Rose. “You hear how she talks to me?” “Hey, you don’t like how I talk to you, fire my ass.”
Rose crossed the room and knelt by his side, offering him her arm. “You’re lucky she talks to you at all. Let’s get you upstairs and into bed.”
“I don’t wanna go to bed.” “Why not?”
“It’s lonely in there by myself.”
She and Paloma exchanged a look and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” He rubbed his mouth, as if that gesture would somehow clarify his slurry speech.
“Hush, Austin. Get to your feet or we’ll both quit.”
The two women struggled but finally managed to upright the man. It was a good thing he didn’t weigh more than 150 soaking wet or they would’ve had to leave him to snore on the tile—which, now that she stood out of breath at the foot of the stairs, didn’t seem to Rose like such a bad idea.
All the way up—Paloma pushing, Rose pulling—Austin muttered the words of wisdom drunks feel are essential to share with the sober world. Love is a sick joke; trust a stray dog before you trust a woman; the only reliable comfort is found in bottles and bars . Rose had heard this litany so often she could recite it herself. Then Austin started in on Leah in particular, as if the tall, black-haired woman hovered there in the stairwell, an apparition he could not reach but ached to touch. “Built her a goddamn kitchen the Mayo clinic could have used for surgery. Did she ever so much as dirty a pan in it? Bought her a twenty-thousand-dollar racehorse. She sold it and spent the money on a lawyer. Closet full of designer clothes, turquoise jewelry…” A tremor entered his voice. “Tell me what I did wrong. Didn’t I fuck
her enough?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Paloma said. “Some girls need it three times a day.”
“I was good for twice.”
In the background a chorus of howling from the kennels started up, and Paloma said, “Hear that, Austin? Not even the dogs believe you. Save it for your pillow.”
They shoved him facedown onto the futon. Rose sat down on the
edge and tugged off his boots. She looked up at Paloma, who was rubbing her crucifix with her thumb and forefinger, mumbling. Ask her outright, and she’d deny wasting prayers on Austin.
“Myself,” Paloma said, “I prefer a chubby boy, one who don’t feel the need to Rogaine the bald spot. That kind, you fill his belly, love what hangs underneath it every once in awhile, and everything stays nice and calm.”
Rose dropped the boots to the floor and was confronted with Austin’s socks, which had holes in the heels because, just like the rest of him, his feet were skinny. “You make it sound simple.”
“It pretty much is, so long as you don’t marinate it in alcohol.” “Some people have a hard time finding their way to calm, Pa-
loma.”
“Especially if they enjoy loco .”
Rose shrugged, thinking of the nights when the enormity of the loss of Philip caused her to shake with fear until the sun rose in the sky. Sometimes she had a drink, just to quiet the racing of her heart, but she could never lift the bottle without thinking, This is what killed my husband . “It’s just taking Austin longer than most people. He’ll come around. I know he will.”
Paloma laughed. “Sure, in about fifty years, if his liver holds out.
By the way, here are his keys.”
Rose held out her hand. “Thanks. I’ll lock them in the safe after I move the truck.”
“Don’t forget to reset the combination. He had a memory for those things.”
“I won’t forget.”
Austin stirred in his sleep, the arch of his foot coming to rest against Rose’s palm. Absently she ran her thumb over the skin.
Paloma tsk ed. “Let go, Rose.”
“What do you mean? I’m holding his foot, for God’s sake.” “You can’t cork every bottle in the state. Let him sink to the level
of the gutter he wants so bad to lie in. Stop throwing him floats. What you see in that sack of misery is beyond me.” She turned and padded
Rose crossed the room and knelt by his side, offering him her arm. “You’re lucky she talks to you at all. Let’s get you upstairs and into bed.”
“I don’t wanna go to bed.” “Why not?”
“It’s lonely in there by myself.”
She and Paloma exchanged a look and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” He rubbed his mouth, as if that gesture would somehow clarify his slurry speech.
“Hush, Austin. Get to your feet or we’ll both quit.”
The two women struggled but finally managed to upright the man. It was a good thing he didn’t weigh more than 150 soaking wet or they would’ve had to leave him to snore on the tile—which, now that she stood out of breath at the foot of the stairs, didn’t seem to Rose like such a bad idea.
All the way up—Paloma pushing, Rose pulling—Austin muttered the words of wisdom drunks feel are essential to share with the sober world. Love is a sick joke; trust a stray dog before you trust a woman; the only reliable comfort is found in bottles and bars . Rose had heard this litany so often she could recite it herself. Then Austin started in on Leah in particular, as if the tall, black-haired woman hovered there in the stairwell, an apparition he could not reach but ached to touch. “Built her a goddamn kitchen the Mayo clinic could have used for surgery. Did she ever so much as dirty a pan in it? Bought her a twenty-thousand-dollar racehorse. She sold it and spent the money on a lawyer. Closet full of designer clothes, turquoise jewelry…” A tremor entered his voice. “Tell me what I did wrong. Didn’t I fuck
her enough?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Paloma said. “Some girls need it three times a day.”
“I was good for twice.”
In the background a chorus of howling from the kennels started up, and Paloma said, “Hear that, Austin? Not even the dogs believe you. Save it for your pillow.”
They shoved him facedown onto the futon. Rose sat down on the
edge and tugged off his boots. She looked up at Paloma, who was rubbing her crucifix with her thumb and forefinger, mumbling. Ask her outright, and she’d deny wasting prayers on Austin.
“Myself,” Paloma said, “I prefer a chubby boy, one who don’t feel the need to Rogaine the bald spot. That kind, you fill his belly, love what hangs underneath it every once in awhile, and everything stays nice and calm.”
Rose dropped the boots to the floor and was confronted with Austin’s socks, which had holes in the heels because, just like the rest of him, his feet were skinny. “You make it sound simple.”
“It pretty much is, so long as you don’t marinate it in alcohol.” “Some people have a hard time finding their way to calm, Pa-
loma.”
“Especially if they enjoy loco .”
Rose shrugged, thinking of the nights when the enormity of the loss of Philip caused her to shake with fear until the sun rose in the sky. Sometimes she had a drink, just to quiet the racing of her heart, but she could never lift the bottle without thinking, This is what killed my husband . “It’s just taking Austin longer than most people. He’ll come around. I know he will.”
Paloma laughed. “Sure, in about fifty years, if his liver holds out.
By the way, here are his keys.”
Rose held out her hand. “Thanks. I’ll lock them in the safe after I move the truck.”
“Don’t forget to reset the combination. He had a memory for those things.”
“I won’t forget.”
Austin stirred in his sleep, the arch of his foot coming to rest against Rose’s palm. Absently she ran her thumb over the skin.
Paloma tsk ed. “Let go, Rose.”
“What do you mean? I’m holding his foot, for God’s sake.” “You can’t cork every bottle in the state. Let him sink to the level
of the gutter he wants so bad to lie in. Stop throwing him floats. What you see in that sack of misery is beyond me.” She turned and padded
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