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.