Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

Christmas Eve Day

AT THREE IN the afternoon, in the patio under freezing refulgent crystal blue heavens, Cela told her man she was going to Rexall Square for a bagful of nonpareils. That was her alibi.

She blasted an old Bowie CD in the BMX, south on Beverly Glen all the way to Pico, a right to Overland, down to the 10 east.

She’d done all the major shopping— loved Christmas — and had just about finished this crazy collage thing (corny paper cutout tributes to their love), thinking she was so clever until suddenly realizing what a fool she was for having completely spaced on the mother lode of oldies — a treasure trove of Ulysses S. Grant stuff, photos of Kit with R.J., and God knew what else — that was sitting in storage, gathering dust. Imagining the bounty that awaited her, Cela began to think in terms of actually doing an oversize triptych. That was OK by her. Kit would love it. She’d stay up late like she did when she was little, cutting and pasting, giggling to herself while he chilled in front of the $20,000 slimscreen. She’d have to chase him off if he snuck up to see what she was doing.

The 10 to Azusa, then north to Badillo toward the Covina U-Stor — down the road from Uncle Jimmy, who’d helped move all her Riverside belongings. She hadn’t seen any of the packed things since (or Uncle Jimmy either), but now and again they spoke on the phone. Cela wanted him to visit the new house, but they hadn’t been there all that long and she thought it better to hold off. (They were phasing out some of the security guys, and it felt nice to have the place to themselves.) Uncle Jimmy wasn’t sensitive — all he ever wanted to know was when was she gonna invite him to a big premiere. He had a thing for Nicole Kidman and kept saying, wickedly, “When you gonna hook me up with Nicole? Time she had a man’s man.” Uncle Jimmy had a heart of gold. He was diabetic, and had had a few scares. She gave him Christmas money so he could spend the holiday up at Russian River.

She went by his house, knowing he wasn’t there. Wouldn’t it be funny if he was? Then she realized her true impulse, and made the detour, heart beating faster.

There were tenants in her old place, but it looked woebegone. Cela changed her mind about driving past Burke’s; too radioactive. She grew faintly nauseated. Everything was saturated with sunlit anomie. Neighborhood kids were staring at the BMX. She gunned it.

• • •

SHE RUMMAGED among the stacks and laughed: she was Pack Rat Supreme, always had been. (That was always Burke’s joke, whenever they went to Vegas. There was Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack, and Cela Byrd and the Pack Rat.) What a sad bunch of shit — broken lamps, fucked-up chairs, dusty file boxes marked COURT, REHAB/JOURNALS, MAMA, LEGAL, TAXES, MISC., SWAP MEET…

— there it was: PIX/YEARBOOKS.

She pried the carton out from under and took the lid off. Whoa. Better make that two triptychs. Mebbe three. The first thing she laid eyes on was a half-ruined Polaroid of them smoking a doobie in front of a bonfire, age thirteen. Couldn’t remember a thing about it. Blurry, smudged, time-sealed — might be fun to blow up and wallpaper the den with. Or hang on the side of the pool house, ten by ten, with a special outdoor coating.

She had planned to throw everything in the car but couldn’t help getting engrossed. Accordingly, she didn’t see the silver Range Rover, the one Kit allowed his father to keep, the good riddance “bone” as Burke called it, quietly berth a few doors down. There was a small crack in the windshield; a few holes had been punched in the passenger door, to fix a dent.

Cela startled as he sauntered over, framed in the metal roll-up door against the cloudless Covina sky.

“Hey, babe.”

“What are you doing here?” She stayed down, kneeling and semisorting, trying to be cool.

“I rent a unit,” he said, smiling. “For my unit.” Always the salacious double-entendre. “Dr. Phil, is that not OK?”

“Did you follow me?”

“Saw you in the hood a little while ago,” he said. “Gettin nostalgic?” She sighed and went back about her business. “A preggers gets mucho hornito. Thought you might be havin an ‘afternoon delight’ moment.”

“You are disgusting, ” she said, coldly.

“Might just wanna DNA the kid, you know,” he said, lasciviously apprising her belly. “Could be mine. But in order to do so, I may have to serve you with a su-penis.”

“Can you just leave me alone?” She decided she would motor in about thirty seconds. “We’ve already done this dance, Burke.”

“Done this dance?” he said, ascerbically. “That’s some shitty dialogue, babe. Right out of a Kit Lightfoot movie.”

She stood up. “I think you better get in your car.”

He stepped back, as if in mortal terror. “Mommy! Mommy, you’re scaring me!” A lurid quick change to fawning admiration: “Oh boy, you’ve gotten tough. Wow! You are one tough macha. Wouldn’t want to tangle with you, chola, huh uh. No way. ”

“Burke, I don’t want to do this.”

“You don’t have a restraining order against me too, do you, Cela? Cause far as I know, my ungrateful shit-heel son is the one who filed. Though I do believe it’ll come out in the wash it was counsel’s idea.”

“I wonder why someone would have had the audacity to get a restraining order.” Now that she was on her feet, she felt bolder. “Isn’t that outrageous? Could it possibly have something to do with the fact that you beat the shit out of your own kid and broke my fucking face?”

“You know,” said Burke, “experts will tell you that restraining orders aren’t always a good thing.”

She got adrenalized. Her brain told her to run, but she walked resolutely past. He spun her around and forced her back.

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

“Hey, hey, hey. ”

“I’ll call the police—”

“Here’s my phone,” he said, jamming it to her cheek. “Call Chief Bratton and tell him you’re being diddled by an armadillo. Who gives a flying fuckito? Listen, ” he whispered. “You went with the money and I cain’t blame you. Hell, I admire you. You fucked the money with my come still runnin down your leg. Mo better power to ya. You testified against me at trial. Dragged my name through the mud and left me with squat. I put a lot of bread into that piece of shit rental you were living in, Cela. Put a lotta money into you. Hey: my prerogative and my pleasure. Where you livin now? A fifteen-million-dollar house? Is Catherine Zeta-Jones knocking on your door to borrow sugar, all neighborlike? Bra- vo, baby. You were sucking his dick right under my nose.”

“I didn’t do anything under your nose.”

“Cept let me eat your pussy. That was under your nose.” He laughed. “No — that was under my nose. And you let him watch, remember? Cause that’s your thing. Your freak thing. That’s what you’re into.”

“ Stop it.”

“You cunt.”

He pulled a gun. She shook — gone bloodless.

“Take your pants off.”

“Please don’t—”

He punched her face and ordered her again. She hunched, dizzy and bloodsprayed, struggling to stay upright. She took them off. He kept the gun on her and flicked the roll-up switch. The iron drape descended with a sickening, inexorable grind. He pushed her face to the cement, unzipping his fly and greasing the cock with a gob of spit.

She is only worried about the baby. She is determined not to bring it up for sympathy, for she knows he will not respond. It may only enrage him. She is beyond pain, protest, and tears. She is beyond.