The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [47]
“At least he's not a violent drunk,” Ken used to say, as if that somehow made it better.
“No, just vicious,” Nora finally said after one miserable night out with Robin and Bob, who was finishing his third martini when their entrées arrived. Even though Robin quietly asked him not to, he ordered another one. Excusing herself to go to the ladies' room, she circled around into the bar and canceled the drink.
“Bitch!” Bob said when she returned.
“Stop it,” she whispered, head down, mortified, eyes bright with tears.
Bob kept it up. Who the hell did she think she was, fucking-miss-high-and-mighty counting his drinks when every night she couldn't get to the wine bottle fast enough.
Cut it out, Ken said quietly. Robin cared about him, that's why she canceled it. The only reason. Usually, that would be enough for Bob to sink into one of his wounded, sullen silences. But not that night.
“Who the fuck asked you?” he bellowed thickly, and everyone around them looked up. “Fucking piece of shit, think you're better than me, well think again, Kenny-boy You got nothing and you know it, don't you? Because it's all Ollie, right? All Ollie, all the time. Well, you better hold on tight to big brother's fucking coattails—”
“Shut up, Bob,” Nora snapped, trying to keep her voice down. “Just shut up. You're pathetic. How can you say that to your best friend? And your wife? Can't you see what you're doing? To everyone!”
It would be their last night out together. From then on, Nora refused to go anywhere with them as long as Bob was still drinking.
After that she began to sense what an intruder she'd been in their friendship, the old intimacies always having to be explained to her. With her outburst, the chemistry had changed, the rupture drawing them even closer, the three of them, further from her, the threat.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” Robin apologized her way out of the busy dining room that night.
And here now, the son, sent by his mother to do the same.
“Sorry.” Clay stares down at the floor. “I'm sorry. I really am.”
“It could've been a lot worse, Clay,” Ken says. “You could've done some serious damage, banging his head like that.”
“I know.” Clay's voice breaks. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Like a little boy, Nora can't help thinking, even though she's irritated with Ken for trying to downplay Drew's injuries. More than anything, though, she is disgusted with Bob Gendron, the sight of him repulsive, dark pouches under his eyes, the bloom of purplish veins in his unshaven cheeks, and the bloat of sagging belly. Look, she wants to say, look what you've done, your son, the spawn of your weakness.
Above them the stairs and railing creak as Drew hobbles down. He didn't want Clay sent up to his room. In the daylight he looks much worse than he did last night. The right side of his face is swollen, black with bruises and dried blood. His lips are split and puffed up.
“Oh,” Clay groans, seeing him.
“What.” Drew braces himself against the balustrade.
“Jesus.” Clay holds his mouth. “I'm … I'm gonna be sick!”
Opening the bathroom door, Nora flicks on the exhaust fan as he drops to his knees, gripping the pale green toilet bowl. She notes with pity and disgust his soiled bare feet in rubber sandals, his ripped T-shirt. Probably the same clothes he wore pummeling Drew, then slept in.
“Been a rough night, I'm afraid,” Bob says, almost resignedly, over his son's retching.
“For everyone,” Nora says, and he nods meekly.
“Yeah. How ya doin'?” he asks Drew.
“Okay.” Drew winces with his quick and painful shrug.
“You don't look okay,” Bob says, peering at his face. “One hurtin' dude, aren't you?”
“Probably looks worse than it is,” Drew says, trying to stand straighter, and it's all Nora can do to keep from hugging him. He sounds as if he's talking through a mouthful of hot mush.
The toilet flushes a few more times before Clay finally emerges, wiping