Glass - 02 (30 page)

Mom draws me into the kitchen,

sits me down at the table.

So what are your plans now?

Can’t tell her about my new

career, dealing to hookers.

New job? School? Uh…marriage?

[Quick, think up a lie.]

“I signed up for classes.”

Did you get your GED?

[Go ahead, lie bigger.]

“I did, in fact. Last month.”

Where are you going to school?

[She won’t believe a university.]

“Up at the community college.”

Good choice, all things considered.

[What does that mean?]

“Trey thought it was a good idea.”

You’re not really going to marry him?

[You’re not, are you?]

“What’s wrong with him?”

Kristina, he’s a total loser.

Blood pressure rising.

“He is not! And I love him.”

You don’t know what love is.

And rising. “I suppose no

one knows that but you?”

You’re too young to get married.

Not that old line. Answer:

“You got married at eighteen.”

To a total loser. Look what happened.

Ears burning. “I don’t care!

Your life isn’t mine.”

Lower your voice this instant.

Up. Up. Up goes my voice.

“You can’t make me.”

I’m still your mother…

“Yeah, you’re my mother,

and a cold-hearted bitch.”

Don’t ever talk to me like that!

“What are you going to do?

Ground me until further notice?”

I think it’s time for you to leave.

So much for moving home.

To the motel, Trey

drops another surprise

smack in my lap.

What would you say

if I told you I’m not going

back to school?

Weird, but Bree sides

with Mom. [She’s right.

He’s a loser.]

Kristina, however,

is all for it. “Really? Since

when? Are you sure?”

I totally screwed up this

semester, anyway. I can

always go back and

finish up, or maybe I’ll

transfer to UNR. Meanwhile,

we’ll be together.

A ton of questions pop

into my head. Did he

screw up because of

the meth? Angela? Me?

What will this mean to his

dream of becoming

an electrical engineer?

Does this translate to we’re

living together? Was

the word “fiancé” just

for my mom’s benefit? I’m

afraid to ask any of that.

I was thinking we could

get an apartment together.

I mean, if you want…

Well, of course I want.

Being with Trey twenty-

four, seven? A dream.

I could get a job. And

your baby could live with

us too, if you want….

Trey, Hunter, and me, like

a real family? This is starting

to sound pretty serious.

We’ll need some money

for furniture and stuff.

Maybe we could sell

this car. We’ll only need

one, right? I think mine is

probably more reliable….

He talks all the way back

to the motel about how we

can make it all work out.

By the time we park the

car and go upstairs, my life

has shifted gears, again.

But a number of obstacles

popped up right away.

Getting an apartment

when you don’t have a job

is tough. I guess they want

to know the rent will happen.

Getting a job

when all you want to do

is get high isn’t exactly

a priority. Anyway, dealing

is much easier than

working for a living.

But you can’t really put

“dealer” under “occupation”

on the rental application.

Convincing a manager

took a fair amount of lying,

and Brad’s cooperation.

And, with Angela squarely

in the way, that

wasn’t easy either.

But blood is thicker than

marriage. Brad didn’t

really give Trey a job.

He just said he did.

Selling an old LTD,

classic or not, took a little

time too. And now that it’s gone,

I feel bad. It was all I had

that was really my own. But

with gas so expensive,

it’s probably best. So now

Trey and I have a place,

garage-sale furniture, his

Mustang. Each other.

And a bottomless supply

of the monster.

That moving in with someone

isn’t as easy as it sounds either.

You both have habits, good

and not-so. Sometimes those

habits grate on each other’s

nerves, especially when you’re

wired. Especially, especially

when you’re coming down.

You have different tastes,

in TV shows, music, and food.

Compromise can be difficult

to reach, especially when you’re

wired. Especially, especially

when you’re coming down.

I do love Trey, and being with

him is exponentially better than

being alone. Especially when

I’m wired. But not so much

when I’m coming down. That’s

when those little differences

really get on my nerves. Then we

argue. Sometimes we fight.

Always, we make up with heart

felt apologies and great sex.

So maybe the compromise

is worth it, after all.

I’m facing now is trying to get

Hunter out of my mother’s grasp.

But he is
my
baby, damnit.

Finally, I find the courage to call.

“Hi, Mom. Trey and I are all set

up in our own apartment.

We want to bring Hunter for

a visit. Can we come pick him

up?” How will this go?

Mom is silent for several

seconds.
Do you really

think that’s a good idea?

I’ve rehearsed this. I know

what to say. “I appreciate

that you’ve taken such good

care of him. But he needs

to get used to being around

his mom…and stepfather.”

Was it the wrong card

to play?
Kristina, I hate

to say this, but Hunter

barely recognizes you. Do

you think it’s fair to

leave him with a stranger?

[Stay in control. Temper

in check.] “There’s only one

way to change that, Mom.”

[Choose words carefully.]

“Or were you planning on

keeping my baby for yourself?”

I’m glad, because the last

thing I need is to get

the courts involved.

Social Services frowns

on the crystal scene.

Trey drives me out,

moves the baby seat

into his car while I go

inside to collect my

baby and his things.

Mom holds Hunter,

kisses him gently,

hands him off to me.

Call me right away

if anything goes wrong.

Hunter waves bye

bye, and as we turn,

I notice Mom start

to cry. She loves him.

But I love him too.

On the way back

to the apartment,

Trey detours east,

to the Pink Pussycat.

One quick delivery and

we’re on our way,

two hundred dollars

in the black, plenty

to buy formula and

diapers for a week.

And even though he’s

little, his presence in this

cramped one-bedroom

makes the place even

more claustrophobic.

Seems he’s always

underfoot, unless he’s

in his porta-crib. And

unless he’s sleeping,

he’s not happy there.

Trey says we’ll have

to get a bigger place,

and to do that he

needs to get a job,

one he can list on

an application. He’s

out looking right now.

Which means it’s just

Hunter, me, and the

monster, killing time.

It’s nice outside.

Maybe Hunter

and I could walk

to the park. Only

thing is, I’m tired.

I do have a way to

fix that, don’t I?

I prop Hunter in a

chair, in front of

Sesame Street.

“Stay there with Elmo.

Mommy will be

right back.” I go

into the bathroom,

open the window,

so the smoke won’t

taint the living room

air. I’m halfway

through my second hit

when Hunter screams.

I run into the other

room. He’s crumpled

on the floor in front

of the chair, trickling

blood from his mouth.

“Oh, God.” I scoop

him up, hug him

close, and see he’s

okay, except for

biting through his

bottom lip. He stops

crying, looks up at

me with big dark

eyes, as if to say,

You let me fall. How

could you let me fall?

That’s not what a

mother should do.

And it hits me. Maybe

Mom was right, after all.

A very long time. Daylight

fades to darkness, and still

no word. I call his cell. Nothing.

I put Hunter to bed, worry

prickling my senses. I could

get high. Instead, I let myself

doze on the love seat. By the time

the creak of the door wakes me,

my neck is stiff from tilting so

long at an odd angle. That is not

conducive to a quiet discussion.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Spent all day job hunting.

I figured I deserved a couple

of beers. You don’t have a

problem with that, do you?

I do, actually. Leaving me

here, alone, while he’s out

who-knows-where? But I’m

not going to say that. “Why

didn’t you call? Didn’t it occur

to you I might get worried?”

I’m okay, Kristina. I’m okay,

you’re okay. Everything’s okay.

I’m a big boy. I know what I’m

doing. And you don’t have to

worry about where I am or what

I’m up to. You’re not my mommy.

No way for this to go but from bad

to worse. I could fall silent.

Ballistic will feel better. “No, I’m not

your mommy. But I
am
a mommy,

and we had an emergency here today.

I couldn’t get hold of you. Why won’t

you just answer your fucking phone

when I call? What’s wrong with you?”

If I answer, I’ll just have to listen

to this kind of shit….
His voice is almost

as loud as mine, and now Hunter wakes

up. His crying makes my words sink in.

As I go to give him a comfort bottle,

Trey asks,
What kind of emergency?

I don’t tell him everything, just

that Hunter bit through his lip.

Trey is contrite.
I’m sorry. I should

have called. I’ll do better, okay?

He does do better. He

even answers his phone.

But he’s spending more

and more time away.

Job hunting, he claims.

Seems to me anyone

searching that diligently

would have found one

by now. Maybe playing

house isn’t his thing after

all. I’m afraid to ask.

Afraid he’ll say I’m right.

Without a vehicle, I can’t

very well make deliveries,

so when people call looking,

they have to come to me.

Grady is here when Trey

gets home this evening.

We’re just about to take

a little test drive when

Trey bangs through

the door. He takes one

look at Grady.
Who

the fuck are you?

“This is Grady, an old

friend. He’s here to b—”

Apparently I should

have said “customer.”

Old friend, huh? Like

a real good friend?

Trey’s eyes are glazed.

He’s wired out of his skull.

“No, not that kind of

friend. What’s wrong

with you? And how

come you’re fucked up?”

I’m fucked up? Heh-heh.

Guess I am. While you

were getting high with an

old friend, hey, so was I.

Grady looks more than

slightly uncomfortable

as things heat up. “I don’t

suppose her name was Angela?”

Damn, you are psychic.

Poor Brad has no idea

she’s using again.
He stops,

waits for my response.

It isn’t verbal. Before

he can possibly react,

I’m across the room, in

his face, slapping. He puts

up his arm, moves into

me, and now we’re on

the floor. As we roll

around, I notice the pipe

and its contents have

spilled into the soiled

carpeting. Grady doesn’t

think twice, rooting

around like a hog in

the mud. Fine. Let him

have it. I wouldn’t smoke

that dirty stuff now.

We bump heavily against

the bedroom door. Instantly,

Hunter is crying. Bellowing.

It’s enough to end the battle.