The Other Side(25)

Fresh diaper and onesie on for bed, I make his bottle. Usually I sit in the rocking chair in Chantal’s room next to his crib to feed him, but I’m extra tired tonight and afraid that the chair will only make it worse, so I feed him standing instead. I walk the living room, Joey in my arms on his back looking up at me through half-lidded, milk-drunk eyes. Every minute the struggle to pry them open after they slip closed is harder and harder, until he gives up the effort and concentrates on drinking instead. His puckered, pink lips working in earnest. Bottle empty, lips still trying to coax more in their sleepy mission, I slowly slide the nipple from his mouth and begin swaying, rocking him the rest of the way into slumber. It’s not long before his breathing slows and deepens into that space where only dreams can touch him. Placing him in his crib without waking him is getting more and more difficult every week. After four failed attempts, and an hour of trying, I give up and sit down on the rocking chair with him in the dark.

I sit there until I hear keys rattle in the front door, and Chantal walks in looking exhausted.

“He wouldn’t go down in his crib?” she asks through a wide yawn.

I shake my head, a yawn copycatting its way out after hearing hers.

“Did you finish your homework?” She’s worried, I can hear it in her voice.

“Yeah,” I lie. I have about two hours’ worth of work to do before I go to bed, but I would never tell her that.

She turns on the nightlight next to her twin bed and returns to scoop Joey from my arms. “Thank you,” she whispers before she expertly transitions him to his crib without incident. She follows me out to the living room, where I gather up my book, backpack, and sketchpad from the floor. “Was Grandma okay? Any issues?”

“She went to bed a little early, but other than that she was fine. Nothing unusual.” It escapes on another yawn.

She’s standing at the door holding it open for me, and for some reason, it’s always awkward when I leave like this. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’ve just spent several hours with Joey, or if it’s the fact that I’ve been inside this woman, or if it’s the fact that our arrangement is murky, but leaving her apartment late into the night always doubles the guilt for me. And she always acts like she isn’t quite sure what to say either.

So we’ve come to a mutual unspoken agreement that we won’t say anything.

I leave in silence.

And she lets me.





Chapter Ten





Present, March 1987

Toby



The knocking is muffled but grows louder when the second round of it starts up. I set aside my sketchpad and rise to open my bedroom door. The kitchen is dark, but when I flick the light on, the cock clock reads three in the morning. I glance at Johnny’s and Cliff’s doors before answering the knock. Johnny’s door is open and he isn’t in it. And Cliff’s is closed, which means he’s snoring behind it.

Two more raps on the door register as I open it.

Taber is standing on the other side, looking as tired as I feel, but fully dressed and wearing his wool coat and contrasting snowflakes in his dark hair. “Sorry, man, but Johnny is passed out inside the front door at the foot of the stairs. You wanna give me a hand and we’ll carry him up? I tried to wake him, but he wouldn’t budge.”

I think most residents who have been here for a while know Johnny is a drunk based on his absence. It’s never been on full display like this, at least not since I’ve lived here. He either stays somewhere else, or he manages to make it upstairs and into his bed before he passes out. Something about him outing himself with such a grand gesture makes me embarrassed for him.

“Yeah, let me grab my shoes.”

Taber waits in the hall while I slip them on and when I return, he asks, “This happen often?”

“The drinking or the passing out?” I question, not wanting to answer.

“Both?” He shrugs and paired with softness in his voice it screams compassion.

Which prompts me to answer, “The drinking is daily. The passing out downstairs on the floor isn’t.”

He nods and licks his lips like he’s thinking as we walk down the final flight of stairs.

“Jesus,” I say under my breath. “He’s lucky he wasn’t on his back or he could’ve died.” He’s facedown. Vomit on the floorboards is pooled around, and under, his face.

Taber sighs sadly and agrees. “Yup.”

“You take his feet, I’ll take the top half,” I say, cringing at the sight. And the smell.

“I appreciate that,” Taber says with his trademark grin.

We hoist his deadweight and make it up the first flight before we have to stop and put him down to adjust our grip. We’re both dragging in air loudly, exertion taking its toll.

“I should probably quit smoking. Moving a dead body is exhausting. I could never be a serial killer,” Taber jokes quietly.

I laugh on the inside, but it doesn’t make it out. I’m relieved he’s joking instead of judging, it’s making all of this easier to deal with. “Me too.”

Final flight assailed, I lead us into his bedroom where we put him on his bed, take off his coat, and roll him over on his belly in case he gets sick again. Taber stuffs his hands in his pockets and lingers for a few seconds like he’s trying to decide what the next move should be.