Murphy's Child

by Judith Duncan

  And maybe it was better this way—better for J.J. This way his kid wasn’t old enough to realize what was going on. J.J. would grow up thinking he was just one of those kids who saw his old man on evenings and weekends.

  The pain in Murphy’s chest torqued up a notch, and he bent his head and gouged at his eyes again, the night closing in around him. He felt as if he had been buried alive in a deep, dark, empty hole.

  By morning, Murphy was so damned numb, he couldn’t feel anything at all. He hadn’t slept, and he pretty much felt as if he’d been run over by an earth packer. It had started to drizzle about five in the morning and it was still drizzling at nine. With a mug of freshly brewed coffee in his hand, Murphy stood in the back doorway, his shoulder resting against the frame. The cloud cover was low and gunmetal gray, its denseness creating a certain hush, the steady patter-pat of rain on the dried autumn leaves the only sound in the still morning. The backyard had that cleansed, wet look. The rain had soaked into the weathered cedar fence, and the trunks of the trees were darkened and shiny with moisture. And in the back garden, the fading blooms of the fall flowers drooped, sagging limply from the weight of the soft rain.

  His eyes feeling as if they had gravel in them, Murphy took a sip of the coffee, feeling emotionally dead. He hoped the numbness lasted, because he had reached a cold, grim conclusion. There was no solution. He had kidded himself into believing that because he understood her, understood where she was coming from, he could change things. But there were some things he simply could not change. And there was no going back. Yeah, they would have to coexist because of J.J. And he would be forced to talk to her whenever it was necessary—like when he needed to make arrangements concerning his son. But that was as far as he was going to go. Even he was bright enough to realize that he wasn’t breaking down walls; he was simply banging his head against one. And it was time for him to get the hell out.

  Jordan had an appointment at nine-thirty that morning to take J.J. for a checkup at the well-baby clinic. And being the kind of concerned mother she was, Murphy knew she would keep that appointment. So he was going to take advantage of her absence to clear all of his stuff out of the apartment. He had to make it final. Because he wouldn’t let it go unless he did. Draining his mug, he turned back to the house, his expression taut. It was time to get the show on the road.

  It was a bad scene at the condo—a very bad scene. Every time he went into the nursery, or came in contact with anything that was related to his son, he pretty much lost it. He was finally able to accomplish his mission by resurrecting his anger, and he used that to fortify himself. If she didn’t want him in her life, then by God, he was going to make sure not a single trace of him remained. He stripped the place of everything that was his, right down to his favorite brand of coffee in the pantry. But the hardest thing was closing that apartment door for the very last time, knowing he was leaving behind what mattered most.

  He took his stuff home and unloaded everything in the garage. Then he went to the job site and took on every miserable job he could find that required heavy labor. Anything, so he couldn’t think.

  It was just before noon when Marco came out to where Murphy was working in the chilling fall rain, trying to dig out a survey stake that had been covered by a careless backhoe operator. He had been at it for forty-five minutes, and he was getting genuinely ticked off. Digging out wet clay was not his idea of good therapy. Sweat and rain were running down his neck, and the muscles through his shoulders burned.

  Pausing by the second shovel that Murphy had jammed in the ground, Marco rested his hands on his hips and watched his brother-in-law, the rain rattling against his hard hat and slicker. He had an assessing look on his face as he continued to watch, saying nothing. Finally he spoke. “Jordan is on the phone in the shack. She wants to talk to you.”

  Stepping on the spade to force it into the clay, Murphy steeled his expression. “Tell her I’m not here.”

  Marco picked up a tail cutting of a two-by-four by his feet and tossed it on the waste pile behind him, then rested his hand on the handle of the second spade. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Murph?”

  “Nope.”

  “Look, pal. I don’t know if you realized it or not, but you were in rough shape the last time things cratered between you two. And if that’s what’s going on now, it’s going to be a hell of a lot worse this time.”

  Straightening, Murphy glared at his brother-in-law. He hadn’t said jack-trap about what went on the last time. “You don’t know what in hell you’re talking about, pal.”

  Marco wiggled the spade handle and gave Murphy a lopsided grin. “Give me a break, Munroe. Hey, I’m Italian—we’re lovers not fighters, and we all have ESP when it comes to affairs of the heart. You might not have broadcast it around that something was cooking last year, but I knew. You had that goofy look on your face.”

  In spite of the big hole in his chest, Murphy found himself giving up a wry smile. Marco had a way of putting things. And he should have known he couldn’t slide something like that past his foreman.

  Marco’s expression turned sober, and he fixed a level gaze on his brother-in-law. “And I could see you were going through some sort of hell last winter. It was pretty obvious the affair had gone sour. So don’t snow me, pal. So talk.”

  Murphy held the other man’s gaze for a space, then looked away, his throat suddenly tight. “Not right now.” Needing to tune out the heaviness climbing up his chest, he started digging again.

  Marco hesitated, then spoke. “Fine. I’ll go tell her you aren’t here.”

  Fine, Murphy thought. You do that.

  Murphy stayed on the job site until it was too dark to see, and he was halfway home when his sleepless night had caught up to him big time. And he felt almost sick.

  He could hear his phone ringing as he mounted the steps to the front veranda, but he made no attempt to get to it. Instead, he took his time removing his muddy work boots and setting them aside. He didn’t want to talk to anybody. Especially her. Not tonight.

  By the time he straightened and unlocked the door, the ringing stopped, and he experienced a sudden knot of regret in his gut. Not even trying to analyze his reaction, he entered the darkened house, the onset of a headache causing shards of light behind his eyes. Turning on the old-fashioned globe light in the front entryway, he looped his damp jacket over the newel post of the railing that separated the entryway from the living room, then pulled his damp shirt loose from his muddy jeans. He was going to have a hot shower, take something for the damned headache and after that he was going to bed.

  The shower was hot and long, the heat draining him of what little energy he had left He went into his bedroom, a towel wrapped around his hips, and he was emptying the pockets of his dirty jeans when the phone rang again. He finished emptying his pockets, his jaw tight. Finally he released a long sigh. He was going to have to deal with her sometime—and it may as well be sooner than later. Murphy bent over and swept up the phone that was sitting on the floor by his bed. Straightening, he lifted the receiver, his expression grim. With deliberate intent, he answered it the same way he would on the job. “Murphy Munroe.”

  There was a tense silence, then Jordan spoke, and he could tell by her voice that she was not having an easy time of it, either. “It’s Jordan,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all day.”

  He set the phone on the bedside table, then rested his hand on his hip and stared across the room, the headache moving right behind his eyes. He’d known she would be upset by his pack-and-move stunt, but her reaction was coming just a little too late. He answered, his tone short. “Yeah, I know.”

  There was a muffled sound, then she spoke, her voice very unsteady. “I didn’t expect you to move out like that.”

  His face feeling as if it were carved out of boards, he responded, his tone blunt. “I don’t know what you expected me to do, Jordan. You didn’t really leave me any options. You m
ade it pretty obvious that you couldn’t care less. And you also made it clear you weren’t in it for the long haul.”

  Her voice was quavering and thick when she finally responded. “I never thought of you as a nanny or a live-in, Murphy,” she choked out. “I never meant for you to think that.”

  The initial flare of anger went flat, and he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “That was a cheap shot on my part. I’m sorry I said it.”

  “Aren’t you coming back?”

  He lifted his head, staring into space. He got a big, hollow feeling in his chest when he finally answered her. “No.”

  He heard her take some ragged breaths, as if she was crying, and he turned, wishing they didn’t have to go through this. But they did. It was several seconds before she spoke again. “What are you going to do about J.J.?”

  He exhaled wearily. “Well, I’m not going to try to take him away from you, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “No!” she responded, her voice breaking completely. “No! That’s not what I meant.” Her breathing was muffled as if she was wiping her nose, then she spoke again, her voice quavering so badly, he wasn’t sure how she got the words out. “I meant—what I meant was that I—I don’t want what happened between us...” There was another long pause, then she continued, “I don’t want you to not see him because of me.” Her tone changed, getting more urgent, more desperate. “He needs you in his life, Murphy.”

  Murphy felt as if a giant hand clamped around his chest, and he roughly rubbed his face, his eyes smarting. So it all came back to that—to abandonment—and most likely her own. Hell, with that kind of history, maybe they never even had a chance.

  Suddenly tired to the bone, he dropped his hand. “I’m not going to abandon my son, Jordan,” he chastised quietly. “I care a whole hell of a lot about him, and I intend on spending as much time with him as I possibly can. And I care about you, too. But that doesn’t seem to count.” He hesitated, then decided to say it all—because he knew a day would come that he’d regret not saying it when he had the chance. “In spite of everything, I want you to know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” Then without giving her a chance to respond, he reached over and dropped the receiver in the cradle, disconnecting from her, a huge gaping hole where his heart used to be.

  Chapter 10

  Murphy basically went underground the next few days. He unplugged every phone in the house and. left his cell phone off, carrying a pager instead so Marco could get hold of him whenever he needed to. Since he wasn’t fit to be around anyone, especially employees or prospective clients, he took on all the grunt work that was usually Marco’s domain. Wanting a legitimate excuse to keep clear of absolutely everybody, he kicked the operator off the bulldozer and took over digging the basements for the next phase. Digging big gaping holes suited him just fine.

  Jessica showed up at the job site one afternoon, looking very upset and wanting to know what was going on. Jess knew how to mind her own business, and she usually didn’t push unless she thought it was important. This tune she pushed. Maybe it was because there was a certain finality about saying it all out loud, or maybe she hit him on a day when his own defenses were down, but he finally unloaded the whole story. It should have made him feel better, but it didn’t. It only made him feel worse.

  He got to day six and finally faced the fact that he was going to have to get with a program. He’d licked his wounds long enough, and now he’d have to grit his teeth and make arrangements to see J.J. But every time he pictured his kid, he got this awful ache in his chest, and the thought of having to come face-to-face with Jordan was more than he could handle. He wasn’t sure how he’d get around that, but he was going to have to, or he wouldn’t get to see his kid at all.

  Instead of wallowing in his own misery, he tried to stay focused on what needed to be done on the job. There were two basements that were roughed in and ready to pour. And the concrete contractor needed to be notified that they were ready.

  Except Murphy couldn’t notify him. The batteries on his cell phone were stone-cold dead. Swearing to himself, he strode across the uneven, chewed-up ground, thinking he was going to have to smarten up. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten to charge up his cell phone—but he had. Which meant going all the way back to the construction shack to make a call. He needed to get a delivery time for the concrete. He needed this walk like he needed another hole in his head. What he really needed was a life.

  Autumn had faded, and the trees were stripped of leaves, but it was an unseasonably warm day. Reaching the shack, he took off his hard hat and raked his hand through his damp hair, wishing he had brought something cold to drink. One of these days, he was going to have to pack his brain with him when he came to work.

  Licking the dust off his dry lips, he yanked open the shack door and entered. He took two steps and stopped, not entirely sure he was actually seeing what he was seeing. Baba was sitting there in a warped metal chair, an empty car seat and the diaper bag at her feet, a small portable playpen beside her. But what really hauled him up short was that his son was in the playpen, sound asleep. He was so stunned to see his kid in his office, he just stood there, rooted to the spot.

  Baba had been looking at the pictures in an industry magazine, and she closed it up. Giving him a calm look, she leaned over and placed the magazine on the battered desk. “I bring the baby to you,” she said, as if this were something they had discussed.

  His brain stuck in neutral, Murphy stared at her, then at J.J., who was out cold, not a soother in sight. She noticed him noticing the absence of the soother. She gave him a wise nod and a wily smile. “He is a big boy now.”

  One more milestone that he had missed, and Murphy expenenced such a jolt of emotion, it was as if he’d just gotten nailed straight in the solar plexus by a giant fist. He wanted to grab that kid up and hug him in the worst way, but he didn’t—he couldn’t. Because he felt as if an elephant had suddenly sat on his chest. Instead, he turned away, the ache in his throat so fierce it made his jaws lock. It was so bad, he couldn’t even swallow. He heard the scrape of the chair, then Baba patted him on the arm. “Come. Marco knows you take us home to your house. Then we talk.”

  Murphy wasn’t sure how he made the trip from the site to his house without rear-ending somebody, because he kept checking his sleeping son, who was safely anchored in the car seat beside him.

  Murphy was so filthy dirty, he didn’t dare touch his kid. When they got to his place, Baba carried the baby while Murphy packed everything inside. Still waging war against some very heavy-duty feelings, Murphy didn’t argue when Baba shooed him off for a shower, knowing he had to get a grip before he talked to her.

  When he came out, his hair still dripping water, Baba was sitting on the sofa, the playpen at her feet. She had put J.J. in it, and he’d gone back to sleep, only now he was sucking his thumb. So much for the missing soother.

  His chest getting tight again, Murphy clamped his mouth shut in a hard line and began rolling back the cuffs of his clean work shirt, feeling as if he were standing on the side of a very steep hill.

  Baba got up when she saw him. “Come. I make you something to eat.”

  His expression set in fixed lines, he followed her into the kitchen, not even trying to answer her.

  There was a thick sandwich made out of homemade bread all ready and waiting on the kitchen table, with a bottle of cold beer standing beside it. There was also something white and lacy lying at the end of the table, something that looked as if it might be crocheting. “Sit,” she commanded.

  Murphy did as he was told, then took a long swallow from the bottle of beer, hoping that the simple act of swallowing would ease the cramp in his throat.

  He set the bottle down, and Baba sat down kitty-corner from him, pushing the sandwich toward him. “Eat, and then we talk.”

  Maybe it was the gentleness in her tone, or her obvious concern, but whatever it was, it darned near took him down. Propping one elbow on th
e table, he shielded his eyes with his hand, trying like hell to keep everything together.

  Baba reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “All right. I will talk.” He heard her move the plate aside and pick up the crocheting, then she spoke. “She is a very, very unhappy person, Misha. She cries all the time.” There was the sound of crochet thread being pulled from the ball, and then she spoke again. “But this is good.”

  She couldn’t have stunned him more if she’d smacked him, and Murphy lifted his head and stared at her, every speck of that suffocating weight knocked right out of him.

  Baba lifted her eyes and smiled at him, then continued on with her delicate handiwork, her fingers flying. “I surprise you, Misha. But it is true. She needs to know.”

  She pulled more thread out of the skein, then hooked her little finger around the thread. “I always knew I had married a good, good man, and he was my world. But I didn’t know what a very good man he was, or how much I would miss him, until he was gone. And I was left with this big emptiness.”

  She looked up and met Murphy’s gaze. “Then I knew how much I had lost. And she needs to know this, Misha. I know about her mama leaving her—such a terrible, terrible thing—how could a mother do that? What kind of person would leave a baby like that?” She shook her head and repositioned the piece of lace in her hand, then looked at him. “Do you remember when Cora was little and was afraid of the water? How she was so scared she couldn’t put her face in? Do you remember?”

  Both elbows on the table, Murphy rested his chin on his clasped hands, his gaze intent as he watched his grandmother. “Yeah, I remember.”

  Baba made a dismissive sound. “It was not the water that stopped her from swimming. It was her fear. And remember how you got her to put her face in? You held a cheap ring under the water—one with a big red stone you got out of a machine—and you told her she could have what was in your hand, but she had to put her face in the water and tell you what it was. You remember, Misha?”