by Lisa Duffy
She sank in the water until her ears were submerged and all she could hear was the hum of the AC.
She can count on one hand the number of times she and John had sex this past year.
And here she is, pregnant from the ten minutes they’d been together hours before he had disappeared from her life.
She remembers every detail of that night.
How she coaxed him out of the lawn chair in the backyard, where he’d sat all night in the dark, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
He stumbled in, drunk, the bottle still in his hand, and when she returned from brushing her teeth and climbed into bed, he was naked. He put his hand on her hip, then her breast and she let him, because it had been that long.
Afterward, they fell asleep, the rise and fall of John’s chest steady. His skin hot under her hand.
It was John’s voice that woke her from a deep sleep, her body lurching out of slumber. He was next to her on his back, his eyes closed but his legs jolting under the sheet, his groans guttural and feral in the dark room.
She bolted upright, clutched the sheet to her chest, and yelled his name.
He thrashed next to her, his arm in the air. His elbow missed her forehead by inches and slammed into the headboard. A thud echoed through the room.
She yelled his name again, leaned over to shake him awake, and she hadn’t seen his other arm underneath his body, his arm jerking up as if to ward off an attack.
There was a whoosh of air past her ear before the back of his hand struck her face. His knuckles slammed into the edge of her cheekbone, and she screamed. John’s eyes flew open and he blinked out of the night terror, stunned and wide-eyed while Quinn cowered in the corner of the bed, a trickle of blood edging out of one nostril.
He’d apologized, sober it seemed, his face drawn and worried as he rushed to get her ice and clean up her nose, all the while telling her how sorry he was.
How fucking sorry.
They’d sat at the kitchen table after, Quinn holding a bag of ice to her cheek and John staring at the floor, his arms crossed over his chest.
The night terrors had happened before, but not like this. He’d talk in his sleep, maybe yell or jolt awake. But never like this. With Quinn cowering in their bed. Her eye swelling and nose bleeding and her arms up to fend off the man next to her. Her husband.
She’d said he needed to get help in a soft, quiet voice, but her words were an ultimatum, and he heard it. She saw it in his face. The way his jaw set.
She waited, feeling as if that moment in the bedroom was the end of a long road they had traveled. As though they were stumbling for years on the thin lip of a steep drop and they’d finally slipped off, and here they were, falling away from each other, tumbling in separate directions.
She said it again, louder this time, and he stood up, moved away from her, already putting physical distance between them. When he said the words out loud, she wasn’t surprised.
Help for what? A bad dream?
They’d had this fight before. The back-and-forth about his symptoms. She brought home library books on post-traumatic stress syndrome, read them cover to cover, and left them on his bedside table, where they sat untouched. She called Veterans Affairs and PTSD hotlines, joined online support groups, and scoured the internet for information. Looking for ways to talk to him about the drinking, the night terrors, the way he seemed checked out from their life.
She refused to argue this time, though, the pulsing beat of her swollen cheek all that needed to be said. Instead, she’d asked him if he was going back, something he had mentioned in one of their fights. His Guard component had approved his release—John wanted to join active duty—and he answered so quickly, a curt nod of his head, as if it were that easy, as though she meant nothing, that it slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it.
Coward.
And then he’d left. Packed a bag and walked out. Just like that, it seemed, in her mind, on that night and in the days after.
But now, lying in the tub, thinking back to that night, enough time has passed that she’s able to see it more clearly. He left at the end of May, and now it’s early August. The weeks he’s been gone have let her distance herself from that night without living inside of it, as though she’s watching a movie of her own life.
He hadn’t left her on that night, she realizes, because he hadn’t really come home. Not the John she knew.
Quinn gets out of the tub and wraps a towel around her body, suddenly exhausted, the small motion of leaning down to pull the plug from the drain making her legs burn.
Earlier, Bent put an air conditioner in her window and cranked it to full, but the house is still stifling, so she dresses quickly and walks out to the front porch, lies on the cushioned bench in the dark corner, her feet dangling off the edge.
The air isn’t much better outside, but a puff of something that resembles a breeze floats by, and Quinn closes her eyes, the sounds of the neighborhood surrounding her.
The duplex across town where she’d lived with John had been quiet, and after he disappeared, she’d lie awake at night, listening for any noise. Occasionally, she’d hear one of the kids from two houses down or the poodle from across the street.
Here, though, the houses are so close she can hear everything—the coffee grinder first thing in the morning from Lucy’s third-floor kitchen or the murmur of voices late into the night from the patio next door. She thought it might bother her, this constant hum around her, but she finds it comforting in a way that surprises her, as though she is suddenly, just by living on this street, part of something bigger than herself.
She felt that way when she first took the job as a nanny to the twins.
Quinn had applied on a whim after John first deployed, never expecting to get the job—she had no experience with infants. Just a degree in early-childhood education, a handful of summers as a camp counselor, and her job in the toddler room at the preschool where she’d worked for almost a year.
But she’d made herself apply for the job anyway. It wasn’t lost on her that she was trying to fill a void. Trying to do something, anything, to take her mind off the miscarriage.
The pregnancy had been a shock—not the plan, of course. Pregnant at twenty was not something she’d aspired to. But it was a good shock nonetheless.
John had talked about getting on track to manage the hardware store where he’d worked since he was a teenager. And she’d figure something out once the twins were born, maybe continue working at the preschool. The twins could stay in the infant room, and she could work in the toddler room, pop in to see them now and then. At least they’d be in the same place, and she’d be making an income as well.
And then poof, just like that, plans changed. She lost the twins and John deployed all in the same year.
And suddenly, there she was—on the cusp of twenty-one with absolutely no idea who she was.
She wasn’t a mother. She was a wife—John’s wife. But they’d had so little time together in those new roles before he left that she didn’t even have time to figure out what this new part of her might look like.
When she saw the ad for the nanny position, she thought, Why not?
Madeline didn’t seem to care about anything other than how Quinn’s eyes had filled in the twins’ nursery. The look on her face when she’d looked down at the boys in their crib.
Quinn didn’t mention the miscarriage. Didn’t tell Madeline that she’d carried her own twins for eleven weeks. Madeline had hired her within the hour, and over the next months, Quinn let herself be devoured by her job.
That was years ago, and Quinn still loves her job, and the twins, but something has been missing from her life.
Lying in the dark now, the word lonely fills her mind, rests on her chest, heavy as a brick.
She knows this feeling didn’t just start when John disappeared two months ago. She remembers being in the same room all year—sitting right next to him—and feeling comp
letely alone.
It’s only now, in this neighborhood full of sounds and smells and life, and her arms wrapped around her middle, around her baby, that the loneliness suddenly feels like a memory instead of something inside of her.
She feels her face color, the shame of it—quick and startling. Her husband is missing, but all Quinn can think about is how, for the first time in as long as she can remember, she feels oddly present. As though these past years she’s been slogging along, waiting for her life to begin, watching her days unfold and the years pass by until suddenly, her world broke apart, and now everything is foreign and uncomfortable, yet strangely invigorating.
A car pulls in front of the house and jolts her out of the thought. A door shuts, and she hears footsteps on the cement walkway to the house. She picks her head up, but earlier she’d shut off the porch light to avoid attracting bugs, and now she can’t see in the darkness.
She sits up slowly and leans to the right, straining to see over the large rhododendron blocking the stairs. The bench is tucked in the far corner of the long porch, and she squints, the outline of Libby coming into focus. She’s sitting on the porch steps with her back to Quinn, looking at something up the street.
Quinn freezes—she doesn’t want to startle her—and she knows Libby isn’t aware that Quinn is behind her. She wouldn’t even know about the bench—Quinn only wrestled it out of her apartment and onto the porch earlier.
Libby is going to think she’s creepy for sitting here in the dark not saying anything, but her voice is caught in her throat.
Quinn stands quickly, making as much noise as she can, pushing the wooden bench against the siding on the house, the thud of it vibrating against the bare soles of her feet.
As expected, Libby twists, a hand to her throat.
“I’m sorry!” Quinn blurts, her own hands up, as though she’s in the middle of a stickup. “I was lying out here because it’s so hot inside, and I didn’t even know you were there until a second ago.”
The streetlight casts a glow on Libby’s cheek, and Quinn sees that it’s wet.
A siren wails somewhere in the distance, and they both turn to the sound. Bent’s face in Quinn’s mind. The look he gave her earlier when she pressed her back against the air conditioner and lifted her hair off her neck.
It had settled somewhere inside of her, that look.
The noise fades, and the girl studies her, presses a fingertip against her cheek, catching a single tear. Casually, though, as if she is familiar with the movement.
“Lying where?” she asks, looking behind Quinn.
“On the bench. It’s here for anyone to use . . . I mean, feel free, whenever to, you know, to . . . use it.”
Libby doesn’t respond, just looks at Quinn. After a moment, Quinn walks to the door. “I’ll leave you alone,” she says over her shoulder. “Sorry I scared you.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Libby says. “It’s your house too.”
Quinn pauses—the words are delivered gently, without the edge that she’d heard in Lucy’s kitchen—and she walks back to the stairs, leans against the post.
“I’m Quinn, by the way. It’s Libby, right? In my head, I call you the girl from upstairs. But if we’re living in the same house, we should probably know each other’s names.”
“In my head, I call you the serial killer.” Libby shrugs, as though this is a perfectly normal thing to admit. “But most serial killers probably don’t have a porch bench with gingham cushions.” Libby waves her hand at the look on Quinn’s face. “Don’t ask. Active imagination.”
Quinn smiles and feels the knot between her shoulder blades loosen for the first time in days.
Headlights turn onto the street, and they both watch a truck pull into the driveway. Bent gets out of the driver’s seat, and Libby stands up quickly.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, and disappears into the house.
Quinn is suddenly aware that she’s wearing a ratty pair of John’s old boxers and a baggy T-shirt she’d thrown on without a bra. She sits down on the step, pulls the T-shirt over her knees, and then Bent is in front of her, and she calls out a hello before he trips over her on the dark stairs.
“Whoa,” he says, squinting to see her and pausing on the concrete walk. “It’s you.”
Quinn doesn’t know what to say to this, so she doesn’t respond, which is a first when it comes to Bent. He has the sort of laid-back demeanor that unnerves her—that inexplicably causes her to ramble in a way that makes her cheeks hot. He doesn’t seem to mind, just usually watches her like he is now. A look on his face she can’t quite read.
Quinn feels the house shake, and suddenly a massive dog pushes open the screen door, his leash trailing behind him. The dog nudges Quinn’s hand with his head, and when she lifts it to pet him, he collapses, half on her lap, half on the porch. The weight of him nearly pushes Quinn off the step.
“Be careful,” Bent says. “He’s an attack dog.”
“Rooster. Get up.” Libby sighs as she walks down the steps and snaps her fingers at the dog, who snuggles deeper into Quinn’s middle. “Sorry. I hope you aren’t afraid of dogs,” Libby says to Quinn.
Quinn scratches behind Rooster’s ear. “Who could be afraid of this guy?” She smiles. “He actually reminds me of a bigger version of a dog we had. He was sweet like this. Just a puppy, though.”
“Had?” Libby asks.
Quinn nods. “It was a long time ago. I surprised my husband with it when he was just back from overseas. Turns out, it wasn’t the best surprise. Just too much for him, I think. Anyway . . . the puppy went to a home with kids. Some land, I guess . . . I was told, at least. So it all worked out, I think—well, I hope.” Quinn stops talking because she can hear her own voice. Hear the disappointment. The hurt.
Nobody speaks, and Quinn wonders if she’ll ever be normal. Ever not blurt things out without thinking.
But when she looks up, Bent isn’t fazed. Neither is Libby.
“He likes you,” Bent says.
“He likes everyone,” Libby corrects.
“Tell that to the guy who almost got his arm ripped off.”
“That doesn’t count,” Libby tells him. “He was a psycho.”
“Who was?” Quinn asks.
Bent reaches out and rubs the fur between the dog’s eyes. “Some asshole we sent away after a domestic dispute with his girlfriend. He was drunk, beat her up. Rooster was the girlfriend’s dog and got a chunk out of the guy’s arm trying to protect her. He came to live with us after that.”
“She didn’t want him back?” Quinn asks. “The girlfriend?”
Bent glances at Libby, picks up the leash.
“Let’s go, bud. I know you’ve got to water some grass.” He gives Rooster a tug, and Quinn watches as they cross the street, disappearing into a shadow behind a large tree.
“She died,” Libby says, sitting on the step next to Quinn. “You know, from the boyfriend. That’s why Rooster ended up at the shelter.”
Quinn feels the words sink into her. She looks up the street to where Bent is standing.
“Me and my big mouth. I don’t blame him for not wanting to talk about it.”
Libby shrugs. “He’s got a million stories like that one. War stories. Cop stories. He only gets quiet because my mother hated hearing about any of it. And Lucy shushes him because she thinks I’m too young. He probably thinks everyone is like that. Every woman, I mean.”
It’s on the tip of Quinn’s tongue to say something about Libby’s mother. To offer her condolences. Before she can get the words out, Rooster walks in between them, bumping against Quinn as he slowly climbs the stairs. The dog sits in front of the door and looks back at Libby.
“You’re the laziest dog,” Libby tells him, but Rooster wags his tail and stands up, pushing his nose against the screen until Libby opens it, and they both disappear inside the house.
Quinn feels herself smiling in the dark, Libby and Rooster reminding her of the week s
he had alone with the puppy before John came home.
She hadn’t even given him a name, wanting John to be a part of choosing one. Instead, he’d barely looked at the dog. Then he’d sent it away.
When she turns, Bent is watching her, and she blushes, aware that he’s caught her lost in a memory.
“It’s nice to live with a dog again,” she admits. “I mean, in the same house. I can hear him at night. When he jumps off the couch. Or bed, or wherever he sleeps. It’s this thump.” Quinn pats the wood porch with the palm of her hand.
“He sleeps with me. Right over your head. Hope it doesn’t wake you.”
“I like it. Makes me feel less . . .” She pauses, shakes her head to dismiss it, as though it’s not worth talking about. “How was bowling?” she asks.
“Borrow him anytime you want,” Bent says. “He likes sleepovers.”
She nods, knowing she won’t do that. Won’t ask Rooster to sleep in a strange place away from his home on the second floor. She pictures him standing over the woman he was trying to protect, and suddenly, inexplicably, her eyes fill and she swallows and clears her throat, embarrassed, even though she thinks Bent probably can’t see her face in the dim glow of the streetlight.
“He went to a good home,” Bent says, and she looks up at him, confused.
“Of course he did. It’s obvious how much you and Libby love him.”
“Not Rooster,” he says, and it takes a minute for her to understand that he’s talking about the puppy. Her puppy.
She stands, wanting to see Bent’s face. She’s on the third step, and their eyes are level. She is close enough to see the scar on his face, to breathe in the faint scent of his aftershave.
Her face is only inches away from him—but he doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from her.
“John only told me a buddy of his found the puppy a home. He wouldn’t say who. So it was you?”
There’s an edge to her voice that slips in, even though she’s angry with John, not Bent.