Wait: The Brazen Bulls Beginning

by Susan Fanetti

  He dragged her forward, and she went, trying to see everything. Nothing was new, most of it was familiar and very well-worn, but everything was perfect. Best of all, it looked like a home. And it smelled of Christmas.

  Christmas in her very own home.

  The kitchen was still mainly empty, except for boxes on the countertops, and two large boxes stacked in the middle of the room. She recognized them as having been stored in the basement, in the room next to the laundry, where Aunt Bridie kept her keepsakes.

  “Aunt Bridie gave us those?”

  “Yeah. She was going to give them to you on Christmas, but I convinced her to let me bring them here. Do you know what they are?”

  Mo shook her head. “No. But she kept them in her room where she stores her special stuff. What is it?”

  Still grinning like a kid, Brian nodded at the boxes. “Open ‘em.” He pulled his pocketknife out and slit the tape. It came easily; obviously some years had passed since the box had been sealed.

  Mo folded back the flaps, and a mound of packing straw puffed out. She pulled it away, and gasped.

  “Oh!” She brushed her fingers lightly over the creamy-smooth surface, afraid to lift the item and risk breaking it.

  “Bridie said she’s been keepin’ them safe for you until you got married, but the way we did it, she decided to wait until you had a place to use them.”

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “Your mother’s china.”

  Mo nodded. “My gran’s, too. I thought they were sold with everything else to pay what Da owed.”

  “Do you want to seal that box up and put them away for safekeeping? Or for nice, like Bridie uses hers?”

  Mo lifted the plate out of the box. It wasn’t fancy; both her parents had come from working-class families, so even their nicest things were only so nice. This was just plain, cream-colored china with two faint green lines around the border. A small chip marred the edge; this had been their everyday china; her ma said that a pretty table made every meal a feast.

  “I want to use these every day.” She put the plate to her chest.

  Brian crouched at her side. “Merry Christmas, Irish.”

  She turned and smiled at her husband, the sight of him soft-washed in her happy tears. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Delaney.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1971

  What’s in the hat, mama san?

  The old woman held the hat out like an offering. It was full of rice. Just rice. She was just an old woman, smiling at him. Just an old woman.

  D swung his M16 to his back and pushed both hands into the hat full of rice—and a huge dog, something out of a Japanese horror movie, Dogzilla, leapt out, chomping down on D’s hands, eating his arms, barking and snarling while he devoured him.

  He couldn’t get free, was being eaten alive, would never see Mo again, was going to die right here on this fucking road. He yelled for help, but there was no one. He was alone.

  “Brian!”

  Brian’s eyes snapped open. The woman loomed above him and he reached out and grabbed her—his hands. His hands were there.

  “Brian!”

  It wasn’t the old woman from the road. It was Mo. He eased his grip and took a breath. Reality settled around him, drifting from above like it was parachuting in, hitting his consciousness and rolling to its feet. Outside, the neighbor’s fucking flea-bitten mutt barked on in an endless tempo, like a skipping record.

  “Mo.”

  “Aye, love. It’s me. It was just a dream. You’re here, and you’re well.”

  Her hand swept softly over his cheek, brushing back and forth over his beard. It was coming in better than it ever had before. This time, his chin and mustache were filling in as well as his cheeks. Mo still wasn’t a fan, but he thought she was coming around to it. It wasn’t an aesthetic choice he was making, really. He just hated shaving. Always had.

  The mundane nature of those thoughts served as the final settling of reality in his mind, and he sighed. “Sorry.”

  She shook her head and bent close for a comforting brush of her lips over his. “No apology. But I’m worried. You’re dreaming badly often of late.”

  Yeah, he was, and he didn’t know why. The first few months he’d been home, he hadn’t dreamt at all that he recalled. He’d slept deeply and peacefully from the first night home, with the occasional interruptions of getting slapped or kicked by his wife in that narrow bed as she performed her nightly sleep acrobatics. Since they’d moved into their own place, nights had been peaceful until about a month ago, when he’d had the first dream of that old woman. Now he was having versions of that same dream more nights than not. Some he woke from quietly, without waking Mo. Others, he woke like this.

  He’d thought going back had straightened him out. But here he was, his mind still trapped in the war.

  Not wanting to admit that, or talk about it at all, he pushed Mo off and sat up. It finally occurred to him that the room was morning-bright, and the curtains billowed with a late-March breeze through the open window. Well, that was why the dog was so loud.

  “What time is it?”

  “Near eight. I’ve got to get dressed, or I’ll be late.”

  Mo was finishing her college work with a student teaching assignment. She was teaching second-graders at a school in Norman. Paying for the privilege to work all day there, like she was the actual teacher, attending classes a couple evenings a week, and working all day Saturday at her uncle’s store. She spent all day Sunday grading papers and preparing for the next week. He hardly saw his wife except for an hour or two in the evening before she collapsed in exhaustion, and when they curled together in bed.

  “I don’t suppose I got a call yet this morning?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. Sometimes they call later though, yeah?”

  It was almost April, and he hadn’t found steady work yet. He was a mechanic with multiple certifications, a highly decorated veteran, an NCO with five years of military service, and the only job he’d been able to get was at a temp agency, doing bullshit factory work.

  He’d just assumed that he’d get back on with Lenny when he came home, but not even his foreman brother-in-law could get him work in this economy.

  When the agency had work for him, they called in the late afternoon before an assignment, or the early morning of it. Sometimes, he got an assignment that lasted a few weeks—a company with a sudden rush job or an unexpectedly big one they needed extra hands for—but usually, he was filling in for someone.

  It was the kind of work that could be subbed in that easily. No more than five or ten minutes of training. Stuffing boxes, carrying them to trucks, occasionally just pushing a damn button over and over and over all day. He hated it in every corner of his soul.

  But the days when he didn’t get a call were worse.

  Usually, if they hadn’t called by eight, they weren’t calling at all for that day. But to his wife’s question, he nodded and tried on a smile. “Yeah.” He scratched at his beard. “Go on, sweetheart. Get ready. I’m fine. If they don’t call, I’ll take my résumé around some more.”

  She frowned at him, giving him the scientifically examining squint he’d come to know so well. He loved the care and love in that look and hated the worry, like she was waiting for him to break.

  Once she decided she could safely leave him to his own devices for the day, she kissed him again.

  This time, Brian caught her before she could pull away. Sliding his hand through her hair, he held her head to his and pushed his tongue into her mouth. When she moaned lustily and sagged into him, Brian decided to make her late for school.

  He rolled and put her on the bed. Settling over her, still kissing her, tracing the familiar map of her mouth, groaning at the feel of her complete surrender to him, he set to seduce her completely. It wasn’t much of a challenge—her tongue tangled with his, her arms coiled around him, her hands dug into his hair and held fast.

  She was wearing
a pretty cotton nightgown. He pushed a hand up her long, smooth leg, between her thighs, and found her hot and wet, open and waiting. Nevertheless, when he grazed her clit with his fingers, she gasped and flexed away.

  “Brian—I need—I’ll be late. I can’t right—oh.”

  He’d pushed his fingers into her—two fingers, as she preferred. “You want to stop?” he asked and curled those fingers to brush against the spot inside her that made her cry out—yep, just like that.

  “Bri—” she gasped at the tail end of a wordless cry, but she didn’t finish his name. Before she could try again, he covered her mouth and filled it with his tongue.

  Of all the ways he could make her come, when he used his hand was when she went truly wild. Even more than his mouth. The combination of his fingers inside her and the heel of his palm on her clit sent her into the stratosphere. And Christ, he loved to feel her going crazy in his arms. Giving her pleasure like that, reducing her to a quivering, gasping, whimpering lust machine, Brian owned the whole world.

  He fucked her hard and with determination, holding her flails inside the frame of his body. As she got close, she tore her mouth from his and sucked in a squealing breath, and Brian dropped his head to her chest and sucked her tit through her nightgown.

  That was all it took to push her over. Her body arched sharply and went still and stiff, and her climax washed over his hand. He eased her down slowly, bringing her to calm with soft strokes and gentle kisses, until she was pliable and content in his arms.

  With a sound like a contented cat, she snuggled against his bare chest and kissed his neck. “That was wonderful. I love you.”

  This interlude had shoved his anxieties out of his head. No more poisonous fear of the past, glum dissatisfaction with the present or bleak anxiety for the future. He had Mo, and anything else would work itself out.

  “I love you.” He smacked her ass lightly. “You’re gonna be late for school.”

  ~oOo~

  “Maureen . . .” The Dean of the College of Education squinted at the card in his hand. “Ay-oy-fuh?— Ay-fa?—oh, Eva—Maureen Aoife Delaney.”

  As Mo crossed the stage in her cap and gown, her gold honor cord swinging across her crimson Honors College stole, their whole family leapt to their feet and shouted with glee.

  First college graduate in the Quinn family. Or the Delaney family. Dave leapt into the aisle and snapped pictures with his Polaroid, ripping the developing photos off as fast as he could so he could take another.

  “LOVE YOU, IRISH!” Brian shouted with both lungs. He didn’t call her that in public, that was their special, private thing, but right now, he didn’t give a rat’s ass how many people were here—this was private. His girl. Look at her go.

  She already had a job—just the week before, she’d gotten word that she’d be teaching third grade at a new school opening up in Newcastle. The assistant principal of the school she’d done her student teaching at was going to be the principal at the new school, and Mo had impressed him enough that he’d offered her the job straight out.

  His Mo was impressive as hell. He could hardly believe he’d ever thought she was too young or innocent for him. She ran rings around him in every way. Smarter, stronger, more successful. She was a hell of a sight to behold.

  Her ritual handshake with the dean accomplished, Mo took her diploma folder and walked across the rest of the stage. At the top of the steps, she turned and faced their direction. They were some distance apart, but Brian knew their eyes were meeting. He blew her a kiss, and she lifted the folder to the roof.

  His girl. Look at her go.

  ~oOo~

  The sour-faced, sun-ravaged old man squinted down at Brian, clutching his résumé in his fist. He was at least six-three, half a head taller than Brian, but probably didn’t clear a hundred and fifty pounds. His Adam’s apple stuck out from his withered neck like an arrowhead.

  “You do any of dem drugs? Dat acid, or whatnot?”

  “No sir. Never touched the stuff.” That was a fact. In Nam, drugs had been as easy to get ahold of as cigarettes. Even the hard shit, like heroin. He’d seen guys tripping their heads off, and in Nam, the bad trips had lots of fuel for badness. None of that shit was for him. If somebody was passing a joint around, he might take a hit, but he didn’t like that high. Made him feel slow and stupid. Booze got him done just fine. And caused as much trouble as he could handle.

  Wilbur Essert, proprietor of Essert’s Gas and Service, a Standard station about twenty miles west of their little rented house in Shayton, sucked his teeth and grimaced at Brian’s résumé. “You’re certified on heavy machinery. How come you’re applyin’ here?”

  Brian shrugged. “There’s not a lot of jobs to be had, sir. I’m just looking for steady work.”

  It was June, and he was still at the temp agency. That was more than six months without a real job. His wife was a college graduate, preparing to start her teaching career, cherrypicked for her position, and he was standing here in this halfhearted excuse for a service station, all but begging this sourpuss of a good ol’ boy for a scrap of a job.

  Thank god his Army days had trained him to call idiots and assholes ‘sir.’

  The old man grunted and looked around his little station. It wasn’t much. Only one bay, and it looked like nobody had gone through the place with even a broom in years. The windows were blurred with dusty sweeps, as if somebody, some long time ago, had washed the windows poorly and never bothered to do even that bad a job again. Ancient pinup calendars were pinned in a jumble on the back wall, by a filthy bathroom.

  “I had two mechanics up and quit without notice in the past year,” Essert grated, in a voice so hoarse the words had to fight their way out. “What I don’t want is somebody lookin’ to bide they time while they find somethin’ better.”

  “I’ve been out of steady work since November, sir. I know there’s nothing better out there.” It was true, and he hated that he was standing here in this pigsty of a service station, begging this used-up husk of a man for his shitty job, but it was a mechanic position, and if he didn’t get out of the temp factory work soon, Brian was going to lose his head. He was desperate. But with every word he said, he’d was further pissing off the man looking for a mechanic by suggesting that his job was worthwhile only because there was nothing better left.

  Essert was sharp enough to understand that, and his thick, veiny nose pulled up tight. “It’s hard work, and you ain’t gonna earn oilfield money here. Ten hour shifts, five days a week, and half a day Sat’day. We’re closed Sundays. And I don’t brook no bitchin’ ‘bout what needs doin’.”

  Brian heard all the warning bells clanging that Wilbur Essert was going to be Satan’s bastard son for a boss, but all he could care about right now was how much it sounded like he was getting this job. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

  Essert spat tobacco juice into an old coffee mug. “You got your tools with ya?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Alright, then. You c’n start now. Got a timin’ chain in the bay. You do that job good, we’ll get ya on paper.” He bent over and opened a cabinet under the sales desk. When he stood again, he tossed a blue uniform shirt at him. “Gotta buy your own uniforms, Standard Oil issue, but you c’n wear Fred’s shirt for now.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Even with his training, every ‘sir’ to this old bastard was taking a little chip out of his soul, but Brian shed his own neatly ironed plaid shirt and pulled the rumpled uniform shirt on.

  Well, Fred was a fat fucker, apparently. The shirt hung on Brian like part of a clown costume. And it wasn’t clean—in fact, the last time Fred had worn this, he’d been in need of a good hot shower and some Arrid.

  Brian buttoned it up and tucked it in anyway. His other option was temp work. Even this was better.

  This was work he was skilled at. This was real work. Steady work. He could support his wife now—or hell, at least not be supported by her. He could breathe again. Even here, he could b
reathe.

  ~oOo~

  Brian stood in the doorway between the short hallway and the kitchen and watched Mo unpack, for about the tenth time, the fancy briefcase Dave and Bridie had given her for her graduation. She stacked everything neatly on the table: her new grade book. A box of ballpoint pens. Another box of sharpened pencils. A carefully curated binder full of lesson plans she’d been working on all summer. Two pads of lined paper, for notes she’d take through the day. And a folder with her class roster, her seating chart, and the contact information for all her students’ parents. Last week, she’d handwritten letters to every student’s parents, introducing herself and promising to give the best of herself to their child in the coming school year.

  He had all that stuff about as well memorized as she did; her whole summer had been consumed by making sure she was prepared for the first class of her very own.

  As he watched, she went through everything, making sure it was all perfect, and then repacked her bag. When it was all stowed neatly away, she stared in, and Brian decided if he didn’t intervene, she was going to spend this Sunday, his only day off in the week and her last day of summer, standing at the card table that was still their kitchen table, unpacking and repacking her school bag.

  “Okay, Irish.” He went into the kitchen, got in behind her, and put his hands over her arms before she could start taking shit out again. “How ‘bout you and me take a ride today?”