At This Moment

by Karen Cimms

  “I’m sorry,” she said into the soft folds of his sweater. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  He turned to face her. “No, I didn’t. Neither did you.” He glanced out the window. “Bitch.”

  She chuckled.

  “I wonder if you were adopted,” he added, the hard glint fading from his eyes.

  “I’ve wondered the same thing myself,” Billy said, returning to clear the dishes.

  Joey picked up Evelyn’s half-empty plate. “I’ll get that.”

  Billy continued clearing. “I got it. You two sit and lick your wounds. I’m pretty much unscathed this time around. I might not be so lucky next time.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Kate had just kissed him goodbye and left to go to Mass with Joey, who had spent the night, when Rhiannon began to fuss. He held his breath, hoping she’d fall back to sleep so he could do the same, but she had something else in mind—not to mention in her diaper.

  “Do you save these little treats for me?” he asked, after he’d dragged himself out of bed and into last night’s jeans. “Because I’m pretty sure Mommy likes doing this more than I do.” He wiped her bottom efficiently, and although he was getting better at changing diapers, it didn’t mean he enjoyed it. When his daughter was clean and dry, and was cradled in his arms, it dawned on him that this was the first time they’d ever really been alone together. Rhiannon blinked at him; her eyes a deep navy that Kate insisted would change before too long. If they did, they should be green, like Kate’s. Although he was sure she already had him wrapped around her little finger. If she had her mother’s eyes, he would be putty in her hands.

  “Are you gonna be trouble, little one, like your old man?” he cooed. “Or are you gonna be good like your mother?” Her little brow furrowed, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “God help us. I think that means trouble.”

  Since it was clear Rhiannon was no longer sleepy, he settled himself into Kate’s rocker—barely. People must have been a hell of a lot smaller back in the day. It creaked mournfully as he rocked, so he stopped, envisioning a scene from Goldilocks and the three bears, which triggered a memory of the obnoxious deliverymen. There was a flash of anger, but looking down at his daughter, nestled safely in his arms, it passed.

  He had a handle on his anger now, didn’t he? He knew when he needed to walk away, at least with Kate. It had gotten him into trouble a couple times, but still. It was better than the alternative. A shiver ran through him, strong enough to startle Rhiannon. Her arms flew up in the air and she settled her gaze on his face, studying him carefully. He watched her just as intently.

  He’d always wondered how a parent could look at a child—their own flesh and blood—and feel that dark anger. It made even less sense now. Yeah, he’d probably be pissed if someday Rhiannon drew on the wall with permanent markers or dented the car—or worse.

  But real anger? The kind that dissolves reason; that fills your ears with a roar so loud the only thing you can hear is the sound of your own blood pulsing through your veins; the kind that makes your vision turn black around the edges. That anger? That was the kind he kept on a very tight leash.

  He drew his finger the length of Rhiannon’s left leg. Spindly and soft as velvet. Not even as long as the length of his hand. He kissed her shin, close to the spot that his leg sometimes ached. Then he kissed the top of her foot, knowing first-hand how thin and fragile those bones were. He kissed her belly, and her ribs. By the time he pressed his lips to the soft, pulsing top of her head, his cheeks were wet. One fat drop landed near her nose, and she startled once again.

  He swore silently as he brushed the tear away. He hadn’t cried in years. Not since . . .

  He lurched from the chair, sending it crashing into the wall. He stalked into the kitchen where he pulled down the bottle of Jack Daniels he hadn’t touched in weeks. He settled the baby over his shoulder, then opened the bottle and poured three fingers into a glass. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, yet he raised it to his lips. The scent of the whiskey was so strong, his father could have been standing right beside him.

  The memories caught him unaware, raining down on him hard and fast.

  And just like that, he was a wise-ass ten-year-old.

  Katydids chirped in the tall, dry grass. A warm breeze brushed his face.

  “I do, too,” he insisted.

  “You’re fulla shit,” the kid with the buzz cut and freckles said. “I think he’s lying.”

  “It’s true! It’s a genuine autographed baseball.”

  “Liar, liar,” two of the boys chanted.

  Billy closed his fists. He would punch the next kid who called him a liar. They hadn’t lived there long, and he didn’t know how long they’d be staying. It was hard enough to make friends, let alone if you went around passing out bloody noses.

  “You don’t believe me? I’ll prove it!” He was sorry as soon as the words left his mouth. His father had warned him not to touch that ball. On one of the rare occasions Big Bill was home and sober, he’d told Billy that his great-grandfather had seen the Kansas City Monarchs play Babe Ruth and his All Stars in 1922. His pappy had fielded a fly ball during batting practice, and after the game, the Babe had signed it.

  The ball was old and stained. His father kept it in a plastic box to protect it. Billy wasn’t allowed to touch it, but his old man was at the base, and Fort Riley was nearly an hour away.

  “You better not, Billy,” warned Robbie, who at twelve was two years older and wiser. But he was tired of getting pushed around. He’d commanded respect on the baseball diamond with a wicked change-up and an even meaner four-seamer, but off the field, he was just the new kid. He was trying not to let his fists do his talking, but it was hard.

  “Wait here.” Billy dashed into the house.

  “Dammit.” Robbie ran after him. “Your father will pitch a fit if he knows you touched that ball.”

  “Well, unless you tell him, he’s not gonna find out.” Billy took the steps two at a time. He brought the ball, box and all, down to the yard.

  “Take it out,” said Wheezer. “I wanna see for myself.”

  “You can see it in the box,” Robbie said. “It’s real.”

  “Says you,” said Wheezer.

  “Yeah, says you!” the kid with the freckles echoed.

  Billy took the box from Wheezer and opened it. “See?”

  Wheezer snatched the ball and turned so Billy couldn’t grab it.

  He watched with his heart in his throat, praying they wouldn’t drop it. He didn’t feel like a tough guy anymore. In fact, he was afraid he might start crying.

  “Here, Andy,” Wheezer said. “Catch!” He tossed the ball to Andy, who scrambled into the field along the driveway.

  “Shit!” Robbie yelled. “Don’t throw the fucking ball!”

  He felt sick to his stomach as he watched Andy and Wheezer toss his father’s prized baseball.

  “Hey, look at me,” Wheezer cried. “I’m Babe Ruth!” He threw a high fast ball. Andy snagged it just before it sailed over his head.

  “All right, that’s enough. Give it back. You wanted to see it, and you saw it. I’ve gotta put it back before my old man gets home.”

  As if on cue, they heard the rumble of a truck. Clouds of dust appeared at the end of the driveway. The sound distracted the boys, but not before Andy threw the ball to Wheezer, who was turning to look down the driveway. The ball hit him in the shoulder, bounced, and rolled into a puddle.

  Robbie dove for it. He snatched it up, wiping it on his shirt, smearing it with mud and erasing part of the signature. “Oh, man!” He looked up, panic-stricken, as he held out the ball.

  Billy couldn’t move. Wheezer and Andy took off through the field. He wanted to go with them and never come back.

  “Billy!” Robbie yelled, snapping him out of his fear.

  “Gimme!” Billy held out his hand, then crammed the ball back into the box. “Keep him outside until I can put this away.”

  “No. If you di
sappear, he’ll be more suspicious. Give it here. Where was it?”

  “On top of his dresser.”

  Billy stood at the end of the driveway, his heart pounding, praying Robbie would get it in exactly the right spot. The back door slammed shut behind Robbie just as his dad climbed out of his pickup.

  “What’re you boys up to?” Big Bill was wearing his MP uniform. He threw his cigarette in the driveway. It rolled until it hit a rock, then continued to smolder.

  “Nothin’.”

  “You have practice today?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?” He narrowed his gaze at Billy, then Robbie. Billy hoped he wouldn’t notice how hard Robbie was breathing.

  “Because the season’s over,” Robbie answered, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

  Big Bill glared at him.

  “You got a problem, boy?”

  “No, sir.”

  Please don’t piss him off, please don’t piss him off.

  “You best be running on home then. Your mama’s probably lookin’ for you.”

  Robbie glanced at Billy.

  “Mama said Billy can sleep over. She said to ask if it’s okay.”

  “Where’s your mama?” he asked Billy.

  “Workin’.” His voice was dry and thick.

  His father squinted at him suspiciously. “You okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You finish your chores?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fetch me a beer. Then you can go.”

  “Yes, sir.” He ran into the house and grabbed his father a beer. He opened it, sipped the foam off the top, and brought it to him, then ran upstairs to pack his things. Robbie was already on his bike when he came back outside. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and climbed onto his bike.

  “Wait a minute, boy. Ain’t you gonna give your old man a kiss good-bye?”

  He climbed off his bike, casting an embarrassed glance at Robbie, then gently lowered the bike to the ground. His father was sitting in a rocker on the porch. He was leaning over to kiss him on the cheek when a strong hand clamped onto a handful of his T-shirt and pulled him closer.

  “You better not have been getting’ yourself in trouble.” From this close, Billy knew the beer wasn’t his father’s first drink of the day. Combined with the stale smell of cigarettes and the shabby state of his uniform, he guessed he’d spent the better part of the day in a bar.

  “We weren’t.” He tried to wriggle free.

  “I’m warnin’ you. Better not let me find out you were gettin’ into any mischief.”

  “No, sir.”

  His father let go but grabbed a handful of Billy’s hair, which had grown well past his ears. “You need a haircut, boy.” He shook his hand and Billy’s head along with it. “You’re startin’ to look like a girl—or are you gonna grow up to be one of them little faggots?” He let Billy go, and gave him a shove.

  “No, sir.” Billy rubbed his scalp.

  “Go. Get outta here.”

  They were about a half-mile from the house when Billy skidded to a stop. He dropped his bike and walked off into the woods.

  “What’re you doin’?” Robbie called after him.

  Billy could hear him crunching through the brush toward him.

  “Do you think he’ll notice?” He peered up at Robbie from where he’d been crouched to let loose his lunch. The smear on the baseball was obvious and they both knew it, but Robbie shook his head.

  “Nah. It’s fine. He can’t tell. I turned it so it doesn’t even show. Once it dries, it won’t be noticeable at all.”

  Billy dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “Come on. Let’s get goin’ before someone calls my mother and finds out we lied.”

  They headed back to the road.

  “Robbie,” Billy said as he picked up his bike.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “I’m not your friend, knucklehead. I’m your cousin.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re my best friend, too.”

  Robbie hid a smile. “Let’s go, squirt. I’ll race you home.

  The following week, Billy had forgotten about the baseball. His mother was working at the hospital, and Gram was with her church group. From the steady hum drifting through the air, he guessed his grandfather was out on the tractor harvesting alfalfa.

  He poured himself a bowl of cereal and filled it with milk, then carried it into the living room, where he set it on the coffee table. He was so engrossed in Scooby Doo a short while later that he jumped when the refrigerator door slammed.

  “What’re you doing there, sport?” His father stood in the doorway, popping the top on a can of beer. The clock on the mantel said it was ten to ten.

  “Watchin’ cartoons.” He didn’t like being around his father when he drank, which was most of the time.

  Keeping his eyes on Billy, his father pulled a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket. He pulled out a lighter, lit it, then took a long drag.

  “Gram said you can’t smoke in the house.”

  “I don’t see her right now, do you?”

  “No, sir.” Billy picked up his bowl and carried it to the kitchen. His father was spoiling for a fight.

  “Where you goin’?”

  “I promised Robbie I’d go fishin’.”

  “I didn’t hear you ask permission.”

  “Can I go fishin’?”

  “How you gonna get there?”

  “My bike.”

  “Really? I don’t think you got a bike no more, cuz if I’m not mistaken, when I come home last night I saw a bike lyin’ in the driveway where it wasn’t supposed to be.”

  Billy raced to the back door, where he could see his crumpled bike lying in a stand of tall weeds. He turned around and slammed immediately into his father. Bill was a big man, tall and solid. He grabbed a handful of Billy’s shirt and lifted him off his feet as if he weighed nothing.

  “How’s it feel, boy? How’s it feel to see somethin’ you love destroyed?”

  “Why’d you run over my bike?” Billy yelled, struggling to get down.

  “How ’bout you tell me what happened to my baseball.”

  His father’s face was inches from his, and he stank of booze and cigarettes. Billy started kicking, and his father let go, dropping him to the floor. He ran for the front door, but his father caught him by his hair, yanking him back. He slapped Billy hard, causing him to slam his forehead against the corner of the table. Blood gushed warm and sticky into his eye and down his cheek, making it difficult to see. He pulled himself onto the couch, then bolted for the door, but his father was too fast. He threw Billy against the cushions, then came down hard, holding him in place with his knee.

  “Don’t you dare run from me, cuz if I have to chase you, this is gonna hurt a hell of a lot more than it needs to.” He grasped at his belt, unbuckling the heavy brass buckle and sliding it out through the loops of his pants. He doubled it up and demanded Billy roll over.

  “No,” he cried, kicking at his father and trying to get away. Blood ran down his face. It was smeared over his hands and onto the couch.

  His father flipped him over with a grunt and began hitting him. When he was distracted by a fit of coughing, Billy pushed back and slid off the couch, crying out when he landed. He rolled over and tried to catch his breath. Scrambling to his feet, he made it partway out the front door before his father caught him by the shirt.

  Billy went flying through the air like a rag doll, slamming into the side of the doorjamb. His ear was ringing. It was difficult to see. His father pushed him back onto the couch and threw the belt aside, determined to teach his son a permanent lesson. With his fists.

  There was little more he could do other than cover his face. The sound of grunts and fists mutated into a loud buzzing. Everything turned white. Then there was nothing.

  His eyes flew open. He was home, in h
is kitchen in Bayonne. He was an adult. Able to protect himself and his family. But that didn’t stop his hands from shaking.

  If his grandfather hadn’t come back to the house when he had, his father might have killed him. Over a fucking baseball. He had woken up in the hospital days later with his eyes blackened, his skull fractured, his lung punctured, and more broken bones than he could count. When he was finally released, his parents were gone. There was a warrant out for his father’s arrest, and no one—other than his mother, he assumed—had seen him since.

  He settled Rhiannon into the crook of his arm and threw back the whiskey. Then he poured himself another.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “When did you become such a bagel snob?” Kate asked, carrying a bag of bagels that she was certain were fresh, while Joey groused behind her.

  “I’m not a snob. I’m just saying, if you told me you wanted bagels, I would have brought fresh ones from New York.” He let out an exasperated sigh for her benefit.

  “New York is right there,” she said, pointing out the kitchen window. “If you had brought them yesterday, they would have been day-old bagels, when I have fresh right here.” She held up the bag.

  “For as long as it takes to get here from New York, those bagels are probably a week old.”

  It was pointless to argue. Instead, she pulled three plates down from the cupboard.

  “Would you get me a platter from the top of the pantry please? I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know you’re changing the subject,” Joey responded, slipping off the leather bomber jacket he’d worn to church. “What’s that?”

  She stopped to listen. Music drifted in from the back of the apartment. Billy was playing his guitar, probably for Rhiannon. She stepped out into the hall. “Stairway to Heaven.” She smiled at Joey and motioned for him to follow her. They tiptoed down the hall and peeked into the nursery. Billy was sitting on a stool, bent over his guitar as Rhiannon listened intently, her tiny brow furrowed.