We Are Not Like Them(11)
“I need to sleep, Jay,” Kevin says when he finally looks at me. “I keep seeing him.” His voice wobbles. “I keep seeing him there on the ground. I don’t want to see him anymore tonight.”
I don’t say another word. I grab Kevin’s hand, lead him upstairs, and give him two Tylenol PMs. He lies down in our bed, and I crawl under the sheets beside him, listening as his breathing slows. He’s almost asleep when I decide I have to ask after all; the need to know for sure is a weight on my chest.
Turning on my side to face him, I scoot close enough for my lips to graze the back of his neck and speak softly into his musky skin. “There wasn’t a gun, was there? The guy didn’t have a gun?”
Kevin barely shakes his head by way of answering, but it’s enough.
We don’t speak again. I breathe into the back of his neck, matching my breaths to his until he slips into jerky snores, and then I flip onto my back, an act which takes a shocking amount of effort these days, and watch the electric blue numbers on the cable box tick forward minute by minute.
“Kevin is a good cop.” I whisper this out loud, trying to reassure myself. I remind myself of his commendations. Two of them so far—a medal of valor and one for bravery. And that time he was called in to arrest a woman for shoplifting in the Walmart. At the hearing she struggled through broken English and hiccupping sobs to explain to the judge that she was stealing food because she was desperate to feed her kids. When the woman was let off on a misdemeanor, Kevin bought her a pantry full of groceries and quietly left them on her stoop.
People know his name in the neighborhoods where he does his foot patrols. He carries treats for their dogs, for Christ’s sake. And talk about dogs. What about smelly, snaggletoothed Fred, who Kevin rescued from Philly Salvage last winter, where she had been left padlocked to a chain-link fence in below-zero temperatures. I reach for her now, curled up as usual in the tangle of our feet, and remind myself: My husband is a good man.
But I’m not getting any calmer; instead, I’m sweaty and clammy in a knot of sheets. I rip them off and head to the kitchen. Maybe more tea will help. When I get downstairs, I see my phone, forgotten on the kitchen table. The screen is filled with missed-call alerts from hours ago—all Riley. Without thinking about it, I call her back. By the fourth ring, I don’t think she’ll answer and then she’s there, on the line, sounding winded: “Are you okay?”
She knows. “You know, don’t you.”
“Yeah, I’m… I came into work.”
Of course she’s there. She’s always there.
“Scotty called me in. The shooting tonight… Kevin was… involved.” Riley is measuring her words, like she’s finding one at a time and slowly stringing them together.
I don’t know much about what’s happening, but I know enough to be careful with my words too. Still, I can’t help it. “I’m scared, Rye.”
“Do you know what… what happened?”
From upstairs, I hear Kevin cough. Or it could be a sob. I should be with him.
“I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay, I love you, Pony.” I already have my finger on the button ready to hang up when Riley says it, the nickname from back when we were kids, one she hasn’t used in years. Pony for me, for my long blond ponytail I wore every single day in elementary school—the only style Lou could manage no matter how much I begged for French braids. And Puff for Riley, for the trademark Afro puffs she wore atop her head from grades one through five. Riley’s mom wasn’t much more creative.
I love you, Pony.
I love you, Puff.
I love you, Pony.
I love you, Puff.
The end of a million sign-offs until one day we’d just stopped.
“I love you, Puff,” I say now. It reassures me better than any stupid tea, and I try to hold on to that comfort as I trudge up the stairs and climb back into bed with my husband.
* * *
Lines of light shine through the venetian blinds covering our bedroom window to form shadowy stripes across our navy bedspread. I throw my arm over my eyes to shield them from the light, and pat the bed beside me. It’s still warm, but Kevin is gone. That’s when I hear the loud retching from the bathroom. Fred leaps off the bed, nails scratching across the tile, as if heading to Kevin’s rescue. My own stomach roils in solidarity, and I swallow a gag.
I need to call into work, before anyone gets in this morning. It’s crazy to even think I could give two shits about confirming that Steven Frye’s X-rays are covered by insurance or calling Maureen Wyatt to remind her about her cleaning. As the phone rings, I frantically debate what the hell to say. Do I go with the flu, or fake a few pathetic coughs? When the answering service picks up, I settle on a quick “Something came up, and I’ll be in on Monday.”
By the time I hang up, Kevin’s returning from the bathroom, his face the color of wet concrete. My phone vibrates against the bedside table, the glow of the screen bright in the dim room. I don’t move to answer it.
“It’s probably Riley. I’ll call her back after you leave.” I don’t tell him I talked to her last night. It’s not a lie. I just don’t say it. “She’s worried after I ran out of the restaurant so fast.”
“What did you tell her when you left?” Kevin snaps, his sharp tone catching me off guard.