“You have a mother? That’s the most shocking thing you ever told me,” I said. “I assumed you popped into the world a fully grown Marine from a sauna, sandwiched between two Nautilus machines.”
He smiled. “It’s hard to give up on you.”
“Oh, no? You would be the first to not give up on me.”
Hudson stood and put his hand out to me. “Let’s go. It’s a gorgeous day. An easy walk. I promise.”
It was a beautiful day outside. Hudson had waited for me to get dressed, and then we left the house to go on a walk around the neighborhood. I glanced toward the front door and noticed by some miracle that my pile of poopy clothes had disappeared. What a guy. He was unusually kind to me, walking at my pace instead of his, which meant we were walking at about the pace of an old lady shopping in the soup aisle at a grocery store.
“Are you going to tell me about your clothes?” he asked.
“About the excrement, you mean?”
“You could start there. That would be good. Excrement.”
“Technically, I think it’s called raw sewage.”
I thought I heard Hudson snicker, but I wasn’t sure because the wind was blowing. “Interesting. Why were your clothes soaked in raw sewage?”
“Why?” I said. “Because justice is dirty, Hudson. You don’t know anything about that because you’re in the army, and the army has nothing to do with justice. Not marital justice, in any case.”
“Eliza, I’m not in the army. I’m not a pussy. I’m a Marine.”
“Sorry. Excuse me,” I said. “I take it back. You’re not a pussy. You’re a Marine. But I repeat, Marine justice has nothing on marital justice. Marital justice is much dirtier than Marine justice. Where were you a Marine? Probably someplace clean and fancy like Beverly Hills.”
“Afghanistan,” he said.
I looked at him. “For real?”
“Special ops. Very dirty work.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” I said. “You might have done some dirty justice, but not like this. This was some high-level dirty justice, you know what I mean?”
“Enlighten me.”
I gave him every dirty detail about the night before. About the poop truck and the hose and Steve’s hand on Tight Tammy’s breast.
Hudson took in the story and was quiet for a moment. “Who’s Joe?” he asked, finally.
“Oh,” I said and stumbled over my feet. Hudson caught me and righted me before we continued walking.
“Who’s Joe?” he asked, again.
“Nobody. He’s a delivery guy. Not really a delivery guy. Well, he has delivered for me. But he’s an artist. And he has a bicycle. And…”
I clamped my lips together and shut up. I had said too much. I told him about the bicycle, and now he was going to put two and two together.
“I think I have the picture,” he said.
“I resent that,” I said. “You don’t have the picture at all. You have completely the wrong picture. I’m not that kind of woman. Not at all. Shame on you.”
“I think I hit a nerve.”
I stopped walking. “No, you didn’t hit a nerve. I have no nerves, and if I had a nerve, you couldn’t hit it with one of your Marine bazookas. I’m going home.”
I turned around, and Hudson followed me. “Bicycle, huh?”
“So, he rides a bicycle. Why is that a big deal? Why is that interesting? It isn’t interesting. Lots of people have bicycles. Have you heard of global warming? Climate change? It’s our duty to ride bicycles. You wouldn’t know because you drive a gas-guzzling Camaro. Is it hot in here?”
