Look How You Turned Out

by Diane Munier

  The big wake-up call is the game of Life. He doesn't always want to play it now, prefers the Xbox and Marcus or friends.

  The last time we played the game, I knew he wasn't really into it, but he just did it for me.

  "You don't like this game anymore," I accuse him like I've caught him watching porn or something.

  "No, I do," he says.

  He has the roundy lying eyes. My God. He is trying to spare me.

  I take it well. "Just go…play your X-Box," I say petulantly. I think I shoved the board too. Well…I did.

  He can barely fit me in. Soon, he'll be in college.

  "Bedilia," Marcus says, "Juney loves you. That doesn't go away because you're busy with the baby."

  "But I yelled at him," I say confessing my latest offense.

  "Okay," Marcus says. "Next time he makes a milkshake in the blender and forgets to put on the lid, I'll yell at him."

  "He didn't mean it," I say, defending him now.

  It is after the milk-shake-shake-up that I find a Twinkie on my pillow at bedtime. When I thank Marcus, he admits it wasn't from him. I know Rebecca didn't put it there. I have already told Juney goodnight. "I'll be right back," I say.

  "Babe," Marcus says.

  "Yes?"

  "Don't…don't cry on him," he says all sheepish.

  "I'm not," I say defensively.

  But I cross to Juney's room. He is asleep. Scrapper greets me, and I enter and sit on the chair by his bed and look at him still so young, especially like this.

  He's still awake, watching me unwrap the treat. He knows how I like to do it, one bite, then I go for the goo. He always laughs and gets disgusted on this part so I play it up.

  "Sorry, I yelled," I say with my mouth full.

  He smirks. "Hormones," he says.

  I laugh now as I cram the last bite in my mouth. "What?"

  "Hermoine," he says.

  I suck off my thumb. "Liar. I heard what you said. That is so Artie."

  "Nu-uh."

  "Yeah. You've been talking about me. Went to the police. Next, it's children's service."

  He is grinning. "He's retired," he says.

  "Yeah. He'll never retire."

  He doesn't say anything.

  "I know you," I say.

  "What?" he says.

  "You." I fold my arms. "Who you are."

  "I'm Junior Stover," he says.

  "Yeah. That's your alias."

  "What?" he says. Then, "Hey," and he's doing the twirly thing by his temple.

  "Cute. Doesn't change anything. Crazy people see things." I wag my unplucked eyebrows.

  "What?" He's up on his elbow. He's always game.

  "Seem pretty interested. Got something to hide…Junior?"

  "No…Bedilia."

  "Oh. Big guns, huh? Little Markie."

  "I like Mark."

  "Really?" We're suddenly more serious.

  "Yeah. I'm going by that."

  "Since when?"

  "I can't go to high school and be Junior."

  "Why not? And you're not anywhere near high school." But he is. Way too near.

  "Two more years," he says rubbing it in.

  "Two long years. Like seven hundred days." I'm serious.

  He plops to his pillow and sighs. "It's Mark."

  "You tell your dad?"

  A pause. "Grampa."

  "What he say?"

  "He said Juney was a great football name."

  That damn Artie. "Football?"

  He looks at me, those eyes. He has these insane lashes, like Marcus.

  "It's not worth it," I say staying strong. "Those knees, that back have to last a lifetime."

  "I'm playing," he whispers. "Like Dad."

  I lift my chin a little.

  "I mean if you and Dad say so," he repairs.

  Like I have any power to say no. Marcus will want this. Artie…he's eating this boy stuff up.

  Marcus and Juney, how many times do they go outside and throw the football, the baseball. They throw and catch things, and it means something.

  "Juney…Mark…I know I'm the last one to hear about this…but…if it's okay with Marcus then…yeah, but I don't want to see you get hurt."

  "That makes no sense," he says. "It's football."

  "I know," I whisper. It makes perfect sense to me.

  Looking at him…my heart is so full. I have this idea of who he is going to be. A really great Dad, like Marcus, only he won't have to make Marcus's mistakes because Marcus will stay close to him. I know his kind heart will stay kind. He'll always have a dog. His feelings will continue on his sleeve, close at hand, but inside where the world can't see.

  He'll love—big and easily. He'll trust. He'll protect. He'll be generous, and he'll work hard. And smart? Don't get me started.

  Scrapper steals the Twinkie wrapper out of my hand, and I have to chase him all over the room while Juney laughs.

  Back in our room, "He's…changing his name," I tell Marcus.

  "I heard. Did you cry?"

  "No," I scoff, falling into bed next to him. Then he puts his arms around me and before he can kiss me I fall apart.

  Marcus settles us better, for the long haul.

  "You can still call him Juney," he says softly. He reaches over me and grabs a Kleenex and puts this in my hand.

  "I know," I say taking the hankie and wiping.

  I have a family. We are puzzle pieces that can't be hammered into place. But love keeps us turning this way and that and time has gone by, and a picture has formed and look….

  How we've turned out.

  I am back at work after a month, part time anyway. I've kept up with the books on my computer, but Connie has filled in for me as far as overseeing things in the dining room. She keeps it moving like a pro, and it's clean. Eat off the floor or your plate, it's all shining.

  I know it's Artie. He did the same for the department. People get better around Dad. Coy is taking cooking classes at the community college. Our food is outstanding and also cost effective as we're committed to finding local suppliers.

  We're busier than ever. Perkinson's hasn't slowed Artie down. Not in his mind. He takes a class at the hospital twice a week and he exercises at home. He'll do what he can as long as he can to stay open and strong. That's my dad.

  I outfit my office with a travel crib, a swing, and a bouncing seat for Rebecca. It isn't hard to keep her happy. Mostly I hold her against me in her snuggler or push her in her stroller. But I don't wait tables anymore unless we are crunched or someone gets sick. Thanks to Connie, I don't have to.

  So we are starting to get back to some routine, and I continue to struggle for balance. But Marcus seems to know all about it…this struggle. He is never surprised at what caring for a baby entails. He is so patient with her, and she feels it.

  She goes right to sleep in his arms.

  "I've still got the touch," he tells me.

  Boy does he. I always want him, even when I don't. And sometimes I don't. I am just tired, but he'll start rubbing my back, and pretty soon…magic.

  It's January and freaking cold outside. We thought of going somewhere to celebrate our anniversary, belatedly at that, but Elaine has Juney, and even Scrapper for the weekend so we stay home so I can nurse Rebecca and we make our party there. Yeah, we are lazy and just want some uninterrupted sex. Marcus does. My fantasy is sleep. But he has a way of bringing me around.

  So here we are…celebrating.

  "I…," I can barely speak. Marcus is taking me somewhere new in this universe called our sex life. We're having adventures. A few months ago at my six-week check-up, I was pronounced good to go. Lately, since we moved downstairs, he's louder than me.

  He gives me a last kiss, and I'm a total mess.

  I am adored.

  And it shows. Dad just laughs. Teresa really laughs. And poor Juney. We try to keep it under wraps but mutual mezmerization like we seem to work on one another…it's hard to contain.

  Now we're laughi
ng at the state of things, our wrecked bed, and our sweaty selves. Rebecca has been awake this whole time but she's in her little room, and the receiver is on the nightstand beside our bed, and she's just jabbering. Here is the kicker, we moved down here at Juney's request. Rebecca often kept him awake or woke him up. And he said he couldn't have friends over to spend the night with us all crammed up there.

  We couldn't believe he wanted to get rid of us, especially after we had sacrificed to be up there in the first place. So I moved downstairs a little whipped, and Marcus was downright gleeful about it.

  We get all lazy and hazy for a few minutes. It feels so good. "Come on," my husband says taking my hand and pulling me up, grabbing the monitor and leading us into the bathroom.

  "What?" I say—I whine-knowing this whole routine but not really. He's full of surprises.

  He sets the speaker on the sink and leads me to the shower and turns on the spray, gets it right. "Get in," he tells me like I don't know. We have an en-suite down here thanks to the remodel and Marcus's brilliant planning.

  I get in, and he gets in after, and he's behind me, holding me in the warm needles, and I lean against him. It feels so good. I turn my head, and he's right there, and he kisses me, and let me tell you there is love in this man's lips, I don't care what, he's got a way.

  "I'm so happy," I tell him cause that's my deal—saying that, letting him know. I don't hold back.

  "Me too," he says, and we kiss some more while that perfect water sluices over us cause he didn't go cheap on the fixtures or the pressure.

  He's wrapped around me, and it's heaven, it's heaven and a drain, two souls singing harmony…singing in this rain.

  It is early morning, first week of February and fresh snow blankets the front yard. I see Dad's lights on across the street. I know what he' s doing, sitting in his recliner sipping the first cup of coffee, half-cup only because his hands tremble before his meds kick in.

  He's not alone anymore. He has Teresa. I'm not alone anymore. I have Marcus. Marcus isn't alone anymore. He has me.

  Juney isn't alone anymore. He never was.

  Marcus has told me, in the wee hours, has tried to tell me what it means to have me. So many years alone. He's never wanted another woman the way he wants me. He knows men don't say it, but he won't be like his father and he's the age his dad was when he died, the exact age. He's brought it up a couple of times now, and I've said, "So? I'm not superstitious. Are you?"

  He laughs. I pull his plug--his very serious plug.

  "You're not him," I say.

  I've felt it, this cloud in his mind, this worry about his death. There was a cop killed in the line of duty in Seattle, but still, it always hits hard, always. It happens. You think of the family. You relate.

  "Take every precaution…and live," I say.

  He squeezes me, but he's silent. Then, "We need to be prepared," he says.

  "And we've been over that. I know our money. I know what you want. Beyond that…I can't prepare. Know why? I don't have to, Marcus. You're alive. And you're staying alive," I say.

  "We're just talking," he says. "You know how it is."

  "So we talked," I say. "When it's your time…."

  "Some go too soon," he says. He looks away, maybe at his own limitations.

  "Hey," I say, "now you're post-partum. That's what it is my friend. Think about it. You've taken on the world in a very short time and you're overwhelmed."

  He laughs a little then gets quiet again.

  "Lean a little. You're not alone. You've got Artie over there, and you've got me."

  "I know," he says. Well, he knows everything.

  I lie awake long enough to hear him lightly snore.

  So it's the next day when Artie comes in my office, and I know it's serious when he closes the door.

  "First off," he says, "Marcus is fine."

  That brings me to my feet.

  "He's fine. He took a domestic this morning, and the guy fired shots."

  "Dad…."

  He's patting the air. "It's all right. He missed. He's in custody."

  This makes me plop back to my chair and hold my chest. "Oh God."

  Then I spring into action. I gather up Rebecca, who is sleeping at the time, and I'm quickly headed for the door.

  "Honey you need to wait here for him," A,rtie says.

  "I can't," I answer. I'm quickly to the Jeep loading Rebecca in her seat. A car pulls in right then, the crunch of those tires, the engine the best sounds. I know it's him before I turn.

  He gets out, and I shut the door, and I walk to him, then I run.

  His arms are around me quickly, and I am buried against his jacket. I feel the hardness of his vest, his turtle shell. I know I can't give him all I feel, not now, and I swallow hard, will it back down. So I pull back and look at, him and there are no words. He's here. That's all. "I love you," I say.

  He's the one who swallows now. "It's okay," he says.

  I know he'll need to talk to Artie. I know Dad paces in the kitchen.

  "He's waiting," I say, and we let go of one another.

  But not really. Not ever.

  Here's what Marcus tells me later: The guy is waiting in the bushes in front of his house, and he fires off two shots at Marcus as soon as he's out of the car. Marcus draws his weapon and for a minute, it's a stand-off.

  "His wife was in there, his kids," Marcus says.

  He was able to talk the guy down. By the time David got there, he had him cuffed.

  We're both thinking it could have been today, and we're thinking about how it would be for our family and me. Instead, we're sitting here together, holding hands atop the table, the dishwasher humming, Juney doing his homework in the next room while Rebecca rolls around on the floor.

  "I believe in what I'm doing," he says.

  So do I. One man's sacrifice for what's right benefits everyone. You make their lives better, you make yours better. That's Artie's gospel. But it's ours too, all of us holding this line.

  "The day you can't share with me," I say, "is the day we're in trouble."

  He raises my hand and presses his lips against it, looking at me the whole time.

  It's even sweeter that evening. He's different, helping me clear the table and giving Rebecca her bath and wrestling around with Juney which is how they pretty much hug these days.

  I realize what I see on him is…gratitude. I know, I feel it too. We're held by something bigger than ourselves. We both know it.

  In bed that night our love-making is fast and sweet. Afterward we hold one another, and I keep running my hands over him, across his chest and down his arms.

  He is doing the same to me. There is so much comfort in touching one another like this.

  Marcus tells me, "Artie goes twelve years and is never shot at once, and a twenty-eight-year-old cop buys it in Seattle, on a routine traffic stop."

  Yeah, we just can't get this world lined out no matter how hard we try.

  He clears his throat, I know he's choosing his words with care, "I've had this hanging over me…the pull to do this…and worry about you and the kids. But you were right, and I can't explain it any better than that. It just wasn't my time. And it isn't…until it is."

  I stay quiet, waiting.

  "It's like…it's all right, you know?"

  "What do you mean?" I ask.

  "On the ride to the diner…the craziest thing. I couldn't get to you fast enough, but it's like I knew…it was time to let go. I had just talked Benson into it…but I couldn't do it myself."

  "Surrender?" I say.

  "That's about it."

  Worry is a leak in the boat. I think that's what he's trying to say. When duty calls, he needs to be there…all there.

  "I may be sheriff, own a business, have a family, but I don't own life and death," he says. "I don't own time. I don't own the calendar. I don't even own you."

  It's almost like we're floating. This is more than a eureka moment. He's had a revelation.


  "So you realize that someday you'll die, but you're not going to let it beat you up in the meantime? That's what I hear." I am looking at him, and there is nothing between us but the truth.

  "That will do." He kisses me. "That's good."

  He swallows. "You were right all along."

  He holds me so tightly. He lets it out. I reach hard as I can and get him a Kleenex. For once.

  After a while, we're quiet together. We're good, so good. He sighs, and his arms tighten again. "There's no one like you, Bedilia. Not for me."

  Well, he's right. But I have to admit, Artie is the one that got him on the hook. I just showed up.

  Before we sleep, I have to tell him one more thing. "That part about not owning me," I'm shaking my head. "You own me body and soul Marcus Stover. Just so you know."

  The End

  Other books by Diane Munier:

  MY WOUNDED SOLDIER, BOOK ONE, FIGHT FOR GLORY: Prequel to My Wounded Soldier, Book Two, Fight for Love: The year is 1866. All across the country men are drifting home from the war. But when Tom Tanner musters out, he doesn’t plan to go home. He has been working in the brickyard in Springfield trying to save enough money to buy a rig and head west. He’s not expecting his father to show up and plead with him to return to the farm. After the horrible loss of his older brother, Tom doesn’t feel worthy of the family’s company. But his guilt won’t allow him to cause them more pain and so he goes home for one last visit. It’s hard to find normal around the folks. The work of harvest provides the perfect distraction. Once the crops are in he’ll go so far away, they’ll never have to look at him again. But his plans are challenged one day. Tom is working in the field when the neighbor boy, Johnny, comes running for help. What Tom finds at the neighbor’s home is a scene right out of the war. But it’s not just about killing. The Missus Addie Varn is ready to birth. Tom wants to run, and he will come fall, but now he must roll up his sleeves and play midwife.

  MY WOUNDED SOLDIER, BOOK TWO, FIGHT FOR LOVE: Sequel to My Wounded Soldier, Book One, Fight for Glory: Tom Tanner has taken on a family. He lived through the war, but becoming a lover and pa to two small children may be the role that breaks him. This is the story of a man’s slow rise from black sheep to patriarch. 1866 is a time of learning to carry on in the aftermath of civil war. Tom is ready to heal, ready to take over Addie’s farm and make it a grand place. He has money from reupping in the war and reward money for bringing a few notorious outlaws. Can Addie’s love help him settle and become an outstanding man like his pa? It’s the only fight worth making-- a fight for love.