“Why aren’t you working for him?” I asked, lifting the square to see if it fit into the hole. Perfect, I thought.
Finn didn’t answer and I looked over my shoulder to see him peering at his boots. “Flip?” I asked him, using the nickname that one of my other roommates had used once in jest.
“Why do you and Noah never go home to Texas?” Finn answered.
“Gotcha.” I turned back to the wall. Those were things filed under “don’t want to talk about it.” “Now what?”
Finn pulled out a sheer tape that looked like it had little fibers running through it. “Tape the patch to the wall with this, and then we’ll mud over it.”
As we were putting on the final touches of white plaster, or what Finn called mud, I asked him, “You ever feel like hitting a woman, Finn?”
Finn sighed, knelt down, and started packing his tools away. “Is there any beer in this joint?”
“Why?”
“We gotta wait until the plaster dries, and then we have to sand it smooth.”
“Oh, okay.” I went over to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was filled with diet soda and juice. I started going through the cupboards and found a bottle of vodka. “How about a screwdriver?”
Finn’s look clearly conveyed distaste and resignation. “Vodka on the rocks?” I offered as an alternative.
“Whatever.” He walked over to AM’s ugly sofa.
“Are these chicks color-blind?” Finn asked as he stood next to the monstrosity.
“Not that I know of.” Finn sat down and looked like he was swallowed inside the cushions.
“Goddamn,” I heard him moan. “This is the most comfortable sofa ever.”
I found two glasses and pulled some ice from the freezer. Poured two large fingers of vodka and a splash of OJ.
I handed a glass to Finn as I rounded the sofa and sat on the other end. I sank down deep, as if embraced by an actual goose. “There’s something wrong with those girls for not covering it. Looks like snails are leaving a blood trail behind them.” But given AM’s penchant for not running away, I guess it made a perverse kind of sense.
Finn laughed and took a long draught of the vodka. “Yeah, I have thought of it.”
It took me a minute to track back and remember what question Finn was answering. “And?”
“My mother.”
“Dude, what?” I choked on my ice cube. I had kind of asked the question half-facetiously so Finn could tell me I was fucked up and that I belonged a thousand feet away from AM at all times. Finn fell firmly in the decent guy category, but he was just as fit as Noah or me. His muscles were developed from hard work rather than the gym. He carted around boards and pulled down walls. A blow from his fist would probably level a woman.
“She cheated on my dad with my dad’s brother.” He took another drink. “Worst part, my dad and uncle are in business together and still are. Which is why I flip houses instead of build them with my dad like we’d always planned.”
“That’s…” I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t a story I’d ever heard before. It was like something you’d see on a daytime drama and that you’d think was all made up and shit.
“Unbelievable? Incredible? Disgusting?”
I just nodded.
“When my mom finally confessed, my dad looked devastated, and I wanted to hit her. Make her feel even a portion of the pain she’d caused us.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No. I went outside and chopped a tree down in our backyard. It was her favorite. Took me an hour.” Another sip and an evil grin appeared. “Damn, that felt good.” He rolled his shoulders as if remembering the pain of the effort and appreciating it.
“She cry?” Finn might have hated his mom about as much as I hated my dad.
“Her little lower lip trembled, but she heroically kept her tears in,” Finn said grimly.
“Damn. But I hear you.”
“So you’re worried that you’re going to hit AnnMarie?”
“Or someone,” I admitted and tossed back half my glass. There wasn’t enough liquor to smooth the passage of my story so I just vomited it out. “My dad beat the shit out of my mom all the time while I was growing up. I begged her to leave, but she just refused. Said that she was married to him and she wouldn’t leave him. That I didn’t understand.” I drank the rest and slammed the glass on the table. “I didn’t understand. Still don’t.
“But I want to fight sometimes. I enjoy the violence, the danger. I like my fist driving into someone’s face, hearing the crack of the bone, feeling the flesh give way. I like imagining it’s my dad’s face each and every time.”