Chapter Forty-Three

Marge was hot. Her body was emanating heat she hoped her husband could feel in the driver’s side seat, but it was more than just the outside weather boiling her blood. It was that hussy.

“Goes in there like she’s going to save the day. All she’s doing is getting Travis’s hopes up. And then what? They pin everything on him and his whole world crumbles just because you can’t trust nobody anymore.” Walt sat quietly like he usually did during Marge’s tirades. She didn’t see them that way. To her they were simply matter-of-fact statements. The world was an evil farce, and the sooner you understood that fact, the easier it was to protect yourself.

The prayers Walt had offered God through the years had often centered on his wife’s way of seeing the world. In the corner of his eye, his heart hurt for her. Her face was pinched and steely with resolve, which wasn’t easy to pull off in a light peach pantsuit. But Marge was notably undeterred, flipping at the air vents like they were the cause of her discontent.

“Better than weakness, right? She seems like she knows what she’s doing. And we want Travis to be encouraged. He has enough to worry about in there.” Walt hadn’t liked seeing his grandson in that place. The other boys there—Walt hated to think it, but they seemed like they were a good fit for a place like that. But not Travis. He looked like he had stumbled into the building and couldn’t find his way out.

“Maybe,” Marge said. She felt uncomfortable about the whole thing, and it didn’t help Garrett wasn’t in the car. It felt like a part of her body had gone missing. Gerry from the bakery was a good babysitter, regularly offering her services twice a month so Walt and Marge could go on dates, but it never eased the guilt and worry Marge suffered each time Garrett wasn’t in clear view.

Walt told her all the time how she needed a break, that it was healthy. How even Jesus took naps and rested. And Marge would snort saying, “When I’m Jesus, I’ll give it a try.”

“I love you, Marge,” Walt said because it was often the only thing that made sense. He did love her, amazingly so, and for a second, she let the warmth in his voice calm her. But then the irritation in her bowels fired up like it often did when she realized she wasn’t in control. She had no say in how life would go for any of them, and the thought itched louder than all of her mosquito bites combined.

“It’s too dang hot,” Marge said, slapping harder at the vent.