Losers Weepers

by Nicole Williams

  Fresh out of insults and profanities to throw the decrepit relic in front of me, I heaved myself forward through the overgrown weeds and brown clumps that crunched beneath my wheels. The brown clumps were the remnants of a yard that had once been brimming with green grass and flowerbeds that had been kept in bloom every season save for winter.

  Thank God there was a small lip leading to the porch instead of a long stairway because then I would have had to drag myself up to the front door instead of rolling. Somehow, the latter option seemed more dignified. It took a few hard rolling, rocking tries to get the front wheels popped up onto the porch and a couple more to get the rest to follow, but once that had been accomplished, the rest was easy. I’d taken the screen door off months ago since it had been hanging on by a sliver, and we didn’t keep the front door locked since if someone wanted to break in, all they needed to do was crawl through one of the many broken windows lining the first floor.

  As soon as I was inside, I flipped on the hall light. Thankfully, it fired on. One of my first chores when we’d first taken ownership had been changing out all of the dead bulbs—which was mostly all of them—and replacing them with long-lasting, energy-efficient ones. I didn’t know why I’d dumped the extra money on lightbulbs when the regular ones had always worked just fine, but I guessed it had been a sign of how much pride I’d taken in owning that piece of shit. Ironic.

  My second call from Josie came as I was rolling toward what we’d planned to make our master bedroom. It had been an office, but since neither of us could stay cooped up inside of four walls during daylight hours, an office would have been wasted space. Instead we’d decided to make that our bedroom since it was huge and had the largest windows in the house spread throughout it. Upstairs, there were a handful of smaller bedrooms, but we’d figured those would wind up being our . . .

  Once upon a time we’d figured that. Before I’d become an impotent, paralyzed cripple who was more trouble than he was worth.

  That cheery thought was responsible for my fist cracking against the hall wall, causing enough dust to erupt around me to make me cough. That was the other thing about this place . . . well, one of the many other things about this place—it was caked in no less than a half inch of dust and smelled like a potpourri of mildew and filth. Not exactly the fresh-baked bread or lemon cleanser I was used to after spending so much time at the Gibsons’ these past couple years.

  After I ignored her second attempt to reach me, my phone started buzzing with text messages. I didn’t look though. Not yet. Not until I was inside our room and on the blow-up mattress we’d left there for when we needed a “work break,” which had been at least once every afternoon or evening we’d spent working on this place.

  I needed to lie down, catch my breath, and recollect my wits before I answered Josie’s texts, which were still chiming every few seconds. I needed to muster up my depleted strength so that my weakness didn’t do something stupid. Like tell her where I was or what I was trying to do or that I loved her and always would and beg her to come get me.

  It took some work to figure out how to get out of the wheelchair and onto the air mattress that had shifted into the corner of the room. Josie and I normally kept it right in the middle, but I guessed the wind had gusted through the broken windows and blown it into a corner. There were a few brown and green leaves on top of it, but I didn’t bother to brush them off. I just lowered myself onto it as carefully as I could and fell back into it the moment my ass hit the mattress.

  I lay there for I didn’t know how long, staring at the paint peeling off the high ceiling and accepting that I’d never be able to climb the tall ladder to peel off the old before painting on a new coat of the cheery blue color Josie had picked. The rest of the walls she’d wanted to be repainted in white, but the ceiling she wanted blue. It had seemed an odd choice, but when I’d asked her, she explained it would be like staring at a bright blue sky and that no matter how gray the day or mood, we could fall asleep remembering that a blue sky was always close by.

  But I hadn’t gotten around to the ceiling yet. I didn’t have a blue-sky ceiling above me to lift my mood and bolster my determination, so I lay there and stared at the gray, moldy, cracked ceiling, letting it affect my mood accordingly.

  That was when I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked her texts. I stopped reading after the first few. Each one became more desperate, more pleading, chewing away at my resolve like I guessed Josie knew would happen when I read them. So I stopped reading her dozens of texts and started typing my own. Listing a time and a location, I asked if she’d meet me tomorrow night to discuss the future. I kept my message short and straightforward, knowing that would alert her that something was up but also knowing she’d be there even if I’d requested a meeting on the top of the Empire State Building.

  Her response pinged an instant after I’d sent mine. What’s going on? Where are you? You’re scaring me. You’re not supposed to scare me, Garth.

  I swallowed, resisting the urge to let her know I was okay or where I was or that everything would be okay and reassure her as I knew she needed. If I kept giving her what she needed whenever she needed it, that would only make the break harder, more jagged. Instead, I turned off my phone, closed my eyes, and tried to fall asleep.

  I was still trying to sleep when the sun rose hours later.

  I ARRIVED EARLY, partly because I hadn’t been sure how long it would take me to “roll” my way there, partly because I’d known Josie would get there early, and partly because I couldn’t have sat inside that big house a minute longer without going crazy. There were lots of parts of why I arrived at the top of that hill early and stopped beside the big maple, planning to use it for both shelter and support.

  Below me was a little watering hole, maybe only a couple times bigger than the swimming pool at the community center in town. It was located on the property Josie and I’d been hoping to purchase and would have been nice for watering the cattle on occasion. It also served as a perfect spot to cool off on a hot day and make love beneath one of the trees. The watering hole was a little ways from the house but thankfully not too far. Given the uneven ground and lack of road or even a rudimentary trail, I wouldn’t have been able to make another five miles after yesterday’s journey.

  My hands were covered in blisters—ones about to burst and ones that already had—and my arms, back, and chest had never felt as sore as they had this afternoon when I’d woken up after finally falling asleep around six this morning.

  I’d texted Josie to meet me at the watering hole tonight around nine o’clock . . . but it wasn’t me she’d be meeting. No, I would stay camped up here a ways above the water, knowing she’d never see me from where she’d arrive, especially with the cover of darkness.

  I’d made a call yesterday, somewhere between mile four and five, after my plan had come to a successful head, and all that was left was implementing it. Implementation started with a call to Colt Mason. Actually, it had started with a call to directory services, who connected me with the Mason household’s butler, who’d finally relented and given me Colt’s cell number after I managed to convince him Colt and I were old friends.

  Colt had been surprised by my call. He hadn’t masked his surprise either. When I’d asked if he’d meet me out here tonight, he’d tried every which way to say no without actually saying it. When I mentioned Josie’s name and how I was worried about her and said I wanted to talk to him about her, he’d given in and agreed to meet me. I’d had to give him directions to the watering hole, but even Colt Mason should have been up to the task of navigating a few back roads to find a watering hole in the middle of nowhere. I hoped. Otherwise this whole thing was for nothing.

  I watched the sunset that night from high up on my hill, feeling as if it was the last sunset of my life because, in a way, it kind of was. My life with Josie, as I’d always wanted it, was coming to an end tonight. My life on my own was starting tomorrow, and I didn’t need a glass ball to drop ou
t of the sky into my lap to know that sunsets would never look the same without Josie in my life.

  The last ribbons of orange and pink were fading from the sky when I noticed a familiar set of headlights bouncing down the dirt road toward the watering hole. That “road” was across the water from me, probably a good half mile away, but I swore I could see the look on Josie’s face as she broke to a stop where we always parked and looked around, searching for me. From confusion to anger to sadness and repeating, it was like she couldn’t decide what to think about showing up to the watering hole only to find me not there waiting for her.

  I swallowed and made myself stay put. I wouldn’t give in now after putting in so much effort to give her a fresh start. One that didn’t include taking care of me day in and day out or rolling around restlessly at night, wondering how the bills would get paid or drifting so far apart from her dreams she one day woke up having no memory of them at all.

  Eventually she crawled out of her truck. Even though it was nearly dark, the moon was almost full and high enough in the sky I could just make out her movements. Her arm curled to her ear . . . she was holding . . . an instant later, my phone rang.

  “Shit,” I hissed, digging around to silence it. I should have figured she’d call me as soon as she arrived to find the watering hole empty. Silencing my ringer or shutting the thing off should have been part of the plan, but no . . . I guessed I hadn’t thought of everything.

  After flicking off the ringer, I glanced across the water at her, sure she’d heard the ring echo across the valley and would start marching in my direction, but something else had caught her attention. Another set of headlights was tentatively making its way down the same road and coming to a stop beside Josie’s truck. So the city boy had learned his way around the back roads. Good. That made everything that much better, I supposed, that Colt was becoming more Montana than California.

  Colt rolled down his window and stuck his head and arm out and said something to Josie. I couldn’t hear a word he said. Not that I’d expected to. It was probably for the best that I couldn’t hear whatever they said to each other, but it wasn’t as though my imagination filling in the words made it any easier than listening to their actual conversation.

  A moment later, Colt climbed out of his truck and slammed his door closed. He had on one of his many fancy hats and was sporting a pair of spiffy boots, but really, even I couldn’t have given him too much shit about that anymore. His family had been here a while now, done their best to weave themselves into the community, and Colt had proven himself a solid guy . . . for one who’d been born and partially raised in California.

  He might not have been worthy of Josie back when they’d been together, and hell, he wasn’t worthy of her now either, but no man would ever be worthy of Josie Gibson. Not even if he found a way to cure world hunger in his spare time. But Colt Mason did have several things going for him. He was a solid guy who could look a man in the eye as he shook his hand, he knew how to respect a woman, he had plenty of money, he had a promising future, and best of all, he wasn’t confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He could dance with Josie when the urge hit her, which it did often. He could make love to her when she got that wild look in her eyes . . . he could give her children.

  The pain in my chest that had been haunting me for weeks pounded at my sternum like something inside was trying to break through. The image of Colt with Josie, moving above her as she whispered his name, made me double over and reach for the large maple tree in an effort to keep me from falling.

  From the look of what was happening down by the water, Josie was pissed. Her arms were flailing around so quickly her movements practically blurred. Every few words echoed across the water toward me, but they were too garbled to make out. She’d spin around every minute or so, seeming to search the area for what I guessed was me, as if she hadn’t given up on me showing up. She was still holding on to the hope that I’d turn up. That I hadn’t given up and walked away, just as she’d always feared I would back when we’d been making our way toward each other.

  Colt stayed cool and collected, getting in a few words whenever he could and every once in a while rubbing her arm to try to soothe her. She flinched away from him more often than she let him try to comfort her. That made me smile as I breathed a sigh of relief . . . then I reminded myself her pushing him away wasn’t a victory anymore—it was a failure. It meant she was hanging on to me, and all that would come of her hanging on to me was her winding up a broken, shattered mess when my rope snapped, as I knew it had to.

  After about ten minutes, her arms stopped moving like a tornado. She fell into a heap beside Colt, burying her head in her hands. From the way her shoulders bounced, I knew she was crying. From the way it spread to the rest of her body, I knew she was sobbing. That, more than the anger and betrayal and outrage I’d just witnessed, was heart-wrenching. I found my hands dropping to the wheels of my chair and started to move it forward before I even knew what I was doing.

  I couldn’t stop moving forward, despite knowing I shouldn’t. I couldn’t stop moving toward her, because she needed me, and at the heart of everything, I knew I needed her.

  I was gaining momentum, the downhill slope propelling me forward, when I noticed something that broke me to a stop. Colt had crouched beside her and draped an arm around her shoulders. His head was beside hers, and from whatever he was saying, she was calming down. Her body-rocking sobs dimmed into cries which, after another minute, diminished into nothing.

  Colt had comforted her. He’d found a way to ease her sadness. I hadn’t been looking for another justification for what I’d arranged, but there it was. Admitting it in my other life would have killed me, but in this one, I knew Colt was the better man.

  I stayed for a few more minutes, hovering on that quiet slope and feeling like I was suffering the hardest test of my life. Just when I’d thought I couldn’t do it, just when I’d been certain I couldn’t let her go, I turned around slowly and whispered, “Bye, Josie.”

  THIS WAS THE second time I’d passed through the front door of this house without elation manifesting in the form of a smile. This was the second time I’d moved around inside knowing that the family I’d planned to live and grow within its walls would never become a reality. This was the second time I’d rolled down this hall late at night feeling more like a ghost than a man.

  My hold on this world was slipping, and whatever waited beyond this one was pulling me closer. I wasn’t fighting it either. The thought of life without Josie was about as appealing as spending the rest of my life in a North Korean prison.

  It had taken me a half hour to get home after leaving my lookout above the watering hole. It used to take me less than ten minutes to walk there. Somehow I felt more exhausted tonight than I had last night, so I headed straight for the bedroom after snagging something from the kitchen.

  One of the nice things about living in a small community was that we still had ma-an’-pop grocery stores with delivery guys who’d deliver eggs, milk, and whatever else to the old folks in town. Or the handicapped ones who were stuck in the middle of nowhere with no means of transportation. The fridge was old, but it still worked, and Josie and I had kept it stocked with water and soda, but that was about it. I’d found a few dry goods in the cupboards, but if I had to eat another saltine cracker, I was going to turn into one.

  I’d called in my order when I’d woken up, and it had arrived a few hours later. At least I’d figured out a way to forage for food: dial the local grocery store and wait for the delivery guy to show up . . . my life sucked.

  That aside, I now had something to choose from besides crackers and granola bars. Bread, bologna, mustard, cheese, chips, bananas . . . the essentials had all arrived, and when the delivery guy had seen me in my wheelchair, he’d even tried to unload the groceries for me. I’d cut him off before he could get the fridge open, handed him some money and a nice tip, and said good-bye. I wasn’t ready to accept pity yet. I doubted
I ever would be.

  After getting everything put away, my fingers had slipped around one of the main reasons I’d called for a delivery. Nothing but the essentials . . .

  After putting in my grocery order, I’d made a direct call to the delivery guy and told him I’d slip him an extra twenty if he stopped by a different store on his way out. I’d asked for the biggest bottle he could find because I’d known this night would require it, and I’d been right. Before I made it into the bedroom, I already had the cap twisted off and was lifting the bottle to my lips.

  The whiskey burned down my throat, hitting me almost the minute it hit my stomach. I’d stopped drinking the heavy stuff months ago for plenty of reasons that didn’t matter anymore. I’d quit because whiskey turned me into an asshole, and that was usually directed at whoever was closest, which usually turned out to be Josie. I was alone now—I’d be alone forever if I got my way—so there was no reason to keep the asshole routine that came so naturally confined anymore.

  I’d stopped drinking whiskey because it made me less than the man I knew I could be . . . but there was no one around to strive to be a better man for now. I sure as shit wasn’t going to work my ass off becoming a better man for myself, because that wasn’t who I was. I didn’t do things to make myself better for myself—I did them for the people in my life, and that number was diminishing.

  That first long drink tasted so good and so successfully numbed me from the pain in my chest that I took a second. And a third.

  I was on my fifth and nearing the halfway point of the large bottle when I heard the familiar roar of an engine just outside and the sound of gravel flying as tires squealed to a stop. The engine shut off, the driver’s door slammed shut, and the front door of the house slammed open in the span of about ten seconds. I heard her boot-steps storming down the hall. I didn’t have time to recap the whiskey or find a hiding spot for it. I didn’t have time to collect myself or remind myself why I’d orchestrated everything I had in the past twenty-four hours. I didn’t think about anything but her and the way she made me feel and the way I knew I made her feel as she stormed down the hall, pissed off to the point of exploding from the sound of her steps.