Reconciliation - A Short Story

"I can't do this anymore."

I wasn't sure who spoke first. Opening my eyes, I looked down at my stomach, past my pants to the floor. The empty glass on the table pawned the blame. The ashtray sat there with her mouth full.

"I understand."

Jezebel didn't look at my words, instead choosing the remains of what lie between them. Broken glass. Torn paper. Somehow the woman was still beautiful, perched there on the couch opposite. Red hair. Red eyes. The sad, even line of a forgotten smile. All the hard words already had been said. Without those, neither of us knew what to say. There didn't seem to be much left.

"I'm sorry," I offered, frantically grasping at the ice pick. The glacier between us had been moving for months, widening the distance. I reminded myself there was no need to yell. The children were sleeping, after all. They had heard enough.

"I know." Her murmur was soft, as it had always been. Recalling our introduction, I thought of the bar and the music that stifled our conversation, her velvet skirt, the smells of nicotine and vinyl. The script had somehow crept out the door with her that night, stretching out far further than it should have. Sex. Love. The phone call in June. Beside her, the infant emitted a soft squawk and turned her head. Together, we watched for her eyes to open. The disappointment was tacit.

"I can't afford to leave." The words seemed to convey everything I wanted to tell her, fear and regret encapsulated with a slur and ribbon. Somewhere outside, a conversation escalated. The girls upstairs were coming home. I instinctively glanced at the clock across the room. Jezebel waited until the knock of their footsteps receded.

"We can't go on like this," she decided. "The boys are hurting." Jezebel scratched at her cigarettes, pulling her next smoke from plastic.

"I'm hurting."

"I know". Since the baby, Jezebel had started smoking outside. The air was bad enough as it was. Sitting up was an arduous task. "No one needs to suffer anymore," I stated as I reached for the glass. "They don't deserve this." I started for the kitchen. "Nobody deserves this." The bottle in the freezer wasn't quite finished, enough left behind for both of us. "Do you want a drink?" Jezebel didn't respond, instead resting her elbows on her knees, staring through the wall.

I asked again, louder. "Do you want a drink?"

"Yes."

In the cupboard was a collage of glasses, plastic cups and coffee mugs, mine and hers sharing the space allotted. I chose one of hers."Sabastian wouldn't go to sleep," she told him from a place far away. "He kept asking where you were. I didn't know what to tell him."

"Tell him the truth," I answered as I squatted before the refrigerator. Milk. Apple juice. The options were limited. I grabbed two foil packs of Capri-Sun and fumbled for the sharp straws. "He deserves that."

"Yes, I suppose so," she agreed. "They both do." The only sound in the apartment was the clink of ice, the dry rasp of cold metal on cold glass. I stretched the vodka into both receptacles and squeezed the juice onto what was left. "Will you come outside with me?" Standing in the kitchen doorway, I looked at the woman he had won and lost.

"Of course."Taking care to pull the blanket over the baby, I followed her to the balcony. The wind was a welcome change from the harsh air conditioning. Spring came early to New Orleans, bringing the sun while snow fell in the places we were from. Our lives had been exchanged for this one, a thousand miles from what we knew. Familiar buildings. Friends. Dead lovers. The door was left open to listen for her cry."You shouldn't have said that. Not in front of the boys," Jezebel said as she sat on the concrete. I took a couple steps away and turned, pulling fire through my cigarette.

"I know," I conceded. Beyond the brick, I heard the churning of the pool cycling water, the rumble of a washing machine. "That has to stop, too."

"It all has to stop," she said with a mouthful of smoke. "All of it. Your anger. Your fits. You can't do this to us anymore."

"We can't do this anymore," I amended. She already speaks of us and myself, separate entities, forces opposed. "We have suffered long enough. The time has come to end the game.""This was never a game." Jezebel smiled the sardonic smirk, the way she tended to when she saw irony and pain. I wondered how many years it had taken to perfect that grimace, that suppressed frown in the face of the crowd. "This is our lives."

"Indeed it is," I nodded as I looked out across the courtyard. A handful of lit windows set the tenants from the condos. Television glimmer. The closing of the gate. The Hindi couple started up the stairs. "This wasn't what I wanted when I moved here, you know."

"I know."

The two of us had often spoke of what we wanted. A family composed of abandoned children and disillusioned parents, people clinging together for blood and romance in a world where neither meant anything. "This wasn't what I wanted either."The afternoon seemed like a car accident.

Between the tedium of the job and the cellular conversation, the fuse had started to burn. The wrath which ensued was without warrant. Crying children. Confused looks."So what do you want to do?" The attempt to absolve myself of responsibility was futile, pushing the decision into the hands of an innocent woman. And she would have no part of it."What I want is not important," she whispered in another cloud of smoke. "It never was."

"That isn't true," I countered.
"It's just different. What you want isn't what I want. That's all."

"No, I suppose not." The whimper inside distracted me, moving me to look through the door to the precious parcel sleeping. Jezebel didn't even turn. "She's fine." Two spent cigarettes raced to the ground below.Watching Jezebel walk to the baby was the same as it had always been. Shoulder blades and ribs protruding from an ill-fed torso. Tattoos undulating. The legs and buttocks which had taken me captive. For a long second, I considered the usual solution, moving behind her and taking her wrists, biting her neck, pushing her down. But this sickness was different than the ones before. This was our sickness. Every effort made to fuck it out of her would leave as much inside, developing and festering into beauty and confinement such as that which slept before me, as the boys down the hall.

To walk away from a woman was simple, a task as mundane as finding the door and the car. To walk away from children was an involved matter. Their eyes saw through all the wrong and the venom, pulling upon whatever good resided in the soul and dragging it to the surface.

I remembered the drinks on the kitchen counter. Some things never changed."Do you want me to sleep out here?" I asked. The question was honest as any I had asked, granting her permission to deny me the bed and the body upon which I feasted."No," Jezebel decided as she reached for the baby. A soft grunt came from the infant as she doubled up in her mother's hands, tiny bottom lip pushing out in discontent. "I don't like to sleep alone."

"You're not sleeping alone," I countered before I took a drink. "The baby is with you." The woman held the little one to her chest and turned to face me, her eyes dark with resentment.

"That's not what I meant."

I lingered long enough to turn down the lamps, wandering across the carpet, placing my hand on the cat which slept on the dining table. I poured my drink down the sink, then hers. The deadbolt clicked home. The hallway stretched all the way to the end.The play is ending soon, I thought as I reached for the doorknob.

But it is not over yet.