Dead Boyfriends by David Housewright Read Free Book Online

I hit him.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn the kitchen.”
    â€œNo, I mean where did the bottle hit him?”
    â€œIn the kitch—. In the head. Not the head. He lifted his arm up in front of his head and the bottle hit him there and it broke to pieces. Pieces of glass from the bottle, they went everywhere.”
    â€œWhat happened next?” G. K. asked.
    â€œHe started bleeding here.” Merodie touched the inside of her upper arm near the armpit.
    â€œBadly?”
    â€œI don’t know. I guess.”
    â€œThen what did you do?”
    â€œI told him to get a bandage for it. For the cut.”
    â€œDid he?”
    â€œI guess not.”
    â€œWhy did you throw the bottle at him?”
    â€œI don’t remember.”
    â€œTry.”
    â€œI can’t.” Merodie shook her head. “I can’t be expected to remember every little thing.”
    â€œListen.” G. K. gave her the stock lawyer-client line, trying mightilyto be patient. “I’m your lawyer. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to help. You can tell me everything. In fact, if you want me to defend you, you’d better tell me everything.”
    â€œBut you said to shut up, already. You said not to say anything.”
    â€œTo them,” G. K. shouted, finally losing it, waving her hand vaguely at the gray metal door as her words reverberated through the room.
    â€œSorry.” At first Merodie looked down at her gnarly fingers, a penitent schoolgirl, age thirty-five going on eight, then she perked up. “What about him?” she asked, pointing at me.
    â€œHe’s on our side,” G. K. assured her.
    â€œAre you, mister?”
    â€œYes, I am,” I said. “You can call me McKenzie.”
    â€œMcKenzie? Do I know you?”
    â€œWe’re close personal friends. Can I ask you a few questions?”
    G. K. nodded.
    â€œDo you play softball?”
    â€œI do,” Merodie said. She smiled broadly as if the memory of it brought her joy. “I play for Dimmer’s. Second base, sometimes short.”
    â€œCan you hit?’
    Merodie grinned at me. “I get my cuts.”
    â€œWhat kind of bat do you use?”
    â€œLady Thumper.”
    â€œThirty-two ounces?”
    â€œNo, that’s too heavy. Twenty-eight.”
    â€œEver hit Eli with it?”
    â€œWith the Thumper? No. Why would I use . . .?” She stopped speaking. For the first time she looked me in the eye. “No,” she said. “I never did.”
    â€œOkay.”
    She smiled, and for a moment she actually looked innocent. It didn’t last.
    â€œWho is Priscilla St. Ana?” I asked.
    Merodie erupted the way a volcano might—ferociously. She didn’t call me anything I hadn’t heard before, but she fitted the obscenities, profanities, and vulgarities together in such interesting combinations and with such a thrill in her voice that I felt she was creating a new art form. During her diatribe two points were made: Priscilla was the best friend Merodie ever had, and I should not dare to involve her in this mess if I knew what was good for me.
    â€œIt’s okay, it’s okay,” G. K. said. She pulled Merodie back into her chair and patted her hand. “We won’t bother her.”
    â€œYou better not,” Merodie said.
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    â€œI mean it.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Merodie.”
    â€œHow long do I have to stay here?”
    â€œYou’ll have to stay in here for thirty days, but you’ll be safe.”
    And sober,
my inner voice said.
    â€œEverything will work out,” G. K. said. “Only no more statements, okay, Merodie?”
    Merodie nodded.
    â€œI want you to promise not to talk to anyone except me and McKenzie here. Okay?”
    â€œOkay.”
    G. K. leaned back in the plastic chair and studied her client from across the small wooden table. Merodie refused to meet her gaze,