The amber liquid sloshed in the juice glass, surging up and seeping down its sides.
It was the third drink she’d poured and Maggie didn’t give a shit. She was sprawled on her couch in her oldest baggy sweats and old black Cure concert tee shirt. Her hair was in a messy ponytail and she wore fuzzy socks.
She was drunk and feeling no pain.
All her bravado had faded when she sucked down her first drink. She was fucked up. And fucked.
Despite her resolve to fight back, she knew she was probably fucked.
If she lost her job, she was fucked.
Without money to pay for her care, Melody’s safe, comfortable way of life was fucked.
Everything was basically fucked.
She glanced at the lopsided stack of bills on her café table. She was already late on rent. Paying rent was her second priority. The care home came first. Maggie hadn’t realized how tight it would be balancing her meager paycheck with her expenses. She’d blown her savings on deposits for the care home and her rental in the woods. Her paychecks barely cut it. Without this job, she and Melody could conceivably end up homeless.
All because of one crooked cop.
“Fuck you, Earl,” she said, raising her glass in a mock toast. “And fuck your uncle and your cousin and your brother and your dad and whoever the fuck else defends your immoral actions.”
Taking a large sip, she set her glass down and then punched the pillow on the couch beside her. She eyed the bank of windows across from her perch on the couch. Beyond the glass windows and sliding glass door, stood an ominous row of pine trees only twenty feet away. They loomed like massive figures hiding in the dark, the light from her windows, just barely brushing them.
Maybe some people felt safer with all their curtains and blinds buttoned up tight, but Bychowski had always felt better when she could see everything outside of her place at night. Any prowlers would light up like a Christmas tree if they got close to the house. And if they stayed in the thicket of trees, well fuck ‘em. They were no threat and she’d give them a show. She’d show them what would happen if they decided to even step foot near her sliding glass door or window.
Her service revolver was on the coffee table in front of her next to her empty glass. If she saw that fucker, Earl, standing outside, she’d have the gun in her hand and a round chambered before you could say Motherfuck. She imagined him on his knees, begging her for mercy, the whites of his eyeballs showing under those shaggy eyebrows, looking at her, pleading.
Hell, why not practice now. She unloaded her black Glock 17 and set the magazine beside it on the coffee table. Then she waited for the little hand on her wall clock to hit the twelve and sprang into action.
Lunging for the gun, she slid the magazine inside at the same time she flicked the slide catch and released the safety. “Locked and loaded, baby.”
Wrapping both hands around the gun, she moved her index finger off the frame and down to the trigger, aiming at the windows, narrowing her eyes. In one swift movement, she swiveled, now aiming toward the sliding glass door leading to the back yard. Another shift and she was facing at the front door. Yep. The way she figured it, he’d be dust in about two seconds. She’d wait for him to come in the house. Once he had a foot inside, she’d be within her rights to blow him to high heaven.
Staring at the front door, she caught something, a motion, out of the corner of her eye. She whipped her head toward the sliding glass door, hand shaking, gun cocked, finger trembling on the trigger. A dark blur. Holy shit. It was only that cat. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Just the cat. Her trigger finger relaxed and moved up to the frame. Just the cat.
She breathed in and out slowly ten times until her heart slowed back down to normal. She watched the cat strut in a figure eight with its tail swirling above its head. It was staring at her.
“I already gave you milk tonight.”
Its eyes lit neon yellow in the light from the bungalow’s windows. She couldn’t hear, but could see from the way its mouth opened revealing a pink tongue and white teeth that the cat was mewling, talking to her, watching her. She set her gun on the coffee table. Still loaded and locked. She’d keep the magazine chambered—that way if she heard a noise after she drifted off to sleep she wouldn’t have to fuss with getting the gun ready to blow Earl’s ugly mug off.
He might show up. He had that kind of hatred and evil in his veins. Maggie saw it out at the clearing. He was wrestling with the devil and it was only at the last minute he decided not to kill Maggie and the two Mexicans. She could read him. He had been close to making a different decision. He had blood lust. That’s what it was. And right now, all of it was directed at Maggie.
She couldn’t see a way out. The Earl family ruled this town.
For a half second, Maggie eyed her gun. But she’d never do something like that and leave a mess for someone else to find. She thought of that bottle of OxyContin in the medicine cabinet left over from her shoulder surgery, but the thought of Melody quashed that idea. If something went wrong and the combination of pills and booze did her in where would her daughter end up? In some filthy state-run home where they probably kept people locked in their rooms most of the day and let them sit for hours in their own feces?
She wished the cat would come back. She was sick of being alone. At work, she was alone. At home, she was alone. It would be nice to at least have one friend in this Godforsaken town. Hendricks was her friend, but he was so busy wooing half the women in Northern California, it’s not like he had time for her. She’d asked once. He’d acted embarrassed and finally confessed he had a date after work that night, but he’d gladly cancel it if Maggie needed a friend, or an ear.
She picked up the phone, set it down, picked it up again and finally dialed.
“You busy?” She hadn’t waited for him to answer. Her words were a little slurred.
“Nope.”
“I’m drunk.”
“I’m on my way.” He paused, then laughed. “That sounded awful, right?”
“Totally fucked up.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
He hung up. She called back. “2370 Pine Springs Road.
“Got it.”
Slumped on the couch, Maggie eyed her small bungalow. Her breakfast bowl was still on the small café table. A pile of dirty laundry was wadded up in the corner. The bookshelf had dust on it. But she didn’t care. Hendricks could judge her all he wanted.
The knock on her door startled her. She must’ve fallen asleep. She struggled to get up from the couch. She nearly tripped making her way to the door.
Hendricks pounded again “Yo. Mags. It’s me. Open up, it’s cold.”
She unlocked her deadbolts. Hendricks was hopping back and forth in short sleeves, juggling a big brown paper bag.
He rushed in and she slammed the door behind him, doing all three deadbolts. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. She could feel the heat spread up her neck.
Hendricks didn’t seem to notice as he leaned over to unpack the bag.
“Orange juice. Light roast coffee, has more caffeine than dark roast, believe it or not. Eggs. Bacon. Aspirin. Sour dough.”
“Huh?” Maggie squinted watching him. She was a little unsteady on her feet. Finally, he looked up. He laughed and pulled out a chair.
“You weren’t kidding were you?”
“Nope.” She slurred the word but sat down.
Hendricks disappeared in the kitchen. She heard him banging around in her cupboards and then heard the faucet run.
He reappeared with a glass of water. “Drink this right now.”
“’Kay.” She sipped it and then set it down. He held it back to her mouth.
“All of it.”
She did, slowly, as she watched him over the top of the glass. He was smiling but he looked concerned. She finished and set the glass down with a thunk on the table.
“Okay. It’s going to be a few minutes. Want me to turn on the TV or music?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Sit tight.”
He went into the kitchen. Every once in a while she could see him cross in front of the doorway, but mostly she listened to him singing some blues song and banging around pots and pans. He brought her another glass of water.
“You can sip this one, but try to finish it.”
Soon, the bungalow started to smell good and her stomach grumbled. She’d skipped dinner. And lunch for that matter. After a few more minutes, Hendricks reappeared with a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast.
“How’s your stomach feel?” He eyed her.
“Okay, I guess.”
He set the plate in front of her. “Eat this. And then take these.” He grabbed the bottle of aspirin and took out four.
She picked up her fork and stared at the food in front of her.
“Come on now,” Hendricks urged.
“Okay, okay.” She closed her eyes with the first bite. “Yum.”
“I know, right?”
Hendricks went into the kitchen and she could hear water running. She wanted to tell him not to bother cleaning up, but she didn’t have the energy to get up. When her plate was nearly cleared, he came back in.
“You done good, girl. That’s the Maggie I know and love.”
Holding her fork hovering above her plate, she met his eyes. He smiled at her.
Without warning, great heaving sobs burst from her.
Hendricks pulled up a chair, scooted close to her and handed her a napkin, stroking her hair. “Shhhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. It will all be okay.” He smelled so good. Something manly that made her want to bury her face in his chest.
She crunched up her eyes and let her body heave with her weeping and wailing until her eyes stung from crying and her nose and mouth were raw. Hendricks kept his arm around her the whole time.
When she was done, and had dried her face, Hendricks led her to the bedroom. He pointed her toward the bed.
“Get your pajamas on and get in bed. Call me when you are in bed and I’ll tuck you in.”
He left, closing the door. Maggie crawled under the covers without changing and fell asleep before she could call for Hendricks.
In the morning, she woke to a spotlessly clean kitchen and a note on her nightstand.
“You’re good people, Maggie. Don’t let the turkeys get you down.” He had drawn a crude picture of a turkey.
She smiled and tucked the note into the corner of her mirror.