*
They talked it through. This was why Laura had been so moody. He could understand that. She thought he had figured it out and was angry. How could he have figured it out? Telepathy? Now, they were in it together. And they would stay together. She wanted the child. And he did too, after he had given it some thought. He did want it. It was a surprise, but they were living together. They were everything but married. So why not? They had agreed. They were together for the child, and they would stay together.
The day was like a dream. He called in late to work so he could layer more chicken wire over the coop. He double-layered the sides, ensuring nothing living, not even a mouse, could squeeze in. He walked through work like a zombie. He got dinner together. Something simple that wouldn’t upset Laura’s stomach. Rice. Grilled chicken. Virtually no flavor.
He walked Elmo down the dark streets. They rounded the corner where he had seen the drug deal. What he had thought was a drug deal. It probably wasn’t a drug deal. He stopped and looked where the two men had stood under the tree. What a crazy world, he thought. Left turn from the right lane.
Only in the dark could he see what he was feeling. He was terrified. And angry too. The anger was hard to explain. He was so angry; not like last night with the chickens when she told him, but something more durable. Things seemed to be spinning out of control. It was this neighborhood. The people. The dark streets. This was someone’s fault. Like them moving in together. Or those fucking chickens. Her idea. Her fault. He felt like he had been tricked. She had been a different person before. Was the new Laura who she truly was? Too late now. Lucky for her, he was a stand-up guy. He was going to do the right thing. He would grit his teeth and do the honorable thing. But goddamn it. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Goddamn fuck.
He loved her. He loved her before and he loved her now. That stuff in between was just confusion. They would communicate. He loved her last month and he loved her now. This was the natural next step. They would have gotten here anyway. She was for life. This was for real. They would not become his parents.
He stood on the corner with Elmo. He could let the dog loose right here and maybe he would run away. Probably he would. Elmo would go half-wild if not on his leash. Laura had never trained him, and Cal believed that if there was no structure, at a certain point the dog became untrainable. Elmo might get hit by a car, running in circles on Broadway or caught up on Route 10. He might be picked up by someone, a family who would keep him and care for him, or a thug who arranged dogfights with pit bulls. After a week or two, he might come whining at their back door, weak and exhausted, forever changed by his ordeal.
Cal’s hand touched the clip for the leash. He pushed the metal stud back and held it. The base of the clip hurt as it pressed into the tender part of his palm. The pain felt good. Elmo panted beside him, looking up at him expectantly. What are you gonna do? Put off answering, that was an answer. Trust that things will take care of themselves. That was an answer too. He let go of the latch and felt the lock click into place. The metal no longer pressed into his palm. He rubbed the spot against his pants to wipe the feeling away.
He was going to do the right thing. He wouldn’t let Elmo run off. He wouldn’t let the chickens be killed. He and Laura would have a child and he would take care of it too. And he would lose the anger. It couldn’t last, this desire to hit something. To hit it hard. His father must have felt this way. He clenched his fists and relaxed them. Clenched and relaxed. He jerked at Elmo’s leash, and the dog stumbled forward with a yelp. Cal ignored him and pulled harder. They needed to get back. Laura would be waiting.
TRAINING
BY DAWN RAFFEL
Providence Station
1.
The Mouth Is Saturated with the Taste of Something New
Wind is what wakes her, wind and rain, against the hotel window: he, in a slant across the king-size bed, as if to fill the whole of it; she curled tightly, knees to chest. Nausea rolls up in her. Feet to the floor. Nose to the glass. The rain, she sees, in the light from the street, falls thick like slush, not entirely liquid. Across the street a flag is madly flapping.
She enters the bathroom and splashes her face. Reflected back: pale, slim, her eyes slightly puffy—younger, she thinks, than hours before, dressed up, made up: the luminary’s girlfriend. Young as the daughter he does not have. The light has a flicker. The hotel he’d researched, meticulously. He likes to live in advance.
She tosses a washcloth. Walks back out and watches him breathe.
In the glow from the street, the spit of light from the bathroom, she tries out a password. Second pass. Easy.
Asleep, he is almost as young as she.
2.
The Point of Departure