Suck It In And Swallow
by Gary Kline

        "That's it," Rita said after her ten-minute monologue. "Now you can talk." The silence was palpable as they lay there in the deep shadows.

        Dean felt dead inside; he felt like a log wedged into the bank of a muddy river. She had explained a lot he thought with a sour smirk. Including a snide remark about something he and the children shared in common.

        "I will get the boys," Rita said firmly. "They give mothers the kids nine times out of ten. Besides, you're the one whose out of a job. Nurses are in demand. Not grease monkeys."

        Filled with an explosive energy, Dean stretched out, swung around and stretched upwards six feet, five inches.

        James burst into the bedroom just then. "Todd's got a poopy diaper! Mommy, Todd's got a poopy diaper, an' it's your turn!"

        Dean said, "I'll get it," and headed for the boys room. Todd, almost two, stood in his crib, arms opened to his father. Dean scooped up the toddler and hugged him hard. "Howdy, Ranger! My nose thinks you need putting through the car wash!"

        Twenty minutes later Todd was changed, the boys were watching TV in the living room, and Dean stepped out of the shower. He wondered if Rita was going to bitch over seeing him striding around in the buff. But she was sleeping, snoring. After Dean stepped into his clothes he stood there, watching her. "I shoulda put two and two together," he said at last. "No wonder she's had a headache for a year, for chrissake!" Last night he had slept beside the strikingly handsome and fit blonde he had married eight years ago angry only that she wouldn't have sex. He had accepted it, though, swallowed his emotions, and curled into his fox hole of blankets. Now, he decided, there would only be absolutely nothing as far as his feelings for her were concerned.

        In the kitchen, Dean threw down pain meds for his arthritic knees that had been damaged in the Gulf war, spooned a heaping tablespoon of instant coffee into his mug. Half milk, half water, and a nuking later and he had his breakfast. He fetched the morning Tribune from the dilapidated porch and settled at the table to check the help-wanted ads.

        There weren't many new pickings. He circled three possibilities, including one almost an hour out away. After copying the information to his notebook, he scanned the front page. The Iraq war was heading deeper into disaster; gasoline was over $3 a gallon in some places and interest rates were still heading up. Several thousand layoffs on the East Coast due to another merger of corporate titans. To Dean, that was just the way things were. "I'm goddamn powerless," he said to himself with a swig of coffee. It ate at him, deep in his guts, and he forced his thoughts elsewhere. At his job situation, something that he was determined to fix.

        A story caught Dean's eye in the bottom half of the front page. A man had killed his wife, three children, then had taken his own life. No suicide note. The paper called it a complete mystery; neither family nor friends had any clue what set the man off.

        "Jesus Christ," Dean said, "some guys just can't suck it in, I guess. Can swallow all the shit." He shook his head. "Poor kids. ...At least they're in a better place now."

        He heaved a sigh and reached for the phone. It rang at that instant. "Yo! Dean here."

        "Hey, Deadeye," Bob said. "Two questions: are you bringing your Bisley after church? And did you buy ammo?"

        "Not yet. Today. I'll get the 335-grain bullets. Less kick for target practice."

        "Or killing bears!"

        "Yep," Dean said and drained the mug. "I've got to make some calls and see about some jobs. One place needs a diesel guy, but it's way the hell out in the boonies."

        "Is there any chance we'll see Rita in church?" Bob asked.

        It was a moment before Dean replied. "I don't think so. We're just going to half to keep praying for her, I guess."

        The men talked about ten minutes. Afterward, Dean spent some 45 minutes talking to garages and shops who were looking for mechanics. He made notes in his pad. Then he fixed his sons Cheerios and ordered them to the table.

        "You men eat up and listen to Mommy. I've got to go out and see some people."

        James asked, "Are you gonna get a new job, Daddy?"

        "I sure hope so, Sarge," was the reply. Dean tussled James' hair and gave Todd a warm hug. "Listen: I love you guys. Always remember that. Always!"

        The boys said they would, Dean grabbed his leather jacket, said, "Semper Fi, you guys," and was gone.




As the heavy tavern door shut behind him, Dean strode to the bar and slipped over one of the stools. He wanted to put his head on the bar and fall deep asleep. Or pound his fist into something--anything. He wanted to cry; he wished he could talk to his parents, especially his father-- or his big brother. But they were dead going on five months. He wanted to get a job--wherever--and run away with his boys. Seemed like anything would be better than what was gnawing at him.

        But when his friend Nick said, "The usual?" Dean straightened, sucked it in, and nodded.

        "Um, yeah! Please. Make it a double."

        With a minimum of motion, Nick swiped a glass, bottle, and napkin. Poured his friend a bit more that two fingers' worth of Jack Daniels. Presented it like a gift.

        Dean was usually methodical when he drank straight whiskey; tonight he threw down more than half of it in one slug. He liked its burn.

        "You're still looking," the bartender said, half asking.

       

        "What's seventeen weeks time six?" Dean said. "That's how many days I been out there. Haven't missed a goddamn day's looking. I struck out here in town today. One guy--there's a shyster operation over on Jackson and Fourth--jerked me around over three hours before saying straight out that he meant to cancel the ad last weekend."

        "I heard about them guys," Nick said. "They'd rip out their granny's pacemaker for twenty bucks. If you worked there either you'd kill them guys or the job'd kill you."

        Dean sipped his Daniels. "Right now I'd haul in with the Devil ... for a few months, least ways. Anyway, there's this place over in Johnstown I'll check out tomorrow. They want somebody with five years' diesel background. I've got about two. Figure it's still worth a try."

        "Nobody appreciates your being an ex-Marine? Gulf vet, injured while serving his country?"

        Dean snorted. "That's a joke. Nobody knows, nobody gives a rat's ass."

        Nick nodded and headed off to tend to other customers. When he came back a few minutes later he said, "Want to hear a funny story?"

        "Sure."

        "It's not funny ha-ha, but it's a riot when it comes to how all assholes get theirs, sooner or later. Do you remember Roger McKusic, that arrogant twerp everybody hated in senior high?"

        Dean nodded. "Just vaguely. Creepy, stingy guy... yeah."

        "Okay, well ol' Rog made a killing as a day-trader a few years ago. Married, three kids, nice wife--HA! he thought!--cars, McMansion, the whole bit.

        "Anyways, his wife decides to turn lesbo on Roger. The guy is clueless. Her 'girlfriend' moves in as a friend or whatever. Last year the wife wants a divorce. And the kids. And the house and cars. And alimony so she can live like she's use to.

        "Long-story-short is that Roger's day-trading crapped out. So wife ends up with the kids and house and a couple cars. And he's down in the flats in a hovel. Now I can't say my heart bleeds for this guy. He was always a jerk. But it shows how you can go from top to bottom."-- Here, Jack knocked on the bar in front of Dean.--"Or from bottom to top. I'm betting on you; you're a good man."

        When Dean looked up a moment later he saw Nick at the far end of the bar, then head off to other tasks. Dean didn't know why, but all of a sudden his heart was racing; it seemed like it was going to pound threw his chest. He emptied the drink with a sip, left some bills, and headed out.

        Raven and her new boyfriend were headed in as Dean was exiting. Without warning, he kissed his old girlfriend full on the lips. It was a forced embrace, a deep and warm kiss that wasn't entirely objected to.

        "Dammit, Dean!" Raven said, wiping her mouth. "You can't just--"

        "I did! So sue me! Or call the cops!" Dean shoved Raven's boyfriend several feet backwards and stalked off toward his car. He could taste the sweet warmth of Raven's kiss all the way home.

       

       

       

       

        Within a mile or so of home he passed Rita's SUV. Beside her was the nurse with the long curly red hair. Laughing and making gestures toward Rita.

        With a twisted smile, Dean said, "Maybe that's why Charlie Brown never made it with his dream girl!"

        Inside he found his boys sleeping peacefully. James was neatly tucked in in his bed. In his crib, Todd had kicked off his covers and was sprawled all over the place.

        Dean slipped out of his jacket. He nuked a TV dinner plus a mug of strong coffee with milk, then sat at the table, polished off both, then took out the garbage.

        Finally Dean unlocked a box in the cupboard that had the keys to his firearms stored back in the hall closet. He took down the case to his Colt Bisley .454 Magnum and took it to the kitchen table.

        It had been his father's favorite gun, given to Dean twenty years ago. Dean's father had brought down a buck at fifty yards one year; Dean had repeated the feat at exactly 43 yards a few years later. "And now," Dean said, "it's gonna bring something else to an end."

        He chocked on his words for a moment, then sucked it in a swallowed hard. Dean admired the 7 1/2 inch barrel and the heft of the gun's blue steel. He took the sidearm to the living room. There he cleaned and polished the revolver, loaded it, and after a final check, hid it under the sofa. Then he stashed the case away and fetched his bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard.

        Dean said, "Thank you, Jesus!" when he saw how much was left. He didn't bother with a glass--took a long pull from the bottle. He straightened then, ramrod straight. Set the Daniels on the kitchen table, grabbed a chair, and took pad and pencil in hand. After several tries at putting something down he gave up and took the pages to the bathroom and flushed them.

        It was 03:38 when Rita got home, her clothes slightly disheveled. She was surprised to see Dean waiting up, sitting on the sofa. She snubbed him by walking past and down the hall. Moments later she was standing at the end of the hall, pillow and blanket in hand.

        She threw them into the living room. "They'll be serving you Monday. I actually consider our marriage already ended." She turned, went into the bedroom, and locked the door.

        Dean considered shaving or cleaning up as he passed the bathroom door an hour later, Bisley in hand. But that was stupid. The slug would about take off his head. For the last time he went into his sons' bedroom. "You'll be with Jesus in a few minutes. If Pastor George is right about the Lord hating homos-- and I damn well know he's right--well, then I'll be with you guys forever and ever. In just a couple minutes." After Dean kissed his sons a final time he stepped outside, shutting the door tightly. As he checked the revolver once more, he said through gritted teeth, "I been sucking it in and swallowing for 38 years. Time to spit it the fuck out!"

        A solid kick of the other bedroom door sent it flying open. Rita lay on her back, snoring away contently.