Big Swiss(101)

“Luke didn’t pull anything,” Big Swiss said calmly. “He’s awake and lucid and remembers everything. He’d gone looking for Keith at Cousin’s—to intimidate him. It was something he’d been fantasizing about—training for—but of course it didn’t go the way he planned. When he let Keith know who he was married to, Keith said, ‘You know your wife’s a dyke, right? My sister seen her in the woods, sittin on some lady’s face.’ A few guys at the bar snickered. Everyone was listening. ‘I been there, bro. You don’t have to put up with that shit. It’s your house, right? Tell her to get the fuck out.’ Now everyone turned and stared at Luke. His stage fright kicked in and a bunch of gibberish came out of his mouth. ‘You’re not makin sense, man,’ Keith said, and shook his head. ‘You’re all mixed up. Seems like you want to let off some steam. I get that, bro. I can help you with that.’ He put an arm around Luke and dragged him outside, but Luke twisted away and took Keith out at the knees. They rolled around on the ground. Luke put him in some kind of hold or lock, and Keith looked genuinely frightened, like he might pass out. Luke said he couldn’t help but feel bad for him, like he was beating up an old man, so he loosened his grip, and that’s when Keith grabbed the knife on Luke’s belt and stabbed him in the stomach. Luke rolled away, but Keith kept going, he wouldn’t stop. He was like a machine.”

Greta’s throat felt clogged. It wasn’t the story she’d heard, not even close, but of course she couldn’t say that. She just sat there, trying to reconcile the two versions, her face wet with tears.

“It took eighty-two stitches to put him back together,” Big Swiss said. “He’ll never be the same again, and neither will I.”

Greta imagined Big Swiss pushing Luke around in a wheelchair, changing Luke’s drainage bags, sitting on Luke’s paralyzed lap, helping him in and out of a car. She imagined herself in her own car, windows down, blasting Bach’s cello suites while accelerating off the bridge.

“I never thought Keith’s release would affect him, too,” Big Swiss went on, “that he’d have his own private experience of it.”

A few feet away, Ellington rested his neck over the crest of Pantaloon. They dozed for a moment. They seemed very much in love. Then Ellington ruined it by attempting to mount Pantaloon, who swung her head around and bit him on the shoulder. He clambered off of her, crestfallen. They wandered away from each other, pulling grass into their mouths and chewing. This was how they processed their feelings, she realized now. By chewing. By ruminating.

Greta considered pulling grass into her own mouth, but it was her turn to say something. It’s not your fault? False. It’s no one’s fault? Also not true. Nothing could be done? Lots of things could have prevented this. What was there to say except sorry?

“I’m sorry,” Greta said. “I shouldn’t have pressured you to tell him about us. I was just looking for a way to feel better.”

“He already knew,” Big Swiss said. “He’s not stupid. He knew as soon as he met you.”

“And I should’ve told you about my own confrontation with Keith.”

“What? Where?”

“Cousin’s. The last time I saw you. I accused him of shooting Pi?on, and he said he’d shoot me before he’d shoot any dog.”

“Was this before or after we saw each other?”

“Before.”

“So you decided not to tell me, and then you let me spank you… like an idiot.”

“Seemed like a fitting end to the evening.” Greta sniffed. “I didn’t realize it would be the last time we’d ever see each other.”

When Big Swiss didn’t object, Greta felt like walking into traffic. Without Big Swiss in her life, everything would go back to being bland and blurry.

“It should be me in the hospital,” Greta finally said.

“You wouldn’t have gotten that far,” Big Swiss said.

“He called me a dumb city bitch and told me to get the fuck out of his face. It could’ve turned violent.”

“I’m saying you never would have made it to the hospital.”

Greta scowled. “Two blocks?”

“You would’ve died in the alley.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re nothing like Luke. He possesses something you don’t, something valuable in situations like these—fuck, never mind.”

“I hope you don’t mean a dick.”

“The will to live,” Big Swiss said. “His is strong. So is mine. It saved us both from getting killed.”

Greta shrugged. “I’ve survived a thing or two, same as you.”

“Yeah, but you never really fight for anything,” Big Swiss said. “Big or small. Remember the time you lost your shoe in the woods? You wouldn’t even look for it. You were prepared to hobble out of the forest with one shoe. If you’d been attacked the other night, you wouldn’t have fought back. You would’ve rolled over and… perished.”

Greta rolled her eyes and said nothing.

“See? You give up too easily, even in arguments.”

It’s called going with the flow, Greta wanted to say. You might try it. Also, how do you expect me to argue when your husband is essentially a wedge of Swiss cheese, thanks in part to me?