***
Jetski’s waiting, his body swaying, an alcohol-powered rhythm. “She told me everything,” he shouts when Morris makes it to the sidewalk. “Told me all about the two of you.” He seems more unsettled than angry. “You betrayed me. A fellow Eagle and you betrayed me. My own daughter, Bliss.”
“Steven, listen, I—”
“You swore,” he says, shaking like he’s at the onset of cerebral palsy, like he realizes he’s lost control and can do little about it.
“Steven, listen, it was never my intention to—”
Jetski laughs a high, sad laugh, one that's filled with pain. “Bloody Eagle or not, Bliss,” he says, “you fucked me. And know what? She doesn’t love you.”
The patrons of the Old Homeplate crowd the door, staring out. All except for N.J., who sits calmly at the bar, sipping a beer.
“She doesn’t love you,” Jetski shouts. Spittle flies from his mouth, sprays across Morris’s shirt.
Morris starts to speak then stops, having nothing to say.
Jetski pulls a wadded sheet of paper from his pocket, throws it at Morris. It strikes him in the chest, falls to the sidewalk. “Read it and weep, fellow Eagle,” Jetski says.
Morris picks it up. Carefully, he unfolds the sheet.
It reads: I don’t love you.
It’s signed by Stefani. Her “i” is dotted with a smiley face heart.
The postscript reads: I told my dad about us.
Morris awkwardly folds the paper. “Okay,” he tells Jetski. There’s nothing more to say.
“Okay what?” Jetski says, enraged. “What’s okay?”
“Just, okay,” Morris says. He could go on, try to explain, tell Jetski how they met, how he didn’t know she was his daughter, but he’d be saying nothing. There’s nothing to say.
“What’s okay?” Jetski demands.
“You, us, Stefani,” he says, putting the note in his pocket.
“Stefani,” he says, visibly shaking. His daughter’s name riles him sober. He’s lucid, strengthened. “Don’t say her name.”
“I just meant—”
“Don’t try taking my daughter from me.”
“I haven’t taken anything,” Morris says, trying to calm him. “Steven, Stefani and I—”
“Don’t take her from me,” Jetski shouts, then powers back, calling forth his decades of destroying buildings.
Morris feels it coming, feels the swing before it’s in motion.
And before he even thinks, he leans in. Like N.J. instructed. He floats to Jetski like a mother to a returning son.
Jetski’s swing circles around Morris in a graceless embrace. Morris pushes him off, breaks free, but then catches a fist to his face as Jetski launches into a windmill of punches. Morris head snaps sideways and his eyes tear. Another punch finds his left eye. Morris lowers his head and tackles Jetski, grabs him in a bear hug. He lifts him off the ground, neutralizing the attack. Sweaty and reeking, Jetski radiates an intense heat, a foul odor of loneliness and anger.
He flails, pounding Morris on the back, but with little effect. Morris has him tight. They dance a few staggering steps, a silent symphony leading them, then stumble to the ground, land heavily on the concrete sidewalk, their limbs wrapped about each other.
Morris pins Jetski to the pavement. He can’t fight.
“Don’t take her from me,” Jetski shouts, his face to Morris’s. He struggles, trying to lash free. He can’t. Morris is crushing him. “Don’t take my daughter,” he cries, then breaks down into rasping sobs. He cries for air, cries for understanding. “Don’t take that from me.”
Chapter 35
The Trouble with Bliss Page 38