The screen swings open, as quiet as Rudy can get, and then he’s in, whispering Taz’s name, plodding across the living room, down the hallway, as if he owns the place. He glances into their bedroom, then steps down toward Midge’s, maybe kind of trying to tiptoe. Taz watches from the rocker, Midge across his legs, arms sprawled to her sides. He gives a tiny shake of his head, and Rudy reels himself in, backstrokes down the hallway, stopping just before sliding into the living room.
Taz keeps up his rocking, slow and easy, a metronome. He tries to remember the night, wonders if she’s not due up any second anyway. He slows the rocking, decelerating, hoping the heat shields hold through reentry. Trying to stay with the rocking, he rolls forward, lifting her from his lap, his forearms scooping in between her and his legs. He gets her into the air, rocking just a little as she starts, eyes still closed.
Down into the crib, the touchdown fraught with danger, but she stays down, out. He edges the blanket over, steps back once, twice. Starts to turn, keeping his feet on the floor, minimizing the squeaks. He makes the bedroom door and steps through, just one tiny glance back, nearly awestruck that she’s still there, eyes still closed, breathing just as quick and steady.
Rudy stands in the living room, halfway to the front door. He raises his finger to his lips.
“You know,” Taz says, “maybe knocking isn’t such a terrible idea.”
“You never answer.”
“Then I guess I’m busy, or she’s asleep, or—”
“Or you’re just not answering.”
“Yeah, or that.”
“Well, how’m I going to know if you’re home?”
“We don’t really go a lot of places. Remember?”
Rudy dips a whatever shoulder. “Well, I had to see if you were really here.”
“Why?”
“No reason, really. Just, you know. . .”
“But you just said, you had to see.”
“Well, not had so much.”
Then he hears Marko, the headers, blatting his way up the street, pulling into his drive. Rudy doesn’t look at him. Taz says, “You know about this?”
Rudy says, “I might have kind of called him, yeah.”
The truck shuts off, the door slams.
Taz says, “So this is what, some kind of intervention?”
A second later, Marko’s at the door. He taps a knuckle instead of ringing, then pushes the door open a few inches, peers in, just the one eye in the crack of the door.
Rudy jumps, swings the door the rest of the way in. “Hey, Marko. Was just heading out. Good seeing you.” He’s by him like he’s greased, like he was never there at all.
Marko watches him a second, then turns back to Taz. “So, you’re here.” He steps in, one clomp of his boots on the hardwood. “You okay?” he says.
People will never stop asking. “It’s just—” he starts, but can’t come up with another word. “Just been busy. Taking care of her. Figuring out how to.”
Marko walks to the couch, the crunch of the couch springs, the bristle of old mohair against canvas pants.
“I got a little tired calling,” Marko says.
“I know. Lost the phone. It’s—”
Marko points with one thick finger. “Might try your pocket.”
Taz pats it. “Damn,” he says. “No guess why you’re the boss.”
“I’m holding on for you,” Marko says. “But, I’m starting to ask around. These people can’t wait forever. Won’t.”
“I know. I’m just, it’s a time thing.”
“People get day care, Taz. Almost every day. We did it.” He stares him down for a moment, then looks away. “I need you back, or I need someone else. No other way I can say it.”
Taz, finally looking right at him, sees the roll of plans pinched in Marko’s ham of a fist. Marko gives it a shake.
“We’ll see,” Taz says. And though she never liked Marko, Marn gives him a nudge. You can do this, she says.
Marko rolls the first set of plans open on the table. “These folks don’t want somebody else. They want you.” He points. “When did you build your last Murphy bed?”
“I’ve never built a Murphy bed.”
“I found a place I can get the hardware. Already got it ordered.”
Taz listens for Midge, who isn’t awake, just when he needs her to be. He takes a step toward the plans.