Three-Fifths

by John Vercher

  Aaron walked around to the driver’s side. Bobby remained at the foot of the bed and looked at the truck. Aaron stood at the open door. He beckoned Bobby in with a tilt of his head.

  “Hey, man, it’s been a day, okay? The bus is going to be here any minute. I need a little time to myself, to clear my head. Shake this night off. That all right?”

  Aaron narrowed his eyes, then nodded.

  “You’re cool, right? You’re going to go home? This is done?”

  Another nod. Slight.

  “Cool,” Bobby said. He walked up and gave Aaron an awkward slap on the shoulder, then jogged down the hill towards the bus stop. He turned for one last quick look over his shoulder.

  Aaron lingered at the open truck door, watching.

  Robert awoke on his side of the bed. The expanse of the California king remained untouched, even after a year. They used to begin their evening in the middle, always with the best intentions of falling asleep, Robert the larger spoon. Amorous intentions sometimes kept them from falling asleep that way, often retreating to their cooler sides of the bed, connected at the hands. Other times, the futility of Robert finding comfortable “other arm” placement or Tamara’s impossible metabolism generating furnace-like heat kept them from remaining curled into each other. They laughed together at the hopelessness of it. But they never stopped trying.

  After showering and dressing, he made his way downstairs. He padded barefoot, almost past the closed French doors to the dining room, then stopped. He pulled them shut as if to close in the divorce papers that sat on the table, like placing a lid on a jarred candle, depriving the flame of oxygen so it might flicker out of existence. Yet there they sat. Untouched and unmoved. Waiting.

  He kept walking.

  IT WAS A slow shift in the ER. Mostly slip and falls, some of the city’s homeless seeking refuge from cold exposure. Nothing to necessitate the trauma team’s intervention. Robert had long ago abandoned the guilt of wishing for work, the gallows mentality that accompanied the enjoyment of his job. It was a necessity, a way to disconnect from the visceral nature of the task at hand. Still today, he wished for it for considerably more selfish reasons. Unoccupied, his mind continued to drift towards the paper on the table. How could she have already signed? Were they truly past all discussion? How had he earned such spite? Robert knew the answers to his questions and the need for distraction swelled.

  Night came, and towards the end of his shift, Robert took the stairs to the ICU to look in on Marcus Anderson, the assault victim from the previous night. It had taken all the king’s horses and men to put him back together again. Titanium plates reinforced the shattered bone of his orbital, but he had lost the eye, the void covered by gauze and surgical tape. They pulled a number of splintered teeth and wired his jaw shut. The bleed in his brain caused increased pressure within his skull, so they removed a section of it. Robert pressed his lips together as his mind tried to fill in the negative space the craniotomy left in Marcus. God called him home in pieces.

  It was unclear yet if he would survive. His EEG read dismally. If he did he would be in agony. He would eat his meals through straws for months. If he regained the ability to talk, his speech would never be the same. His driver’s license showed a handsome young brother with a winning smile. A plastic surgeon wouldn’t touch him without good insurance, of which his family had none. Lorraine had told Robert that when they visited. His mother’s hand had hovered over his face, not wanting to touch the bruising and swelling that would likely end as a ruin of scar tissue. Robert wondered if he and his team had saved the boy or damned him.

  He thought of Tamara again. Thought about how they would have handled this as parents. Thought about the kind of mother she wanted to be, the kind she would have been. Maybe despite all the pain they felt now, they had, in some ways been spared.

  Tamara didn’t want children. She’d said so on their second date over the best filet Robert had ever had. They’d eaten at Donovan’s in the Gas Lamp district. Her pharmaceutical company paid. She told him that children didn’t figure into her career plan so he should get that idea right out of his head. He spit his wine back into his glass. She smirked at him. “You didn’t know this was a date?” she’d asked.

  “This isn’t the part where I tell you I’m not interested in your product and you give me free samples?”

  “Well now that you have, I can officially call this a business dinner and charge it to the company,” she said. “But I would have gotten that out of the way on the first dinner with the rest of your practice.”

  “I figured this was just your method of divide and conquer,” he said. “Picking us off one by one.”

  “Who’s to say it isn’t?” She winked. “I’ll be getting your oldest partner in the sack tomorrow night. I love the smell of Bengay in the morning.” Robert faked a dry heave and she laughed. “Besides, if you thought this was just another pitch, would you really have had dinner with me?”

  “You promised filet. I have school loans.”

  “Fair enough.” She raised her glass. Robert clinked it with his. “No kids,” she said.

  “You’re assuming I even like you.”

  “You like me.”

  They talked for hours. She’d charmed him from her first sales call to the practice. After that dinner came many more. She was so different from the sisters Robert knew in school, from any he’d ever known. She didn’t tell him he talked white for using proper grammar, likely because they both did. Robert saw himself on the high-yellow end of the spectrum while Tamara had a reddish tone to her light skin. Choctaw, she said, from Oklahoma, on her daddy’s side, which caused her black hair to come to her shoulders long and straight. They empathized with each other about how tough it had been for them growing up the outcasts of the outcasts. They had been ostracized by their own people for being too white while they were mascots for their white friends, becoming the black friends they quickly pointed to when someone accused them of being racist. Even in California, she’d said, it had never been easy. It scared Robert, how much—and how quickly—he’d liked her. They went to bed together on that first date. It wasn’t so unusual for Robert at the time, but the way he felt about her in the morning was. He wanted her to stay, and she did. They moved in together three months later. They married within the year.

  Robert had lied about not wanting kids. He told himself she’d change her mind, that he just had to be patient, let it be her idea. Sometimes he introduced the idea as a joke, pointing out bratty kids in the grocery store, telling her how they’d handle them so much better. Most women would kill for a man who wanted to be a father, he told her. She reminded him she wasn’t most women. She advanced quickly through the ranks of her company and had become a regional sales manager within a year. She traveled often and when she returned home they wouldn’t leave the bedroom most of the weekend. He’d roll off her and give an exaggerated sigh of exasperation as he peeled off the condom and tossed it in the bedside wastebasket. She smacked his damp bare chest with the back of her hand.

  “Do you want me taking those pills and having a stroke?” she said.

  “Your company sells them,” he said. She rolled her eyes then turned on her side to face him, her head in the palm of her hand.

  “Weekends like this? Poof.” She blew into her hand and snapped her fingers. “At least until we’d be too old to enjoy it anymore.” Robert wiped away a bead of sweat rolling down between her cleavage.

  “You underestimate my libido,” he said. “When I’m eighty and my frontal lobe is shot, I’ll still be chasing you around with my pants around my ankles.”

  She pinched his nipple, then rolled away and walked to the bathroom for a shower. The high curve of her ass mesmerized him, like the natural pop in her hips that she exaggerated when she knew he watched her walk away. Shit, maybe she’s right, he thought, and he jumped up to join her in the shower.

  He caught glimpses of things beginning to change. They visited her sister in the hospital a
fter she’d had her first child. Tamara was so thrilled to be an auntie. Her sister went to hand Tamara her new nephew after she’d finished nursing him, but Tamara waved her hands and pointed her sister towards Robert. She ignored her and placed the baby gently in Tamara’s arms. Pure terror filled Tamara’s eyes. Her nephew squeaked and grunted, the beginnings of a fuss. Tamara gently bounced and shushed him and his cries reached a pitch where Robert thought she might hurl the baby back to her sister when the bouncing finally shook loose a burp. Tamara laughed and the fussing stopped. When he opened his eyes, Tamara was completely his. She didn’t give him back to her sister until it was time to go. Down the elevator and all the way back to the car, she went on and on about how she never wanted to do that again. How she felt like she was going to break him and why would her sister force him on her. All the while, she stole sideways glances at Robert. She wasn’t doing it to see if he was listening. She wanted to see if he bought her story. He didn’t. He hardly stopped smiling the entire drive home. Neither of them did, though she kept her head turned away from Robert to hide it.

  A beautiful blonde with huge blue eyes named Abigail changed everything. Robert didn’t know exactly what it was about her that did it. Maybe it was how she stood at a statuesque two feet tall. Maybe it was the way she climbed into his lap and tugged on his beard. Or maybe it was how she substituted her r’s with w’s. Whatever it was, that three-year-old had an undeniable charm. They had been invited to the home of Wyatt, one of the partners in Robert’s practice. His wife, Denise, made a holiday dinner of roast leg of lamb with rosemary potatoes. Robert leaned into Tamara and whispered in her ear when Denise excused herself to fetch desert.

  “That white woman can cook.” Tamara swallowed her wine down the wrong pipe and coughed.

  Wyatt smiled at Robert. “Yes, she can.”

  Tamara gave Robert wide sideways eyes and he laughed uncomfortably. Just then, Abigail burst into the dining room through the sliding double doors. Her nanny ran behind her with arms outstretched, apologizing. Abigail wore a burgundy velvet dress with an oversized satin bow tied in the back. Its tails streamed behind her as she ran giggling around the table. Her father made a mock grab for her and she squealed in delight as she rounded the head of the table. She came up beside Robert and tugged at his slacks.

  “Hi,” she said, a little out of breath.

  “Well, hello.”

  “Up,” she said. She reached her arms up towards Robert. Tamara smiled and shrugged. Wyatt nodded his approval. Abigail grabbed at the air with impatient hands and a look that asked Robert what took him so long. He scooped her up and plopped her onto his lap. She leaned forward and gave Wyatt a raspberry. He waved his finger in false admonishment and her body shook with giggles. Denise called from the kitchen that she had too many pies to bring to them and to join her in the kitchen where the coffee brewed. Robert went to set Abigail down, but she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “You coming with me?” he asked.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said.

  “Be careful,” Tamara said to Abigail. “I’m a jealous woman.”

  Abigail looked over Robert’s shoulder and stuck her tongue out at Tamara. Tamara hooted and clapped her hands together. Wyatt gave her a gentle scold and Abigail told Tamara “sowwy.” Tamara forgave her and they all walked to the kitchen. The smell of warmed apples and cinnamon blended with the aroma of roasting beans. Denise had three different pies on the counter. A stainless steel espresso maker spit into porcelain cups lined up beneath it. Plush bar stools encircled the large island in the center of the kitchen. Before Robert sat, Abigail wiggled and wanted to be put down. Her legs scissored in the air before he set her down. She took off the moment her feet hit the ground and ran into the living room across from the kitchen. As they took their seats, Wyatt raised his wine glass and nodded to his wife to do the same.

  “To new partners,” he said.

  Robert started to echo his toast before he registered what Wyatt had said. He looked over to Tamara. She held her glass in one hand while she covered her mouth with the other. Then she reached across to Robert and pressed up under his chin to close his mouth. She turned his head back towards Wyatt and Denise. They smiled and raised their glasses higher.

  “To new partners,” Robert said.

  They all sipped. Wyatt walked around the corner of the island and extended his hand. Denise went the other direction and hugged Tamara. As Wyatt and Robert shook, Robert felt another tug at his slacks. He looked down to see Abigail again. She held a wooden puzzle board in her hands and raised it over her head.

  “Up,” she said again. Robert obliged and sat her on his lap. The puzzle had a number of farm animal cutouts. She turned it upside down and they hit the countertop with a clatter. She turned back to look at Robert. “You help?”

  “I don’t know,” Robert said. “I’m not much of a surgeon.”

  “She never does this,” Wyatt said. “I’ll get her if she’s bothering you.”

  Robert shook his head and helped Abigail replace the pieces. He pretended to be confused about where they went. Abigail guided his hands to the right spots. She clapped and squeaked when they fit. Robert laughed and looked across the island to where Denise had taken Tamara. Tamara had her hand pressed to her chest and her eyes shimmered.

  “Are you okay?” Robert mouthed.

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I love you,” she mouthed. Robert blew her a kiss.

  After four bottles of wine, Wyatt called a car service to take them home. Tamara pawed at Robert in the backseat. He kept his eyes on the driver’s in the rearview and kept pushing her hand to the side. They laughed the whole way. She pouted at the rejection of her advances and walked her fingers across the seat and up Robert’s leg. She attacked when they reached the door to their apartment complex. Their tongues darted in and out of each other’s mouths. Robert fished in his front pocket for his keys and she grabbed his crotch. They stumbled through the open door and clumsily tried to keep their mouths connected, their teeth clicking together as they walked in-step to the elevator. The doors opened and she pushed him up against the mirrored interior wall. She loosened his belt and reached down the front of his pants. He gave a playful laugh at her aggression and she gently bit his lower lip. The doors opened on the third floor and she led him by the hand into the hall. He bunched his pants at the waist with his other hand and followed her lead.

  She let go and made it down the hall before Robert. The door to their apartment stood open, and her dress and heels sat in a heap in the foyer. He rounded the corner and walked towards the bedroom. Tamara lay naked on the bed, propped on her elbows, legs crossed at the ankles. Robert loved the way her breasts fell to the sides when she lay like that. She beckoned him with a finger. He let his pants drop around his ankles and shimmied towards her, his arms out, hands groping at the air like he’d promised he’d do as a geriatric. She tossed her head back with laughter and covered her mouth when she snorted. Robert stripped off the rest of his clothes. She slid herself back up towards the head of the bed and he crawled after her. They kissed again as he pressed against her, then he stopped and sighed. She tried to hold on to him as he rolled off her over towards the nightstand and pinched a condom between two fingers. He brought the wrapper to his teeth. Tamara climbed on top and took it from his mouth and tossed it to the side.

  “Uh-uh,” she said. He reached in the drawer for another one. “Hey,” she said. “Stop.”

  “You’re drunk. So am I.”

  She took the condom from his hand and threw it on the floor. She grabbed his face and made him meet her eyes, then reached down and put him inside of her.

  Sunlight peered around the edges of their midnight shades the next morning. They fell asleep naked and spooning. Her breast cupped in his hand. The inside of his eyes felt like flypaper and he wanted them to stay shut, dreading the hangover perched on the edges of his skull, waiting for him to sit up so it could attack. He pushed his nose into the back o
f her head and inhaled. Her hair smelled of hibiscus. She pushed her hips back and he met them with his, then she reached back and kneaded at his neck. She always pinched just a little too hard so the edges of her nails pricked his skin, but he didn’t mind.

  “So,” he said.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “And you’re okay with it? I mean, light-skinned as we are, the thing might end up an albino.” She turned and slapped his chest, laughing. She brought her nose to his and he talked through pursed lips. “My breath is bad.”

  She scrunched up her face. “Yeah it is.”

  Robert sucked his teeth and turned her by the shoulders, so they spooned once again. “You’re certain about this?”

  She rolled to face him again. “Let’s do it again. Just to be sure.”

  THE NIGHT NURSE pushed open the door to Marcus’s room. Robert snapped to and cleared his throat. She smiled politely as he stepped away from the bedside, out of her path to Marcus’s bedside to record his vitals and change his IV bag. Robert checked his watch to see he’d been standing there for almost fifteen minutes. He’d hoped a visit with Marcus would distract him. What a false hope it had proven to be. His shift over, he walked down the stairwell back to the emergency department and out the entrance doors. A payphone hung attached to the outside wall. He lifted the phone from the cradle and dropped in a few coins. When his answering machine picked up, he entered the code to retrieve his messages. Two loud beeps signified he had none. He hung up. The coins rattled and slid in the metal trough as he walked back towards the doors.

  In the locker room. Robert changed out of his scrubs into slacks and a pressed shirt. Once again outside, he lit a cigarette. A second round of snow pushed its way into the city. The fresh layer reflected the light of the streetlamps and a steady whoosh carried in the air as though the sky breathed. He shoved his hands in his topcoat pockets. He’d missed Pittsburgh winters, and without the slicing winds. It was a nice night for a walk. He started off in the direction of Lou’s. He had a bill to settle.