I glance again at Roy, aggravated. And, as the night progresses, I only grow more so. Somehow he has a drink in his hand. I go up to perform onstage, and although Roy waggles his eyebrows toward me, then casts a glare at a man who whistles at me, that’s the extent of our interaction.
I’m tempted to wrap my arms ’round his neck, a little more tightly than usual, and kiss his cheek, but he angrily slams down a hand of cards. I keep walking toward the bar. Between mixing drinks, I keep an eye on Roy. Each time, his hair is a bit more mussed, and the knot in my stomach pulls tighter. Blanche has called Roy hot and cold, but right now he only seems hotheaded.
“What can I get ya?” I ask a man with red hair. He’s got a smart look. Hat, cane, pocket watch, bow tie, fitted vest—he has it all. And I bet his clothing is tailored, too. That costs a pretty penny.
A burst of movement ’cross the room startles me, and I knock a glass onto its side. A man has his arms ’round Roy’s neck, bending Roy at the waist, screaming at him. My hand flies to my mouth. With the music, their voices are lost; a chair falling onto its side is noiseless. It’s like watching one man pummel another in a silent film, ’til Rosie stops singing and the instruments trail off. The roar of the brawl envelops the room.
“Roy!” I shout, adding my voice fruitlessly to the mix. Rushing from behind the bar, I seize shoulders, waists, arms to create a path through the crowd that blocks my vision from Roy.
Breathless, I break through and act on impulse to separate them, grabbing the other man’s shirt, as if my five-feet-nothin’ strength could do an ounce of good.
Roy’s elbow juts out, and a flare of pain shoots into my jaw and ear. I don’t realize ’til after it’s happened, but I’m on the wet floor, face stinging. Blurred voices hang on top of me, asking if I’m okay.
I mumble a response, more concerned with Roy than my throbbing head. Buck has Roy’s arms behind his back. Raymond has the other man pinned against the ground.
“Roy,” I say, this time a whisper.
Blood trails from his lip. His shirt is torn. But the thing I observe most clearly is how he looks like a crazed animal, his head twitching toward the door.
Buck leads him in that direction, and I follow close behind. My thoughts are as twitchy as his movements: who and why and what on earth just happened?
He’s never gotten into a fight at Doc’s before, even with his smart mouth.
Once outside, Buck pulls open a car door. “I’ll take you home, Roy.”
“I’m going too,” I say.
“No,” Roy says.
I raise my chin and, for good measure, put one foot inside the car. “I’m going too.”
“Best to listen to the lass,” Buck says.
I climb in. Roy stares straight ahead and doesn’t say a word as he settles beside me. I dig my fingertips into the seat’s leather and steady my breathing, trying to ignore how the side of my face pulsates.
Besides the rumble of the car’s engine, there ain’t a lick of noise, and I watch Roy from the corner of my eye. He wrings his bloodstained hands, every once in a while dabbing his lip, and stares out the window as Dallas turns to Cement City.
Give him a few minutes, I tell myself, and probably what my ma would say to do. All I want to do, however, is pummel him with questions. I want to take his hand. I want to protect him.
“End of the road,” Buck says, and pulls the parking brake into place outside our little house. He twists backwards, one arm over his seat. “You two going to be all right?”
Before I can answer, Roy is out of the car and striding into the house. My voice comes out exasperated at his behavior, at not thanking Buck. “Yeah. Thank you. Tell Blanche I’ll talk to her in the morning.”
When I go inside, a crashing noise comes from another room of the house. I sigh, grabbing a wet rag from the kitchen to clean Roy’s lip. Then I hesitantly step into our bedroom. “What’re you doing?”
Roy yanks open a dresser drawer; it nearly falls out. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re packing a bag.”
He doesn’t bother to face me. “Then there’s your answer.”
Anger courses through me. I throw the rag at him with as much force as I can muster. The rag hits his back, leaving a wet splotch on his dirty shirt.
“What the hell, Bonnelyn,” he says, his voice stilted by alcohol.
“Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to have a drunken bar fight. You don’t get to storm into the house, act like a lunatic, and then yell at me.” I bite my lip, then very deliberately say the words, “What happened tonight?”
Roy freezes, a shirt in hand. He drops to his knees, his head falling against our bed. “I messed up.”
I kneel beside him and touch his back. He doesn’t flinch this time; his elbows just sink deeper into the bed. “How?”
“I wanted to blow off some steam. I’ve been working so hard, we’ve both been working so hard on the house, and nonstop at our jobs and…” He trails off.
“We have,” I say.
“I thought the hand was in the bag. At the table, I mean. I was wrong. Jenkins had a better hand. Jenkins always has the better hand. This wasn’t the first time I couldn’t pay up. And he ain’t okay with that.”
The groan of our ancient fridge from the kitchen is all that passes between us for a few moments. “What are you sayin’, Roy? I thought you’ve been winning. You told me you’ve been winning.”
“Not enough. I owe him. And this bloody lip doesn’t cover it.” For the first time, he looks at me. There’s fear in his eyes. “I got to go.”
He stands, and my hand falls off his back.
“What?”
“I’m leaving. I have to.”
“None of this is making sense. Where are you going?”
He bends to kiss my forehead. “Listen, Bonnelyn. Don’t open the door for anyone you don’t know. Don’t leave this house.”
“Roy,” I say, my voice shrill, panicked. “You’re scaring me. This is all insane.”
He runs a hand through his hair, picks up his bag, then he’s gone.
Roy’s gone.
23
I scan the street and trees, my fingers drumming against my knees, searching for Roy through Big Bertha’s windows. Though I know it’s hopeless, scanning for my runaway husband is a routine I’ve fallen into over the past ten days, no matter where I go. Now it doubles as a way to pass time while I wait for Blanche to return to her car. I peer again at Roy’s parents’ house. Blanche is walking back down their front path.
Once in the car, she shoves a bucket of brushes into the backseat, then a broom. Buck protests at the new additions to the backseat. She turns on me in the front seat. “God, that was embarrassing.”
I don’t care. “What did you find out?”
“A few things.” She sighs and holds up her pointer finger. “First, Mrs. Thornton ain’t interested in buying anything. But”—she holds up a second finger—“Mrs. Malone next door may want a broom, ’cause she was outside the other day whacking a stray cat and the broom looked like threads were holding it together. Or something. Third, Mrs. Thornton thinks it’s so nice I’ve found something valuable to do with my time. Like I’d actually sell crap door to door for real. And, lastly, she hasn’t seen or heard from Roy in days.”