Marital Bitch (Men with Badges)

Chapter TWENTY SIX

(Brad)

I wouldn’t have her any other way.

I LEAVE COLLEEN in the bathroom and head down to my poor vomit-ridden truck and get to work on cleaning her out. She's a mess and she smells like shit, but I really don't care. Colleen might be pregnant. And the biggest, ear-to-ear grin lights up my face. I realize how stupid I look-- scrubbing up vomit and smiling like a fool. If vomiting is a sign that we're going to have a baby, then I don't care how many more times I have to clean up puke.

A baby.

My baby.

Our baby.

Despite how much I want this, I can’t help but think about how screwed up our relationship is. We’re off and then we’re on, but only for a moment because I look at her wrong or she only hears what she wants to. Then I get annoyed and she gets pissed and we’re left standing there, looking like the idiots we are. The only thing that’s changed since we were babies is that now we solve our arguments through sex. We both initiate it. Arguing is like our mating dance or something ridiculous like that.

The fact that we’ve been unable to mature any in the last thirty-five-odd years leads me to believe we’re going to raise some messed up kids. I mean, I think we’re capable of feeding and diapering and caring for a kid on a daily basis; but what will we be teaching them?

My brain hurts.

The thought occurs to me that even if, in time, Colleen learns to love me as more than just her best friend that we may never get along. We may never be Ward and June Cleaver who never seemed to fight and lived in this idealistic state of marital bliss at all times—not that I’m much like Ward Cleaver. Anyway. Colleen is definitely no June Cleaver, I can tell you that. I have never seen that woman make the bed or a decent meal in her life (not one that was edible anyway.)

I finish cleaning out Sweetness and I give myself a sniff. I stink pretty badly, but whatever. I’m going to buy a pee stick, not sit at some fancy dinner. So, I ignore the scent and grab my keys from my pocket, pulling out the spare to Colleen’s Honda. I know I’m going to stink her car up, and I can’t help from smiling. It serves her right. She’s just lucky I haven’t puked in this thing.

The drive to the drug store is short. I could have walked it, but I really don’t want to hold up this process any more. Colleen could be pregnant with our baby right now. Unfortunately, when I get to the drug store, it’s packed; which is strange for this time of night. Neighborhood folks form a line at the front registers that is at least ten people long. I groan. I hate waiting in line. I wish I had my badge right now. I could flash it and see all these people scatter. Well, okay, maybe not; but the thought is nice.

So, I finally make my way to the back of the store where they got condoms next to diapers and pregnancy tests next to drug tests. Huh. The aisle is empty, thank God. I feel like some kind of pervert, like I’ve done something wrong to be here. I feel like I did that time back in high school when James thought Darla was knocked up and she made him go buy a pregnancy test. She said not to tell anyone, so what did he do? He dragged me along. I remember standing there, my hands shoved in my pockets, looking like I had been the irresponsible jerk who felt like their life was about to end.

Why is he my best friend again?

Oh, that’s right. He’s not.

His obnoxious little sister is.

My wife.

And we’re back to present day and I’m standing here and I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing. Some of these tests say they’ve got digital readings on them. Some of them give you a plus or negative sign. Some of them have the word “pregnant” appear and some of them, I just don’t even know what the hell they do. So I look through them and decide on the one that spells out the word “pregnant” or “not pregnant” because damn if that ain’t clear.

“Thirty-five dollars!,” I shout. The entire drug store silences and heads poke around the corners of the sex aisle and gape at me. I rub the back of my neck and look around. “Damn,” I say, trying to look innocent, “some people got no respect. Why do they have to be so loud?” I continue to look around as innocently as possible and soon enough the nosey birds are no longer interested in the idiot down aisle sex with sticker shock.

Thirty-five dollars seems a little ridiculous to me. I want to call James or Darla or hell, even Ma, and ask them what’s considered a reasonable price; but nobody else knows that we’re trying to have a baby, except Dan, and I’m thinking the wife wouldn’t like me just blurting it out to the world. And if I tell Ma, I’m telling the world. You see, despite Colleen’s opinion of me, I do think things through before I do them. But much like the wife herself, I go ahead and do it, bad idea or not. I won’t tell her that, though. I also know how to keep from starting a fight; but I kind of like fighting with her. She’s never more passionate than when she’s angry, and she seems to thinking putting out will show me. Yeah, she “shows me” real good when she’s pissed. Needless to say, Mac is partial to an angry Colleen.

I poke around the aisle and continue to gripe about price gouging because damn it, this is ridiculous. I’m half tempted to drive across town to Walmart and hope their prices are considerably cheaper, when my favorite misguided youth walks down the aisle.

Joe McCarthy is a GED recipient who works down at the butcher shop around the corner. I first met him while volunteering as a big brother at the Southie location of the Boys & Girls Club. I was his mentor; so when I picked him up on a “drunk in public” charge last year, I felt like I had failed him. Despite his sometimes reckless behavior, he’s a decent kid just doing the best he can. I remember cuffing him and he broke down crying. He had just found out his girlfriend was pregnant and he didn’t know what to do. Joe was just sixteen at the time.

“Joe,” his head snaps my way and his eyes widen before he smiles at me.

“Patrick!” he says enthusiastically. “What you doin’ in my ‘hood, bro?” I quirk an eyebrow at him. I may not be on duty or in my work clothes, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to command respect. If anything, this kid needs someone to show him how to be in the world.

“Uh,” he coughs, “Officer Patrick, Sir,” he stutters.

“What are you doing here, kid?” I ask.

“I got to pick up some formula,” he points to the display before him. “Maya isn’t breastfeeding, and this shit is expensive.” I lean over and look at formula prices. Oh, f*ck that. Colleen’s just going to have to play dairy cow until the kid can eat adult food.

“That’s not cheap, kid,” I say, trying to hide my fright at the possibility of having to pay those costs. And here I thought thirty-five bucks for a test was bad. That formula would put me in the poor house.

“Don’t I know it. What’re you doing down here?” he asks again and I realize that I ignored his question the first time he asked it.

“Just picking something up for my wife,” I say. Joe leans over and looks at the couple hundred pregnancy tests that I’m standing in front of.

“You go and knock up your girl, Officer Responsible?” he asks. I throw my head back and laugh.

“My wife,” I correct. “You know, it’s this little thing adults do. They get married and then they knock up their girl.” I nod my head and Joe looks away briefly before righting himself and sticking his chest out.

“Yeah, well, maybe some of us are just that good,” his body gives a false bravado, but his eyes look desperate. The longer I stand here with this kid, the more I remember little things about him. His dad’s gone-- has been for years-- and it was just he and his mom until Maya came along. They were already struggling when they’d found out he knocked her up. By then, his hopes of college and a future outside of Southie had all but disappeared. He reminded me so much of Colleen back then, wanting out of Southie at all costs.

Standing here with this kid, I’m reminded of how lucky I am. I feel like I need to do something like hug my mom and dad right now; but I’m thirty-five so I don’t dare voice that to anyone. Not even the wife needs to know when I get emotional. She’s liable to ask me if I need a tampon. Why do I love this woman again?

“You doing okay?” I ask. He nods with a determination that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Tell me the truth, Joe, or I can’t help you.” I urge him to talk because I really do want to know what’s going on with this kid. I know he’s still doing the big brother thing at the Boys & Girls Club, but that doesn’t mean he is doing okay. After his daughter, Jane, was born he transitioned from little brother to big brother in the program. I still look after him as much as I can, though.

I was there the day he found out his life was totally f*cked. I was there the day he started on as a big brother to some poor kid who had it worse off than he did. I was there the day his kid was born, and I want to be there if he needs me now.

Kids like Joe aren’t just a nuisance in the neighborhood. They’re good kids who grew up with nothing, had to work with nothing, and were expected to live off nothing. Dad always said it was moments like this that made him want to be a cop. I used to think he sounded like a girl saying it, but looking at Joe, I know what he means. I want to make a difference in this kid’s life; even if it is something as small as buying the formula for him. Everybody deserves a helping hand.

“It’s just tough,” he says. “You know that scholarship you got me?” I nod. It wasn’t really a scholarship. It was more like a gift from me and James, but Joe doesn’t need to know that. It wasn’t all that much, either. We just put $500 in each so he could get started at the local community college.

“I don’t want you thinking I just didn’t want to go or something, but I had to return it. I can’t take classes right now. I’m working two jobs because Maya don’t want to work. Something about bonding or some shit.” I know better to ask him about his mom. She’s been relying on welfare for years and hasn’t worked since he was a small child. This kid has the weight of the world on his shoulders; I could never be mad at him for making the best choices he can for his family.

“Well,” I say, “you have to do what you have to do, kid. But you know that scholarship is there when you’re ready to use it. It won’t expire.” He nods and sighs. I’ll figure out a way to help him later.

“Can’t decide which one to get?” he asks. I shrug.

“They’re so expensive,” I gripe before stopping myself. I like being friendly with the kid, but we’re not friends. My job alone sees to that.

“Buy one of the clearance ones,” he suggests, leaning over and pointing at a bunch of pregnancy tests with bright orange labels showing a cheaper price. They look generic in brand and their boxes are pretty beat up, but they’re marked down to $4.99. I reason with myself that they wouldn’t sell them if they didn’t work. Besides, how complicated can this be?

“Sweet,” I say, grabbing a box. Joe smirks.

“So, Officer Catch Some Snatch is gonna be a dad, huh?” I stare at him incredulously.

“What did you just call me?” I ask, half confused and half irritated. The kid always has some creative name for me, but this takes the cake. He gulps and laughs nervously. I dismiss it and ask him if he’s still at his mom’s. He confirms and I tell him to stay out of trouble, leaving him behind to pick out his own damn formula.

Up at the register, I pay for my item and a $50 gift card as well. The cashier makes a side comment about being unaware they were still carrying that brand. She must be surprised this place is selling them so cheap. I smile and tell her I was happy to get a good deal. She seems uncomfortable so I don’t engage her further.

“So,” I address the cashier after she rings me up. “This gift card is for the teenage kid that walked in a few minutes ago. His name is Joe. He’s got blond hair.” The cashier just stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language, so I lean in to emphasize my point.

“Tell him someone left this behind and use it to pay for his purchase, and then give it to him. Tell him you can’t tell him how much is on it but he can call that number on the back.” And she just continues to stare at me. “Okay?” I ask, a little annoyed at her ineptitude.

“You don’t want me to tell him it’s from you?” she asks, finally catching on. I shake my head no.

“My name is Officer Bradley Patrick, so I urge you to take this seriously. Make sure he leaves with that card.” I walk off, hoping she does as I ask. I’d hate to have to come back with my badge, not that it can really do anything.

In my car, I watch and wait for Joe to leave the store. He looks lighter, relieved. His eyes scan the parking lot looking for me, but I’m without my truck so he doesn’t find me. I know he knows the gift card is from me. A genuine smile crosses his face and he walks home, I hope feeling just a little better about his day.

I think about Joe and the other kids at the Boys & Girls Club whom I’ve met over the years. Colleen used to volunteer as a big sister before she started at the firm and got too busy for all of us from the neighborhood. She used to be really something special, she still is, but I hadn’t seen it in a while. If there’s one positive outcome to this marriage it’s that my old Colleen is coming back little by little. I remember the day she told me she was going to Harvard. I didn’t understand. She’d spent two years at the community college and then got into state and from there, Harvard for grad school. I didn’t really understand why she would want to be a lawyer, but then she told me, and I couldn’t help but support her. She wanted to be able to help kids like Joe, like all of them at the club. She wanted to work in family law. I don’t know when things changed, but they did. She became more concerned with the almighty dollar and her reputation and appearance than she was actually helping people.

James, Colleen and I started volunteering back in high school. Our dads always made sure we knew how lucky we are. My time with the kids has dropped dramatically since the Vegas trip as I’ve been distracted with the old lady; and work hasn’t been easy, either. Those stupid college kids and their “study aids” have been keeping me pretty busy. Just as I walk into the house, I resolve to spend more time at the center. I wonder if Colleen will come with me or if she hasn’t come back to herself as much as I think she has.

Upstairs, Colleen is sitting in the center of our bed, chewing her bottom lip right off. She’s wearing one of my old t-shirts-- her favorite night wear-- and her long blonde hair is down and damp. She picks up a water bottle, takes a gulp and then squirms in place. I chuckle at the sight. What in the hell is she doing?

“Oh, thank God!” she exclaims, tosses the capped water bottle to the side and jumps up. She grabs the small plastic bag from my hand and rush to the bathroom. In a matter of seconds, I hear the bag crinkle, the box opens, and plastic being ripped apart.

“Took you long enough!” she shouts. I round the corner to find the bathroom door wide open and Colleen peeing on the stick. I walk over to her and pick up the directions as she continues to pee.

“Did you even read how to work this thing?” I ask, trying to make sense of the directions. I find the spot that tells me not to pee on the stick for too long. And Colleen keeps right on peeing. God, I hope she’s peeing on the right f*cking end. I don’t want to have to go back out.

“Uh, babe,” I say, “I don’t think you’re supposed to pee on it for that long.”

“I can’t help it!” she whines and continues to pee.

“Seriously?” I stare down at her. “You can keep peeing but remove the damn stick!”

“What am I supposed to do with it?” she asks.

“Hell if I know,” I say, shrugging. I’ve never been in this position before. Her confusion leads me to believe that neither has she. I breathe a sigh of comfort, allowing myself to imagine that I’m the only man she’s ever been with. Unfortunately, I can’t pretend that I’m the only person, as I’ve seen firsthand that I’m not.

Pinching the end of the stick daintily with the tips of two fingers, she plops the stick on the counter, leaving a trail in her wake. This is a pretty gross process to be honest. Messy, too. With all the fancy shit scientists can do nowadays and they still haven’t figured out a way to tell a lady if she’s knocked up without her peeing on her hand? Either way, her piss, her problem. I am not cleaning that off the counter.

Looking at the directions, it says to check the stick in five minutes, but not to trust results after ten minutes. I check my watch, it reads 11:05 p.m. “Okay, we got five minutes pretty girl,” I say, smiling down at her. She looks up at me and grins.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” she says, her voice giddy with excitement.

“I know,” I smile at her goofily. She sighs and then snaps back to reality.

“Can you leave? I need to... finish up here,” she looks around nervously. I smirk and back away.

“Okay, pretty girl,” I say, “but if you wipe three times, you’re just playing with yourself.”

The plastic hand soap dispenser comes flying at my head just as I turn the corner into the hall. I walk into our bedroom and check my watch. Two minutes to go. I plop down on the bed and chuckle as she continues to call me every name under the sun. The only thing that really registers is the threat that if I keep it up, I won’t be playing with her anymore. The woman is unbalanced-- definitely unbalanced-- but I wouldn’t have her any other way.