Page 12 of Poetry On Ice
Amber, Luddy’s wife, is in the kitchen chatting with a couple of the other wives. As soon as McGuire reaches them, a cacophony of “Robbie this” and “Robbie that” breaks out, all said in lilting tones usually reserved for rescue puppies.
Someone asks for a platter to hold a batch of chicken nuggets that are ready to come out of the oven, and that sends McGuire hunting through various boxes, cool as a fucking cucumber. He cuts boxes open, rifling through them, and then laughs and stacks them again when he comes up empty. I swear to God, I’d be tearing my hair out if I was entertaining and this was the state of my house. I find it stressful enough even with the help of an A-list interior decorator, a cleaning service, and a catering company. And here he is, having the time of his life, house crawling with people, without so much as a seat to offer them.
“Sorry,” he says when he’s unsuccessful in his quest to find a platter, “haven’t had time to unpack yet.”
No shit, Sherlock.
There’s a chorus of sad, sympatheticoohsandaahs.
“Kids!” says Amber. A bunch of them stop what they’re doing and look up. I don’t blame them. Amber has a kind smile and a no-nonsense set to her jaw. She’s a woman who has raised four children, all boys, all well-behaved, so you better believe she knows how to make people listen when she speaks. “Line up here. We’re going to unpack Robbie’s kitchen for him.”
In a matter of minutes, boxes are ripped open and goods are unpacked with the precision of a productionline. McGuire looks on, shaking his head now and again in wonder. Within twenty minutes, the contents of the boxes labeledKitchenhave been neatly stowed away. A couple of players start collapsing boxes, but McGuire rescues a few and tapes five or six of them together with packaging tape. He scoops up the youngest kids and dumps them into the giant box he’s created, giving them some plastic cups and a couple of paper napkins to play with, and wouldn’t you know it, kids, mothers, and fathers alike act as if he’s just invented Christmas.
The doorbell rings. McGuire rubs his hands together and cries, “Food’s here!”
He disappears from view and returns with a mountain of pizza boxes and a couple of buckets of fried chicken under one arm.
Everyone cheers as though the idea of ordering greasy takeout when entertaining is the most novel thing they’ve ever personally encountered.
Fuck.
I hate it here.
When I’ve had a couple of slices and finished my drink, I take a wander through the rest of the ground floor of the house. I find a deserted alcove under the stairs so I stand there and collect myself.Some people might call what I’m doing skulking, and they’d be dead wrong.
But only because I hate the word skulking.
“You looking for something?” I know it’s McGuire without turning. His smooth, pleased-with-himself voice hits me at the base of my skull and activates a reaction that typically occurs in response to a perceived threat or attack.
Some people call it fight-flight-freeze.
For me, it’s fight-fight-fight.
I turn to face him. His hands are in his pockets and his shoulders are relaxed, but there’s a hard glint in his eye that he doesn’t usually let people see.
“You know you can afford furniture, right?” I ask to antagonize him.
He takes both hands out of his pockets, rubbing a forefinger and thumb together absently before dropping both hands to his side. “I do know that.” He pauses and smiles beatifically. A sweet smile almost catches me off guard. “Last time I checked, I out-earn you by twenty percent.”
My fury is instant. Zero to one hundred in under three seconds. I step forward, breathing hard and loud. He doesn’t flinch or step back. Instead, his right hand twitches, fingers curling tightly into his palm.
“You’re lucky there are wives and kids here,” he says, keeping his tone mild. “Otherwise, I might be tempted to give you the beating you richly deserve.”
He’d givemea beating?
Him?
He thinks he could take me?
Oh fucking fuck, my blood pressure just went through the roof. I know it. I can feel it—shortness of breath, headache, heart palpitations—I have all the symptoms.
I’m going to put this guy on his ass if he isn’t careful. I’m going plow my fist into this face. I’m going to mash my knuckles into those soft, full lips.
I’m going to split them open.
I’m going to watch him bleed.
I’m going to rip that stupid fucking hemp T-shirt down the middle.