Free Byrd by Kim Church Page A

okay, baby,” he says. “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay. Addie, look at me.” He hands her one of the paper towels they’re using as napkins. “That story,” he says, “how does it come out?”
    â€œIt’s Hemingway. It doesn’t come out.”
    He pulls her closer and presses her head into his shoulder. Her face soaks his shirt. He doesn’t care. He isn’t thinking about himself, not yet. It’s too soon; he doesn’t need to think that far ahead. “It’s okay,” he says, keeping his voice deep and even. “Just tell me what you want me to do. Tell me, and I’ll do it.” He has no idea what this means, for himself or for her, but he likes the sound of it. Solid, convincing, strong. Stronger than he has ever been.

Tell Me and I’ll Do It
    Addie’s phone wakes her up.
    â€œHow you feeling, baby?”
    â€œTired, Roland. I’ve never been so tired.”
    The next night he forgets again and calls at midnight, her time. “How you feeling?”
    â€œPlease, Roland, you have to stop calling so late. I’m so tired I could die.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    He calls at ten. “Did you get the money I sent?”
    â€œYou didn’t send it,” she says. “Golita did. You told her?”
    â€œGolita is family,” he says. “She’s like my sister.”
    â€œYour sister never liked me.”
    â€œGolita’s okay.”
    â€œI sent it back,” she says. A check from Golita for a hundred dollars, less than half the cost of the procedure, and a sticky note in Golita’s handwriting, “Good luck.” Roland hadn’t even addressed the envelope himself.
    He calls at seven. She’s in the middle of supper. “Please stop calling,” she says. She isn’t even sleepy this time. “Please just stop.”
    Someone has to drive her to and from the clinic. It’s a requirement. She considers calling Shelia, though they’ve talked only once or twice since Shelia’s twins were born. But this is one secret she doesn’t want Shelia to know. It isn’t the abortion; it’s Roland. She doesn’t want Shelia to know she’s been with him again. She especially doesn’t want Shelia to know that being with him was her idea.
    She calls the professor. “It’s the least you can do,” she tells him.
    He comes for her in his Toyota. He’s wearing a black cap and sunglasses, like a character in a movie. Sometimes he’s such a joke she can’t help but love him.
    â€œDo you know how to get there?” she asks.
    He nods.
    It’s a cold, blustery March morning. White pear blossoms whip through the air like snow, a spring blizzard. On the sidewalk outside the clinic, half a dozen men are holding signs. They aren’t walking up and down the way you’re supposed to on a picket line. They seem frozen in place. Their signs are big white posters with red magic marker letters, the exact same red on every poster, like they all got together in somebody’s basement.
    â€œDon’t they have jobs?” the professor says.
    Addie knows she’s supposed to hate them. But they’re nothing to her. Standing out in the weather in their wool jackets, too cold to move, they’re not even an inconvenience.
    Someone should take them coffee, she thinks.

Kerouac’s Girlfriend
    Roland stands at his bathroom mirror shaving off his mustache. The mirror keeps fogging over. He wipes it with the side of his hand.
    The bathroom feels smaller when he’s alone. The whole apartment does. Crowded and stale. Nothing nice, just him and his stuff. Dirty clothes, dirty towels, dirty magazines.
    When he was on the road he used to daydream about places he might end up. None of them looked like this. This place could be anybody’s. He could be anybody.
    Who can blame Addie for not wanting his kid.
    She wouldn’t even take