This Town by Nikki Blakely

Dr. Matthias Ripp CC



This Town


      Before I even answer the door, I already know it’s Nate. Through the peephole, I see the blue uniform, the glint of a gun at the hip. Who else would they send? It’s always him. 

      “Mornin’ Shel,” he says when I open the door. “Sorry it’s so early, but I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
      “I do, and I still haven’t heard from him.”
      Nate nods, knowing full well I wouldn’t tell him if I had, but this is how it goes, this little dance we do.

     “You know Shel, this isn’t the usual B&E kind of stuff Drew's got himself mixed up in this time. He’s done something that could land him in a very bad spot. And the fact that no one has seen him for near three weeks now concerns me. And frankly, your lack of concern, especially in your condition, concerns me.”
      “That’s a lot of concerns,” I say, then shrug. “He’ll turn up. Doesn't he always?”
      Nate lets out an exaggerated sigh, and looks towards the street, as if Drew's Camero might do him a favor and just roll on up to the curb right then and there. When he turns back, his eyes fall to my belly, to the black Guns-N-Roses t-shirt stretched taut over forty-two weeks of baby baking. 

      “Any day now, huh?”
      “Oh, I sure hope so," I say, giving my belly a wide rub. “She’s late. Taking her own sweet time."
      He nods, looks at me as if he's waiting for me to say more, as if we are just a couple of old friends, standing on the front porch, shootin' the shit. But I’m past ready to wrap this up, and it's only when I start backing into the house and closing the door that he speaks again. 

      “You know, Shel. I’ve told you this before. You could do a lot better than Drew.”
      I resist the urge to laugh, to say - better who? You? Cause yeah, we used to be a thing, like a hundred years ago, and we both know how that ended. A trip to Wesley Memorial, two cracked ribs, a broken nose and a black eye. I told the doctor I fell, but he knew I was lying. Everyone knew I was lying.
      Besides, I know there is no better. There’s only two kinds of men in this town, Nate's kind and Drew's kind, and it’s six one way, half a dozen the other. Either way, either one, I'm just as likely to end up on the wrong side of the dirt. At least with Drew there's no pretending he's something he's not. He wears his scales out in the open, unlike Nate, who hides his behind a badge. 
      “Yeah, I think we’re done here,” I tell him, and before he can say anything else, I close the door. I don't need to look back through the peep to know he is still standing there, trying to think of some excuse to knock again, or maybe even an excuse to knock the door down. That's what he would have done in the old days, and my heart is pounding with the thought of it. I don't breathe easy 'til I hear the sound of the ignition turning, and the squeal of tires on the road.

     Inside, I go back to what I was doing. I’ve finished with the kitchen. The cabinets have been emptied, their insides scrubbed, their contents sorted and organized. Everything returned to its rightful place. Four boxes sit near the front door, overflowing with junk to go to the thrift.

      According to the What to Expect book, this thing I've been doing is called nesting. The book says it is perfectly natural for a woman in her third trimester to have the urge to clean and organize, to create a safe, calming environment for the baby. Though truth be told, I'm not so sure I would have had the urge at all if the house hadn't been torn to hell two days earlier.
      That was when Jeremy Pratt and some skinny, bug-eyed dude I’d never seen before showed up looking for Drew. Not taking no for an answer, they muscled their way inside. At first, I wasn't worried. Drew wasn't here, and I figured once they found that out for themselves, they'd leave me be. I'd known Jeremy since third grade, and though he liked to act the tough guy, overall, he was pretty harmless. The other one though, I wasn't so sure. He had an unsteady jerkiness to him that set me to mind of a rabid squirrel I'd seen once, and he kept eyeballing me like he thought I was gonna make a run for the door. He was definitely on something. 

      I thought now would be a good time for Nate to do one of his little pop-by’s but then thought - he's probably the one that sent them. 
     I grabbed a Coke from the fridge, plopped on the couch and left them to it. I told them they were unlikely to find Drew in the drawers, couch cushions, or any of the other hidey spots they were looking, but hey, knock yourselves out. A few hours later, not having found what they were looking for if the pissy look on Jeremey’s face was any indication, they left, and I was left with the aftermath of a small hurricane. 

      The cleanup has been something to keep my mind and my hands occupied, and then there's that whole nesting thing, which I probably should have been doing all along according to that damn book. But I do have another reason. An even better reason. If I could only find what they were looking for, be it money, or drugs, or a gun. Something I could sell for money. Then I'd have options. The word melted on my tongue like spun sugar. 

     Cause I knew Jeremy, and that other dude would be back. Nate would back. Drew would be back. It would all just happen again, and again, and maybe this time I'd survive it - we'd survive it. But was just surviving enough? What kind of life was that to give to someone?

      I saved the baby's room for last, and now, when I step inside, I see why I’ve put it off. Diapers, onesies, and baby blankets are strewn across the floor. The changing table lay flipped on its side. A teddy bear, a gift from Aunt Mo, has been sliced open, its stuffed innards pulled loose, a blue button eye hanging by a thread. 
 
      There is nothing in this room that speaks of a safe, calming environment. It screams the opposite. It screams chaos, upheaval, danger. It screams drug deals gone bad, drunken midnight fights, and future CPS visits. It screams high school dropout, pregnant at sixteen and a lifetime of bad men. I know the drill. And I know, no matter how much nesting I do, the only kind of nest this place will ever be is a hornet’s nest, and the only thing you can raise up in a hornet's nest is another hornet. 
​
     I cradle my belly and collapse to the floor, the weight of everything finally hitting me. My breath catches in my throat, hot tears sting my eyes, then slide down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the sleeve of my shirt.

      Drew has disappeared before. Many times. Off on a bender, chasing some deal or another, or hiding from the law. I stopped texting and calling him after a week, when I started going straight to voicemail. Either he is way off the grid, as he puts it, or as Nate put it, he’s landed himself in a very bad spot. And I guess I’m just now realizing what a very bad spot might mean. 

      I am crying hard now, thinking of these past three weeks that Drews’s been gone, and all the other times he’s been gone too. I feel like I'm in the eye of the storm, like I've been given a small reprieve, a few precious moments to catch my breath. 

      And I know I must be a horrible person, a really horrible person, because I am hoping that he is not just off the grid, or off on a bender or whatever. I am hoping he has very much landed himself in that bad spot that Nate was talking about. I am hoping he's not coming back. Not now. Not ever. 

      I am hoping he’s dead.

     Something breaks inside me then, as I look around the wrecked room. It's like I'm finally seeing things for the first time, and I realize it doesn’t matter if he’s dead or if I find whatever it was that they were looking for, because there's only two kinds of women in this town. The ones who stay and take it, and the ones who don’t. 

      And you and me, baby girl, we’re getting the fuck out.

​


​Nikki Blakely lives in the SF Bay Area and enjoys writing stories that evoke smiles, tears, laughter, the occasional eye roll, and sometimes even a scream.  Her work has appeared in Uncharted, Sundial Magazine, Luna Station Quarterly, Writers Resist, Little Old Lady Comedy, Black Cat Quarterly, and others. You can read more of her work at www.nikkiblakely.com



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