You have reached the site of Striking Out, Matt Bloom's comedy about a young man who is head over heels . . . for a woman who is not his wife!
The novella was published serially, every Monday and Thursday, from March 3rd to August 7th in 2008. Here it will remain indefinitely so that as many readers as possible will have a chance to enjoy this story, free online!
For those of you who have been here before, you'll notice the site has a new look. It now features original illustrations by Kerry LaPrees!
For more by Matt Bloom, visit readmattbloom.com.
Thanks for visiting!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
#46 . . . Before Baby
#46 . . . Before Baby
About twenty hours earlier, Patrick had been looking over his wife, staring at her as they sat on the couch in their living room. April was huge. He couldn’t believe that such a small person could get so gargantuan. He reached over and put a hand on her belly.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Kinda freaked out,” she said. She was breathing hard, sweating. “And pretending not to. How am I doing?”
“You don’t have to pretend. I’ll be fine,” he said, paying close attention to both his hand and the clock. He glanced at the television, basically only out of habit. It was on mute and he didn’t care what was on anyway.
“Not for your sake,” she said gruffly, through gritted teeth. “For the baby’s. For Eric. For Eric’s sake. Eric, Eric, Eric, Eric. Eric. Still like that? Is it too late to change?”
“I don’t think there are official rules or anything.”
“I still really like Mark. Or Maxwell.” She closed her eyes tightly, working hard to endure the pain. “You sure you don’t want a Patrick, Jr.?”
“I’m not calling my son Junior,” he said.
“Fine, fine,” she said, blowing air out of her mouth as slowly as she could. “His name is Eric, anyway. That’s his name, period. Eric Theodore. Eric, Eric, Eric, Eric.”
“You’re babbling,” he said, watching the clock. “You don’t have to talk so much if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s helping, I think,” she said. Then she glanced over at him. “Maybe it was more like five minutes. I don’t know, I thought I was paying attention.” She groaned. “I just want to get it over with. Out, out!”
“Damned spot!”
“Hey, watch it mister,” she said, putting up a finger. She breathed in and said with her outward breath, “We’ve been doing pretty good with the language.”
“It’s just Shakespeare,” he said. “I’m going to let him read Macbeth, and I don’t care what you say.”
“Well, that’s a whole other issue. Don’t make my son a nerd, is all I’m saying.”
He looked at her for a moment. “Nervous?”
She ran her tongue over her teeth, gripped the couch cushion beneath her. “Actually, know what I’m thinking?”
“What?”
She closed her eyes hard again. “Can’t be worse . . .”
He scratched his head. “Than what?”
“Castration Day.”
He groaned, and stood. “Great, just great –”
She smiled, barely. “I made it through that, I can make it through this.”
“You had to bring that up now? Give me a break,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “And it’s Social Castration Day. You forbade me from having non-professional contact with other women, not from having testicles.”
“I like my way better. Has more of a ring to it,” she said, wincing.
“Fine,” he said. He paced, stopped, paced some more. Then he stopped again and looked down at her. “Why would you do that? Why say that now? Don’t you understand how sucky of a father I think I’m going to be? Don’t you know how I’ve laid awake at night, just fretting about how I’m going to let him down, be a horrible example . . . I am going to screw that kid up so bad, you have no idea. You may be fine, but I’m not even the one with a person inside of me and I’m a freaking nervous wreck!”
She groaned again, breathed, and said, “Yeah, I know. You’re a real drama queen.”
He puckered his lips and chose not to comment.
“Look, all I’m saying is I’m thankful we made it through that. I take comfort in that,” she said, clutching her stomach as lightly as she could. “I mean, I was pissed.”
“Yeah, I recall,” he said.
“Really pissed. Like more than I remember being, ever.” She opened her eyes enough to squint at him. “But we made it through. Still married. Still having Eric, here.” She groaned again. “There’s one.”
“Dammit,” he said, looking at the clock. “Longer than two minutes anyway.” He ran a hand through his hair, pointed at her. “But don’t change the subject.”
She frowned at him mockingly. “What are you so upset about? You kissed another girl, and you’re the one who’s the victim? Come on. Get over it.”
He put his fists on his hips. “It’s just . . . well, sometimes it sounds like – like you haven’t really forgiven me. And if that’s the case, you should say so. Before we have a child. Because I’m sorry,” he said, and his heart sank. He quieted. “And I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”
She pursed her lips. He waited. “I did,” she said finally. “I forgave you. Really.” She stared into his face for a moment, then shook her head. “That’s not your problem.”
He guffawed. “Oh? What is, then?”
“I don’t know. Just get over it,” she said, tilted her head, and shot him the most plastic smile he’d ever seen on her face. He opened his mouth to speak, but her voice rose suddenly to an “Oh!” and he immediately softened as he watched her breathe. When she recovered she went on, “You’re gonna be a great dad. You are. We both have to get used to being – ugh – responsible for him, but we’ll do it just fine. We’re not drug addicts or anything. You’re not cheating on me. Are you?”
His shoulders sank. “No,” he said.
She nodded once and shut her eyes again. He wanted to say more, because he still didn’t feel good enough, but he didn’t know what else there was to say. All he knew was that he was losing. Or maybe he had already lost. The more he realized winning wasn’t really a possibility, the more annoyed he got.
She winced again. “Contraction,” she muttered.
He snapped out of his reverie to look at the clock again. “Um . . . yeah, that may have been about two minutes.”
“What time is it?” she asked, craning her neck around to see.
“It’s midnight,” he said, and as the reality of what was happening returned to his mind he found his entire mood was suddenly shifting. Though angry and indignant about something just a moment ago, he was rapidly consenting to forget it, whatever it was. It was enough that they had a job to do and they were about to do it.
It was enough.
Patrick clapped his hands once and nodded, feeling the rush of blood his heart was now pumping to his head. “All right, let’s do it,” he proclaimed. “Let’s go.”
April nodded, and reached out to Patrick, who rushed to help her. Once she was up, he grabbed the keys, opened the door and shut off the light.
“Hey,” April said softly. He turned to her. “I’m probably not going to think to say it later, and I guess I should say I love you,” she said, and leaned forward.
Patrick leaned over her belly and kissed her. “Thanks,” he said. Then he looked down, and his face brightened into a smile. “Giddy-up, Eric!” he called, and pulled his wife through the doorway.
Readers!
For those of you who have been with us for the long haul, thanks for reading Striking Out! We hope you have enjoyed Matt Bloom's little comedy.
If you are new to the site, don't worry! The complete novella will remain on this site indefinitely, so you have plenty of time to go through the archive and enjoy the story.
Whether you have already read this story or not, there is much more currently available online and much, much more to come. Just go to readmattbloom.com for free access to:
* The video for "Doug and Jessica", Matt's one-act play as performed by WingSpace Theater Co.
* "The Little-Known Muscle", the story of Matt's exploits in the underground world of weight lifting for world dominance!
* Humor articles including "Top Ten Reasons Not to Be a Restaurant Server" and news satire.
* Updates about new published works by Matt Bloom as they become available.
And more!
Also, don't forget about Striking Out! Coming soon, this site will develop a whole new look as it features original illustrations by Kerry LaPrees. Look for his artwork on strikingout-story.blogspot.com this fall.
Special thanks to Amanda Briggs, Matt's sister and editor.
Thanks to all of you, and happy reading!
About twenty hours earlier, Patrick had been looking over his wife, staring at her as they sat on the couch in their living room. April was huge. He couldn’t believe that such a small person could get so gargantuan. He reached over and put a hand on her belly.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Kinda freaked out,” she said. She was breathing hard, sweating. “And pretending not to. How am I doing?”
“You don’t have to pretend. I’ll be fine,” he said, paying close attention to both his hand and the clock. He glanced at the television, basically only out of habit. It was on mute and he didn’t care what was on anyway.
“Not for your sake,” she said gruffly, through gritted teeth. “For the baby’s. For Eric. For Eric’s sake. Eric, Eric, Eric, Eric. Eric. Still like that? Is it too late to change?”
“I don’t think there are official rules or anything.”
“I still really like Mark. Or Maxwell.” She closed her eyes tightly, working hard to endure the pain. “You sure you don’t want a Patrick, Jr.?”
“I’m not calling my son Junior,” he said.
“Fine, fine,” she said, blowing air out of her mouth as slowly as she could. “His name is Eric, anyway. That’s his name, period. Eric Theodore. Eric, Eric, Eric, Eric.”
“You’re babbling,” he said, watching the clock. “You don’t have to talk so much if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s helping, I think,” she said. Then she glanced over at him. “Maybe it was more like five minutes. I don’t know, I thought I was paying attention.” She groaned. “I just want to get it over with. Out, out!”
“Damned spot!”
“Hey, watch it mister,” she said, putting up a finger. She breathed in and said with her outward breath, “We’ve been doing pretty good with the language.”
“It’s just Shakespeare,” he said. “I’m going to let him read Macbeth, and I don’t care what you say.”
“Well, that’s a whole other issue. Don’t make my son a nerd, is all I’m saying.”
He looked at her for a moment. “Nervous?”
She ran her tongue over her teeth, gripped the couch cushion beneath her. “Actually, know what I’m thinking?”
“What?”
She closed her eyes hard again. “Can’t be worse . . .”
He scratched his head. “Than what?”
“Castration Day.”
He groaned, and stood. “Great, just great –”
She smiled, barely. “I made it through that, I can make it through this.”
“You had to bring that up now? Give me a break,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “And it’s Social Castration Day. You forbade me from having non-professional contact with other women, not from having testicles.”
“I like my way better. Has more of a ring to it,” she said, wincing.
“Fine,” he said. He paced, stopped, paced some more. Then he stopped again and looked down at her. “Why would you do that? Why say that now? Don’t you understand how sucky of a father I think I’m going to be? Don’t you know how I’ve laid awake at night, just fretting about how I’m going to let him down, be a horrible example . . . I am going to screw that kid up so bad, you have no idea. You may be fine, but I’m not even the one with a person inside of me and I’m a freaking nervous wreck!”
She groaned again, breathed, and said, “Yeah, I know. You’re a real drama queen.”
He puckered his lips and chose not to comment.
“Look, all I’m saying is I’m thankful we made it through that. I take comfort in that,” she said, clutching her stomach as lightly as she could. “I mean, I was pissed.”
“Yeah, I recall,” he said.
“Really pissed. Like more than I remember being, ever.” She opened her eyes enough to squint at him. “But we made it through. Still married. Still having Eric, here.” She groaned again. “There’s one.”
“Dammit,” he said, looking at the clock. “Longer than two minutes anyway.” He ran a hand through his hair, pointed at her. “But don’t change the subject.”
She frowned at him mockingly. “What are you so upset about? You kissed another girl, and you’re the one who’s the victim? Come on. Get over it.”
He put his fists on his hips. “It’s just . . . well, sometimes it sounds like – like you haven’t really forgiven me. And if that’s the case, you should say so. Before we have a child. Because I’m sorry,” he said, and his heart sank. He quieted. “And I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”
She pursed her lips. He waited. “I did,” she said finally. “I forgave you. Really.” She stared into his face for a moment, then shook her head. “That’s not your problem.”
He guffawed. “Oh? What is, then?”
“I don’t know. Just get over it,” she said, tilted her head, and shot him the most plastic smile he’d ever seen on her face. He opened his mouth to speak, but her voice rose suddenly to an “Oh!” and he immediately softened as he watched her breathe. When she recovered she went on, “You’re gonna be a great dad. You are. We both have to get used to being – ugh – responsible for him, but we’ll do it just fine. We’re not drug addicts or anything. You’re not cheating on me. Are you?”
His shoulders sank. “No,” he said.
She nodded once and shut her eyes again. He wanted to say more, because he still didn’t feel good enough, but he didn’t know what else there was to say. All he knew was that he was losing. Or maybe he had already lost. The more he realized winning wasn’t really a possibility, the more annoyed he got.
She winced again. “Contraction,” she muttered.
He snapped out of his reverie to look at the clock again. “Um . . . yeah, that may have been about two minutes.”
“What time is it?” she asked, craning her neck around to see.
“It’s midnight,” he said, and as the reality of what was happening returned to his mind he found his entire mood was suddenly shifting. Though angry and indignant about something just a moment ago, he was rapidly consenting to forget it, whatever it was. It was enough that they had a job to do and they were about to do it.
It was enough.
Patrick clapped his hands once and nodded, feeling the rush of blood his heart was now pumping to his head. “All right, let’s do it,” he proclaimed. “Let’s go.”
April nodded, and reached out to Patrick, who rushed to help her. Once she was up, he grabbed the keys, opened the door and shut off the light.
“Hey,” April said softly. He turned to her. “I’m probably not going to think to say it later, and I guess I should say I love you,” she said, and leaned forward.
Patrick leaned over her belly and kissed her. “Thanks,” he said. Then he looked down, and his face brightened into a smile. “Giddy-up, Eric!” he called, and pulled his wife through the doorway.
Readers!
For those of you who have been with us for the long haul, thanks for reading Striking Out! We hope you have enjoyed Matt Bloom's little comedy.
If you are new to the site, don't worry! The complete novella will remain on this site indefinitely, so you have plenty of time to go through the archive and enjoy the story.
Whether you have already read this story or not, there is much more currently available online and much, much more to come. Just go to readmattbloom.com for free access to:
* The video for "Doug and Jessica", Matt's one-act play as performed by WingSpace Theater Co.
* "The Little-Known Muscle", the story of Matt's exploits in the underground world of weight lifting for world dominance!
* Humor articles including "Top Ten Reasons Not to Be a Restaurant Server" and news satire.
* Updates about new published works by Matt Bloom as they become available.
And more!
Also, don't forget about Striking Out! Coming soon, this site will develop a whole new look as it features original illustrations by Kerry LaPrees. Look for his artwork on strikingout-story.blogspot.com this fall.
Special thanks to Amanda Briggs, Matt's sister and editor.
Thanks to all of you, and happy reading!
Sunday, August 3, 2008
#45. Baby
#45. Baby
April awoke to find herself in a strange place. Her blurry eyes blinked to discover white walls, a cherry wood countertop, a wall-mounted digital clock with giant red numbers, huge rectangles of fluorescent light amidst a field of tiny black dots overhead, pieces of equipment she couldn’t identify and the wires that attached them to her. Then she turned her head to the left, where there was an empty chair, and somehow the sight had the power to make her heart drop, and she thought she was going to cry. But then she thought to look to the foot of the bed, where she saw a man standing slightly turned away, holding a baby. At first she could have sworn it was Patrick, but then, she’d never seen him hold a baby in her life, and the whole scene just looked wrong. It was at this moment that the gears in her head began to turn again at close to the proper speed.
“Pat,” she said gruffly. His head turned abruptly at the sound of her voice, and she smiled.
“Hey,” he replied, grinning back. He walked toward her slowly, turned and dropped himself and his bundle gently into the empty chair. “Mom’s awake, Eric,” he whispered.
April laughed as her husband held the boy carefully out to her. She couldn’t remember ever laughing at something so unfunny before as she took him. He was asleep now as she gazed over him, so unlike when they had cried together hours before. She risked freeing a hand, slow as she could, to touch the tiny pink nose under her own. Then she touched her own nose to his, and when she did that, soft tears returned anew. She jerked her head back quickly so they wouldn’t fall on his face. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him up now, after he’d been through so much.
She had almost forgotten about her husband. She looked over at him, carefully freeing a hand again to wipe tears from her eyes. His smile had faded, she noticed, and he was staring at the boy. When he noticed she was looking at him, Patrick flicked his eyes up at her once, then let them fall onto Eric again.
“It’s easier when he’s asleep,” he said. He took a long, slow breath, his eyes never leaving the baby. “It’s not nearly as scary now.”
“Oh,” April cooed, and took her husband’s hand.
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know how I’m going to do this.”
“We,” she replied. “You mean how we’re going to do this.”
He bobbed his head impatiently. “That’s not what I mean. I mean – I mean fatherhood. I’m talking about my job, not yours. I’m saying . . . what kind of dad am I going to be? What kind of example . . .”
“Hey,” April said, gripping his hand tighter. She looked down at the baby, and smiled at her little Eric. Then she looked up again to tend to her husband. “Shut up,” she said.
He looked back at her, incredulous.
“Pat, with all the love in my heart, I’m telling you, get over it. Right now.” She let go of his hand. “You’ll do just fine.”
He scoffed, turning his head away. “Gee, I really appreciate the support.”
“You have my support,” she said, smiling at Eric again. “It’s just that I can only take one crybaby in the family at a time. Your turn is up.”
Patrick shook his head and stared at her, agape. “Man, you are some kind of a –” he mouthed the word.
She glanced at him. “You’re right. Maybe you’ll be a horrible example after all.” Then she smiled at her husband.
He smiled back. “Okay. I’m gonna go get everybody.”
Patrick got up and stepped out of the room, leaving April alone with her newborn son, whom she loved and loved all the while.
April awoke to find herself in a strange place. Her blurry eyes blinked to discover white walls, a cherry wood countertop, a wall-mounted digital clock with giant red numbers, huge rectangles of fluorescent light amidst a field of tiny black dots overhead, pieces of equipment she couldn’t identify and the wires that attached them to her. Then she turned her head to the left, where there was an empty chair, and somehow the sight had the power to make her heart drop, and she thought she was going to cry. But then she thought to look to the foot of the bed, where she saw a man standing slightly turned away, holding a baby. At first she could have sworn it was Patrick, but then, she’d never seen him hold a baby in her life, and the whole scene just looked wrong. It was at this moment that the gears in her head began to turn again at close to the proper speed.
“Pat,” she said gruffly. His head turned abruptly at the sound of her voice, and she smiled.
“Hey,” he replied, grinning back. He walked toward her slowly, turned and dropped himself and his bundle gently into the empty chair. “Mom’s awake, Eric,” he whispered.
April laughed as her husband held the boy carefully out to her. She couldn’t remember ever laughing at something so unfunny before as she took him. He was asleep now as she gazed over him, so unlike when they had cried together hours before. She risked freeing a hand, slow as she could, to touch the tiny pink nose under her own. Then she touched her own nose to his, and when she did that, soft tears returned anew. She jerked her head back quickly so they wouldn’t fall on his face. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him up now, after he’d been through so much.
She had almost forgotten about her husband. She looked over at him, carefully freeing a hand again to wipe tears from her eyes. His smile had faded, she noticed, and he was staring at the boy. When he noticed she was looking at him, Patrick flicked his eyes up at her once, then let them fall onto Eric again.
“It’s easier when he’s asleep,” he said. He took a long, slow breath, his eyes never leaving the baby. “It’s not nearly as scary now.”
“Oh,” April cooed, and took her husband’s hand.
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know how I’m going to do this.”
“We,” she replied. “You mean how we’re going to do this.”
He bobbed his head impatiently. “That’s not what I mean. I mean – I mean fatherhood. I’m talking about my job, not yours. I’m saying . . . what kind of dad am I going to be? What kind of example . . .”
“Hey,” April said, gripping his hand tighter. She looked down at the baby, and smiled at her little Eric. Then she looked up again to tend to her husband. “Shut up,” she said.
He looked back at her, incredulous.
“Pat, with all the love in my heart, I’m telling you, get over it. Right now.” She let go of his hand. “You’ll do just fine.”
He scoffed, turning his head away. “Gee, I really appreciate the support.”
“You have my support,” she said, smiling at Eric again. “It’s just that I can only take one crybaby in the family at a time. Your turn is up.”
Patrick shook his head and stared at her, agape. “Man, you are some kind of a –” he mouthed the word.
She glanced at him. “You’re right. Maybe you’ll be a horrible example after all.” Then she smiled at her husband.
He smiled back. “Okay. I’m gonna go get everybody.”
Patrick got up and stepped out of the room, leaving April alone with her newborn son, whom she loved and loved all the while.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
#44. One Last Call
#44. One Last Call
The phone rang as Patrick walked into his living room.
It was Monday and April was at work. She had decided to work as far through the pregnancy as she could safely, so while Patrick’s evenings were still lonely, the clock was ticking steadily toward the day when everything would change. He imagined what it would be like when he could expect April to be here when he got home, with a baby in her arms, watching TV in her slippers. He imagined TV dinners, because he was positive the quality of their meals could only go down from even the present low. He pictured relatives arriving and departing through a revolving door, always wanting to see the baby, hold the baby, play with the baby. His baby, his child.
He fully expected it to be one of those relatives when he picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi,” said the voice.
Patrick inhaled, held it. “Is this . . .”
Pause. “Yeah.”
“Wow,” Patrick said. “Susan. Hi.”
“I’m glad I caught you. I thought maybe it was still too early.”
“Just walked through the door.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And April’s . . .”
Patrick waited. “She’s at work.”
“Right,” she replied. He heard her take a deep breath. “Well – have you noticed?”
Patrick scratched his head, cleared his throat. “Uh, do you mean that you disappeared? Yeah.”
“Yeah. I was going to make a joke.”
“Oh.”
Another pause. “I thought I should explain,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I went back home. I’m living with my parents now, temporarily anyway.”
“So that’s where you went,” Patrick said. He pursed his lips. “How’s that? Moving back in with them?”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind.” Pause. “It’s better, I think.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Because I – I still have some friends here. And I get along with my parents really well, so that’s not a problem. It’s a lot less lonely. It just – wasn’t going to work out down there.”
Patrick swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.”
“I just thought you should know.”
“Okay.”
Silence, for a long while.
“Well. I guess I’ll let you go,” she said.
“April’s pregnant,” Patrick said.
“Wow,” she said. “Wow, great. Congratulations.”
“Due in August,” Patrick said.
“That’s great,” she replied.
Patrick waited. He didn’t want to say it. Did she understand? he wondered. Was she doing the math, counting back the months? Maybe she would be if things had gone differently between them. If things had taken a turn for the worst.
“It could’ve –” Patrick began. He looked down at his shoes. “Could’ve been different –” He grunted. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“How much – how much does you moving have to do with me?”
She sighed, then fell silent for a moment. “Some,” she said. “I don’t know how much. I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Some,” Patrick repeated. He sighed. “Well, I’m sorry. For however much it’s my fault that you felt like you had to leave. I didn’t want things to end up that way.”
“I know,” she said. “Thanks.” Pause. “I don’t know what else to say.”
Patrick thought of plenty of things to say. He wanted to tell her he missed her, that he wanted her to come back, that they could be friends, that they could still see each other, that he still felt something when he thought of her, that he knew she felt something too.
But then he breathed, and his heart slowed, and all he said was, “I don’t know either.”
“Okay,” she said. “Good luck with the baby.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Good luck at home.”
“Thanks.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Patrick hung up and sat down on the couch. He closed his eyes and listened to the clock, almost in time with his breathing. He opened his eyes again to discover an empty room. Everything was still. Everything was in place, in preparation.
He leaned back, put a hand on his chest and turned his eyes upward. “Thank you,” he whispered.
The phone rang as Patrick walked into his living room.
It was Monday and April was at work. She had decided to work as far through the pregnancy as she could safely, so while Patrick’s evenings were still lonely, the clock was ticking steadily toward the day when everything would change. He imagined what it would be like when he could expect April to be here when he got home, with a baby in her arms, watching TV in her slippers. He imagined TV dinners, because he was positive the quality of their meals could only go down from even the present low. He pictured relatives arriving and departing through a revolving door, always wanting to see the baby, hold the baby, play with the baby. His baby, his child.
He fully expected it to be one of those relatives when he picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi,” said the voice.
Patrick inhaled, held it. “Is this . . .”
Pause. “Yeah.”
“Wow,” Patrick said. “Susan. Hi.”
“I’m glad I caught you. I thought maybe it was still too early.”
“Just walked through the door.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And April’s . . .”
Patrick waited. “She’s at work.”
“Right,” she replied. He heard her take a deep breath. “Well – have you noticed?”
Patrick scratched his head, cleared his throat. “Uh, do you mean that you disappeared? Yeah.”
“Yeah. I was going to make a joke.”
“Oh.”
Another pause. “I thought I should explain,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I went back home. I’m living with my parents now, temporarily anyway.”
“So that’s where you went,” Patrick said. He pursed his lips. “How’s that? Moving back in with them?”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind.” Pause. “It’s better, I think.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Because I – I still have some friends here. And I get along with my parents really well, so that’s not a problem. It’s a lot less lonely. It just – wasn’t going to work out down there.”
Patrick swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.”
“I just thought you should know.”
“Okay.”
Silence, for a long while.
“Well. I guess I’ll let you go,” she said.
“April’s pregnant,” Patrick said.
“Wow,” she said. “Wow, great. Congratulations.”
“Due in August,” Patrick said.
“That’s great,” she replied.
Patrick waited. He didn’t want to say it. Did she understand? he wondered. Was she doing the math, counting back the months? Maybe she would be if things had gone differently between them. If things had taken a turn for the worst.
“It could’ve –” Patrick began. He looked down at his shoes. “Could’ve been different –” He grunted. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“How much – how much does you moving have to do with me?”
She sighed, then fell silent for a moment. “Some,” she said. “I don’t know how much. I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Some,” Patrick repeated. He sighed. “Well, I’m sorry. For however much it’s my fault that you felt like you had to leave. I didn’t want things to end up that way.”
“I know,” she said. “Thanks.” Pause. “I don’t know what else to say.”
Patrick thought of plenty of things to say. He wanted to tell her he missed her, that he wanted her to come back, that they could be friends, that they could still see each other, that he still felt something when he thought of her, that he knew she felt something too.
But then he breathed, and his heart slowed, and all he said was, “I don’t know either.”
“Okay,” she said. “Good luck with the baby.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Good luck at home.”
“Thanks.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Patrick hung up and sat down on the couch. He closed his eyes and listened to the clock, almost in time with his breathing. He opened his eyes again to discover an empty room. Everything was still. Everything was in place, in preparation.
He leaned back, put a hand on his chest and turned his eyes upward. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
#43. One Last Bowl
#43. One Last Bowl
Patrick dialed the phone.
“Howdy?” said Wendell’s voice.
“Hey. Wanna bowl?” Patrick asked.
“Um . . .” Silence. “Do I wanna bowl? Bowl? What day is this?”
“What, is Tuesday the only day they let you use the lanes?”
“Well no, I guess not,” Wendell said. “It’s just . . . weird, that’s all. Regular, non-cosmic bowling?” He sighed. “But, uh, sure.”
“Parents gone again?”
“Opera,” Wendell said, and made a choking sound. He laughed quietly at himself. “Sorry. Got some pretension caught in my throat.”
“All right. On my way,” Patrick said.
After almost an hour they were back in town from Wendell’s house and renting a lane in the full light of a regular night at the bowling alley. Wendell squinted at Patrick and both knew the other was thinking the same thing, that it was strange not to be bathed in black light and dazzled with lasers caught by artificial smoke. Wendell had been right; they both thought it was weird.
They didn’t need shoes. They had both bought bowling shoes long ago, after a couple of months faithfully coming to bowling night. Patrick thought he probably would have bought a ball too if they had kept on.
Wendell set up the computer.
“Hey,” Patrick said, looking at the screen. “What’s the deal?”
Wendell shrugged. “Thought you could go first for a change.”
Patrick nodded. He looked at Wendell thoughtfully.
“What?” Wendell said.
“I gotta talk to you about something.”
“Figured,” Wendell said. He leaned back and crossed his arms.
Patrick bowled. Nine pins, then the spare. He went back to his seat. “Susan quit.”
Wendell bowled. Strike. “I thought maybe you had a different subject in mind.”
“Surprised I’m talking about Susan?”
“Nope,” Wendell said, standing over Patrick.
Patrick walked past, grabbed his ball and bowled six, then three. “Damn,” he said, then turned. “I know what you think.”
“I know you know,” Wendell said. He walked up and bowled another strike. “I’m on fire,” he said. “Just try and stop me.”
Patrick sighed. “Hear me out a little bit, okay? Susan didn’t even say a word to me that she was leaving. She hardly told anybody at the office. I have no idea where she went.” He looked down at Wendell’s shoes. “We were friends.”
“Yeah, hardly,” Wendell scoffed. He put his hands on his head. “You’re out of your mind.”
Patrick took his turn. He swore when he fell nine, then picked up the spare. “I know it turned into a pretty crazy situation.”
“Uh-huh,” Wendell said, sitting down. “Just a little.”
“But I really – liked her. I mean, just as a person,” Patrick said. He shifted his weight. “I should have tried harder to be friends.”
Wendell shook his head dramatically, all across his neckline. “Nooooo,” he said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t said that yet, but I am. Apparently whatever you had to do to get yourself into a different area code – or better yet, hemisphere – was the right choice, and the advice you needed to hear. You should have just run away after all, and I’m the idiot who told you different.”
He stood to take his turn. “But now you’re the idiot.”
“Shut up,” Patrick said, taking Wendell’s place. “Go turkey.”
“Watch me,” Wendell said. He turned, bowled, and knocked down eight. It was a split, and it made Patrick feel better. Wendell didn’t look at him. Quietly he collected his ball, and methodically rolled a smooth curve out to the very left edge of the lane, sending one pin careening across to cut the other one down. He turned on his heel. “Well,” he said, walking toward Patrick. “Still whooping your ass.”
Patrick stood and looked past Wendell, at the pins. He knew he could get a strike, he was just warming up. He concentrated on what his hand and wrist were going to do, on the fluid motion he was about to make with his arm, on the gentle curve, and what the ball would look like colliding into the pocket to the right of the lead pin.
“You know you’ve got to tell April,” Wendell said. Patrick looked at him, then walked past to get his ball. He rolled. Strike, just as he’d pictured it. He turned, and Wendell watched him, unmoved. “You’re crazy if you don’t,” Wendell said.
Patrick nodded. “I’m a lunatic, yes. You don’t have to tell me that. Again.” He sat down.
“Fine,” Wendell said. “Then I’ll take her. And the baby.” He pointed at Patrick. “When your marriage falls apart, I’ll just pick up the pieces. Fine by me. April’s hot. I could hardly do better.” With that, he turned abruptly and took his ball.
Patrick shoved his balled fists into his pockets. “It’s a deal!” he shouted. Wendell didn’t falter for a second, and rolled another strike.
“You think I won’t call your bluff?” Patrick said as Wendell walked back. “You’re on, cowboy. You give married life a shot. You deal with all the shit, all the fighting about money and babies. About nothing, half the time. You get yourself in a situation where you can hurt somebody more than you ever thought possible. Then deal with how, hard as you might try to stop yourself, you’re still going to do some serious damage. Get yourself in a relationship where there’s more riding on it than anything ever in your life and you deal with the weight of it. Fine. She’s yours.”
Wendell spread his hands. “Don’t you think I’ve been trying? To get myself in that kind of relationship? What do I have to do?” He dropped his hands back to his sides. “You know, because I’m pretty sure you don’t actually want to give your wife away.”
Patrick stood. His head was hot, but he didn’t say anything.
“Ha,” Wendell said. “Now somebody else is calling somebody else’s bluff, isn’t that somebody?”
“I suppose she wouldn’t have you anyway,” Patrick said. “She thinks you’re too artsy-fartsy.”
“She’s right,” Wendell said. “I’m a whack-job.”
“How – hold on,” Patrick said. He took his ball and rolled a five, then four. He swore viciously, then turned back. “How do I tell her now? She’s pregnant. My wife is freaking pregnant, man. How do I do that? It was going to be hard enough before, now what? Is she going to miscarry over this? Am I going to kill my child? Answer me that!”
Wendell raised his eyebrows and stared at Patrick. “My goodness,” he said. “My stars – oh, my land’s sakes. You, my friend, have got to be the most melodramatic girl I know. Yet you have a penis nonetheless. I mean, I think so, anyway – what am I saying? You’d have to, with the whole baby thing – anywho, you are undoubtedly a little whiny schoolgirl, Pat. We’ve been friends a long time; have I not mentioned that before now?”
Patrick scowled. “Just bowl,” he said.
“Telling her what happened is not going to kill your unborn child,” Wendell said, taking his ball. “You’re just a wuss. That’s it.” He turned and rolled another strike.
Patrick stood with his arms crossed, brooding as Wendell approached. Wendell stopped in front of him and waited expectantly. “I’ve thought this through,” Patrick said. “I’m not going to tell her.”
Wendell’s eyes fell as Patrick stepped over to his ball. Patrick put his whole mind into the game, just like he had before. He knew this was going to be a strike. He could feel it as he walked forward, rolled . . . and then down they all went. All ten. Patrick took a deep breath of satisfaction.
“So you’re sure?” Wendell said from behind.
Patrick turned. “Yeah.”
“I’m surprised. I really didn’t think . . .” Wendell trailed off.
Patrick waited, then said, “It’s my marriage. I know how to be a husband, and you don’t. That’s it. No offense, that’s just it.”
Wendell looked at Patrick. “I guess so,” he said.
Patrick nodded. “It would hurt her too much. For no reason.”
“Yeah,” Wendell said.
The two stood in silence for a long, awkward moment, looking away from one another. Patrick leaned against the computer. Wendell stood frozen where he was.
“How about we don’t talk about it anymore?” Wendell said. He looked at Patrick. “I’m thinking that’s the only way I’m going to have fun tonight. That and beer. I think I’ll need beer.”
Patrick nodded slowly. “Sure,” he said.
Wendell took his turn and missed the spare for the first time that night. When he was done he turned and, without a word, walked past Patrick toward the bar.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
#42. Happy Holidays
#42. Happy Holidays
It was late in January. Patrick had put the holidays behind him, and everything that came with them.
Starting with the five-hour trek to his parents’ place on Christmas Eve and his little sister Jenny’s holiday mania – still indefatigable after eighteen years of life – which every year dragged him out of bed at 5:00 AM to pour chocolates and crossword puzzles, placed there by Santa Jenny herself the night before, out of his stocking. April wouldn’t grumble herself up until breakfast, of course, and this year’s morning sickness made her all the more Grinch-like. The early baby shower that the morning turned into was the high point for her, but she was downright pissy again by the time she was halfway through the annual hired sleigh ride. He and April both had fallen pretty sick with colds before the caroling began, but Jenny wasn’t about to let them miss it. With a promise of hot cocoa when they returned, Patrick’s sister finally finagled them into what would become the cause of the following morning’s sore throats and coughing fits.
They were back home by the following night in preparation for working through four days of recovery, just in time for April’s sister Jackie’s New Year’s Eve bash. April was of course depressed about not being able to drink, and effectively guilted Patrick into abstaining. They kissed at midnight and went home.
The next day Wendell came over to congratulate them on the news and join them for a full afternoon of football and junk food, all the time shooting questioning glances at Patrick, who hadn’t spoken to his friend alone since the day he found out about the baby. Patrick leaned over while April was in the bathroom and told Wendell quietly what had happened. “So she still doesn’t know?” Wendell asked. Patrick shook his head and crunched some more potato chips.
But things were returning to relative normalcy now. Patrick was beginning to get used to the doctor’s appointments and the calls from relatives that usually never called and the shopping and the talking about names and the grappling with what it meant that they would be parents, that his parents would be grandparents, that his grandmother would be a great-grandmother, that he and April were about to lengthen the entire family tree and he was still wondering where the last five years or so of his life had gone. All that was becoming pretty run-of-the-mill. There was only one major exception to his peace of mind, just that one thing he didn’t know what to do with.
And one Monday he went to work and Susan was gone.
He hadn’t spoken to her for more than a month. He had been trying as hard as he could not to think about her. He had dozens of times told himself that there was nothing to say to her other than what she already knew. He had presented himself with the fairly convincing argument that he could and should do nothing for her now. Meanwhile, if she had something to say to him, she would do it in her own time and he would respect that.
More than that, though, he was terrified of what he might end up saying if he approached her. He was even more terrified of what he might be capable of doing. Of what she might let him do. Of what she might do herself. It was hard enough not to think about that, not to fantasize . . . He missed her, in a sense, but at the same time he didn’t want to miss her. He was stuck. He had no idea what to do other than to think as little as possible.
But now she was gone. He figured she was just out sick, but then she was gone the next day, and the next. A week went by, and on Friday Patrick’s mind was so wrapped up in his curiosity he couldn’t think about anything else. He went to Derek.
“She quit, man,” Derek said.
Patrick blinked. “Did she tell you why?”
“Hell no,” Derek replied. “She only told me she was leaving when I tried to ask her out again. That girl,” he said, shaking his head. “She broke my heart a little bit, Pat. I could’ve fallen hard for that one. That big ‘L’, know what I’m sayin’?”
Patrick nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Uh, sorry for your loss.”
“Eh, what do you know?” Derek said, smiling. “Married man. What do you have to worry about?”
Patrick squinted at him. He scoffed. “Um, well, how about kids? How about being responsible for the emotional well-being of a spouse?”
Derek’s eyebrows went up. “Kids? She pregnant?”
Patrick opened his mouth, and sighed. Derek was missing his point. He let it go. “Yes, actually.”
“Hey hey, congrats,” Derek said, and slapped Patrick on the arm. “Hey everybody, Pat’s got a kid on the way!”
A few people looked up from their desks and smiled at them. Patrick got a few thumbs up. He responded with a tight smile. He wasn’t going to have the heart to reveal he hadn’t told anybody he worked with for two months.
“We gotta celebrate, man,” Derek said. “I’m thinking about throwing another party, might as well have a theme.”
“What, like a baby shower?”
“Why not? Why do the chicks get to have all the fun?” Derek said.
Patrick nodded, laughed softly. “All right.”
“I’ll let you know,” Derek said, slapping him on the arm again. “Catch you later.”
“Yeah,” Patrick said, putting his hands in his pockets as Derek walked away.
It was late in January. Patrick had put the holidays behind him, and everything that came with them.
Starting with the five-hour trek to his parents’ place on Christmas Eve and his little sister Jenny’s holiday mania – still indefatigable after eighteen years of life – which every year dragged him out of bed at 5:00 AM to pour chocolates and crossword puzzles, placed there by Santa Jenny herself the night before, out of his stocking. April wouldn’t grumble herself up until breakfast, of course, and this year’s morning sickness made her all the more Grinch-like. The early baby shower that the morning turned into was the high point for her, but she was downright pissy again by the time she was halfway through the annual hired sleigh ride. He and April both had fallen pretty sick with colds before the caroling began, but Jenny wasn’t about to let them miss it. With a promise of hot cocoa when they returned, Patrick’s sister finally finagled them into what would become the cause of the following morning’s sore throats and coughing fits.
They were back home by the following night in preparation for working through four days of recovery, just in time for April’s sister Jackie’s New Year’s Eve bash. April was of course depressed about not being able to drink, and effectively guilted Patrick into abstaining. They kissed at midnight and went home.
The next day Wendell came over to congratulate them on the news and join them for a full afternoon of football and junk food, all the time shooting questioning glances at Patrick, who hadn’t spoken to his friend alone since the day he found out about the baby. Patrick leaned over while April was in the bathroom and told Wendell quietly what had happened. “So she still doesn’t know?” Wendell asked. Patrick shook his head and crunched some more potato chips.
But things were returning to relative normalcy now. Patrick was beginning to get used to the doctor’s appointments and the calls from relatives that usually never called and the shopping and the talking about names and the grappling with what it meant that they would be parents, that his parents would be grandparents, that his grandmother would be a great-grandmother, that he and April were about to lengthen the entire family tree and he was still wondering where the last five years or so of his life had gone. All that was becoming pretty run-of-the-mill. There was only one major exception to his peace of mind, just that one thing he didn’t know what to do with.
And one Monday he went to work and Susan was gone.
He hadn’t spoken to her for more than a month. He had been trying as hard as he could not to think about her. He had dozens of times told himself that there was nothing to say to her other than what she already knew. He had presented himself with the fairly convincing argument that he could and should do nothing for her now. Meanwhile, if she had something to say to him, she would do it in her own time and he would respect that.
More than that, though, he was terrified of what he might end up saying if he approached her. He was even more terrified of what he might be capable of doing. Of what she might let him do. Of what she might do herself. It was hard enough not to think about that, not to fantasize . . . He missed her, in a sense, but at the same time he didn’t want to miss her. He was stuck. He had no idea what to do other than to think as little as possible.
But now she was gone. He figured she was just out sick, but then she was gone the next day, and the next. A week went by, and on Friday Patrick’s mind was so wrapped up in his curiosity he couldn’t think about anything else. He went to Derek.
“She quit, man,” Derek said.
Patrick blinked. “Did she tell you why?”
“Hell no,” Derek replied. “She only told me she was leaving when I tried to ask her out again. That girl,” he said, shaking his head. “She broke my heart a little bit, Pat. I could’ve fallen hard for that one. That big ‘L’, know what I’m sayin’?”
Patrick nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Uh, sorry for your loss.”
“Eh, what do you know?” Derek said, smiling. “Married man. What do you have to worry about?”
Patrick squinted at him. He scoffed. “Um, well, how about kids? How about being responsible for the emotional well-being of a spouse?”
Derek’s eyebrows went up. “Kids? She pregnant?”
Patrick opened his mouth, and sighed. Derek was missing his point. He let it go. “Yes, actually.”
“Hey hey, congrats,” Derek said, and slapped Patrick on the arm. “Hey everybody, Pat’s got a kid on the way!”
A few people looked up from their desks and smiled at them. Patrick got a few thumbs up. He responded with a tight smile. He wasn’t going to have the heart to reveal he hadn’t told anybody he worked with for two months.
“We gotta celebrate, man,” Derek said. “I’m thinking about throwing another party, might as well have a theme.”
“What, like a baby shower?”
“Why not? Why do the chicks get to have all the fun?” Derek said.
Patrick nodded, laughed softly. “All right.”
“I’ll let you know,” Derek said, slapping him on the arm again. “Catch you later.”
“Yeah,” Patrick said, putting his hands in his pockets as Derek walked away.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
#41. April Tells Patrick
#41. April Tells Patrick
April put her legs together, sucked in her knees, her shoulders. She hunched over in the chair, like she was cold. She even felt a little chilly, suddenly. She stared at her husband’s chin. It was easier to look at than his eyes.
“I’m, uh – pregnant,” she said.
Patrick closed his mouth. He turned his head, stared at the wall. April was suddenly aware of the music playing, which she had completely forgotten about. She watched his eyes now, which seemed to fall slowly, toward the tile. Then his chest started to heave, like he was coming back to life. She breathed with him. She crossed her arms.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
Patrick shook his head, staring at the table. “I’m . . . wondering how,” he replied, slowly.
“Well . . .” she began.
Then Patrick’s eyes went wide, his mouth opened, and he stared right at her. “The birth control. But – you can’t be sure. How can you be sure if you haven’t been to a doctor?”
She closed her eyes as she spoke. “I went two days ago. In the morning, after you left for work.”
Then she watched him as his eyes fell to the table again. “Holy shit,” he said.
“The birth control . . .”
“Yeah, what about that?” he chimed in. “How can it be?”
“Yeah, well, it’s like ninety-nine percent effective –”
“What the hell?” Patrick raised his voice. “No way. No way it’s that simple, that we’re in the other one percent.”
April shook her head in frustration. “No, we’re not,” she said, and she felt her lower lip begin to quiver. “I don’t – I mean, I haven’t always – remembered.”
Patrick put a hand to his face. “What? To take them?”
She nodded. “I think I missed enough days . . .” she began, then couldn’t figure out how to finish.
Patrick’s jaw dropped. He looked sick. His eyes began to wander. “Pregnant,” he said, in wonderment. Then he looked at her again. “You’re pregnant? Really?”
She nodded, and tears started down her face.
“You went to the doctor and he confirmed it?”
She nodded again, and wiped her face. He wasn’t smiling. She desperately wanted him to smile. That’s what she’d pictured. Then he would hold her, and they would be happy together. And eventually they would laugh about how unexpected it was. And they would be in awe together. And talk about the baby, and the sex, and the names. And call relatives. And everyone would get excited for them. And they would start planning, planning it all out.
But since he wasn’t smiling yet, neither could she.
Suddenly Patrick stood up. He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair as he walked around the chair. He stopped and stared for a moment, then looked down at his beer. He picked it up, gripped it through his shirt to unscrew it and gulped.
April gasped. “Oh my god!” she shouted, staring at her beer. She pointed at it, and looked wide-eyed at her husband. “I was gonna drink that!” She put a hand to her head, and tears came freely now. She sobbed through her words. “Oh shit,” she said. “Shit.”
Patrick watched her for a moment, apparently dumbstruck. But then he began to blink, sucked in air, and sprang into action. He snatched her beer and leapt around the table. She heard him open the refrigerator, then she turned and watched him run to the bathroom. In two seconds he was running back to her with his hands full of toilet paper. He put a wad on the table, then he kneeled down next to her and shoved the rest into her hands.
Then he smiled. Awkwardly, in that lopsided way he did when he was trying desperately to be sincere, but couldn’t quite manage it. She smiled sadly back, and blew her nose. She took more and wiped her eyes, but she couldn’t stop sobbing. Then she felt his hand on her back, rubbing it, warming her a little. But she couldn’t stop shivering.
“Sorry,” he finally said, putting his other hand on her knee. “I’m . . . really sorry,” he said. “I’m just really surprised, that’s all. I’m just really, really surprised.”
April shrugged as she wiped her face. “I pretty much knew you would be,” she said. “You have every reason to.”
“Yeah, but – but I’m not mad, or anything,” he said. “I just – hell, I thought it was my idea to have dinner together.” He rubbed her thigh, her back. “I could have sworn I’d asked you.”
She shook her head, blew her nose. “Nope. Pretty sure I was the one with a bomb to drop.”
He was silent for a long moment. The music played on. “Yeah,” he finally replied. “I guess so.” He slowly pulled a chair up next to her and sat, without taking his hand off her back.
April’s sobs were weaker now, but it was still hard to speak through them. “I was worried . . . I mean, I’ve suspected for awhile, but I was scared. I wondered if you thought that’s what it was. Like why we weren’t having sex as much.”
He looked away in thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, no. Definitely didn’t suspect anything.”
Then he took a deep breath. “Wow,” he said. “Wow. Have you told anyone else yet? Your mom, or anybody?”
She tried to laugh. “You think I’m a real bitch, don’t you?” She hit him lightly on the arm. “I wasn’t going to tell anybody before the father. Duh.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick said. “Right.”
Neither moved for a long time. April kept dabbing her eyes as they slowly dried. She watched Patrick as he stared at nothing and breathed steadily.
“Father,” he finally said.
April nodded and managed to smile a little. “Yeah.”
He looked up at her and reached for her hands. She put the toilet paper on the table and took his hands.
“Well I guess we need to call some people, eh?” Patrick said.
April smiled brighter. “Yeah.”
And finally he smiled back at her, all the way. He reached up, touched her hair, kissed her and stood. He let go and made his way to the phone as she smiled and sniffed after him. He picked up the receiver and stared at it, as if he couldn’t figure out who to call or couldn’t remember any numbers. April looked over the table in front of her.
“Food’s cold,” she said aloud.
Patrick looked at the table, then at April. She laughed at him.
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