Well

by Matthew McIntosh

  He squeezed the glass in his hand, hoping it would break and cut into him. It didn’t break. He was sorry.

  But there was death. And all he could think of—

  All he wanted to do was get laid.

  She needs some Valium, Jane said. I have some in my purse. I keep it for occasions like this.

  Good, Beth said. I could use one myself. They were in the upstairs hallway, outside Mary’s bedroom. They could hear Mary crying:

  —My baby! My baby!

  The best thing in a time like this is sleep, Beth said. How many are you going to give her?

  I don’t know. I never use them. One?

  —My baby! My baby!

  One doesn’t sound like enough.

  What do you think? Two? Jane said.

  —Ohhhhhhh…

  Maybe four or five. Give her a lot. We want her to fall asleep. Do you have that many?

  Jane looked in her purse. Where are they? Here they are. She opened the vial, shook it. I’ve got four.

  I wish you had more. I wouldn’t mind one myself.

  Me too.

  Do you think two would be enough for her?

  Maybe. I don’t know. Do you think?

  I don’t know.

  I don’t know either.

  We should probably give her at least three, Beth said.

  Split one?

  Sure.

  They went downstairs and into Mary’s kitchen. Beth found a glass and filled it with tapwater, while Jane took a carving knife out of a drawer and pulled the cutting board out from its place above the silverware drawer.

  She’s quiet now, Beth said.

  Jane set a small pill on the cutting board and with the knife attempted to cut the pill in half, pressed down hard—These pills are hard as rocks!—put her weight into it and the knife came down hard, she felt, heard, half of the pill whizz by her ear. Oh! Where’d it go? Beth picked up her half from the cutting board and Jane walked a few steps and got on her knees, put her left cheek against the linoleum, closing her right eye, and looked for a bump on the floor’s horizon, the pill. She couldn’t see it, so she crawled around with her face against the floor, looking.

  Do you see it? Beth said.

  No, said Jane, crawling. She remembered Mary’s son and her own son, years ago, so long ago, but didn’t it seem like just a day or a week or a month? Mary would come over to Jane’s house during the week or she would come here to Mary’s and they would drink tea and talk and read from Dr Spock; they were so young then, just starting out, two young girls who loved their children more than their own lives, confessing that they would trade their husbands in for another child and laughing, saying, Husbands are like used cars, and laughing more while their babies crawled around beneath their feet, and then their babies grew up and there’d been a time when Jane didn’t think Eric was going to make it, a time when he was in so much pain and she worried he might do something drastic because the situation was drastic, and the doctors couldn’t help and God didn’t help no matter how much she prayed, and she would sit up all night waiting for him, worrying herself sick, worrying about where he was, who he was with, what they were doing. Well, he made it, didn’t he? He made it. But Jim didn’t make it. Mary’s son Jim didn’t make it. And now he’d never have the chance to—

  There it is. It was on the carpet, below the doorway where the living room met the kitchen. There it is.

  Jane got up, walked over and picked up the half-pill and put it on her tongue. She swallowed it down dry. Beth took a sip from Mary’s glass and swallowed hers. Then the two women walked through the living room, Beth holding the glass, Jane holding the vial, up the stairs and into the bedroom.

  Mary was curled up on her side in her black dress, her back to them, the veil beside her.

  Mary, Beth said.

  Mary, we have something for you. It’ll make you feel better, sweetheart.

  When Bill came back from the bathroom, he picked up his jacket off the back of his chair and said to Pete, I’ll be right back. I’m going out to my car for a second. Then he had walked outside into dusk. In the dark of the bar it had felt like the middle of the night, but the clock on the bank across the street said seven o’clock. It was almost winter and the sun was setting earlier. Only seven o’clock. He’d told Angela he would be home by nine. He had two hours. What could he do in that time? He got in his car and pulled out of the parking lot, drove north up Pac-Highway, away from the bar, away from his apartment. What was he going to do? Where was he going to go? It was Friday and he couldn’t think of a thing. But one thing was for certain, he wasn’t going back to the Trolley. That only depressed him worse. He didn’t like those guys. Eric was all right, but the rest of them… He hated Marty and always had and Pete was just too boring to put into words. It wasn’t like when they were kids. Back then they all knew where they were coming from. They were young and dumb and they understood each other. Now, he had to admit he didn’t really know any of them anymore and he didn’t care to. He missed Jim. Jim was the only one he’d never stopped caring for. He missed Jim terribly. Jim was the one he could talk to, the only one he felt he could tell the truth to; the truth about his job and how he was lowman, how he’d been there for seven years and how everyone he’d started with—and many of those who’d started after him—had moved up in the company a long time ago. Hell, even this new promotion wasn’t really a promotion. He was moving upstairs, sure, but he was going to be in charge of inventory, a job that no one wanted, a job that had been offered to almost everyone before him and they had all turned it down. He was going to hate it. He would be off the floor, he would have his own desk and cubicle when he started on Monday, but he was only making a few cents more an hour and it was the worst job in the entire place. The only reason he’d taken the position was because Angela didn’t know what sort of job it was, he took it because he thought she would be proud of him, she would think that he was moving up. If Jim was here Bill could tell him all about it. He would call Jim up and say, unafraid of what he sounded like because Jim never cared about shit like that—Hell, he had cried in front of Jim—he would call Jim up and say, Man, this job is a piece of shit. I only got it because no one else wanted it, and Jim would say, Don’t worry about it. You’ll do a good job and then they’ll move you higher. And anyways you’re off the floor. You get to wear a suit and tie. What are you talking about it’s not a promotion? Of course it’s a promotion! You moved up! You’re upstairs now! Nobody wanted it because they were all too scared they’d fuck it up! Those fuckers couldn’t handle the responsibility! You’re perfect for the job! What are you moaning about? and Bill would say, Yeah, I guess you’re right. I guess you got a point. I don’t know what I was thinking, and Jim would say, Of course you don’t know what you’re thinking. Besides, it could be worse. You could be a fucking trashboy like me, and they would laugh. Bill knew Jim would say these things, he knew he would feel better if Jim was around, he knew the words Jim would say, but in his head they meant nothing without the right voice behind them.

  Why did things always change for the worse? Did it ever get better for anyone? Besides people who win the lottery? What if he fucked up in his new job? What if he didn’t do it right? Then what? Would they move him back downstairs? Or would they just tell him to take a hike? He wasn’t lazy, he just wasn’t that good at things. There wasn’t anything he was good at or had ever been good at. What will Angela say if they fire him? Damn. He shouldn’t have taken the job. He should have just stayed downstairs and kept his mouth shut.

  She had loved him. Now he didn’t think she loved him at all. She was disappointed in him, thought he wasn’t anything special, and he wasn’t. He was sorry he disappointed her. He wanted to be something special, do something extraordinary. Maybe if he kept driving it would come to him. But driving up this street, this street that never changed, this street that had always been the same since he could remember, the same gas stations, the same convenience stores and fast food joints, the same muff
ler shops, porno stores, the old drive-in, the same dark shapes of strangers waiting for busses and for lights to change, driving up this ugly street was like walking against a conveyor belt, not getting anywhere, but afraid to stop because the moment you stopped it took you further back than you’d been when you started. So he kept on going.

  They’d planned on going out, they’d planned on making a day of it, going to the beach, maybe, driving along the water, maybe window shopping in Seattle. But when Robert saw Ruth come out of the shower, her short hair slicked to her head, her face pink and flushed from the hot water, her skin shining, when he saw her come out of the shower, that yellow towel wrapped around her, over her breasts, under her arms, he hadn’t wanted to do anything but take her to bed. So they’d gotten in bed, they made love, they fell asleep holding each other, and later she’d woken him up with her mouth on his, kissing him softly, and they’d made love again, then fell asleep again, and now they were awake again. Robert felt soft and warm all over. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d spent a day like this. Aside from the pain in his head and neck and back, and aside from his hands, he felt good, and when they’d been having sex he hadn’t had any pain at all, and aside from the pain now, he felt good. But then he thought again of Pierce. Should he have gone to the funeral? He didn’t know. He didn’t know Pierce, had never known him outside the ring.

  But there’d been a time, hadn’t there? A time when they had talked. He tried to remember. A conversation. A few days after the second fight, the fight when Pierce wouldn’t go down and Robert called the ref to put a stop to it. Where had they run into each other?

  At the Trolley. And he saw the kid’s face. The left side, purple and yellow, a blurry line of bruises from his swollen nose to his chin. A cut below his left eye was taped and the white part of the eye was wet and red from a burst blood vessel. Robert remembered what the kid had looked like; he saw the image in his mind, he could recall that. But what did they talk about? He couldn’t remember. It seemed now, somehow very important.

  Hello? Ruth said. Anyone home?

  Yeah?

  I asked you what you’re thinking about. Her head was on his chest and he put his hand on the top of her head and moved it gently down the side of her face.

  Nothing, he said.

  Nothing? You must be thinking about something.

  Just laying here.

  Your head hurt?

  Yeah.

  My baby. She kissed his chest. My baby, she said. My big, strong old man.

  Robert laughed for her.

  She said, We need to do this more often.

  Yeah.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could spend every day like this?

  Yeah.

  We used to stay in bed all day, remember?

  Yeah, Robert said, and he did.

  I wish you were around more, she said. It’s like I never see you anymore. You know? I don’t know if I like your new boss, she said. He works you too hard. He’s too young, anyway. A kid like that shouldn’t be telling you what to do. You know ten times what he does.

  That’s the way it goes sometimes.

  Ruth said, Maybe I could get a part-time job.

  No.

  I could work a few hours here and there, just to take care of the computer payments and things.

  No job.

  You wouldn’t have to work so much, she said. Besides, I think I might like it. Something to get me out of the house while Amy’s at school. That girl loves her computer, Ruth said. She’s quick with stuff like that. She was showing me email this morning.

  She’s quick, Robert said.

  She doesn’t get it from me, that’s for sure.

  Ruth rolled over onto her back. Robert heard her sigh. She said,

  I really should have gone to church today.

  Yeah?

  I told them I’d help set up for the wedding tomorrow. You remember the wedding? I told you about it last week. I asked you to get the day off and you couldn’t.

  Right.

  I’m sure they managed without me.

  Robert didn’t say anything.

  One of these days you’re going to come back, Ruth said.

  Back where?

  To church. To God. You’re going to come back someday.

  Keep praying, he said.

  I will, she said. I’ll keep praying. I’m always praying. Then they lay for a time without saying anything. Robert closed his eyes. There was something he was forgetting, but he didn’t know what.

  He heard Ruth say, Let’s get up. I’ll make something to eat,

  and he opened his eyes when he felt her move from the bed. She was scooting to the bathroom, an open hand covering her rear end. She turned her head and looked back at him, smiling, as she went through the door.

  Tom called his mother’s house. She’s asleep, Beth said. She’ll be out for the rest of the night. You just stay home and take care of your wife. Come by tomorrow, Tom. The family will all be here then. We’ll stay with her tonight.

  Bill turned off Pac-Highway, drove up 200th, got into the turn lane, sped through a yellow, swung right, north, merged onto the freeway…

  It was Tom, Beth said. She sat back down at the kitchen table. Picked up the deck and started shuffling. I told him she’ll be out for the rest of the night. I said we’d stay with her tonight.

  What this time? Jane said.

  Beth thought about it.

  Five card draw?

  Wild?

  Beth thought about it. What was lucky? How about seven? Seven was always lucky. Sevens wild, she said.

  You shuffle, Jane said. I need to make a call. She got up and dialed her son’s house. Jamie answered. Jane loved Jamie. How fortunate her son was to have a companion like her.

  Jamie said Eric was out with the boys.

  I’ll try back later then, Jane said. I love you both so much, you know.

  I know, Jane. We love you too.

  I just wanted to tell you again.

  We know, Jane. Thank you. It’s been a hard day, hasn’t it.

  I don’t want you to forget.

  We won’t forget. How’s Mary?

  She’s fine. Sleeping now.

  And how are you? Jamie said.

  Fine, dear. I’ll let you go now. Give Eric my love when he gets home.

  Jamie said, I will.

  Rich said: Hey, baby, it’s me. I’ll probably leave here in the morning. I thought you’d be home. You’re probably asleep. Are you there? Hello? Hello? Hello-hello? Yes? No? All right. Maybe you’re out. You there? Guess not. Well. That’s about it. I’ll leave here tomorrow. I should be back Sunday. See you then, he said. Bye. Good night.

  Then he hung up the phone, pulled down on the change release—nothing— walked out of the back room, past a couple guys in flannel playing pool, back to the table. I’d better get going, he said, but no one heard him. They were arguing over a random bit of local sports trivia: who had hit the winning shot in some game some year.

  Rich grabbed his jacket, looked at the bar—the waitress gone—and walked out. Until the door closed behind him, he could hear their shouts:

  Sikma!

  No, not Sikma! Sikma was at Milwaukee then!

  I’m telling you, Sikma!

  It wasn’t Sikma!

  Then who was it?

  How the hell should I know?

  The readout said Anna had run for sixty-eight minutes straight, had burned eight hundred eighty-four calories. An eight-minute mile. Thirteen calories a minute. She would keep going. She’d try for a personal best.

  When the baby had finally fallen asleep—and weren’t babies supposed to sleep all day long? This one was always wide awake. Someday when he was grown she would tell him stories about what a fussy baby he’d been—Angela set him down in his crib and walked around the apartment, finally able to finish her dusting. She wouldn’t vacuum. It would wake him. She’d wait to vacuum when he was awake. In the meantime, there was still so much to do. The l
aundry needed doing—Bill was going to need his new shirts pressed now that he was moving upstairs in the company, she would have to iron out all the creases, he couldn’t show up looking like he’d just taken them out of the package. There was laundry to do and dishes in the sink. When was she going to have a dishwasher? When was she going to have a house of her own? She wanted two stories, a large master bedroom with an adjoining bathroom, shower and bath, large bay windows, a view of something, a balcony overlooking some woods, maybe, or a view of Mount Rainier. Something with a view of the Sound would be perfect, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. With what Bill made, she couldn’t afford something like that. Housing prices in Federal Way were through the roof these days. Her parents had bought their house in the mid-seventies for twenty thousand dollars. Now it was worth more than two hundred. How are you supposed to get anywhere these days? You probably couldn’t get a trailer for less than eighty grand! That would be a laugh! Her parents would love that, her living in a trailer. As it was, she and Bill could barely afford the rent for this dump! She had quit her job at the doctor’s office to have the baby. She’d have to go back before long. Bills were adding up. Credit card companies calling. She wanted to stay home and take care of the baby. She wanted a man who could support her. Bill couldn’t support her. Whose fault was that? Bill’s? If he would have been more motivated, if he would have gone to business school like he’d told her so long ago. I want to go into business for myself, he’d said. Be my own boss. But that was just a pipe dream, wasn’t it? Bill didn’t have that kind of mind. He’d make an awful businessman. Forget it.

  Maybe it was America’s fault. It was too hard to get anywhere in this stupid country today.

  What was she going to do with the baby when she went back to work? Daycare was too expensive. Maybe her mother would take care of him. Then she’d really hear it: