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She said the only thing she could say. “I’m sorry. I won’t use that name again.”
He grunted, and another far-too-long pause ensued. In his voice, she’d heard signs that he was lying down, probably with his eyes closed, halfway to comatose. Maybe he’d made it all the way.
Then he roused. “Only one person gets to use that name, ‘cuz she says it like she loves me. She’s prob’ly the one person who does.”
Marcella did not like the acidic splash that hit her chest. It felt like jealousy, which was insane. Was this where his sudden interest in Ajax had come from? Was there a woman in his life now, and he was thinking of family?
It bugged her, a lot, to think of Eight settling down with somebody, but she didn’t understand why it would. She didn’t like him. She’d hardly thought of him for a decade. He was a living, breathing ‘con’ column.
If she was jealous, it was only at the thought that someone like him had found someone, while she was resigned to being alone the rest of her life. Also, she wasn’t okay with some entirely unknown woman entering her son’s life in the event that Eight ended up hanging around.
“Are you with somebody, Eight Ball?”
“Nah, I’m just layin’ here in California, talkin’ to you.”
That wasn’t what she’d meant, but it sufficed. “What do you want, Eight?”
“Is it hard?” he asked.
“Is what hard?” Feeling acutely weary, she scooted onto a stack of wooden crates and leaned against the wall.
“Havin’ a kid. Doin’ right by him. All that shit.”
“You’re too drunk for this conversation, Eight.”
He laughed. “If I wasn’t drunk, I wouldn’t talk about this shit.”
Marcella couldn’t help but chuckle. “True. And you probably won’t remember this call.”
“Good point.”
Feeling a measure of safety in the idea that he was too drunk to remember anything she said, Marcella took a breath and relaxed. Something in her chest seemed to unfurl. “Yeah, it’s hard. Every day it’s hard. And scary as hell. Ninety percent of the time I’ve got no idea if I’m doing it right or if someday he’s gonna be in therapy unpacking all the ways I fucked him up. But it’s also great, every day. He’s hilarious and makes me laugh. He’s sweet and loving. When he hugs me, or just comes looking because he wants my company, I feel a hundred feet tall. God, Eight, he’ssucha great kid. You’ve got no idea.”
“Yeah.” The word was nothing but a sigh, gusting into her ear from California. “I fucked up, Marce. I fucked up bad.”
There was stuff going on in her chest she didn’t completely understand. Unfurling and softening, like a plant finally feeling the sun—and something deeper, too, that she couldn’t quite reach. He was plastered, and he’d very likely have no memory at all of this talk. The next time she spoke with him or saw him, he’d very likely be the same old Eight Ball, nothing but muscle straight through.
But right now, he was letting her see that decent guy, fucked up but not truly bad, she’d once thought was buried inside all the muscle.
She thought he was talking about bailing on their kid, that he really regretted it, but she was afraid to ask him and find out he meant something totally different. Instead, she said, “You know, Ajax learned this thing in art class a few years back, and he holds to it like a personal mission statement. It’s ‘mistakes are masterpieces in the making.’”
A long pause—if he wasn’t passed out, he would be soon—and then, “I don’t get it.”
Marcella smiled. “It means mistakes are chances to learn and do better. If you keep learning, and keep trying, eventually you get it right.”
“He says that?”
“He does.”
“He’s smart, huh?”
“He is.”
“He gets that from you. I’m dumb as a box of rocks.”
“No you’re not. Didn’t you go to college?”
A bitter chuckle in her ear. “Football. Eight smash, get scholarship. Eight fuck coach’s daughter, get kicked.”
