A Shot at Us

by Cameron Lowe

  Thankfully Gwen made it to the bathroom in time, and of course her bladder decided to take a vacation. She hovered over the toilet, her eyes squeezed shut, the stick underneath her, but nothing wanted to come out. “Come on!” she grunted.

  “Need some help in there?” a dainty cheerful voice asked outside the stall.

  The words startled her bladder into action and Gwen said, “No?”

  “Okay, well… good luck!”

  Gwen chuckled. Good luck. Riiiiight.

  Sixty seconds. Sixty of the longest damned seconds of her life. Those sixty seconds would be forgotten about seven and a half months later, when she gripped Malcolm’s hand and pushed one last time, her eyes squeezed shut from the effort, gasping as their baby girl, messy and red and beautiful, emerged into the world.

  But in that moment, in that poorly-lit bathroom, she held a stick in her hand, trying to do the math for the twentieth time that morning. They’d just started trying, and it didn’t seem like there’d been enough time, but something was definitely up with her body that morning. Despite the deep-rooted fear in her heart that this was not the time, that they weren’t ready, there was hope, too, beating so hard in her heart that it very physically hurt. She ached for this to happen. For it to be real.

  The sixty seconds were up. Gwen stared at the stick, her eyes half-closed, wincing, hoping.

  And for once, the universe was kind.

  “Holy shit,” she whispered.

  * * *

  She darted out of the store, a tentative, terrified grin fixing itself in place. Her coworker beeped her horn from her spot on the lot, and Gwen headed for her, patting her pocket as she walked to make sure the pregnancy kit was still there and again when she slid in, just in case some portal to an alternate dimension opened up in her jeans in the ten seconds since her last pat.

  “Aw, they didn’t have the turkey wraps?” her coworker asked.

  Gwen glanced at her, momentarily confused. “Uh. No. Yes. Maybe. I forgot to look.”

  “You forgot? But that’s why you came here.”

  “Right, no, yeah, they were, uh… hey, I’m not feeling so well. Um, let’s head back. I think I’m going to take the afternoon off.”

  “Aw, I could give you a ride home too if you want.”

  Gwen felt immediately guilty, but she had to admit, right then and there, she did not want to ride a bus home. The combination of emotions in her was just too much to deal with some random asshole as well. “You know, I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

  “You bet, sweetie.”

  Gwen got her boss alone and asked for some discretion until she could tell her husband the good news. The veterinarian gave her a warm hug and a pat on the back, and she was told to go ahead and enjoy the afternoon, and not to worry about using vacation or sick time. It was such a kind gesture Gwen started crying. Or maybe that was the baby’s fault. Either way, waterworks were about to become her world.

  She made it home a few hours before Malcolm. At first, she was just going to tell him, but the time gave her motivation to plan and set the mood. A couple old candles from their winter emergency kit worked nicely as a centerpiece on their table. One of his Barry White CDs would make for the perfect mood music. She thought about making a nice early dinner, but after a quick look in their fridge and freezer, she decided on a rice and chicken casserole. Inexpensive, and one of his favorites.

  But how to actually tell Malcolm? Ideas whirled through her mind but she couldn’t settle on any one of them. They were all too unrealistic, too out of their budget. But while she was digging for the rice, she realized they had almost all the stuff to make sugar cookies. That, she could work with. Gwen raced across the hall to knock on Mrs. Sosa’s apartment. Her neighbor not only had frosting and food coloring, but waved away her attempts to pay her for it. Gwen surprised her with a huge kiss on the cheek, and ran back to the apartment to make cookies.

  They turned out terribly – she’d forgot to spray their cookie sheets with nonstick spray before she baked, and the bottoms burned something fierce – but that was okay. She just needed two of them to be semi-serviceable. Those she coated in blue and pink frosting, set them on a plate, and covered them with a dish towel. It wasn’t exactly classy or elegant, but it was sweet and the best she could do given what they had. Proud of herself, she headed to their bathroom to take a shower, dress in her best, least hole-ridden underwear, and find her sexiest outfit. This was going to be a night to remember.

  When Malcolm came in, she was seated on the edge of the couch, the music playing softly from the CD player behind her. He was carrying a small guitar… no, a ukulele. Worn in spots and with at least two strings missing, it looked as though it had seen better days. Malcolm held it up proudly, grinning wide, and said, “Hey. Look what I bought today. Just forty bucks.” He sniffed. “Is something burning?”

  * * *

  “Today,” she said, and pressed her hands together in front of her lips like she was praying. “Today of all days, you buy… that.”

  Malcolm groaned internally. Shit, he’d called this exactly the way it was playing out. Well, maybe not with the candles and the smoky smell of burnt cookies. “Look, Nic thinks he can fix it up, and I’ll pick up a few extra hours at Furio’s to make up for it. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It’s a big deal, Malcolm,” Gwen said, dropping her hands. Boy, he’d expected her to be a little upset, but not like this.

  “I thought it’d be a fun hobby,” he protested. “Baby, come on, it’s just forty bucks.”

  “It’s forty bucks we need. We haven’t gotten the bill from Ditmore’s office yet, remember?”

  Oh, crap. Right. “Shit,” he muttered. “I forgot.”

  “And we’re paying insurance on a car we don’t even drive. And storage fees to keep it parked. Parked.”

  Getting irritated, Malcolm set aside the ukulele. “Okay, take your shots. How else am I screwing up our lives, Gwen?”

  “I asked you to grow up!” she wailed. It wasn’t a shout. It was a pained cry, so pained it hurt him to hear it. The look she gave him wasn’t anger, but deeply wounded. “We can’t do this if you don’t think things through.”

  “What? Are you… are you saying you want to end… this?” Malcolm croaked. “Look, it’s just a ukulele. I can return it tomorrow. There’s a one week-”

  “This isn’t how I wanted to do this at all,” Gwen muttered. “Go into the bathroom. On the counter.”

  “What are you-?”

  “Just go look!”

  Malcolm stormed to the bathroom. On the counter was a white stick wrapped in a red shoestring, tied like a bow. He stared at it, unable to comprehend what it was until he picked it up and saw the color on it. It still didn’t dawn on him what he was looking at for a few full moments, then he dropped the pregnancy kit, whipping around to see his wife behind him crying when she should be laughing.

  Malcolm Irving had never felt more like a piece of human shit.

  Chapter 26

  Hugh came by to drive her to work the next morning. Malcolm asked him for the favor, speaking in hushed whispers in his and Gwen’s bathroom while the shower ran. He was the first aside from Malcolm and Gwen’s boss to hear the news, and when he did, he hugged her for so long she was fairly certain he might have fallen asleep. Her good humor that morning faded away quickly as she glanced up at the apartment above her.

  “He’s furious at me. I got angry about money stuff, and now we’re fighting when we should be happy, and-”

  Hugh cocked his head at his sister. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “But he didn’t even want to drive me this morning and-”

  “Trust me. Malcolm will come around.”

  “I don’t want to leave with us being angry at each other.”

  Hugh shook his head. “Gwennie, you’re gonna be late. And you know that’s not something you can ignore.”

  That stung. She got into his car, and glanced again up at the window. Malcolm wa
s there, on the phone. As Gwen and Hugh took off, a pleasant voice came on the line.

  “Hi, my name is Malcolm Irving. I was hoping to speak to Officer Carr.”

  * * *

  Malcolm didn’t drive her for a full week. He left before her each day, distracted, but weirdly happy. She assumed it was because of the baby, and on that end, she was mostly right. Malcolm couldn’t stop talking about it when he was home, and though Gwen knew he was avoiding the topic of money, he did show her the receipt from the deposit he’d made after getting his cash back for the ukulele. They apologized to each other, him for spending the money they were trying to save, her for getting so upset.

  Despite his joviality, Gwen felt like there was a crevasse between them, one she couldn’t figure out how to bridge. It depressed her, but damn it, she had a right to be angry. Buckling down wasn’t a choice anymore.

  Meanwhile, her mother and Charlie were thrilled about the baby, her father markedly less so. He drilled her with a dozen questions about money, if this was the right time, if they could really afford all the things a child would need. Harsh truths to hear, but Gwen admitted to herself he did have a point. They’d maybe have to take out a credit card again, something they’d managed to avoid since paying off the wedding expenses.

  Juliet was happy too, but obviously morose about her own luck with guys lately. When she picked Gwen up one morning, she muttered immediately, “I think I’ve got the dating shanks.”

  “What do you mean? I thought Merry was delightful.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Deeee-lightful,” Gwen said, nodding wisely. “I’m sure you could have a delightful future with him crafting delightful tinfoil hats and listening to delightful ham radios for signs from delightful alien races.”

  Juliet groaned. “He had a nice butt.”

  “Honey, dogs have cute butts. But we don’t date them.”

  “I’m dating a rodeo clown.”

  Gwen had to take a moment to really let that one settle. “I… huh… what?”

  “A professional rodeo clown.”

  “Is that… like a full-time gig?”

  “Noooo?” Juliet asked, wincing.

  “Juliet?”

  “Don’t ask me. Please don’t ask me.”

  “What else does your rodeo clown do?”

  “Uh. Um. He makes candy for one of those touristy places on Eighth. Sorry, he’s a ‘chocolatier.’” Juliet wiggled two fingers on the wheel to indicate the implied quotation marks.

  Gwen stared at her best friend. “Are you dating a guy because he can get you free candy?”

  “Whaaaaat? No, that’d be crazy! Right? I mean… no one would ever, you know, take advantage of someone else like that. Definitely not for taffy. And turtles. And he brought me these chocolate-covered potato chips and oh my God I’m dating a guy because he’s my sugar fix.”

  Gwen thought about it and shrugged. “Eh. You’ve dated guys for worse reasons. Remember Pratt?”

  “Poor, sweet Pratt,” Juliet sighed. “I really did need that ladder. Wonder what he’s up to these days.”

  “He made you watch Sophie’s Choice on your first date.”

  “It was a good movie.”

  “Yeah, but not a ‘gee, I’d like to get to third base with you while we cuddle’ movie.”

  “So he was a little awkward.”

  “A little? Gwen, when you broke up with him, he wrote poems on cardboard hearts and left them in your mailbox. He didn’t have all his shit together.”

  “He was a romantic.” Juliet chewed the inside of her cheek and finally shook her head. “No, chocolate’s way better than cardboard. Gotta keep my eye on the prize. They’ve got these big one-hundred-piece boxes at the candy shop, sort of meant as a gag gift for Valentine’s Day. I’m hoping I can sucker one out of him before I hit the road.”

  “You are an inspiration to womankind everywhere, you know that?”

  * * *

  Malcolm fixed himself a coffee and Gwen a noncaffeinated herbal tea. He was at the end of his rope with working night shifts at the gas station and noon shifts at Matto Furio’s. One of them had to offer him better hours or a full-time position. Gwen was usually against him quitting one of his jobs but the toll on his face and body was too much, especially with the bizarre way he’d been disappearing every morning. He needed his sleep and he wasn’t getting it. She’d take the bus again. She’d figure something out.

  And still he wouldn’t talk to her. Wouldn’t tell her where he’d been going or what he was doing. It hurt, and the dam finally broke a week after he started slipping away from her.

  “Are you still that mad at me about the ukulele?” Gwen asked him as he handed her a mug.

  “What?” he asked, genuinely amused.

  “Because if you’re upset about tightening our belts, I’m sorry, but it needed to be said.”

  “You’re adorable. And you were absolutely right. About all of it. That’s not it.”

  “Are you… upset because of the baby?”

  Malcolm settled his mug on the counter, knelt, and kissed her belly through the shirt. “No. Never. I’m so excited. I wish we could speed it along so it could get here now.”

  “Then… what is it? Is it me? I don’t know why you’re leaving all the time and I don’t know what I did where you don’t want to drive me and-”

  His smile drooped, and worry crossed his eyes. He turned and grasped her shoulders. “Hey. Hang on. Let me call Hugh and tell him I’ll drive you today.”

  “If you don’t want to, if there’s some problem…”

  “No, no, Gwen… just…” He ran a hand through his hair and kissed her nose. “I know telling you not to worry isn’t going to help, but just stick with me a bit longer, okay?”

  “Okay,” Gwen said dubiously.

  Malcolm called Hugh and told him they wouldn’t need him to drive anymore. Gwen followed him out the door a few minutes later, confused. They still had half an hour before they needed to head to her work. Her confusion was compounded when Malcolm pointed the car towards Neo Detroit, the dorkily-named enormous stretch of car dealerships on the south end of the city.

  When he pulled up and into a lot, she asked, “Did you get a new job?”

  “No, but I did apply to a few places out here. Only problem is it’d be commissions and not a guaranteed salary, which I’m not sure would be better than what we’ve got going on.” He scanned the rows and rows of cars, SUVs, and vans. “Ah, there it is. They moved it.”

  “Moved what?”

  Malcolm put her Camry into park, and got out. “Take a walk with me. Just a short one.”

  Gwen got out. He came around and took her hand as they walked towards a trio of used vans just a couple years old. “You were right. About everything. About the Grand National and keeping it in storage and… well, I had a great offer on it.”

  Gwen gasped. “You didn’t sell it, did you?”

  Malcolm smiled at her fondly. “I talked it out with my dad, since he helped me restore it. And we both agreed, this was what our family needed. You, me, little bean.”

  “Malcolm,” she whispered. “Oh my God, Malcolm, no, you love that car.”

  He stepped in front of a minivan, deep red and looking brand new despite the relatively low price written on the sticker inn the window, “Hunter, the officer who’s kinda Nic’s friend, offered me ten grand for it. Last week, after we fought, I called him up and asked if he couldn’t do fifteen. We split the difference. And I haven’t signed any papers yet because I wanted to talk to you first, but I’ve been going to the library and researching used cars around the city to see about their safety ratings and stuff. I think this is the right one. The original owner had some animals and they tore the hell out of the interior, but the dealership replaced all the seats and everything and the mileage is really low. We’d have enough left over to put some money away for-”

  Gwen rushed forward to kiss her husband. When they finally pulled apart, Malcolm cupped her ch
eeks.

  “We still couldn’t drive one of the cars for the short-term, but the insurance on this is going to be lots less, and-”

  “You talk so much,” Gwen said, and reached around his neck to kiss him again.

  Chapter 27

  Ian was shot six months after Gwen and Malcolm bought the van. He was walking down the street to the apartment complex, fresh off a construction job he was helping with on his days off. A couple teenagers in a rusty old truck came down the street, music thumping. They slowed near him, and started shouting out racist slurs. It was Montana, and Ian endured similar crap for his deep black skin on an almost daily basis. These kids, he thought, were no different, and he simply threw up his middle fingers and kept on walking, thinking about maybe hitting a bar later for a drink or three.

  The truck rolled down the street, pulled into a parking lot, and came back. Ian heard the music again, groaned, and glanced over his shoulder. The muzzle of the stubby .22 pistol was already out the window, and Ian barely had enough time to shout before the dickhead shot him just under his left ass cheek. It barely scraped the skin, making a tiny furrow less than a quarter of an inch long, but it was enough to convince Ian that enough was enough, that it was time to be closer to his extended family in Spokane.

  Malcolm and Nic helped him move, packing up everything during the weeknights and driving out with him over a long weekend to help him get settled in his new place out there. As much as Gwen and Malcolm loved each other, it was nice to have a weekend apart. But by Sunday, Malcolm itched to return home to his wife and unborn child. Ian shook their hands, and morosely told his friend, “Get her out of there. Go back to Minneapolis, or find a better place in the suburbs, or something. But that apartment building is a black hole.”

  It was advice that stuck. By that point, Malcolm was the still-green manager of Matto Furio’s and Gwen had been given the go-ahead to drive again. Her seizure medication was a risk to the baby, but then again, so were her seizures, so with Dr. Ditmore’s advice, they changed to a milder dosage. So far, the baby seemed fine, but both Gwen and Malcolm’s attendance at church had jumped significantly.