Whiskey and a Gun (6 page)

I settle for listening instead.
 

"…I can't, Mom. I'm sorry."

"…I told you three months ago it was the last time. I'm done with this shit. You've got to stop, Mom. You're gonna die."

"…I'll talk to Carter, but he feels the same way I do. I don't think I can ask him to help you out any more than he already has."

I storm out to the back porch. I don’t want to hear Tawny trying not to cry. Her piece-of-shit mother is just as bad as my good-for-nothing father. People always picking on the weaker versions of themselves to get what they want. Well, not anymore. Tawny needs to set things straight with her mom like I did with my father. We're not children anymore, and they don't own us.

Ten minutes later, Tawny slides open the porch door and sits next to me. "How much of that did you eavesdrop on?"

"Enough to know what she wants. And what she's not getting. I can tell by her voice that she's using again."

Tawny hangs her head and her tears drop to the cement, bursting into minuscule puddles of shame. "I don't know what to do, Carter. She needs help. She's my mother. I can't let her–"

"Jesus Christ. Listen to yourself!" I throw up my hands. "She's a grown-ass woman making her own mistakes. Where was she when you were sixteen and needed a mother?" I give her time to answer, though I know she won't. "That's right, she was in jail. What was she doing that time you cut your hand open trying to break into your own home because she locked you out? Oh, yeah. She was fucking some guy for coke. You need to let her go, Tawny. Let. Her. Go," I say, shaking her shoulders.
 

The puddles at Tawny's feet have multiplied, and her back heaves in time with her weeping.
 

"I know, I know. You're right, but she's still my mother, even if she's a shitty one. I can't just watch her throw her life away. I'm all she has now. Maybe if I'd helped her out sooner…she could have been a good mother."

"Key words: could have been." I grab her chin and force her to look at me. "Listen to me. She's not getting a dime from us. I'm changing our number tomorrow. I don't want to hear from her ever again."

Tawny's jaw drops and she looks at me, stunned. "You can't…you won't do that. We don't have to help her, but I'm not cutting her out of my life."

"It's not a choice. I'm telling you what's going to happen, and that's that."

She leaps up, her hands balled into fists. "You don't get to tell me who I can and can't talk to, dammit. Did I force you to cut off all communication with your shitty brothers or your awful fucking father? No. Because it's not really any of my damn business. We're keeping the number."

The insatiable need to scream starts as a slow simmer in the pit of my stomach. It's a little spark that grows and grows the longer I look at Tawny. It twists and turns through my trachea until I'm ready to burst with every venomous word I can imagine, striking her to the bone.

But then she's in my arms. Her lips are on mine. She's snaking her arms around my neck and running her fingers through my hair. "We'll talk about this later, okay? I don’t want to do this tonight. This is our night. Bad things always happen on our best nights, don't they?"

I peel her off me. The simmer is sinking farther and farther down my stomach, but the fact that it's still there bothers me.
 

"Promise me something?" Tawny asks. Black mascara stains her freckled cheeks.

"What?"

"We'll never be like our parents. We're not drug addicts or alcoholics. We don't beat each other. We are not them. Promise me: we'll never do these things to our kids."

Her words float through my ears and neutralize the acid gurgling in the pit of stomach. She's so earnest. So trusting. So right. We're not the people we box ourselves into.
 

"You…want to have kids after where we've come from? All the shit we've been through?” I ask.

"Oh honey, of course I do," she says, but there's a twinge of hesitation that is impossible to ignore. She kisses me again and adds, "I want to have two beautiful babies that have your eyes and your chin and my nose. Because your nose is a little on the big side."

I laugh, despite my uncertainty. "Well, maybe it's time to make those babies now."

2006

I hate hospitals. This is the third time in the last year and a half I've sat in a room like this, holding Tawny's hand as she sobs. I try to squeeze out a few tears for her, but the well is dry, like always.
 

"It'll be okay. We can try again."
 

She pulls her hand away. "I don’t want to try again."
 

"You always say that, and then a couple months later, you're back to talking about it again. This time won't be any different."

"This time
is
different. I'm done trying. I can't do this. It hurts too much." Her voice is quiet and shaky, so unlike the way she usually speaks to me.
 

"I don't know what to tell you." I don't say that I'm tired of trying too, or that the mountain of medical bills on our counter boils my blood. I keep my mouth clamped shut, forcing everything I want to say back down my throat.
 

"You don't even want a baby, so I don't know why we've been trying, anyway," she says, her head turned to the opposite side so she can't see the frustration written all over my face.
 

"We've been trying because you want one," I say. I don't want a fucking kid. The more I think about it, the more a wailing, helpless baby seems like a waste of time.

She buries her face in her hands. "I did want a baby. But you clearly don't. So we're not trying again."

I get out of my chair. "Jesus Christ, Tawny. Make up your goddamn mind. I need to get out of here for a little bit."
 

#

I sit with a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria. I count the number of times I've sat in places like this after Dad had to bring Mom to the hospital for something he did to her. Even though it was always busy, it was like we were alone in our own world. Billy and Ray would always run off somewhere, leaving Tommy and me to fend for ourselves. My dysfunctional fucking family. Look at us now. Mom's dead, Dad's still a drunk, Ray's in jail, and God knows where Billy is. And Tommy...he's the only one who got out of this life unscathed. Just cut the cord and left us all. I'd hate him if he weren't so goddamn smart.

Tawny's probably wondering where I am, but I can't bring myself to face her right now. I might say or do something I'll regret. It seems to be happening more and more these days.
 

I didn't get it when I was a kid, but I'm starting to understand the things my father did.
 

You fall in love with someone thinking they'll change your life. And they do—for a while. Then you see their wandering eyes. They start wanting things you can't give them. They stop giving you what you
need
. Fucking bitches.
 

I thought Tawny would be the exception. We'd get through anything together—but that's not what's happening. I can see it in her eyes. She's starting to resent me.
 

I let the steam from the coffee roll up to my face. I could divorce Tawny, but that makes me seem weak. And the thought of her in some other man's arms—it's enough to make me want to murder someone. I wish I could love her again. Like before.
 

I return to her hospital room, where the doctor stands at her bedside. He looks to me.
 

"Ah, Mr. Brooks. I was just telling Tawny that I've scheduled a follow-up appointment in a couple weeks to talk about your next steps. You two are young, healthy adults, and I believe the likelihood of carrying a child to term is very possible. We can try another round of fertility treatments, if you're up for it, Tawny." He pats me on the back on the way out. The nurse walks in and unplugs the cords, freeing Tawny from the confines of her bed. If only I could do the same—free her from me.
 

Tawny changes into the clothes she came in with. She hasn't said a word to me, and I ask her if she's okay, but she doesn't answer me.
 

I grab her arm. "I asked you a question."

She wrestles free. "I don't want to talk to you right now."

"That's too damn bad. I'm your husband. You'll answer me when I talk to you."

She folds her arms across her chest, her chin bobbing like she's going to burst into sobs again. "I'm really sore and I don't feel good. Please, just let this go."

Her pleading whine hits a nerve. It's the voice a child uses to get their way when they have weak parents. Just looking at her blotchy, swollen face annoys me, and I’d slap the pathetic right off her if there weren't a stream of people outside the door.
 

"Fine," I say instead.
 

We walk to the car in silence but once we're on the road, I let my tongue go. "Why in the hell was that doctor talking about a follow-up appointment for? I thought you weren't trying again."

Tawny's head rests against the window. "He wants to run some tests."

"What kind of tests?"
 

"He's concerned there might be a difficulty in implantation or fertilization." Her voice remains even.
 

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Jesus, Carter. It means there's something wrong with one of us, okay?"

I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white. "There's nothing wrong with me." Tawny's silence wraps around my brain. She thinks I'm the reason she can't have a baby. "I said, nothing is wrong with me."

She turns to look at me. "I heard you."

The next few minutes break down strangely. My hand—outstretched, slamming into Tawny's head—flashes by in a millisecond. The crack of her skull smacking against glass rings in my ear. But the way her head falls down, her chin resting on her chest—that moment seems to last forever.

"Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" I slam my hand against the steering wheel, the horn blaring a warning. I yank the wheel and pull over to the side of the road. I cradle Tawny's head in my hands.
 

"Tawny, wake up!" I try to lift her head. "Honey, you need to wake up. Now!"

Her body is jelly in my hands.
Oh fuck, I killed my wife.
I put my ear to her chest and listen. Her heartbeat is faint, but it's there. Do I take her back to the hospital? How would I explain this? We hit a bump in the road? We hit a car? No, there's no damage to the vehicle; that wouldn't work.
 

Tawny groans a few minutes later, the sound breaking into my excuses. She tries to pull her head up. A tiny stream of blood flows from her temple. She wipes at it and looks at her fingers stained with the evidence of what I've done. "You
‒
"
 

"Tawny, I'm so sorry. I don't know what got into me. It will
never
happen again," I say, quickly. I kiss her cheek, her mouth, her nose. Every part of her face I can touch with my lips. I want to kiss and take away what I've just done.
 

She recoils and turns her gaze out the window as she rubs the side of her head. "I can't believe–"

"I said I was sorry. If you would've just shut up." I turn the ignition and pull away from the side of the road.
 

I allow the silence to fester between us, my rage building up for no reason other than that I let her get under my skin. I barely have time to park the car before she jumps out and runs into the house, slamming the front door behind her.
 

I grab a couple beers from the garage fridge and park my ass on the back porch. I relish the bitterness that slides down my throat and toss the can in the yard. The tab of the next beer pops open, and its fizz is melodic. The sky is shifting colors from a pinkish-orange to purple-black, and all I can think about is the way Tawny's head sounded against the glass. Hard enough to knock her out and yet not enough to break the window. I wonder how hard I would have to hit her to make it shatter. I dismiss the thought and down the rest of my beer.

I hear a door slam shut in the house, and I look up to see Tawny staring at me from the bedroom window. No, staring
through
me. Exactly like she did the day I met her. She was so foreign then, so brave and strong. And now? She's just the weak woman who puts up with my shit.
 

Her outline disappears from view and I crack open another beer.

2008

I smell it when I walk in the front door. Spices mingled with roasting meat. Tawny's in the kitchen, humming along to one of her stupid songs.

"Smells good in here." I throw my keys on the counter. The metal clanks against tile.

Tawny jumps at the sound, but only glances at me for a few seconds before pulling the lid off the crock-pot. She's wearing the short cotton dress that I love.

She's up to something.
 

"What's the occasion?" I ask.

She turns and smiles at me. "You'll see." She moves to the sink and bends over to wash a dish and my eyes travel the length of her legs—every luscious inch of skin. I grab her hips and press myself against her backside. She flinches, and I whisper in her ear, "It's just me."

She swats me away. "Not now, I need to get these dishes done."

"But you look so sexy right now. The dishes can wait."

She flips around so her back is arched against the sink. She pulls me into her, and parts my lips with her tongue. She bites my lip, knowing it drives me fucking crazy.
 

"We'll pick this up later. I'm not feeling well, and dinner is getting cold," she says, pushing me away from her.

I hate when she does this. Teases me like the bitch she is. But the hunger pangs in my stomach take over, so I don't argue. For now.
 

She sets the meat and vegetables drowning in thick gravy on the table with side bowls of salad and creamed corn. The smell is so heavenly, I serve myself before Tawny even sits back down. I shovel the food in my mouth as fast as I can.