By Erik Barca

That afternoon, it began to rain, and the snow turned to brown slush. It’s now nearly midnight, still raining, and the snow is gone. In the kitchen, Paul pours himself another scotch and takes it to the living room. She’s still not home. 

So okay. But no, actually, not okay. Not at all.

She wanted an open thing. That’s how she put it, eight months ago. Paul didn’t say anything, just stood there frozen, glaring. Then he went into the kitchen and started banging around pots and pans. She understood where he stood. Of course she did. 

He falls back into his recliner in the living room. The older boy is asleep in the basement bedroom below. The younger, just turned three, is asleep in their bedroom across from the kitchen. Paul gets up to check on him, cracking the door to let a thread of light slip in. The downy-haired boy lies curled up on her side of the bed, hand under cheek. They were her life, yet she’s brushed them aside. Her carefully sculpted household, now out of balance. 

He considers taking Eli downstairs to his bedroom, with his brother, but decides against it. He closes the door and returns the room’s darkness. 

Paul goes for another drink and adds ice. His hand begins to tremble and the liquid sloshes down onto his slipper. He sets the glass down and grips the counter to stop the trembling. It’s an unforgiveable betrayal. She must understand this.    

He moves back to the living room with his glass and sinks onto the couch. His performance review lies folded on the coffee table. This is what the superintendent wrote: “Ineffective communication with parents and colleagues, which has led to misunderstandings and conflicts.” 

One of Paul’s students – his best student, actually – broke down after some prom queen mocked his Dutch Boy bangs and tossed his copy of Wuthering Heights out the quarter-open classroom window. The room erupted, and the 16-year-old kid actually started to sob. Paul couldn’t think what to do – so he threw an eraser at him. The parents demanded a conference to “talk it through,” but Paul refused. Then he had to explain to her  – her eyes darting around in panic or anger, he couldn’t tell which – why he’d been placed on disciplinary leave for two months.

He finishes his drink and gets up to fix another. Standing at the sink, shoulders slouched, he hears the front door click. He keeps his back to the door. 

“Hey,” she says. He can tell she’s been drinking by the throaty pitch of her voice. “Are the boys all… are they asleep?” He turns as she places her bag and a take-out container by the door.  She looks at herself in the mirror above the entryway table and sloppily tucks in her blouse. “I brought you leftovers,” she says. Paul catches her eye in the reflection as she leans closer, picking at a tooth.    

Just like her – bringing food. Like everything is like it was. Like they’ve reached some kind of understanding.  

“Do you know what time it is?” he says.  

“Paul, let’s not do this. I’m very tired,” she says.

“You realize it’s no good. It’s unraveling, the kids – everything. Right?”  

She smiles at him as though he were a child. She says nothing, walks to their bedroom and locks the door. Moments later she’s out carrying Eli, asleep in her arms. 

“Why is he sleeping in our bed? Is it so hard to put the boys in their own beds?”  

“Put him back,” he says.

“I will not. This isn’t normal. Children should sleep in their own beds,” her voice rising. Eli wakes, begins to fuss and wraps his arms tightly around her neck. 

 “Is it normal you out with her all night? The whole thing’s warped. Give me my boy,” he says.

“You’re not touching him!” she snaps and walks toward the stairs leading down to the basement bedroom. Paul follows and wrenches her arm back. 

“For God’s sake! Get the hell away from me!” she says.

She turns to face him, her boot heel balanced on the top step of the unlit stairs. Paul moves closer. “Please,” he says reaching for Eli. He grabs the boy under his arms pulling harder than he intends. Eli shrieks. 

She pulls Eli back and slaps Paul flat on the cheek with her free ringed hand. He staggers back against the wall and slides down, legs splayed. He covers his face with his hands.

She taps the sole of his slipper with her boot. “Now look at what you’ve done,” she says. “Paul. Do you know your problem? Your flaw? … Your tolerance. It’s insidious. Paul, tell me,  why have you let it come to this? Tell me, when the time comes, what will the kids think of a father who tolerated such things?” 

Paul swallows hard, pushing himself up. Arms outstretched and head lowered, he stumble-charges forward and grabs her waist and … pauses, unsure what to do. She hugs Eli close and steps to the side. Paul slips and falls face-first onto the hardwood floor.

He pulls himself up on his hands and knees and arches his back. Blood pools in the back of his throat. Dizzy and nauseous, he falls again, flat on his stomach, sprawled – like a failed push-up. He’s blocking the staircase now, and she can’t get by.

Then he feels the wet heel of her boot crunch down on his curled knuckles. Mother and child step over him, descend halfway down the stairs, and look back up at him lying crooked on the landing.  

                                                               *   *   *

Erik is a student in the Writers’ Program at UCLA Extension. His stories focus on the fragility of martial and family relationships.