Marital Bitch

by Jc Emery

  I poke around the aisle and continue to gripe about price gouging because damn it, this is ridiculous. I’m half tempted to drive across town to Walmart and hope their prices are considerably cheaper, when my favorite misguided youth walks down the aisle.

  Joe McCarthy is a GED recipient who works down at the butcher shop around the corner. I first met him while volunteering as a big brother at the Southie location of the Boys & Girls Club. I was his mentor; so when I picked him up on a “drunk in public” charge last year, I felt like I had failed him. Despite his sometimes reckless behavior, he’s a decent kid just doing the best he can. I remember cuffing him and he broke down crying. He had just found out his girlfriend was pregnant and he didn’t know what to do. Joe was just sixteen at the time.

  “Joe,” his head snaps my way and his eyes widen before he smiles at me.

  “Patrick!” he says enthusiastically. “What you doin’ in my ‘hood, bro?” I quirk an eyebrow at him. I may not be on duty or in my work clothes, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to command respect. If anything, this kid needs someone to show him how to be in the world.

  “Uh,” he coughs, “Officer Patrick, Sir,” he stutters.

  “What are you doing here, kid?” I ask.

  “I got to pick up some formula,” he points to the display before him. “Maya isn’t breastfeeding, and this shit is expensive.” I lean over and look at formula prices. Oh, fuck that. Colleen’s just going to have to play dairy cow until the kid can eat adult food.

  “That’s not cheap, kid,” I say, trying to hide my fright at the possibility of having to pay those costs. And here I thought thirty-five bucks for a test was bad. That formula would put me in the poor house.

  “Don’t I know it. What’re you doing down here?” he asks again and I realize that I ignored his question the first time he asked it.

  “Just picking something up for my wife,” I say. Joe leans over and looks at the couple hundred pregnancy tests that I’m standing in front of.

  “You go and knock up your girl, Officer Responsible?” he asks. I throw my head back and laugh.

  “My wife,” I correct. “You know, it’s this little thing adults do. They get married and then they knock up their girl.” I nod my head and Joe looks away briefly before righting himself and sticking his chest out.

  “Yeah, well, maybe some of us are just that good,” his body gives a false bravado, but his eyes look desperate. The longer I stand here with this kid, the more I remember little things about him. His dad’s gone-- has been for years-- and it was just he and his mom until Maya came along. They were already struggling when they’d found out he knocked her up. By then, his hopes of college and a future outside of Southie had all but disappeared. He reminded me so much of Colleen back then, wanting out of Southie at all costs.

  Standing here with this kid, I’m reminded of how lucky I am. I feel like I need to do something like hug my mom and dad right now; but I’m thirty-five so I don’t dare voice that to anyone. Not even the wife needs to know when I get emotional. She’s liable to ask me if I need a tampon. Why do I love this woman again?

  “You doing okay?” I ask. He nods with a determination that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Tell me the truth, Joe, or I can’t help you.” I urge him to talk because I really do want to know what’s going on with this kid. I know he’s still doing the big brother thing at the Boys & Girls Club, but that doesn’t mean he is doing okay. After his daughter, Jane, was born he transitioned from little brother to big brother in the program. I still look after him as much as I can, though.

  I was there the day he found out his life was totally fucked. I was there the day he started on as a big brother to some poor kid who had it worse off than he did. I was there the day his kid was born, and I want to be there if he needs me now.

  Kids like Joe aren’t just a nuisance in the neighborhood. They’re good kids who grew up with nothing, had to work with nothing, and were expected to live off nothing. Dad always said it was moments like this that made him want to be a cop. I used to think he sounded like a girl saying it, but looking at Joe, I know what he means. I want to make a difference in this kid’s life; even if it is something as small as buying the formula for him. Everybody deserves a helping hand.

  “It’s just tough,” he says. “You know that scholarship you got me?” I nod. It wasn’t really a scholarship. It was more like a gift from me and James, but Joe doesn’t need to know that. It wasn’t all that much, either. We just put $500 in each so he could get started at the local community college.

  “I don’t want you thinking I just didn’t want to go or something, but I had to return it. I can’t take classes right now. I’m working two jobs because Maya don’t want to work. Something about bonding or some shit.” I know better to ask him about his mom. She’s been relying on welfare for years and hasn’t worked since he was a small child. This kid has the weight of the world on his shoulders; I could never be mad at him for making the best choices he can for his family.

  “Well,” I say, “you have to do what you have to do, kid. But you know that scholarship is there when you’re ready to use it. It won’t expire.” He nods and sighs. I’ll figure out a way to help him later.

  “Can’t decide which one to get?” he asks. I shrug.

  “They’re so expensive,” I gripe before stopping myself. I like being friendly with the kid, but we’re not friends. My job alone sees to that.

  “Buy one of the clearance ones,” he suggests, leaning over and pointing at a bunch of pregnancy tests with bright orange labels showing a cheaper price. They look generic in brand and their boxes are pretty beat up, but they’re marked down to $4.99. I reason with myself that they wouldn’t sell them if they didn’t work. Besides, how complicated can this be?

  “Sweet,” I say, grabbing a box. Joe smirks.

  “So, Officer Catch Some Snatch is gonna be a dad, huh?” I stare at him incredulously.

  “What did you just call me?” I ask, half confused and half irritated. The kid always has some creative name for me, but this takes the cake. He gulps and laughs nervously. I dismiss it and ask him if he’s still at his mom’s. He confirms and I tell him to stay out of trouble, leaving him behind to pick out his own damn formula.

  Up at the register, I pay for my item and a $50 gift card as well. The cashier makes a side comment about being unaware they were still carrying that brand. She must be surprised this place is selling them so cheap. I smile and tell her I was happy to get a good deal. She seems uncomfortable so I don’t engage her further.

  “So,” I address the cashier after she rings me up. “This gift card is for the teenage kid that walked in a few minutes ago. His name is Joe. He’s got blond hair.” The cashier just stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language, so I lean in to emphasize my point.

  “Tell him someone left this behind and use it to pay for his purchase, and then give it to him. Tell him you can’t tell him how much is on it but he can call that number on the back.” And she just continues to stare at me. “Okay?” I ask, a little annoyed at her ineptitude.

  “You don’t want me to tell him it’s from you?” she asks, finally catching on. I shake my head no.

  “My name is Officer Bradley Patrick, so I urge you to take this seriously. Make sure he leaves with that card.” I walk off, hoping she does as I ask. I’d hate to have to come back with my badge, not that it can really do anything.

  In my car, I watch and wait for Joe to leave the store. He looks lighter, relieved. His eyes scan the parking lot looking for me, but I’m without my truck so he doesn’t find me. I know he knows the gift card is from me. A genuine smile crosses his face and he walks home, I hope feeling just a little better about his day.

  I think about Joe and the other kids at the Boys & Girls Club whom I’ve met over the years. Colleen used to volunteer as a big sister before she started at the firm and got too busy for all of us from the neighborhood. She used to be really something special, she stil
l is, but I hadn’t seen it in a while. If there’s one positive outcome to this marriage it’s that my old Colleen is coming back little by little. I remember the day she told me she was going to Harvard. I didn’t understand. She’d spent two years at the community college and then got into state and from there, Harvard for grad school. I didn’t really understand why she would want to be a lawyer, but then she told me, and I couldn’t help but support her. She wanted to be able to help kids like Joe, like all of them at the club. She wanted to work in family law. I don’t know when things changed, but they did. She became more concerned with the almighty dollar and her reputation and appearance than she was actually helping people.

  James, Colleen and I started volunteering back in high school. Our dads always made sure we knew how lucky we are. My time with the kids has dropped dramatically since the Vegas trip as I’ve been distracted with the old lady; and work hasn’t been easy, either. Those stupid college kids and their “study aids” have been keeping me pretty busy. Just as I walk into the house, I resolve to spend more time at the center. I wonder if Colleen will come with me or if she hasn’t come back to herself as much as I think she has.

  Upstairs, Colleen is sitting in the center of our bed, chewing her bottom lip right off. She’s wearing one of my old t-shirts-- her favorite night wear-- and her long blonde hair is down and damp. She picks up a water bottle, takes a gulp and then squirms in place. I chuckle at the sight. What in the hell is she doing?

  “Oh, thank God!” she exclaims, tosses the capped water bottle to the side and jumps up. She grabs the small plastic bag from my hand and rush to the bathroom. In a matter of seconds, I hear the bag crinkle, the box opens, and plastic being ripped apart.

  “Took you long enough!” she shouts. I round the corner to find the bathroom door wide open and Colleen peeing on the stick. I walk over to her and pick up the directions as she continues to pee.

  “Did you even read how to work this thing?” I ask, trying to make sense of the directions. I find the spot that tells me not to pee on the stick for too long. And Colleen keeps right on peeing. God, I hope she’s peeing on the right fucking end. I don’t want to have to go back out.

  “Uh, babe,” I say, “I don’t think you’re supposed to pee on it for that long.”

  “I can’t help it!” she whines and continues to pee.

  “Seriously?” I stare down at her. “You can keep peeing but remove the damn stick!”

  “What am I supposed to do with it?” she asks.

  “Hell if I know,” I say, shrugging. I’ve never been in this position before. Her confusion leads me to believe that neither has she. I breathe a sigh of comfort, allowing myself to imagine that I’m the only man she’s ever been with. Unfortunately, I can’t pretend that I’m the only person, as I’ve seen firsthand that I’m not.

  Pinching the end of the stick daintily with the tips of two fingers, she plops the stick on the counter, leaving a trail in her wake. This is a pretty gross process to be honest. Messy, too. With all the fancy shit scientists can do nowadays and they still haven’t figured out a way to tell a lady if she’s knocked up without her peeing on her hand? Either way, her piss, her problem. I am not cleaning that off the counter.

  Looking at the directions, it says to check the stick in five minutes, but not to trust results after ten minutes. I check my watch, it reads 11:05 p.m. “Okay, we got five minutes pretty girl,” I say, smiling down at her. She looks up at me and grins.

  “I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” she says, her voice giddy with excitement.

  “I know,” I smile at her goofily. She sighs and then snaps back to reality.

  “Can you leave? I need to... finish up here,” she looks around nervously. I smirk and back away.

  “Okay, pretty girl,” I say, “but if you wipe three times, you’re just playing with yourself.”

  The plastic hand soap dispenser comes flying at my head just as I turn the corner into the hall. I walk into our bedroom and check my watch. Two minutes to go. I plop down on the bed and chuckle as she continues to call me every name under the sun. The only thing that really registers is the threat that if I keep it up, I won’t be playing with her anymore. The woman is unbalanced-- definitely unbalanced-- but I wouldn’t have her any other way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  (Colleen)

  Maybe it’s too soon.

  I WALK OUT of the bathroom, scowl firmly in place, and find my impossible other half on our bed. His shoulders are shaking with laughter. I want to keep on giving him the look of death but I can’t help myself. I walk up to him and give him a push backwards. His torso falls back much too easily, and then his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me with him. I land atop him with a thud.

  Eyes wide and frozen in place, he stares at me. “Are you okay?” Absentmindedly, I scoff, until I understand what he means. I straddle him, knees on either side, and sit up.

  “I— I think so,” my expression mirrors his. I am beyond out of my element with this. I’ve never been pregnant before. I don’t know what’s okay and what isn’t; and apparently neither does he. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s a first,” he smiles earnestly. I love him most when he’s like this. I realize now that I love him always. Even when I want to smother him, even when I want to scream, and even when he’s so wonderful that I’m convinced it must be charade—I love him.

  I lean down and kiss him, running my hands through his hair, and grinding on his pelvis. At first, there’s shock on his face, but then he gets into it and kisses me back. We move together, our bodies alight with need. His hands travel up and down. Slowly, he strips me of my clothes, and then we switch positions and I return the favor.

  There is no big bang—just a little one—but it’s more than enough. This isn’t about fireworks or showing off. This isn’t a challenge and it’s not a frenzied attack. This is us: slick with sweat and a burning ache, the need to connect coursing through our bodies, and a thousand promises that we’re in this together.

  And when we’re done, I curl into his side, savoring his slippery frame and the feel of him under my fingers. Then I remember about the pregnancy test.

  “Do you think it’s been two minutes yet?” I ask, somewhat shyly. He laughs lightly and leans in, kissing my head.

  “Probably,” he smiles, and rolls out of bed. “I am the Irish stallion.” I roll my eyes.

  “It’s Italian stallion,” I correct him.

  “Please. Those WOPs got nothing on the Irish,” he turns around and smirks. Naked, Brad disappears into the bathroom, having taken the task of being the one to look first upon himself. He’s silent in there and it feels like it’s taking forever. I burrow further into the bed and clutch to his pillow. I close my eyes as a distraction but I see myself, heavily pregnant and in the same position as now. The image doesn’t help any; it only makes me want this even more. How is it possible to want something so much in such a short amount of time?

  When he emerges from the bathroom, he looks crestfallen. I can’t bear to look at him anymore. I already know the answer.

  “I’m sorry, pretty girl,” he says, offering me a supportive look. It doesn’t help. I feel like I’ve lost something. But that’s insane—to have lost something you never had. And the tears begin. He curls himself around me and lets me cry. I notice he’s not crying and I understand why. He didn’t want this as much as I do. He was making the best of a bad situation. Brad’s always wanted kids. I guess he just doesn’t want them with me—and I cry even harder.

  “Maybe it’s too soon,” he offers. I shake my head.

  “It’s stupid,” I concede to the fact that my womb is but a barren wasteland, inhospitable to Brad’s perfect sperm. “We weren’t even trying.”

  THE NEXT WEEK is tough. I feel like I’m going out of my mind—and I probably am. We’ve only been married a few weeks but my entire life is radically different from what it was. Brad’s lif
e doesn’t seem to have changed all that much in comparison. He lives in the same house. He’s in the same place with his career. He’s still Brad. I don’t really know who I am anymore.

  And I realize that I’m being overly dramatic.

  I wish I could blame pregnancy hormones… but I can’t.

  So, it’s Tuesday and I’m in my office. It’s been over a week since the test came back negative and with every passing day my mood has worsened. The Toad has been making subtle comments all day.

  You seem distracted, Colleen.

  Your work is slipping.

  Are you even listening to me?

  It wasn’t even 10 a.m. when The Toad made a sly comment about how many cups of coffee I’ve drank today. The number, then, was up to 4. So sue me. I’m going to enjoy one of the few perks of not being knocked up—caffeine—lots and lots of caffeine.

  It was noon when I stopped for lunch—turkey sandwich on white with pickles, onions, banana peppers, and Swiss cheese. Normally I hate banana peppers. But today, those juicy little things called to me. In the break room there were some snacks—cookies, brownies, and pastries. I only made two trips: two cookies, two brownies, and an apple fritter. I’m a glutton for sweets and I eat when I’m depressed. The Toad asked me if there was something I’d like to tell him. It took all my strength not to tell him he’s a sleaze.