Courage To Live. Morgan Q O'Reilly

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      “Mom, there’s a message on the phone.”

      Robbie had his head in the fridge, as usual. We had twenty minutes before we had to leave for TKD. Of course he was hungry. I’d often pondered why I took the trouble to put the food away when it was just going to be inhaled in the next twenty-four hours. The kid was gearing up for another growth spurt, I could just feel it.

      “I’ll check it when we get home.” I had no desire whatsoever to deal with whomever. Despite changing, and unlisting, all the phone numbers, as well as removing Quint from the cellphone plan, I still had to deal with the callers. How they’d accessed my numbers, I didn’t know, but somehow, they’d ferreted out the information.

      Since February, about a week after Quint had gone missing, I’d been doing my best to avoid his boss, buddies, jibes from the neighbors and occasional probing by the police. Unbelievably, someone had called him in as a missing person. Hadn’t been me, Ben swore it wasn’t him, and the caller had done his best to make me look guilty as hell. I suspected Quint’s boss, since it was clear the man hated me, based solely on whatever stories Quint had told at work. So far, the cops hadn’t found anything they could arrest me on. Considering I was innocent, I regarded this as a good thing.

      I had to recreate the chain of events for the police numerous times, going over each detail I’d wanted to gloss over.

      On Super Bowl Sunday, Quint had spent the day with the neighbors, watching the game at Jack’s. Mainly hanging with Jack, and Ben, incidentally Jack’s CO.

      Quint and the guys had been drinking beer, swapping stories and yelling at the game. After spending the day doing the usual laundry, I’d also cleared my room of old clothes. We had a new, fancy, choose-your-number air mattress Quint had ordered at end of year clearance pricing. Rob and I spent a few hours assembling it, and hoping to rest a little, I’d hunkered down with my computer, trying to do a little writing.

      The weather plays a big part in whatever happens in Alaska. For instance, Alaskan homes rarely have central air conditioning. Which, in the case of our home, was too bad. With large windows fully facing west, in the summer my second floor great room could grow stifling in a hurry. I opened all the screened windows on the second floor sometime in mid-May and didn’t shut them until September. I also kept the ceiling fan running day and night year round and used box fans as needed. The house could easily reach eighty degrees, or more, by mid-afternoon.

      The open windows were half the reason the neighbors considered me the bitch of our marriage. With them open four months straight, everyone on the street could pretty much hear everything when our voices were raised. I tried to remain conscious of this, but Quint knew exactly how much they could hear and used his knowledge to push my buttons when he wanted a little sympathy from the guys. I wasn’t a screaming shrew. I bit back a lot of poison, mostly because when I did explode, I paid. In many ways. I’d say, generally, once a year he pushed me far enough to create a genuine, hair-raising hissy fit. So when I hit the end of my tolerance, I’d been simmering a good nine months since the last one and, with a malicious twinkle in his eye, Quint had been ramping up the pressure for several weeks. To the point I was sleeping in the living room most nights and Rob found excuses to hide when his father was home.

      That year, though, it came about during the winter, when the homes were normally buttoned up tight. We’d had a warm spell with Chinook winds, however, and I had a few of the windows cracked to blow fresh air through before the next cold snap settled in.

      After the game, Quint had come home to grill dinner. He came into the house with a platter full of ice cold, charcoal-black burgers. He was also pretty buzzed. A case of beer over the course of a day was an easy guess. The guys thought he was hilarious with his stumbling jokes. I knew he’d probably pee all over the bathroom, leaving a wet spot on the front of his jeans in the process, then later demand a blow job. Like hell. He hadn’t been able to get it up in over a year. I thought about going to bed, but seven o’clock was far too early. Hiding in my office and leaving Rob to fend for himself wouldn’t work either. Quint wouldn’t tolerate us abandoning him after he’d cooked dinner.

      Yeah. That was his take. I prepared the meat, toasted the buns, sliced the cheese, onions and tomatoes, made the potato salad and set the table, all in an effort to make it seem like summer in the middle of a long dark winter, then finished up by doing the dishes. According to Quint, he’d given me a night off from cooking. Some treat.

      I’d been biting my tongue for a long time because of Rob. Were I on my own, I would have walked a lot sooner. But in order to leave, I had to be able to provide a home for my son. I’d crunched the numbers. I could make it month to month on my salary, but I needed several thousand dollars of seed money. First, last and deposit on an apartment, money to buy furniture, plus a nest egg for a retainer and the unexpected. And I needed a place near Rob’s school. With him moving on to middle school in the fall, our options had widened considerably. However, I was about fifteen hundred dollars short of my minimum goal. It would mean having only one bed–Rob’s–and we’d be sitting on the floor for awhile, but I’d have my grandfather’s desk, my uncle’s lawyer’s bookcase, the desk set and dresser we’d bought for Rob, my laptop and a few dishes. If I could just hang on a few months longer, five ideally, we could pack up and leave. I had just the place in mind, a building with a secure entrance.

      Would a secure entrance stop Quint? No, but it would slow him down. I couldn’t afford a place with a security guard, but the complex I had in mind had security cameras in the lobbies and the underground parking garage. Not much, but it was something. It also required a hefty chunk of cash to get in the door, provided there was an available apartment. So I kept my mouth shut, socked away every penny I could and quietly sold a few things online. Things small enough I could carry out in my purse, tote bag or lunch bag. Things I could quietly send off from the office. Picking just the right items that would bring in at least twenty dollars was tough. But I managed and was adding about two hundred fifty dollars a month to my kitty.

      I took one look at the burned burgers and knew I couldn’t last much longer.

      Quint slapped me on the butt and told me to serve it up. That was my first bruise.

      Everything else was on the plates. I pushed the platter back at Quint. “Eat ’em if you want, I’ll pass.”

      “What? A little black not good enough for you, princess?” The words slurred through his sneer as he swayed in the kitchen. Beer fumes enclosed him like a fog. That and sweat. “Give me a blow job first and the burgers will taste better. I deserve one for cookin’ dinner for you. Hell, you should like ’em, you seasoned them.”

      “Think about a shower and an early night, Quint.” I said it quietly, fury digging deep into my soul. So deep, a wave of resigned weariness immediately followed. This dance had been choreographed before, but he’d never gone so far as to use the words blow job in front of Rob. Too embarrassed, I couldn’t look over to see my son’s reaction. I slapped one of the patties on Quint’s bun and handed him the plate. “Dinner first.” Maybe ignoring his statement and getting some food in him would help.

      Mollified for the moment, he took the plate and leered at me. “Gonna need my strength for later. I’m feeling a need for sweet dessert tonight. Nothing like poking some Candy in the ass, eh, babe? Gotta break in the new mattress.”

      Determined not to rise to the bait, I reached into the fridge for some lunchmeat. Rob and I would just have sliced turkey on our buns. No big deal. If only I’d had roast beef, it would have looked more like the burgers.

      Quint noticed. “What? You not eating the meat I cooked for you? You bitch about standing over a hot СКАЧАТЬ