The Ninth Step (23 page)

He turned on the radio, got static and slammed the dash with his fist. The sound died.

The radio was as dead as Delia.

Fuck.

Why did he care? Why did he have to do this alone?

Why hadn’t she let him help her?

He wondered if she’d ever cared about him. If it had mattered to her that he’d come home.

Scotty. She’d called him Scotty. Cotton’s vision blurred and he wiped furiously at his eyes.

So much for amends.

It was bullshit, like all the rest of the AA garbage--

His cell phone rang and he made a ferocious grab at it. It might have been his mother’s neck, or his brother’s, or a life raft. Or his salvation. It was Anita and he went weak with relief, thinking,
Good as. . . .

“I’m so sorry,” she said after Cotton told her.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

Come
. The word appeared in his brain and it surprised him.

Anita asked about funeral arrangements.

He said he didn’t know. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Some drunks just can’t handle sobriety, Cotton. They can’t take the world. Even the light against their eyes hurts. Everything hurts.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You couldn’t fix her.”

“No. I know that,” he said, but he wondered, did he?

Anita said, “Where are you going now? Have you called Scott? Sonny? You should be with someone, somewhere safe.”

Safe?
What did that mean? He hunted in his mind for context, found none. Home was safe, but he didn’t have a home. He would never again think of that place where he’d been raised, where he’d spent time watching his mother kill herself by degrees, as home.

“Like a bar?” He tried for a joke, but the jolly came out sounding cracked, unsteady.

“Cotton, no. Don’t do it.”

“Relax,” he said, as he made a U-turn and headed back toward Smitty’s. When he’d passed it, he’d seen the door was propped open as usual; inside it was packed. “You think after what I just went through with my mom I even want a drink?”

“Yeah,” Anita said. “I think a drink is exactly what you want.”

“I can’t believe you don’t trust me,” he said. “That hurts, you know it? That just cuts me to the bone.”

“Oh, Cotton, don’t go all cocky on me now. Stay with me, okay. Let’s keep talking.”

But he said no, he couldn’t. He was losing her. . . .

Chapter 17

She was meeting Joe for dinner at Mamacitas, a Mexican food restaurant near the freeway on the north side of Hardys Walk. He offered to pick her up, but she didn’t want to obligate him, to give the impression that they were having a date.

“Why not?” Kat asked.

“You’re having the man’s baby, for heavens sake,” her mother said.

“All the more reason to stick to business,” Livie replied.

She’d thought of wearing a suit, but she didn’t own one. Instead she was wearing flat sandals and a dress, a pale blue cotton sundress. A date dress, she thought, catching her reflection in the restaurant’s mirrored vestibule. Not the right thing at all. Why hadn’t she worn jeans?

Joe slid from the booth when he saw her. She thought he must have been there awhile, long enough that they’d brought napkin-wrapped bundles of silver for two and a basket of chips along with bowls of Mama’s famous red and green salsa.

Plus guacamole and chili con queso.
Good heavens
.

And two huge frozen margaritas.

Her worried gaze rose from the drinks. She had forgotten how tall Joe was and hadn’t remembered that he’d worn his hair slicked back. There was a cut beneath his chin. From shaving, she guessed. He swung his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them. She didn’t know how to greet him either. She had the impression that if she didn’t do something, he would kiss her and she sat abruptly, swinging her legs under the table, and she was grateful when he resumed his seat across from her.

“I ordered margaritas,” he said unnecessarily.

“I see that,” she said.

“I assumed you liked them.” He was tentative. “I mean when you recommended this place, you mentioned how good they were so I figured. . . .”

“It’s fine,” she said, even as she nudged the glass a little away from her. “The margaritas are excellent here, but what Mama’s is really known for is the tamales.”

“Right. I remember you said--”

“People come from Dallas, they come up from Galveston to get them.”

“They must be really good then.”

“Yes. The fajitas, too. They’re to die for.”

“Really.”

She met his gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

He grinned, pushed his hand over his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”

She settled her satchel next to her.

He asked about her mother and sister, her sister’s children, by name.

Livie looked at him nonplussed. She realized they must have covered this territory the first time around and her face warmed. She sipped her water and said everyone was fine. “What about your family?” 

Joe drank his margarita and said, “You don’t remember one damn thing we talked about that night, do you?”

Her face heated again.

He grinned and said it was all right, and then he said, “You know how men are. We love nothing better than to talk about ourselves.”

She laughed outright at that and her heart eased. “You’re a veterinarian. You live in Navasota. I think I remember that you said something about growing up on a Christmas tree farm in Uvalde?”

The waiter came and they ordered tamales, rice and refried beans. Livie asked for a glass of iced tea and waited for Joe to question her about her untouched margarita, but he didn’t.

After the waiter left, he said he didn’t know too much about Christmas trees, that he was pretty sure it was cattle and not trees his folks raised on the ranch. He was grinning, teasing her, obviously having fun with party-girl Livie.

Livie didn’t like it. She didn’t like him either. She hated him. She wouldn’t tell him about her baby, she decided.
Her baby.
Not his. Mary wasn’t the only one who could have an immaculate conception.

He sobered, apologized. He said he wasn’t laughing at her. “God knows what I might have told you that night. For all I know I could have been swinging through the trees.”

“How did you end up in Navasota?” Livie asked primly.

“My brother had a veterinary practice there. I took it over when he died last year.”

“Oh.” The syllable popped out of Livie’s mouth.

“Please don’t say you’re sorry. We’re doing entirely too much of that here.”

“But it must be so hard.”

“Harder on my sister-in-law. Hank and Kirsten have-- He left Kirsten with three little kids, the oldest, Ryan, is five, Andy’s three and Madison, Maddie, is just over a year old. She’s a doll. We call her Stinkerbelle.” Joe’s smile warmed his eyes, suffused his entire expression with affection, joy. Livie could almost see him with his arms full of his niece. He would be the sort to blow raspberries on Maddie’s bare tummy. He would dance a girl child over wood floors on the tops of his feet.

Livie didn’t know how she knew this; she just did. She dropped her gaze. Joe’s life was full of family responsibility already.

“They’re a real handful, though, you know?” Joe bent his weight onto his elbows. “I try and help Kirsten out as much as I can. She’s a fantastic mom. I don’t know how she does it. I can’t imagine being a parent at all, much less the single parent of three kids under the age of five. Can you?”

“No,” Livie answered faintly.

“Sometimes I think all Kirs has got to go on is adrenaline.” Joe toyed with his empty margarita glass. It was easy to see that he worried about the situation. Worried about Kirsten.

He didn’t need more worry in his life. And suppose what was between Joe and Kirsten was more than worry? Suppose worry had given way to some deeper attachment? Livie was abruptly convinced that it had, that Joe cared for Kirsten.

She pushed her margarita toward him making a wet trail across the polished plank table.  

“You don’t want it?”

She shook her head.

He said he’d had enough. “I’ve had enough chips too.”

He hadn’t had any chips, Livie thought. Neither of them had. The basket and sauces were untouched. It was unheard of.

“I’m starving, aren’t you?” Joe leaned back, glanced across the restaurant floor hunting their waiter.

Livie imagined he was ready to get the evening over, get back to Kirsten. She wondered why he’d even agreed to meet her.

The waiter brought their mounded plates and they made small talk while they ate. Mostly Joe talked about the food. Livie was right, best tamales he’d ever eaten. Blah, blah.

She felt nauseated and couldn’t do more than pick at her meal.

When the waiter cleared the table and asked about dessert, Joe looked at Livie and she declined. She wanted to leave, to have this fiasco finished. She was definitely not telling him about the baby. She didn’t have to. There was no law that compelled her. Besides hadn’t he said he wasn’t ready for parenting? Didn’t he already have three children? Kirsten’s children? The thoughts ran through Livie’s mind as Joe walked with her to her car.

The night was dead still and slick with the warm smell of tar, the hotter bite of gasoline.

“Do you like jazz, not the progressive stuff, but the musical stuff, you know Billy Holiday? Miles Davis?” Joe asked. “Because I know this little place not far from here, the Lizard Lounge? They’ve got this dynamite trio in from Austin, not too loud. We could have coffee?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Another time?”

She didn’t answer.

“Look, I’m a little confused here. You called me so I figured-- But I’m thinking you must be serious about that other guy.”

“Other guy?” Livie looked at Joe.

“The guy who brought you the irises. I assumed--”

“Cotton?”

“Are you serious about him?”

Noise burst from the restaurant doors as a crowd emerged. A woman’s bright laughter echoed.

Livie looked in that direction, saw a woman twirling, her blonde hair caught the colored neon light. A man caught her in his arms, bent her backward, kissed her strongly. “I was once.” Livie answered Joe above the sound of more laughter. “But it’s been over between us for a long time now.” She brought her gaze back to him. “What about you? Is there anyone?”

He hesitated a fraction of a second, then shook his head. “Not in a while.”

She shifted her satchel.

He lowered his chin, wanting her gaze. “I was surprised when you called and invited me out,” he said. “I didn’t expect--”

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

His eyes widened; his mouth opened, closed. His grin was brief, an uncertain sketch, almost a reflex. He flattened his palm on his chest. “Mine? You’re saying I’m the--? From when we--? That one night?”

He didn’t believe her, Livie thought. And why should he? He didn’t know her and if he did, if he knew her history, he’d be within his rights not to trust her. She’d been crazy to arrange this. She found her car keys. “I’ve made a mistake,” she murmured. “I’m sorry. You can forget this, all of it, okay?”

“Whoa. Who said I wanted to forget? Or maybe you do?” He was looking carefully at her. “Is that it? Do you want money to--? Do you want me to--?” He couldn’t make himself say it; Livie could see that. He couldn’t say the word abortion.

“No, no, I don’t want money, any money.” She opened the car door, tossed her satchel across to the passenger seat. “I just thought you should know, but you’re under no obligation to me or--or the baby.”

“No, of course there’s an obligation. I--it’s not as if you did this alone.” He studied her face again. “You didn’t--? We didn’t--?”

“Use protection? No. It was stupid. I was.”

“If I remember right, we were both there.”

“I’ll do a paternity test, if you--”

He rested the pad of his finger lightly against her lower lip stopping further speech. The gesture was mindful and quick. “It’s okay. We’re in this together. At least I hope--”

He looked away as if he was at a loss to know what he hoped. He pushed his hands over his head, snaring her gaze again, studying her. “Wow.”

She nodded. “Pretty much. Except since I’ve known a while longer than you I’ve sort of moved past that to the
What now?
stage.”

“Sure you don’t want to go for coffee?”

She said, “It’s late. I’m kind of tired.”

He took her elbow, half-lifting her into the driver’s seat as if she were elderly. When he pulled out the seatbelt, Livie smiled and took it from him. “I don’t think I’m that old, or that delicate, at least not yet.”

“Sorry.” Joe grinned. “Habit.”

Livie’s smile died. “Your niece and little nephews. You buckle them in.”

“All the time.”

“They’re a handful, you said.”

“Yes.” Joe looked at her, took her meaning. “But no, not so I can’t--”

Livie started her car, lowered the window.

“Will you call me?” He cupped his hands on the window ledge. “Do you mind if I call you? We have to work this thing out, right?”

“Yes, but not tonight. I’m sorry,” she added after a moment, “about everything.”

A pause fell, teetered on an edge, as if it were waiting for something, but neither of them seemed to know what.

She put her key in the ignition.

He slipped his fingers under her chin, turned her face to his, touched her temple, the corner of her jaw. “I hope you won’t be mad when I say this,” he told her, “but I don’t know yet if I’m sorry.”

#

On her way home, Livie called Kat. “He was very,” she hesitated, “nice about it.”

“Nice.” Kat weighed the word.

“I know. It sounds dumb, as if we were talking about a dented fender.”

“You mean he didn’t run out on you.”

“No.”

“Are you okay? You sound a little sniffy.”

“He’s helping to raise his sister-in-law’s kids.”

“Oh?”

“Three of them, five and under.”

“Oh.”

“His brother died a year ago.”