Let Him Cry Pt. 01

She looked around the room at the throw pillows on the couch and the colorful Impressionist painting above the couch -- at the decidedly non-bachelor appearance of the condo. "I thought there was a woman's touch about this place."

"I haven't changed it much," I said, staring at my lap.

"Divorce or did she pass away?"

"She died."

"I'm sorry."

I shrugged.

"She was pretty. Tell me about her."

I looked back to find her looking over to where the picture hung ... the one that I could never look at but could never take down. I wasn't willing to follow her gaze. It was taken on our honeymoon and showed Liv leaning back on a bench in Piazza San Marco, her face raised to the sun, her arms outstretched along the backrest, while a flock of pigeons swirled around behind her. She had hung it within days of getting the diagnosis. "So you can remember what a hottie you landed," she'd said ... gallows humor in the face of tragedy. That had upset me terribly though I kept it to myself.

I looked away, fighting off the memory. "I can't."

"Of course you can. Something simple. Where did you meet?"

Part of me wanted to erupt at the audacity, but I wasn't that far gone yet. I gave her the smallest answer I could manage -- "College" -- hoping that would be enough, that the brusque tone would let her know this was not welcome.

But she didn't want to let it go. "How?"

"A party."

"When?"

"Right before Spring Break our junior year."

Each successive question felt like a chisel tap against my armor, a tiny drop of accelerant thrown on mounting dread. Until the question my subconscious had feared came.

"When did she pass away?"

I just stared at her. Only some vestige of manners kept me from losing it.

She waited expectantly. Implacably, it felt.

Anything to stop this. "Just over nine months ago. On a Sunday. In Florida." A scowl, the belligerence finally slipping its bonds in a snide, "Okay?"

But no, not okay. "An accident?"

I stood abruptly. "She was sick, and I don't want to have this conversation." Cabin fever or not, good manners or not, I was done. I went back to my bedroom, too disturbed to watch television, wondering what had possessed me to answer instead of lashing out in defiance of every rule Mama Brennan had ever drilled into me about how to speak to a woman.

And what was going on? The last time I'd been forced to remember, when I gave some of Liv's family jewelry to her sister, I'd felt nothing. I'd stood and watched her pick up each piece and turn it over in her fingers while crying, and they'd just been ... things.

I didn't cry then. I still didn't cry now. I wondered if people thought I was callous.

The following day didn't go that much better, though it was mercifully short with Caitlyn. As I brewed the coffee, she stepped into the kitchen.

"Well, I'm off."

"I'll walk you down." Politeness gave me distance and shored up my armor.

At the lobby door, she turned for a final goodbye. "Take it easy ... and I mean that literally. Remember my story about my knee when you feel cocky. I left my number on the nightstand. Call me in a couple of days and let me know how you're doing. I'm always glad to know about my patients, and you weren't the worst one I ever had."

"Nor the best."

She smiled. "No, not the best." The smile faded and she added, "I'd tell you to talk to someone, but I have the feeling you'd tell the counselor to eff off in the first ten minutes. I could see it on your face last night." I was embarrassed at being called out for discourtesy, even if minor. And even if, in my view, totally justified. She spared me having to respond with a smile and pushed her way out the door.

I felt a sense of relief as I watched her car pull away. Now, perhaps, there'd be some peace and I could focus on getting back on an even keel.

Of course not. Freshman year, the psych professor told us, "Don't think about a polar bear for the rest of the class," and white bears kept popping into our minds all period.

Now, despite nine months of habit, my eyes kept lighting on things around the apartment. The ashtray stolen from Hog's Breath Saloon in Key West even though neither of us smoked, because it was her birthday and our first beer together that involved zero fake IDs. The empty flowerpot her niece had made that had once held a philodendron, empty now because I hadn't looked at it for months after the funeral. The tiny star cactus that was still alive, only because it somehow survived two months of abandonment, nowadays watered mechanically.

It was a week that felt like a month. My head was throbbing a lot of the time. The Comfort Corps was out in force once the news spread. Each evening I looked long and hard at the bourbon bottle, but Caitlyn's words stuck with me. In addition to the headaches, there were occasional moments of uncertain balance, and my memory of the day of the accident still wasn't razor-sharp.

And, to be truthful, a pair of light gray eyes that didn't exist except in the back of my mind looked at me with a distinct expression of reproach when I contemplated a bottle.

Caitlyn called at the end of the week. "Hello, Matt. It's Caitlyn McCarthy. You didn't call and I wanted to see how your injury was doing."

"Do you check up on all your patients?" There was, perhaps, a tiny snide note there.

"Yes."

That shut me up.

Ostensibly, she called to inquire about my head injury.

The reality was, "Well, I'm glad to hear that you've cut down on the drinking. You may want to get out a little more. Do some walking" -- what, now I wasn't walking enough? -- "and maybe reconnect with a few friends who'll get you out of the house."

I didn't hang up on her ... quite ... but I was glad I didn't have to face that on a twenty-four-hour basis.

About the only bright spot that week cost me a small ransom. A call to the police to find out the consequences of my foolish gesture with my car resulted in a trip to the impound lot. I still didn't have a watch.

Two more weeks went by. Physically, I improved. The stitches came out, the balance firmed up, my mind felt clear again, though that day was probably forever fuzzy. The headaches went away except when I over-exerted myself.

Emotionally, it was a different story. At least once a day I found myself getting irritated at some minor thing: usually someone checking up on me. And whatever fuckhead's car alarm went off at three in the morning really pissed me off. I'm not sure what bled through the phone line when Caitlyn called me again.

"Tell me, really. How are you doing?"

"The scars itch a little but nothing—"

"You know what I'm asking, Matt."

I didn't answer.

"You know I'm going to keep asking."

I sighed. "Most of the symptoms are gone, b— I am telling you, let me finish! Most of the symptoms are gone, but I still get irritated a lot."

She was uncharacteristically quiet for a long moment before responding. "The professional side of me wants to tell you that concussions are tricky, that symptoms can come and go for months, talk to your doctor." Another hesitation. "The nonprofessional side of me wants to tell you that maybe it's not the concussion."

"What is it?"

"I'm only a nurse. That's not my area of expertise. It's just a feeling."

I resorted to silence again.

"Do you want help?"

I shrugged even though she couldn't see. "Not really."

It was as if I hadn't answered. "What are you doing this Saturday?"

"Probably nothing. Why?"

"Come help me build a house."

That came out of left field.

"There's a bunch of us that do it a few Saturdays a month. It's kind of a support group. We all lost someone in the Mideast. Sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves wasn't what we wanted to do, so we started helping out at Community Abode Project. It builds homes for—"

"I know what it is."

"Well, then you know it's a project that's doing a lot of good, and it keeps us active. Even this new homeowner lost someone over there. Come help."

In the first place, I didn't have any desire to go be with a bunch of people I didn't know. On top of that, I didn't know whether the "feeling sorry for ourselves" was intended as a dig, but it felt like one. "No, thanks."

A week later it was more of the same. A phone call. Some advice. A suggestion to come along the Saturday after next to help out.

"Matt, come on! Don't tell me you never volunteer. I saw the 'thank you' plaques to you and Olivia for helping with the KaBOOM! events in your bookcase."

She lost the battle the instant she mentioned Liv. "Not anymore. No." My voice was curt.

"It'll help. Trust me."

"No!" I repeated with finality. "I have to go. I have another call." I switched over.

"Can I speak with Matthew Brennan?"

"That's me."

"It's Tatyanna Rogers."

It took me a second to place the name. I hadn't expected to get a call even though I meant the offer I made in the hospital room.

"Oh, hey. What's up?"

"I've got a serious situation, and I could use a hundred dollars."

I was surprised into silence. I certainly hadn't expected to be panhandled over the phone.

After a moment she said, "I guess you're thinking that, 'cause you tried to give me money once, that I think you're an easy mark, huh? Then why didn't I take the money before? It was more than a hundred."

"I wasn't thinking that," I protested.

"Yeah, right. I don't blame you. Some homeless woman you hardly know saying she needs a lot of money. Look, it's not for drugs or booze. I need it to get someone to watch my kids for a couple of days. My regular just told me she's got the flu. I can't lose my job, which I might if I don't show tomorrow, and the only person I know who will do it charges forty-five dollars a day."

"I'll give you the money," I said.

I heard dead silence for a moment, then, "You will?"

"Yes. How do I get it to you?"

It turned out she was in line at the Market Street Shelter. They had just opened. If they had space, she'd be inside in the lobby. If not, she'd wait outside until I got there. I shoved five twenties into an envelope, then added another hundred.

When I pulled up to the curb, I saw her and the children in line a fair way back from the door, looking anxious. I put on my flashers and started to climb out, the envelope in my hand. She saw me and glanced down at my hand. Her expression got even more anxious. She shook her head and I stopped. She whispered to her son, and he came running over, walking around to the driver's side.

"Mom says you should slide it into my backpack. That way no one will know."

"Are you going to get beds?" I asked.

He looked worried. "I'm not sure."

"Okay. Go tell your mom that you and your sister -- what are your names?"

"I'm Terrell and she's Nia."

"Okay, Terrell, go tell your mom that you and Nia can sit in the car if she wants." I shoved the envelope in his backpack.

I saw Tatyanna's eyes move over to me when Terrell spoke to her. She shook her head and pulled him into line with her. I wasn't particularly offended. She didn't know me from Adam, after all. I didn't leave, however, hoping no cops would come by and force me to move.

The shelter filled before Tatyanna made it to the head of the line. She came trudging over to the car after the announcement. "Thank you for the loan," she said and made as if to move off.

"Wait!" I said. She paused. "What are your plans now? I can drive you to another place if you want."

She shook her head. "There isn't another place, not one that's got room at this point. We'll figure out something."

"Like what?" I pressed.

"I don't know yet!" There was anger in her voice. I didn't think it was entirely directed at me, but I was the one asking questions, so I made a good target. "There's this cheap hotel over on Grant. I could get a room there and still have enough to pay the sitter tomorrow."

I hesitated, not sure I wanted to get more involved. Finally, "That's well over a mile away. I'll give you a lift."

She didn't answer for a long moment, then nodded. "Why are you doing this?" she asked while she made sure the kids were buckled.

I didn't have an answer for that. "I don't know. Maybe because someone once thought I was a nice guy."

"Huh," she said dismissively.

That annoyed me and we drove in silence. I spent most of it pondering why I had said that. Maybe it was because there were fleeting moments recently where I wondered what Liv would think of my life now. She would have understood the grief, but the drinking would have bothered her.

I also had an inkling of where she'd have stood vis-à-vis the people in my car.

"Matt!" The single word would have been filled with some blend of incredulity at my hesitation and calm assurance that I'd eventually see my way to what she thought was perfectly obvious.

"The kids look beat. Come on, get in," she'd have said to Tatyanna, pushing me in the direction of their bags. Then I'd have gotten the significant look.

Everybody has their thing. We didn't have a house full of rescued animals, and Liv didn't march to protest global warming. But, put a cause that featured troubled children in front of her and you had her undivided attention. I can't tell you how many times I'd heard the little ding on my phone and seen the recurring reminder she'd put on our calendar: ≪Send donation Children Incorporated≫. Or how many times I was chivvied into helping build a KaBOOM! playground. And, Lord, when the Marines came around with their Toys for Tots drive? Let's just say we had a frequent flyer card at the toy store.

I never minded in the slightest.

Now, seeing that significant look in my imagination, my mind flashed back to that evening with Caitlyn weeks ago when, like a wolf gnawing its leg to escape the trap, I'd accepted the pain of the first questions, hoping Caitlyn would understand and drop it. Only when it became clear she wasn't going to let it go did I let my anger flare to drive the feelings away.

But this time, I couldn't do that; I couldn't get angry at Tatyanna. It wasn't her urging me along.

I pushed the anger back into that limbo it sprang from. Why do I mind now? I wondered. There was no answer, but I surrendered.

When we got to Grant Street, I pulled over to the curb. Before Tatyanna could open the kids' door, I said, "Wait a second. Let's keep the little ears out of this for a moment." She looked puzzled and faintly alarmed as she stared at me over the roof of the car. "I have a spare bedroom with two beds. The kids will have to double up in a twin bed, but you can use it for tonight."

I could see the refusal forming, so I added, "Spending money on a hotel is a waste. You'll be out of money tomorrow night" -- I didn't mention the extra hundred I had chipped in -- "and, unless you're lucky, in the exact same situation. No strings. It's a bed, a shower, and I'll make some spaghetti."

She stared at me for a long time. I saw her glance at Terrell and Nia and knew she was weighing her own pride and nerves against motherhood.

"The bedroom door has a lock," I threw in.

She gave one last measuring look, then nodded.

What she asked next surprised me. "Can I borrow your cell phone? I want to call the sitter right now." When I handed it to her, she added, "And I'd like to see your driver's license." That amused me faintly and I pulled it out.

"Hey. It's me, Taty. Look, I'm staying somewhere tonight. His name's Matthew Brennan and he lives at 128 Oakview here in town. Yeah, this is his phone number. I'll be by tomorrow morning with Terrell and Nia, all right? Yeah, I got it." She disconnected and handed the phone back to me. "Just so you understand, I know some big motherfuckers if you do anything to hurt my kids or me."

The best way to describe the evening was: wary. I didn't know what I was getting into by letting strangers into my home. She didn't know anything about me other than I was a lot bigger than she was and male. She did unbend enough to ask, "May I use the washing machine?" It was an early night for all of us.

"I'll drop you and the kids on my way to work," I said the next morning. Before she got out of the car, she ripped open the envelope to take out cash. I saw her freeze for a second at the contents then, without looking at me, she herded the kids up to the doorway where a woman let them in.

The nail salon where she worked was clearly closed at eight o'clock in the morning. "Oh," I said, feeling stupid.

"Don't worry." She held up a dog-eared paperback. "I have a book, and there's a Starbucks over there that won't care how long I nurse a cup. It's only for two hours."

"Okay, I—"

"Thank you. I really appreciate the help. I'll pay you back when I can. I promise."

"Don't worry about it. Umm," I hesitated, then plowed ahead. "You're welcome to come back tonight if you need to."

That earned me a long, slightly distrustful look. "We'll see. Thank you though."

When I got home, I cleaned my already-clean condo for about the fifth time that week. I made a list for the grocery store. I started a book and abandoned it after two pages. I fidgeted. A lot. It took me a while to realize I was bored.

It took me an even longer while to realize that I wasn't bored.

I was depressed. Ten months of carefully cultivated numbness was cracking, letting in shit I hadn't felt since ... I couldn't remember when I last felt like this. Before the numbness, there'd been a kind of disbelieving shock. Before that, an anger I could barely remember and, before that, a worry I could remember all too well. I missed the armor, the evenness that took only the glass of bourbon to maintain.

I didn't know what to do. I thought about calling Matt and Angela, the closest thing I had to friends anymore. The rest were gone -- not driven away exactly, more like forgotten as I had the philodendron. A sudden stab of guilt at how I'd upset Angela the last time kept me from calling them.

The home phone rang. I ignored it and let the answering machine get it.

"Hi Matt, it's Caitlyn. Yesterday we were cut short by—"

"For fuck's sake!" I spat. I grabbed my keys and stalked out, deliberately not listening as the voice went on.

"What'll you have?" the bartender asked.

I looked at the bourbon bottles arranged along the back wall. "Maker's," I started to say. The word didn't come out, interrupted by a voice those sitting next to me wouldn't hear, one that spoke only to me.

"How long will you keep this up, Matt?"

"It's just a drink."

"It's just a drink when what you want is the bourbon. It's not just a drink when what you want is the bourbon to keep you from thinking."

"It's just a drink," I insisted.

"I bet my uncle -- you know, the drunk? -- said the same thing at first. You gonna end up dribbling on yourself like him?"

"Come on; it's just one." My internal voice was strangled.

"Just sayin'."

There had never been any point in arguing with her once she said that. It meant, "I'm done talking; you do what you want."

The bartender was waiting expectantly. "Just a cranberry and soda," I said in defeat.

I pulled into my building's parking lot to see Tatyanna, Terrell, and Nia sitting on the low wall around the bushes.

"Is the offer still good?" she asked when I got out.

"Yeah. I was thinking about it today, and you can stay as long as you need to."

She didn't respond immediately, turning to the kids and having them gather up their stuff. I grabbed a bag out of my car, and we navigated up to the second floor. When we got inside, she said, "Kids, take all this into the same room as last night. Then I want you both to wash your hands and faces. Terrell, help your sister."