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Annie’s ridiculous dog-observation hangs in the air like fog, settling slowly, chilling me as it passes through my body. It weighs down my shoulders, sinks my stomach, and lines my shoes with lead. Trying to walk to the car is like walking through the homemade caramel drizzle I used to put on top of the cinnamon rolls that I hadn’t had time or money to bake in months.
No one mentions it – the slow walking – but maybe it’s because we are all matching the pace of Ruby’s scooter, and the girls were so squirrely they’re pulling me in every direction. The robbery hit them hard and the acting out has been overwhelming. I get them in their car seats with a significant combination of bargaining and threats: going to their grandmother’s actually served as both.
I lock the doors with them inside and me outside and turn to look at my pals with forced cheer. Ruby, like always, knows I’m at least partially faking and gives me a complicated look of relief and sympathy. Annie, quickly over her pathos, blusters about freedom and busts some celebratory dance moves. But I get a hug from each before we all got into our cars.
Like always, it takes a while and a few requisite guilt trips to get the girls deposited at Judith’s. Midway through the second pass at passive-aggressiveness, I just snap and cut her off. She knows how hard it has been since we were “robbed” and surprisingly – backs off. I can feel the relief on my face and the tears threatening, but when she puts out a hand to comfort me, I just run out of the house and tear out of the driveway in my mommavan.
It’s really not safe for me to be driving…just thinking the phrase “mommavan” is enough to make me lose it. I pull around the corner and idle at the curb in park. Huge, deep, ugly-cry sobs terrorize my body – stealing my breath, spreading my snot, scraping my throat raw. It’s like six months ago all over again, but this time there’s not a reassuring plan that I can hope worked. With the amount of money we spent, it was done right.
This time he’s gone.
I ride it out until my brain is numb, my feelings are hollow, and my body is desiccated. I breathe in for four, and out for a long four. I flip down the visor with one hand while fishing a makeup wipe out of my purse with the other. Wipe my face; reapply some eyeliner and lippy; and take several long pulls from the water bottle in the cupholder.
And that’s it.
That’s all I’m allowed.
We chose our livelihood over the chaos Rio brings. I chose a stable life for my children instead of potential death at the hands of all the adjectives I only half-meant on the park bench. I decided to think with more than just my clit – gals before fuckpals.
Sliding from grieving into relief comes faster this time, easier since I’ve rehearsed. Still, there are logistics to consider, and there’s one place where I process better than anywhere else: Westborn Market. I can afford a little splurge with that cut I just got.
But dammit if the reusable grocery bags weren’t in the house when he cleaned me out. And just like that, I let myself feel the anger I’ve held back because I was addicted to dick. Ha! A-dick-ted.
Some things he could explain away, but he’s been off ever since he got back and all I did was what he asked! Goddamn it!
I lean into the second stage of grief so easily that I’m surprised I don’t get a speeding ticket. I tell my phone to play my “90s Thrash” playlist and scream along while I wind my way down the 5 to the next burb. The lyrics become unintelligible accusations of inconsistency, micro-management, emotional manipulation, and unreasonable demands that I be the opposite of all of those things or suffer threats and rewards in chaotic equality. At least, that’s what it sounded like in my head. Out loud it came out more like “Fucking Asshole! And… you… you… but me! I’m supposed to… when you…!”
And that’s it.
That’s all I’m allowed.
I slide into the parking lot, twist down the volume, disconnect my phone, wipe my face, take another swig of water, pull a lozenge out of the armrest console, reapply the lippy and hop out of the mom…VAN. Back in the best days after the boys were born, right after we moved into the big house and Dean’s dad still controlled Boland Motors, I could shop here at least once a month. It’s closer than Trader Joe’s and so much fancier. I’ve rarely gotten here at all since Jane – just special occasions.
Walking through the aisles, I pretend I can afford everything here and my kids will love eating whatever I buy. Dream big, right? I touch ridiculously-priced water crackers, organic radishes and carrots with their tops still on, deliciously funky oozy cheeses, Iberico ham, tiny jars of peppers from Africa, capers and anchovies and hearts of palm.
I pick a few practical things at impractical prices with my hands while my brain sorts and organizes my feelings from my needs. Grief, anger, and loneliness get boxed up and put on a high shelf for now. Next steps: ideas for distribution, cleaning, and hiding the cashflow get unboxed and sorted into piles. Before I know it, my shoulders feel lighter and my basket is heavy.
The last display before the checkout stations is huge and picnic themed. It’s still chilly – early spring on the lake in Michigan is not ever warm – but it’s something to look forward to. Inside a big wicker basket is a cheap-for-here bottle of champagne with some plastic flutes.
Perfect.
By the time I walk into the house, I can ignore that it’s empty. My “International Women Thru The Ages” playlist has been ratcheting my mood higher and higher on the drive home and I pop in my earbuds to keep myself buoyed. I’m sure it’s actual mania, not acceptance, but I need this right now. The morning has been way too complex. Dancing, whirling, I empty my meager bag of groceries and pop open the bubbly.
My kids are safe. My business is my own to do with what I please. No bigger boss, no one to owe a cut to. Just my money to split with my gals and my ‘employees.’ Finally.
Between the booze and the music, I can even look out the window to his usual seat on the picnic table and it doesn’t hurt that much. A little twinge, but then happier memories: standing at this window to get revenge on Dean, seeing Rio helping Kenny with math, the first time I stood up to him on the back porch, and offering to make him a sandwich before he fucked me brainless on my marital bed. Mmm…maybe a “nap”…I don’t need a vibrator if I let myself open up some of the other memories I’ve got neatly stashed and labeled in the closet of my mind.
Taking another sip, I turn, and startle isn’t a good enough word to describe what happens in my body when I hear his voice over the music. It’s a full-body stop, all systems pause, seeing him in the doorway. My mind plays back his question about celebrating, and the chipper, “Nothing!” is the worst I’ve done at lying since before I fixed the stop sign.
Astounds me, cuz sometimes I know she lyin, but she so good at it I almost wanna believe her – but today she so fake I ain’t sure she ever lied in her life. I give her my half-grin as I walk over an take the plastic tulip from her hand, keepin my eyes on hers as I drink.
“But what if I wanna help party? D-bag hook another whale? Sell his tenth spa?” On spa, he does his wypipo voice and my throat reflexively laughs. I hate it when he does that voice – I should never have told him that story about Dean being adamant it’s not a Jacuzzi ™. I also hate when I think he’s dead and he’s not. That's a thing.
90% of my brain is frozen; steel doors slid down the second he appeared, locking down most of my processing power. But he’s here in front of me and I have to function. Guess reflex and muscle memory win – and I smile at him.
I look on the counter an see more cups, so I pour another an hand it to her, holding mine out slightly tipped. She clink back at me, the plastic thud not very satisfyin. I keep holdin the drink in the air, not takin a sip, waitin ta see what she tell me we toastin to, although I’m sure I know. She keep me hangin, stead a tellin me she juss glad ta have money again. Lookit that fancy-ass grocery bag; even I only go ta Westborn on special occasions.
“Toooooo….” He begins a toast and I’m in my head, trying to lift up those steel doors by sheer force of will, but instinct is stronger and they are clamped shut – for my protection, I’m sure, because I am seconds away from a full-on meltdown. All I’m left with is reptile brain, so I step in closer to him and press my hips against his. If he joins me down here in reflex-land, maybe I won’t need to be coherent.
She slide up on me, empty hand on my ass, squeezin my thigh between hers. “To nothing! To Friday.” An I look at her face, press my hand against the small of her back. Dunno why, but since gettin back, it just feel like my hand belong there; to me, it say she mine much more than the hair thing. She kiss on my collarbone an I wanna groan, but she stiff an weird. I can’t feel anythin through it, an that make me lean back. I tilt her face up to mine, searchin her eyes. Whatever's there look dead – or dyin – hurt an confused an not at all turned on.
“Wassup, ma?” he says, with a tenderness that will break me, but at the cadence, my reflex-only brain flashes me an image of Bugs Bunny and I laugh again. I smile, shaking my head, trying to convince us both that nothing’s wrong. “I thought I’d come over an see if you had time for a lil afternoon…sumpin…but…” One more for the road? Because if the job wasn’t done, I know Ruby – she will demand to see the manager until it gets done right. I already met him Wednesday for a tryst I knew would be our last but he just thought was a regular old booty call. May as well get one more ride before it’s over.
“Yes! Let’s do that!” Her smile is huge but it don’t reach her eyes an I ain’t like it. She grab my hand, puts down the cups but brings the bottle an take me into the bedroom. “We haven’t christened this particular bed yet.” That makes me smile witout wantin to an I try to wipe it off wit my hand while shakin my head. “Don’t worry…I told Dean that I’m too shaken up from having our stuff stolen and that the air mattress will probably pop.”
“Yeahhhh…ackshully, I think you ain’t wrong.” His eyes sweep over the paltry setup in the bedroom – the box of clothes open in the corner, the plastic filing cabinet serving as a nightstand with a camp light on top. “I’m all for getting one over on D-bag, but you know,” he leans in again, searching my face and holdin me close, “that thing ain’t no match for what you an I get up to.”
An I can’t help it, I lose my head round her every time. My lips onner neck an I wanna kiss up to her ear an down to her jaw an her collarbone all at the same time. So I lick everywhere, an her weight collapse onto me. But it’s too fast an too total. I catch her an she gaspin, but it ain’t from sexy.
I feel my knees go and the tears threaten again. It takes a second, but I get my footing and stand again, his hands reluctantly leaving me to my own control. “Right.” He takes a deep breath. “That ain’t sposta happen. I know you ain’t good, but if you ain’t tellin me, I ain’t fuckin you.” A whimper escapes me, again, without thought. Still in primal instinct brain, and he flipped the procreate switch. He shakes his head in what looks like disbelief. “Nahh, ma. I can’t. Not wit you like this.”
“Like what?” Her chipper still sound forced, but she stand closer an reach for mi pito. “Okay, if the bed doesn’t work, you could bend me over the kitchen sink … I’ll look out the window. Think about how you used to be out there and now….” she draw it out, look up at me through her lashes with those azura eyes. “You’re in here.” She pull me so close, mi verga dura could almost get inside her through both layers of jeans. Goddamn, I want it, and I grab her culo an thrust her into me, animal brain takin over.
But I ain’t an animal – no matter what goes round on the streets. I’m a king.
The noises he makes are feral and I swear I could get off just being this close to him. My brain is breaking, even the reptile parts are giving way, which is how I lost my balance. I’m actively stuffing down the sobs, but sex is a natural reaction to death and I am going to snarl myself if I don’t get to have him now that I’m in that mode.
At the same time, I feel everything inside of me curl up into a ball. I can’t wrap my brain or my body around this whiplash – he’s dead, he isn’t; he’s fuckable, he’s gone – and despite the fact that I’ve done this before, recently, the last parts of me disappear behind impenetrable shutters and I just stare at him blankly.
His last kiss is soft and saying something, but my brain can’t hear it right now. Maybe it’ll process later. “But seein you celebrate made me think bout somethin – business-related – an I got a place to be at 2.” I let my breath out in one very long, slow, exhale. Try to force my body into calm. “Less take a ride.”
Hollow and on autopilot, I follow him out to the Merc.
==
Next day, she come inta the bar like she got sumpin ta sell, but she should know she ain’t gotta charge me. I can feel my eyes lingerin on her, thinkin bout what I missed yesterday, so I focus extra hard on my pool game, trash talkin to Mick in Spanish. Dude isn’t as good at pool as Dags was, either. Man, I wish that pendejo would finish up in Chicago an get back here.
My eyebrow flicker as she call Dean an idiot right to my face. Far as I know, Mick ain’t figured out what she an I got goin on, an I ain’t bout to tell him. Appreciate the dig, but reactin ain’t in my best interest.
“You said I needed a system. This is my system.”
“Sistema.” Mick laugh, mockin. No mames, pinche naco. If you gonna make fun in a different language, choose words she ain’t gonna understand.
An when the glass crash over my shoulder, I shoot him a dirty look before I smirk at her. This is what happen when you ain’t careful wit your insults. When she done gloatin, that Elizabeth face all triumphant an proud, I pull out my line from yesterday, hopin it will make her laugh, too.
“They’re called spas.” He doesn’t do the horrid voice this time, but I can tell he’s calling back to his callback of the story I told him about Dean. I hold my proud smile – he is not going to disarm me this time. “Pay her. Deduct the artwork.”
She taught me how ta leave on a good line, so I make my exit. Sides, my 3 ball’s on the floor so that game is over. My weight thrown off when she hook my elbow as I go to put up my cue. I look down an then back at her face, high on her win. The glare I give her ain’t say anythin bout how good it feel to see Elizabeth – my Elizabeth – back an doin what she do best. But I also can’t have her challengin me in fronta the help.
“Are you fucking kidding me? If I’m paying reparations for a glass frame…then you still owe me for a Lamborghini. Do you have any idea what kind of hit we took on that?”
His face curls with disgust and he shakes his hand off my arm. He slams the pool cue back in the wall rack. “That was a message. Needed to get your attention.”
“Right, and that’s not what this was?” She gestures toward the pool table an I’m guessin my lack of attention like she ain’t know the only reason I ignorin her is cuz it’s so hard to be round her an not want her. An a pool table ain’t no place to get it on, especially durin bizness hours.
He makes a show of rolling his eyes and his whole head along with it. A long, fast stream of Spanish comes out of his mouth, ending with a long tchhh and a head-jerk in my direction. Finally he turns to me and steps so close I think he may have trapped my toes. “You know, ma, what happens when you come for me.” A flicker in his eyes softens the scare for me slightly, but I’m really not done with the idea that he’s still alive. “So Imma consider us square for both the damages.” An ugly sneer slashes his face. “But next time you break anything of mine, I won do you the courtesy a takin what little ya have now. I’ll jus leave it all in pieces on yer floor.”
He wins.
I back up.
“An you remember what happened last time you gave jus the right idiot for the job the money to do the job? What was it he bought? A 50 foot inflatable gorilla? Zat it?” He exchanges a look with Mick, who I guess has heard the story, and both boys break into snickers as they exit the bar completely.
==
Thankfully, the bar isn’t far from the address Fitzpatrick gave me. I leave my m…van parked and hop on a bus. The entire way, Rio’s little performance in front of his flunky rankles. It’s so hard to keep track: business, personal; dead, alive; hate, l…not hate. Never knowing where I stand.
And the threats. I thought since he has Marcus, my kids would be safe from him. But that home invasion was a big deal to them. All their stuff is gone! They don’t feel safe in the house.
My head is swimming. I can’t think straight. I know part of it is processing him not being dead. But a lot of it is that his death brought up a lot of things that I gave voice to and I don’t know if I can get past now that I said them out loud.
While I’m at it – what’s with this hitman guy? I mean, if he knew enough that one of us had ‘boned’ Rio, then he knew which one of us it was. Probably saw me leaving the loft. Or the bar. Or the car. Or saw him leaving my house. There’s no other way he could know, because everything else was way back before Turner holed him up in the hotel.
So what’s with this making me confess in front of the girls?
He knew, that rat.
Why is every man I know a different type of piece of shit?
I’m a weird place between hollow and angry; empty and enraged. By the time I get up to the right floor, I can’t even make facial expressions anymore.
“Take another look,” says the assassin, gesturing to the scope again. His Merc pulls up and I know. Instead of a fog this time, it’s cold wet cement hardening in my lower chest. My body physically clenches: shoulders, abs, calves, ass. When I notice I’m also doing a Kegel, I try to force myself to release. “Annnnytime you’re ready.”
“Why is it up to me?” Beth asks.
“You hired me to do a job.”
Boss Bitch is on him before he finishes his sentence. “Yeah, so you do it.”
“This way, I’m assured no regrets.” Fitzpatrick looks at me and he gets pure Elizabeth back before I turn and look in the scope again.
For my business.
I have made this decision before. It is already made.
For my mental health.
I even pulled the trigger that time. Yeah, doesn’t count because you thought he would live. And he did.
Fine. For my friends.
I have grieved for him – twice now. I can do it again and survive. Think of how easy it will be the third time.
For my kids.
“Do it.”
“Now?”
Yes you fucking dick how many times are you going to torture me? I said the words now do the thing!
“Now.” My eyes are closed, but I hear the shot.
When I open them, and a stranger gets out of the car which isn’t Rio’s, to find a paintball splotch on his driver’s side window, that weird feeling of hollow and furious returns.
“You’re ready.”
And he’s right. I’m about ready to kill this man with my bare hands right the hell now.