Mr. Imperfect(21)

Ironically, the better his recovery had progressed the worse he felt  about who he'd been and the harder it became to make that call. He  wanted the best for his wife, his child, and he wasn't it, not by a long  shot. After all, he'd left them to exist on her meager earnings and the  goodwill of a town that knew how to take care of its own.

For weeks Joe had convinced himself that the selfless thing to do was  get a good job and send money on. Stay the hell out of their life.

But it hadn't stopped him lying awake night after night, worrying about  them, missing them. Until somewhere in the confusion he'd acknowledged  his utter helplessness.

Then something amazing happened.

He began to believe that even though he didn't deserve another chance,  someone might have given him one in the toss of that coin. He began to  believe he might earn back his family.

He'd rung the bar she worked at and his luck had held-a stranger  answered. The guy said she'd moved out and innocently gave Joe her new  number. Except twice now his courage had failed.

He picked up the phone and dialed. Doc Samuel was right; his own fears meant squat against his wife's rights.

"Marion Morgan's residence." A male voice. His wife had gone back to  using her maiden name and this sounded like the same man who had given  Joe her new number. She had found another guy, maybe one who deserved  her.

"Hello … anyone there? Muffet," the man called, "I think there's something wrong with your phone."

Muffet? Joe's knees buckled and he leaned against the wall. No, the guy had to be talking to someone else. Please God.

"I wish you'd stop calling me that!" Affection pervaded Marion's complaint. The man laughed.

Joe dropped the receiver, ran to the bathroom and threw up. Then he cleaned up and headed to the nearest bar.



"THERE'S NO ONE THERE." Marion said it lightly but Christian heard an undercurrent of distress as she hung up.

"You've been having crank calls?"

"Maybe. Actually, I thought … hoped … " She shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

The penny dropped. "You think it's your ex?"

She shrugged again. "Wishful thinking, probably."

"Wishful? You want it to be your ex?"

Marion avoided his eyes. "He's not my ex, he's my husband."

The hairs rose on the back of his neck. "Marion, you can't take him back. He's a drunk and a wife-beater."

"Once, Christian. He hit me once. And it was more of a hitting out than a hitting at."

He couldn't believe he was hearing this. "Next you'll be telling me he's a good provider who loves his family."

"He was," she said sadly. "I know this sounds crazy but taking our savings, abandoning us, is totally out of character."

"He took your savings?" Christian thought of John Jason, and a fierce  protectiveness swept over him. He pulled out a chair and sat Marion  down. Straddled another opposite it. "Look at me."

She raised her eyes reluctantly to his. Good God, she still loved that  asshole. "Don't do this. Don't cling to the happier memories, hoping  he'll change and become the person you once knew. Don't buy into the  excuses he'll make." Christian gripped the chair back.

"Guys like him look for someone to blame. In the end he'll even make you  believe it's your fault-that he gets violent because you provoked him.  It's bullshit."                       
       
           



       

"For the last time, he hit me once. Would a battered woman kick him out and tell him never to come back?"

"You did that?" His anxiety eased. "Good. Well if he rings you, call me and I'll make sure to reinforce the message."

She didn't answer, busied herself with standing and pushing the chair back under the table.

Christian stopped her with a hand on her arm. "It's none of my business,  but I know what I'm talking about. Don't let that bastard screw up John  Jason's life."

Her eyes widened. "Joe would never hurt our son."

He had to make her understand how important this was. "I bet you used to  believe he'd never raise a hand to you, didn't you?" His voice was  deadly serious.

"Your father beat you, didn't he?" she said suddenly. "You weren't just neglected."

Christian got to his feet. "If he shows up here, call me." He left before she could read the answer on his face.



JOE WATCHED AS THE BARMAN polished a shot glass then held it up to the  whiskey bottle that hung in the middle of a gleaming row of spirits.  Vodka, gin, rum. Faith, hope and charity. He saw the burp of an air  bubble and heard the thirsty glug-glug as the bottle released its  measure.

The barman put the drink in front of him. Without needing to ask, Joe  handed him the exact money. Like a lover remembering his beloved's  curves, his hand closed possessively around the glass. He breathed deep,  inhaled the smokiness of peat.

"Good health," said the barman.

Joe nodded and stared into the tawny liquid, swirling it around to catch the light. And stared.

"Hey, mate," joked the barman, fifteen minutes later, pausing between  customers, "if you find the meaning of life in there, let me know."

Without my family there is no meaning in life. Still the glass stayed on  the counter, its contents warming in his grasp, releasing a pungent  promise. Let me ease your pain.

Joe knew the promise was double-edged. His second chance would disappear  with the first sip, replaced by a more pressing need to take the next  sip, and the next. If you've lost your family, what the hell's the point  in staying sober? The breath of defeat sent a shiver down his neck.  Familiar, comforting. Not your fault.

With an exclamation of disgust he pushed back from the untouched drink  and walked out, surprising both the bartender and himself. The sun was a  brassy orange, low in the western sky and, after the dim confines of  the bar, made him blink.

He might have lost Marion, but he still had a son who needed him. Joe climbed into his Holden and headed south.





CHAPTER TEN




CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. White moths danced in the streetlight that  illuminated the sign. Joe sat in his truck staring at the door of the  Waterview Hotel as he tried to formulate a Plan B, crushed by  disappointment.

Marion worked Friday nights. He'd planned to wait for her after work and  to find out whether he had a chance in hell of staying in his son's  life beyond resuming financial support. His throat tightened on the need  for a drink. He couldn't lose his son, too.

His gaze fixed on the lone light in an upstairs bedroom. Kezia would  have looked after his family. Joe had relied on that, though his  conscience had pricked him when he'd seen Muriel's death notice. And  Kezia had always been fair. If he could make her believe he'd changed,  she would tell him where his family lived.

Joe got out of the car and walked toward the hotel. A shape moved on the  porch, there was the chink of ice in a crystal glass and he realized  someone had been watching him all this time. A match flared, was lifted  to a cigar. For a moment he saw a pair of eyes, hard as diamonds in a  too handsome face. "I thought you'd show up tonight," said a voice he  recognized.

"I don't know you," said Joe. But he did. His wife's lover. Jealousy and  respect stabbed at him-at least the guy was looking out for her, which  was more than he'd done lately. He stepped up onto the porch, out of the  circle of light and waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the  darkness. The man sat holding a shot glass, with a bottle on the table  in front of him. Joe recognized the shape. God, no, Marion, he prayed,  not another drinker.

"She doesn't want to see you," said the man. His shape matched his voice, strong and hard.

"Is that your view or hers?"

"Hers." But the slight hesitation gave him away.

Joe stepped closer. The moths beat against the streetlight. "However  Marion wants to play it, we'll play it. But she sets the rules, not you.  I need to see her."

"So you can manipulate her into taking you back?" The ice chinked as he set the glass down on the table.                       
       
           



       

"How much do you drink?" said Joe abruptly.

The other man laughed, low and humorless. "You are some package. A drunk  who hits his wife, cleans out the joint bank account, disappears for  three months and still has the balls to challenge her friend about his  drinking habits."

Joe's attention caught on the word friend. Could he have misread things?  "At most you've been friends with my wife for a couple of months." He  kept the word neutral. If this man suspected Joe's real fear, he might  lie to get rid of him. "That doesn't give you the right to play God in  our lives."