In the Blood

Will and Molly were moving to Atlanta. She’d already told him she didn’t want to move to Atlanta. But Will told her that his options were to move to Atlanta and take this job, or stay where they were and declare bankruptcy. She was expensive, he said. Psychiatric care wasn’t cheap and she needed psychiatric care. She didn’t like hearing that, so she decided to prove him wrong by swallowing a bottle of pills.They weren’t even at the hospital the whole night before the doctors told Will to take Molly home; she was seeing a psychiatrist and a therapist, her family lived only a few hours away, her husband had a good job. They’d pumped her stomach in time. These things happened. Send the middle-class white girl home. She’ll be fine.So. Will and Molly were moving to Atlanta.

Will met Joan when he went to look at the bottom floor apartment in a subdivided house. He wanted a cheap place near enough his office that he could get home quickly, because he never knew when Molly might need him to defuse her latest crisis. A realtor directed him to a place in the gentrifying Fourth Ward. When he showed he parked out back, but almost didn’t get out: he knew Molly would hate it. But options were running thin.He took a look at what he was getting into as he got out of the car. The place he found was a subdivided house, with the apartments stacked one on top of the other. It was built nearly a hundred years ago and neither the new paint nor the new roof could hide the sagging beams and cracking foundation. Stairs led up to a balcony and the rear door of the second-floor apartment. A woman, older, but not old, leaned on the railing, looking down at him.“Are you Angela?” he asked.“No,” she said, stepping away from the railing. “I’m Joan. You looking to rent downstairs?”“Yeah. I’m Will. You live here?”Joan sauntered down the stairs and said: “Sure. It’s nice enough. The right price.”Will took a better look at her: black hair, stone grey eyes cornered by crow’s feet, nose a touch too sharp, chin slightly too small. She was willowy and tall. Pale. Striking, but not beautiful.“I can let you in,” Joan said. She reached above the door frame for the key. “I saw them leave it here. They’re not a real professional outfit.”Joan unlocked the door and waved Will in.It was cool inside. As he walked around, the old wooden floors creaked. “Yeah,” Joan said. “Old house.”“That’s fine. I just need space for my wife and I,” Will said.“It has that.” Joan led Will further in. From the backdoor into the kitchen and towards the front of the house: butler’s pantry, dining room, living room. The windows were newer than the house, but only barely. It would be breezy and humid when it stormed. Out of the corner of his eye, Will noticed Joan lean against the wall, watching him.“Do you know anything about this neighborhood?” she asked.“It looks pretty rough.”“That’s why it’s so cheap.” She peeled herself off the wall and, as if presenting an award-winning cake, said: “But, you’ll be near one of Atlanta’s most famous landmarks: the Murder Kroger.”Will turned to Joan, surprised. “I’m sorry, what?”Joan grinned and launched into the tale of the Murder Kroger, a grocery store that housed junkies out back, had seen four killings, and was known to have an unlimited supply of red velvet cake and pigs’ feet. “I’m serious, Will, they never run out.”He chuckled. “You enjoyed that story altogether too much.”“Oh please, I see your smile! Besides I like the macabre.”“You have the look for it.”Joan pulled some of her hair forward and looked at it, then at her skin. “I suppose you mean the goth look? I was born this way, Will. What’s your excuse?”He leaned towards her and said, sotto voce, “I make terrible decisions.”Joan snorted. She stepped closer and opened her mouth to say something, but then, a voice from the back door: “Hello?”She rolled her eyes. “That’s Angela.” Joan led Will to meet a small woman with wild hair and a poorly fitted suit.“Will?” Angela asked.“Hi.” Will waved.Joan breezed past Angela to the door, leaving the key on the counter. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Nice meeting you, Will. If you move in, I’d love to have you and your wife over for dinner one weekend.”Angela watched her go, then turned back to Will. “She’s very quiet.” Angela lowered her voice, even though Joan was already gone. “After their kid died, her and her husband split. I don’t think they could handle it. She keeps to herself now.”Angela cleared her throat, and gave Will a tour of an apartment he’d already decided to rent.Will and Molly moved in two weeks later. Joan came down, introduced herself to Molly, and again proffered her invite. It was agreed: Will and Molly would come over that weekend.

When Joan opened the door she found Molly at her best and Will at his usual. Molly appeared as the woman Will married but rarely saw: long red hair, green eyes, slim and tall, an inviting smile. The only visual imperfection that Molly carried was a scar that cut through the corner of an eyebrow. The imperfection turned a pretty— but forgettable— face into a memorable one.“Oh thank you for coming!” Joan said.“Of course,” Will said.“I’ve never just invited people over before,” Joan said. “I was never the outgoing one.”Joan took them on a tour. Her apartment was a mirror image of theirs, but Will was struck that everything in Joan’s apartment was new. Even the things built to look old felt new: their lines too crisp, their finishes too fine. Joan must be starting over from nothing.They tour ended in the living room when Molly skidded to a stop and pointed at the Casablanca poster hanging on the wall. “Ugh, Joan, why did you put that up?”“You don’t like Casablanca?” Joan gazed at Ingrid Bergman’s head looming over them in red and orange, giving it a wistful smile.“I don’t understand how any woman can,” Molly said. “Will loves it, but the girl— ”“Ilsa,” Will said.“— she’s just awful. ‘Oh Rick, I melt for you, make all the decisions!’” Molly gestured towards Will. “He loves it. His whole family loves it.”“It’s weird,” he said, “but for some reason we watch it every Christmas. I think my dad decided it was happier than It’s a Wonderful Life.”“Now there’s a dark movie,” Joan said.“Seriously,” Will said.Joan smiled. “When I was little, my sister and I would help with bingo night at church, because we didn’t want to go home. Pastor Simmons had the VHS in the church library. I always thought the cover looked so amazing: Rick holding Ilsa, telling her goodbye. One day the pastor’s wife saw me looking at it and she let us skip bingo setup to watch the movie. It was one of those moments, you know, when something was even better than you could have imagined.”Molly waved off Joan’s story. “Well, I’d rather not have to look at it while I’m eating.”Joan frowned. Will sighed and rubbed his forehead.After dinner, Joan invited the two of them to join her on the front balcony. Will and Molly sat on the wicker couch, Joan opposite them on a matching easy chair.“At night,” Joan said, “I enjoy looking at the houses and imagining what they were like, before this area became so poor.”That inspired a monologue from Molly, who brooked no interruption. She used to be a historian of urban spaces, she told Joan. A university professor. In fact, she went on, she met Will at grad school! She told Joan how the neighborhood they were in used to be one of the richest in Atlanta, before a fire swept through. The Black community moved in and rebuilt and prospered, until the superhighways were built through the city, bisecting the neighborhood. People and capital fled. The Federal government came in and built projects. Eventually the area had the highest concentration of public housing in the country. Only when that was torn down did money begin to flow back in.Then Molly stumbled over her words and her eyes lost focus. Will’s heart dropped. He reached out and took the wine glass from Molly’s slackening hand.Molly rallied. “Oh sorry!” She looked at Joan. “I’m sorry. I took something before dinner. I get nervous around new people.”“You must have snuck something after dinner, too,” Will said.“I felt like it was wearing off,” Molly said.“You know it doesn’t wear off that quick,” Will said.Joan stood up, clearly uncomfortable. “Let me take your glasses.”Will let Joan walk out of earshot before turning back to Molly. “We should go.”Molly, arch, walked into the house, Will trailing. “I’m sorry, Joan,” Molly said. “My husband is embarrassed of me.”“Molly,” Will said, “you know that’s not true.”“It’s okay,” Joan said. “I really am happy you two came.”“So’s Will,” Molly sniped, before walking out the door. Will made his apologies and raced out after Molly, worried she’d fall on the stairs.

Molly slept. She’d taken her morphine and valium and who knows what else besides. She laid on the bed, propped up, mouth open, breathing slow. Will gathered up the pill bottles. He put them in the Clinique pouch with her other pills and placed it on a shelf on the opposite side of the room. If she woke up and they were still there she’d assume she hadn’t taken them and end up with a double dose. She could handle the overdose— she’d done it before— but she’d throw a fit when she ran short at the end of the month.There were cups of urine in the bedroom; she was doing it again. He’d have to get some more Solo Cups or she’d use their coffee mugs. He carried the cups into the bathroom, where he poured them out— slowly, so as not to splash— into the toilet. The urine was grainy, crystalized. Will knew he'd have to find out which pill in her pharmacopeia did that, but that was a tomorrow problem.When Will finished pouring out the last of the cups, he stacked them and put them in the trash. He washed his hands and, grabbing a towel, walked back to the bedroom to check on Molly. She’d started something on Netflix before she passed out. Jack and Rose were fleeing from Cal’s dogsbody hunting them through the bowels of the Titanic. He paused the movie and waited. If she was even a little aware, she’d notice the silence and wake up. Nothing. He turned off the TV.Now for the lights.He walked through the apartment, switching off lights and keeping an eye out for more hidden Solo cups. Trash— mostly junk mail and empty pill bottles that Molly hoarded, but occasionally more disturbing things, like used maxi pads— was already building up. She didn’t mind him throwing away the pads, but she drew the line at the pill bottles and junk mail. He arrived at the back door, the light outside always the last stop in his nightly circuit. His sneakers sat next to the door, as they always did. He pulled them on, turned off the light, and walked outside.

The detritus of dinner was gone by the time Will knocked on Joan’s backdoor. She didn’t seem surprised to see him there.“I’m sorry about that,” he said.“Come in.” She held up the wine bottle they’d been drinking from. “I was going to sit on the balcony and knock off the rest.”She took a swig from the bottle and handed it to him. “Sorry, I’m not doing more dishes.”He took a swig and handed it back to her. “I’m sorry for rushing out like that.”“She does this often?” Joan asked, leading them out front.“Whenever we get to go out.”“So,” Joan said, sitting on the couch, “not very often.”“Not anymore,” Will said, joining her. “No.”They sat, quiet, passing the bottle of wine back and forth.“So what does she do?” Joan asked.“Morphine,” he said, “and valium.”“Where does she get it?”“Doctors,” Will said. “She actually is sick and in all this pain. She needs it, but the stuff feeds her mental illnesses. She has a genetic condition breaking down her collagen. At this point, she just needs to tell them she’s in pain and they shovel more at her. I can’t get them to stop.”Joan didn’t say anything: she just watched and waited for him to continue.He tipped back some wine. “Before we moved here, I used to go to NA. It helped me to meet family members of other addicts. I had to go during lunch, because if I went after work Molly would know and flip out. Two of the circle came to me once, a lady and a guy. They told me to stop hoping she’d get better. They said that. ‘Don’t hope.’ They wanted me to be ready. For me, they said, her being high is a nightmare. For her, sober life is the nightmare.”She pulled up her legs under her and sat cross legged on the couch, facing him. “Could you accept that?”“Well, I thought I knew better,” Will said. “After her first suicide attempt I called the police and committed her against her will. I thought she’d come out fixed.”“It didn’t work.”“No. I was dumb. In fact, she told me that if I did it again, she’d just tell the police I hit her. The doctors at the hospital told me that it was likely the police would give her the benefit of the doubt.”“So she’s been a nightmare ever since?”“Every time she attempts suicide, she does something that could kill her if I don’t react, but it’s always thought through. Just before we moved here she swallowed a bottle of Benadryl, called me, and said I had thirty minutes to get her to the ER. She doesn’t want to die, but she’s putting her life in my hands. I think it fulfills her to see me drop everything to save her. She told me that she’s never actually scared, because she knows I’ll step up.”“You seem like the kind of guy who prides himself on that.”“Yeah,” he said. “I used to be.”She pointed to the wine bottle in his hands. “Oh I’m being rude,” he said, offering it to her.“No no,” she said, smiling. “You need a drink, finish it.”He polished off the bottle. They sat, surrounded by a comfortable silence. He leaned back on the couch and looked over his shoulder, through the window and at the poster of Casablanca. When he looked back at Joan, he saw her watching him, with a tight, sad smile.“Whatever anyone says,” she said, “it’s a great movie.”“The best ever made.”She held up the empty bottle. “Do you want more?”“I’d love more,” he said, standing up, “but I should go.”She stretched. “Too bad. Thank you for coming back. It was going to be a lonely night otherwise.”Joan walked him to the door. As he stepped out: “It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”“Next time,” she promised, “I’ll tell you about my damage.”“It’s a date,” he said, starting down the stairs.

Will crept from Joan’s apartment to his own. The old, creaky house didn’t betray him, and he made it back inside silently. Molly was spread out on the bed, tangled in her covers. She fell asleep sitting up, leaning against the pillows with her head tipped all the way back and her mouth open. Her breathing sounded like a death rattle. Will walked up to her and slid his arms under her. He lifted her up and shifted her body down the bed so that she’d breathe more easily. Molly mumbled something and put her arm around his neck before going limp. He kissed her forehead and pulled the covers over her.The wine hadn’t quite left him drunk, but it had definitely tired him out. His blanket and pillow were waiting for him on the couch; he didn’t bother to undress, he just curled up and went to sleep.He slept in. When he woke he panicked for a moment; it was late and he hadn’t made breakfast. He ran into the kitchen and already had the cereal box open when he noticed the bowl on the counter. The thin film of almond milk inside and the spoon in the sink told him that Molly had served herself. He put them in the dishwasher and looked out the back window. She was working in her garden. That was good. Today was already more pleasant than most.Will grabbed some clothes from the closet— the only space they still shared— and walked to the bathroom for a shower. When he came out he could hear Molly talking. Someone— Joan?— replied. He walked out back.Joan stood on the stairs, leaning on the banister with her keys in her hand. Metal clinked on metal as she gave him a quick wave. “Hey there.”“Hey.”Molly was as Will usually saw her: plain faced with unwashed hair, wearing a long sleeve shirt despite the heat. Scars don’t tan, but her skin would. At least she could wear shorts, or anything that covered her hips.Molly sat back on her haunches and brushed hair out of her face, leaving a streak of dirt. “Will, Joan was telling me that there’s a Target down— ” she stopped, looked at Joan.“It’s in Edgewood,” Joan said. “So, as the crow flies it’s on the other side of Inman Park.”“Hand me that,” Molly said, pointing to a trowel. Will picked it up and held it out. “We can go grocery shopping there.” She took the trowel from him.“Fair warning,” Joan said, “It’s hard to get there from here.”Molly set the plant down on its side. “Still better than what’s around here.”“You don’t want to get your groceries from the Kroger?” Joan asked. “It’s a two minute drive or a ten minute walk.”“Oh, I’d never walk that,” Molly said, digging out a hole. “It’s too dangerous.”“During the day it’s fine.”Molly stopped her excavation, pursed her lips. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything her phone buzzed. “Oh, one second. It’s my mom.”She ripped off her gloves with a groan and picked up the call. “Hi Mommy.”Will blanched; Molly’s knuckles were swollen and red. It was going to be a hard day for her. Maybe that’s why she was so nice: she didn’t want him complaining if she took extra morphine. Of course, she could have just shown him her hands.Joan and Will watched Molly as she walked back inside. Joan smiled at Will. “I didn’t tell her you came by last night. I figured she was the kind of person who wouldn’t take that well.”He exhaled. He hadn’t realized that he was waiting for that shoe to drop. “Thanks, yeah.”“I was headed out to the, uh— ” her keys jangled as she made finger quotes— “‘Murder Kroger’ now.”“You’re really selling it,” he said, smiling.“Scout’s honor, Will, it’s great.” Joan grinned for a beat. “Anyways, I’d better go. Sunday before church lets out is the quietest time.” She looked at the back door, then back at Will. “I appreciated the company last night.” She walked to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m still learning how to be open like you are.”“Sometimes I share too much.”Joan cocked her head and said quietly: “It felt right to me.”He watched her walk to the car before glancing back into the house. Molly was still on the phone. Will knelt down and pulled on Molly’s gardening gloves: he needed to finish relocating Molly’s plant.Will walked inside when he was done, already exhausted from the heat. Molly saw him come in. “Oh hold on, Mommy— ” she covered the phone— “did Joan leave?”“She went to the store.”“I’m surprised she didn’t stay longer. I think she likes talking to you.” She watched Will. When he didn’t react, she shook her head and uncovered her phone. “Okay Mommy, I’m back.”Will went into the kitchen. The almond milk was almost out. He made a note on the grocery list they kept on the refrigerator door.

Molly learned from Sunday’s heat and went out to work in the garden even earlier on Monday. He was still in the shower when it happened, but Molly told Will that she caught Joan leaving for work. She walked into the bathroom while he was buttoning his shirt.“I invited her over for Friday,” Molly said, squeezing past him. She pulled down her shorts and plopped down on the toilet. “I thought you might like to have someone over.”He held up two ties. “Red? Or this one, with the elephants? And yeah, that’ll be fun.”Her eyes were closed. “I don’t care.”Will threw the red one over the towel rack. “Elephants then.”“No,” she said. “They’ll think you’re a Republican. Go with the red one.”He swapped out the ties, but said, “I don’t think work cares. I don’t— ” he looked over at her on the toilet— “don’t strain.”“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do!”He finished knotting his tie. “I don’t know, relax?”She grimaced.“It was nice of you to invite Joan over, but you know— ”“Yes,” Molly said. “I’ll clean.”“Just a little bit every day, maybe? It shouldn’t be too bad. This will be a nice way to christen our new place.”“When is your bus coming?” she asked, eyes screwed shut.“Soon.” He kissed her on the head and left.By that night she hadn’t done any cleaning. She promised she would start the next day. But Tuesday nothing was done. When Will tried to start cleaning Wednesday night, Molly got upset, saying that she didn’t want him throwing away certain things. On Thursday she got upset when she caught him throwing away her cups of urine. He pointed out that he did it every night after she went to bed. That didn’t placate her, but she did promise to clean the house on Friday. “We really just need the dining room and a path to the dining room clean,” he said.The house was still a wreck when he came home Friday night. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. He felt like a fool for thinking this time would be different.He sighed. “Why do you do this? Why would you ask someone to dinner if you’re not going to follow through?”“I’m sorry,” Molly said. “I tried!”“I tried to help you all week,” he said. “Do you want people to see that we live like this?”She shook her head. “No! That’s why we need to cancel.”He sighed. He ran his hands through his hair. “What if we go somewhere? We could all go out to dinner.”“Maybe,” she said.“Okay. Why don’t you change? I can go tell Joan.”Molly nodded, but then: “I’m going to need to take more morphine.”“What?”“It’s why I couldn’t clean today,” she said. “I’m in so much pain.”Will leaned against the wall. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”“I didn’t want to use it as an excuse.”“Yeah,” Will said, “but I can understand you being in pain.”Molly walked over to her Clinique bag. Will went on: “But if you need extra medicine you probably shouldn’t go out tonight. You’ll pass out.”She put the bag away without pulling anything out. “I need something to get me through and you punish me for it. I have every right to not be in pain.”“I didn’t say you didn’t, Moll.”“You’re keeping me locked up. I either have to suffer or get shut up here. I’m lonely.”Will wondered if it was easier to go out and let her lose consciousness in the restaurant. Maybe they could get a booth and she could just fall asleep next to him.“You go to work all day,” she went on, “and you see people. I’m here.”“Yes,” Will said. “And I’m not stopping you from meeting people. We own a car, I take the bus to work. You feel better during the day, right? So no morphine or valium. You can go out, maybe, join a club. Or even just buy a coffee.”She looked over at her medicine bag before looking back at Will. “It’s so exhausting, though.”“Yeah, people can be,” he said, fixing her with a look.Molly reached out and took the bag back again. “I’m sorry, I can’t. Not tonight.”“Fine. I’ll go tell Joan.”The pill bottles clacked as she dumped them onto her bed. “I’m sorry, Will. I’m trying.”“After awhile,” Will sighed, “trying doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”She had a pill bottle in her hand. She looked at him, confused.“It’s what people do that matters,” he said.She teared up. “It’s never good enough.”He’d gone too far and he knew it. Will reached out and stepped towards her. He’d take her in a hug and hold her— not tight, because that would only make her pain worse— and tell her he was sorry. But Molly threw a pill bottle at his head. Her hands were still swollen so her throw was off. The bottle hit the wall. It wasn’t shut properly and pills exploded across the room. He looked at one rolling along the floor: pink. So not morphine and not valium. He wondered if she’d chosen that bottle on purpose or if she’d just gotten lucky.“Go tell her you’re sorry,” she said. She knelt down on the floor and started to pick up the pills, struggling to grasp them with swollen fingers. He started to help, but she pushed him away. “No. I’m not a baby. I can do it.”Her fingers didn’t close on the pills tightly and half the time she dropped them. Will ignored her protests and began picking them up with her. Molly, tears running down her face, clapped the cap on the bottle when they were done. “Please go.”Miserable, he left and walked upstairs to tell Joan. She was already getting ready when he knocked on her door. Will could tell that Joan was planning on putting in more effort than was necessary to eat dinner at the neighbors’. She was wearing a nice dress and was halfway done with her makeup when he knocked.Will felt like a heel for the second time in two minutes.“Hey,” Joan said, “it’s okay.”“No, it’s really not.”Joan’s shrug told Will that she agreed; she was just trying to take the loss with equanimity.“I’m sorry,” he said.He turned to leave. Joan’s reached out and took Will’s hand before he stepped out the door. “I know it’s not your fault, Will.”He ran his thumb along her palm, but kept his eyes on hers. “It’s not fair, though.”“Why don’t you come back tonight? You can tell me about it, do what my grandma called ‘ventilating.’”Will snorted. “Ventilating? You mean venting?”“Yeah,” Joan said, letting go of his hand. “She was Old Mexico for sure and some things she never did pick up.”“I like that.” Will stepped out of the doorway onto the back balcony. He glanced down, towards his door. “Okay. I’ll try my best.”“You do that,” she said. “I’ve got no plans.”The door clicked shut as he walked down the stairs. He could still feel her hand on his.

Will knew Molly took her extra pills while he was apologizing to Joan: within 30 minutes of him coming downstairs she struggled to focus and half an hour later she’d fallen asleep. Her face was red and puffy. She’d still been crying when he came back and only rallied when brought dinner. They sat together on her bed, watching TV until Molly passed out. Her plate tipped off her lap and onto the mattress, nachos sliding over the bedspread. He gathered up her food, piled it on the plate, and carried it to the kitchen. He went back into the bedroom and arranged her on her side, so she wouldn’t choke. Then he turned off the light and left.When Joan opened her door she was holding an overfilled glass of red wine. She handed it to him. “I’ve been saving this for you,” she said. She was still wearing her dress and she’d finished her makeup. Her hair was up. It reinforced Will’s first impression of her: striking, not beautiful, but memorable in a way that stirred him.She led him to the front balcony. Will sat and watched Joan give her dress a quick tug to better cover her legs when she sat. She noticed him watching and grinned. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry.“I’m just glad you didn’t see me adjusting anything.”“Oh I saw, I just didn’t stare.” She rested her hand lightly on her chest and tilted her chin up, and gave Will a haughty look with a slight smile. “Unlike some people, I am classy.” Then, dropping her dramatic pose, she said: “But that conversation can wait. You came here to ventilate.”So Will ventilated. Joan listened and refilled his glass as he spoke.“Once, this doctor put her on this antipsychotic, olanzapine. Have you heard of it?”Joan shook her head. “I’m an accountant. I work alone in a little cube with only numbers as my friends.”“I wouldn’t have pegged you for an accountant.”“My sister told me I should be an English major, but accountants are never poor. I was tired as fuck of being poor.” She took a sip of her wine. “But go on.”“Oh right. I was in the kitchen. She’d been on the medicine for a week and one night she walked in to get some water. She looked at me and gave me this lovely smile and just said hi. I saw the woman I’d fallen in love with. I hadn’t seen her in years.”“What happened?”“She went to the doctor the next day and said that the olanzapine was making her gain weight— it was— and that she wouldn’t keep on taking it.” He ran his thumb along the wine glass’s rim. “I’ve been chasing that smile for years. She’s so sick, mentally and physically. She needs someone to take care of her. I resent it and I feel so guilty for resenting it.”They didn’t say anything. They just sat together, staring at the neighborhood. The streetlights painted everything a hollow sort of yellow, as if the color was there, but there was no vibrancy to it. The houses alternated between weedy, unkempt yards and peeling paint and homes remodeled just enough to sell to young middle class couples. A lone Black teenager walked by, pushing a baby in a stroller.“I’m glad you moved here,” Joan said.“Oh yeah?”“Yeah,” she said. “I was lonely, too.”He raised his glass, toasting her. “And now you have a lonely friend.”“I kind of expected it to be your wife.”Will let out a small, mirthless laugh. He took a sip of his wine. “Tell me your story.”“Oh no,” she said. “Do you want to make me cry?”“You promised. Right before you kicked me out,” Will said.“Kicked you out!” Joan said, mock outrage at the insinuation.He just looked at her, mock nonplussed.Joan sighed. “Okay, fine. Do we have enough wine?” She looked at the bottle: just enough. “Alright, uh, have I ever mentioned Charlie?”“No, was that your kid? Angela told me he died.”“That gossipy bitch,” Joan said. “But, yeah, he died of cancer. I moved out here a few months after. I had nothing. I left Chuck— his dad. I came here, bought everything new. I was so stupid. I thought it would let me forget, move on.” She started to tear up, but didn’t bother wiping her eyes. “At night all I can see is how things were at the end.”She finished her glass, topped it back up, and went to put the bottle down before thinking better of it. The bottle stayed in her lap. She went on: “After he died, his room was a mess. Just devastation. Medicines everywhere, vomit bags, pill splitters— I kept losing them. He had a port in his chest— ” she gestured above her heart— “for chemo. They’d taken it out and told us to concentrate on making him comfortable. His body was so hurt, it never healed. It oozed and we couldn’t keep it clean.”Joan turned away, as if she could hide that she was crying. “Will, after, there was just so much waste. When we got rid of the trash there was still so much there that I couldn’t bear. I wanted to get rid of it all, start over. We fought. Chuck wanted to keep everything, I wanted to keep nothing.”“In the end,” she concluded, “we couldn’t agree. So I did what I always do: I cut and run.”Will took the bottle from her, refilled his glass, and handed it back to Joan.“We’re both broken people, aren’t we?” Will asked.Joan laughed while wiping tears away. “We don’t have to be.”“So you moved here,” he said. “To start over.”“I moved here,” she said, careful and slow, “because I want to live a life where I’m excited to find out what comes next. Where I’m not dreading the next moment. Back then, I knew that no matter what happened it was going to be bad.”She took another drink, but this time she didn’t try to finish the glass in one go. “I’m so lonely.”Will took a beat before saying: “She’s down there, but she’s no company. I feel terrible saying that, but it’s true.”“We are broken people,” she said with a small smile. Will could see that she was barely damming her tears. “I’m sorry to cut this early,” she said, “but you should go.”“Are you sure?” he asked.“Yes, please. I need some time to ugly cry.”He nodded and stood up. As she was walking him out, she said: “Thank you for giving me a chance to dress up. Next time we’ll talk about happier things.” He could hear her sobbing start as soon as she closed the door.

The next day, Will was careful not to mention Joan. Not that it mattered much. Molly’s speech was monosyllabic and wouldn’t acknowledge Will unless he forced her to. She pulled on athletic shorts, which sat too high on her hips, and a tank top. Anyone could see her scars. Normally she was too ashamed of them, but now she was too depressed to care.“I’m going through the motions, Will. That’s what you tell me to do, right?”That is what he told her to do. It’s what her doctors told her to do, too. Go through the motions until they mean something again. She went out to her garden.Will laid out her medicine on the bed and counted all of the pills. Had she forgotten to take something?The amounts added up. Well, the morphine and valium count was off—too low—but that wasn’t a shock. She’d actually been taking her other medicines as prescribed. A pleasant surprise.Their fight the night before, had it tipped her over the edge? Had he tipped her over the edge? Or was this a game, another isolating move— Will’s gotta stick close to Molly so she doesn’t hurt herself while she’s down? Will gnashed his teeth. He couldn’t tell if this was real. He couldn’t tell if he should be angry at her or pity her. It ate at him.

That night, he could hear Joan’s music in the bathroom. From the creaking in his ceiling, he assumed she must be dancing. If Molly woke up while he was leaving, he’d just claim he was going to ask Joan to turn it down.He knocked gently on Joan’s door. The peephole darkened as she peered outside. She opened the door, a touch sweaty, hair a mess, smiling. “Hey there. You’re just in time.”She had a glass in hand and a wine bottle on the counter. Closing the door behind him, she pulled out another glass from the cabinet and handed it to him. She led him to the balcony. It was only his third trip there, but they both knew their places: side by side on the wicker couch, a bottle of red between them.“You seem like you’re not doing well,” she said.“It’s been a bad day,” he admitted.“What if we didn’t talk about it and instead talked about something fun instead? I think I promised you happier things.”“Oh? You don’t want me to ventilate?”She waved a finger at him. “Don’t overuse that. It’s Grandma’s.”“Well,” Will said, “I think it’s ours now.”Her smile told him she agreed. “Will, I want to thank you for last night.”“I made you cry!”“Yeah, but I needed to share it. I— ” she paused, considering— “I feel cleaner now. Like I’ve processed things a bit more.”Will didn’t know what to say to this, but she did seem different. Freer.“How about you?” she asked him.“I— ” he stopped, thinking about it— “Yeah, I’m glad I could talk about it.”“Well then, sad things out of the way.” Joan leaned into him. “Tell me about our favorite movie, Will. Why do you like Casablanca so much?”He set down his glass. “It’s— ” he shaped a globe with his hands as he tried to formulate his thoughts— “it’s like a love story for guys. It’s a romance we can relate to. And a great war story too.”“So is it the love story or the war you love?”“Yes,” he said.Joan laughed. She handed him his glass. He took a drink. “Okay, so, I know it isn’t a true story, but it is true if that makes any sense.”“It’s true, even if it isn’t real.”Will beamed. “You understand me.” He took a drink. “Why do you like it?”She looked at him over her glass. “This is going to sound weird.”“Hit me.”“The pain,” she said. “It’s the pain.”Will finished his glass with a gulp. “Okay, you are really going to have to expand on that.”She refilled her glass and handed the bottle to him before going on: “So, everyone, Rick, Ilsa, Victor, they’re all struggling, but they fight through every shitty, painful thing that happens to them to reclaim capital T capital L True Love. Even though Rick doesn’t get to be with Ilsa, getting closure gave his whole life meaning. ‘We’ll always have Paris’, remember?”Will finished the quote for her: “‘We’d lost it— until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.’”“I wonder,” Joan said, resting a hand on his arm, “is one night all it takes?”Will glanced at her hand, surprised. She noticed and pulled away, a look of alarm in her eyes. He shook his head, picked up the bottle between them, and set it on the floor. She gave him a warm smile and scooted closer to him, so that their legs were touching. She put her hand back on his arm. “Tell me more.”An hour later, Joan filled the last bit of space between them, put her hand on his chest. He brushed her hair out of her face and smiled.“You should go,” she said, putting her lips on his.

After creeping in, Will fell asleep on the couch, sure that Molly hadn’t noticed he was gone. When he woke up, he could hear her moving around. He knew she would get louder and louder until he got up.Will knew he’d have to face Molly’s existence. He didn’t want to hurt or resent her, but while he was pretending to sleep, he could hold onto Joan, her smell and her taste.He heard a creak above him. Then another. Joan. Listening, he tracked her. She was pacing. He yawned, stretched. He could see Molly in the bedroom, watching him. It was eerie. He walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Taking his clothes off, he turned on the water, and stepped inside. The door creaked open. Will poked his head out of the shower. Molly was pulling off her clothes. She stepped into the shower next to him.Molly wrapped an arm around his neck and kissed him. Her mouth tasted acrid, like bile, but in the moment he just wondered if she could taste Joan. With her other hand she took his penis. It should have felt good. Once upon a time he’d lose himself inside of her. Now he just kept asking himself if this was real or not. He couldn’t relax enough to lose himself in the moment. Instead, he felt disgusted— with both of them.Will stepped back, almost slipping and falling into the spigot. Molly looked at him, confused, her mouth hanging open. He took her in. Her obsession with staying skinny had gone too far and he hadn’t noticed. That explained her taste.Her knees, her knuckles, and all of her joints were red and swollen. It stood out against her pale skin. The hot water must have felt scalding to her. He took her arm and gently pushed it away, the scars ridging her wrist hard on his hand.“What?”He turned off the water. “I’m sorry, Moll. I can’t.” Will stepped out of the shower and almost fell onto the toilet. “I just can’t.”“Will, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the other night.”“Molly— ”“Please let me make it up to you.” Her face betrayed such pain. She leaned back against the wall. “I’m sorry.”She was moments from falling. Will reached out and put his arm behind her. She wrapped her arms around his neck in a smooth, practiced move. He swept her up and carried her to bed. He laid her down tenderly. She kept her arms around his neck and he knelt next to her.“I’m scared,” she said. “I know you hate me.”“I don’t hate you, Molly.”She pulled close to him and he recoiled. Anger on her face, then hurt. He thought about Joan. Last night she’d told him to go, but she meant none of it. She was hot against him. She tasted good. He knew what she wanted, what they both wanted. He didn’t know what Molly wanted.Will stood up. Molly’s face flashed with anger. She folded her arms and ground her nails into her skin, leaving livid red marks. Will wanted to run, but he couldn’t leave her like this. She watched as he opened up her Clinique bag and fished out the valium. She didn’t say anything, just stuck out her tongue and let him put the pill on it. She swallowed it dry while he’d found her a glass of water.“I’ll sit with you,” he said, “while you fall asleep.”“Thank you.”He sat down with her. Molly curled up on the bed, back to him, gripping her pillows. He could hear her breathing slow. She would be out soon. She reached over and touched Will’s leg. “I love you, Will,” she mumbled, “but I hate you too. This isn’t how my life was supposed to go. You didn’t protect me from it. Why is this so hard?” She passed out. He picked up her arm and laid it against her side, before covering her up.He pulled on some clothes. The valium bottle sat open on the shelf. He closed it and put it back in the bag. He looked over his shoulder at her. Her features had softened in her stupor. She looked sweet. He thought about crawling under the covers and laying with her. But eventually she’d wake up and then things wouldn’t be so sweet.He ripped the grocery list off the refrigerator and walked out the door.

Will walked into the Murder Kroger. It was Sunday morning, Joan’s favorite time to go grocery shopping. Her car wasn’t at the house, so he was sure she was here. He grabbed a cart and walked to the produce section. She stood next to some oranges, looking but seeming to notice nothing. He walked over to her, his heart dragging on the floor.“Joan.”She sighed before turning to him. “Hi.”“Should I not have come?”She turned back to the oranges. “I was hoping to have some time to think.”“Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”“No,” she said. “No, I want you to stay. It’s just— ”“Yeah.”She left behind the oranges and walked to a rack of bananas. She took two bunches down. “Do you need any?”He checked his list. “Yeah, I do.”She handed him a bunch. “These look pretty good.”They continued on, wending their way past fruit flies and bins of pigs’ feet. They turned down the first aisle. “Let me see your list,” she said, reaching over. She pointed. “Over there.” They rolled down the aisle.There were so many things to say, but he could only think of one place to start. “Last night you asked me why I like Casablanca. There’s one more reason.”Joan nodded, handed him a box of penne. He went on: “It’s not just the romance of the thing— ”“Or the war?”“Yes,” he said, sharing a small smile. “In Casablanca their choices have meaning. Rick says that their problems don’t matter in the big picture— and they don’t— but what he doesn’t say is that their choices still matter. I want my life to have meaning again. How I get there, though, I don’t know”He reached out and put his hand on hers. For a second their fingers intertwined, then he pulled his hand back. “It’s just— ” he cast about, searching for and failing to find the right word— “with Molly, I’ve lost all control. I do things just to keep her happy. Or alive. What happened last night— ” he took a deep breath— “that was a choice.”Joan gave him a thin, grim smile. She leaned on her cart and they pushed on. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking?”“Of course,” he said.“I’m thinking that when you come to see me, I’m not so lonely. Well, I’m lonely, but it’s bearable.” She put some olive oil in her cart. She held up another bottle and waggled it at him.“The extra virgin.”She put the bottle down and found what he was looking for.“Thank you,” he said, taking it from her. “We’re both lonely. In different ways.”They turned the corner into the next aisle.“This seems like a disaster waiting to happen,” she said.“Why do you say that?”Joan checked his list, nodded, and pulled some bread off of the shelf, tossing it into his cart. Joan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Because, Will, I know, at some point, I’m going to have to give you up. Something will happen and you’ll feel the obligation. You’ll choose Molly, even if it kills you.”He looked away. She was right and he knew it.Joan grabbed two family sized bags of chips, tossed one in her cart, one in his. “Do you know what my first thought was, when I saw you?”“No.” They’d stopped moving and stood facing one another under the racks of chips and cokes.“I thought to myself: ‘he looks so sad.’ It was like looking in a mirror. I knew right away that you were someone who’d understand my pain.”They stepped apart to let a customer pass between them. “What did you think when you saw my ring?” he asked.“It didn’t even register with me,” she said. “It didn’t matter. That’s not where I was. But last night felt right and that’s pretty fucked up. It’s too soon and you’re married. We’re broken people.”“I didn’t feel broken last night.”She frowned. “It’s too mercenary. It feels like we’re doing this for selfish reasons.”“Is that so bad?”Joan sighed. “I need more than your dick in me.” She crossed the aisle to him. She didn’t look unkind or cautious. She looked hungry. “I need this to mean something.”He looked her in the eye. “Doesn’t it already?”She chewed on that for a moment then nodded. “Come up to my apartment when you want. Spend that time with me. We’ll keep talking about happier things. I can tell you about the good times with Charlie, so I don’t think about the bad times.”He leaned in and they kissed. Her body sagged against his. Then, so close that her lips brushed his as she talked: “Maybe we can be happy for awhile. I need that. Give me that. At least until I get Paris back.”

John W. Treviño