Gun Shy(90)

I turn and stare at my brother, in his bright green eyes, eyes that match my own. He must see the intent in my gaze, the absolute conviction that I have to protect these girls from the world because he takes a step back and nods. “Okay, man, whatever. But don’t get complacent, okay? Don’t you ever forget what she’s capable of.”

I won’t forget. I won’t be fooled again. “Thanks for looking out for me, bro. You think you don’t have it in you, but you do.”

A small smile threads across Pike’s face. Until he looks back to Cassie and the baby, who are done outside and are headed right for the house, and us.

“Your wife is a dangerous woman,” Pike says softly, plastering a proud uncle smile on his face as Cassie opens the door and he holds his arms out for Grace. She beams, handing Grace over to my brother and curling herself into my side. I let her, wrapping my arm around her small frame, my skin hot against hers.

“Did you tell your brother?” Cassie asks, poking me in the ribs with the tip of her finger. It tickles and I pull away, giving her a playful swat on the arm.

“I was waiting for you,” I say, my face smiling and my heart racing. Cassie takes that as an invitation, disappearing into the living room and coming back with a photograph in her hands. She hands it to Pike, who seems is a natural at holding babies and juggling other items at the same time. His face goes blank, and I can tell he’s struggling.

“We just found out,” I say, taking Grace from him so he can study the picture properly. “Two babies in less than a year. Can you imagine?”

“Irish twins, just like you two,” Cassie adds.

Pike feigns excitement. “Congratulations, guys,” he says, handing me the ultrasound picture of my son, the son currently the size of a peach and growing like a weed inside my crazy wife’s womb. The son who was conceived well after we buried Damon, the son who is my child by DNA, not just by my complacency.

We make small talk for what seems like an acceptable amount of time and then it’s time for Pike to leave. I’m excited for him, and sad, so sad, like it’s the end of an era. I know it won’t be, he’s only going as far as Reno, and then who knows from there. He’ll be back. He’s still bound to our mother by some invisible chain of guilt that I managed to saw off a long time ago; he’ll be back.

I watch him flinch minutely when Cassie hugs him. If she notices, she doesn’t show it. She has become the master of storytelling, of make-believe, playing the part of Cinderella after the slipper has been fitted. We live in another man’s castle and we make believe that this life is something we can bear; we make believe that we are normal people with a normal child, that there are no bodies buried beneath the hollow where my wife enjoys long picnics in the afternoon sun. I don’t have to make believe that I love her more than the sun, though, and it’s the ferocity of my love for her that makes all of the other things possible.

We stand out on the grass by the road and watch Pike drive my Mustang off into the afternoon, my eyes fixed on the white racing stripe I so meticulously restored. I watch until he’s a speck in the distance. I blink, he’s gone. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Cassie turns to me and smiles, threading her fingers through mine. “I hope he finds somebody to love,” she says dreamily, “the way you and I love each other.”

I smile and nod, kissing her cool forehead. I hope Pike never finds somebody to love the way Cassie and I love each other. I hope he finds a normal kind of love, not one that drives you to do things you never dreamed you were capable of.

“Are you sad?” Cassie asks.

“About my brother, or about my car?” I joke, but my heart pinches at the thought.

I am not sad but I carry this sadness with me; the sadness of Jennifer and Karen and my sister and my brothers; the sadness of my mother and how nobody, none of them, ever, had a chance. I carry the sadness of Cassie. Of her mother. All these people, I am sad for, and if I think about their sadness too long, I start to drown in it.

I take a sleepy Grace from Cassie and carry her to the porch. Together we rock in the old chair and I stare down at her face, utterly detached, willing myself to love her. She’s my daughter. For better or worse. I will love her. I have to.

Later, when Pike’s long gone and Grace has passed out in her bassinet after a breast milk binge, Cassie finds me in the bedroom. I’m freshly showered and naked, save for the thin top sheet I’ve pulled over myself while I read.

“This is really fucked up,” I say, holding up the book she’s been reading to Grace, Where the Wild Things Are. “It’s about a kid who runs away because his mother doesn’t feed him? And then these monsters love him so much they’d rather eat him than let him go?”

She laughs, taking the book from my hands and setting it on the nightstand. “It’s just a book,” she says, crawling into my lap. “Besides, it’s a classic.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really? It’s old and it smells like wet dog.”

“Mr. Bentley,” she says, one hand on my throat, “I don’t want to talk about kid’s books right now. I want to talk about what’s under these sheets.”

“Anything for you, Mrs. Bentley,” I say, moving the sheets away, pulling her against my cock. I’m ready for her and she’s ready for me, no panties under her summer dress for me to contend with. She lets out a small sigh that sounds like happiness when I enter her, as she starts to ride me. I have to be gentle with her. She’s only just given birth, less than three months ago, and now she’s carrying my son. Some girls like it rough, but I can’t be rough with my pregnant wife. I thread my hands into her hair and pull her face to mine. I close my eyes and kiss her and she tastes like strawberry yogurt and summer rain. She tastes like all the things I never thought I would have again.