It's All Over

“How long?” 

“Months.”

“Years, maybe?”

“Yeah.” Sigh.

“How?”

“Words. Doors. Locks.”

“Why?”

“Disagreed. Misbehaved.”

“Really?”

“Stupid. Arrogant. Ugly. Idiot.”

“Him?”

“No. Me.”

“God. Sorry.”

“S’okay.”

“Now?”

“Unpredictable. Sweet. Mean.”

“Manipulative!”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Well...”

“Later?”

“Yes.”

“Bye!”

“Bye.”

Counters sticky. Dishes piling. Laundry waiting. Toddler wailing. Food warming. Bathtub running. 

Toddler fed. Diaper changed. Bathwater stopped. Soap added.

“Look, bubbles!”

Giggles. Splashes. Giggles. Splashes.

Breathe. Exhale. Smile. Tears.

Soap and rinse. Scoop and pour. Toddler grabs, toddler scoops, toddler pours.

Shampoo time. Toddler cries.

“Shhh, it’s okay.” Scoop and pour, scoop and pour. Gently. Quickly. “Shhh, it’s okay.”

Towel. Pat. Rub. Caress. Swaddle. Cuddle. Hug. Kiss. Carry.

“Bedtime, sweetie.”

Pyjamas, pacifier, blankie. Rocking chair, bedtime story, back and forth, eyes drifting shut. Tuck into crib, tuck in teddy bear too. Stroke her small warm body, soft and fuzzy, all the way to her feet. Kisses. Slip out. Close door. Quietly.

Slam!

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Coming!”

“WHERE’S DINNER? GET ME A BEER! WHERE’S THE REMOTE?”

“Coming!”

Swing open fridge and cupboard. Grab beer and glass. Hurry to the living room. Smile. “Cheers!”

“COME HERE, BABY!”

Evade the grab. “Dinner!” Slip back to the kitchen. Skillet still greasy. Two patties. Heat on. Buns in toaster. Slice onion, tomato. Flip. Wait. Done. Ketchup. Mustard. Pickle. Tray. Hurry. Smile. “Enjoy!”

“SIT WITH ME, BABY, GAME’S ON!”

“The dishes…”

Arm grabs arm. Yanks.

“I SAID, SIT.”

Sit. Encircled by the arm. Meaty, sweaty. Ketchup, mustard, grease. Drip from slimy lips. 

Blue and red uniforms run on green grass. Helmets crash. Uniforms fall. Where’s the ball?

“GODDAMMIT, YOU CALL YOURSELF A REF? GET OFF THE FUCKIN’ FIELD!”

Fist swings. At the TV.

“CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS SHIT, BABY?”

Quiet.

“I SAID CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS SHIT, BABY? THAT CALL WAS FUCKIN’ BULLSHIT, WASN’IT? ANSWER ME!”

“Yes.”

“WHAT? SPEAK UP, BITCH!”

“Yes!”

“LOUDER! SAY ‘BULLSHIT’!”

“Bullshit.”

“LIKE YOU MEAN IT!”

“Bullshit!”

“HELL, YEAH IT WAS! DON’T YOU CARE? YOU DON’T SEEM TO GIVE A SHIT.”

Arm releases. Stands up. Eyes meet. Look away. Look down. 

“DO YOU GIVE A SHIT OR NOT? THE LIONS HAVE TO FUCKIN' WIN TONIGHT OR IT’S ALL OVER, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

“Yes.”

“THEY CAN’T WIN WITH AN ASSHOLE REF LIKE THAT MAKIN’ BULLSHIT CALLS. DID YOU SEE ANY INTERFERENCE THERE? DID YOU?”

“No.”

“NO FUCKIN’ WAY THAT WAS INTERFERENCE. NO FUCKIN’ WAY, BABY.”

Stand. Pick up dishes. Turn.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOIN’? WHERE, HUH?”

“Kitchen…”

“NO, BABY, THIS IS THE LIONS GAME. DIDN’T I JUST TELL YOU THEY GOTTA WIN TONIGHT? SIT YOUR ASS BACK DOWN.”

“Beer?”

“YEAH, OKAY.”

Kitchen. Breathe. Listen. Tiptoe. Still asleep. Sigh. Relief. Tiptoe. Kitchen.

“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU WITH THAT BEER?”

Fridge. Beer. Two. Hurry.

“NOW SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AND WATCH THE GAME.” Pshht! Gulp, gulp, gulp. Belch. 

Turn away. Meaty hand on my head. Turns it to the screen.

“I SAID, WATCH… THE… GAAAAME.”

Sit. Stare. Bodies clash, crash, fall. Shiny red body runs free. Runs fast. Runs far.

“Go Lions!”

“CRUSH HIM, DICKHEADS! CRUSH HIM GOOD!” Stands. Stares. “YOU GOT HIM! YOU GOT HIM! COME ON, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”

Red body crosses a line. Smashes the ball into the grass. Crowd roars. 

“FUCKIN’ HELL!” Meaty hand crushes beer can. Drops. Drips on carpet. Head turns.

“BABY?” Bloodshot eyes drill. Thick eyebrows narrow.

“Yes?”

“DID YOU FUCKIN’ SAY ‘GO LIONS’ BACK THERE?”

“Um…”

“ARE YOU FUCKIN’ KIDDIN’ ME? YOU SAID “GO LIONS” WHEN THERE WAS A FUCKIN’ INTERCEPTION BY THE BEARS?”

“Um…”

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT A FUCKIN’ INTERCEPTION IS?”

“Um…”

“OKAY, WAIT A SECOND. I THINK YOU MIGHT BE A FUCKIN’ MORON.”

Look away. Look down.

“LOOK AT ME.”

Look up. Slowly.

“I’M GONNA ASK YOU TO TELL ME ONE THING, BABY. I’M GONNA SAY THIS SLOWLY. YOU GET THIS WRONG, AND IT’S ALL OVER. YOU GET ME?”

“Um…”

“OKAY. WHAT. FUCKIN. COLOR. IS. OUR. TEAM.”

“Um, the Lions?”

“OF COURSE THE LIONS, MORON. THIS IS FUCKIN’ DETROIT, AIN’T IT? AIN’T NO FUCKIN’ BEARS FANS WITHIN A HUNDRED MILES OF HERE! IF THERE WERE, YOU KNOW WHAT I’D DO TO ‘EM, DONTCHA.”

“Umm..”

Grabs shoulders. Pulls up. Pulls close. Bloodshot eyes. Pockmarked skin. Stubble. Beads of sweat.

Meaty hands grip like a vise. Close eyes.

“LOOK AT ME, BITCH.”

Open eyes. 

“WHAT. FUCKIN. COLOR. IS. OUR. TEAM.”

Think. Think. Think. Lions. Bears. Red. Blue. Red, or blue? Red, or blue?

“HOW FUCKIN’ HARD IS THIS QUESTION? ANSWER ME!”

Look past. TV. Commercial. Dammit. Look up. Sweat beads drip from hat. Lions hat? Probably. But black, backwards. Dammit. Dammit. Squeeze eyes shut. Think. Think. Think. What… color… is… the.. brim…

“Blue?” Hold breath.

“JESUS CHRIST, BABY.”

Oh shit. Hold breath.

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE GONNA FUCK IT UP!” Raucous laughter. 

Exhale. Safe. Sit back down.

Turns to screen. 21:3.

“WHAT THE HELL? THE BEARS SCORED ANOTHER FUCKIN’ TOUCHDOWN? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHAT IS WITH THE DEFENSE, MAN? FUCKIN’ HELL.”

Turns. Bloodshot eyes, dark eyebrows glare.

“BABY, YOU MADE ME MISS A FUCKIN’ TOUCHDOWN! THE LIONS ARE FUCKIN’ LOSIN’ AND I’M MISSIN’ IT! DIDN’T I TELL YOU THIS IS IT, THE BIGGEST GAME OF THE SEASON?”

“Um…”

“THAT’S RIGHT I TOLD YOU ALREADY. AND IT’S THE FUCKIN’ FOURTH QUARTER! PASS ME ANOTHER BEER. NOW.”

Pshht! Gulp, gulp, gulp. Belch. 

Watch the TV. Go Lions. Red body runs, red fans cheer. Shit. Over?

“FUCKIN’ HELL.”

Red figures jump and hug and wave. 

Jumps up. Blocks the TV. Grabs shoulders. Pulls up. Pulls close. Bulging bloodshot eyes. Reddening beefy cheeks. Sweat drips. Crooked-toothed grimace. Fists grip harder.

“IT'S ALL OVER, GODDAMMIT. WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? CAN’T EVEN CHEER FOR THE LIONS! DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE GAME. I’M GONNA GIVE YOU SOMETHIN’ TO GIVE A SHIT ABOUT.”

Fists shake. Hard. Head wobbles.

“LOOK AT ME, BITCH!”

Look up, slowly. Meet his eyes. They narrow. Fist lifts, pulls back, flies like a missile. Contact. I crumple. Blackness.

Eyes open, slowly. Dull, bloated pain. Look around, slowly. Passed out, on couch. Exhale.

Check arms. Working. Bring hands to face. Sticky, swollen. Open mouth to breathe. Whoa. Searing pain. Close mouth. Taste blood.

Arms working. Roll slowly, quietly onto stomach. Pull body, commando-style. Around the end table. Slowly, quietly. Down the hall. Door, ajar, thankgod. Push. Stand. Slowly. 

Think. Think. Think. If she cries, it’s all over. How? How? How? No time.

Grab hat. Stuff in pocket. Grab extra blanket. Slowly cover. Roll and scoop. Bring her close. “Shhhh.” 

Carpeted floor to the garage. No. Door is noisy. Across linoleum to back door. Screen always clangs. Front door? Closest to him on the floor. Shit.

Tiptoe. Hold her close. Look over to couch. Still out cold. Push door handle, small click. No turning back. Leave door open.

Run. Run. Run. Crying. Two blocks. No one around. Pull phone out.

“Anne!”

“You okay?”

“Now. Corner. King and Maple. Please.”

“Yes. 911?”

“No. You.”

Vroom. Shit. Click phone off. Run. Crouch behind bushes. Blackness.

Noise. Lights. Beeps. Open eyes. What? Where? How? 

A hand on mine. Look up. Anne.

“You’re okay.”

“And?” Holding breath.

“Fine too.” Smiles.

Nod. “And?”

“Got him. In custody.”

“Ohhh.” Exhale.

“You’re safe. It’s all over.”