Reaching my truck, I snap, “That’s enough, Garrison. I don’t need a goddamn PowerPoint presentation of what I’m in for.”
“I’m just trying to help you, even though you won’t return the favor.”
I turn to her, putting my hand over my heart. “I promise if you ever need help getting arrested or admitted to a psycho ward, I’m here for you.”
“Only if Ricky arrests me.”
“Okay. I’m done here.”
She pulls at my T-shirt, but I swat away her hand. “Come on. You really won’t help me?”
“Nope.”
I climb into my truck, but Simone insinuates herself between the door and me. “I thought we were friends?” I look to the darkened sky for a full moon to explain this damn night, but I don’t see one.
“Who in the hell said we were friends in the first place?”
“I thought it was implied.”
“No. Can you get out of the way so I can go see my daughter?”
“Oh. Sure. I hope it goes well.”
“Yeah. I doubt it. But thanks anyway.” Simone moves, and I shut the door.
I drive to Shasta’s mother’s house. Another rough area, but at least I haven’t seen drug dealers here. Only hookers.
Parking on the street since the driveway is already filled to capacity with one car, I grit my teeth as I walk up the broken walkway. I don’t see Brandon’s car anywhere. His Escalade would not fare well here. I doubt he’s ever been to Shasta’s house for fear of being seen. Or murdered.
I head toward the grayish clapboard house that should be white. Shasta couldn’t even leave the porch light on for me? Probably my punishment for being here later than she wanted me to be. Stepping onto the crumbling cement stairs, I then reach the slanting wooden porch. I don’t see how the cheap plastic chairs stay in one place. And although there’s a doorbell, the button hangs from where it should be mounted, with the wires exposed. Yeah. That’d be the last time I ring anything.
I knock on the storm door, wondering if anyone heard me. I don’t even know if I should be knocking louder because of a crying baby, quieter because of a sleeping baby, or not at all. Whatever I do, I’m an asshole for doing it.
When I hear nothing, I open the storm door, which creaks and moans as I prop it against me, probably warning me to get the fuck out of here. I knock louder on the wooden door. This time, I hear movement, and the porch light finally turns on. It must have a 100-watt bulb because I’m blinded just by the reflection on the glass next to my face.
“Finally,” Shasta complains.
I blink, trying to see her but hoping I don’t. I at least need to see so I can drive home. “It’s not that late.” I close the door behind me, and the familiar house smell attacks me with cheap potpourri and stale potato chips. “Is she sleeping?” I peer up the staircase as if I can see through walls. Stupid ass.
“No. Working.”
“Birdy? Jesus Christ, you’re pushing her into the workforce kind of early.”
Shasta laughs. “I thought you meant my mother! Birdy’s in her crib. She won’t sleep. Maybe you can get her to. Come on.” She starts up the staircase, but I stay at the bottom.
“How in the hell can I get her to sleep if you can’t?”
Shasta stops mid-step, turning. “I don’t know, but it’d better work.” When she starts up the stairs again, she demands, “Now, Roddy.”
I wish I were on the way to my execution. I follow Shasta up to her room, and when I reach the second floor, the memories rush me, almost shoving me down the stairs. I could go for a head injury.
In her room, Shasta goes to a small crib in the corner by the window. I stand in the doorway, and from here, I hear the sirens play their lullaby for my kid.
“Don’t just stand there. Get over here and pick up Birdy before she starts screaming again.”
“Uh...” I go, but it’s like trudging through quicksand, and I’m being yanked in two directions. I want to, but then I don’t want to see her right now. I didn’t have a good reaction earlier when I saw her. How’s this time going to be any better?
I stop next to the crib, which saw better days in the 1980s. Crying commences, and Shasta impatiently nods to the crib. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to pick her up?”
Without thinking, I step back, hitting Shasta’s unmade bed, and I distance myself from the horrific monument to my idiocy. Shasta’s hands go to her hips. “You’re seriously not picking up your daughter?”
“Seriously. I might drop her.”
She rolls her eyes as the crying reaches screeching level. “Get over it.”
“I’m trying.” Not very well.
When Shasta lifts a bundle of frilly pink from the crib, her little arms flail while her lungs wail. She’s depending on someone to take care of her, to love her, and to make sure she doesn’t choke or drown in the bathtub. I barely avoid any of those things myself. I’m unprepared for any of this.
Shasta walks toward me, but I walk backward to the door. “Where’re you going?”
“I uh... I can’t...”
“Oh, yes you can, Roddy.” She nods to the bed as Birdy screams. Shasta holds her as if she’s a sack of flour she wants to dump, with me being the closest dumpster. “Sit.”
For fuck’s sake. Grow a pair, Greg.
“But I...”
Over the crying, Shasta shouts, “You hold Finley all the time! What’s the damn difference?”
When I don’t move in either direction, Shasta gives up the bag of flour, plonking Birdy into my arms. Holy fuck. I may as well be holding a live grenade that blows shitty shrapnel.
Shasta grins while I’m experiencing an existential crisis here. Birdy screams at me, which I know I deserve, but can’t this kid give me a break? I know I suck at this. I just need a minute to maybe suck a little less.
“I just changed her. I guess you can give her a bottle. I don’t know when Mom fed her last.”
“You don’t know that? You were with her for a while after the party. Isn’t that something you should kind of know?” Why am I questioning her again? What the hell do I know?
“Oh, and you’re Father of the Year?”
“No.”
“I came home, and my mother watched her while I went to the store. Is that okay with you?”
“I just wondered.” Birdy’s screams escalate, and my heart pounds in panic. I don’t even know what to do for her.
“I’ll get her a fucking bottle,” Shasta mumbles, leaving the room.
“Well, don’t leave me alone with her,” I plead, but she either ignores me or the screaming is that loud. Shit.
“Uh...” Amongst the screaming, I take a minute to finally look at this kid, who’s wearing an absurd amount of pink, including a pink headband bow thing on her Telly Savalas head. Also, appearing to have had a costume change since the party, she’s now wearing a pink one-piece deal that has an attached dark pink skirt with sequins at the bottom. I’m an idiot when it comes to these things, but I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t be wearing this junk in her crib. Plus, she looks like a suppository that’s been hosed in Pepto. What a great first impression to have of your child.
And she’s small. Finley’s two weeks younger and could bench press 125. Not this one. It’d be a stretch for her to even open a jar of pickles.
I look around the room, instantly sorry I do. I still see the handcuff scratch marks on the headboard. While I’m holding my illegitimate daughter with a one-night stand. What the hell did my dick get me into?
“Okay, Birdy. Let’s have a seat and just chill ‘til the next episode,” I tell a screaming infant who doesn’t understand a word of English or Snoop Dogg. Her tragic loss.
I slowly sit down at the end of Shasta’s bed the same way a bird does on an egg or a person with hemorrhoids would on a toilet. In my case, a bruised ass will do it. The bedspread is the very same funeral home floral monstrosity that I remember kicking out of the way. I wish I could recall my seventh
birthday like I do all the rest of the shit reminders.
Birdy quiets some when I sit, and though she’s still crying, she studies my face as I do hers. And call me crazy, but I’ve been called worse, she seems to recognize me, or at least, knows who I am.
Jesus Christ. I’m a father.
Her father.
And like Darth Vader had wanted, I want my kid to know me. To like me. Maybe one day, even love me enough to pull the plug.
I suddenly want to protect her from that crooked front porch. I want to move her to a nice house. I want to give her the world. I want to cream the shit out of her in a game of ping pong. Well, damn. I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud to someone. That’s not what I meant. I wish I could be a quarter of the father my dad is to me. But I’m not man enough for that much.
“How’s it going in here?”
I watch Birdy’s scrunched up face and shrug. “We’re doing okay.”
“Good. Here’s her bottle.”
When I take it from her, I almost drop the damn thing. “It’s hot.”
“No shit.”
“I can’t give it to her yet.”
“You listen to her scream.”
“Then she’ll be screaming because of a burned mouth.”
“She’ll be fine.” Why don’t I hose your mouth with something hot? Christ Almighty. That sounded wrong too.
I try swirling the milk around in the bottle while I lightly bounce Birdy with my left arm. “Did you microwave this?”
“Yeah. Why? Is that a crime?”
“How long?”
“Jesus, Roddy. I didn’t know this was the German Inquisition!”
“Spanish.”
“Who the fuck cares? Just stop questioning everything I do! You don’t even know how to do it!”
“I was just asking. I’m learning.”
“As you should.”
Since swirling the milk around seems to have cooled down the bottle, I tip it onto the top of my other hand. The milk is warm, not scalding, so I give it to Birdy, and she guzzles it like a drunk at last call. I’ve fed Finley a few times, so at least I can do this much.
Shasta watches me feed Birdy and when the room is quiet, she says, “I’m glad you two are getting along because I’m leaving town for a few days. Looks like Daddy will have to actually be one.”
CHAPTER 10
“Fucking what?” I yell above the squealer in my arms, who ain’t happy. Shasta picks up the bottle from the floor and shoves it toward me. But even as Birdy’s screams break the sound barrier, I shove back. “Shouldn’t you clean it? Or even at the very least, rinse it off?”
“Fuck,” she grumbles, stomping out of the room. Why is she pissed about it? I’ve seen used condoms get better treatment.
I try bouncing Birdy to lower the decibels, but she’s having none of that shit and only screams louder. Again, she reminds me of my older sister, a total hell-raiser in her own right who gave cystic fibrosis the finger every chance she had.
Shasta storms back into the room, practically throwing the bottle back at me. “Does this satisfy Your Highness?” I notice water drops on the nipple thing. Yeah. It’s the very least she could’ve done.
Since it’s the only thing I have, I give it to Birdy, and she drinks it as if it’s her last meal on death row. With the room now quiet, I ask, “What’s your problem?”
“I’ve had to listen to her screaming all night. And then you decide to show up whenever you want.”
“I’m sorry. I said I’d be here.” Too bad I forgot to drive off a cliff on the way over. “Where in the hell are you going?”
She impatiently sighs while just as loudly crosses her arms beneath her steep tits. “Does it matter?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
“I’m visiting my dad in Branson, Missouri.”
“Okay... So you can’t take your daughter? Does he eat babies?”
“He doesn’t like them.”
“Maybe it’s from past experience,” I mutter, adjusting the bottle as it already nears empty.
Shasta paces in front of me, dramatically swinging out her arms. “He’s packing up his house. He got a new job and needs help moving to California.”
“Oh. A Beverly Hillbilly?” I laugh, but she doesn’t, which isn’t shocking.
She stops pacing to frown at me. “No. He’ll be living in Calabasas, not Beverly Hills, Roddy.” Well, that went way over her head and under my ass.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Only a week.”
“Only a week?” I squeal like Birdy did earlier. “How am I supposed to take care of a baby for a goddamn week? Isn’t she in daycare?”
“Yeah. But they don’t keep her all day. You’ll have to be a parent at some point.”
“At some point?” Like now?
“My flight leaves tomorrow evening. You’ll need to get your own baby gear for her. A crib, diapers, bath—”
“I don’t have any of that shit!” My quest for a cleaner vocabulary has lit itself on fire and skidded into a gasoline truck.
“That’s what I just said. Get some. You can use a few of the things I have but get your own. I’ll bring Birdy to your place after work, so I’ll need your address. I put your name on the approved list at daycare. Just show them your driver’s license when you pick her up.”
“Pick her up?” Jesus. I’ve turned into an echo.
“Yes.” She nods toward my lap. “Of course, she falls asleep for you.”
Looking down, I see a sleeping Birdy. Removing the empty bottle from her mouth, My anxiety disappears, and I smile, weirdly stoked. How in the hell did I put her to sleep?
While I grin like a jackass, Shasta snatches Birdy from me, grumbling, “Such bullshit.”
Sort of disappointed the kid’s gone already, I stand, watching Shasta put her to bed. When Shasta turns back to me, she says, “You two might have a good time.”
I look at her as if she suggested I become a mute monk. “Uh, no.”
“Why not?” She walks over to me, putting her hands on my shoulders. I stiffen everywhere but my dick. “Will you miss me too much?” That’s comical, but I don’t laugh or answer. “What’s wrong? You’re too quiet. Are you nervous about taking care of your daughter?”
I grab her right hand and force her to remove it from my shoulder. “You did land this on me at the last fucking minute.”
“It was a last-minute decision. I bet I can make you feel better.” She grabs my junk, squeezing way too hard. Opposite of feeling better.
“Nah.” I push on her hand, but it’s clamped on me like she’s jump-starting a battery. Keeping me tethered to her, she uses her left hand to undo my zipper. Shit. “What’re you doing?”
She giggles, unbuttoning my waistband. “You can come in my mouth. I’ll guzzle every last drop. I know you want to so bad.” Poetic shit right there.
“I swear to God I don’t.” I look toward the crib, wincing.
“It’s what you need.”
“Stop. Birdy’s asleep.”
“So?” Shasta releases my balls, which are now either asleep or dead from lack of circulation, and she digs her fingers into my open fly. Mayday! Mayday! This was horrific the first time around. Plus, I promised Hadley I wouldn’t.
Shasta holds onto me, and I’m close to kneeing her in the mouth just so she’ll quit touching me. I whisper, “I can’t do this when the kid’s in here.” Or ever again.
She grins, finally dropping her hands. “We’ll go to my mom’s room, then.”
“Christ, no.” It’s bad enough I was in Shasta’s bed. I don’t want to be in the bed she was probably conceived in amongst the other cum stains.
Shasta shimmies up against me, putting her arms around my waist and not giving me room to fix my fly. I so much wish I knew karate. “The couch. We can even leave the blinds open. It’s a turn-on. Don’t you think?”
She again goes for my dick, and I whisper-yell, “Cut it out!” I finally untangle m
yself from her and zip up my jeans as she furiously gawks at me.
“You’re turning me down?”
“Like a hotel bed.”
“Is this because of last time?”
“You mean me knocking you up? Not at all. That was my goal.” Her eyes briefly light up, and I have to shut that shit down. “Fuck yes, that’s the reason.” Mainly because I hate you.
“I thought maybe it was because you cried like a baby when I handcuffed you to the bed.”
I side-step closer to the door. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Care to explain?” She crosses her arms, smirking.
“How in the hell did I know what you were doing to me? Maybe I panicked a little.” A ton.
“It was sex.”
“It was unlawful entrapment.”
“Get real, Roddy. I should tell everyone at the office about it.”
“Do whatever you want.” Fuck. I hope she’s bluffing.
“Even if it’s on video?” What? Goddamn it. No. I’ll have to go into hiding after I murder her.
I move closer to Shasta, so I’m not yelling. But now I’m close enough to choke the bitch. “You’d better be joking.”
“I guess you’ll have to find out.”
“If you ever—”
“Hadley will laugh at you.” Shasta giggles, covering her mouth, and I wish it were my hands. Though, she wouldn’t be laughing.
I can only bluff my way out of this. “Let her.” It’d cut my fucking soul.
“If I do have video it’s not like you can afford legal fees to sue me. You barely even pay child support. Brandon would fire you and then take you to the cleaners.” And Val would help me countersue for unlawful termination, defamation of character, and more. But I’ll keep that to myself because that could majorly backfire.
I cross my arms, but I’m too antsy, so I put them on my hips and then back to crossing them again. “What in the hell do you want from me?”
“All of you.”
“Not even on a cold day in hell.” I nod to the crib. “Tell her I said bye.”
“Because Birdy really cares if you leave. She’s a baby. She cries. Kind of like you.”
I want to call Shasta so many names, but I don’t for Birdy’s sake. So, I leave the room, but Shasta’s on my ass. “Was it because I’m not Hadley?” Part of it maybe.
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