A Real Smart Guy

My husband says he loves me -- and maybe he does -- but he’s a drinker and he’d love anybody that’d put out two or three times a week for him. Not that I mind, ‘cause I always like a good tumble as well as the next person. But it’d be better if he weren’t so much smellin’ of drink, and if he weren’t forty pounds overweight. Which he is on both counts.

I know I ain’t no prize neither. I been a drinker myself, until the kids came along and I thought I should get some responsibility, and I’m a few pounds overweight too. I try to provide a good home for the kids, but Bill don’t bring home a regular pay cheque so we have to rely on the welfare more than we’d like. But I figure we do the best we can. Bill’s got his nervous condition and that causes him to drink, and there don’t seem to be nothin’ that can be done about it.  He went into AA one time and sobered up, but things got on his nerves so bad that he near about killed me one night. I bought him a bottle the next day. I can deal with the drinkin’. I can give him his two or three times a week. He don’t usually get violent, and I love the guy.

Bill wasn’t always the way he is now. He’s a smart guy, and he used to work at a real fancy job when he was younger. He would’ve never took up with me back in those days. He even had a fancy wife and fancy kids. But he got caught with his hand in the till at his fancy job. Did some time, and his missus left him high and dry. Wouldn’t listen to no apologies or nothin’ like that. Divorced him and took full custody of the kids, which I don’t think was right because they were his kids too. Bill kinda went in the tank after that, especially when his ex re-marries while he’s in stir, and her new fella turns out to be one of Bill’s friends. Life can be a hard place, and Bill found that out. When he gets drunk these days, he remembers what can sometimes happen if you even make one mistake.

I sorta got Bill on the rebound. When he got out of jail, he was real mean and bitter, and that’s when he took to drinkin’ real serious. I met him in the country bar here in town. He sorta came to my rescue, standing up to a big, drunken giant of a man who was botherin’ me. Bill got his face smashed up pretty bad, but he was still the handsomest guy there even with all the blood and his crooked nose which he never got fixed. I helped him back to my place that night, and he never left.

He’s a strange sort of a guy, but real smart, like I said. Used to go to university and been to see the theatre and all those sorts of things that I never will see. I sometimes hope he’ll pull himself back together, and that he’d still love me, and we’d do better. I wish I was smarter, because then I’d know he’d love me for sure. But he says I’m lucky that I’m not so smart.

I like it sometimes when Bill gets all warm and mushy. We sit on the couch and he puts his arms around me and I feel all secure and cozy. And we talk.

“Are you happy, Bill?” I say to him.

“Yea, I’m happy, Mary,” he answers. “I haven’t been this happy in my whole life.”

I know he’s lyin’, but I play along. “Why are you so happy, Bill?” I asks.

“Because I’ve got you and the kids, but mostly because I’ve got you, Mary,” he answers.

“Tell me what’s going to happen to us, Bill?” I asks.

“Well, Mary,” he says softly into my ear which he also nuzzles, “someday, when the spirit moves me and I feel the time is right, I’m going to start to write. And I’m gonna write a great story about true love and how life can be a grand place when you share it with the right person.”

“Will it be about us, Bill?” I asks.

“Sure, Mary, it’ll be about us,” he answers. “But the best part is that after I write my book, it’s going to be published and be a bestseller, and we’re going to have everything we want because we’ll have all kinds of money -- more than we’ll ever need. The Kennedys’ll be hoping they get an invitation to our place for dinner. It’ll be grand, Mary. It’ll be grand.” He always repeats that last line in a dreamy sort of way that makes me feel good all over.

Then, we go to the bedroom for a tumble, and he falls asleep in my arms, and it’s  just about the best night of my life. I guess you could say I love my Bill. At least I try to understand him.

I never actually seen Bill do any writing. But he’s always talkin’ about doin’ some. In fact, in the local haunts where he drinks, the other regulars, mostly winos and rubbies, call him the Poet, because he talks about it so much,  and also because he’s so darned smart. Everyone of us is sure he’s going to just sit down and write that book one day. We’re always urging him to get a start on it. He just says that the spirit has to move him and the time’s got to be right.

One day, this past winter, Bill comes home from an all-night bender, it’s about ten in the morning, and he’s got an old typewriter that’s away too heavy for him, so he’s wheezin’ and coughin’ as he struggles up to our place, which is on the second floor of an old house.

“Look what I’ve got,” he says as proud as you might please after plunking this really old-fashioned looking thing down on the kitchen table.

“Wow,” the young lad says.

“Where did you get it?” I ask.

“I bought it at the Sally Ann,” he answers. “Twenty bucks and a deal at that.”

I mourned the loss of the money, knowing it would mean some essential done without, but he seemed so pleased. Like a kid with a new toy.

“It’s almost time,” he says.

“For what?” I asks.

“To write the book, Mary,” he answers, and he looks real serious at me when he says it, like he might not rightly be himself. “To write the book,” he repeats, still in earnest.

“That’s why you got the typewriter?” I ask.

“Yea, Mary,” he says. “Now I can really start to prepare.”

“That’s great, Bill,” I say, not sure whether to get excited or not.

“I can’t type, Mary,” he says. “I’ve got to be able to type to write the book.”

“How will you learn?” I ask.

“I’ll teach myself,” he answers. “How hard can it be?”

So, he starts typing like mad. And he types everything he can get his hands on -- newspapers, magazines, the Bible. He just types like crazy. Drinks and types. Because he drinks like crazy all the time he’s typing. Until he’s wild-eyed. It gets so he’s spending so much time typing, that I feel like I never get to see him any more. He stays up late at night, so I can hear the clackety-clack of the keys from the bedroom where I’m trying to sleep ‘cause the kids get up early. He sleeps into the morning when the liquor store opens at ten. Then, he goes at it again like the day before. And now he don’t work at all, or even look for work, so we’re on the welfare all the time and our worker hassles us all the time. Bill tells her to f off one day, when he’s in a particularly foul mood because he’s havin’ trouble with the ribbon in his typewriter. He tells her to f off and clear out before he smashes her head with the typewriter. It’s not a good scene.

So, I get a part-time job at a convenience store, and lug the kids to a babysitter, ‘cause they’re not Bill’s natural kids so I can’t expect him to look after them. But I don’t bother Bill when he’s typin’, and that’s all he does, so I don’t bother him at all. We sort of drift apart even though we’re still living together and still have the odd tumble when he wakes me up in the middle of the night, drunk and all typed-out for another day. But I don’t bother Bill because he’s gettin’ ready to write his book. And once he writes his book, everything will be alright.

One day, some months after he bought the typewriter, and some weeks after I’d started work at the convenience store, I come home from working an afternoon shift and it’s quiet. I thought that’s peculiar because usually the typewriter’s clackety-clacking away. I come into the living room, already having put the kids into their beds, and there’s Bill, sitting ever so quietly in the big, old recliner chair that don’t work anymore. He’s got a candle going on the coffee table, but the room’s mostly dark.

“Hi, hon,” I say into the flickering light of the candle. “Don’t you feel like typing?” I ask.

No answer.

I notice he’s got a half empty bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“You alright, Bill?” I ask, getting worried that maybe he’s not alright. I can’t really see him well enough to see what shape he’s in and he ain’t said nothing. There’s no way to judge.

Still no answer. I worry.

“Bill,” I call quietly, starting to walk toward him, into the soft candlelight.

“Mary,” I hear him say softly, “I’m alright. I’m drunk. But what’s new, eh?”

I stop by the couch. “You’re not typing,” I say.

“No,” he answers. “I can type now. That’s what i needed to know. I can rest now.”

“Good,” I answer. “You need the rest. You’ve been at it too hard this last little while.”

“I needed to,” he says. “But now I’m ready.”

“To write the book?” I ask.

“Yes,” he answers.

“When will you start?” I ask.

“Who knows?” he answers, answering my question with one of his own.

And that was the end of the relentless typing phase of Bill’s life. He still gets the old machine out once in a while, but not too often, and he rattles off a few pages, but not like in those other days when he was like a crazy man at the typewriter. And I’m glad of that.

We sort of settled back into our routine again after that. Bill sort of got the sauce under control, except for in the evening when he had a couple to help him sleep better, and he got a part-time job at a lumber yard in town, so we were both workin’, and there was a little money. It was kind of a golden period in my life. I’d be standin’ in the kitchen doin’ the dishes and Bill’d sneak up behind me and nuzzle my ear and tell me he loves me. I’d get goose bumps all over. It was a special time for me.

One day,  a Sunday in the late summer, it just happens that both of us have the day off from our jobs. So, I asks Bill if we could do something, me and him and the kids, like a for real family. I say to him that I’m tired of watching Jeopardy on the TV, and how be we go somewhere together. I know he’s not big on goin’ out in public with me and the kids, especially to do family-type things, and I don’t usually bother him about it. But lately he’s been in such a better mood, not drinkin’ so much, and we got a little money, so I figure why not.

He says how we gonna get anywhere with no car, and it’s true that we got no car, but I figure he might be able to borrow the pick-up truck from the lumber yard; they let him drive it around town when he’s workin’ and they ain’t open on Sunday. Bill ain’t goin’ for the idea, but I beg and plead. Finally, he gives in, all the time sayin’ he’s not sure how four of us will fit into the truck.

We go to the beach. It’s a hot day, and the kids squirm and fuss all the way there, with Bill threatening to take us all home if they don’t behave, and me pleadin’ with ‘em to behave. I keep my patience. I smile a lot. I say how much cooler it’s going to be at the beach. Bill curses under his breath and grinds the gears.

Finally, we’re there. We take our blanket, a cooler Bill borrowed from the lumber yard, and a few of the kids’ toys out onto the whiteness of the sand, and soon we’re gettin’ cooked. The kids are playing at the edge of the water. Bill and I are lying on the blanket, watching them, and Bill’s sipping on something or other he’s mixed for the day. I get Bill to put some sun tan lotion on my back. For me, this is heaven.

But as we watch the kids and we’re like a for real family having a day at the beach,  Bill starts to get kind of sad. I look over at him, and he’s crying. I never seen him cry before.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, putting my hand on his shoulder to show him I‘m concerned.

“Nothing,” he says.

But the tears continue.

I lean over and gently kiss him on the cheek.

“They’re gonna have to grow up, Mary,” he says, looking toward the kids.

I look too.

“Tell them not to make any mistakes,” he says. “It just takes one, you know.” He sobs.

“I know, Bill,” I answer, and I know he’s rememberin’ his own family that he lost all those years ago.

“I gotta drink, Mary,” he says. “I gotta stay numb.”

I put my arm around him, and hold him, not even caring that there’s others on the beach. “It’s alright,” I say softly.

The crying passes. We stay for a while longer, but the moment is broken. I want to go as much as he does. Soon, we’re in the truck on the way home. It’s quiet. Bill’s sad. I’m sad. The kids behave. It’s the end of a perfect day.

When we get home, Bill goes right for the typewriter.

“It’s time,” he declares.

And there he sits. For what seems an eternity. At the little desk he’s set up in the corner of the living room.  He drinks. But he doesn’t type. He just sits there, fingers poised over the keys, look of serious concern on his face, as if he’s ponderin’ some great and important thing. He looks so serious that I’m afraid to go in and turn on the TV for the kids, so I keep them quiet with crayons and colouring books while I’m fixin’ their supper, then I take them to their room and read to them until bedtime. When I finish, he’s still sittin’ there starin’, so I go to my room and page through a few magazines, thinkin’ I’ll look for somethin’ new I can do with my hair, ‘cause I’d like to change my look, maybe make myself look thinner. All this time, I never say a word to him.

Finally, I’m tired. I put down the magazine I’m looking at. I hear nothing coming from the living room. No clackety-clack of the keys. Just silence. I change into my nightie, go to the bathroom, and climb into bed. There’s awkwardness in the apartment, but I don’t know what to do. I’m tired. I’ll sleep.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping when I wake. I can sense that somebody’s in the room with me, even though it’s quiet and it’s pitch dark and you can’t see nothin’.

I look toward the doorway, and I can see him silouhetted there, a bottle in one hand. “Bill,” I call out softly so as not to wake the kids.

“I can’t do it, Mary,” he says, and there’s pain in his voice.

“Can’t do what, Bill?” I ask.

“Can’t write shit,” he answers, and there’s anger in his voice.

I lay quietly. I’m not sure what to say. I’ve only heard that tone of voice a couple of times before. It’s bad news -- usually for me.

“Christ, Mary, you bitch,” he says, his voice flat and even. “You’re no good for me. You’re a bitch. You’re always bitchin’ at me.”

“Bill, it ain’t true,” I say. “I love you.”

“You don’t love me,” he snaps. “You don’t know how to love.”

I’m afraid. He’s coming.

“Bill, you’re drunk,” I say, but I can see him undoing his belt. I feel tears coming. “Bill, don’t,” I plead.

“You’re a bitch, Mary, and bitches get what they deserve,” he hisses. “We all get what we deserve in this life. Look at me.”

I can hear the belt coming as it passes through the air toward me. That’s the only sound I hear. I feel it, but I can’t hear it hitting me. I weep, but stay quiet. I think of the kids. He stumbles up against the bed and curses. But he strikes again. The only thing that protects me is his drunkenness.

Finally, his strength gone, he stops, the belt dropping to the floor. “Bitch,” he mutters, collapsing to his knees.

Then, he starts to sob. “Oh, god,” I hear him say, as he weeps.

I lay still, fear holding me firmly in place.

He slumps to the floor. Passes out.

I relax. It’s over. I wipe my tears. I straighten myself up.

I go to him and help him up onto the edge of the bed, so I can help him get undressed. “Oh god, Mary, I love you,” he mumbles drunkenly, unable even to open his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, but then he’s gone, out like a light, so I lay his head on the pillow and push his legs up onto the bed and cover him up. I lean over and kiss him lightly on the cheek. He’s my Bill again.

I go to the kitchen and fix myself a coffee. I sit up all night -- thinking. The kids are up early, and I fix them some toast and turn on the TV for them. When I hear Bill starting to stir, I start a fresh pot of coffee. He’ll need his coffee this morning.

“Good mornin’,” I say when he shuffles into the kitchen.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles. I put a mug of coffee into his waiting hands.

There’s no conversation. It’s dead quiet in the kitchen. You can hear the battery-operated clock whirring away. I give him a few minutes.

“I’m leavin’,” I finally say.

He looks up, a questioning look on his face.

“I’m leaving,” I repeat.

He looks blankly at me, but says nothing.

“I’ve saved a few dollars,” I say. “I called my mother. I’m going home.” I’m lying. I’ve got no idea where I’m going. He should be the one that’s leaving, but I’m not pushing it. I do have a few dollars saved up.

“I love you, Mary,” he says. “Don’t do this.” It’s finally getting through the haze of the hangover.

“You might love me, Bill, but you hate yourself and the world,” I say, surprising myself. “And somebody’s going to get hurt, because you can’t control your hate.”

“I’ll go to AA, Mary,” he answers.

“That might be a start,” I answer. “But you’re all mixed up and you got to get help. More than AA.”

“I don’t need no goddamned counselling, Mary,” he snarls. “Those guys are assholes.” He tries to intimidate me by cursing.

“You need help, Bill.” The tears are starting to come. I try to hold them back. I don’t want him to see.

“You can’t leave, Mary,” he says, and now there’s anger in his voice.

“I’m leavin’,” I repeat.

Suddenly, he gets to his feet, the coffee mug goes flying, smashing against the wall.

“Don’t piss me off, Mary,” he says deliberately, starting toward me. “I was drunk last night,” he says.

“You’re always drunk,” I answer.

He grabs me by the arm, hard -- it hurts.

“Don’t,” I say deliberately. “The kids.”

“Screw the kids,” he says angrily. He throws me to one side, into the kitchen counter, I feel its edge in my ribs. I see him coming at me with his hand raised.

My hand finds something on the counter. The butter knife I used to fix the kids’ breakfast.

I loved my Bill...............