Coming To Get Her By Joseph Cover
Originally published in Straylight Feb. 2012
http://straylightmag.com/archives/2541
I tossed my keys into the olivewood bowl, handmade in the Holy Land, and picked up the phone. The red blinking light on the answering machine went dark as I pressed the button that would allow me to hear the messages left by telephone solicitors trying to sell me a vacation in Branson or new aluminum siding guaranteed not to turn green with mold.
The slur of Megan’s voice was unmistakable. “Come get me. In Monet. 1515 Walker.” That was it. Come get me. I pressed the callback button. Someone answered on the third ring. A female. Not Megan.
“Megan there?”
“She’s passed out. You coming after her?”
“I suppose. I always do.”
“Well hurry up! My husband brought her home from an AA meeting three nights ago. The two of ‘em been drunk ever since, and I want the whore out of my house. Two years he’s been sober. Now this slut comes along and it’s back to the bullshit.” Her voice was so loud that I was holding the phone away from my ear. “Do you have even the remotest idea what it is like to be married to a drunk?”
I cradled the mouthpiece towards my lips keeping the earpiece held away from my head. “Megan’s my wife.”
“Oh.” She softened, so I returned the phone to my ear. “You must’ve been worried sick. Her being gone for three days like that.”
“Three weeks.”
“What?”
“Three weeks. She’s been missing three weeks.”
“You call the cops? Missing person report? I don’t need no cops over here. My husband’s a felon. We don’t need no cops over here.”
“No, I didn’t call the police. Did the first couple of times, but after a while I quit. Eventually, she calls, and I come get her.”
“So you’re coming?”
“Be a while. We live on the lake in Cape Fair. I’m better ‘n an hour away.”
“But you are coming? Right? You are coming to get her?”
“I always do.”
I hung up the phone and went into the kitchen. I grabbed the wood-trimmed silver handle of our green Frigidaire and yanked the door open catching the edge of my nose. A slight trickle of blood dripped out my left nostril and onto my lip. I spun around and my trembling hand ripped a piece of freshly torn paper towel and packed my nose. I studied the pulsing veins in my hands. My stomach went hollow as the blood fled my brain. A rubber arm managed to steady my body as I lowered it into a kitchen chair. I laid my right arm on the table top, buried my head into the crook of it, and in a few sobs was sound asleep.
The jangling of the phone jarred me awake.
I stumbled into the living room and grabbed the receiver, “Yello.”
“Oh great. You’re drunk now. Well I don’t care. You coming after your bitch wife?”
“I’m not drunk. I don’t drink. I fell asleep.”
“Asleep! Shit. Get over here and get her. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know I want her out of here? Come get her now!”
The line went silent. I returned the receiver to the cradle and stared at it for a second before muttering, “I don’t want to come get her.”
The phone rang.
“Look, I’m sorry for yelling at you, but you gotta understand how frustrating this is. I tell her to leave and my husband tells her to stay. She won’t go. If I call the cops they’ll take my husband to jail because he can’t be drunk on his parole. I got nowhere to go. My sister won’t let me come there ‘cause Charlie will show up and they have a restraining order against him. I got nothing. I got nobody, and I need his check to make ends meet. Please say you will come get her.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. I’m going to get a bite to eat. Just a sandwich and then I’ll come right away.”
“Please.”
“I will.”
The clock on the microwave read 7:51.
At eight-thirty I decided that I needed coffee if I was going to drive to Monet, so I put on a pot. When the beep-beep-beep signaled the coffee was finished, I filled a stainless-steel go cup. There was enough left for a regular mug, and instead of wasting it, I decided to sit at the table and drink it before going after Megan.
Halfway through my Folgers, the phone rang.
“What are you doing still there? You have to come get her. Do you know what she’s doing right this very second? The slut is screwing my husband. That’s right. On my bed in my bedroom the two of them are snorting and grunting like a pair of pigs in heat.”
I felt nothing. “Why don’t you leave?”
“What do you know? What do you know about it? Just come get her out of my house.”
“You’re husband is screwing another woman in your bedroom, and you’re just standing there listening. What is wrong with you?”
“You don’t know. Just come get her.”
“No.”
“Please? I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything you want if you just come get her out of my house.”
I leaned over and unplugged the silver phone cord from the gray box on the wall, got my coffee, put a movie in the DVD player, and settled back for the night.
I didn’t go get her, and she never came back on her own.
http://straylightmag.com/archives/2541
I tossed my keys into the olivewood bowl, handmade in the Holy Land, and picked up the phone. The red blinking light on the answering machine went dark as I pressed the button that would allow me to hear the messages left by telephone solicitors trying to sell me a vacation in Branson or new aluminum siding guaranteed not to turn green with mold.
The slur of Megan’s voice was unmistakable. “Come get me. In Monet. 1515 Walker.” That was it. Come get me. I pressed the callback button. Someone answered on the third ring. A female. Not Megan.
“Megan there?”
“She’s passed out. You coming after her?”
“I suppose. I always do.”
“Well hurry up! My husband brought her home from an AA meeting three nights ago. The two of ‘em been drunk ever since, and I want the whore out of my house. Two years he’s been sober. Now this slut comes along and it’s back to the bullshit.” Her voice was so loud that I was holding the phone away from my ear. “Do you have even the remotest idea what it is like to be married to a drunk?”
I cradled the mouthpiece towards my lips keeping the earpiece held away from my head. “Megan’s my wife.”
“Oh.” She softened, so I returned the phone to my ear. “You must’ve been worried sick. Her being gone for three days like that.”
“Three weeks.”
“What?”
“Three weeks. She’s been missing three weeks.”
“You call the cops? Missing person report? I don’t need no cops over here. My husband’s a felon. We don’t need no cops over here.”
“No, I didn’t call the police. Did the first couple of times, but after a while I quit. Eventually, she calls, and I come get her.”
“So you’re coming?”
“Be a while. We live on the lake in Cape Fair. I’m better ‘n an hour away.”
“But you are coming? Right? You are coming to get her?”
“I always do.”
I hung up the phone and went into the kitchen. I grabbed the wood-trimmed silver handle of our green Frigidaire and yanked the door open catching the edge of my nose. A slight trickle of blood dripped out my left nostril and onto my lip. I spun around and my trembling hand ripped a piece of freshly torn paper towel and packed my nose. I studied the pulsing veins in my hands. My stomach went hollow as the blood fled my brain. A rubber arm managed to steady my body as I lowered it into a kitchen chair. I laid my right arm on the table top, buried my head into the crook of it, and in a few sobs was sound asleep.
The jangling of the phone jarred me awake.
I stumbled into the living room and grabbed the receiver, “Yello.”
“Oh great. You’re drunk now. Well I don’t care. You coming after your bitch wife?”
“I’m not drunk. I don’t drink. I fell asleep.”
“Asleep! Shit. Get over here and get her. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know I want her out of here? Come get her now!”
The line went silent. I returned the receiver to the cradle and stared at it for a second before muttering, “I don’t want to come get her.”
The phone rang.
“Look, I’m sorry for yelling at you, but you gotta understand how frustrating this is. I tell her to leave and my husband tells her to stay. She won’t go. If I call the cops they’ll take my husband to jail because he can’t be drunk on his parole. I got nowhere to go. My sister won’t let me come there ‘cause Charlie will show up and they have a restraining order against him. I got nothing. I got nobody, and I need his check to make ends meet. Please say you will come get her.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. I’m going to get a bite to eat. Just a sandwich and then I’ll come right away.”
“Please.”
“I will.”
The clock on the microwave read 7:51.
At eight-thirty I decided that I needed coffee if I was going to drive to Monet, so I put on a pot. When the beep-beep-beep signaled the coffee was finished, I filled a stainless-steel go cup. There was enough left for a regular mug, and instead of wasting it, I decided to sit at the table and drink it before going after Megan.
Halfway through my Folgers, the phone rang.
“What are you doing still there? You have to come get her. Do you know what she’s doing right this very second? The slut is screwing my husband. That’s right. On my bed in my bedroom the two of them are snorting and grunting like a pair of pigs in heat.”
I felt nothing. “Why don’t you leave?”
“What do you know? What do you know about it? Just come get her out of my house.”
“You’re husband is screwing another woman in your bedroom, and you’re just standing there listening. What is wrong with you?”
“You don’t know. Just come get her.”
“No.”
“Please? I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything you want if you just come get her out of my house.”
I leaned over and unplugged the silver phone cord from the gray box on the wall, got my coffee, put a movie in the DVD player, and settled back for the night.
I didn’t go get her, and she never came back on her own.