He sat, laid it against his jaw. “Get punched in the face often?”
“No. Do you?”
“It’s been a while. I forgot how much it fucking hurts. You wouldn’t have any whiskey handy, would you?”
Saying nothing, she turned to a cupboard. She took out a bottle of Jameson—and right there he wanted to kiss her feet—and poured him two fingers in a thick lowball glass.
“Thanks.” The first slow sip eased the rawness in his mood. “Anything you don’t have handy?”
“Things I don’t feel I have any use for.”
“There you go.”
“Do you want to tell me the long story?”
“Honey, I’m from the Ozarks. Long stories are a way of life.”
“All right.” She got out a second glass, poured more whiskey, and sat.
“God, you’re a restful woman.”
“Not really.”
“Right now you are, and I sure need it.” He sat back, ignoring twinges, and took a slow sip of whiskey. “So, Tybal and Missy. Back in our high school days, they were the golden couple. You know what I’m saying?”
“They were important in that culture.”
“King and queen. He was the all-star athlete. Quarterback with magic hands. Center fielder with a bullet arm. She was head cheerleader, pretty as a strawberry parfait. He went to Arkansas State, mostly on an athletic scholarship, and she went along. From what I hear, they sparkled pretty good there, too. Up until junior year, when he messed up his knee on a play. All the talk of him going pro, that blew up. Ended up coming back home. They broke up, got back together, broke up, that sort of thing. Then they got married.”
He sipped more whiskey. Between that, the Motrin and the restfulness of the woman, he felt better.
“He coached high school football awhile, but it didn’t go well. He didn’t have the wiring for it, I guess. So he went to work in construction. Missy, she tried some modeling, but that didn’t work out. She works at the Flower Pot. They never prepared, I’m thinking, for things not to keep on sparkling, so dealing with the dull took a toll. Ty, he started paying that toll with Rebel Yell.”
“He yells?”
“No, honey, it’s a whiskey not nearly as nice as what you poured me. My predecessor in this job let me know about the problem. The DUIs, the bar fights, and the D-and-Ds—that’s—”
“Domestic disputes. He becomes violent and abusive when he drinks.”
“That’s right. The last year or so, it’s been worse.”
“Why hasn’t he been arrested?”
“He has been, then he ends up with a warning or community service. Missy won’t press charges when he smacks her around, and denies it ever happened. She fell, she slipped, she walked into a door.”
“She enables him.”
“That she does. And the fact is people gave them a blind eye on the trouble. The kind of shine they had lasts a long time in a small town like this. But I spent some time away, so maybe I see it—them—differently. Since repeated attempts at getting them into therapy, rehab, counseling have failed, I went another way.”
“That resulted in your injury.”
“You could say. When my deputy called to report they were at it—which means Ty came home drunk, hit her, she ran out—I got Ty to come out on his stoop, in full view of the fourteen people outside to watch the show. He had music blasting to accompany his wrecking of every breakable in the house he could get his hands on. This was a plus, as nobody but Ty and my deputy could hear me incite this drunken
On a long breath, he shook his head. “I’m glad it didn’t come to that. He punched me in the face in front of witnesses, and is now contemplating serving time for a felony or two.”
“That was very good strategy. Men are sensitive about their genitalia.”
He choked a little on the whiskey, then rubbed his hand over his face on a laugh. “God knows we are.” Then he sobered, took a small sip. “God knows we are that.”
“Your method wasn’t conventional, but the result was good. But you feel sorry and a little sad. Why?”
“He was a friend once. Not best, not close to best, but a friend of mine. I liked them, and I guess I liked seeing that sparkle, too. I’m sorry to see them brought low like this. I’m sorry to be a part of bringing them low.”
“You’re wrong. It’ll be up to them to address and seek help for their problems, but as long as they were both unable to do that, they’d never resolve those problems. What you did gives him only two choices. Jail or help. It’s more likely that, when sober and faced with those choices and consequences, he’ll choose help. As she appears to be codependent, so will she. I would think your actions fall well within the function and spirit of your job description. As well as within the parameters of friendship.”
He set the whiskey he hadn’t finished aside. “I was telling myself I should just go home with my mood and my aches and annoyances. I’m awfully glad I didn’t.”
He reached out, took her hands. “Let me take you to bed, Abigail.”
She kept her eyes on his. “All right.”
13
All right.
He wondered that he should find it so sweet, so disarming, she kept it just that simple.
All right.
He rose, drew her to her feet. “Maybe you could show me the way.”
“You mean to the bedroom.”
“Yeah. I know my way around what we’ll be doing there.”
The smile flickered in her eyes, around her mouth. “I’d be disappointed if that wasn’t true.”
He kept her hand as they walked back to the living room, up the stairs. “Considering what we’ll be doing, and I hope you don’t question my size and virility for the question, but how does Bert handle the process?”
“He’s very well trained, so theoretically he won’t interfere.”
Brooks glanced back at the dog. “Theoretically’s a tricky word. And by interfere, do you mean he won’t rip my throat out?”
“He shouldn’t.”
At the door to the bedroom, Brooks turned her around, narrowed his eyes as he studied her. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re being funny.”
“Humor can smooth over awkwardness, if there is any. I can’t tell. But if Bert thought you hurt me, or tried to, his first response would be to protect me—to stop you. He’s seen you touch me, and I’ve instructed him you’re a friend, and to stand down. He sees I’ve brought you up here without duress, that I touch you.”
She laid a hand on Brooks’s chest, then glanced at the dog, gave him an order.
“What language was that?” Brooks asked when the dog walked over to a generous dog bed, circled three times and laid down with a windy sigh.
“Farsi.”
“Seriously? You and Bert speak Farsi?”
“Not very well, but I’m working on it. I told him to rest. I don’t want to put him out of the room. He wouldn’t understand.”
“Okay. Is that a stuffed bear in his bed?”
“Dogs are pack animals.”
“Uh-huh, and a stuffed teddy bear is Bert’s pack?”
“It comforts him. I’d like to turn down the bed.”
“I’ll give you a hand.”
