The First Time
The five women are teachers, the husbands five different things, the party DJ’d by the IPod of the hosts. Twice, D turns up the volume. Twice, a husband who is not the homeowner turns it down. When D dials the volume to jackhammer, that husband turns it off, the party on pause.
D finishes his drink while his wife apologizes to everyone. She asks for their coats. “It’s not your house,” she says when they are outside.
“Really? Like I don’t know that? You act like I’m six.”
“Not six. Drunk.”
“You know what? You’re a sponge. You suck all the joy out of the room, you and all the rest of those lightweights. That wasn’t a party. That was a PTA meeting.”
“Some of those lightweights have children waiting for them at home. They have baby sitters they have to drive home. Adult things.”
“We don’t have kids.”
“Yes, we do. And a babysitter, too,” she says, showing him the car keys.
For six miles, D is quiet. For a full day, she does not speak. “I’m supposed to say I’m sorry, right?” he finally says. “Ok, I’m sorry. Happy?”
She stares. “No, I’m not happy. Are you?”
“It’s not like I touched you. It was just words.”
“That’s not an excuse, that’s a deflection. If you ever touched me, it would be over.”
“Ok,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”
Another Time
At the Las Vegas airport, as D wheels his suitcase toward the car, she nods at the paper bag he carries. “It’s barely noon,” she says.
“It’s not open,” he says, something worse, because she can smell it on him before he displays the full bottle and unscrews the cap. He asks her to stop at a KFC. Comes back to the car with a small bucket. “Did you at least bring napkins?” she says.
Because she is pregnant, she stops to pee less than an hour later. When she walks out of a convenience store rest room, she sees he’s sprawled on the sidewalk. She shakes him, but he doesn’t respond. “Your husband?” the store manager says from the doorway. “I’ve already called. I can’t have that here.”
“The police?”
“He doesn’t need a cop. He needs a doctor.”
Customers turn their heads as they pass. Some loiter by the large front window. On their way out, they look in another direction. Before long, the EMTs start an IV and load D into the ambulance. She dumps the rest of the chicken and the empty bottle into the trash can that stands just outside the entrance. “Where are you taking him?” she asks the driver.
“Las Vegas,” he says.
“We’re on our way back to Los Angeles. That’s like starting over.”
“There’s no help between here and there,” he says. There is nothing to do but follow. In the hospital cafeteria, while D is “under observation,” her early dinner is hard to swallow.
Near twilight, D is wheeled to their car. “It was so hot sitting in the car while you were pissing. I got myself out, but the parking lot gave me a knockout punch.” She stares straight ahead and drives. After it is full dark, he says, “There’s nothing to even see in the desert. No wonder nobody lives here. It puts you to sleep.”
As, at last, they pass into the city, he says, “So, you’re not talking?”
The Last Time
D orders Chinese take-out, but she’s hidden the car keys. For fifteen minutes, he stares at the clock. “When are you picking it up?” he says. “I’m starving, and the baby’s still sleeping.”
“I’m waiting for her to wake so I can change her and take her with me.”
“You think a few beers means I can’t watch a baby?” Before she answers, he picks the baby up. “Now she’s awake and I’m carrying her. See? It’s not hard.”
“Put her down.”
“I’ll hold her until you come back. Ten minutes.”
When he walks the baby to the balcony of their second-floor apartment, she shouts, “Put her down” again, her voice nearly cracking.
“You think I’ll drop her?” He extends his arms over the railing. The baby kicks at air.
Now she is crying, too. “My God. Please.”
When D pulls the baby in and turns, she rushes at him and takes her from his hands. He doesn’t resist. “You’re so OCD,” he says. He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a fresh beer as she carries the baby, unchanged, to the car.
When she reappears the next afternoon, he doesn’t ask where she slept. He says, “Look, I cleaned up. I vacuumed and did the dishes,” but she walks into the bedroom to gather things into an overnight bag. “Look, no beer in the fridge,” he says, but she passes him without speaking.
He follows her down the stairs, shouting, “I’m sorry” just before she slams the car door shut behind her. “I’m sorry,” he shouts. As she drives away, he waves both arms in the rear-view mirror, his mouth working rapidly as if he is hurrying to say something important.
