J.T. Townley

Lockup

8:05 a.m.

I keep the peace for the better part of an hour, then go for some grub.  When dispatch crackles through my radio, I’m lingering over a cappuccino and pear scone.

“3-Adam-2, what’s your 20?”

That’s no-shit Shirley, toughest cop on the force. 

“I’m Code 92, on the West Loop.”  Police-speak for Not now, I’m eating.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she says, swallowing a laugh.

“That ain’t fair, Shirley.  Never know when some tweeker might stick the place up in broad daylight.  Whole force runs on coffee and pastry, so where would that leave us?”

“Whatever you say, González, you’re the pro.”

“So what’s up?”

“I’ve got another 10-86 for you.  She says it’s urgent.”

Translation:  Call your spouse.  Man, I can’t take this!  Woman wants to be the boss of me 24-7, even when I’m on duty.  I grumble into my milk foam for a minute, radio hissing, then hit the talk button:  “10-4, Shirley.”

“Roger that.  Dispatch over and out.”

8:45 a.m.

I check my phone.  Screen’s still cracked from where Isabella dropped it in the driveway.  When I power it up, I see she’s called a dozen times.  That explains the 10-86.  I know what it’s about, so I take my time returning her call.  

I got work to do. 

Only I don’t witness a single infraction.  Nobody fleeing 7-11, Slurpee in hand, pockets overflowing with bubble gum.  Nobody tagging street signs and grocery stores and unsuspecting pedestrians, then stealing down alleys behind liquor stores.  No perps at all.  Then again, I’m dragging ass, a sleep-deprived zombie, so somebody could probably jack a car in broad daylight right under my nose, and I wouldn’t notice a thing.  It’s like I’m underwater.  Ain’t this how new parents feel all the time, for like three years?  That’s really what Isabella wants for us?  

Ain’t none of it my fault.  Isabella says she don’t like my attitude, so she’s got me sleeping on the couch.  Nice as it looks according to her, it’s killing my back.  Ain’t even a pull-out.  End result, I can’t get any solid sack time, tossing and turning all night long, drifting off just before first light.  Next thing I know, the alarm clock’s blaring, and here we go, another white hot morning full of graffiti and stolen lawn ornaments, fireworks and shoplifting. 

Still, how else am I supposed to make detective? 

9:02 a.m.

Eventually, I pull into a strip mall, idling in front of a Pony Express Cleaners while I dial her cell.  She picks up before it even rings on my end.

“Took you so long, Carlos?”

“Don’t give me grief, woman.  You know I got a job to do.”

She snickers.  “Enjoy your latte this morning?”

“Why don’t you respect me, Isabella?  Why don’t you respect the job I do?  I take care of you, right?”

She don’t say nothing.  Mija Maria blares down the line.  Woman loves that dumbass telenovela, though I tell her it’s rotting her brain.

“So?” I say, adjusting the AC vents.  “What’s so urgent?”

“Listen, Cranky, some guy called for you about an hour ago.”  Crack and crinkle of notepaper.  “Walt Jones,” she reads.  “Says he knows you from St. Nicholas of the Cross.  Something bout a tip.”

“He give any specifics?”

“Nope, just to get in touch.”

Isabella tells me his address and phone number.  I never met a Walt Jones in my life, not that I can remember, so when I hang up, I run his info through the system.  He comes up clean.  Probably just some bored old codger, but I might as well follow up on it.  What else have I got to do?

9:17 a.m.

Walt just lives over on Hackamore, so I drop by.  When I roll up, he’s wandering around his front yard with the water hose, dousing his brown lawn and dying rosebushes, occasionally spraying the neighbor kids won’t stop taunting him.  He’s got on nothing but a pair of madras shorts and a giant straw hat, though he must be close to seventy-five.  Stick thin, skin drooping off like melted wax.

“Mr. Jones?” I say, crossing the scorched grass and twisting the volume knob on my radio.  Too much chatter.

Looks like a ghoul when he grins.  “Is that little Carlos?  Haven’t seen you since you was this big.”  He slices the air at about knee-height.

“We know each other?”

“See what you made me do?” he hollers at the kids, pointing at me.  “He’ll cuff you and stuff you and throw away the key!”  Oldster sprays them one last time, though they’ve already scurried away, then pitches the hose into the shrubs.  “Let’s get outta this blessed heat,” he says.

House stinks like dust and mothballs, but his coffee ain’t half-bad.  We sit in the kitchen half-light near the humming window unit.  I’m fixing to ask what it’s all about when he says:

“Knew your mama.  I was deacon over at St. Nicholas when you was born.”

“Sure,” I lie.  “I remember you.”

That thin-lipped, ghoulish grin again. 

“So how’d you get my number?”

“Church registry.”

“But I ain’t been Catholic since I was a kid.”

Grin morphs into a scowl.  “We got our ways,” he says.

I nod.  “So where’s the missus this fine morning?”

Walt swallows hard, making the sign of the cross.  “Gone eight years, God rest her soul.  The cancer took her.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones.”

“Don’t be.”  He gazes around the sagging kitchen and clears his throat.  “She’s in a better place.”

Then the phone, one of those old-school wall-mounted jobs, starts ringing off the hook.  I’m cringing against the racket, but Walt just ignores it.  Maybe his hearing’s shot.

“So I assume you got some kinda information for me?”

“Damn straight,” he says, pounding the table for emphasis.  “You got a bank’s fixing to get robbed.”

I grab my pen and notepad, squinting.  “How you know that?”

“I know who’s gonna do the robbing.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.  “Ain’t you, is it?”

He just ignores me.  “Got this buddy Albert.  Worked together over at the plant for thirty years.  Couple months now, he’s been joking bout jacking up banks.  He comes with me to the First National, he’s looking around, spotting cameras and security guards, cooking up all kinda schemes bout how we can make it work.”

I got an old kook on my hands, but I scribble in my notepad to make him feel useful.  “Little worrisome, but there ain’t no crime in it.”

Walt puckers like he took a swig of sour grapefruit juice.  “Yesterday, things took a turn.”

“Sorry, Mr. Jones, I don’t follow.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he mutters, shaking his head.  “He wasn’t specific bout the details, but he’s serious this time, believe you me.  It was how he looked, eyes gone to steel, jaw set hard as concrete.  Mark my words, Carlos, there’s gonna be a stick-up soon—as in today.”

“This Albert got a last name?”

“Williams.”

Now I’m on my feet, shaking Walt’s bony hand, thanking him for the info.  He follows me out into the yard, donning his giant sombrero.  By the time I put the cruiser in drive, codger’s already got the hose going again, dousing the neighbor kids.

10:01 a.m.

Suspect lives down on Chaparral, so I shoot past Lockheed and the Naval Air Station, turning a blind eye to all sorts of infractions—speeding, blowing stoplights, you name it.  I even witness a possible drug deal or two, but I’m locked in.  I ain’t a traffic cop.  I ain’t vice.  I’m Detective Carlos González, or will be soon, working a lead on a case.

Neighborhood’s teaming with kids in their swimsuits, tossing balls and playing grabass in the sprinklers.  I slide to the curb, hitch up my duty belt, ring the doorbell.  An old land yacht, Buick or Pontiac, is parked under the car port, so maybe I’m in time.  Grand scheme, I might be better off a little too late.  Then I’d have the drop on the perp, investigation over before it began, case closed, and guess who gets the credit?

I stand there in the morning heat for too long.  Buzzer must be busted.  TV’s blasting some shoot-em-up, meaning somebody’s gotta be home, so I bang on the storm door and wait.  A thump and crash, a cat yelping, muted expletives.  Now the door creaks open on this Large Marge in a dingy housecoat, too much lipstick, hair a rat’s nest. 

“Morning, Officer, you just missed him.”  She’s got one of those long cigarettes between her lips, unlit, and it bounces when she speaks.  “Assuming you’re here for Albert.”

“Albert Williams?”

“That’s the one.”  She bars the door with a veiny foot and says, “Stay back, Mr. Fluffles.”  Then to me:  “Won’t you come in?”

When I ask, she tells me she’s Lynn Williams, Albert’s wife of thirty-seven years.  In all that time, she hasn’t learned to make coffee?  It stinks like dim sum and tastes even worse.  I perch on the edge of a floral sofa that’s covered in cat fur and past its prime, taking in the peach wallpaper and teal chairs.  Photos on the wall, bunch of snaggle-tooth kids, plus a couple of gray hairs to fill out the frame.  Lynn lounges in a Lay-Z-Boy recliner with Mr. Fluffles.  The ceiling above her is yellowed with smoke stains.

“When did Albert leave?”

“Five minutes ago.”

“Say where he was headed?”

“Never does.”

“So no mention of a bank?”

“Maybe I wasn’t listening,” she says.

“Think it over for a minute if you need to.”

Lynn clamps her jaw and looks constipated.  That lasts for maybe ten seconds.  “Nope, no good.  Listening’s not my fort.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, before it registers.  “Sorry, your what?”

“Most people say it for-tay, but that’s improper.  It’s fort, like Fort Worth.  From the French.”

“No kidding?”  I let that hang in the air just long enough for her to begin glowing with smugness.  “Anything else you can tell me, Mrs. Williams?”

She looks me up and down, pawing my chest with her eyes.  “Not that I’m aware,” she says.

I pass her my card.  “Gimme a call if anything comes to you.”  I’m already halfway out the door when she says:

“Here’s a thing.” 

I lean back into the room.

“Don’t believe a word that comes outta Walt Johnson’s mouth.”

“Why’s that?”

Lynn chews on it for a minute.  Mr. Fluffles stretches and yawns.  “Cause he’s a goddamn idiot, that’s why!”

10:26 a.m.

I’m ambling across the scorched lawn to my cruiser when I hear a voice behind me. 

“Mr. Officer?”

I glance over my shoulder at a beanpole in a sundress, burned face glistening with Aloe, smiling big as Texas.  I have my holster unbuckled and hand on my firearm, but that’s just my training.  I’ve never had to discharge it.  “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She’s running best she can, all elbows and knees.  I round my cruiser for cover, just in case.  She gets to the car winded.  “I—,” she begins, but can’t catch her breath.  “I—”

“Take it easy,” I say.  “I ain’t going nowhere.”

Lady stumbles back a couple steps, wiping at her brow with what they call a kerchief.  I lean on the open door, waiting.  No rush.  I still gotta figure out which bank Albert’s knocking over.

I pull him up on the computer, scour his file a second time.  Don’t help at all.  I’ve got zilch.  By then, the beanpole’s ready to talk.

“I know a thing or two bout these folks.”

“That right?” I say.  “Mrs.—?”

“Anderson,” she says.  “Call me Barb.”

I ready my pen and notepad.  “Okay, what you got?”

“Albert and that hag don’t get along.  Haven’t for years.  She’s riding him night and day bout ‘Do this!’ or ‘Fix that!’  If it ain’t one thing, it’s the next.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“Sometimes when Albert’s out mowing the lawn, I bring him a cool glass of lemonade, and we visit a while.  I’ve lived next door for years.”

“So they’re unhappy,” I say.  “They’re married, ain’t they?”

Barb eyes my gold band and chews her lip.  “Lemme ask you this.  You take a look at Albert’s shed out back under the big pecan tree?”

“What shed?”

“Comfy chair and nutcracker and box of pecans?  Old radio for listening to Rangers games?  Albert’s out there more than half the time.”

“Doing what?”

“Ain’t it obvious?  She shifts what weight she has, and the burnt grass crunches under her feet.  “Would you want to be locked up with that witch?”

I scratch down a few notes, undershirt sticking to my lower back.  Barb glistens in the morning sunshine.  She shakes her head, musing, then says:

“She’s always bitching and nagging and bossing him.”

I focus on Barb’s worn-out sandals so my mind won’t drift to Isabella. 

“This morning, they had them a knock-down drag-out fight about the dryer.”

“How’s that?”

“Lynn was needling Albert bout the clothes dryer.  He promised to fix it a week ago but still hasn’t done it—or so claims the old bag.  You can’t really trust anything comes out her mouth.”

I scribble some more in my notebook. 

Barb licks her lips.  “Heat of the argument, Albert hollers, ‘I’d rather be in jail than home with you!’  How bout that?”

Before I can respond, storm door slaps open, and out steps Lynn herself, broom in hand.  “You oughta be ashamed of yourself,” she says. “Now I want that hussy arrested for trespassing.”

“Everybody just take a—”

“Don’t you call me hussy, cow!” says Barb.

Lynn storms across the lawn, only it’s slow-mo owing to a bum leg I didn’t notice inside.  “I want both of y’all off my property this instant!”

“Take it easy, Mrs. Williams.  Barb here was just leaving.”  I give the beanpole a nod tells her no time like the present, and she ambles over into her own scorched grass.  Lynn stops in the middle of the yard.  “I need anything,” I tell them, “I’ll be in touch.”

11:18 a.m.

I put a call out on the squawker for any sightings of Albert’s car, a gold Cadillac El Dorado, 1987, probably no miles.  The guy’s seventy, so where’s he got to go?  Golf course and Braum’s, church and bank.  No wonder he’s sick of that woman!  I also ask Shirley about any possible 10-90’s I might’ve missed while I was interrogating the fishwife and gossipmonger.  That’s code for bank alarm.

“Expecting something?” she says. 

“Just cautious.”

Radio crackles and splutters as I ease south on Cherry.

“Nothing yet,” says Shirley.  “I’ll keep you posted.”

“10-4.”

11:52 a.m.

I grab my double macchiato and apple fritter off the bar, then take a table against the back wall.  I don’t like anybody creeping up behind me.  I sip and nibble and mull.  A woman in her early-twenties hobbles in, so pregnant looks like she’s got a bowling ball under her shirt.  Then comes another and another and another after that.  It’s a full-on pregnant parade. 

Thank God Isabella ain’t here.

I scarf the last of the fritter, down the coffee dregs, then steal back out to my cruiser in the lot.  Heat swimming up off the asphalt, patchy clouds dotting the sky.  Twenty-percent chance of rain, only it don’t ever materialize.

I fire it up, get that AC cranking.  Computer system takes a minute to boot, but after that, a couple clicks is all it takes.  A dozen banks inside the city limits.  Seems manageable.  Course, I can’t be in twelve bank lobbies at the same time, but there’s a cluster of them the other side of the mall, four right together, so I roll on over, head on a swivel, playing the odds. 

I consider calling it in, get units at all locations, banks, credit unions, savings & loans, but what have I got to go on?  Warning of a senile codger?  First-hand experience with the shrew?  Some busybody neighbor’s rumor mill?  We don’t want nobody getting hurt, but I can’t exactly stake detective on somebody’s hunch.

So I wait.

12:34 p.m.

I’m daydreaming bout me and Isabella on a tropical beach at sunset when the call comes.

“3-Adam-2, what’s your 20?”

I rouse from my stupor, pick up the mike.  “First Savings & Loan, north side of the mall, come back.”

“I have a 10-90 in progress.”

“Location?”

“Navy Federal Credit Union, 1102 Green Oaks Road.”

I gun it out the parking lot, swerving to avoid a passel of kids, their haggard mama bringing up the rear.  “This is 3-Adam-2.  I’m 10-76 to Navy Federal.” 

“Some coincidence, González,” she says.

“Call it woman’s intuition.”

“10-4, Carlita.”

12:41 p.m.        

I’m there in six minutes, longer than it should take, owing to a stalled car bottlenecking traffic.  I have to drive up on the median to get around, then blast through three stoplights on red, but I can’t have my backup arriving at the scene before I do. 

This is my collar.

Alarm’s still clattering when I screech to the curb.  I bound from my cruiser and go tactical.  This branch of Navy Federal’s a stand-alone, but it’s got that mirrored window treatment like them downtown office buildings.  Ain’t doing me any favors.  All I see’s myself and my flashing cruiser lights as I dart across the landscaping and make the wall for cover.  I catch a blow, wiping sweat out my eyes.  Quick scan of the lot, but no gold Cadillacs. 

I should wait for support, specially since I’m going in blind, but by that time, the perp will be long gone, toting his giant load of cash to some Caribbean island.  Not on my watch!  So out comes my Glock.  I take another deep breath, think of Isabella, then say a quick Our Father.  You’re only lapsed till you ain’t, right?

12:44 p.m.

Now I’m through the door, firearm drawn.  I clear a couple of cubicles before it dawns on me:  whole place is business-as-usual, except that alarm bell.  Men in Wranglers, women in khaki shorts, kids in superhero costumes for no apparent reason:  they’re all lined up, waiting to make deposits, maybe get a free sucker.  Other folks talking to bankers over desks to either side of the velvet ropes, opening and closing checking accounts.  Whole place smells like lemon Pledge and peppermints.

My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. 

12:47 p.m.

I nose my pistol to the floor, scurrying toward the front desk and a manager who can fill me in.  Only I don’t make it that far.  As I pass the customer waiting area, just four chairs and a table with stale cookies, I pick up this hoarse, phlegmy voice under the Muzak:

“I’m the guy you’re looking for.”

A quick glance, then a double-take.  Guy’s seventy if he’s a day, stringy gray hair, patchy scruff.  He hefts a bank bag from the carpet to his lap, so I sidle over to inspect.

“Robbers drop that?”  I holster my weapon.  “You get a good look?”

He wags his head, flashes a grin more ghoulish than Walt Johnson’s.  “No, dumbass.  I took it.”

“Off the bank robbers?”  I whip out my pen and notepad.  “Think you could describe them?”

Speakers hidden in the fake ficus spew dueling alto saxes.

“You’re not listening!” gray hair sing-songs. 

“To this crap?  Muzak’s the worst thing ever invented.”

He puckers and says, “But maybe it’s not your fort.”

“Hold up, my what?”

“You heard me, numbnuts.  That’s how my old battle-ax says it.  Woman thinks she knows more than anybody on God’s green earth.”

 I stumble back half a step.  The stench of burnt popcorn wafts on the AC breeze.  I notice my Glock’s back in my hand, and it’s pointed at the codger.

“Now you’re getting the idea,” he says.  “Minute there, I thought you was some kinda retard.”

“Albert Williams?”

“In the flesh.”  He grins again—not a pretty sight.  “Now can we get on with it?”

This guy don’t look nothing like the one in those family photos.  Maybe twenty years older, all pucker and scowl.  Skin’s kinda yellow, too, like old paper.  I don’t know what to think.

My phone buzzes again.  No mystery bout who’s calling. 

“Oh, Jesus Lord in Heaven!” says Albert.  “Don’t tell me I gotta do your job for you?”  Geriatric’s big exhale stinks of menthol cough drops.  “Okay, I’ll talk slow.  Feel them metal loops back of your belt?  Those are called ‘hand cuffs.’  What you do is—”

“Enough, old man,” I say.  “Now stand up and put your hands on your head.”  When he struggles to get out the chair, I hoist him up and spin him around.  He’s so light and fragile, I’m afraid I might break him.  I search him for weapons, then slap on the bangles. 

“Hot damn!” he says.  “Maybe you do know how all this works.”

Once I read him his rights, I pitch him back into the chair. 

“You’re spozed to cuff me and stuff me!”  He looks like he might cry.  “Guess you are dumber than you look—if that’s even possible!”

“Just simmer down, Mr. Williams,” I say.  “You’ll be at the station before you know it, giving fingerprints and mug shots, whole nine yards.  Time being, just stay put.”

“That ain’t protocol, dipshit.”

“And do me a favor?  Keep your trap shut, okay?”

12:55 p.m.

Backup will be here soon, more or less.  Gotta hurry or I’ll miss my window.  So I start with the bank tellers.  This branch of Navy Federal’s a satellite, so there’s only one, Marybeth, pretty brunette in her early twenties.  Shouldn’t take long.

Bank manager Mr. Garrett lends us his office, get away from the nosy customers with nothing better to do.  I have him sit in, too.  Why not?  Probably need to take his statement anyway. 

Marybeth slumps in her chair, smacking bubblegum.  Like she’s an old pro, been held up thousands of times before. 

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

Teller twirls her hair.  “Shoot.”

“Can you tell me in your own words how the robbery went down?”

She tosses a snide glance to the manager.  “Whose words you think I’m gonna use?”

“Marybeth,” I say, glaring, “what happened?”

Now she rolls her eyes.  “There was a line four or five deep.  Then that old guy, the one sitting out in the lobby, came up.  I said hello and how could I help him.  He just nodded and gave a little grunt, then said something I couldn’t understand.”

“What’d he say, Marybeth?”

“I just told you I didn’t understand.”

I grind my molars, pinch the bridge of my nose.  Detective work’s harder than it looks.  “So what happened next?” I say.

Marybeth digs in her pocket, pitches a piece of paper onto the desk.  “The old man passed me this note.”

I give the thing a read:  Gimme the cash.  I have a gun.  Thank you.

“Then what?” I ask.

She pops her gum.  “What do you think?  I emptied my drawer into a bag and handed it over.  By the book.”

I nod, scribbling in my notebook.  Then I turn to Mr. Garrett:  “And that’s when you hit the alarm?”

“That is correct,” he says.

“Smart thinking—armed perp and all.”

He clamps his jaw.  “Naturally,” he says, “we didn’t expect the thief to abscond to our customer waiting area.”

“Either of you ever see this so-called gun?”

Marybeth blows a bubble, then pops it.  “He said he had one.”

“You?”

“Well, no,” says Mr. Garrett.  “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing, just asking.”

We listen to the AC blow.  A dull murmur of bank voices.  Bus moaning up Green Oaks.

“Are we about finished here?” asks Mr. Garrett.

“Uh-huh,” I say, taking a sucker from the bowl on his desk.  “Let you know if I got more questions.”

1:26 p.m.

My phone buzzes again, but this time I pick up.

“Isabella,” I say, “I’m at work.”

She huffs, and it floods my ear with static.  “When you coming home, Carlito?”

“Same time as always.”

“Hurry, okay?”

“You can’t keep doing this, Isabella.  I’ve got a job.  I’ve got responsibilities.  And right now, I’m at a crime scene and can’t talk.”

“I don’t want to talk, Carlito,” she says.

“Then how bout you stop calling?”

“My biological clock is ticking!”

She’s so loud, customers probably hear every last word.  A hush falls over the bank lobby.  I hang up and try to look busy.

1:31 p.m.

Albert’s right where I left him.  I stroll over, he’s wearing that ugly grin again.

“Old lady giving you hell?” he says.

“Ain’t your concern.”

“What I say is, give her hell right back!”

I hitch my thumbs behind my belt, gazing down at the old man.  Some tow-headed kid starts squealing and running round in circles.  Sirens wail in the near distance. 

“Ask you something, Mr. Williams?”

“Who’s in charge here, asshat?”

“Why’d you do this?”

He shakes his head.  “News flash:  you rob a bank for money, dumbass.”

I fold my arms across my chest.  “Is that right?”

“Damn straight.”

“Then which are you?  Stupid or incompetent?”

“Hell’d you say?”

“You rob a bank for money, you don’t wait for the cops to show up.”

Albert forces a scowl, but a smile glimmers in his eyes.  “Maybe you ain’t so dumb after all,” he says.  “Truth be told, I no longer wanted to be in that situation.”

“Situation’s that?”

He swallows and mulls and scratches at his scruff.  “Lemme put it this way, González.  Jail looks pretty good after living with that old she-devil for so long.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Trust me, shit-for-brains.  Get out before it’s too late!” 

1:39 p.m.

Backup finally arrives.  My shift’s basically over, so I pass the perp off to Fitzgerald and Gómez.  They make standard-issue jokes:  How’d I handle this one solo, why didn’t I call in SWAT, how bout they put me up for a medal of valor, etc.  I laugh and take the ribbing.  Called an occupational hazard.  Whole thing reminds me why I work alone.

When their enthusiasm fizzles, I say, “My collar, boys.  But I’d appreciate if you could book him for me.”

They bitch and moan, but I’ve got seniority, so what’re they gonna do?

1:45 p.m.

I think about what Albert said all the way back to the station.  I mean, I met his old lady, and she don’t seem like no picnic, but still.  He’d rather get locked up?  Living behind bars with a bunch of other sweaty felons ain’t my idea of a nice retirement. 

I check up on Fitzgerald and Gómez, make sure they booked the perp right, then I write it up.  Always takes forever, even a collar simple as this.  Whole time, I can’t shake the thing.  Who gets arrested to get away from his wife?  Ain’t he ever heard of divorce?          

It’s still on my mind as I’m changing into civvies, loping across the asphalt to my F-150, and slaloming through traffic on my way home.  Isabella and I have had our ups and downs like everybody else.  Then again, we only got hitched a couple-three years ago, and Albert’s been married longer than I been alive.  What if he knows something I don’t? 

2:15 p.m. 

I stop off for a cold one at the Electric Cowboy.  I gotta wind down some before I face Isabella.  Keep telling her to go to school, get a job, something, anything, but she always says the same thing:  “Won’t have so much free time once the baby’s here.”  Soon’s I waltz through the door, she’ll be pawing at me, unbuckling my belt, dragging me to bed.  Not that I mind exactly, but what if I don’t want a kid?  Don’t my opinion matter?  Ain’t I got a say?      

2:47 p.m.

I nurse my beer till it loses its chill, then it’s down the hatch.  When there’s nothing but foam left, I slap down a tip and sidle out the door.  I climb into my pickup, crank the AC.  Before I can even take off the parking break, my phone starts vibrating.  Already know who’s calling, but I dig it out the console anyway.  Sure enough, it’s Isabella.  It buzzes and buzzes till it goes to voicemail.  Five seconds later, she’s calling again.  I cut off the engine, pitch the keys into the cup holder.  Truck heats up almost immediately.  Whole time, phone’s shaking like an earthquake, and I ain’t sure how much more I can take.  Still, I don’t answer.  I can’t.  I won’t.  I just let it buzz and buzz, staring blankly at the cracked screen.    

J. T. Townley has published in Harvard Review, The Kenyon Review, The Threepenny Review, and many other magazines and journals.  His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net award.  He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia and an MPhil in English from the University of Oxford.  To learn more, visit www.jttownley.com.