Baby

He climbed out of the cab, bruised and bloodied.  And wet.  He’d been caught in the downpour, though whether it was before or after the fight she neither knew nor cared.  She was tired.  She’d been waiting on the curb in front of their building for ten minutes.  Cold in her thin pajamas and a worn sweatshirt. 

She’d hung up on the cops, holding back the tears. 

It was easier this time. 

They’d put him in a cab they’d called.  They didn’t want to spend time with him either.  Not that she blamed them. 

He was crying. 

I’m sorry baby.  I’m sorry. 

He was always sorry. 

At first anyway. 

At least it was always a stranger he got into fights with she supposed. 

Of course, she wouldn’t go drinking with him anymore.  Not when this happened.  Happened with a frequency she couldn’t stomach much longer.  It hadn’t started out like this.  He’d been a fun drunk.  Loquacious.  Amusing.  Not this jackass, she thought. 

She crossed her arms tightly over the thin fabric of the sweatshirt, sure her nipples were poking through into the cold, and walked over to the driver.  How much is the fare?  21.  She dug into her pockets and handed the driver 30.  Thanks for bringing him home. 

Baby, I’m sorry. 

Quiet.  Just get inside and keep your voice down. 

Baby, it wasn’t my fault. 

It never was.  Amazing that.  He must have had the shit kicked out of him five times in the past eight months but it was never his fault.  That guy just didn’t have a sense of humor.  And the guy before him.  And the gang of six who kicked him so hard they bruised his ribs before that.  And the guy before that.   

It was like a death wish. 

One of these days, she thought, one of these days someone will have a knife…or a broken beer bottle…or worse. 

Three jobs in the past year.  It got too hard passing off the bruises and black eyes as rugby.  It got too hard pretending to be in a good mood when your skull aches and it’s hard to breathe and you can’t focus from the hangover that lasts for days.  The boss was always an asshole.  Or an alcoholic (that was the pot calling the kettle black, she’d thought.)  That guy had it in for me, baby.  That’s what he’d say when he lost the next one. 

He needed her.  She knew that.  That had been part of the appeal in a way.  At first.  He was always a bit of a mess.  He never thought to buy q-tips or shampoo.  He’d wash his hair with shower gel.  He was an awful cook.  And he was always so appreciative.  Thanks, baby.  That was delicious, baby.  I love you, baby.  And so she’d grumbled a bit, but she stayed.  She felt needed.  She felt in control.  At first. 

But now, she had no control.  It wasn’t as though he had control.  It was just that now there was no control to be had.  She couldn’t control him and he wouldn’t control himself and she was so exhausted that she couldn’t change it.  Not yet.  He’d have to see what he was doing soon.  He’d try to be better.  He always meant his apologies. 

But she was starting not to care.  About any of it.  She knew she’d never see that 30 dollars again but she didn’t care.  She didn’t care about the bruises on his face.  She did care about the blood trickling from his lip.  I’ll have to clean that up before he passes out on the bed, she thought.  I just changed the sheets, she thought.  Of course, the new ones are on there.  I wonder if I can change them back?  Or get him to pass out on the couch.  Thank god it was that fake leather stuff.  The blood just wiped off.

Sometimes she thought, it’s not as if he hits me, he’s not a bad guy, just a bad drunk.  Surely there are worse things in the world. 

And sometimes, he’s great.  Like when he took me on that picnic.  How long ago was that?  Or when we went up the coast for the weekend.  Was that really over a year ago? 

It used to be sweet that he’d want to stay up all night talking.  It took months before she realized that he wasn’t talking with her but talking to her.  It was always about him.  His job, his friends, his drinking.  Sex was his need.  Not hers.  Not anymore.  Not when he reeked of stale alcohol, four thousand cigarettes and likely as not, sweat and blood.

She used to like a drink.  To go out for drinks and end up singing herself hoarse at the piano bar.  Or dancing until her clothes stuck to her like plaster.  She loved going out, having fun, doing what the party girls did.  But now…she’d rather stay home.  If she went out with her friends, there would be an interrogation.  Who was there, what did you do, when are you coming home?  If she went out with him, she’d be babysitting.  She couldn’t even have more than a few drinks because she’d have to keep an eye on him.  Where was he?  Who was he talking to?  Did he take something while he was gone?  When he had, he was even worse.  If he’d just get drunk and pass out, she wouldn’t mind so much.  It’s the endless energy.  The drinking until 5 or 6 or 7 in the morning.  And then, of course, that was the weekend gone.  She’d end up sleeping on the couch, his snoring exacerbated by the alcohol.  He’d sleep until 9 or 10 and then move to the couch.  Then he’d watch tv.  Always what he wanted.  Her shows were stupid or boring.  Eventually he’d whinge until she went and got take-away for dinner and fueled by the food, he’d shower and get ready to go out again.

It was the never-ending cycle.  And he’d talk about changing.  Sobering up.  Leaving it all behind.  And it would last…until Friday.  If she was lucky.  Sometimes it wouldn’t even last until Thursday.  Once it lasted two whole weeks.  He’d felt great.  She’d felt great.  He was amazed how much easier it was to get up in the morning.  At how much he’d got done at work.  His sales figures doubled in a week. 

But then there was a birthday.  Not hers.  Not his.  Some “friend.”  Some friend she’d heard of once in two years.  And then it was off to the races.  He wanted a fucking drink.  When had she turned into such a prude.  A tightass.  A bitch.  She used to be fun. 

I know, she said.  Before I met you.  Do you think I like nagging you all the time?  Do you think I want to be this way?

He’d thrown a phone that time.  Not at her, exactly.  Just past her.  So it smashed on the wall.  Of course, maybe it was at her.  His aim wasn’t exactly great after the fifth bourbon or so.

And that was another thing.  She used to love bourbon.  It was her drink.  It went down smooth and always impressed the guys.  A girl who drinks bourbon straight.  Now, the smell of it made her gag.  It smelled like his sweat.  It smelled like broken promises and disappointing sex and frustration and apathy.

She knew she’d leave eventually.  She had to.  A month before she’d been late.  Only three days but the sheer terror of those days…she took a pregnancy test every day, just in case.  She’d always wanted to be a mother but not now.  Not now, she thought.  Not shackled to this useless man-child.