by Faye, Amy
Plus, perhaps worst of all, it gives me ample opportunities to run into the wrong sort of people. The sort of people who squelch on their debts and try to leave me with their daughters, instead.
I walk into the house quietly. There’s a long moment of doubt, where I’m not sure what I’m going to be doing here. It’s not exactly a good idea to be here at all, for the reasons I already explained. And on top of all that, it’s never as fun as I wanted it to be. I thought it would be light-hearted, and some of the guys can make it that way. Not me, in spite of myself. I make everything too serious, too much of a challenge.
This time, though, Tom’s not looking too pleased when he sees me. I run through my mind if I’ve done anything to piss him off lately. And no, I haven’t. Hell, I even let him have a big chunk of my money.
“Hey, Luke.”
“What’s happening?”
“Not much, man. Uh, hey. You want to go, I dunno, grab a pizza or something? Maybe a couple beers while you’re at it. We’re running a little low.”
Looking around at the house, with it’s heavy dark-stained wood look, all of it very real and very solid wood, I blink. Tom’s never been low on anything as far as I know.
“You have to let me see him,” I hear from the other room. It’s a thick wall and a thick door, so he must have been shouting to get through them at all.
And then Tom sinks. “Last chance, Luke. You really ought to go for just a few minutes, okay?”
He’s right. I ought to go. Even as heavily muffled as it is, I can hear the voice clearly. I recognize it.
“What’s Bill doing here precisely?”
“He showed up. I don’t know, Luke. We didn’t want to upset you, after that shit started last month, so we took him aside until we could get him out of here. We’ve got it under control, alright?”
“What, does he want to play or something?”
“He says he needs to talk to you. Says it’s important.”
I frown. “Yeah? Important how?”
“He won’t say.”
The whole situation starts playing itself in my head. What’s the worry? The worry is that I’m about to walk into some down-the-rabbit-hole bullshit, and after all the other stuff that Bill Ashley’s put me through I’m not exactly interested in hearing more of it.
But I can feel an itch at the back of my head that I might actually be able to pop him one right in the back of his head this time, and I can’t deny that I’m interested in seeing where that goes.
“I’ll talk to him.”
Tom’s expression doesn’t change, which I suppose means that he already figured that I would. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I know that I don’t really give a shit at this point. One way or the other, I’m going to get this guy out of my hair.
“You’re sure?”
I wouldn’t have liked to have been Tom with the scowl on my face. “Do I have to repeat myself?”
He makes a face, and notably, doesn’t say anything. Certainly doesn’t move. I wait for a long moment. It’s his house. He can do what he wants.
“Yeah, okay. Let me go in first and warn then.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I grumble. I don’t know that to be true. But I’m not carrying anything that would make whatever I did more dangerous than a punch in the mouth.
“I’m sure you’re not. And I’m sure he’s not. But I’d rather everyone were ready in advance, you get me?”
I shrug. He goes in, I wait. It’s the best I can do, either way. A minute later, he comes back out. He’s rubbing his shoulder like he just did something strenuous. That, or it’s a stress response. I take a note of it. If I can get a leg up on Tom, then it might help me to at least slow the tide of Clint’s absolute domination of the table.
“Everything good?”
“We’re good,” he confirms. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’ll accept it either way.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” I say. I don’t know that to be the truth, but I’m going to make sure that it is, because I’ve got control of myself. That, and I’m not going to do anything to upset Kate.
I step into the room. Bill’s seated at a chair and Seth’s hand sets on his shoulder. Bill tries to stand, and Seth’s arm stiffens only slightly. Bill apparently decides better.
“Seth,” I say softly. He looks at me blandly. Friendly guy.
“Luke?”
I look down at Bill for a moment, and then finish taking the lay of the room. Clint’s not here yet, or he’s gone off somewhere. Presumably he didn’t want to deal with this drama, and frankly, I don’t blame him.
“What are you doing here, Bill?”
“I had to talk to you. I’ve got a problem.”
“Your problems aren’t my problems,” I say. But I pull aside a chair and sit in front of him. “You want to tell me what this problem is, so I can get out of here? Or you can get out of here?”
“I don’t know if…” He looks up at Seth. “You know what? This was a bad idea. I’ll, uh… I’ll give you a call some time.”
“You don’t have my phone number, Bill, and I screen my calls besides.”
“You’ll take my call, won’t you?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Bill, at this point I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. So you’re going to have to try a little better.”
He looks up at Seth again.
“You know what’s on his mind?”
The other man shrugs. “No idea,” he says. “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk in front of me, I guess.”
“Is that it, Bill?”
He gives a look as if he’s weighing his responses. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know.”
It’s obviously the problem. “Well, Seth’s a good friend of mine, so if you want to tell me whatever it is, you can do that, but know that I’m just going to tell him later.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
It’s a lie, sort of. I’m not particularly close with Seth. But hey, he doesn’t need to know that, right?
“So do you want to get on with it, or are we just going to grow old and die here?”
He tries to stand again, and again Seth’s hand on his shoulder presses him back down into the seat. “You can talk while you sit, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says. He gets a halfway smile and laughs nervously. I don’t have an overabundance of patience for it, but I keep waiting regardless.
“Get to it.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Get to it. I feel you.”
“If you feel me then, I hate to repeat myself, but, uh… ‘get to it’ kind of makes the point.”
“So how’s Kate doing?”
“Is this the trouble you’re in? You’re worried about your daughter? She’s doing great. You saw her not even a week ago.”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling distantly. “I guess I did see her, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did. So you want to tell me what this is really about, or should I just keep guessing?”
He suddenly looks real surprised at the question. “I guess you’re right. Sorry. Just, hah, nervous.”
He looks shifty. As shifty as I’ve ever seen him. The nervousness has been playing out on his face the whole time. He could never hide it. He at least knew well enough, most of the time, not to try to bluff me.
“I just, kinda, uh… I need some money.”
I stay seated through the comment, even though my knee-jerk reaction is to stand and start howling at him. “Don’t you already owe me money?”
“Yeah, I know. But, I mean… you, you’re a solid guy. Upstanding kinda guy, right?”
I raise my eyebrows. I always thought of myself as a decent guy, I guess, but it’s a surprise to hear the words coming out of Bill Ashley’s mouth.
“Sure, why not, Bill? Spit it out, will you?”
“Well, I owe some guys some money.”
“That’s a real surprise. You always pay your debts so promptly.”
“I know. I was surprised
myself. But, uh, these guys…”
“Not the kind of guys you want to piss off?”
“Right,” he says, settling into the chair more deeply. “You get it. I’m glad.”
I take a deep breath and focus hard on getting the words to come out smooth and even. “What makes you think I’m the kind of guy you want to piss off, precisely?”
Fourteen
Kate
A voice in the back of my mind tells me that I wanted to get out of here. I’ve got all the time in the world now, and nothing has really changed. There’s the baby, but that’s still a big question mark on my future. It’s an even bigger question mark with Luke around, I think.
I look down at my belly. I should be out the door, but I don’t know. I don’t know that I can leave even if I wanted to.
More than that, I don’t know if I’m interested in being that “secret baby” type of woman. Do I really want to walk away from Luke knowing that he’s not going to ever know, his entire life, the baby’s entire life, that he’s the father?
If I walk away now, I’m not coming back. I shouldn’t come back. It’s the right decision. At least, I think it is. But I don’t know if it’s a fair decision, which is a totally different question. One that deserves special consideration.
I let out a long, low breath. What am I thinking? Why am I even considering this? I could walk away without a single problem, and it’s exactly what I should be doing. I don’t think Luke would follow me if he thought I didn’t want to be followed.
I close my eyes. There’s plenty of time before he’ll be back. He plays every week, and he’s rarely home before midnight. If that holds up this week, too, then he won’t be home for another five hours. I’ve got plenty of time. There’s no reason to rush into any decision, no matter which way I go with it.
So instead I head downstairs and turn on the television. It’s been a month, and I still don’t know what would happen if I tried to watch television without him, if he found out about it. I probably should have tried to just see. I could turn on the TV with him in the house but not with me, see how he reacts.
But I haven’t. I’m still not sure about testing any boundaries with him. I’m just a burden to him. Watching television would just be even worse. I’d be making noise that would irritate him. Neither feels smart.
The phone rings beside me. Nobody calls me. Nobody’s ever called me. I’ve had the phone for three years now, and I’ve never gotten a single call on it. It’s always emails. There have been a few texts, but nothing I ever actually wanted to get.
I lean over. There’s a number across the top bar. It’s not one I recognize. I don’t recognize any numbers, though. I never call anyone, and nobody ever calls me. So there’s no reason to have anyone in my contacts.
I have Dad in, as “Dad,” and that’s it. But this isn’t Dad, so whoever it is, it’s someone else. What do I even do in this situation? I didn’t give anyone my phone number. Nobody could be calling me.
That’s not totally true, though, I remember. There is one other person I gave my number to. So I pick up the phone and hope that I’m not making a mistake.
“Luke?”
The other end is static-y, and cuts out more than it lets through. I do my best to catch what he’s saying.
“Sorr-oing throu-nnel. You-me?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Hello?”
It’s clearer this time.
“Luke?”
“I’m sorry, we hit a tunnel.”
“I guess. Wait. What do you mean, ‘we’?”
“I’m with your father.”
I close my eyes. Whatever reasons that they might be together, it can’t be good. It’s never good with Dad, and it always ends up being a situation that you regret more than you thought you were going to. I just have to hope that Luke realizes this, because it’s an extended conversation.
“How did that happen?”
“He just showed up… no, you can’t talk to her!”
I can hear the annoyance in his voice. It sounds like maybe I don’t have to worry about Luke thinking that he can just get away with hanging around Dad. There’s no need to worry.
“So what’s up?”
“I’m going to be a little late tonight. You alright there? Everything going good?”
Out late with Dad?
“You’re not going to… to hurt him, are you?”
“It’s no less than what he would deserve,” Luke growls on the other end of the line. “But no, I’m not going to hurt him.”
I can’t explain the feeling of relief that floods me, but I feel relieved regardless. I try not to think about it.
“So why are you calling, though?”
He doesn’t answer right away. I wait. “I was just worried about you,” he says softly. “Stay safe. Keep the doors locked. If you’re hungry, you can order out, or I’m sure there’s stuff in the house you can eat.”
“I’ll be alright,” I agree. The thought suddenly occurs to me. “You mind if I watch TV?”
“Knock yourself out.”
I nod. Okay, that works for me. “Drive safe. Don’t let the old man drive you nuts.”
“No,” he agrees. “I won’t. Have a good night. I’ll see you in the morning, alright?”
“Alright.”
I unmute the television after the phone hangs up. It’s a cable television showing of Braveheart, which means that for every five minutes of film, there’s ten minutes of commercials.
By the time that I realize that I’m hungry, it’s already late. So I pull a bag of corn out of the microwave and eat it. It’s bland and by the time that I’m halfway finished I’m ready to give up on corn for the rest of my life, but I finish anyways. Climb the stairs to bed.
Normally, Luke would be home by now. But today, he’s going to be a little bit late. So I don’t worry about it when he doesn’t show up at night.
I need to tell him, at some point. I don’t know when is going to be right time, but he needs to know. I can’t leave until I tell him, and I’m not ready to tell him yet. But I can leave, eventually. Somehow.
Sleep comes fitfully. Too much to think about, not enough time. Too much to worry about. I don’t know what is wrong with me, but everything seems to be building up in my head, and none of it is getting any easier.
I should just talk to him. I shouldn’t let myself freak out. It’s not as if he is totally unaware of how women get pregnant, after all. He did it to me, and he’s going to have to be an adult about it. If not, at least I’ve told him, and I can get out of this mess.
I let out a long, low breath. I just need to get all my thoughts out. Eventually, I’ll be able to figure out what to do with it all, and the time will come when I can tell him. When things aren’t all nuts, and he’s at home and calm and relaxed.
We can have the conversation then.
I take out a notebook and start to write. I don’t know where to start, so I start at the most obvious part. ‘I’m pregnant’ seems like a good start.
I want to tell him everything, from top to bottom. That means getting everything out. But some of it doesn’t want to come. Because staring at just that, I know that the next part I want to write is ‘I’m in love with you.’ But I don’t know why I want to write it. I’m not.
If I were, I would probably know. Love doesn’t fit what I’m feeling. I’m afraid of him, sometimes. I’m afraid of what he’s going to do, what he’s thinking, and how he’s going to react to things.
I’m afraid of almost everything, and I always have been. It’s only been very recent that I haven’t been able to deal with it. Only since I came here. The change was easy to detect, but hard to understand.
I’ve got to figure out what is getting me so wrapped up. But I don’t know what it is, and I don’t want to think about it. So I don’t.
I don’t write it down, and I move on. There’s other things that need to go down. When I suspected. When I fou
nd out. What I thought about it. I should stop there. That’s the important stuff for Luke to know.
He needs to know about the baby, because that’s what he’s not going to have when I leave. But I don’t stop there, even though that’s all he needs to know.
I can’t stop myself from keeping on writing. I write about when I was a girl, and my mom walked out. I write about my Dad, and the fact that he didn’t walk out. He stuck around, but he didn’t care.
All that is why I can’t just walk away and pretend he doesn’t exist. Because I can’t imagine raising a little girl like myself. I can’t imagine having a kid who thinks that one of their parents doesn’t want them.
And suddenly, everything crystallizes in my mind and becomes clear. That’s what’s got me so caught up on Luke. He doesn’t want me, either. He’s just like my father. And he’s never wanted my baby, either. And that’s why I keep telling myself I need to get out of here.
Fifteen
Luke
“So what’s your plan here?”
I wait a long time for a response. Longer than I should have waited. And like everything about this, it gives me a bad feeling. But I’m choosing to ignore that instinct. Call it an exercise in personal growth if you like.
“Plan?” Bill says it like he’s been deep in thought.
“Yeah. You think I can help you out somehow, how’s that?”
“You just have to go in and, you know, have a talk to these guys. They’ve really got me by the short hairs, man. You’re doing me a big favor, you know?”
I don’t like having praise heaped upon me. It’s not something that’s appropriate, and most of the time when people are doing it, it’s because they’re trying to butter you up. I’d rather not be buttered up, and especially by Bill Ashley.
On the other hand, every indication I’ve ever gotten from him is that this is how he operates all the time. He’s not really capable of being genuine. He’s either mad at you, or he’s buttering you up so that you’ll do him a big favor down the road.
“Okay, so what am I supposed to say? Talk to me about this. We go in. What’s the building like? Big? Small? Office? Warehouse? Apartment over a liquor store?”