c3

The ladder crashed to the ground with a loud clatter and he hit the ground right after it. He landed on his feet first, then fell back on his ass. He let himself roll back on the grass and lay there for a second, thinking, First, that was so stupid, and second, what I do not need right now is an injury. He didn't move, assessing his hips and spine. He let his eyes briefly close and thought, There is no one better with a ladder than me; that was idiotic.
"Billy!" He heard Julie yell from inside the house. He could hear the tempo change as she yelled while running from the kitchen to the back patio doors. "Billy! Billy! Oh, God, Billy!"
He lay there, a very slight smile on his lips, thinking this was probably mean, keeping his eyes closed. She knelt beside him, lifted his head in her arms and said, "Billy! Are you dead?"
He opened his eyes. "You should never do that. Move a person like that. I could've had a spinal injury."
"Are you all right?"
"Do you love me?" he asked.
"What happened?" she asked, her eyes wide and fearful.
"I fell off the ladder. I was lying here wondering if anything was hurt. I didn't know you were home. Do you love me?"
"You're an asshole," she said, dropping his head with a thump.
There was a sound, a sliding sound. Billy grabbed her and rolled to the left, putting himself on top of her, covering her to protect her. The toolbox clattered to the ground about six feet away, a couple of tools bouncing out. When the crashing subsided, he lifted his head. "That's two stupid things in one day," he said. "I think I'm too tired to be doing this stuff."
"Let me up," she said.
"No. First you have to tell me if you love me."
"No, I hate you! You took ten years off my life!"
He pressed his lips against hers. She didn't respond, so he lifted his head and grinned into her eyes. "I cleaned the kitchen," he said. "I put Clint and Stephie down for a nap. I picked up dog shit and trimmed the hedges."
"And fell off the ladder."
"That's right. And I'm not getting back on it today. Did you have a nice lunch?"
"Uh-huh."
"Did you get to dump on the girls about your little condition? About your bad, bad husband?"
"I haven't said a word to anyone. And don't you, either."
"Okay. Then can you help me into the bedroom?"
"You're hurt?"
"I'm horny. You could lie naked beside me for a little while, then after I've put you in a good mood, I can have a little nap."
"Is that all you ever think about?"
"When I'm on top of you like this, that's all I think about. I'll be very, very sweet to you. Very careful. Well, not too careful."
"This is the root of all our problems," she said. "Right now all I want to do is clobber you, and you still get to me."
He grinned handsomely. "If that's the biggest problem you have, Jules, you have it pretty good."
"I'm not so sure about that," she said.
"You feeling okay, baby?" he asked sweetly, gently brushing her blond hair over her ear. "You're not feeling sick or crampy or anything, are you?"
She shook her head.
"I worry a little bit about that IUD, in there with the baby." His brow furrowed. "If you don't think it's okay…"
"I still want to clobber you," she said, shaking her head.
He just smiled. "I know." He got off her and pulled her to her feet. "Come on. Let's take advantage of nap time."
A little while later, feeling calmer and more affectionate, Julie said, "I ran into Chelsea in the ladies' room at the restaurant today."
"Yeah?" he responded with a yawn. "You didn't hurt her, did you?"
"I talked to her for a while. Did you know she left that insurance company to sell Hummers? And that she's a sales manager now?"
"So she said," he replied, bored or sleepy.
"So…I don't like Chelsea, but what she did makes sense. Before making a change, she worked for that dealership on weekends for a while until she could see the potential, then she quit her old job. Good idea, huh?"
"Hummers," he snorted, rubbing his head back and forth on the pillow tiredly. "No one wants a Hummer right now…."
"Chelsea says they're selling as well as ever. People like them. It makes them feel rich."
"Not for long," he said, his eyes still closed.
"But that's not the point, the point is it's very smart to find a business opportunity and work at it part-time to see if there's any real possibility there, and then make a move. There's absolutely no future in cutting countertops—it's just part-time work and the pay is good, but never gets better. Right now you have all your eggs in one basket, but you're so smart. You have a degree. You could check around, see if there's a place to go where you can really put your education to use, be successful…."
"Hmm," he said. And then she heard him softly snore. She leaned over and put a gentle kiss on his cheek. "What if you fell off a ladder at work?" she whispered. "What would we do?" She was answered by a light snore.
When she had looked out the kitchen window and seen the ladder on the ground and Billy beside it, motionless, eyes closed, her very first thought was, Oh, no! Not my Billy! No! No! Soon after that came relief. Then what quickly followed was that old fear. Firefighting, paramedic work, cutting granite—none of this was low risk. If something happened to him, their strapped lifestyle would become catastrophic. Julie and the kids and no income, and after the insurance and small fraction of pension ran out…she would lose the house. Her mother would be forced to look after the kids so she could work, just to keep her from sinking out of sight. And what work could she do? She'd done a little waitressing and secretarial work after Jeffy while Billy was working and going to school, before the next two kids—and neither job had paid a damn.
And now there would be four children?
Billy didn't have accidents like that; he was too sharp. His reflexes were good; he was strong. But he was also tired from working all the time. How tired would he be with a new baby crying to be fed every two hours for weeks? How could he be so blissfully happy about another baby when it put the future of the entire family at risk?
She heard Stephie wake up with a cry and a cough and it changed her entire thought process. Oh, no, please don't get sick! she thought. She went instantly to the bedroom the two younger kids shared and scooped her up, took her to the kitchen and quickly dosed her with decongestant and Tylenol, praying off a fever or cold. Then she spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening tending to food, picking up Jeffy and taking him to soccer practice—she had to stop off with three kids in tow to pick up Gatorade for the team because it was her turn—throwing together meals, tending a crying, miserable, sick kid, cleaning up vomit, tossing in laundry, picking up toys and clothes. When Billy finally roused from his nap at about six, at least a couple hours later than usual, which magnified how tired he'd been, she was sitting in the kids' bathroom with Stephie on her lap, the bathroom filled with steam to loosen up her congestion.
"What's going on?" he asked sleepily.
"Stephie's got something. She threw up three times, couldn't keep supper down and she's hacking like the croup."
"Fever?" he asked, running a hand along the back of his neck, trying to get his bearings.
"I'm keeping it down with Tylenol. But she's sick."
He reached for Stephie and she went to him, whimpering, "Daddy," like a sick little pumpkin. "Clint?" he asked.
"So far, so good."
"Okay, take a break. I'll do steam room duty," he said.
She left him sitting on the closed toilet seat, holding his daughter against him, knowing he hadn't had enough rest and would still try to get in some hours at the shop no matter how late he started. He had to be at the fire department first thing in the morning for his twenty-four-hour shift. She couldn't let him do night duty with the kids—it would be on her so he could be rested and safe. But she was so tired. Early pregnancy made her want to sleep around the clock, but she couldn't.
And she thought, I can't go on like this. I just can't.
  After lunch with the girls, Marty did a little shopping before going home. Joe was with three-year-old Jason; there was no reason to hurry. She tried on clothes, found a couple of nice things on sale and bought them, though she'd have nowhere to wear them. All she really needed in her wardrobe these days were clothes for work and clothes for the lake. But she fell in love with a pair of crepey pants that were snug around the hips and butt, flowing at the hem. Then there was this low-cut top that showed off her cleavage and fit so nice—the perfect ensemble to go out for an evening, maybe dinner, maybe dancing. And she couldn't resist a fitted dress with a slit up the side that showed off her figure; it was lavender and really drew attention to the light brown of her soft, shoulder-length curls.
Joe didn't like to dance. For evenings out he liked to get together with the gang from F.D., usually at a sports bar. Vacations were taking the RV up to Tahoe, pulling the boat along with it. Weekends were spent either at the lake or watching sports on TV—at a bar or someone's house or, most often, at home on his own big screen. They never did the things she'd like to do anymore. He chose all their recreation.
So she bought shoes, too. High-heeled sandals with ankle straps. Very sexy. Marty was small and trim; she could get away with those three-inch heels, and she was agile in them. They'd look great twirling around a dance floor. Sometimes she bought these things while in the fantasy that life could be fun again. There was a time that dressing up like this got Joe all excited, especially the shoes…. He'd see her legs in those heels and go crazy. That was before they were married.
When she got home Jason and Joe were in front of the TV playing a video game, sitting cross-legged on the floor like a couple of kids. Joe thought these games were a perfect way to help Jason develop hand-eye coordination, but Marty secretly believed Joe just wanted to play them, himself.
She dropped her packages on the dining room chair and surveyed the kitchen. It looked as if they'd been grazing all day, not bothering to pick up a single dish, rinse out a glass, wipe bread crumbs off the counter. Around them in the family room were more plates, empty chip bags, cellophane from snack cakes, used and balled-up paper towels as opposed to napkins. Joe had gone through the newspaper there, as well, leaving the couch cushions all askew, some on the floor, and the newspaper strewn around on the coffee table and floor, along with his coffee cup and toast plate from breakfast. She had left everything immaculate, having cleaned while he slept in.
And of course Joe was wearing only those navy-blue, rotting gym shorts—his summer day-off uniform—under which he was naked. He had a hairy body, a heavy, scratchy growth of stubble. It would never occur to him to clean up a little, look presentable for her on his day off, though she'd asked him to a thousand times.
"Hey, babe," he greeted at the sound of her entry, but he didn't turn around. He was very busy stacking and collapsing colorful blocks on the screen, pretending to compete with his three-year-old son while he helped little Jason develop some competence with the game. "You get the mail?"
"Joe, look at this kitchen! It's a mess."
"Yeah, I'll get it later."
No, he wouldn't. He didn't clean. At least, not inside the house. He didn't even clean the inside of the RV. Now, the boat or yard or garage, he kept them perfect. This mess would be left for her.
"Joe, can I talk to you a minute?"
"Yeah, sure. Sit tight." Then after a full minute passed, he shouted, "Whoa! You see that, buddy? You got me! Wanna go one more time?" And he started a new game.
"Joe!"
"What?"
"I want to talk to you!"
"Aw, Jesus," he said, irritated. He put down his remote game stick and got to his feet. He looked like a monkey, all that black hair covering his legs, chest, belly, his shadowy face, his hair goofy from not being combed. He gave his gym shorts a tug but they slipped right back down, low on his hips. The elastic was giving out and half the time she could see his butt crack; she did not consider it a precious sight. Of course, she'd brought home new gym shorts to at least have decent clean ones on that naked body. They sat on his closet shelf, rejected. "What?" he said, hands on his hips.
"The house is a wreck."
"Yeah, I've been busy outside and in the garage. Plus, it's my day off. Me and the little guy have been hanging out. But I got the yard work caught up."
"It wouldn't take you ten minutes to clean up after yourself in here. With another ten minutes you could shower, shave and look decent."
"It's my day off! I just want to relax and be comfortable!"
"If I hung around a messy house looking like you look, you'd leave me in a second!"
"I don't know about that," he said, a slight sneer to his lips. "Maybe you'd be a little easier to get along with if you loosened up. Jesus, it's just a couple of plates and glasses! How big a deal is that? Didn't you just say it would take ten minutes…?"
"We both work," she said. "I'm getting really tired of coming home to a mess all the time."
"You work today, Marty?" he asked sarcastically.
"You know I didn't work today, but I put in my forty hours every week, and I do everything around the house, too. And the only time I see you looking clean and decent is when we have company or you're on your way to work!"
"Look, I didn't get home till eight this morning and we had a busy night. I just want to be comfortable," he said again. "Why don't you lighten up a little bit, huh?"
"No," she said, tears coming to her eyes as she shook her head. "No, I'm not lightening up. I'm sick of this. I don't ask much of you—just pick up after yourself and shower." She shook her head in total frustration. "I'm leaving for a little while. I'm going to get out of here and cool off. I'll be back, I'll bring dinner, and if you heard me at all, clean up this goddamn mess and shower and shave!" She grabbed her purse and headed back out the door.
Marty really wanted to have a good hard cry, but she didn't want anyone to see her like that, so she sucked it back where it stuck in her throat like a rock. She drove around for about twenty minutes, seething, hurting. He wasn't like this before she married him! They dated for a year, were engaged for a year, and during that time he always asked her what she wanted to do. Even then, she'd tried to give him balanced time by getting together with his friends for sports and boating things; she happened to like sports and outdoor activities when it didn't take up a hundred percent of their recreational time. She didn't even mind if he seemed a little bored at a nice dinner out or fell asleep during a chick flick. Back then, during the premarriage days, she spent as much time at his house as her apartment, and his relaxation mode might involve sweats or jeans, but he was never this smelly, naked monkey in falling-down shorts with his crack peeking out.
Of course, he hadn't been tidy back then, either. His bathroom was usually carpeted in hair; he left things lying around and didn't keep the kitchen spotless. But if she offered to help him clean up, he did his part. He'd let her tell him what to do—strip the bed and throw the sheets and towels in the washer, run the vacuum, take out trash, scrub out the shower. Well, he was all done participating now. And back then, if he wanted to make love, he went to a little trouble. He was squeaky clean, smelled nice, was shaved and sweet. He knew how to get her in the mood, worked up and excited. He didn't bother with that anymore, either. And now he complained if it took her too long to climax. Come on, Marty, come on. What's the matter? I can't last all night!
She just couldn't seem to find anyone to talk to about it. Julie had that kissy-face thing going on with Billy after so many years and, even when she was at her most discontented, it was apparent she still thought she had the best husband in the world. Which maybe she did. Cassie seemed to think if a woman had a warm body in her bed there was nothing to complain about. Beth had much more important things to concentrate on than Marty's marital gripes; she hadn't been involved with anyone for almost five years now and was more focused on her medical career than relationships.