Koty, you could talk the balls off a brass monkey. When Wayne first said these words to me, they were wrapped in a chuckle and a whole lot of warmth, pillow talk after making love back when I'd barely graduated into womanhood. I'd giggle and go right on talking, even though I didn't have a clue what a brass monkey was. Today, after a decade-plus of marriage, he still uses that phrase to describe me, usually to one of his cronies: "Jesus, that woman could talk the balls off a brass monkey," but it's delivered with a combination of loathing and derision. Thing is, it's inaccurate. I stopped talking to him a long time ago. He just hasn't noticed.

What Wayne does notice—or thinks he notices—is patriotism, or people's lack of it. The more the television says that most Americans favor our getting out of Iraq, the more yellow ribbons I'll find tied around the trees in our front yard. I've stopped explaining my side: that we entered this war based on lies, that too many of our men and women are dying with no end in sight, that it's another Vietnam. I was surprised the time he let me get out all these thoughts in one breath while waiting for the inevitable brass monkey crack. Instead, he stared at me in a way that made me wonder if I'd somehow broken through to the old Wayne, the decent young man I'd fallen in love with when I was just a kid. The expression on his face was something I hadn't seen before. But then he spat two words—Fucking idiot—and I realized what the look really was: hatred.

So Wayne and I don't talk about this war or his ultra right-wing leanings or anything at all, really. I'd been able to take solace in the fact that even in our somewhat conservative New Hampshire town more and more people were defecting to my side. Problem is, now the tide's turning, in Wayne's favor, and all because of this soldier boy from Iraq,  Jaime Wigglesworth, a hometown favorite who no one gave a rat's ass about, I'm sure, until he lost both arms and both legs to an IED. Suddenly, patriotism has been given a second life in the form of parades and rallies and "Support Our Troops" bumper stickers. Wayne and his buddies organized a fundraiser on Jaime's behalf and used the money to fix his home with a wheelchair ramp, widened doorframes, and a handicap john. The leftover money is for nursing services until Jaime gets back on his "feet," which, apparently, he's refusing to do, preferring to sit in his wheelchair and stare out the window. Wayne tells me this over dinner.

"The boy needs some time to adjust to being back home again. We got some services lined up—people to help in the morning and to help at night, but there's a stretch we don't got covered."

"Oh, that's too bad," I say, half-listening as I wipe Lily's mouth, scoop more mashed potatoes onto Daisy's and Iris's dishes, and catch a glass of milk before Rosie knocks it over with the elbow she scraped up this afternoon.

"The people in town are volunteering. Showing their patriotism by sitting with the boy for an hour here, hour there. Talking to him. Keeping him company."

"That's nice," I murmur, while breaking up a footsie fight underneath the table. "That's enough," I say sharply. The girls giggle.

Wayne clears his throat, wanting my attention. "You'll be on the one o'clock to three o'clock shift."

"What?"

"I volunteered you for the one to three shift. His mother teaches at the high school. She's done at two thirty, can be home by three."

We stare at each other, and the kids hush up, looking from me to Wayne. The only thing his stony face reveals is a slight twitch under his left eye, and that's just because I know to look for it. The worse the twitch, the angrier he is, and the more likely he'll swing.

"Wayne, I—"

The twitch, thankfully, disappears. He holds up his hand, no doubt anticipating my objections, perhaps even hoping for them. "This isn't negotiable, Koty."

"But what am I supposed to do for two hours with...with…"

"You'll talk to him. You'll listen to him. You'll show this soldier the respect he deserves."

I shake my head, my mind still trying to wrap itself around this. Wayne's been obsessed with all things military ever since his older brother, a decorated soldier from the first Gulf War, was found murdered nearly a decade ago. However, including me in his obsession has not been part of his usual MO. "But what if he doesn't want me there? What if we have nothing to talk about?"

For a moment, his eyes flicker, as if he hadn't quite thought about that, as if this boy's real needs might be something other than what Wayne has said they are. He laughs, deep and scornful. "I've heard you on the telephone, yapping with your sister for hours. I've had to listen to you yammer on for the last eleven years. Koty, you can talk the balls off a brass monkey."

"But what if he needs to—"

Wayne pushes his chair back, stands, and throws his napkin on the plate. "Why do you always have to make things so goddamn difficult? I've let it slide, your lack of patriotism and support for your country, for our troops. No more. You're going. End of discussion." As he stomps out of the kitchen, he calls over his shoulder, "He'll be expecting you tomorrow."

I arrive with a Bundt cake that I made early this morning, before getting the girls ready for school. The house is one of the bigger ones on the street—in the whole town. It's a stately three-story structure with a farmer's porch. On this porch stands the volunteer who took the previous shift, an old woman who looks vaguely familiar, dressed in her Sunday best: white pillbox hat, lavender A-line dress with belt and matching white-trimmed jacket, stockings, and sensible beige pumps. I didn't realize we were supposed to get dressed up and now I feel self-conscious in my cut-offs, flip-flops, and blue T-shirt, no doubt stained from today's cooking. I'm suddenly aware of my naked skin, the zit forming on my chin. At least I showered, although I've resorted to piling my unruly hair high on my head, the summer heat still with us, even though it's mid-September.

"Hi," I say as I mount the steps.

"Thank the Lord you're here." The caked-on rouge can't disguise the deep crevices in her skin, and her bright magenta lips remind me of a clown. The scent of mothballs fills the air, probably from the old woman's hat.

"Is something wrong?" I ask.

She purses her lips, leans into me, and stage whispers, "He swore at me."

I swallow a laugh. "He what?"

"He took the Lord's name in vain. Now, I understand he's been through a lot. But I will not put up with being spoken to like that."

"Well—"

"And," she interrupts. "He did the same thing to the gentleman who was here before me. He said even filthier things to him."

Wonderful. "I'm sorry to hear that Mrs.…Mrs.…"

"Chester. Dorothy Abrams Chester."

"Well, Mrs. Chester. Maybe he's still adjusting…to all…this."

"Well, my dear, he's going to be adjusting without me." And with that, she marches down the steps and the sidewalk. I watch until she disappears.

If everyone is giving up their posts, Wayne can't possibly expect me to keep mine. Knocking on the door, I wait a minute before remembering the kid is alone, in a wheelchair. I don't even know where in the house he is. Shit. I push the door. "Hello?" I call. Nothing. I stand in the middle of a living room furnished in colors that remind me of a wheat field in August. Photos decorate the mantel over the fireplace, and I spot one of him, Jaime, expressionless in his uniform. What was he again? A Marine? Soldier?

Sighing, I walk down a hallway, peering into rooms I pass: kitchen, dining room, study. At the end of the hall is a partially open door. I knock softly, push it, and suck in my breath at the vision before me. A boy who is more metal than man sits in a wheelchair by the window. His white tank top reveals where his limbs end and his prosthetics begin, prosthetics that don't form plastic hands, which I guess was what I expected. They're silver claws, like the ones you operate at amusement parks when you're trying to capture the best prize from a pile of duds. His shorts reveal two metal poles with sneakers stuck on the ends. Wayne had said Jaime hadn't been practicing his walking like the doctors want, instead opting to get around in his motorized wheelchair, one of the items the town bought him with the funds raised. He doesn't look at me, doesn't act as if he even knows I'm in the room.

"Hi," I whisper, and then clearing my throat, I say it louder, "Hi."

He turns his head slowly, as if it pains him to do so. He's not a boy after all, not as young as I expect him to look, even though I know he's twenty-two, five years younger than me, and has been through hell and back. His hair and eyes are the color of the cherry wood cabinets my sister had installed in her new kitchen. His hair's cropped short, but his chin has a couple days' worth of stubble. A deep scar runs from the corner of his right cheekbone to his earlobe. If I could color the aura around him, it would be blood red, black, gangrene.

"I'm Koty." I pause. "I made you a Bundt cake." Pause. "Would you like a piece now?" As I say the words, I pray he doesn't say yes, because it occurs to me I might have to feed it to him.

He says nothing and turns back to his window.

"Right. I'll just put it…here." I place the platter on a bureau covered in framed black-and-white photos, men in military uniforms, women by their sides. Wayne told me that the Wigglesworths are an old military family. Robert Wigglesworth, Jaime's father, served in the first Gulf War. He died of a heart attack five years ago, leaving Jaime and his mother alone in this big house.

"Koty," Jaime murmurs. "What the hell kinda name is that?"

"It's short for Dakota."

 "Dakota?"

"Yep. Means 'friend.'" This is true, although in my case, the name means the place where I was born: Minot, North Dakota, where my father was stationed in the Air Force. I've always hated my name, but figure I should be thankful they didn't name me Minot or North. In sixth grade, we learned about the Native Americans, the meaning of the names they used. That's when I learned Dakota was the name for friend. I've always liked that and have tried to get people to call me my full name. No one ever does. "You can call me Dakota, if you want. I like it better anyway."

He faces me again. "I ain't calling you nothing since you ain't coming back. I don't need no goddamn charity babysitter."

"Right," I say, thinking this is my cue to leave. But something keeps my feet planted to the floor.

"Well?" he yelps.

"Well, what?" I fall into a nearby rocking chair.

"Go."

"I was told to stay."

"Fuck whoever told you to stay."

"Yeah, well. Easy for you to say."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"My husband wants me here."

"Who's he?"

"Wayne Fowler."

He seems surprised, and I wonder what he's thinking. "You're Fowler's wife?"

"Yeah."

He blinks. "Well, I don't give a shit who you are or who sent you. I don't need no goddamn—"

"—charity babysitter," I interrupt. "I heard you the first time."

"Good." He turns and stares out the window.

Wayne was wrong about my ability to make conversation. I'm speechless. I have no idea what to say to a quadruple amputee. I spy the digital clock on the nightstand, and my eyes wander to it every three minutes, which feels like every three hours. We don't say anything, don't cough, don't sneeze, don't clear our throats. He stares out his window, and I try not to stare at him.

After what feels like forever, the front door slams and a voice calls out, "Jaime, I'm home," and before long a woman appears in the doorway. I stand.

"Hi." I smile and extend my hand, but she's looking at Jaime, her eyes filled with the kind of hurt and worry that only we mothers can understand. "I'm Koty Fowler."

She looks at me as if seeing me for the first time and accepts my hand. Her lips form a smile, but her freckled face stays sad. "I'm Barbara Wigglesworth." She releases me and walks over to her son, putting her arms around him and kissing his head. "And how are you today?" When he doesn't respond, she sighs and returns to me.

Desperate to fill the air with words, I notice my Bundt cake on the bureau. "Here." I thrust it at her chest. "I made this for you."

"Thank you. How thoughtful." She heads for the door, and I follow but stop in the doorway.

"Bye, Jaime," I chirp.

Nothing.

"Thank you again," Mrs. Wigglesworth says when we arrive at the front door. I nod, and it's only when I get back in my car that I realize I've been holding my breath.

At dinner, Wayne asks me how it went.

"He says he doesn't want me to come back."

"It'll take him some time to get used to the idea of having help. Needing help."

"But—" I stop when I see the look in Wayne's eyes.

"Tomorrow," he says in his don't-argue-with-me-stupid-bitch tone, "will be better. And the day after that."

But tomorrow isn't better. Neither is the day after that. True to her word, Mrs. Chester doesn't return. The town is slowly running out of patient souls since Jaime's foul mouth effectively chases everyone away.

"Get outta my goddamn house," he greets me whenever I enter.

"Thank you. And how are you?" I retort before taking up my position in the rocking chair, where I watch him stare out his window.

By the seventh day, I figure I've done my penance. What I need to do is get Jaime to say something so filthy, so offensive, that even Wayne won't make me go back.

"So," I begin one hour into my two-hour visit. He startles at the sound of my voice. But he doesn't turn around. "How's the walking going?"

"Fuck you," he spits.

"That good, huh?" I don't feel proud of this, of my smart-ass answer, of being mean to a kid with no arms and no legs, but I'm desperate. Losing two hours of housework has me behind on my chores. These hours when the kids are in school are worth their weight in gold. I can't get anything done with them underfoot. I've spent every afternoon for the last week and a half in this godforsaken house. Enough is enough.

He faces me. "You're lucky I'm in this chair. Otherwise I'd come over there and stick this metal rod in your fucking eye." He holds out his fake arm in what I gather is an attempt to be menacing, and I laugh. I fucking laugh at a quadruple amputee.

"Look," I sigh. "I'm sorry. You don't want me here. And, frankly, I don't want to be here either."

"So go. It's not like I'm stopping you."

"My husband," I whisper and, for a moment, I sense understanding in his eyes.

"Your husband is the biggest hypocrite of them all. He's hell-bent on this war, and whenever someone tries to recruit him to go over, he sounds like an old lady, making every medical excuse in the book why he can't. If I weren't in this chair, if my legs and arms worked, I'd kick his sorry ass instead of letting him act all mightier than thou with his so-called charity and patriotism and desire to keep the memory of his faggot brother alive."

I sit, stunned. That about sums it up, stated more powerfully than the conversations I have in my head. Wayne's brother's alleged homosexuality has—and always will be—an off-limits topic in my household, even though I'm convinced that's what got him killed. He was jumped outside a gay bar, his head bashed in, his assailant—or assailants—never found. In a strange way, it's a relief to hear someone call it like they see it, even with the pejorative.

"You should tell him to go over," he continues. "Maybe he'd listen to you."

The truth is a big part of me wants Wayne to go over and never come back, at least the Wayne who emerged after his brother's death. But I can't say that. "Well," I say quickly, "if I believed there was a point to this war, I might." Instantly, I wish I could hit rewind and eat my words.

He lowers his eyes and shakes his head. "You're honest, at least. I'll give you that."

"Jaime, I—"

"Jesus, don't ruin it by trying to take it back."

"Look. Even though I don't believe in this war, I do believe in you and your fellow troops. I support you."

He snorts.

"Really," I whisper.

"Koty, do us both a favor."

"What?"

"Tell your husband you're done here."

"You're going back," Wayne says, after I announce that I've had enough.

"But—"

"You can 'but' all you want, woman. You're going back. It's the right thing to do."

"If you're so set on supporting our troops, you sit with him."

Wayne pauses, his fork in mid-air over his meatloaf, and I wonder if he's going to backhand me now or later. "I work all day putting food on this goddamn table." His voice is a low rumble, like far-off thunder. "What the fuck do you do?"

I stare at my plate. I think of the mountains of shit-stained drawers I launder, the floors I scrub, the meals I prepare, the kids I conceive and birth and bathe and dress and watch over and love and read to and worry about, the clothes I iron and sew, the paycheck I stretch to feed six mouths, the smiles I plaster on my face for the sake of my kids—shit, for the sake of myself so I don't suffer a smack because I'm "looking at him funny." Part of me wants to scream and yell "You stupid ignorant asshole! What the fuck happened to you?" gather up my kids, and take off. But a bigger part of me is scared to leave.

"The kids are in school," he continues. "You'll go. You'll sit. Even if you and him don't speak one single fucking word, you'll show your support for this soldier, for this country, for this war that they're fighting to protect people like you who don't know the difference between a goddamn terrorist and a mailman."

The next morning, after Wayne's already left for work, Daisy wakes up with the sniffles, something I'd normally send her to school with, but I keep her home. By eleven o'clock, she's feeling fine, and I decide to have some fun with my little girl and bake some cookies, knowing that I can easily coax her to play sick when Wayne gets home.

The phone rings at twelve forty-five. The kitchen's covered in flour and sugar, and pink and blue frosting fingerprints dot the counter, cabinets, refrigerator door, and my white T-shirt.

"Hello," I sigh.

"You leaving soon?" It's Wayne.

"Daisy's home from school. She's sick."

"Where is she?"

"Bed," I lie while staring onto the backyard where Daisy's playing with Cream Puff, the old family cat.

"Is that why I'm watching her run through the yard half naked?"

I whip around and race through the kitchen to the living room. Wayne's pickup—the words Fowler & Sons Plumbing emblazoned in black lettering on the side—sits by the curb. I can't see him in the cab.

"She was sick this morning," I whisper, my eyes darting around our front yard. "She's better now."

"Bring her with you. Might do the boy some good."

"Look. She really was sick this morning, and she's still sniffling. I don't think bringing germs into his house is what Jaime needs."

 "Bring her to your sister's then," he says, his voice pointed, threatening.

"But, I—"

"Goddammit, Koty, don't fucking argue with me."

His voice is too close now, right behind me. As I turn, his fist connects with my upper lip. The swelling is immediate. I taste blood.

 "You're going to show support for this soldier, you're going to do as you're told," he says calmly before turning around and walking out. I don't move until I hear the squeal of his tires, and then, nothing.

Jaime's house is in darkness, the smell of rain in the air, and all I can think about is the wash on the line back home, Daisy crying as I dumped her at my sister's, the look on my sister's face—again, Koty? How long are you going to put up with this?—the mess my kitchen is. The mess I am. I climb the steps, open the front door, and jog to his room as if getting there faster means I'll be able to leave sooner. His bedroom door's almost completely closed, and, without thinking, I burst through.

His wheelchair faces the bed, and he's staring at the deep blue comforter. And that's when I see tears trickling down his face. And his erection. He's somehow managed to roll down the top of his shorts, his dick standing at attention, waiting for a command from a hand, a tongue, a woman. And only then does the enormity of the situation—his situation—descend upon me. Here's a twenty-two-year-old man who can't do the one thing he should be doing at twenty-two, what he was made to be doing at twenty-two: fucking everything in sight, not a care in the world. Even during those times when a guy can't find a woman, he can take care of it himself. Except Jaime can't. Up until now, I hadn't thought beyond his four artificial limbs, hadn't thought about what was between his legs and his neck—a penis and a heart, both alive, both burning, both in need of attention.

I shiver in the doorway.  I know I should turn around, walk out, pretend this never happened. His dick bends now, wilting under my stare.

I walk forward.

 A Playboy lies on the floor, perhaps smuggled in by one of his friends who stopped by to visit. I move his wheelchair back, kneel before him, and take him in my hands. His breath catches and his trance ends. He looks at me—all the anger and rage I saw in his eyes on that first day has been replaced by despair. His eyes rest on my bruised and swollen lip, but I don't let him question it, don't want him to question it. I stroke him hard instead, and his eyelids flutter. A groan emerges from deep within his throat. I want to say "it's okay," but I can't manage the words, don't know if they're right, don't know if this is right, and before anything escapes from my mouth, his head dips, and he presses his lips to mine, tentatively, shyly, at first, and then with an urgency that surprises me, exhilarates me, despite the pain from my bruised lip. His stubble tickles my face. I haven't been kissed like this in so long, a lifetime ago, really.

It happens fast.

When it's over, I hold him as we both breathe heavy, our sweaty foreheads touching. As I wonder who will back out of this position first—Should it be me? Should it be him?—he does the unexpected: he kisses me again. He kisses my eyes, the tip of my nose, and my swollen upper lip, lingering on it, licking it, as if his touch alone can heal me. There was a time long ago before four kids, before Wayne's brother's death, before Wayne turned into the asshole he is today that I'd been kissed like this. At least, I think I did. I'm not so sure anymore. The only thing I'm sure of is this moment with me on my knees, holding a soft penis in my hands, kissing a man made of metal, a man who is not my husband, a man who I want to kiss more, a man who I want to kiss me.

My fingers meld to his skin, and my knees stiffen. Without a word, I detach myself, stand, and walk into the bathroom, where I wash my hands and wipe them on the fresh white towel that I use to sponge him clean. I pull up his shorts, and I hold up the Playboy. He juts his chin in the direction of a trunk I hadn't even noticed by his closet, its top open. Inside sits a multicolored afghan, a catcher's mitt and ball, some books, some framed pictures that I don't bother to look at. I grope underneath everything until my hand touches glossy paper and what I suspect to be more magazines. I tuck the Playboy inside, wondering how he got it out in the first place.

The buzz of his wheelchair fills the air. He's taken up his perch by the window. I sit in my usual rocking chair, clasp and unclasp my hands, wondering if I'd dreamt what happened.

The front door slams.

"Jaime, I'm home," his mother sings. I sense her standing in the doorway. I turn and smile, and as I do, I feel the pain and pull from my fat lip. How am I supposed to explain this?

But Mrs. Wigglesworth isn't looking at me; she's staring at Jaime, and as she does, her blue eyes fill with tears. She sniffles, finally, and turns, looking past me, to the air, to the wall, to something invisible that I can't see.

"Hi, Koty," she manages. "Looks like rain's headed our way."

"Yes, ma'am." I think of my laundry again. "Well. I should get going."

She nods.

I nod.

I stand.

"We'll see you tomorrow, I guess," she says, and I wonder if this is her subtle way of offering me an out, of saying nothing is ever going to change; you don't need to come anymore.

I stare at her until I know her eyes have focused on mine, on my fat lip. We hold each other's gaze for a moment, until she politely averts hers, and I can almost hear the reasoning going on in her mind: my plate's full, I don't have time to deal with this girl's problems on top of everything else, I have my son to look after.

"Well," I finally say, but I'm not looking at her; I'm staring at the back of Jaime's head. Just then do I realize I'm fingering my swollen lip. "Sure." I wait, hoping to see a flicker of something, anything, from him. "See you tomorrow."

            I race down the front steps and realize my breathing sounds hollow, like I'm fighting for air, like I've run a marathon instead of the few feet of driveway to where my gas-guzzling mom mobile sits. What the fuck just happened in there, what the fuck was I thinking? I grip the steering wheel, lean into the headrest, and close my eyes. "It was nothing," I whisper. "I was just helping him, comforting him. That's all. It will never happen again."

            Rationalization is an interesting thing. It's where the soul intersects with the brain. Because I could tell myself over and over that I'm a size six, or that Wayne's a good husband, or that I'm happy, but unless my soul believes it to be true, there's no way in hell my brain will accept it. Which is why when I whisper the words It will never happen again, a little voice inside my head whispers back, You're full of shit. 

	About the Author: Robyn Bradley is a Copy Queen by day and Novelist Ninja by night. She also has an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University. When she's not writing or sleeping, Robyn enjoys watching Law & Order marathons, drinking margaritas, and determining how many degrees really separate her from George Clooney.

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