spell: “
Not now, no, not now, no, not now, no
.” There had been a pulse even then after the accident, but by the time the trooper arrived, the pulse had vanished. Then Chloe tried to run into traffic.
“The kids miss you,” he said and hoped she wouldn’t turn away, thinking of the one kid who would never miss her, the child they had not even bestowed a name upon because they couldn’t agree. She had wanted Clayton; he, Michael.
He started to get up and maybe try to motivate himself to make that call finally to Dr. Carroll when she spoke again. “You’re a good man,” she said. “A good father. I mean that.”
“And you’re a good mother, don’t forget that.”
“You’re raising them now.”
“Why don’t you have some toast?”
Her eyes slowly opened. Even with only the light streaking faintly in from the hallway, Anthony could see the swollen redness of her face. Perhaps nightmares did visit her in that drug-induced sleep.
“I can make you some tea, if you want.”
She touched his arm, her first gesture of affection, of even a connection, in several days. “I’m so sorry, Anthony. So very sorry.”
Her tears were quick and full. He took her in his arms and let her cry against him. She had cried this way when he finally tacklickinally ed her at the edge of the median before an SUV would have taken off her head. She tried to punch him and kick him, but he clenched her so tightly that all she could do was cry. Eventually, the trooper drove them to the hospital where they sat with their little baby in a cold room for several hours before a nurse told them the room was needed and that, oh yes, she was sorry, so very sorry for their loss.
“Why don’t we go somewhere?” he asked.
“What?”
“Delaney’s at SAT prep, Tyler took Brendan to bowling, so we can do whatever we want.”
She laughed, not quite a real laugh, but still it was something other than crying or sleeping and it stirred something for a moment in his heart. “Like the old days,” she said. “Before any kids at all.”
He smiled. “We can go to that old flea market where we made love in the back of your father’s Pontiac while Mexicans were selling rotten fruit right outside. Remember how the fat one knocked on the window and said, ‘
Hay la fruta verdadera
’?” His Spanish accent was terrible, but Chloe laughed again, this one more genuine, finding it more amusing than Delaney had found his Dracula voice. “I had no idea what that man said to us, but I remember him saying it again and again.”
“That’s because you didn’t want to stop,” she said with the faintest flirtation.
He rubbed her thigh. “That’s what you do to me, baby. Even with fat, fruit-selling Mexicans watching, I can’t help myself.”
“I think you were showing off.”
“Me?”
“You knew what he was saying.”
He chuckled. “I did not. Not until later.”
“Yeah, once we got out and he said, ‘
fruta de la vagina
.’ I think then it was pretty obvious.”
“If we had been on that table between the avocados and the little bananas, I think he would have had more customers.”
“Oh, really, Mister Funny Guy?”
“Nothing sells quite so well as vagina fruit.” He squirreled his hand toward her crotch so quickly that she screamed in surprise and batted it away. Then he was on top of her and her arms were around him and laughter filled the bedroom for the first time in what felt like forever.
“Where do you want to go?” she asked. “Back to the flea market?”
“Heck, we can just go have lunch at Casa de Mexico and go at it on the table.” The laughter started again. “I’ll even pay the guy with the guitar to serenade us.”
He kissed her and though her lips were dry and her breath stale, it felt wonderful. Happiness wafted in her eyes. She stretched her arms to her side, arching her back in that familiar way, and he wanted her. Even now, even as she was almost emaciated and unshowered, he wanted her--his wife, his love.
Lizzy, their cat who would sleep in here all day too if Anthony didn’t force her out when he got up in the mornings, always stretched after a long nap, a signal she was ready to get some food and maybe sniff out the litter, but people in states of deep rest didn’t always stretch to awake the muscles for activity. Sometimes, the stretch was merely to stave off atrophy. Chloe might end up in a wheelchair one day if she stopped using her legs. That might be farfetched, but so was a baby’s death, at least in the heart where authentic truth lived.
Chloe’s arms curled back into her body, hands joining beneath his chest, and her eyelids settled closed again. The part of him that could have slapped her for giving up on life so easily did not flare up. Instead, he admired how peaceful Chloe looked, how sweet and gentle. Maybe the bad time would finally end. Maybe the darkness had lifted.
He settled next to her and was soon asleep. At some point, Lizzy crawled out from some hidden spot and curled between them.
Lizzy Borden
, he thought.
The phone rang and Anthony assumed it was Stephanie, Chloe’s sister, who always called Saturday afternoons to check up on everything. Those conversations recently lasted only the few minutes it took for Anthony to tell Stephanie how many hours Chloe had logged in sleep this week. He should have realized it was too early for Stephanie’s call. He should have realized that everything was going so well this morning that something had to go wrong. He wouldn’t be able to think about it until a few days later, and then only after he washed the blood off his knuckles, but he should have known that darkness was going to descend again. Not that it would have made any difference had he recognized the sound of death in the phone’s ring.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Williams?” the gruff voice asked.
“Who is this?”
“I’m Sergeant Fratto. There’s been an accident.”
6
The idea came so suddenly and right out of nowhere that Brendan believed the gods had given it to him. Probably had been the gods’ intervention since he’d be doing it for them. Brendan opened his composition book on his lap and added to his list: 47—drop bowling ball onto car.
“What are you writing?” Tyler asked.
Brendan shut the book. “Nothing.”
The road to the bowling alley took them past a seemingly endless row of houses bordering the street. Each house had a well-cared-for lawn and no campers or even kids’ toys cluttered the driveways. There were only four styles of homes, and four colors to match, and they repeated over and over, styles alternating from one side of the street to the other. Did people ever forget which house was theirs and try to enter one only to discover they were attempting to break into their neighbor’s home? It probably happened more often than people cared to acknowledge. Brendan had seen it happen in his neighborhood where most homes were one-car garage condos that were symmetrically stuck to another one-car garage condo. Their house was the two-car exception; nor did their house border their neighbors’ or resemble it symmetrically or otherwise. Kids at school said he lived in
Rich Boyville
. It was meant as an insult, like most things kids said, but Brendan liked the name. It actually sounded like someplace he’d like to live, a place where maybe life was rich and happy. A place the gods blessed.
“You dress like that for bowling?”
Brendan wanted his brother to shut up; he had some planning to do if he was going to carry out the sacrifice without anyone knowing. “What do you mean?”
“You look like you’re going to school.
Catholic
school.”
And you look like you’re going to smoke pot
, Brendan wanted to say. Tyler’s jeans were dirty, stained in some places, and deep-creased wrinkles patterned his shirt lied his shike the face of an old person. “We’re supposed to dress appropriately. It’s league rules.”
Tyler snorted. “It’s a youth league for twelve-year olds, not some PBA thing.”
Even if Brendan tried to explain the real meaning behind the clothes, he knew that Tyler would say it was stupid and that he should stop wasting his time on fantasies. It was better to let Tyler rag on him a bit for the clothes than to actually try to explain why Brendan had made sure his pants were clean, his shirt unwrinkled.
After a few minutes (still no break in the house pattern), Tyler sighed loudly. “So, how long’s this thing last, anyway?”
“About two hours,” Brendan said, “but you don’t need to stay. Mrs. Capra will drive me home. And if not her, then Mr. Coyle. He’s always there. His son is really good. 185.”
“What?”
“His bowling average.”
“No, I was thinking I’d stay, watch you bowl.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Dad doesn’t stay?”
“He used to.”
After a pause, Tyler said, “They got food there, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I’ll get us some hot dogs and French fries and I’ll watch you bowl.”
If Tyler stayed, it would be even harder to do what must be done. “You probably want to see Paul or something. I’ll be fine.”
“Paul?” A tremor of concern peppered his words. “Why would I want to talk to Paul?”
. . . fucked up real bad with that weird bitch . . .
“I just figured he was your friend. That’s all.”
Tyler relaxed. “He is, but you’re my little brother. That’s more important.”
Brendan loved Tyler; there was no question that Tyler had been a good big brother, especially when Brendan had been younger. Tyler taught him how to ride a bike with no training wheels, how to throw a baseball like the professionals instead of like girls, and how to manipulate Mom and Dad so that he could always get what he wanted. That
play-one-against-the-other
strategy stopped working since Mom no longer came out of her room, but it had still been a hell of a trick and though Tyler used it more, Brendan had used the tactic a few times, the most memorable when he got out of going to church last Easter. He had stayed home eating chocolate while Mom, Dad, and Delaney went to church. Tyler had slept right through until they returned. The sleeping strategy worked best for Tyler, as it did now for Mom.
Tyler never hurt Brendan or was really mean to him. He wrestled with him sometimes and always won, but he never left any marks or permanent damage. The only thing Brendan didn’t enjoy was the tickling wars in which Tyler took on both him and Delaney and always stood victorious over their shuddering bodies, tears streaming from their eyes. Tickling could be ruthlessly painful but it was always sort of fun. He had even started talking about girls with him.
They’re all crazy
, he told him,
always remember that and you’ll be okay
.
