It Could Be Worse

By Anne Culbreath Watkins

The bottom dropped out of Shauna Livingston's day with alarming rapidity.

It started off innocently enough. Her shoulder-length, muddy blonde hair refused to cooperate and she had to scrape it back into a ponytail. Next, the only pair of jeans she owned that even came close to fitting, refused to zip. To add to the fun, bone-chilling sleet threatened to turn the world into a giant snow cone and in response, the furnace belched alternating blasts of tepid to downright cold air. But the cherry on top of everything was her husband Jake's announcement that he had been laid off from his job–again.

Jake seemed to be taking it well. "It could be worse," he said from the living room. "There could be no such thing as unemployment pay."

Shauna tried to explain the impossibility of paying the bills and buying groceries with the meager amount of cash the unemployment check would furnish, but Jake flapped his hand at her words.

"It can be done," he grunted.  "We'll let a couple of things go.  And we can cut back on groceries. Wouldn't hurt you to lose a few pounds anyway."

Shauna stared into Jake's cloudy green eyes.  Thin copper-colored hair drooped over them, and his chin bristled with a crop of red stubble.  She opened her mouth to suggest that he go for a haircut, then closed it with a snap. They couldn't afford it, anyway.

"What're you looking at?" He brushed the hair away from his face, and scowled. 

Shauna managed a weak smile. "Nothing, hon."

"Quit it, then."  Jake kicked the recliner back and started poking the remote control.  "I'm hungry.  Rustle up something and don't take all day."

With a tired sigh, Shauna stepped into the tiny kitchen.  She dashed a cup of water into the pot of ivy perched on the windowsill, then pulled open a cabinet door.  A single can of tuna and a box of macaroni and cheese stared back at her.

"Mac-and-cheese tuna casserole sound good?" she called hopefully over her shoulder.

"No way!"  Jake shouted back.  "I want real food. What else do we have?"

Nothing, she thought, tugging open the refrigerator.  The remains of last night's stew congealed in a bowl.  Jake wouldn't eat leftovers, and anyway, she had planned on having that for her lunch today. But that was when Jake still had a job.
 
She stepped timidly into the living room, twisting the tail of her shirt into a tight ball.

"That's all we have, except for the rest of the stew from supper."

Jake thumped his head against the high back of the chair, and turned an icy gaze on her.  "Then I guess you better go to the store, huh?"

The store down the block had been good to let her have things on credit, with the agreement that they be paid once a week.  That account was two weeks late. 

"They might not let me charge anything," she said.  "We're overdue and...."

With the agility of a cat, Jake leaped out of the recline and grabbed Shauna's arm. She shrieked as he wrenched it up behind her. 

"Then you'll go down there and tell them the bill will be paid when I get my unemployment check.  And you'll bring back something to eat, right?"

"Yes!"  Shauna gasped as sharp, bright stabs of pain rocketed up to her shoulder. 

"Okay."  Jake released her with an extra jerk on her arm for good measure, and dropped into the chair again.  He belched and patted his stomach.  "And pick up some beer. Things could be worse, remember that."

"Yes, I remember."  Biting back the pain, Shauna collected her purse from the little table beside the door and stepped out onto the front deck.  It was always less painful to agree with Jake than try to argue any sense into him.

***

Shauna spent the next two weeks chasing job leads while Jake held down the recliner in front of the television. Despite what the newspaper ads promised, nobody in town was hiring, and yesterday the landlord had suggested that it might be a good idea to catch up the past-due rent or they would be finding themselves a new place to live. No matter what Jake said, Shauna just didn’t see how things could get much worse. Wearily, she decided to check out one more job possibility.

The road was slick with a thin sheet of ice and she carefully maneuvered into the right lane. A sudden blat of horns startled her and she swiveled her head to see a yellow cab, spinning out of control, barreling straight for her.

Shauna dragged the steering wheel hard to the right, then pumped the brake furiously as she attempted to control the skidding vehicle.  The last thing she saw was the ashen face of the cabby, wide-eyed with terror, bearing down on her.

***
 
Cool medicinal smells of disinfectant tinged with the sour odor of old vomit, penetrated the fog clouding her brain and told Shauna that she must be in the hospital. Her head throbbed, her neck seemed to be in some stiff, unforgiving contraption, and every inch of her body ached.  She realized there must be stitches in her forehead because the skin tugged painfully when she frowned.

Jake hovered over her, a ferocious scowl twisting his features.  As if from a great distance, she heard him say, "The car's totaled."

"Sorry," she whispered.  It required a great deal of energy to wrench out the words. “My head hurts so bad.”

"Don't whine, Shauna," he growled.  "It could be worse."

With a moan, she turned her face into the pillow. She wasn’t sure if she said it out loud or not, but one last thought drifted through her mind before she went under again: “How can it be worse?”

***

The doctors finally decided that she had recovered sufficiently and released her from the hospital. Since the car was still in the shop, Jake put Shauna in a taxi for the trip home. Settled uncomfortably in the seat, she glanced down at the paper the nurse had pressed into her hand.

Stay off feet for a few days, the hastily scrawled lines read. No housework or lifting for at least a week. Lots of rest.

Jake leaned over to get a look at the instructions, and barked out a short burst of laughter.  "They just don't know you, do they?" he grinned, patting her knee.  "You'll want to get straight to work as soon as you get home, right?

Shauna stared at him in amazement.  The short trip from her hospital room to the cab had left her trembling with exhaustion.  The thought of washing even one dish sent quivers of weakness rippling through her.

"I'll try as soon as I can," she said, her voice as colorless as the gray sky that hovered above the street.  "The doctor wants me to rest for a few days, until I get my strength back."

Jake ripped the paper from her fingers and crumpled it into a ball.  He cranked the window down and tossed it out.  It hit the pavement with a bounce, then whirled away in a tide of muddy slush.

He leaned over and pressed his forehead against hers.  "Think about this. It could be worse, Shauna.  It could be much worse."

Shauna blinked away the hot tears that sprang to her eyes.  "Yes, Jake," she whispered.

“Good girl,” he said, and kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth.

***

Jake pushed the front door open, shouldered his wife aside, and swaggered to the recliner.  He dropped into it, draped a leg over the side, and said, "Vacation's over, sweetheart.  Clean up this mess and bring me a cold one."

Shauna stared around the room in disbelief.  Beer cans littered the floor, the couch was covered with dirty clothes, and a pizza box dangled precariously over the edge of the coffee table, dripping stale crusts onto the carpet. She sagged against the wall. Tears filled her eyes and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

"What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?" snapped Jake.  “Get me a beer!"

Choking back a sob, Shauna picked her way through the litter. Disgust flooded her as she surveyed the sorry condition of the kitchen she always kept so neat.

Half-empty cans littered the counter top.  The coffee pot was on, and a black syrupy goo bubbled in the bottom of the carafe.  Sandwich remains covered the table, a banana peel blackened in the corner near the garbage can, and dirty dishes and glasses were piled haphazardly in the sink. 

"Beer!" Jake bellowed.

Shauna pulled open the door of the refrigerator and peered inside.  An empty milk carton lay on its side on the top shelf and a few curled up pieces of dried bologna were stuck to a plate.  She dragged open the drawer where the beer was kept.  Empty.

Shauna closed the refrigerator door and leaned her flushed cheek against its soothing coolness.  "There is no beer, Jake," she said softly.

"What? Stop mumbling!"

Shauna straightened, massaged her aching neck, and stepped into the living room.  "I said there's no beer."

Jake stared at her incredulously.  "Then don't you think you better go get some?"

"Jake, you know I'll have to walk to the store."  She dug her fingers into her crossed arms.  "I'm supposed to stay off my feet for a few days.  Doctor's orders."

Jake got up slowly.  "Well, the doctor doesn't live here, does he?"  He took a couple of steps toward her.  "So I guess if I tell you to go get me some beer, you’ll go get me some beer, right?"

Suddenly, Jake whipped his arm out and tangled his fingers in her hair.  He jerked her head back and forth to punctuate his sentence.  "It could be worse.  Now. Couldn't. It?"

Scalding tears streaked down Shauna's face.  Her vision blurred and there was a ringing in her ears that grew steadily louder.

"Couldn't it?" 

Yank. Yank.

"Yes!"  Shauna screamed.  "Yes, yes!"

Jake shoved her away from him.  Shauna’s knee connected with the edge of the coffee table and she tumbled over it to the floor.  Jake poked her in the side with the tip of his boot, managing to find the cracked rib. A ragged groan escaped from between her clenched teeth.

"Good girl.  Now stop whining and go to the store."  He patted down his pockets. "And get me some smokes, too."

Shauna crawled to the door frame and carefully, painfully, inched her way up.  Jake settled into the recliner and flipped through channels with the remote control.  He aimed it at her. 

"Zap!" he snickered.  "Go, girl, go!  But, hey, first throw a load of laundry in the wash. All my stuff's dirty."

"Yes, Jake," she said wearily.

Fighting dizziness, she gathered a few pieces of clothing from the couch, and stumbled into the kitchen.  She caught her reflection in the glass window of the oven.  An ashen face, swollen eyes ringed with black circles, stared back.  "It could be worse," she reminded herself through gritted teeth. “I don’t know how, but I’m sure it could be.”

The laundry in her arms smelled faintly of beer and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing away the ever-present tears that threatened to spring up.  She elbowed the basement door open and flipped the light switch.  There was a brief flash of yellow as the bulb shot. 

Sagging against the door frame, Shauna peered into the shadowy depths of the basement.  She could barely make out the dim forms of the washer and dryer squatting in the corner.

"Jake," she called weakly.  "The light bulb burned out. Will you replace it for me?"

She heard the recliner creak as Jake hauled himself up out of it.

"Do I have to do everything around here?" he snapped as he stomped into the kitchen. “Leave the door open.  You can use the light from the kitchen to see the washer."  He whipped his head toward her, his voice rising with each word.  "It could be worse. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

Shauna flung her arm over her face and cowered against the wall. It occurred to her that she was about to find out just how much worse it could be.

A dirty dish towel lay on the floor between them and Jake savagely kicked it aside. His foot came down on an empty mayonnaise jar. It skittered away, throwing him off balance. He cart wheeled his arms, grabbed at the air, then pitched headfirst through the basement door.

His fingers scrabbled desperately at the wall for a second, then he went thumping down the stairs.  He crashed through the wooden handrail mid-way down, and hit the cement floor with a sickening crunch. Then, silence.

Holding her breath, Shauna tiptoed to the door and peered into the darkness.  "Jake?" she called softly. 

No answer.

She fished around in a drawer for the flashlight, then hurried back to the top of the stairs.  She trained the light on Jake, who lay sprawled on the hard floor. 

His neck twisted at an interesting angle and he stared sullenly up at her through glazed eyes.  A thin, red-tinged rivulet of spittle strung from one corner of his mouth.  "Aagggh," he said.

Shauna clucked her tongue.  "Don't worry, Jake," she whispered.  "It could be worse."

She snapped the flashlight off and closed the door.

About the Author
Anne Culbreath Watkins is a full time freelance writer and photographer whose work has appeared in numerous magazines, books, and web sites. She and her banjo-player husband Allen live in Alabama. You can visit her web site at: http://www.geocities.com/anne_c_watkins

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