The attack on Michael took place in a parking garage, and there are no known witnesses. Police are unsure as to whether the attack is related to the criminal charges pending against him.
Damn. I stand up and walk into the kitchen. David is by the sink, looking lost. I hand the letter to him. He reads it and looks up at me in question. Then I pass him the newspaper article. He leans his back against the counter, crosses his ankles and reads the article from beginning to end. When he finishes, he puts both papers down on the counter and sighs.
“Wow,” he says softly. “That’s insane.”
“I know. I can’t believe it.” My head is churning. I’m not quite sure how I am supposed to feel about this. Should I be sad? He was my mother’s husband after all, my stepfather.
Fuck that. Fuck the way I am supposed to feel. Fuck him. I feel glad, that’s how I feel.
“I’m glad,” I say out loud. David’s brow raises and his mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. “I’m relieved,” I add. “I hope the fucker dies a rotten death. Shit, let’s be honest, I’d like to shake the hand of the man that swung the bat.” My hand flies up to my mouth and covers it as soon as the words come out. As if I am holding in all the other things that want to come out. All the other words I’d like to say about Michael. And then I start to laugh hysterically. Belly-cramping, side-splitting laughter spills out of me until tears are rolling out of my eyes.
David is staring at me as if I am certifiable. It’s clear that he is choosing his words carefully. “Can I be glad, too?” he asks.
“Fuck, yeah,” I say emphatically, trying to rein in my psychotic laughter. “If he dies, I am free from everything. All the bullshit. All the doubt.” I am quiet for a moment because I’m not sure if I should say what is really on my mind. Fuck it. “Is it wrong that I want him to die, David?”
He shakes his head quietly and wraps his arms around my shoulders, hugging me tight.
“Are you going to call your brother?” he asks a minute later. The thought stops me in my tracks.
“I don’t know.” Truthfully, I hadn’t even considered it. I’m not sure talking with Ricky is going to be worth anything. I can probably get more information from the hospital. “I’m not going to do anything tonight but hang out with you,” I say, realizing that if Michael is out of the picture, I lose a little bit of protective David. “That is, if you still want to stay, now that I guess you don’t have to.”
David lets go of me and steps back. He cocks his head to the side and squints his eyes at me quizzically. “I want to stay. Shit, Emma, I always want to stay.”
“Good,” I say. “Let me make us some dinner.”
While we are eating, I tease David about what good timing all this is for him. About how lucky he is that he doesn’t have to take his girlfriend to poker with him again tomorrow night. He gets a rise out of my comment, and then tells me that I can still come if I want to. He liked having me there, he says, except for the “fall-down drunk” part—but even that was kind of entertaining. I give him my best sideways snivel and tell him emphatically to fuck off. I know he likes it because the current is there. Again.
After a minute or two of weighted silence, I tell David that Ricky’s note was postmarked on Thursday which means that, by now, Michael could be dead. I tell David that I will call the hospital tomorrow morning to find out what is going on. To find out if Michael is still alive. David says he thinks that is a good idea. It would make him feel better, he says, knowing that there was no chance of Michael showing up while he is at poker.
When we finish eating, I wash the dishes, and David dries. I look at him with a secret sideways glance, watching his arms move, watching the birds bend and flex. I put down the dishrag and quickly swipe my wet hands against my jeans. I turn toward him and grasp his arm, the one holding the towel. My palms and fingers rub against his skin, up and down his arm, feeling the birds. Feeling David.
He remains still as I push his sleeve up over the top of his shoulder, exposing his bicep. On the round of his shoulder is a brilliant, parrot-like bird. Its head is turned to the side, and one dark eye is looking out over its outstretched wing. Nestled under the wing is a tiny, purple hummingbird with an iridescent green head. The hummingbird looks small and lost. It is resting on a crooked twig that the parrot is holding with its foot. I notice now that, unlike all the larger birds with their outstretched wings and confident posture, the hummingbird seems unsure of itself. Unsure of whether or not it will slide off the end of the twig and drop. Unsure if it is able to fly.