The Ninth Step

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

His eyes teared. From the wind, he thought.

  The loose hem of his white dress shirt flapped at his hips.

  He unbuttoned the cuffs, rolled them to his elbows. He was aware of the surf breaking in a foamy line to his right. In the distance, he watched two small boys playing near the water’s edge. Nearby, a woman scooped handfuls of sand and let them fall in thin veils through her fingers. When he got close, she turned her gaze to him and her eyes seemed full of reproach. They were Delia’s eyes. Livie’s eyes. He jerked his gaze away, after a moment looked back, but the woman didn’t seem aware of him.

  He walked until his calf muscles grew hot and ached with the strain. Back at the car, he dumped the sand out of his shoes and thought how crazy he must look out for a stroll dressed in his funeral clothes.

  It was dark when he returned to his mother’s house. He took the unopened bottle inside. The kitchen still smelled faintly of the chicken and rice he and Scott and Sharon and the girls had eaten together last night. But he would not think of them. He unsheathed the bourbon from its paper sack, set the pint bottle on the table, turned a chair around and straddled it.

  The only light came from the back porch fixture and it slanted across the kitchen floor, washed the table legs in a dull fluorescence, inked a dark line around one shoulder of the glass bottle. The amber liquid inside it glowed.

  Cotton unscrewed the cap, picked up the pint and sniffed it. His mouth watered. He set it down, screwed the cap back on. When his cell phone rang, he pulled it out of his pocket. Scott’s number showed in the window. Cotton guessed they’d made it back to Seattle. Scott was probably calling to see how Nikki’s party was going. He set the phone on the table, passed the half pint from hand to hand.

  He could drink it. Wasn’t like there was anyone around to stop him. He could leave here, take it with him, drive.

  And keep driving.

  We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.

  Powerless. God, he hated that word.

  He stood up and swept the bottle off the table. Uncapped it and dumped the contents into the sink, letting it fall with a clatter. The sweet pungent smell watered his eyes, made his mouth thirst. But it was over. He couldn’t do it; couldn’t drink and run, not anymore.

  #

  He was afraid they would have gone to bed, but Nikki was in the yard picking up party trash when he rounded the corner of the house.

  She spotted him and straightened. She wondered where he’d been and the tender blade of her reproval and the hurt he’d caused her slid painfully between his ribs.

  Cotton squashed the impulse to invent some excuse. “Where’s your dad?”

  “In the kitchen, washing stuff,” she said.

  “Is your brother here?”

  “Uh-uh. He couldn’t make it either. There’s a tropical storm by Florida; they canceled his flight. Why?”

  “Can we go in the house? I need to tell you and your dad something. About your mom.”

  “My mom?”

  Wes was at the sink and he was surprised when he saw Cotton follow Nikki through the door. “Party’s over, buddy.” He tried a smile, but it flattened into annoyance and then into bewilderment when Cotton barked a short laugh and said, “You can say that again.”

  Wes glanced at Nikki, hunting a clue, finding none.

  Cotton tented his fingertips, brought them to his mouth, tossed his hands apart. “Look, there’s no easy way to do this, I should have told you straight off. You remember the day I came here, when you thought I was the contractor you’d hired?”

  “Yeah, what about it?” Wes dried his hands.

  “I wasn’t here for the job. I came to tell you I’m the guy who hit your wife six years ago.”

  Nikki and Wes exchanged a glance. Both pairs of eyes turned back to Cotton. Wes looked done in, like he’d lost all his air. When Humphrey whined at the back door, Nikki went to let him in as if nothing Cotton had said was news. She resumed her position beside her father but kept her hand on Humphrey’s head, scratching his ears. He leaned against her held captive by her attention. Cotton was glad for his presence.

  “What are you saying?” Wes asked when he recovered enough breath to speak and his voice combined tight fibers of newborn alarm with a tougher, much-chewed-over gristle of rage and Cotton knew he was getting ready to pin his own face on Wes’s hate, on his need for revenge that had been cooking ever since he’d received word of his wife’s death.

  “I was on my way to get married at the chapel on the lake,” Cotton spoke quickly, “I was late and the freeway was backed up so I got off, thinking I’d dogleg around the jam. I’d had a drink, I won’t lie to you, but I wasn’t--” Cotton stopped.

  “You were driving around drunk.”

  “I didn’t see the stop sign; I never saw your wife until I hit her.”

  “You left the scene.”

  “I’m so sorry--”

  “You left my wife in the road like a fucking animal, like road kill. You left my little girl frightened out of her mind. She’s never gotten over it, did you know that?”

  Cotton looked at Nikki and she looked back, chin knotted, mouth trembling, shaking her head.

  “And you had the balls to come here, to work for me? You were going to take my money?” Wes’s voice rang with disbelief.

  Cotton’s denial wasn’t clear of his mouth before Wes ordered him out and when Cotton didn’t move fast enough to suit him, Wes grabbed him in a bearhug and strongarmed him clumsily toward the door.

  “I’m sorry.” Cotton said it again and once more; he wore out the words. He said, “Please, I’ll go. I don’t--I never did want your money. You don’t have to do this.”

  Wes got the back door open. He shoved Cotton out onto the deck. It didn’t take much effort; Cotton wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t even talking now. There was no use.

  He went to the Mercedes and got in, pushed the key into the ignition, lowered the window, but then he lowered his head to the steering wheel. He couldn’t move, couldn’t bear his own weight anymore.

  “Why did you let us think you were our friend?”

  Cotton straightened and looked at Nikki through the open window. She had Humphrey by the collar and she came close to the car, but not close enough for Cotton to reach. He darted his glance toward the house worried for her, worried about what Wes was doing. Calling the cops? Loading the Glock?

  “Why did you lie?”

  “It was a mistake.” Cotton got out of the Mercedes, slowly; he didn’t want to frighten Nikki, not ever again.

  “Do you still get drunk and drive?”

  “No.”

  “Will you ever?”

  “No.” Cotton would have promised her anything. “But you have to promise me something, too,” he said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You have to promise to believe me when I tell you the accident wasn’t your fault. You didn’t make it happen because you messed up your uniform.”

  Her gaze questioned his.

  “She told me and she asked me to tell you. Your mom wasn’t mad at you; she was sorry for yelling. She loved you, Nikki.”

  Nikki’s eyes brimmed, tears slid silently down her cheeks leaving silver trails that glimmered like mercury.

  Cotton crossed the driveway to her before he could think about it, and reconsider, and using his thumbs, he wiped her face. “She said you would never have to look very far for her, that she would always be close by.”

  “She said that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Nikki’s gaze clung to his. “Sometimes I see her,” she whispered. “I never told anyone. I thought I was crazy.”

  “You aren’t crazy, kiddo,” Cotton said. “Far from it.”

  Nikki’s single sob jerked her shoulders and then she caught her lip. She seemed to take a moment to consider and the next thing Cotton knew, she’d put her arms around his waist and pressed her wet cheek against his chest. He bent his face to the top of her head an
d closed his eyes feeling his shirt dampen, feeling his knees loosen. Her tears, her forgiveness, were so unexpected, like water in the desert.

  Humphrey was jumping all over them and she was backing away, telling him to settle down, when they heard the crack that sounded like a car door slamming.

  Now a voice, “Cotton? Thank God. Are you all right?”

  “Livie?” He wheeled toward the street, glance wild, finding her SUV, then finding her. Their eyes connected, but abruptly, her glance skidded past him, to a place behind him.

  She said his name again, “Cotton?” and she was quiet about it; she was calm, but the warning was there, implicit.

  He froze.

  “Daddy?” Now Nikki spoke, sounding more perplexed than frightened. “What are you doing?”

  “What should have been done six years ago. What the cops didn’t do.”

  As Wes spoke, Cotton turned, slowly, hyper aware of Livie’s presence behind him, of Nikki off to his left gripping Humphrey’s collar, of Wes and the Glock he held in his right hand that was aimed straight at Cotton’s face; the gun barrel seemed to loom at Cotton larger than the night. Above it, Wes’s eyes were focused and cold and empty of reason. And the hair rose on Cotton’s neck and his forearms.

  “Get in the house, Nikki,” Wes ordered.

  “What are you doing, Daddy? Where did you get that gun?”

  “Do as he says, Nikki,” Cotton told her. “Livie, go home.”

  Wes gestured at Cotton with the Glock. He was the one giving the orders and he wanted Cotton on his knees. “Now!” he barked.

  Cotton did as Wes said. He brought up his hands. He said, “Okay, okay.” He told Livie again to go home.

  But she paid no attention. She told Latimer he had to listen to her. “Please,” she said.

  And Latimer acted as if he might, he leaned in Livie’s direction as if he was considering her request, but in that terrible and foolish moment, Nikki lost her grip on Humphrey and he made a beeline for Wes, tail wagging, bumping Wes’s legs, upsetting his balance.

  Cotton scrabbled backward, driveway grit biting his knees and he’d nearly regained his feet when he felt the jab of the gun muzzle against his temple.

  “Get down, fucker.”

  “Daddy! Stop it. What is the matter with you?” Nikki caught Humprey’s collar; she was clearly in panic mode now.

  Cotton blinked. He could feel his blood pounding in his teeth. “He said, “Wes, I don’t really care what you do to me, but you’re scaring your daughter and Livie--”

  “Shut up.” Wes shifted the gun muzzle to the center of Cotton’s forehead. “Do you have any fucking idea what my life has been like trying to run a company and raise two kids by myself? Do you know what you took from this family?”

  Cotton didn’t respond. There was no decent answer. Where was Livie? Behind him? Gone back to her car? Please, if there’s a God. . . .

  “Daddy, put the gun down.” Nikki’s voice shook. “Why are you acting so weird?”

  “He murdered your mother.”

  “It’s not all his fault.”

  “Of course it is. You heard him, he was driving drunk and ran the sign.”

  “They should have both stopped, Daddy. Mommy, too, she had a stop sign too, but she was yelling at me,” Nikki’s voice crumpled. “She was m-mad at me and screaming and she didn’t see the sign. She didn’t stop, Daddy. She didn’t. It wasn’t only Cotton’s f-fault.” Nikki was sobbing now. “It was mine, mine too.”

  “Nikki, no.” Cotton twisted to find her. “I told you--”

  “Shut up,” Wes said. “I can’t think, let me think--”

  A pause hung like a noose.

  “Mr. Latimer?”

  “Livie, get away from here,” Cotton shouted.

  “Livie?” Wes brightened as if the picture had suddenly come into focus for him; he sounded jubilant and crazed and Cotton’s heart kicked. “Is she the one you were telling me about?--the one who made your world okay the way Joan made my world okay?--until you ran her down, that is. Until you killed her.”

  “Leave her alone. She’s got nothing to do with this.” Cotton half rose and on regaining Wes’s attention, a renewed jab of the gun barrel, he thought maybe, maybe--

  But abruptly, the Glock lifted; Cotton felt a cooling space between his eyes. He heard Livie say, “No,” say, “Please,” and he lunged, tackling Wes around his ankles, bringing him down. Humphrey danced around them, barking. In his world the game was on.

  Wes jammed one hand under Cotton’s jaw, shoving hard.

  Where was the gun?

  Cotton didn’t know. He jerked his head, trying to free his chin; he had Wes for the moment pinned by his shoulders. In the distance, he thought he heard sirens. Under him, Wes bucked heaving Cotton to one side. He half rose. The Glock came up in his face.

  “No!” Livie’s shout rose like a flag, a beacon.

  Again calling Wes’s fevered attention; he swung the gun around to her. Cotton caught the glint of light on metal, now a bright blinding spark and he lifted himself toward it as if he meant to embrace it, to capture it. A scream broke shattering in the air like glass.

  Livie, Cotton thought, falling onto his hands. Ah, God, Livie. . . .

  Chapter 23

  She went to her knees, trying to understand. Around her the night slowed, became liquid. It pushed against her ears like water. She brought her hands there. Deaf; she was deaf. She registered movement, the dog, the girl, the man, all in motion. The man’s mouth hung open; he clutched his head. She wondered what he’d done with the gun, but somehow she didn’t consider him a threat anymore. Another couple came across the lawn; a man and a woman talking, gesturing; Livie couldn’t make out their words. She looked back at Cotton, fluttering her hands around his head. She bent her lips to his one exposed ear; he smelled metallic. He smelled of violence. She spoke his name. She couldn’t have said how loudly.

  She traced her fingertips along his temple, his cheek; his skin was cool and clammy to her touch, the color of pale mud. He seemed to take only the shallowest dips of air. She rested her palm between his shoulder blades and watched his blood seep from under him. Black, it shone so black in the dirty glow of street light.

  Before she could think, she eased Cotton over so that he was fully prone on his back and there it was; the wound gaped open near his waist, pumping away, a small merry fountain. She gagged and swallowed. No time, no time for that, she thought. Please. . . . she begged herself and somehow she was helped to become oblivious, to become blind as well as deaf to everything except the bright, horrible flow from the fountain and the need to stop it.

  Ripping off her shirt, she wadded it into the hole in Cotton’s belly, then looked up to see Nikki hovering close by. “Run to the street,” she told the girl, “and wave so the police know to come here.”

  Nikki was white-faced and shaking badly. She didn’t move. Maybe she was deaf too.

  “Go!” The syllable shot out of Livie’s mouth hot and sharp and Nikki sprinted down the driveway. Livie watched her and realized she could hear again, her own voice, the sound of Nikki’s feet as they tore through the grass, the oncoming crescendo of sirens. It was something, she guessed.

  She brought her attention back to her hands, their laced buckle atop the wad of her shirt. Was she pressing too hard? She didn’t know. Her palms throbbed with what she imagined was the relentless jet of Cotton’s pulse pumping out pints of his precious blood, but perhaps it was only the hammer of her own pulse she felt. She hazarded another glance over her shoulder and saw a man talking to Wes who was crouched at the edge of the driveway. He looked shell-shocked; he looked as if he might not know who or where he was or what had happened. He would have shot her, that’s what Livie knew; he would have had her life in payment for his wife’s life, if it had not been for Cotton. Cotton had come up deliberately; he had risen between her and Wes like a shield. Livie brought her gaze back and even as she kept a steady pressure on Cotton’s wound, she bent her mo
uth to his ear. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was to him for saving her, for her baby’s sake. She wanted to say how foolish she had been to come here, to put her baby in harm’s way. She wanted to say that it was human nature to be foolish, to do a thing wrong, but then a time came, a second chance, and you did it right.

  But she couldn’t utter a word of it; she was too afraid she’d break and raising her face, she turned it into her bare upper arm. She could not lose it; she could not lose it now.

  A woman knelt across from Livie. “Is he--?”

  “Still breathing, but he’s losing so much blood.” Livie pushed the words through the knot of her fear.

  “Did Wes catch him breaking in? I thought the police got all those guys.”

  “He wasn’t breaking in.” Livie looked across Cotton’s body at the woman.

  Her eyes were curious, but she only introduced herself. She was the neighbor, “Linda,” she said. “That’s my husband with Wes over there,” and then she and Livie were quiet beneath the siren’s keening blast that stacked itself against the walls of the night.

  Livie bent again to Cotton’s ear. “Help is coming,” she whispered. “Please don’t die,” she told him. Within moments, a man came to his knees beside her, a paramedic.

  “Here, let me.” He gently removed her hands, peeled away the bloody shirt. “Oh, nice job. It’s nearly stopped now.”

  Livie realized he was one of the paramedics who had tended Delia, the one who had confessed it was his first day.

  He smiled when he recognized her. “We should stop meeting like this.”

  She smiled too and tears came into her eyes. Someone helped her to her feet.

  There were several patrol cars parked all over the street now and a fire truck in addition to the ambulance. Nikki was in Linda’s arms and Wes was being questioned by a couple of policemen. Other people, some in obvious night dress, stood around in uneasy knots keeping watch. More neighbors, Livie guessed. She brought her gaze back to the paramedics and watched their neat, deft movements. But their voices were grim and from what she could hear, she understood they were fighting to get Cotton stable and then they would transport him.