by Jill Malone
“I’ll clear it with Claire, call you back.”
“I like that plan. Talk soon.”
Drinks at Zola, and she liked Kyle more all the time. They were in jeans, light sweaters, both of them taut, rangy, getting looks from every direction. They sat in the leather booth nearest the bar, on display in the alcove beside them, a nurse’s cap.
“You been here before?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“I love this place. Waiter’s hopeless.”
A soccer guy in a ringer T-shirt and black Adidas sneakers came over, knelt beside them. “Hey, Dad,” he said. “The usual?”
“My oldest son. Bruce, this is Liv.”
“Hey, Liv. How about I surprise you?” He stood without waiting for an answer. “Leave it to me.”
Bruce brought them Scotch, a pitcher of beer, and four plates of samplers. On the stage, two girls with guitars threw their voices like darts.
“I’ll make myself sick if I don’t tell you what I’m thinking and get it out of the way.” Kyle sipped his Scotch, flexed an eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s working. Now, Liv, I got these twelve apartment buildings, and they are value for money. I know you like independent. I’m not trying to bind you to anything. But I see you’re skilled, and I’m thinking like an investor. You with me? I’m thinking about investing in you.”
She had a strange sensation that he was asking to be her corner man. “You want to manage me?”
He laughed. “I want to invest in you. You ever think about building on a bigger scale? Get the big equipment, and the big contractor jobs, and start building some shit that’ll still be standing when Bruce is middle aged.
“You and me, we see the value in hardwood. We see that it’s all in the craft. Plywood and the rest of this shit can smoke me. People want contractors that build a good, lasting product. You and me are partners in an S-Corp. I’m the investor, you run the thing, and we split the profit 50-50. You with me? Right in half. You’re the one hires the crews, manages the jobs. I’m the guy keeps the equipment running smooth.”
He paused, sipped his drink, stared at her. “What happens now if you get hurt? You make good money, I know you do. But for how long? Your body can’t take this shit forever. You worked a crew before?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you like it?”
“I liked it. Running the whole operation, though, that’s something else.”
“Same concept on a bigger scale is all.”
Liv shook her head. “You make everything sound easy.”
“Take a little time with this. Think it over. You got a little kid now. Objectives shift when there’s a kid, you with me?”
She was. She was with him. This guy she admired, offering to bank her. High maintenance, frenetic, but with connections, and capital: a pragmatic businessman. Bruce dropped by with another round of Scotch, crouched beside Liv, explained that he coached a co-ed indoor soccer team, that they were always short girls. Wondered if she’d be interested in coming to a game sometime.
“How old are most of the players?” Liv asked. She figured him for twenty-two tops.
“We have a guy that’s twenty-five. He’s like our best player. Just come to a game.” He handed her a schedule. “Check us out, and then decide.”
He cleared their plates, and Liv grinned as Kyle yanked at his hair, told him. “You two operate.”
“Taught him everything he knows,” Kyle said. “You give this offer some thought. Talk to your girl. I got time.” He reached into his coat pocket, tossed some pictures on the table. “My kids when they were little. Fucking beautiful shots here.”
Thirty-eight
With with-child, refrain
Simon watched trains running on epic tracks, crashes set to Thomas’ theme music, video narration shot by eight year olds, and posted on You Tube. Occasionally he’d cackle with laughter, and Claire would glance away from the bank statement, enjoy her kid for a moment.
A key in the lock, and Liv let herself in, stomped snow from her boots, set the bags of food down to lift Simon, kiss him, inquire after his day.
“And how’s Mommy?” Liv asked as she carried Simon, and the food, into the office.
“Mommy’s cross,” Simon said.
“Yes, she is,” Claire said.
Liv laid boxes of Chinese on the desk, took some bowls and napkins from the top drawer of one of the filing cabinets. “Why cross?”
“I’m doing the bank reconciliation, and it isn’t reconciling. Something’s wrong with the last payroll, or something.”
Liv handed Simon a bowl of fried rice and a spoon. Claire helped herself to a mix from each of the cartons, served Liv as well.
“You’ll sort it,” Liv said.
This was true, Claire knew, but not the same as commiseration. “Eventually,” she allowed.
Simon told Liv about the mouse he’d seen in the parking lot. How Bailey had said it must live on pastries. Claire gave him another scoop of rice, and some lemon chicken.
“Did they get off alright, the Napa expedition?” Liv asked Claire.
“They were like little kids on their first adventure. Julia came by here for Bailey. She’d bought Travel Scrabble to play on the plane. It was kind of sweet.”
After pulling a bottle of white wine from the walk-in, Claire offered Liv a glass.
“Not for me, thanks,” Liv said, wishing for a beer.
Claire poured milk for both of them, sipped at her wine, and said, “Sophia asked if she could drop in on us this weekend. I guess she’s anxious when she’s alone.”
“What happened to the boyfriend?”
“They split.”
“That sucks.”
“Bailey almost called the trip off. She’s that worried.”
Simon brought his plate over to the desk, stood at the edge in order to eat with them. Nobody ate rice like Simon.
“I’ll take Simon back with me,” Liv said, “if you think you’ll be here awhile yet.”
“I’d love that. Did you get your car seat back from Bailey?”
“No. How about, I’ll take your car, and change the oil in it tonight?”
“In the freezing dark?”
“In the heated garage.”
“Wow, are you in the running for some award?”
“Darling,” Liv grinned. “You know I’m a compulsive overachiever.”
“Compulsive,” Claire laughed, “is half right.”
Snow dusted them on the walk to the car, sticking already to the parking lot. Claire strapped Simon into his seat, kissed him good night, anticipating a long evening’s work ahead of her. Liv had started the car, and half-finished clearing the windows.
“Thanks for dinner,” Claire said.
“Anytime, beautiful.” Liv kissed her, waved goodbye.
Sated and reinvigorated, Claire returned to the office, and finished the reconcile forty-five minutes later. While checking the locks, before she put out the light, or set the alarm, she heard a knock at the door. Anxious, in spite of herself, certain the pink-haired girl had returned, maybe with a weapon, she backed away from the door, and edged toward the heavy pans. Then she heard a key in the lock, and the door swung open.
“You said you’d be here late,” Sophia said.
“Jesus, you scared me.” Claire crossed to the girl, and bolted the door. “What’s happened?”
“I’m sorry to come here like this, but I can’t be at home.” Sophia dropped her bag on the floor. Her eyes and nose were wet. “I freaked myself out watching X-Files reruns. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She burst into sobs, her arms around her belly in one last attempt to hold herself together.
Claire held her, murmured, “Honey, honey.”
“I don’t want to be pregnant anymore. It’s so hard. I’m sore, and tired, and a crybaby, and I’m frightened all the time. I’m scared of everything. I’ve never been so frightened.” She choked, and hiccupped, and kept sobbing. “I wasn’t supposed to be doing this alone. I ca
n’t do this by myself. Help me. Please help me. This poor kid. He’s going to hate me.”
Claire rubbed her back, hummed, held on.
Claire had the truck’s wipers on high, and still had to wipe the windshield to see. “I can’t believe you drove around in this,” she told Sophia. “The X-Files scared you more than a blizzard?”
“It wasn’t snowing this hard when I left, and you told me you’d be working late, so I just focused on getting there before you left. Besides, I took Bailey’s Subaru—new snow tires and four-wheel drive—I didn’t even notice the snow.”
Sophia had asked Claire if she could stay with them until Bailey got home. Claire could remember being frightened like this when she was pregnant. Sometime in that last miserable month, her aunt had found her, weeping in the shower, and she’d climbed in—boots and all—to hold Claire while she cried.
Claire followed Fourteenth to Maple, along the bus route, since they’d plow bus routes first. Half a dozen cars on the road, each one crawling along, and leaving as much space as possible in every direction. The truck fishtailed at the stop sign on Walnut.
“Fuck,” Claire said, throwing the emergency brake. “I love winter.”
Once they were off the hill, they both relaxed perceptibly.
“I think he feels my anxiety. He’s freaking out.” Sophia unfastened her seatbelt to stretch forward, and massage her belly, flex her back. “You know what I miss? Sleeping on my back. I really miss sleeping on my back.”
“I missed sleeping on my belly. After Simon was born, I still couldn’t because I was breast-feeding.” She laughed. “I thought I’d been uncomfortable before …”
“How long did you breast-feed?”
“Ten months.”
“God, that’s amazing. It wasn’t hard?”
“It was wicked hard. My nipples bled for days, and ached for months. I would have kept going, but he bit me so hard that last time I told him we were done.” She adjusted the heater. “Anyway, he’d already acclimated to sippy cups by then.”
“He never had a bottle?”
“Sometimes. I’d pump so Dee could feed him from a bottle while I napped.”
Claire thought she heard a sniff, and glanced at Sophia. The girl had bent so far forward she looked like she was trying to kiss her own belly.
“Are you OK?” Claire asked.
“Yeah,” Sophia breathed. “He just kicked me really hard. He’s got hiccups. I don’t think he likes hiccups.”
“Me neither. We’re almost home,” Claire said, reaching out to her. “There’s the bridge up ahead, and we’re the first right.”
Through the snow, two deer ran into the headlights.
The pounding at the kitchen door startled Liv from her magazine. She hopped up and ran through, anxious that Simon not wake. Claire on the doorstep: blood smeared over her right eye and down her cheek, the sleeve of her coat ripped and bloody, her jeans and boots slick with mud. Liv took this in without moving, said, “What’s happened? What have you done?”
Claire stood, silent. Blood in her hair, and from one of her ears, and all at once Liv’s brain unlocked her body, and she seized Claire, brought her straight through to the bathroom, sat her on the toilet, and turned the shower on.
“What happened?” She couldn’t tell if the cuts were serious. “Claire, where are you hurt?”
Claire trembled. Liv could hear her teeth chatter. Kneeling, she peeled off Claire’s boots, and coat. Tore her shirt away to avoid pulling it over her head, eased it past Claire’s torn hands. “Tell me what happened.” She had the most trouble with Claire’s jeans, had to brace Claire’s body with her head and shoulder in order to yank them down.
“Claire,” Liv said, forcing her voice to be sensible, soothing. She stripped her own clothes off, grabbed Simon’s step ladder from the pantry, and shouldered Claire from the toilet seat to the highest step of the ladder. “Claire, can you tell me what happened?” Liv used her own body to keep Claire from toppling into the tub, and poured water over her head, rinsing away the blood and dirt.
“Simon’s asleep,” Liv said now, digging into Claire’s hair to pull several pieces of glass from her scalp. “We read a couple of stories, and then he fell right to sleep. I figured I’d give you another hour before I called. Thought I’d wait until ten to interrupt you.” Claire’s ear was cut, and her right eyebrow. Neither was deep, though they bled easily. Already her torso, along her ribs, as well as her right knee and thigh were bruised.
“Claire, were you in an accident?”
Once she’d been rinsed off, the cuts were obviously minor; even on her hands, she’d only cut a couple of shallow lines in her palms. “Claire, did you hit your head?”
She talked while Claire shivered. She kept the water hot, rubbed at Claire’s arms and legs. When the chattering seemed to be louder, Liv pulled Claire from the shower, toweled her off, and eased her into Liv’s own pajamas before leading her to the sofa and cocooning her in blankets. Liv grabbed sleeping bags, and a heating pad, and propped Claire between the arm of the sofa and a battery of pillows.
“Claire?” Liv said. “Should I take you to the hospital? Your injuries look superficial—the ones I can see anyway. Does your belly hurt, or your head?” Starting at her feet, Liv pressed her fingers gently into Claire, hoping a hidden injury would evoke some response. She’d worked up to Claire’s face, pressing into her temples, when she realized that she’d never heard the truck. “Claire? Did you have to leave the truck someplace?”
Should she wake Simon, drive to the emergency room in a blizzard? In the bathroom again, she grabbed Claire’s clothes and jacket and boots, and took them through to the laundry room. She didn’t know for sure what had happened. If she found the truck, though, if she found the truck she might know more. She grabbed clothes from the hamper, and Claire’s boots, and put them on.
Liv returned to the living room with an ice pack, and held it against Claire’s head. “Claire? Can you talk to me?” She’d stopped shivering. “Were you in an accident? Did something happen to the truck?” Out the bay window, the snow seemed to fall more heavily still. Her tools were in the lockbox in the bed of the truck. If the truck were on the road somewhere between here and town, at night, in the middle of a blizzard, she’d have to leave sooner rather than later, if she hoped to find it.
“Listen, Claire, Simon’s asleep. He’s in his room, sleeping.” She turned the television on, found a nature show. “I’m going to run out for just a minute, OK? I’m going to run out and see if I can find the truck. I’ll just walk along the road for fifteen minutes, that’s all.”
Claire pulled her legs up, drew the blankets tightly around herself.
“Claire? Can you talk to me?”
Claire was staring at the TV when she whispered, “By the bridge.”
“What?”
“I lost Simon,” Claire said. “He had hiccups and I couldn’t find him.”
“No, honey. Simon’s in his room. He’s asleep. Don’t you worry about him. You just need to rest. Do you think you can rest?”
“You have to go,” Claire said. “By the bridge.”
“That’s right.” Liv kissed her several times on the forehead, and mouth. “You’ll rest here; and I’ll take care of everything. Keep this on your head.” Liv adjusted the ice pack. “And I’ll see if I can locate the truck and figure out what happened.”
Liv set the cordless phone on the couch, and kissed Claire again. “I’ll be right back.”
Liv’s flashlight barely penetrated the snow. She pulled her cap lower on her face, zipped her coat up so that the metal pressed into her chin. She could still see Claire’s footprints, and followed them to the road, along the road to the bridge, and then began to look for tire treads.
Ten yards from the bridge, she saw tracks run away to the left, and followed these. The truck had hit a maple tree, and rolled at least once, sliding on the passenger’s side into another tree. Claire had pushed, or kicked, through the winds
hield. Both doors were locked. Amazingly, Liv’s tools were still in the lockbox she’d built in the truck bed. Her poor truck—essentially intact, though—and far enough from the road to remain for the night. She walked around the far side of the truck and stood looking at a pair of legs.
Liv vomited twice. She had blood on her hands—she’d pulled off her gloves to get a better grip—and had smacked her head on the truck so hard that she’d cut herself. She wiped blood from her eyes. Sophia lay supine, her left arm and shoulder pinned under the cab of the truck, the rest of her upper body buried deep in snow. Liv had stood, staring at the legs, trying to puzzle the incongruity, legs beside her wrecked truck in the woods. She’d tried to make them animal legs at first, despite the lace-up shoes. Her mind had pulled together slowly. And then she knew everything.
She’d checked for a pulse, and found a slow one, though Sophia’s skin was blue. She’d tried to shift the truck. Tried to dig Sophia out. Finally, she’d run back to the road, and called 911, given directions for an ambulance, learned there was a pileup on the freeway, and it would be twenty minutes before anyone could get to her.
Liv ran back to the truck, pulled blankets and a tarp through the broken windshield and tried to cover Sophia. The snow had not let up. Liv called the house phone. It rang and rang and no one answered.
She heard a siren in the distance, and ran back to the road. The fire truck stopped beside her, killed the siren, but kept its lights flashing.
“She’s this way,” Liv said. Crying now, stumbling. Two of the firefighters lifted her, turned back toward the fire truck.
“You’re bleeding,” one of them said. “We can see your truck all right.”
They guided Liv to the fire truck, sat her down, wrapped her in a blanket, working around her as though she were injured. She could only cry.
“We’re taking you in,” a voice said. “You’ve sliced your head open.”
The sirens started again.
“Don’t leave her,” Liv said. “Don’t leave her.”