by Lisa Tucker
“You haven’t finished, buddy,” I say, but he’s gone down the hall.
Rick pushes his cap back, looks at me. “He’s a sweet kid.”
I pick up our plates and set them in the sink. When I turn around, he’s still looking straight at me. His eyes look so dark, they’re almost black, and they’re narrowed a little, as if he’s concentrating hard, struggling to understand.
I quickly turn away, but I can feel his eyes on me as I dump Willie’s juice in the sink, throw away the napkins, and wash the table. Even when Willie returns with a fistful of trucks, Rick’s still staring. I pretend an interest in the trucks, hope I’m not blushing. When I find my thoughts wandering to the cutoff shorts and old tank top I’m wearing, I’m disgusted with myself. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of me anymore. It doesn’t. It can’t.
By ten thirty, I’m starting to feel numb. Rick seems to have no intention of ever leaving, and nobody has asked him to—as usual. A few months back, when a guitar player Jonathan knew came to sit in one night at the club, the guy ended up crashing with the band for two weeks. Irene says it’s part of being cool: welcoming people to your house for as long as they want to stay. Of course the people you welcome have to be cool, too, and Rick certainly seems to be. He doesn’t get in anybody’s face, doesn’t cause any trouble. Best of all, he still hasn’t asked for any money although the guys have been smoking his good weed for the last four hours, and drinking his vodka too, since about nine.
I could tell him to leave, but I can’t imagine it would work. The whole point of this seems to be to get into my life, hang out in my space, whether I like it or not.
I don’t like it, and yet he’s been so amazingly nice to Willie— that’s another reason I’m going numb. He let him sit on his lap in the driver’s seat of the truck and pretend to drive for almost an hour; he let him turn the directional on and off, honk the horn, blast the radio. I stood in the driveway, speechless, but forcing a smile whenever Willie glanced at me.
After I got Willie into his pajamas, he wanted to go back to the living room and say good night to the “new guy.”
When Rick gave him a quick hug, whispered, “Good night, buddy,” Willie stepped back and announced, “Buddy is only for Mama!” But he giggled all the way down the hall.
After I’d tucked him in bed with his beagle and kissed him good night three times, he asked why the new guy called him buddy.
“He must have heard me call you that.”
“No,” Willie said. “Tell me why!”
“That is why,” I said, but my voice was shaking a little as it struck me that Willie might know a lot more than he seemed to.
Now that Willie is asleep, I have nothing to distract me from my nerves. Rick is still listening to CDs with Carl and Dennis. Irene and Harry have come out of their room and are doing the dishes. I offered to help, but Irene said no because if I did, Harry wouldn’t. So I’m watching them and pacing back and forth in the tiny kitchen, glancing into the living room every few minutes.
By this point, even Irene has decided that Rick might be okay. “Maybe he’s just desperate to see you and Willie,” she whispered, handing Harry a dripping plate. “It’s kind of cute, him going to all this trouble.”
Carl and Dennis are sprawled out on the floor, thoroughly wasted. They’re discussing the CD, primarily bragging about how much better musicians they are and laughing for no reason. I don’t hear Rick at all, though I know he’s been drinking too; I saw him pouring himself a glass about a half hour ago. I haven’t seen him touch the weed.
By the time the CD ends, Carl is so drunk his voice sounds slurred. I’ve been down the hall, checking on Willie; when I come back, I hear him telling Dennis to wait before he puts on more music; he has something important to tell Rick. I assume it’s some drug thing, but I stop to listen.
Carl looks at Dennis, then at Rick. “I want to have sex with your old girlfriend.” He raises his eyebrows. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Dennis cracks up, but I feel as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. I can barely catch my breath as I force myself to walk into the living room, get closer to Rick. His voice sounds even as he says, “Is that so?”—his face seems calm. But when I’m about five feet away, I see it: the twitching of the skin around his left eye. It’s a tic he’s had since he was a kid; it happens whenever he’s angry, but it’s no big deal; no one even sees it unless he points it out. Or unless they’ve known him forever, like I have.
“Yeah,” Carl says. He tries to get up but he stumbles and sits back down. “And she wants me too, I can tell. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Never,” I say, but my voice is a squeak. I’ve just realized that the black canvas behind Rick’s chair isn’t Jonathan’s synthesizer cover. It’s the side of a gym bag. It’s Rick’s, and I know what’s inside.
I look at Rick. “He doesn’t mean it. He’s drunk; he’s just joking around.”
Carl crawls over to me, lifts himself up on his elbows, and reaches for my calf. “Never say never, Patty.”
Rick’s voice doesn’t rise or change as he tells Carl to get his hands off me. Carl and Dennis both laugh, and I whisper, “Don’t,” and jerk my leg away. They’re being complete idiots, but they don’t have any idea who they’re dealing with. How could they, when I haven’t told them?
As soon as I walked in the door and saw Rick, I should have done something. Warned them, at least. This is all my fault.
When Carl grabs the rubber edge of my shoe, I pull my foot loose and move to the other side of the room. But it’s too late. Rick lifts the black bag and pulls out his gun in one smooth motion. He stands up and points it directly at the back of Carl’s head.
“I told you to keep your hands off her.”
Carl rolls over, sees the gun, and his mouth falls into a surprised O. Dennis scoots back a little, closer to the wall. His face still looks like he’s laughing, but the sound is gone.
I look at Rick, tell him to cut this out, put the gun away. After a moment, he lowers his arm. He sounds surprised. “You think I was going to kill this little turd?”
“No.” I take a breath. “Of course not.”
“He deserves it. He talks like you’re nothing but shit.” Rick points at Dennis with the gun. “So does this piece of crap.”
He pauses, glances at Harry, who has come in to see what’s going on and is standing very still in the doorway of the kitchen. “But the homeboy, these two assholes, they aren’t the problem, are they, Patty?”
Harry takes a step into the room. “We’re peaceful, man. We’re not messing with you.”
“Shut the hell up. I know damn well who’s messing with me.” Rick blinks, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve been waiting four hours to see his ass. I’ll wait all night if I have to.”
It takes me a minute to realize what he’s saying, and when I do, I can’t believe it. “You’re talking about Jonathan?”
Rick laughs. “You think I’m stupid? Zeb told me the way you smiled when that prick was whispering to you on stage. And even in Kentucky, you sat there with me and talked about how much you loved that asshole’s music.”
I shake my head. “Rick, you’re way off—”
“Am I? I thought maybe I was, until today. You walked in and saw me and didn’t say hi or shit. You turned to the homeboy, said, ‘Where’s Jonathan?’ like you were worried I’d done him already.”
Irene is in the room too now; she mumbles, “No,” and Harry takes another step forward, puts his hands out palms up. “You got it wrong, man. Brewer isn’t hitting on your woman.”
I force a laugh. “This is silly, Rick. Any of these guys can tell you. Jonathan and I don’t even talk.”
“Right, baby. Right. And I’m the king of England.”
Rick repeats what I said in Kentucky about Jonathan’s music. It’s just like he said; he remembers every word. He says he had a feeling I meant Jonathan as soon as I told him there was somebody else.
&n
bsp; “But there isn’t somebody else; it’s not even true.” I’m getting desperate to end this; I keep thinking I hear something, Willie opening the bedroom door, or God forbid, the van pulling up. “I just said that so you’d leave.”
He misses the point, says I wouldn’t want him to leave if there wasn’t another guy. We argue for a while, but it doesn’t convince him, even though Harry and Irene keep stammering out things to back me up.
Dennis and Carl are still on the floor; they haven’t moved or spoken since Rick got out the gun. Every time I look at them, I see how scared they are. Dennis is only twenty-two; he’d just left college when he got with the band. Carl is twenty-four, but Irene calls him a pretty boy, and that’s what he looks like, lying there, watching Rick. A boy, not a man.
I ask Rick if everybody else can go to bed, let us work this out ourselves. He laughs and says he’s not an idiot, he knows if he doesn’t keep his eye on them, they’ll go call Jonathan and warn him.
Irene’s voice is a whisper when she asks Harry if he thinks Rick really will hurt Jonathan. But Rick hears her and fingers the gun, smiles a mean smile. “You never know. It depends on what he says. Whether he pisses me off.”
I see in Irene’s and Harry’s eyes that this has the same effect on them as it does on me. Jonathan pisses a lot of people off. It’s his personality. Even with a gun pointed in his face, he might say something obnoxious.
“Come on, Rick. You don’t want to go back to jail. You just got out.”
“I’d rather go to jail than let that motherfucker have you.”
As soon as the words are out of Rick’s mouth, the van pulls into the driveway. I hear it and I know Rick does too; he doesn’t move to the door, but he stands up straighter, tightens his hand on the gun, tucks in his bottom lip.
I go to him, put my hands on his shoulders. “Rick, this is totally ridiculous. There is no other guy.” I lower my voice, wishing so badly I didn’t have to admit this. “I’ve never even kissed anybody but you.”
He pulls away, looks into my eyes. He’s surprised, but he wants to believe me, I can tell.
“We need to have a talk,” I say. I’m straining to hear the van door close as I rush ahead. “Let’s go in the truck so we can be alone. Please.”
After a moment, he exhales. “All right.” He reaches for his bag. “Come on.”
Rick is holding the bag and the gun in one hand, my arm in the other, as we walk down the driveway, past Carl’s Camaro and Irene’s Honda and finally the van. I can see Jonathan in the front seat, hear the radio playing a jazz tune. It’s too dark to see his expression but I know what he’s doing. He’s waiting until the song is over. He always does this if he likes a piece, even when it’s extremely inconvenient, when we’re rushing to get gas or food and get back on the road to make a gig.
Thank God he’s so stubborn. I glance at Rick, but he’s looking straight ahead, as if Jonathan doesn’t exist, as if the whole scene never happened now that we’re together again.
As soon as we get in the truck though, Irene comes to the front window and peers out. She’s squinting. I’m sure she can’t see us, but Rick slams his fist on the steering wheel.
“We have to get away from these assholes,” he yells, and starts the truck. He takes off so quickly that I lunge forward and hit my knee on the glove compartment.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.” His voice is angry, but he takes a deep breath. “It’s up to you.”
“But I can’t go anywhere. I can’t leave Willie.”
“Willie will be fine. Your friend will take care of him.”
I consider jumping out, but Rick floors it as soon as he turns the next corner. By the time he reaches the stop sign at the end of the trailer court, his speedometer is pushing sixty.
For several blocks, I don’t move or speak as I try to think of a way out of this mess. But then he starts to slow down. He drives down a long gravel road, past a farmhouse. He stops the truck in front of a field. When he cuts the engine, it’s so dark I can barely see him. I have no idea where we are.
He leans back against the seat, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s so quiet. All I can hear are crickets and an owl hooting in the distance and the sound of his breathing. I’m trying to figure out what to do now, what to tell him so he’ll take me back. I know he isn’t worried about Jonathan anymore. Rick isn’t stupid; he had to realize I’m not involved with Jonathan when Jonathan didn’t move as we walked by.
“You know what it was like?” he finally says.
His voice is quiet but it startles me. “What?”
“Boonville.”
“No.”
“The lockdown was eighteen hours a day. Eighteen hours a day, for three years, I was in the same cell… The only way I stood it was thinking about you. Telling myself it was bullshit, what you said in your letter about us being over. That you were waiting for me. You would always love me.”
I gulp, but I don’t respond. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness. I can tell he’s looking straight at me.
“I know you still care, Patty. You say you don’t, but it’s not true.” He pauses for a minute, then puts his hand in my hair. “I could feel it when I touched you in Kentucky.”
I lean my head away. “I only agreed to talk.” I take a breath. “I really want to go back to the trailer.”
“But that makes no sense. I love you. Those guys don’t even like you.”
It depresses me to realize it’s so obvious how they feel, but I repeat that I have to get back. He shakes his head; then he sighs deeply and leans his forehead against the steering wheel.
I watch him for a couple of minutes. Finally I try, “Rick, there’s really nothing to talk about. I told you, it’s—”
“But we belong together. You and me and Willie. Those assholes in your band don’t give a damn about you or our kid. They don’t even see how smart he is.”
I’m so surprised I can’t help blurting out, “You think Willie’s smart?”
“He’s two years old and he already knows the words for everything. Shit, he knows the make of every toy truck he has. And he can count up to twenty. I heard him; he only left out sixteen.” Rick sits up and faces me. “Hell yes, he’s smart. He’s like a little genius.”
I feel my eyes well up. I can’t believe he noticed this. No one ever does except me.
I try to turn away from him, but he leans over and cups my face in his hands. “I’m his father.” His voice becomes soft. “I just want us to be together, the three of us. Be a family.”
The tears are coming now. I don’t want them to, but they are. I keep thinking how sweet Willie looked when he said hi to Rick. And later, how he kept babbling about the “new guy” as I buttoned up his pajama top, how shy he sounded when he asked, “I tell him good night?”
When Rick pulls me against his chest, it just gets worse. It feels so familiar. For all those years, he was the only one I could turn to. Of course I moved in with him, even though I hated his friends and I hated what he did. He was the one person in the world who cared about me.
I still remember the night I decided to stay with him for good. Mama and I’d had another fight, a really bad one. It started when I made her angry by rolling my eyes while she was telling me why she had to quit her latest job: because the other secretaries were jealous of her work. She was always getting fired back then and falling back on what was left of Daddy’s life insurance.
I had my Walkman stuck in my ears, but it wasn’t on, I was pretending to ignore her. She stumbled back from her bedroom, holding a stack of letters in one hand and her glass of whiskey in the other. She said the letters were from Daddy, from one of his truck-driving trips, before I was born.
I couldn’t help it; I turned around and looked at her.
“He told me to get rid of it,” she said, shaking the letters in my face.
I already had a hunch what she meant, but I stared at her like she was crazy.
“He wa
s talking about you, Missy. He said he wasn’t ready for some squalling baby.”
When I still didn’t respond, she screamed that I was an ungrateful brat and slammed her empty glass against the wall. “Do you know what I went through for you? Your daddy was so mad, he almost went off with that slut Evelyn. You owe me, Patty Ann. You owe me your life!”
She wanted me to thank her, but I wouldn’t do it. I was looking at all the pictures of Daddy on the coffee table. In her favorite picture, he was standing in front of the garden of daffodils he planted in our front yard. He had blond hair, thick like mine, and he wore it long too, like a hippie. A hippie truck driver. I could see why Mama fell so hard for him. His face looked so open and friendly, like he would welcome anybody.
I told Mama if I could, I’d give her back my life, since it wasn’t worth anything anyway.
We went on like this for a while, yelling words so ugly I don’t remember most of them anymore. And then she threw me out of the house. That’s how the fights always ended. And I would run to the pay phone down the block and call Rick.
It was pouring rain that night. When he drove up ten minutes later, I was slumped down on the curb, soaking wet and shaking with sobs. He pulled me to my feet and held me in his arms. He told me my mom had to be lying; of course my dad wanted me. Then he said she was a drunken bitch and I shouldn’t go home anymore. I should stay with him.
His arms around me now feel just like they did that night: strong and protective, but gentle too. He even smells the way I remember, like Lava soap and sweat and something slightly sweet that always reminded me of peaches. And the words he’s saying seem familiar. Telling me he’s here, it’s going to be all right. That Willie and I don’t need to be with all those assholes anymore; we can be with him.
When he leans down and kisses me, it’s just like that night, after we got to his apartment and he wrapped me in a blanket and dried my hair with a towel and tried to make me soup, but he couldn’t, I don’t remember why. We sat on his couch, and he kissed me on the forehead, on the tip of my nose, on my lips, over and over again. Exactly like he is now.