Free Drowning Tucson by Aaron Morales Page B

lucky she was to have found a man likeManny. Genuine and caring. She knew plenty of women who were disappointed when Manny took himself off the market by proposing to her. In fact, when she went grocery shopping at the PX, she still got dirty looks from a few women who had thrown themselves at Manny when they were younger. He had been a real up-and-comer. Very few had moved up the ranks as fast as young Manny. It had something to do with the way he carried himself in public, Stella was sure. The way he walked, confident yet approachable, drew people to him. They simply assumed he was a man who should be respected, and in time, he had proven them right.
    Respect was definitely something Stella held for her husband. And she liked making him happy. When he was in a good mood, her whole day seemed to go well. But he seemed tired today, so she quit tickling him to allow him a few extra minutes of sleep.
    He gave her hair a little tug, and Stella squealed with surprise. Manny, what’s gotten into you? She moved closer to him, pulling the blanket from between them so their bodies could touch. His skin was hot. His heart was racing. What’s got you all worked up, baby? He said nothing, only pulled his wife closer and kissed her neck and rubbed his cheek against her breasts. Stella sighed and moved on top of him, whispering I love you, over and over like she did every time, and Manny kept his eyes closed and thought about the Loveboat, about the swirling blue lights inside and the stars outside above the dumpster; he heard the sails flapping and the men chanting his name and smelled the sweat and—oh god, Manny—smoke and a handful of dollar bills fluttered past his calf and came to rest on his foot—it’s all yours, Manny—the stars swaying above his head until he felt Stella’s nails digging into his shoulders, piercing the flesh, and then she collapsed on top of him—oh god, oh god, ohmyfuckinggod.
    They lay in silence for a few minutes, waiting for their pulses to slow, breathing short breaths. Manny? You’re amazing. She fell over onto her back. So are you, baby. He hated calling her pet names. Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll get the boys ready, Stella. He got out of bed and wiped himself with a towel lying on their dresser. Across the hall in the boys’ room, Manny unplugged the GI Joe nightlight and picked hisyounger son out of his crib. He bent over and nudged Justin with his elbow, nodding toward the school clothes Stella had set out the night before. Keeping to their morning ritual, Justin groaned and Manny sang good morning to you, good morning to you, you look like a monkey and you smell like one too. His son laughed and sat up in bed. No, you look like a monkey, Daddy. Manny made a grunting noise and left the room.
    He walked into the kitchen with his younger son, squeezing the boy’s cheek before buckling him into his highchair and placing a frozen teething ring on the tray in front of him. He brought a carton of eggs out of the fridge and started whistling while he cracked them into a skillet. He heard Stella humming in the shower. The soapy-smelling steam drifted into the kitchen. Manny whistled and tapped his foot to the rhythm of an upbeat song, like one they might play in a club. Something easy to dance to. Something to set the mood.
    Without realizing it Manny had stopped cracking eggs and stood with his hand suspended over the counter, clenched into a fist, an egg crushed inside. The yolk dripped between his fingers, hanging like strands of speckled mucus. The shower stopped running, snapping him out of his trance. He hurriedly finished breakfast and set it on the table as his wife and older son walked into the kitchen.
    During breakfast Manny and Justin joked back and forth while Stella fed the baby. She was content, laughing at their jokes. Daddy, what do you call it when Scooby-Doo goes potty? Scooby-Doo-Doo. Hehehe. Well, what do you call Scooby-Doo’s ghost then, Justin? Scooby-Boo.