Sondra raised her head and looked us in the eyes. Her eyes were wet.
“Because I am pregnant.”
Darryl and I spoke at the same time.
“Oh shit…”
“Da,” she sobbed. Tears rolled down her cheeks and spattered onto the table. “I don’t know who father is. Maybe customer. Maybe Otar or Evesi or Semion or other one of Whitey’s men. I don’t know. Maybe the police. Whitey make me sleep with them so they not raid the club.”
My anger swelled. Part of me wanted to drive back to the club and beat the shit out of Whitey, Otar, the cops, and everyone else that had ever ogled or used Sondra. But then I remembered that I was one of them. I’d stared at her, too. Every night at the club. Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach.
“If you don’t mind me saying,” Darryl spoke up, “you don’t look pregnant. Must not be far along.”
“Not too far yet, but far enough, no?” Sondra wiped her eyes. “Any pregnant is still pregnant, no matter how big is baby.”
Darryl nodded. “True that.”
“I tell Whitey tonight. Tell him I am pregnant. He get very angry. Asks how. I say I was careful but he doesn’t believe me. Whitey tells me we will get abortion. I tell him no. For the first time, I tell him no. It felt good. Then he hit me. And keep hitting me. He kicks. Say he will make me miscarry baby. Say he will make me eat miscarriage to teach me lesson.”
I gasped. “Jesus Christ.”
“You see? He is monster. So I run away and you find me. I am afraid he will be even madder now. Will want to kill me—and you, too. Both of you. And he will. Unless you kill him first.”
Darryl leaned back in his chair and shook his head.
“Well,” he sighed, turning to me, “I guess we better call off work this morning after all.”
nine
Darryl took care of calling GPS. The phone lines at the distribution center were busy and it took him a long while to get through. When he finally did, Darryl told our supervisor, Scott, that the head gasket in my Jeep had blown and we were stranded along the side of Interstate 83 waiting for a tow truck. Scott wasn’t real happy with this news. Apparently, our Load Area was getting slammed with boxes. Twelve trailer shipments of Total Gyms had arrived and they all had to go out immediately. Dock workers fucking hate Total Gyms. They’re heavy, unwieldy, and generally a big pain in the ass. The plastic binding straps can snap if you use them to lift the boxes, and the cardboard has sharp edges that will give you one hell of a paper cut if you’re not wearing gloves. The only thing worse than seeing an endless supply of Total Gyms rolling across the conveyor belts and sliding down your chute is at Christmas and the start of summer, when book distributors like Ingram and Baker & Taylor increase their shipments to bookstores. That’s just pure fucking hell—all those heavy boxes of diet books and How to Get Rich guides and whatever Oprah got wet about on television. Makes for hard days. That’s probably why I don’t read much, anymore. Thank God Oprah’s off the air now.
So Scott was pissed off, but not at us. He was just mad in general. Our department was getting its ass kicked. But he believed the excuse—believed that we were standing alongside the highway with a busted head gasket—and we were off the hook and out of trouble.
Relatively speaking.
We still had that whole Russian mob thing to worry about.
Sondra started crying again. It happened suddenly. No preamble or warning. One minute she was sitting there at the table, petting Webster and drinking her coffee. The next, she had her face in her hands, her body wracked with sobs. Webster hopped off her lap and ran into the living room. He stopped there, turned around, and watched her. Then he looked at me.
“Hey…” I reached for her, but then pulled my hand away. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry your old man molested you,’ didn’t seem appropriate. Neither did, ‘I’m sorry that you became a sex slave for the Russian mob’ or ‘Hope you and your unborn baby escape the psychopath who wants to kill you’. I was pretty sure Hallmark didn’t make greeting cards for such occasions.
I realized that Darryl and Webster were both looking at me now. They had the same expression on their faces: Do something, dumb ass.
So I did.
I got up, walked around the table and put my hand on Sondra’s shoulder. The silk was soft and smooth. Her skin was warm. She didn’t move, didn’t look up or acknowledge me, but neither did she push me away or run off screaming. I patted her shoulder and made empty promises—that it would be okay, that it was alright, all better, she was safe now. Sondra didn’t respond, but after a few minutes, she raised her head and wiped her eyes.
“I am sorry. I not mean to cry so much. I am just very afraid. And very tired.”
“Would you like to lie down for a little bit?”
She nodded. “Da. Just for few minutes.”
I took her by the hand. She didn’t resist. Webster trotted after us. I led her to my bedroom and immediately regretted it. The room was a mess. The sheets were rumpled and covered with crumbs—even a stain from the last time I’d eaten a meatball sandwich in the bed. Webster shed a lot and wads of cat fur covered the bedspread. Dirty clothing and wet towels littered the floor. My dresser and nightstand were a forest of empty beer bottles, joint stubs, half-read paperbacks, plates, bowls, and CD cases. The room smelled like ammonia; Webster’s litter box was hidden in the corner. I hurriedly attempted to tidy up, grabbing an armload of towels and clothes. Sondra giggled.
I turned around. She smiled at me and shut the door behind her. Webster immediately howled his displeasure at being locked out of the bedroom.
“See? You are like other men. Waiting for mother to clean up after you.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or joking. Shrugging, I dropped the dirty laundry in the hamper.
“The bed’s clean,” I said. “Just a little messy. Go ahead and lie down for a bit.”
“I am not wanting to be alone.”
“I’m sure Webster will climb up there with you. He never turns down a chance to nap. As you can hear, he wants in.”
“I like cat very much. He is fuzzy. But you will stay, too, yes?”
“M…me?” I swallowed. “Sure…I g-guess. If you want me to.”
“Da, I want you.”
She lay down on the bed, propped herself up on her elbows, and smiled again. I smiled back. She patted the mattress next to her and kicked off her high heels. Her robe had come unfastened again. Trying not to stare, I sat down on the edge of the bed and unlaced my boots. I jumped when her hands touched my shoulders.
“Shhh,” she whispered.
Sondra began massaging my shoulders. Her fingers kneaded muscles that I hadn’t even known were sore. Her breasts brushed against my back. Her nipples were stiff. So was I. She continued rubbing. The tension drained out of me. Gently, she pulled me down. Her face hovered inches away from mine. And then we kissed. She winced a little and I remembered her split lip.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized.
“Is okay. You are good to take care of me.”
I nodded, too stunned to speak.
“I wish I could stay here,” she said. “Is nice. My apartment is not this nice. You must have good job.”
“Not really.”
She kissed me again. This time, I made sure not to brush against her cut. Her fingers worked their way down my chest, then slipped beneath my shirt and caressed my stomach.
“You are in good shape. What do you do for living? You are not police. Maybe you are in the army, no? Or maybe you are under the cover police?”