Free Shatter My Rock by Greta Nelsen Page A

taking it up the ass in
Cranston, be my guest. I’d be happy to put you there.” It’s a sick thought, but
such a punishment seems morbidly in line with his crime.
    “Really?”
he says, sounding doubtful. “For what?”
    “First-degree
rape. Illegal possession of a controlled substance.”
    He
crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes. “How do you figure?”
    “I
know what you did in Cincinnati,” I say. “The ‘muscle relaxer.’”
    “What you did, you mean?”
    I
have no idea where he’s going with this, but my patience is waning. “Huh?”
    “ You called me, ” he says with a sneer. “Invited me to your room. Took
advantage. I should have you brought up on charges—or at least
fired.”
    “ You should…?” I sputter. “You lying bastard.” It’s obvious he’s getting a cheap
thrill out of my use of profanity, not to mention the way he’s managed to rile
me. “Just leave my family alone,” I settle for demanding, “or else.”
    He
chuckles as if we’re playing a lighthearted game. “I’ll think about it.”
    I don’t think at
all. In one swift move—a move he fails to anticipate—I thump my palms against
his chest, forcing his spit-shined oxfords to slide across the ice and skid to
a stop upon hitting dry land. I hear the crack as he goes down.
    There
is a visceral rush that accompanies the administration of justice, an emotional
high to which I am not immune. The sight of Eric Blair contorted on the pavement,
his broken leg angled in such a way as to induce pain in the onlooker, pleases
me. “Like I said,” I spit, as his eyes beg me for help, “leave me the fuck
alone.”
    ----
    Tim’s
parents were married at the Episcopalian church they’d attended since childhood,
the reception held at the local VFW. And this is where I stand fifty years
hence, shivering in wait at the service entrance, clutching a sackful of party
favors to my chest for warmth as the wiry old coot who runs the place struggles
to force the door open from the inside. Finally, it budges, nearly spilling him
at my feet.
    “Phew,”
he puffs, stumbling a few steps before catching his balance. He stares at the
door hinges and reminds himself, “Better get those things oiled.” To me, he
says, “Come on in, little lady.”
    I
shuffle over the battered threshold and drop the first bag on the empty
counter, then retreat for the second and third. When I return, I find Tim’s
sister, Emily, making the old coot’s day with a charming smile and a lilting
laugh at his best, oft-told joke. I can’t help smiling too, but for a different
reason: Emily’s decency reminds me of Tim—and Ally. I imagine that someday my
daughter will mature into a glorious amalgamation of Tim, Emily and me.
    Emily
darts over and plucks a bag from my arm, saving me the trouble of hefting them
both to the counter simultaneously. “Let me…”
    The
coot slips out of the kitchen, leaving us to it. “Thanks,” I say with a slight
eye roll. “I should have brought Ally to help.”
    There
is softness in Emily’s expression that reflects her love of my daughter, a
kindness for which I am desperately grateful. “How is my little jellybean?” she
asks.
    “Bigger
by the day,” I say. “Owen too.”
    It’s
too soon for her to have formed such an attachment to the baby, but in time I
know it will come. She remarks, “I bet Tim’s in heaven.”
    Truer
words have yet to be spoken. “You bet.” I glance around uncertainly. “Where are
the girls?”
    “Morgan’s
boyfriend has a track meet today, so I let her take my car. Kyra dropped me off
in the Jeep, but she had to go back for Reggie.”
    “Oh.”
I just now realize what Tim and I are in for. Because of our reproductive
issues, we were late breeders. Almost everyone we know has a ten-year head
start.
    Emily
studies the clock. “Wanna get started?”
    ----
    The
party is in full swing when Tim pulls me into the coat closet. “Hey, gorgeous,”
he murmurs, the scent of