"Corduroy Pie
When Sean Moriarty noticed the way his horse was tilting its neck, he thought it was the intense heat that made the horse do it. Two weeks he had been on the job. He knew little about horses and nothing about driving carriages. Sheer luck landed the job. A friend of a friend. An Irish friend. A phone call that is all it took. He wanted two more rides before going back to the stable. Hard-up for cash, he was happy to pat the stack of bills bulging in his pocket. It had been an excellent day for tips. Two more rides before calling it quits for the day and he would be in his way home, with his rent money. For the first time in eight months since arriving in the States he was ahead with the rent. His wife, Vickie, would be thrilled. But the horse was acting weird.
He finished his round on Central Park South, where tall rustling trees sheltered the sidewalk, and joined the line of other carriages waiting for tourists. Sean’s carriage was fourth in line. It could be a five to twenty minute wait. He watched his horse from the curb. A broad-haunched white draft mare, its long mane swaying on the neck as it munched on the bit, its head slumped and shaking side to side. Sean removed his black top-hat, wiped his drenched forehead, and sauntered towards a group of drivers chatting.
“Great day. Sixty bucks in tips,” he said.
“Your horse’s got a hoof on the pavement, you better watch out,” said a short stout man in a red shirt. Sean stared back at his horse and then down the line where two other horses had also a leg up on the curb. He looked back at the man in the red shirt, unsure about the remark. The group snickered.
“Look at him,” he said the driver in red shirt, “standing there like a beanstalk in the desert. Where have you been all your life?”
“I bet he can’t even tell the difference between the Knicks and the Jets,” said another one with a greasy flat corduroy cap.
“So what. I’m learning.”
“Where you from? I didn’t know they still made geezers with accents like yours.”
The group of men burst out laughing again and Sean laughed with them. He knew in a glance they could spot his lack of expertise. The teasing was a sign of acceptance. It had been a long time since he had felt accepted. They never joked or teased the Latino grooms. A stumpy old man with a pockmarked face kept a serious look. “She’s beat,” he said. They all gazed at the mare again, chafing the pavement with the metal shoe.
“Don’t listen to him. To him, they’re always too tired,” said the capped driver, “Charlie’s a sentimental man. If he could he’d marry a horse.”
“I’ll make sure the bitch stays awake,” said Sean, making broad whipping gestures. Charlie shook his head with disbelief and walked back to his carriage.
“What’s up with him?”
“He’s got horse fever,” said the red shirt. “Pat thinks Charlie’s a frustrated rider.”
“You bet. His dream was to ride in the Derby. Never made it. Right Charlie?”
Charlie looked down from his carriage bench and shrugged his shoulders. Pat tipped his greasy cap to him.
“You can laugh all you want, but I’m always right. That horse’s dead beat.” Then Charlie gave a jerk on the reins and his horse moved up the line.
“So what’s up with my horse?” asked Sean.
“She’s a lemon,” said the red shirt. “Give her some water and she’ll be fine.”
Sean reached out for the black bucket hanging below the carriage’s bench. His mind could not think of anything but the rent money. He challenged himself to get it before the day was over. He filled up the bucket with water and brought it to his horse. The mare submerged its head into the bucket, soaking the hay and straw strewn pavement.
The blasting sun glazed the cobble-stoned sidewalk. Tourists flooded Central Park’s entrance on this late afternoon. The first two carriages took off within minutes. Sean had put his sweat-drenched top hat back on to lure passer-bys into his carriage. Silly hat. Tourists loved the silly hat. The company recommended the device to attract tourists, to give them a last-century experience, back in the days when people traveled in horse drawn carriages. He paced the sidewalk, and his feet ached inside his boots so intense was the heat.
The water had cooled the mare down. It stood still on its arched legs, not even shaking its head to chase off the buzzing flies. Its breath was still rapid. Sean wondered if this was normal. Sparrows and pigeons fluttered about the dust and carriages, eating straight from the horses’ buckets or the scattered grains fallen from their mouths. The birds grew wild around the water. The mare hit the curb again, its shoed hoof clanking on the white granite.
“What’s the matter you?” Sean pulled on the reins to part the horse from the curb, yanking the bit in its mouth. The horse bent its head backward but would not move. Its head tilted down. A middle age couple, tourists, approached the carriage at the moment.
“Are you free?” asked the man, smacking the horse’s ribbed flank. Sean nodded, holding the reins tight, and the tourists climbed into the carriage. A bald man with dirty sneakers and a woman with nice eyes. He guessed they were from England. The accent coupled with the woman’s pasty complexion and wavy fair hair gave him the impression. Their presence made him cringe. Memories flashed through his mind. Memories back from his day in the British Army. When he was on guard duty in the barracks jail. The wall standing, the hooding, the deprivation of food, the deprivation of sleep, and the exposure to continuous noise all still vivid experiences. A prime witness he had been. He had to live with those memories now. English People. All the way from England to lead them to his doorstep. He speculated on the tip he would make from the tour. Probably not much. Europeans don’t tip. Often they don’t tip at all. Especially the English, he thought, as stingy as the Irish. There was no need to be extra nice. It would make no difference. Sean flashed the couple a wide smile.
“Deluxe or standard?”
“The half-hour tour,” said the man, taking a video camera out of a large bag. The basic tour. The tip was not going to be high. Sean made a sucking sound with his mouth and swatted the reins on the horse’s flank. The horse jolted and jumped into the middle of the road and the carriage crossed the traffic lane. A sweat broke down Sean’s back. He yanked on the reins and guided the carriage back into the right lane, looking back at the speedy on-coming traffic. Yellow masses headed towards the carriage, blaring their horns. Two white buses roared behind him. Sean whipped the horse again to regain control of the carriage. The horse responded, trotting about twenty yards, its hoofs clanging on the scorching asphalt, but then it slowed as Sean tightened the reins.
“She gets a tiny bit wild when she’s hungry,” he said to the couple, feeling the carriage now proceeding along the curb smoothly. He forced an apologetic grimace onto his face. The couple had paid no attention. The man was shooting the tall mid-town skyscrapers to which his wife pointed. She had a hand cupped above her eyes and scouted the street.
“First we’ll go through the park, Strawberry fields, the reservoir, circle by the Dakota, where John Lennon used to live, and do a wrap up at the Boathouse.”
“You’re Irish?”
“Yes.”
“Northern Ireland?”
“No. Limerick.”
“You sound like you’re from Northern Ireland . . . We’re from Sheffield in England. First time in New York. In twenty years of marriage that is,” said the man. Sean congratulated them. Their happiness could make them feel generous. The pasty woman smiled and adjusted a large pair of red sunglasses that hid her eyes.
Under the trees, the air was not as stuffy. Now docile, the mare traipsed along. The scent of fresh cut grass permeated the air. Sprinklers swished, drizzling their path. The pink rose attached to the mare’s head strap bobbed up and down. The couple in the back peered about. Every so often, the wife whispered a something and her husband just nodded. Sean kept his eye on the mare. He distrusted it, distrusted himself. His lack of expertise made him blind to signals. So many things he did not understand about horses. Knowing when they were tired, thirsty, or hungry for instance. He observed the other riders, worked by guessing and imitating them. How could he know the meaning of a horse having a hoof up on the sidewalk. But he had figured out how to harness and drive the carriage, and considering all that he had learned in only two weeks, he thought he was doing great. His army days were miles away. He did not know how he had ended on this bench driving a carriage horse to make a living in New York, but it was his first steady job in months. He did not want to lose it, did not want to take reckless risks. Still, he knew that the horse could pull a fast one on him and he would have no way of knowing the reason. He noticed large dark patches of sweat covering its coat. He decided it was safer to go back to the stable after the round. Maybe it was too hot after all. That’s all he wanted from the horse, to finish the ride.
The mare stopped to drink from a puddle. Sean did not want to upset it and so let it drink. He would make up for the lost time. The mare went on drinking for a while. Sean cursed to himself. He tugged on the straps. The mare tilted its head backwards but resisted. Sean kept on pulling. The bit askew in its jaw forced its mouth open. Slowly, he felt the tension loosening. Within seconds they had resumed their course.
Not far from the Reservoir where a column of runners raised a cloud of dust in their wake, the mare stopped short in its tracks. The carriage stood still at the bottom of a small slope. The mare lifted its right leg up, pawing the path. Please don’t do that now, he heard himself mutter. Sean whipped the horse’s flank. It jolted but refused to move.
“Looks like she needs another sip,” said the Englishman in the back, pointing at the puddle.
“She’s an Irish horse. She’d had plenty. She’s got to drink twice as much before she feels she drank something.”
“It reminds me of English horses,” said the woman gazing at her husband. The man continued to look through camera pretending not to have heard. Sean smiled to himself. These two are not getting along. That might play in my favor. Embarrassment always makes people tip more.
But still the horse would not budge. She was frozen. Sean jumped from the carriage and readjusted the harness straps, loosening them and re-tightening them. Sweat streamed down his face. His shirt was soaked. He heard the clanking of hooves and saw Paul’s carriage driving by. “Be gentle and walk her up,” Paul shouted without stopping. “Just walk her up.” Sean seized the bridle and pulled. The horse still would not move. The man at the back got up to take a picture of Sean yanking on the bridle.
“Just the heat. She’s old, stubborn, and starving,” Sean said, throwing his top-hat in the cab. “Come on you bitch!” he whispered into the mare’s ear. The white mare took an awkward step, then another. Sean jumped back up on the bench.
Across the park, on the West Side, he noticed the ceramic facade of the Dakota, glimmering through the trees. The building stood less than three hundred yards away, all downhill. The mare stomped along. It had made the trip so many times that Sean let it clatter its way back without interfering. He now saw that getting back to the stable was a wise decision. There was no way this horse could handle another ride. The riders had warned him. Most accidents happened when horses got tired and pushed. He had made enough money today.
On 72nd street, outside the Dakota building, he made a turn onto Central Park West and headed South.
“That’s the place where John Lennon used to live. He got shot right over there.” Sean pointed across the street, toward the doorman standing outside a black wooden hovel, outside the entrance gate. The Englishman ogled through his lens while his wife screwed her face up. Sean stopped the carriage, behind a stationed bus, across the street from the Dakota so that the man could get better shots and where Sean could remain out of the traffic.
“Let me know when you’re done,” he said. “Next, we’re going to the Boathouse. If you haven’t been there you should. Great restaurant. Great place to be romantic.”
The couple had not said a word since the woman’s remark about the English horses. The woman removed her glasses and stared at her husband, hoping he had inferred the hint. The man got off the carriage to photograph the Dakota. She followed him in silence. The mare put its hoof up on the curb and began to scrape the pavement. Sean flailed the reins to make the horse stop. In the rear view mirror, another bus appeared. A huge white mass moving towards him. It honked forcefully. The horse spooked, frolicked about. Sean flexed his arms to restrain it. The carriage stood still at the bus stop as the bus came up behind them. Sean cracked his whip. The mare would not flinch. The bus driver blew his horn again, stopping in the middle of the road, next to the carriage. Sean and the driver exchanged some gestures. At Sean’s request, the driver moved the bus in front of the carriage. At the same time, the horse began to prance, causing the bus to thwack the horse’s flank. The weak mare slipped to the ground. One of the carriage wheels rose up and slammed back onto the road. Sean was thrown off his perch.
The bus driver opened his door and came out screaming. A crowd gathered around the wounded animal. Its head rocked back and forth on the boiling asphalt. The English tourists disappeared in the growing mob. Sean spotted them taking pictures of the fast-breathing squealing creature. He reached out for its head. “Come on, come on get up,” he grunted, yanking on the bridle. The mare’s eyes rolled back. “Come on, get up. Get up, you fuck,” he screeched. He thrashed its neck and hind-legs, running back to front and frantically pulling at its head to make it get up. The mare went on sputtering. A back leg kicked out into the air. It continued to rock its head back and forth, its ears reclined. Blood dripped from its mouth and nuzzle, spraying the road. “Get up! Don’t do this to me” he screamed. Sean’s thrashing grew more violent. A hand grabbed his whip. Paul was standing behind him.
“You fuck, her leg’s broken. She won’t get up.”
Sean walked back to the Mid-town stable, carrying his top-hat and whip. He was about to enter the stable when a tow-truck pulled in with his carriage. What was going to happen to him? He felt hopeless. He had had so many jobs since arriving in the States. He had to take care of his family, his wife and his toddler son. It had been the first time in a long time he had felt good about his work. It was like being back home, surrounded by Irishmen like himself. Having to worry about losing this job made him angry.
Sean slipped into the dark stable where horses stood pressed against each other. The heat inside sharpened the acrid stench of urine. A bunch of Mexican grooms ran around the barn. Sean hung his hat and whip on his hook. His groom, Pablo, leaned against a beam at the entrance of the empty stall, one of his black rubber boots pressed up against the beam. He greeted Sean with a smile. Sean knew what he was after. It was the end of the week, and Pablo waited for his weekly tip. Sean averted his glance.
“She was no good,” said Pablo with a soft voice. Sean hung his gear back on a hook in the empty stall. “Too much work. Too many long hours.”
“Sounds like you’re complaining about your job.” Sean quipped as he stamped out. Pablo remained by the beam in the empty stall. Another groom approached. Pablo said something to which the other groom replied Cabron. In silence, they watched Sean cross the yard.
Sean’s heart was pounding but he proceeded towards the office with a firm gait. Across the yard, he caught sight of his boss. “Mister McCullen. Mister McCullen,” he shouted to a paunchy man with a purple face, who was getting into a blue Saab. Sean ran to the man who waited by his car, the door open.
“I’m sorry for what happened. It wasn’t my fault. I . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, Moriarty. It’s happened before, and it will again.” McCullen got into his car.
“Mr. McCullen?” The man closed the door but rolled his window down. “Does it mean I get another ride tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” McCullen looked down at the steering wheel.
“I work very hard, Mr. McCullen.”
McCullen looked back at Sean. “I’ve got to go now. A relative of mine’s just flown in, from home . . . I’ve got to go and get him . . . Why don’t you join us at the “Dead Poet?” We’ll have a drink and we’ll talk about it.”
Sean took the invitation as a friendly gesture. He shook his head with approval and thanked McCullen. As soon as the car had departed, he ran up the office stairs to get his paycheck. The office was empty. A blowing air-conditioner caused the slats of the blinds to bounce on a window frame. He sat on a chair and waited for the secretary to come back. He looked at his watch and thought about Vickie and Nigel, wondering what they were up to. He barely saw them anymore. He worked such long hours. Tomorrow night he would take Vickie out to a restaurant. Sean had no doubt McCullen would give him his ride back. McCullen had the reputation of being a generous man, of taking good care of his own people. He wanted to call Vickie and ask where she would like to go but he had no change in his pocket.
He heard the toilet flush in the back room and McCullen’s secretary, a slender redhead in her late thirties, with gracious hands, appeared. She made him nervous. He was always nervous in her company. She wore a dark blazer with a matching a mini skirt. She did not have good legs, but her black tights made him notice her. He could not ignore her sensuality, and her presence aroused him. He stood up to shake hand.
“Hi Maureen.”
“Corduroy pie?”
“Pardon?”
“Corduroy pie, four letters? The Times crossword,” she said with a painted finger pointing at a folded newspaper on her desk. “They get harder towards the end of the week. By Sunday, I can barely answer a single clue.”
“Too smart for me. I can’t get one any day.”
“It’s just a way of thinking.”
“Well, I suppose I’m not thinking the right way.”
She smiled and her thin eyebrows arched. She wore her long hair down over a pair of thin-rimmed silver glasses. She was beautiful. Sean grinned back and turned around, sensing a wave of heat crawling over his face.
“Coming for your weekly?” She opened a drawer, got out a metal box, leafed through some slips of paper, and handed him a paycheck. He signed a stub without looking at her.
Moving towards the door, he turned around. “Corduroy pie?” he said, “Could be something like . . . I don’t know. Doesn’t sound too appealing, does it? Imagine trying to swallow something like that.”
“I heard about your horse,” she said, taking a step towards him.
“It died on me. There’s nothing I could have done. I hope Mr. McCullen isn’t mad at me.” He looked away outside the window.
“I love that accent of yours. I’m going to have a party at my house next week. I’d love it if you’d come.” She scribbled her address down. Sean read it, folded it in two, and put it in his pocket. She hugged him. “No worry, Mr. McCullen’s a decent man.”
Sean felt a stir in his crotch and darted down the stairs. Her comment relieved him. All he had to do was meet McCullen at the Dead Poet on the Upper West Side, have a polite chat, and apologize for the horse. He pictured the horse’s head swirling about. It reminded him of this young man caught throwing firebomb to a tank, who had been sleep deprived. His head lolled on his chest. He thought how in just eight months he had managed to turn his life around. In Europe, this shift would have been impossible. America was really a land of opportunity. He opened the envelope of cash and added his tips to the till. His biggest pay to date. In the changing room, he buttoned up his jacket and patted the bulging envelope resting against his heart. He thought about calling Vickie again to let her know about his meeting with McCullen, but noticed that he was already late. He had so much cleaning to do beforehand.
An hour and a half later, Sean Moriarty entered the Dead Poet. The place was already packed. Celtic music blared through the front door and smoke filled up the long, narrow bar. The Chieftains came through the speakers. People sang in unison. The smoke formed a hazy cloud below the lights that hangs above an old snooker table. With each gesture made, the cloud formed twirling eddies. Sean looked for McCullen. He had not arrived yet. He gestured to the bald bartender above the crowd for a pint of Guinness. Sean acknowledged old Charlie, who was speaking with another driver he had seen around the park, also an old driver with a broad flaccid face. The driver with the flaccid face swayed with his pint of Guinness, dancing, while shouting over the deafening music. Sean joined the group.
“In my experience, there are only two sorts of men. Men who only run after women they can’t have. They spend their life in misery. And those who only go after women inferior to them so that they feel good about themselves. But this sort spends their life in boredom.”
“And what kind are you?” Charlie asked the old driver.
“Unfortunately, my life’s been one of misery. But without a woman.”
The men burst out laughing, clanged their drinks, and took a collective swig. Charlie introduced the old man to Sean as Patrick, also known as the philosopher. He introduced Sean as Moriarty.
“Moriarty, where is that from? Italy? Fuck, you don’t sound from our land,” said the philosopher.
“He’s been with us two weeks and he’s already killed one.”
Sean pursed his lips and winced.
“I told him to take it easy, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“She wouldn’t have been good enough for the Derby,” Sean said.
Charlie frowned at Sean, and the philosopher laughed and spouted his beer. “The man’s Irish,” he said. “Only an Irishman knows how to fight back.”
Sean put his hand on Charlie’s back. The men toasted and finished their glass. The group widened as more drivers walked in. It had been a longtime since he had mingled with his fellow countrymen. They talked football, Derry was playing in Belfast for the final cup. Sean ordered another drink, which he drank quickly. It made him feel merry. He looked at the cash in his hand and offered to buy another round. Everyone cheered. Looking for change in his pockets, he came across Maureen’s telephone number.
“What’s corduroy pie?” he asked. No one answered. “It’s for Maureen at the office. In four letters.”
“The bitch’s in heat again. She’s a fast mover,” said Charlie. He nudged the philosopher.
“She means F.U.C.K. Isn’t that four letters?” sneered the philosopher with eyes as round as marbles. Sean grinned as if he was beginning to understand.
“Well, you know, us guys from Derry are extra special.” He took a long swig to conceal his blushing face.
“She’s got a soft spot for accents,” said Charlie, leaning against the bar, with his head tilted sideways, mischievously. “See that big Scottish guy over there. With the big conch. Haggis-face is his name. He dumped her at the altar three years ago. She never got over it. Nor did he, for that matter.” The philosopher clasped his hand to his mouth. The beer exploded into his hand. After getting hold of himself, he added.
“She’s smart. Always scratching at those crosswords . . . Too bad I’m not your age anymore.”
“I’m married. I’ve got a wife and a kid.”
The group felt silent. The Pogues came on the juke and the singing resumed. Sean spotted McCullen’s red face. A young man in his mid-twenties with short dark cropped hair accompanied him. McCullen knew everyone in the bar, and everyone knew McCullen. He went around the room, while the relative waited by the counter. A moment later, he joined Sean’s group.
“I’m glad you could make it,” he said, taking Sean aside. “There’s a couple a things we need to discuss.” McCullen thought for a second. Sean felt a lump burgeoning in his throat. He forced himself to smile. The beer had already blunted his mind. He straightened up to appear sober.
“There’s nothing I could do . . .”
“I know. It’s just the beating in public has to stop. I can’t afford to have activist pricks behind my arse.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Things are different in the States. Things like this can kill a business.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re part of the family. Don’t you forget that.”
Sean thanked McCullen over and over again. Sean’s response pleased McCullen and he invited him to meet his relative. Sean looked above McCullen’s head at the stout young man.
“Three balls of malt,” said McCullen to the bartender leaning over the counter. The bartender span an empty glass in the air and placed it under a tap of Guinness. McCullen turned to Sean.
“You guys may have common friends. Bruno, my cousin’s son.”
Sean glanced at Bruno as they shook hands. He had never seen or met him before.
“You’re from where?” Sean asked.
“Yeah, I know you,” said Bruno looking at him head-on. “You’re from Banghor, aren’t you?” Bruno looked cold and defiant. Sean grew agitated. The beer was making him unfocused. He leaned against the counter. He raked his brain but could not remember the man. They had the same Northern accent. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Your folks live on Divinity road.”
Sean stared at Bruno as his hands grew moist.
“Do we know each other?”
“I know your face,” “Your brother, Patrick. A great friend of mine. We went to school together. I remember you very well.”
“You know Patrick? It’s been years since I last saw him.” Sean wiped his hands against his pants. He looked at McCullen for an explanation, unsure of what was happening.
“I went to see him in jail after he got arrested.”
“Oh.”
Bruno slammed down his pint on the counter. “Do you know what he called you?”
Sensing something wrong, McCullen proposed to toast Bruno’s coming. “All right,” he said, “Over here we don’t care about the dirt. We leave it where it belongs.”
But Bruno went on. “He was ashamed of you after you joined the British Army. He cried all the time about it: Fucking two-timer.”
Sean laughed, explaining that he was mistaken. But Bruno grabbed him by his neck. McCullen made a gesture to calm him down. People turned towards them. Sean pushed Bruno back.
“Fucking Two-timer.”
“Did he say a word about all the dough I sent to my parents? I bet you he didn’t. Drinking and fighting, that’s all he’s done all his life.”
Sean had lost his smile. His chest was pumped up. His fists had clenched instinctively. He dwarfed Bruno. He looked back and forth at McCullen and Bruno. Bruno seized his glass and shouted two-timer, and went on hitting the counter and repeating two-timer. The bartender grabbed two empty glasses and hit the wooden counter with Bruno, shouting. Puzzled, McCullen looked around the room. The groups of men had grown quiet. The music felt out-of-place. Sean tried to explain himself, but soon the din drowned him. The whole bar had caught up and was screaming altogether. McCullen sighed and gestured for Sean to leave. Sean felt a hand smacking him in the back as he headed towards the door. He spun around with his fist raised. The music had receded. He felt more pushes and nudges in his back. By the door, two brawny men with fiery eyes stared at him, lips gnarling and cursing. They walled the exit door with their bodies. Sean pushed his way through them. A deafening siren was coming down as he stepped into the street.
Sean got back to Jersey City on the Path. When he stepped out of the station, night had fallen. The air was sweet, warm, and muggy. He felt a tightness in his stomach. He had had nothing to eat the whole day. Sickened with anger, he could not eat anything now. He had lost his ride. His job again. He wondered whether to tell Vickie about what had happened with the horse, tonight at the pub. Traitor, they had called him. He was not going to find work again with such a reputation. The tightness increased. He had not experienced such a tightness since leaving England, the British Army. They knew he was Irish and they had sent him to Northern Ireland to fight his own. They too despised him for being Irish, for fighting his own. He was a traitor to their eyes as well. He remembered the hooded prisoners lined up, some bleeding, screaming curses, or moaning in pain. He tried not to talk to them to betray his accent. But he knew they knew. His silence was a give away.
He walked the five blocks home from the station with fists clenched. His street aligned with trees. Crispy dry leaves strewed the sidewalk, glowing under orange streetlights. Redbrick buildings. Just like fucking home, he thought. Until then he had never thought about it this way. He hoped to find the group of youth hanging on the street corner. He could not wait for one of them to make a remark. Any remark, they would make, he would grab one of them of punch the hell out of him. He caught sight of it from the distance. Five young men just hanging there, without an aim. He walked right in the middle of the young men. They just moved away as if they could sense something ominous about Sean.
Air-conditioners purred in windows. From the sidewalk, he glanced through the barred window, through the curtain billowing in the A.C., to see if Vickie was in the small apartment. The flickering hues of a TV bounced off the living room wall. No one there. He heard his eight-month old son, Nigel, screaming in the bedroom. He cursed to himself as he entered. Vickie sat in an armchair in front of the TV, without moving, in the dark. He turned the light on and gaped at her for a moment. Her eyes were swollen and glazed, her hair disheveled, stuck to her face.
“The kid’s crying,” he said. Vickie wiped her face with her sweatshirt sleeve. “I said the kid’s crying for Christ’s sake.” Vickie flicked through the channels without heeding him. Snatching the control out of her hand, he turned off the TV and tossed the control across on the sofa. He came close to her, put his hand on her . . .
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