“It was on your calendar.” She walked across the room and slid open the window, bringing the sound of birds chirping but not much of a breeze. “And I wasn’t snooping. I was looking to see if maybe you had an appointment. What the hell, Sam?”
“No pun intended, right?”
She didn’t laugh. Though my schoolmates had called me Hell, Mickie never had. “Was that Eva’s idea?”
I waved her off. “My head hurts too much to argue. Besides, I hate it when you’re always right.”
“What then? Don’t you want kids?”
“So we agree. End of argument.”
“There is no argument. That was just plain, dumb-ass stupid.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I hope to God you’re not going to go through with it.”
“Can’t say that I am.”
She exhaled. “At least now I won’t have to have you committed for totally losing your mind.”
“You know your problem, Mick? You’re too subtle. You need to learn to express your opinions.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “Really, Sam. Why?”
I let out a breath. “Eva doesn’t think she wants to have kids.”
“Doesn’t want kids or doesn’t want your kids?”
“I don’t know,” I said, though I suspected I did, just as I’d suspected that Donna had been using me as her personal vibrator.
Mickie shook her head. “Can I ask you something?” This made me laugh, Mickie asking permission. “Why do you put up with it?”
“With what?”
“With her bullshit; why would you let her convince you to do that?”
“I love her. At least I thought I did. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I just felt lucky to have someone like her . . . like me.”
Mickie looked like she’d sucked a lemon. Whatever she wanted to say, she held it in with great effort. She held up the bottle. “What is this all about?”
“I had a bad dream that turned out to be real.” I didn’t know where to begin, and I had to pee like a racehorse. “Hang on.” I managed to stand and immediately grimaced. The backs of my thighs burned. I made it halfway to the bathroom before Mickie spoke.
“Jesus, what the hell happened to your legs?”
“Nightmare,” I mumbled, not bothering to turn around. “I need a shower.”
2
After my shower, I provided Mickie with an abbreviated version of David Bateman administering a whack with his billy club across the backs of my thighs, and Mickie helped me smear Vaseline on my welts and wrap them in gauze.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You have to report it, Sam.”
“To who?”
“He has to have superiors. This is assault and battery.”
“It’s more than that. It’s psychotic. That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Exactly why you have to report it.”
“I’m afraid it would only make things worse for his wife and daughter.”
“So you’re not going to do anything?”
“At the moment, I’m just trying not to throw up. Listen, this isn’t like when I was a kid. I’m not afraid of David Bateman”—though in a sense I guess I was more afraid of him as an adult than as a child—“but reporting it would only help my ego. It wouldn’t solve the problem. This isn’t about some welt on the back of my leg. That will heal.”