Don't Make Me Beautiful (5 page)

The latch moves slowly out of its catch as the handle mechanism turns.
 
She opens the door a crack, just far enough to look through the space with one eye.

The little boy doesn’t even wait for her to speak.
 
“Thank you very much.
 
I’m sorry about the window.
 
I was trying to hit a fly ball and I messed up.
 
It went really far but the wrong way.
 
The really wrong way.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, pushing the ball to the door with her toes.
 
It’s almost to the crack.

“Why are you whispering?” the boy asks.
 
He drops the volume of his voice to match hers.
 
“Is someone asleep in there?”

“No. It’s just me.”
 
The ball is against the crack in the door but it won’t go through.
 
It’s too big.

“Are you okay?
 
Your voice sounds funny.”

“I’m fine. Here’s your ball.”
 
She opens the door just a bit more, intending to kick the ball through it.
 
But the edge of the door pushes the ball away and it rolls back.

The boy must have seen it because he bends down and reaches in to go after it, his shoulder hitting the door and pushing it in farther.

Nicole wasn’t expecting the handle to come towards her, so she’s totally unprepared for it to bang into her sore ribs.
 
Gasping with the pain, she backs up two steps and the door swings in even more.

The boy looks up to say something and stops, his mouth open and the words he was about to say unspoken.

The ball rolls down the grout between two tiles and makes its way slowly towards the kitchen.
 
For a couple seconds, that’s the only sound in the house.

Then the boy screams.

He scrambles back out of the doorway and onto the porch.
 
Getting to his feet, his face pale, he stares for another moment at Nicole and then turns and runs.

Without saying another word, he flies down the stairs and across the front yard, soon disappearing around the corner two houses down on the other side of the street.

Tears well up in Nicole’s eyes.
 
He looked and sounded so sweet.
 
He’s just a little boy who wanted his baseball, and now he’ll probably have nightmares for a month.
 
She doesn’t really know what she’s crying about exactly, but it doesn’t matter.
 
What’s done is done - her face, the ball, the window… Nothing she can do will change any of it.
 
Maybe the tears are for the powerlessness that has become the sad, sorry theme of her life.

Closing the door most of the way, she looks over her shoulder.
 
The ball has finally stopped at the entrance to the kitchen.
 
She walks over to it slowly and uses her feet to kick it once again until it’s at the entrance.
 
Opening the door very carefully, she uses the bottom of her foot to push it over the threshold.
 
It rolls just a foot and stops in the middle of the porch.
 
She worries about leaving it there, knowing if John comes home he’ll see it or maybe even trip over it.
 
A small smile appears at that thought, but then goes away immediately as she thinks about what he’d do after he got up.
 
No.
 
I hope he doesn’t trip.
 
Seeing him go down would be fun, but then the aftermath wouldn’t be at all.

She considers getting a broom to move the ball away from the doorway when a movement at the corner of the street catches her eye.
 
The little boy is hiding next to some bushes in the neighbor’s lawn.

Relief washes through her.
 
She shuts the door and stands still behind it, waiting while breathing slowly and calmly.
 
Minutes later, she hears the soft padding of sneaking feet on the steps, then shortly thereafter, the sound of them running away.

Opening the door a crack, she sees that the ball is gone and the little boy is streaking away.
 
Down the sidewalk he goes and around the corner until he’s out of sight, running like there’s a monster from his worst nightmares chasing him.

She smiles sadly as she goes into the kitchen to get the garbage can.
 
Maybe if she cleans up all the glass and removes all the obvious signs of the window breaking, John won’t notice and she’ll be spared giving an explanation.
 
Even one night’s delay is worth the effort, painful as it might be.

Chapter Eight

BRIAN’S READING THE LATEST SPORTS news online when Liam bursts into the side door and runs through the kitchen and into his room.
 
He’s going so fast, it’s like the hounds of hell are at his heels. Brian frowns as he hears first one door opening, then another, and finally one slamming shut.
 
His son is on a tear, and if Brian doesn’t find out what’s going on, there will probably be a mess to clean up later.
 
Sometimes the little guy gets a bit too wild, although not as often as he used to.
 
This is the first year that he’s actually been calm and rational on a regular basis, enough to have a semi-adult conversation, but Brian’s not naive enough to think that a six-year-old boy is going to be mature all the time.
 
Breakdowns and cry-fests are still a regular part of the program.

Getting up from the kitchen stool, he closes his computer putting its operating system to sleep.
 
He walks down the hallway towards the bedrooms, stopping at the end of the short corridor and looking from his own room to Liam’s.
 
The master bedroom door is open, and he could have sworn he closed it to keep the room cooler.
 
The air conditioning vents don’t treat all spaces equally and he hates sleeping in a hot room.
 
Liam’s door is closed.

Walking over to close his door, his eye catches the baseball on the stand on top of his dresser.
 
It’s off-kilter just the smallest bit, but it’s enough to cause his heart to sink.
 
I should have known it would be too tempting.
 
His decision to keep the stand at a level Liam could reach seems foolhardy in hindsight.

Closing the door, he turns to walk the other direction.
 
Down the hall a few paces puts him at Liam’s door.
 
He knocks softly, the sound of his son’s weeping coming through the hollow-core door.

“Liam, can I come in?”

“No,” comes his muffled response.
 
“I need to be alone.”

“I’d really like to come in and talk, son.”

“No, Dad.
 
Not right now.
 
Later.”

Brian sighs.
 
Of course he could just open the door and force the conversation on his young son, but instead he decides to let Liam handle this on his own.
 
At least for now.
 
Liam needs to have the experience of battling his emotions and coming to terms with them without Brian babying him through the process.
 
He’s not sure who it’s going to be harder for, though, Liam or him.
 
He goes back to his bedroom and takes a closer look at the ball.

Picking it up, he can see that it’s been hit more than that one time at the Marlins’ ball field.
 
There are two additional scuffs on the white leather and one of them is right on top of Wilson’s autograph.
 
Not that the ball’s monetary value was the true measure of its worth for Brian, but he can’t help thinking how it just went down significantly.
 
Brian sighs and then shrugs.
 
Damn kids.
 
Always looking for trouble.
 
The ball is no longer in pristine condition, but what the heck … at least it has another memory attached to it he’s sure they’ll laugh about later.

As he’s putting the ball back in the holder, he feels a sharp prick and yanks his hand back, dropping the ball on the ground.
 
The first finger of his right hand has a pinprick of blood on it.
 
Looking at it closer, Brian sees the tiniest sliver of glass sticking out of his skin.

“What the hell?” he says out loud into the room.
 
Moving to the attached bathroom, he finds enough light enough to confirm there is, in fact, some glass stuck in his finger pad.
 
He uses tweezers to take it out and then soaps his hand to make sure there will be no infection later.
 
His job is all about hand-work and he can’t afford to lose the ability to use his fingers.

He mulls over the situation as he finishes cleaning up.
 
No wonder Liam’s so miserable.
 
Not only did he take the ball and play with it, it looks like he also put it through someone’s window.
 
Great.
 
I wonder how much that’s going to set me back in dollars and neighborly relations.
 
They’d only been in the neighborhood for four months, his first bachelor pad since the divorce was finalized.
 
Now he’s going to have to bake some brownies or something to smooth over the ruffled feathers.
 
He puts on a bandage and turns out the light, leaving his room for the kitchen.

If memory serves, there’s a box of fudge brownie mix in the pantry and he has the eggs and oil he’ll need to put it all together without having to grocery shop.

Chapter Nine

SHE JUMPS A LITTLE WHEN the front door slams shut.

“Honey, I’m home!”
 
John says loudly, dropping his tool belt on the ground by the door with a loud bang.
 
“Where are ya?”

“I’m in here,” Nicole says, clearing her throat to get the frog out.
 
Fear has her voice sounding strangled.

He comes into the living room with a big bouquet of flowers in his hand and a huge smile lighting up his face.
 
“Got these for ya.”

She smiles, her lips only trembling a little.
 
“Thank you.
 
They’re really pretty.”

“Don’t you want to put them in water?” he asks, standing there in the entrance, waiting.

“Of course.”
 
She uses her hands on either side of her legs to push off the couch, smiling through the pain.
 
“I have a vase in the kitchen.”

“Did you have a good day today?” he asks her as they walk down the hall.
 
He’s behind her.
 
She can’t see him, but his voice is close.
 
She hates having him at her back like this, always afraid he’s going to attack when she’s not looking.

“Yes, I did.
 
How about you?”
 
She wants to scream and shout and cry over the absolute joke of a conversation they’re having, but that would just be asking for trouble.
 
Maybe if she keeps playing along he won’t notice the hole in the window.

“Great.
 
It was a
great
day.
 
I got another job, so I thought we’d celebrate.”

“Oh, fun.”
 
She opens a cabinet and reaches up slowly, mindful of her ribs.
 
Taking down the heavy vase, she holds it tightly to keep it from falling.
 
Sometimes she’s clumsy, and John hates it when she breaks things.
 
He doesn’t seem to mind breaking them himself, but she’s not permitted the same latitude as he is.

She fills the vase with water and moves around the kitchen getting the things she’ll need for the flowers, pretending she doesn’t notice his intense gaze and the unspoken words behind his big smile.

He puts the flowers on the counter.
 
“Roses.
 
You like roses.”

“Yes, they’re pretty.”

“I got you red and yellow.
 
The lady at the store says they mean love and friendship.”

Nicole nods, too angry to respond.
 
Keep the smile going.
 
Don’t let it go.
 
Think about something else.
 
Think about … think about …
 
She can’t come up with a happy thought to help her push through the insanity.
 
Everything reminds her of where she is right now and where she’ll always be: right here, playing games with John as he sinks farther and farther into madness.

“Are you upset with me?”
 
He moves in closer.

She focuses all her energy on not flinching away.
 
It’s always a trigger that sets him off.
 
Her hands go still over the partially unwrapped flowers.

“I understand if you’re a little upset,” he continues.
 
“I’m sorry, you know.
 
I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

“I know,” she says, trying to see through the tears that are clouding her vision.
 
She cannot look up at him, so she stares at the blood-red petals of the closest rose.
 
So, so dark.
 
Like real blood.
 
Like my blood.
 
I wonder if that’s why he picked them.

“I lost that job and then I had too much to drink at the bar last night and then you just … you know how you piss me off sometimes.”

She nods, because she knows only too well.

He reaches up and rubs her back, kneading her shoulder when he gets there.

She wants to cry out with the pain it causes her as his hard, muscular hands move over the bruises and then grind them deeper into her skin, but she doesn’t.
 
Instead, she steps away, pretending that she needs something out of the drawer across the kitchen.