that.”
“What was that? Women? So if he had been staring at some guy’s package, you’d have been fine with that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You think all women are weak, right?”
“No, of course not.”
“Right. Let me tell you something. I can fight and I can shoot, probably a damn sight better than you can, and I’ve been doing both since I was a kid. I don’t need you to defend me, especially against some caveman staring at my tits. And that connecting-rooms business? What’s that about? Is that so you can keep me safe, since I’m so helpless?”
I put my key in number nine’s lock and turned it hard. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s for my benefit, not yours. You’re the only alarm I’ve got, so knock if you smell anything. Or better yet, you go ahead and take care of any bags that show up, and let me get some sleep!” I went inside and slammed the door, harder than I needed to.
I was embarrassed and angry, but not so much that I couldn’t admit that she was right. Or at least partially right. I wasn’t standing up for her. I hurt that guy because I had gotten angry and couldn’t stop myself from using it as an excuse to lash out at someone.
I have had, in my long life, something of an anger-management problem. On my good days, I can walk away from it. Other days I seem to clutch at it like an addict, and like an addict, I’m ashamed of what happens afterwards. Over the years I’ve lost the respect of close friends, and more than once I almost lost Mags because of the things I’ve done. People can like you if you stand up for yourself, or someone else, but only up to a point. There’s a line that you can’t cross without becoming a monster and a savage in their eyes. It’s hard to earn that respect back, and sometimes you can’t, especially to yourself, so I try my best to keep a leash on it.
I grew up angry, but when I came back from the war, I realized that it had gotten a lot worse overseas. That I had gotten a lot worse. I’ve felt pretty proud over the last thirty years that I had matured, maybe come to terms with it. Turns out, that’s only because hiding out on my farm I haven’t had anyone to get mad at. It was humiliating to lose control and look like an ass in front of Anne, and I swore that it wouldn’t happen again. It was an old promise, worn and familiar.
I flicked on the light, and threw my keys and wallet on the dresser. The room was small and shabby and smelled faintly of cigarettes. It came complete with matted brown carpet that looked more like it was growing out of the floor than covering it, and a sagging twin bed sporting a polyester floral comforter that was probably dirtier than the carpet. I’ve stayed in worse places, but not in recent memory.
I walked to the tiny bathroom and stripped off my clothes. They reeked of sweat and smoke. I filled the sink and scrubbed them as best I could with hot water and hand soap, then squeezed them out and laid them across the air conditioner vents to dry.
I took a long shower, and the heat seemed to draw the fatigue of a long day and night up out of my bones and into my muscles, making me heavy and dragging me down.
I got out and dried myself on the thin, sandpapery towel, then slid the bedspread off onto the floor and lay down on top of the sheets. At least those were probably washed between guests. I felt leaden and absolutely still as I listened to the muffled drone of the little air conditioner.
In my mind I could hear Shadroe Decatur’s slow drawl.
You gonna get that little girl killed, Sarge. She ain’t never seen a hard corner in her entire life and you’re gonna bring her right into the grinder with you.
“Everybody starts out looking soft on the outside,” I said out loud.
“But you look under that, and I bet there’s steel in this one. I’m sure Patrick saw to that.” Shad’s memory was silent, but I could picture his weasel face pinched in disapproval.
I closed my eyes and tried
“What was that? Women? So if he had been staring at some guy’s package, you’d have been fine with that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You think all women are weak, right?”
“No, of course not.”
“Right. Let me tell you something. I can fight and I can shoot, probably a damn sight better than you can, and I’ve been doing both since I was a kid. I don’t need you to defend me, especially against some caveman staring at my tits. And that connecting-rooms business? What’s that about? Is that so you can keep me safe, since I’m so helpless?”
I put my key in number nine’s lock and turned it hard. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s for my benefit, not yours. You’re the only alarm I’ve got, so knock if you smell anything. Or better yet, you go ahead and take care of any bags that show up, and let me get some sleep!” I went inside and slammed the door, harder than I needed to.
I was embarrassed and angry, but not so much that I couldn’t admit that she was right. Or at least partially right. I wasn’t standing up for her. I hurt that guy because I had gotten angry and couldn’t stop myself from using it as an excuse to lash out at someone.
I have had, in my long life, something of an anger-management problem. On my good days, I can walk away from it. Other days I seem to clutch at it like an addict, and like an addict, I’m ashamed of what happens afterwards. Over the years I’ve lost the respect of close friends, and more than once I almost lost Mags because of the things I’ve done. People can like you if you stand up for yourself, or someone else, but only up to a point. There’s a line that you can’t cross without becoming a monster and a savage in their eyes. It’s hard to earn that respect back, and sometimes you can’t, especially to yourself, so I try my best to keep a leash on it.
I grew up angry, but when I came back from the war, I realized that it had gotten a lot worse overseas. That I had gotten a lot worse. I’ve felt pretty proud over the last thirty years that I had matured, maybe come to terms with it. Turns out, that’s only because hiding out on my farm I haven’t had anyone to get mad at. It was humiliating to lose control and look like an ass in front of Anne, and I swore that it wouldn’t happen again. It was an old promise, worn and familiar.
I flicked on the light, and threw my keys and wallet on the dresser. The room was small and shabby and smelled faintly of cigarettes. It came complete with matted brown carpet that looked more like it was growing out of the floor than covering it, and a sagging twin bed sporting a polyester floral comforter that was probably dirtier than the carpet. I’ve stayed in worse places, but not in recent memory.
I walked to the tiny bathroom and stripped off my clothes. They reeked of sweat and smoke. I filled the sink and scrubbed them as best I could with hot water and hand soap, then squeezed them out and laid them across the air conditioner vents to dry.
I took a long shower, and the heat seemed to draw the fatigue of a long day and night up out of my bones and into my muscles, making me heavy and dragging me down.
I got out and dried myself on the thin, sandpapery towel, then slid the bedspread off onto the floor and lay down on top of the sheets. At least those were probably washed between guests. I felt leaden and absolutely still as I listened to the muffled drone of the little air conditioner.
In my mind I could hear Shadroe Decatur’s slow drawl.
You gonna get that little girl killed, Sarge. She ain’t never seen a hard corner in her entire life and you’re gonna bring her right into the grinder with you.
“Everybody starts out looking soft on the outside,” I said out loud.
“But you look under that, and I bet there’s steel in this one. I’m sure Patrick saw to that.” Shad’s memory was silent, but I could picture his weasel face pinched in disapproval.
I closed my eyes and tried
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