this,” his voice is a whisper, less than a whisper, but it fills every corner, “is because I can’t have you.”
“Brian—”
But he doesn’t answer. He just leans into his hands, lost.
I take his hand, which feels almost feverish. “But these agency places, aren’t they just trying to help you? A social worker seems good—just to work out all your options?” Brian huffs out a laugh and pulls his hand away.
“I’ve been doing this for ten years , Carrie. Longer than most of the social workers have held their jobs. None of these fights are new, they just keep getting longer. I—” He suddenly stops and shakes his head.
“No, here’s the thing that I came here to say. I am not a good man. I am not some hero, or anything like it. I hate my job, do you understand? I hate it. But it was the only job I could get out of law school that had regular hours and good benefits. I couldn’t work anywhere that required billable hours. Or ambition. Or a dream of any kind.” His tone is harsh. Low. A little mean. I can’t help the tears tracking down my cheeks.
I think about how young someone fresh out of law school is. How much is ahead of that young person. I think about how many years it’s been since he’s been young, if he ever got to be, at all.
He reaches over and follows one of my tears with his thumb, rubbing it softly into my temple before pulling away again.
“That’s what I mean when I say that I am not a good man. Carrie, I live—I mean I absolutely fucking live —for the two times a year Stacy has to go to the fucking hospital for some complication or another because, guess what? I can sleep. I can get a beer after work. I can masturbate myself raw in my own goddamn living room. I can take a beautiful girl out for pancakes.”
And then he’s pinching his nose, hard, but the tears slide over his thumb and forefinger anyway.
I am just staring, my throat filled with something so hard and heavy it could be granite. I make myself breathe, as though if I take the right kind of breath he’ll breathe with me and be still. Still inside, just for a moment.
“But you braid her hair” is what I say. Which is stupid, and I am stupid.
“What?”
“She has beautiful hair. You keep it long and so you must have to wash it and dry it. You braid it.” He just looks at me. He’s looking at me so blankly for so long that I get uncomfortable, but then one of his dimples dives in, even without him smiling.
“Oh Carrie, you’re just so—” He closes his eyes again, but the dimples sort of turn into a smile, and everywhere he’s hinged shut opens just a crack.
“Stacy was in a car accident when she was seventeen. I had just started college, and she and my mom hadn’t gotten along for a long time by then. She was always calling me, in tears, about the fights and the battles, and as soon as I hung up with her, my mom would call to tell me I needed to ‘say something to her’ to get her to behave.”
“That seems kind of unreasonable.”
“Yeah, well. And so it goes.” His sigh doesn’t have any regret left in it. “The night she was in her accident, she had basically stolen the car because she was two strikes down on the three-strikes rule for new drivers. If she had another violation, moving or nonmoving, she was going to lose her license for a year. She picked up her girlfriend, and they took the car out to this neighborhood near where we lived. People out there live on two- to ten-acre properties and some have hobby farms, and all the roads are gravel.”
I take his hand again, and he lets me hold it.
He rubs his thumb over my wrist.
“They think she was trying to avoid a deer. Her friend, who survived and is okay, still doesn’t remember exactly what happened. Stacy was in the hospital for almost a year. She has some spinal cord damage, but it’s mainly the traumatic brain injury that is responsible for her condition now.
“The last time,” he clears his throat, “the last time
“Brian—”
But he doesn’t answer. He just leans into his hands, lost.
I take his hand, which feels almost feverish. “But these agency places, aren’t they just trying to help you? A social worker seems good—just to work out all your options?” Brian huffs out a laugh and pulls his hand away.
“I’ve been doing this for ten years , Carrie. Longer than most of the social workers have held their jobs. None of these fights are new, they just keep getting longer. I—” He suddenly stops and shakes his head.
“No, here’s the thing that I came here to say. I am not a good man. I am not some hero, or anything like it. I hate my job, do you understand? I hate it. But it was the only job I could get out of law school that had regular hours and good benefits. I couldn’t work anywhere that required billable hours. Or ambition. Or a dream of any kind.” His tone is harsh. Low. A little mean. I can’t help the tears tracking down my cheeks.
I think about how young someone fresh out of law school is. How much is ahead of that young person. I think about how many years it’s been since he’s been young, if he ever got to be, at all.
He reaches over and follows one of my tears with his thumb, rubbing it softly into my temple before pulling away again.
“That’s what I mean when I say that I am not a good man. Carrie, I live—I mean I absolutely fucking live —for the two times a year Stacy has to go to the fucking hospital for some complication or another because, guess what? I can sleep. I can get a beer after work. I can masturbate myself raw in my own goddamn living room. I can take a beautiful girl out for pancakes.”
And then he’s pinching his nose, hard, but the tears slide over his thumb and forefinger anyway.
I am just staring, my throat filled with something so hard and heavy it could be granite. I make myself breathe, as though if I take the right kind of breath he’ll breathe with me and be still. Still inside, just for a moment.
“But you braid her hair” is what I say. Which is stupid, and I am stupid.
“What?”
“She has beautiful hair. You keep it long and so you must have to wash it and dry it. You braid it.” He just looks at me. He’s looking at me so blankly for so long that I get uncomfortable, but then one of his dimples dives in, even without him smiling.
“Oh Carrie, you’re just so—” He closes his eyes again, but the dimples sort of turn into a smile, and everywhere he’s hinged shut opens just a crack.
“Stacy was in a car accident when she was seventeen. I had just started college, and she and my mom hadn’t gotten along for a long time by then. She was always calling me, in tears, about the fights and the battles, and as soon as I hung up with her, my mom would call to tell me I needed to ‘say something to her’ to get her to behave.”
“That seems kind of unreasonable.”
“Yeah, well. And so it goes.” His sigh doesn’t have any regret left in it. “The night she was in her accident, she had basically stolen the car because she was two strikes down on the three-strikes rule for new drivers. If she had another violation, moving or nonmoving, she was going to lose her license for a year. She picked up her girlfriend, and they took the car out to this neighborhood near where we lived. People out there live on two- to ten-acre properties and some have hobby farms, and all the roads are gravel.”
I take his hand again, and he lets me hold it.
He rubs his thumb over my wrist.
“They think she was trying to avoid a deer. Her friend, who survived and is okay, still doesn’t remember exactly what happened. Stacy was in the hospital for almost a year. She has some spinal cord damage, but it’s mainly the traumatic brain injury that is responsible for her condition now.
“The last time,” he clears his throat, “the last time
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