Withered

Flower-shop, East Tremont, The Bronx. Rusting vases stacked outside; phone echoes in the near-empty display room.

Fabienne: Yeh….  No good news, Mr Fahid. I’ll be out by five as agreed….  You’ve done your best. ‘preciate that… Yeh, yeh. Floors swept… Least I could do… Hard sell, sure. She laughs. Hard place to sell flowers.

A small spirit stove heats water. She spoons Maxwell House into a cup. Cars roar past. Time shuffles. Doorbell tinkles.

F: Hey, Gramma Damrosch. Coffee? Black’s all I’ve got.

GD: I got milk.

F: Guess you know the bad times. Take my chair. I’ll use these crates.

GD: You cheerful. What’ll you do?

F: Leave this stinking city if I had the dough. Reminds me of my ex. Jersey, by the ocean would be good. But I’m dreaming. A diner’s more likely; the early shift.

GD: I’d buy flowers…

F: No, no. Your husband… Pick a bunch, my gift. You bought when you could.

GM: Roses, once. Pauses. Just once.

Late afternoon, getting dark. Doorbell.

F: Hey, you’re young to be buying flowers.

Grins. Black, too.

F: I didn’t say that. Hey, not much to see. Last day, I’m closing.

He: Shit.

F (Intrigued): Why should it matter?

He: Mom’s birthday but I was short. Got myself a deuce now, and an idea. Flowers. Forget cooking and cleaning. But you’re bust. No other flower shops on Tremont.

F: Five bucks. Make up your own bunch.

He: Better you do it. Telling me what I’ve got

He leaves, swaggering with this new thing, a bunch of flowers.

Potted fuchsias, dahlias shrivelling, mimosa clusters; into the garbage. For herself a lily – almost pristine. Recalling her efficiency and its unmade bed she hands the lily to a bemused cop outside the subway.

On the Eastern Seaboard: part two

New readers. Read Part One first. Not that I’m guaranteeing anything, you understand. 

RR: Barman!

Barman (He’d been listening): Remind me.

RR: Martini straight up, Tanqueray, three ice cubes in the shaker, with a twist.

The barman nods towards Oxblood staring out at Central Park.

RR: Better ask him. He’s not with me

Barman: Sir! Buddy!

Oxblood turns slowly, as if suddenly finding himself in the Gents. 

Oxblood: Er… Brandy Alexander.

The barman looks at me and I look back at him. Both heavily silent.

Oxblood: I been thinking. Just can’t find the right words.

RR: Not good in your line of business.

Oxblood (Briefly terrified): Wha..a..!

RR: Media, surely. Slip-ons with no socks.

Oxblood: Shee-eet.

The Brandy Alexander is served. The barman and I watch on. Oxblood sips, realises we’re spectating, and gulps off the whole drink. The cream leaves him with a white moustache. He seems strengthened.

Oxblood: Got a sort of intimate question.

RR: Shoot.

Oxblood: You have any success…?

RR: Success?

Oxblood: Y’know. With women?

RR: Not in the UK, it’s why I left. American women have shown some slight interest. College types.

The strength drained out of his face. He stared down at his sockless feet.

Oxblood: You’re shitting me. Foreign shit.

RR: Why would I do that?

Oxblood: Acting superior. Being a Brit.

RR: Bet you earn three times as much.

As if I’d handed him a crutch.

Oxblood: Yeah! Sure! Four times at least! (Looks me up and down.) This shirt’s Armani, fr’instance.

RR: Something to talk about.

For the first time he realised what a bastard I was.

Oxblood: So what do you talk about?

RR: You guessed it. Hygiene. I slay ‘em.

A long pause while the sun went down.

Oxblood: Never done a martini. Should I try one?

On the Eastern Seaboard, part one

 

There’s $100 in my wallet and I’m into my third (out of six) martinis at the near-empty Plaza Hotel’s Oak Bar, NYC. A man, one-third my age, wearing oxblood slip-ons without socks, looks my way for fifteen seconds, sits next to me at the bar.

Oxblood: Brit, eh?

I nod.

Oxblood: I can always tell.

I say nothing. He waits. Says: Sheesh.

I say nothing.

Oxblood (Rising impatience): C’mon. Don’t you wanna know why?

RR: I can guess.

Oxblood (Waits): Well, guess then.

I shake my head.

Oxblood: Guy, you could be wrong.

RR: I dare say.

Oxblood: You wanna get up my nose? That’s it. Up my nose.

RR: It’s kind of on offer. Your nose, I mean. But no, I’d rather not.

Oxblood (Mumbling): Trying to be friendly.

RR: No, you’re not. This is Noo York City. You’re putting me down. Trying to. (Deep sigh) For what it’s worth, it’s the chinos.

Oxblood (Astonished): You knew!

RR: As I said, it’s The Big Apple. Predictable as winter after fall. The answer’s going to shock you, but… hey! The answer’s: every six months, sometimes longer.

Oxblood (Mouth, half-open, stays that way. The pure village idiot except this is the self-described City of Sophistication. Gulps in air, starts to stammer): I can’t… I just can’t… Look, let me get this straight. How can you…? No, first things. Is that a martini? Lemme…

RR: I buy my own drinks.

Oxblood (Struggling to smile): Kinda rude, eh? I thought you Brits were supposed to be polite.

RR: Best I pay my own way…

Oxblood: The Plaza’s not cheap.

RR: I know that. You buy me a drink, we talk, soon we argue. You get angry, call me a panhandler because you bought me the drink. New York’s so predictable.

(More follows)

It exists therefore it stays

Things we cannot bear to throw away always have a story attached. And the story may reveal what sort of person we are.

Here’s a can of Red Bull energy drink which was bought in France. Its slogans have more charm than if they were in English: Formule Taurine (The Bullish Recipe or, more digestibly, The Bullish “Way”) and Vivifie le corps et l’esprit (hardly needs translating). The sell-by date is July 7 2011.

Why, you will ask it, did I buy it? Well, the journey from our part of England (confusingly called The Welsh Marches) to our regular French holiday area (Languedoc) is a long one and I share the driving with younger daughter, Occasional Speeder. The French autoroutes warn about driving when tired and we decided to test a collection of energy drinks prophylactically. Excellent idea. That is, until we started tasting and quickly decided a vacuum flask of black coffee would be preferable. I don’t think we got as far as the Red Bull.

Why don’t I throw it away? Well, it’s full and still unopened. Also it was brewed in Austria and foreign stuff often costs an arm and a leg in France; I can’t bear the waste.

But nor can I handily store it. Non-alcoholic drinks (for guests, of course) are kept in the garage on racking surmounted by free-standing pyramids of cans. Red Bull’s can is narrow and would slip through the racking slots. It is also too long to form a stable element in one of the pyramids.

One may add liquor to an energy drink which seems like a double whammy: diluting the booze and undermining the energy drink’s health claims.

I can’t give it away because of the sell-by date. So it presently acts as a paperweight. Time passes.

AYLI descanted

NOTE: A good friend – a very good friend – read the version of this story originally posted and pointed out the narrator had insufficient hinterland (an unfortunate side-effect of writing in the first-person singular) and that there were too many adverbs. I agreed whole-heartedly, attended to these matters and chopped and changed elsewhere. It’s better now, if you have the stamina.

Love-shaked, well clothed

Short story, 3241 words

Saturday. We’d been rehearsing all afternoon in Jane’s front room and were becoming progressively immersed. Jane winding a lock of blonde hair round her index finger as she became Rosalind, my voice sinking lower as Orlando took over my burdens.

Jane had just uttered, “There is a man haunts the forest…” and completed it with “… he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him”.

And I, Orlando, had confessed: “I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell me your remedy.”

As if under the baton of an invisible conductor we halted. Jane’s grey eyes were wide. “She’s so… powerful, isn’t she?”

That was my view. Powerful Rosalind had been my imaginary girlfriend ever since first term at secondary school. My only girlfriend to tell the truth. I nodded.

Jane waved pale unguided fingers. “Time for a coffee break?”

As usual I umm-ed and ah-ed and Jane took that as a no. The Oxford University Press paperback, bought new for this production, started to slide off my knee and I grabbed at it. The source of all my comfort.

Jane put her copy of the book carefully on a side table. “It seems so wilful of Orlando. Carving messages in tree trunks, pinning up more messages. Disturbing nature. Yet what could be more passionate?”

“Well, he is a bit of a prat at times.”

“Oh, don’t say that.”

“Why not? Life has made me an expert on prats.”

Jane smiled, her grey eyes now yonderly. “Well he’s a nice prat.”

The silence was awkward. Who was Jane talking about? Was I still Orlando? More loudly than I intended I opted for detour, “What about the play’s footnotes? They’re astonishing.”

Jane laughed. “The play’s language is so filthy. If it wasn’t Elizabethan it would be banned. But then love does have its dirty side.”

“Yeah, but R and O are only on the brink. Later yes, but aren’t the sweaty bits taboo at this stage?”

Jane looked at the ceiling. “Not in present-day movies.”

“So they’re modern lovers. I can see that with Rosalind, she’s streets ahead of everyone in the play. But Orlando’s of his time.”

“Methinks he reads too much,” she said mischievously. Were we moving away from As You Like It? Were Shakespeare’s most well-developed lovers being ushered out of the door? Leaving just the two of us, pre-Millennials dabbling with literature and now coming up for air. Polluted air? No, not that damn modern. Romantics may still disapprove of CO2 emissions.

“Both of us certainly read too much,” I said, without thinking. “It’s why we joined an ADS that does classics. That will never revive Rattigan.”

She pointed. “You’re the bossy one. You forced me to read Houllebecq.”

Me, bossy? But wasn’t this Rosalind speaking?  Jane went on. “And Pynchon, for God’s sake. Those early ones were a real pain. Come on, be honest.”

I stammered. “Just a minute, you’re still Rosalind. Take-charge Rosalind still in male drag."

“What woman would willingly give up Rosalind? It’s a terrific role. But why should that worry you?”

It seemed I was never far away from supercharged hormonal adolescence. In particular that witty, irresistible fictional woman who bent her lover to her needs. How I had wanted to be bent in just that way. Unloved then and now.

And Jane, a newly burnished Rosalind, might well do the bending. Married, if unsatisfactorily, to a man who would be back from rugby after the pubs closed and who thought Shakespeare was a brand of beer. At my age I shouldn’t need her but adolescence can last and last.

“Rosalind is a sort of mantra,” I said, hating New Age cant.

“And how does that mantra serve you? Not that I know what mantras do.”

I was of course being bent, if not clinically in the way I’d wanted. Jane had status as befitted a department head in bio-research. Given my acute lack of status I often found it hard to imagine I wasn’t being patronised. Would have been for certain had it not been for the play. God knows what bio-research entails but pragmatism seems likely. Whatever my personal murk Jane had recognised I took acting seriously and that she could profit from this.

It had been fun to rehearse with Jane and I was even beginning to detect her other dimensions. If asked I’d have called her slender although “bony” would have been truer. Superfine blonde hair lay limp as satin over her scalp. Her face, her hands and all other visible areas of skin were milk-white if not colourless. Like an invalid still recovering from a debilitating ailment. And yet, she was utterly feminine with an almost professional enthusiasm for the stage. No one else had contested her casting as Rosalind.

Mantra? Why that airy-fairy catchall? “A reference point for all that’s best in womanhood. What the hell.”

“Why go for a symbol? Why not the real thing?”

Now I was being patronised. “Easier said than done.”

“The decaying bachelor,” she said, “one of your stock roles.” She examined me as I had no doubt examined her; obviously decided there was no need to change her mind. Tossed me a dog biscuit. “You do a good Orlando.”

“But isn’t a good Orlando usually a reflection of a good Rosalind?”

She asked, “Who’s to say it’s not the other way round?”

“You were born to do Rosalind. Without masculine aids.”

We did a few more lines but the rhythm of the dialogue had been lost. Jane glanced at her watch. “I need to pick up my wayward husband. He’ll be doing his drinking in a dinner jacket this evening. Needs to come home to change.” She paused. “Dress rehearsal next weekend. Are we sharp enough?”

“I’m not sure I’m ever sharp enough. But if we rehearsed during the week that would mean in the evenings. It’s asking a lot of your husband being in the same house. Given he’s not theatrical.”

“You can say that again. How about your place?”

I tried to be happy about this. “Fine. My furniture’s a bit sub-par.”

But she’d expect that, surely.

It didn’t work. Mine’s a single-bedroom flat and we were, no doubt, overheard by neighbours. In any case my mind was on other things. Regretting my preference for photographs over paintings. Conscious my bookshelves accommodated neither Houllebecq nor Pynchon. Also the coffee was instant.

As I bid Jane goodnight I said, “Let’s not repeat this. We may end up losing whatever we’ve learned.”

She tried to be kind. “I hadn’t realised what a luxury two couches are.” Even pecked me high on the cheek. A handshake, however inappropriate, would have been marginally more carnal.

AS NEXT Saturday’s dress rehearsal drew near my confidence – never strong during the final days – drained away. My cohorts in council recycling are not exactly anti-theatre or even anti-Shakespeare, the problem lies in identifying what they do favour. Our office is horribly cramped and reading aloud would have been a no-no. I mumbled my lines on the bus to work, sitting on the office toilet, on a park bench, sandwich in hand, striving not to appear as if I had learning difficulties. The week dragged on, bringing other thespian concerns.

Acting requires as much energy as digging graves and stoking up is vital. Dress rehearsal would endure throughout Saturday afternoon and into the late evening; for lunch I tried stuffing myself but baulked halfway through the second banana. As protection I loaded my pockets with chocolate ‘n’ toffee bars, hoping to get them down before their hellish sweetness forced them back up again.

But unexpected joy awaited. Our costumes had been farmed out to local seamstresses willing to work for farthings and my hopes were not high. From my experience of As You Like It Orlando always appears over-dressed for the Forest of Arden: flares and furbelows, slashes and stitches, sometimes – unforgivably – in velvet.

This time, however, my so-called masculinity would be enhanced. My torso responded well to a generous white linen shirt open to the belly-button and with billowing sleeves neatly cuffed. My legs were thrust into raunchily tight trousers fashioned in something like brown sailcloth and held up by a belt sumptuous enough to have secured two oxen. An exact re-creation - for those belonging to my age group - of Erroll Flynn starring in Captain Blood.

Confident and unself-conscious among other male cast members I strode the changing room, declaiming:

Is’t possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? That but seeing, you should love her? And loving, woo? And wooing, she should grant? And will you persevere to enjoy her?

Alex, a solicitor, who’d expected to play Orlando by right and who’d been reduced to Duke Senior, snarled at me to keep my lines to myself. Like many on the lower rungs of the social ladder, I’d always feared solicitors and was surprised Alex hadn’t used his mysterious powers to inveigle himself into Orlando. I bowed (subconsciously) and escaped into the car-park where I was not the only auto-rehearser. I even felt sharp. Ready for anything the Bard might throw at me. But today it wasn’t the Bard that was dispensing favours.

The dress rehearsal started haphazardly and I took time to get into my stride. Yes, I had my first sight of “heavenly Rosalind” but what with the wrestling match and being banned from court I had much to do, not least animating those tedious lines – often one of Shakespeare’s first-act penances – which summarised past events. Rosalind even handed me a chain from her neck, but what was she wearing? Something flowery in cretonne? But isn’t cretonne used to upholster soft furniture? I have no idea. Nor should it have mattered.

The plot allowed me twenty minutes off stage and I returned more relaxed and well prepared for the Forest of Arden, that ancient playground of the imagination. And yet it still exists! On the motorway which encircles Birmingham I had once seen a sign, Henley in Arden, and was astonished. Wouldn’t that road end in fictional mist?

In Arden – Doesn’t the very name hint at ardour? – I encounter Ganymede, a chap wearing a chap’s clothing, which isn’t so surprising. Except that he is a she and that she is Rosalind. For whom I have proclaimed my love by pinning notices to Arden’s trees. It sounds corny but when it works it really works. Just ask the great actresses who have reinforced that truth. Redgrave to Mirren with all stops in between.

I am not to know Ganymede is Rosalind and so begins a fabulous fandango on gender and the farcical side-effects of being in love. I am part of this, very much so, and relaxed enough to notice Ganymede’s garments:

A Rhine barge-captain’s cap, well slanted. Pedal-pusher trousers. And a thick tweed waistcoat. All perfectly chosen.

Definitely a man.

Meanwhile I need to concentrate on my feisty dialogue while Rosalind/Ganymede scores on points and lands many a straight left. I plead the strength of my love but am left behind by material like this:

Rosalind: Love is merely a madness, and I tell you deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too.

Yes, I play second fiddle, but let’s get one thing straight. Acting compensates for all my inadequacies: the recycling department, the shabby flat and mixed feelings about celibacy. I take acting seriously because it frees me from an unrewarding world. I do what needs to be done quite willingly even when I’m thrust into the shadows. Rosalind demands a straight man to bounce her opinions off and I provide it. Conscientiously, because, as you must know, it’s harder to put life into straight lines than into punchlines.

Ten minutes in I start to feel oddly distracted but attribute this to the plot and its complexities. I mean… Rosalind promises to cure Orlando’s love-sickness. All he needs to do is pretend that this nominal fella Orlando’s just met – that’s Ganymede - is not a fella but a woman. Not just any woman of course! Guess who? You’re right: ten out of ten. Orlando has to pretend that Rosalind who is Ganymede is – fictitiously – Rosalind!

It’s easier to watch than to read so let’s be crystal clear. Orlando admits publicly he loves Rosalind. Rosalind dresses as a chap, Ganymede, and waylays unknowing Orlando, tells him love’s a sickness and she can cure him. Imagine, she says, that I am not Ganymede but Rosalind; now – and here’s the killer punch - seduce me! Which Orlando tries to do.

Since this is WS comedy you can guess how it all turns out, with lots of double and triple meanings along the way. If the chemistry’s right it’s good fun to play. All Orlando needs to do is act the simpleton. Simple. But it seemed that theatrical chemistry was now at war with an older, more familiar bio-chemistry.

Take that bargeman’s cap. When former German chancellor, Helmut Schmidt, wore one – which he often did as part of his political image – he looked tough, competent and echt German. Ganymede, only a couple of feet away and taunting the hell out of me, looked saucy. Question: Are chaps saucy?

These days trouser are unisex. Pedal-pushers are a form of trousers, except they terminate just below the knee. It’s a well-known fact that women’s legs are nicer to look at than men’s. As our play was confirming.

As to the tweed waistcoat it was tight enough to have worked as a strait-jacket. Certainly it ensured Ganymede had a tubular body that typifies a man. But within Ganymede was Rosalind and within her was Jane. And Jane had breasts. Suppressing them enlarged their memory instead of eliminating it.

Hey, drama is deception. Cross-dressing role-play is rife in Shakespeare and realistic clothing is only one of the options. Our ADS dressing specialist (who runs a menswear shop) had done well. Perhaps too well. First glance, he had transformed a woman into a man. But I, alas, had become rather more conscious of what lay behind the deception. Hiding a thing is one way of drawing attention to it. Covering up sex can create arousal.

I liked Jane but rehearsing the play in her front room had left little time for anything else. Mainly I was obsessed with my lines; forgetfulness hung over me like a black cloud. If Jane managed twenty lines without a glitch I, moodily, resented that. For me the play was God as, I suspect, it was for her.

But during our ordinary rehearsals Jane’s gender was never in question. She was undeniably and unexceptionally a woman, tucked up on the couch – in the way women contrive – and smoothing her skirt over her knees. Now, as I confronted the director, reeling off my lines – without “dries” too; I should, dear God, have been more content – my thoughts strayed. How blatant the captain’s cap? How cruelly restrictive the waistcoat? What on earth was I after? Why was I asking myself rhetorical questions?

While in the real world, paradoxically set upon a village hall stage, Rosalind was adding to my plight:

Rosalind: I had as lief be wooed by a snail… he brings his own destiny with him.

Orlando: What’s that?
Rosalind: Why horns, which such as you are fain to be beholden to your wives for.

Did my own horn twitch at that? Might its contours, God forbid, even be visible? The presence of this hidden woman wasn’t doing me any good at all. Oh bring on the conclusion, the over-wrought wedding beneath the cardboard trees, the insincerities. Mr Director, proclaim the end.

I WAS FIRST into the changing room, first out of my costume, and through the side-door to the car park. Why, I know not, but Jane was there before me: “I’m starving, buy me fish-and-chips.” Her voice was neutral, even dead.

No, no more. An end to torment. Years of sexual inactivity had left me incompetent; and no, it wasn’t like riding a bike. I needed to be alone. I needed the simplicity of my dusty flat. If I’d been at ease with myself I’d have come up with an excuse. But the phrase “fish-and-chips” played havoc with my gastric juices and filled my mouth with saliva. I could only gurgle.

Jane, by the way, was wearing a hooded three-quarter length coat in navy-blue wool blend which I knew had come from Country Casuals. The washable silk shirt in a daring variant of khaki suggested Jaeger and a price tag well north of a ton. Neither garment was suitable for hiding assets.

Top Plaice offered vintage cider and we sipped mutely. “You were a terrific Rosalind,” I said, my imagination now matching my sex drive.

“Was I?”

“Why do you sound so… flat?”

“Oh, I got the words out. Didn’t trip over that stupid log. But there were other problems. Unexpected problems.”

“That’s why we have dress rehearsals”

Jane nodded. “I’ve done enough of them. But never reflected on the phrase itself. We check out so many other things.”

“Other than what”

She waved listlessly. “You know.”

I didn’t care to be the one who identified the subject. “No I don’t.”

I expected this to irritate her but her voice was wan. “Our dress… our costumes.”

Oh God.

She said, “Let’s forget it. It is sort of personal.”

Oh God.

When the food arrived Jane, who had claimed to be starving, picked at the odd chip, ignoring the battered cod. I found myself eating to justify ordering the meal. The silence was oppressive. I’m not by instinct charitable but the situation demanded some kind of gesture. I was astonished my on-stage embarrassment had been detectable but, in any case, was it that big a sin? The answer was surely to joke my way out of it.

I cleared my throat. “As to the costumes - ”

Jane interrupted. “After all it was hardly your fault.”

So it was a sin!

Quick, something joky. “We could say it was Adam’s fault if anyone’s.”

But she hadn’t heard me. Preferring more silence.

By now the cod was hard going and the meal was grinding to a halt: we were reduced to prodding with our forks. I wasn’t going to try another joke but I had to say something.

“Where did you park, I could drive you there.” The Englishman’s conversational standby – the car, the short suburban journey.

“I came by taxi.”

So I must drive her home in this state of suspended animation. Would the evening never end?

But speaking had freed Jane’s vocal cords. Something had stiffened within; she was going ahead with whatever she’d planned. I sat there, cringing.

Looking down at the table she said, “I mean you always turned up in a suit even though we rehearsed on Saturdays. Rather comical, a suit on Saturday.” A long, long pause. “I just wasn’t prepared for those shockingly tight pants, the neck open all the way down to…”

Now she stared, transfixed, as well she might.

I’d hacked my cold cod in two and forked the larger half into my mouth. Flakes of batter dropped like snowflakes on to the table as I spoke. Indistinctly. Cod-stuffed.

“You know, clothes can really screw you.”

Why not lie? Most lovers do. 1

Short story – part one

TIGHT for time, harassed by white vans, manoeuvring an unwieldy bicycle - this was no reflective prelude to a funeral. The lights ahead went red and Amanda smiled grimly. Marion herself would have avoided all this. Would have consulted a bus timetable, made allowances and taken a paperback. Dear Marion! Confined to her chipboard coffin and alone with her dead thoughts somewhere else in north London. Perhaps sighing towards the same destination in a genteel hearse.

A Peugeot cut in, aiming for a left turn and Amanda braked as hard as she might, squeezing the outmoded, rod-linked brakes: cursing the male clown at Jed’s Cycles who’d sworn the two-wheeler would suit a woman. “See the full-size chainguard. Keeps your nylons clean,” he’d said. No mention of the top-heavy design.

An uphill stretch and the crematorium’s ridiculous chapel came into view. A building for secular occasions that had shrunk in the wash. The pitiful steeple, fashioned by an uninspired carpenter and bolted on some lazy summer afternoon. Dear Marion! Why did you choose to die in November?

Having chained the bicycle to the imitation lych-gate Amanda looked again at her watch and realised she’d misread it. She had quarter of an hour to spare. From inside the chapel seeped an amateur recording of I Did It My Way.

I too-ook the blo-ah-ows...

Here, corpses were processed like logs in a sawmill. The crematorium was booked solid for the next three weeks, as if death had become suddenly fashionable north of Dalston.

Devon arrived by taxi, wearing mute black. At what point did one acquire  clothes specifically for funerals? But then Devon was employed by an aviation company with hints of a high salary. Quality control, whatever that was. Amanda imagined Devon sliding manicured hands along the smooth flanks of an airliner and murmuring approvingly. With nothing black in the wardrobe Amanda wore the tweed two-piece she kept for fortnightly departmental meetings. Quickly the jacket had become baggy but it had cost too much to discard. She justified keeping it on the grounds that certain aristocrats – at least in fiction – wore tweed at weekends.

Devon’s blonde cloche must have been styled that morning. She glanced around at the loiterers waiting for Marion’s incineration. Leaning, she said to Amanda: “I’ve been meaning to ask. I thought those who did themselves in were damned. Not allowed this fol-de-rol.”

“The crematorium is run by the borough council. It’s non-denominational. In any case Marion’s sister has hedged her bets by bringing in a Humanist.”

Devon shuddered. “Squalid.”

“Are you saying you’d favour – what was it? – fol-de-rol?”

“My parents are Catholics. I don’t suppose I’d have any say in the matter.” She smiled reminiscently. “But the music appeals. And the sense of certainty.”

“I’m surprised,” said Amanda.

Devon laughed, took Amanda’s elbow and guided her towards a side door that had just opened. At another corner of the building those who had just made their observances towards another corpse were streaming out and lighting cigarettes. Devon said, “We seem to have avoided talking about death. Can’t think why. None of us has led what you might call blessed lives.”

This time Amanda shuddered. But only slightly. Finally Marion’s death was becoming a reality.

The Humanist wore trainers and spoke estuarine, his style truculent. “I’m dressed casual ‘n’ there’s a reason. We’re here for what we can remember of Marion Darlington. The stuff in that coffin is no longer important; can’t be insulted by me not wearing a tie.”

The Humanist cleared his throat and for one horrid moment Amanda feared he might now spit. “We won’t be talking about souls flying business class to heaven because Marion didn’t go in for them fancies. Since she isn’t here we’ll concentrate on what she’s left us. The bits and pieces of her life. I’m standing in for Marion’s sister, Teena. Reading out what Teena remembers.”

He stared at his audience angrily. “But this group, this meeting won’t work if some of you don’t break in with your own stuff. Proof that you’re here.”  His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Proof you’re ALIVE.”

Amazingly, people did. Some in tears. To the point where Amanda herself stood up shakily, her voice strangled. “I’d... I’d like to speak. Perhaps controversially.”

A collective sigh agreed this was acceptable.

“Marion... my friend Marion ended her own life. There’s no secret about that. There was an inquest and the local paper reported it. I suppose it’s important we know these things, that sudden deaths are investigated. The verdict was ‘Suicide’ and I wouldn’t argue with that.

“Things were different when I was younger. You didn’t say, ‘Suicide’ and leave it at that. You tacked on: ‘While the balance of the mind was disturbed.’ I’m glad that’s been retired. I never liked it.

“But there may be others here who remember those words. That judgment, or whatever it was, doesn’t apply. Marion had a difficult life, definitely suffered, but she was always clear-sighted. When she decided on suicide I’m convinced she thought it through. I could guess why but that isn’t the point. Whatever the reason I’m sure it was important. And that matters. Marion didn’t die in any sort of mental fever; dying made sense and so... she died.”

Afterwards, outside the chapel, women with uncertain faces glanced at Amanda, looked away, made up their minds and tip-toed towards her. Most were incoherent. Death as such is rarely discussed that close to a crematorium; the euphemisms run out too quickly. One woman, much older, walked over briskly, touched Amanda’s arm, said, “Twas a comfort.” And left.

Devon was waiting with a people-carrier taxi capable of accommodating the bike and they travelled in silence to the pub where lunch had been ordered. Amanda was left behind as Devon strode purposefully to the bar. “Two gin and tonics. Large ones.”

Silence as they gulped at their drinks. Devon looked distractedly down at her soup, just served, and pushed it away. “And now we are only two. Were you surprised?”

“I thought she’d recovered. She always spoke thoughtfully, seemed composed. But the court case was delayed two years. So late.” Amanda paused. “It was pretty grim.”

Devon was signalling to a waiter, making circling movements. “Ah yes. You attended. I was at a conference in India. It would have been three grand down the Swanee.” She took Amanda’s hand. “How grim?”

“I’m not sure I can... He was allowed to ask her questions in court. Horrid personal questions. Was the sex consensual? Did she... enjoy it? The courts have stopped that now. She looked on the ragged edge.”

“And the bastard got one year suspended. Bastard!”

Lunchers nearby held their knives and forks in abeyance at this audible damnation. Unaware, Devon and Amanda looked into each other’s eyes. Reached for their fresh drinks the moment they touched the table.

Amanda said, “Has The Haven found new premises yet?”

“They’ve pulled down half the street. Jill, Haven’s treasurer, waylaid me at the office. I was just back from India and wrote her a monster cheque.” Devon’s eyes wandered, unfocused. “Guilt money.”

Their salads were virtually untouched as drink dulled the need to eat. Quietly Amanda asked, “Did The Haven really help? You I mean.”

The glass was an inch away from Devon’s lips but travelled no further. “It was never intended to cure our ‘ailment’ was it? It was just a place to – reluctantly – discuss the undiscussable. With others of our ilk. And after that look to our futures. One thing: I can’t imagine that first year without your company. And Marion’s.”

The latter two words carried extra passion but Amanda didn’t mind. Whatever Devon had gained from the trio, she’d been a good friend to Marion.

Amanda said, “What a strange gathering we were. Nothing in common other than our hideous... qualification.”

“Which turned out not to be as rare as we thought.”

Devon appeared to sit up straighter, eyes focused. “Dear Amanda. I’m going to pay for this, I must. It could be our last meeting.”

Amanda stared horrified.

Devon laughed harshly. “No, I haven’t got enough of Marion’s guts to top myself. But I must do something. I thought I’d won when David was sent to Belmarsh for two years but he was out within months. I’ve seen him twice in Marylebone High Street. I don’t think he saw me. As you know, I’ve moved, but I’ve never felt safe!

“And so...?”

Devon’s smile was that of a death’s head. “I’ll be sharing with Zizi.”

“But...” Quickly Amanda adjusted her voice. “Have you explained why to her?”

“Oh she’s eager. ‘Bring it on,’ she says. It seems she’s never taken part in any LGBT demos or protests. Sees looking after me as a penance.”

“But what about the other side of things? Her gayness?”

Devon put down her drink, pushed it to the other side of the table, intending these acts to be decisive. “I’ve changed. Not so surprising I suppose. My pelvis wasn’t just unbearable, it was broken by my partner. A man. And I could see - through the pain – he enjoyed it. Worse, there was no warning. We’d been together for a year or two.”

Amanda stared at Devon’s dead face, realising  she’d never before noticed such absence of expression. Devon said, “I’ve been with men since. Restaurants, the theatre, National Hunt race meetings way out in the country. Decent, attentive, entertaining men who enjoyed my company. But it was no use. Sooner or later I’d start to tremble. To wonder: Where are you hiding... that... tendency?”

Amanda nodded.

Devon added, “I was never drawn to women. Not even at school when everyone else had crushes on someone or other. I’ve explained this to Zizi and she seems to understand. Seemed to suggest there’d be nothing physical.” Devon shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps she’ll see me as a sex challenge but would two women in a bed be the worst thing in the world? What I need is some peace of mind.”

She bowed her golden cloche down to the table. “Oh God, God.”

AMANDA had taken a whole day off for the funeral and rode back to her flat in Stoke Newington. It was early afternoon and she stood indecisively in the tidied-up kitchen, unfamiliar at this time of day. Taking off her coat was mildly daring, a temporising act, not knowing what might follow.

Sitting on the sofa she could almost touch the radio but wasn’t tempted to turn it on - the programmes wouldn’t be what she was used to. Unopened letters from charities lay on the coffee table. Amanda closed her eyes and imagined Marion’s cheap coffin on fire, the sides collapsing and eager flames surging in towards softer kindling. After a while she dozed.

To be woken by knocking. Through the distorting lens of the door's spyhole she saw a young, well-muscled man in a yellow boiler suit emblazoned Southern Logistics. If he was a threat he was well disguised.

“I’m opening the door,” Amanda called out, sliding the big bolt back.

He stood there cheerfully, on the threshold. “Your neighbour’s out, would you take delivery? It will save a trip to our depot.”

She nodded, reached vaguely for the bulky cardboard box but he was ahead of her. “I’ll do it, it weighs a ton.” Now it lay, part-blocking her short hallway, as he stared at the mechanisms on the back of her front door. “So that’s what took the time, all those gadgets.”

She spoke quickly, defensively. “The old door was rickety, I had it replaced. The carpenter recommended the lock and bolt system.” Painfully aware she should have said “we” - for security reasons.

“Much safer. Good idea if you’re alone. Whoops!” He covered his mouth comically like an infant. “I shouldn’t have said it, should I? Alone. You never know who’s listening."

His apology touched her. A nice sort of lad. “I wondered if it might draw attention. As if I’d got things worth stealing.”

He looked at her, assessing her vulnerability to crimes other than theft. His face softened. “Lousy times, eh? Ever thought of an alarm bell-push, somewhere near the door? Good and loud.”

He seemed to be reaching out.

“I might look into it.” Then spread her hands. “But where will it all end? I’d hate to look pathetic.”

Silence hung between them. Might he say she wasn’t pathetic? Might he..?

“Better a couple of locks than...” His voice faded then became crisp. “Thanks for taking the box.” He was gone and she was alone. Except for Shane and the immediate past.

It was not the first time a visitor had commented on the door. It had been installed six months after the divorce when Shane had ceased to make phone calls and had come a’knocking. Marion had urged it. But others had fingered the functional ironwork and looked doubtful.

 “Well-made,” said one of her Human Resources colleagues. “Very well-made.” As if being well-made were a defect.

Shane must have guessed the nature of the door from its outside appearance. He had left a slip of paper - “This barrier just isn’t you.” – which she had read repeatedly without understanding.

Continued in Part two, below.

Why not lie? Most lovers do. 2

Short story - part two

The effect of the four gins – dormant during the bike ride back – had come out to play and she was finding it difficult to concentrate. She made coffee – proper coffee – first dropping the coffee tin lid, then the spoon. Then overfilling the mug so that it splashed down her tweed skirt. As she scrubbed ineffectually at the skirt over the bathroom sink she timorously examined her reflection for signs of disintegration. Nothing, it seemed, had changed. Springy blonde hair flecked symmetrically with grey. High eastern Mediterranean  cheekbones. The neck muscular but not – thank God -scrawny. Forty-one and bearing up physically if not mentally.

Devon had been wrong that there were two left. One was now ash, another intent on discarding her gender. Two had gone to the wall, leaving only Amanda to look for the resumption of womanhood they’d all sought. A goal that had taken a horrible beating of late.

Discussions, so circular, so repetitive and in the end so desperate. Each of them clinging to The Haven’s simple aid that talk was therapy. Talk that echoed round the bare-brick cellar beneath Eyelid Studios on the northern edge of Soho. No great encouragement from the environment, Marion had said on the last evening they’d been together.

Amanda had begged for change. “Is it healthy to go on reliving the agony? If we hold ourselves responsible for that why not give the good stuff equal time? Might that help?”

It was a novel approach. It came as a surprise to learn that the man who had done such damage to Devon’s lumbar region had made his millions from a range of baby clothes decorated with ingenious copies of French Impressionists. Advised by a marketing consultant that children wouldn’t respond to such sophisticated images, he had pointed out robustly that infants wouldn’t be doing the buying. Devon, with a fine arts degree from East Anglia, had advised him to expand further into the less obvious field of medieval triptychs and he’d been grateful enough to hire a fully-crewed power yacht in which he and Devon toured the Adriatic as the two lone guests.

Alas he’d been manic-depressive when it came to financial matters and had fallen out late one Friday evening with his merchant bank. Frustrated by a series of answerphone messages when he wanted a real live whipping boy he turned on Devon instead. The fact that as he lashed out with his customised Doc Martins a three-carat emerald was being shaped to fit Devon’s ring finger merely emphasised the width of his illness.

“Did he swing back afterwards? Being bipolar, I mean.” Marion asked.

Devon sighed. “He saw me just once more. Bandaged, semi-conscious, in hospital. At the time he was still scrambled and associated me with his moneymen. Hired investigators to prove his point. At the time I had other fish to fry: whether or not to hang on to my womb.”

Marion ordered another bottle of sauvignon blanc and poured out full glasses. “Those good times. On reflection they sometimes look like the bad times, but in another set of clothes.”

“Of course,” said Devon. “You put yours through uni, didn’t you.”

Marion nodded. “The good times were always just over the horizon for us.”

The others were only too familiar with the string of betrayals and thefts Marion had endured. Amanda, who had raised the change of subject hung back. She had divorced Shane after a decade of marriage on the grounds he’d beaten her. True, up to a point. In the divorce hearing he was forlorn and defenceless and Amanda found no need to mention that Shane, somewhat beer-sodden, had delivered two half-hearted cuffs with four years in between. Or that on each occasion he’d immediately broken down in tears and asked to be forgiven. Which she had accorded.

At the time the divorce had seemed justified. It was only after meeting Marion and Devon at The Haven she learned what real beating meant, by men who had worked with a will. Had she been over-sensitive? Never mind. Shane had irritated her in other ways and she had been right to get rid of him. She’d hoped for a life without mounds of washing and the disappointment that arrived most Fridays when he handed over pitiful sums of cash in small brown envelopes. Heck, Shane was 42 – you didn’t support people at that age.

The more she thought about the early years the less she felt inclined to talk about them. Shane, a site foreman for a housing developer, had been a victim of one of the sudden catastrophes that regularly lay waste the building industry. When she first met him he was earning an irregular living doing manual work on the sort of projects he’d previously commanded. Surprisingly he had a leftist outlook and was ideologically committed to contracts based on affordable homes. Amanda, an HR manager with a hotel chain, found it mildly gratifying to subsidise him through what she imagined to be a bad patch.

But for Shane losing what was, in effect, a white-collar job had proved to be an insurmountable reverse. After eighteen months of legitimate job-hunting he slowly retreated into the curled-up protection of work which asked him for no decisions. From being a New Statesman reader he became a stoic, shrugging his shoulders at corned beef rather than sirloin, at the radiator turned off permanently in the bedroom. Unfortunately stoicism can be read as inertia and this was how Amanda eventually saw it. Even if it did take time.

And yet... and yet... Shane had been a man. And men were...

AT SEVEN in the evening Amanda’s neighbour knocked on the door for the parcel. A breathless twenty-five-year-old woman in designer clothes whom Amanda knew only slightly. “It’s rather heavy,” Amanda said.

“Power tools, I believe. My nearest and dearest is rethinking the kitchen.”

“Really?” The enormity of such work was beyond Amanda.

“He’s nothing if not ambitious. Look, these flats are all identical. You have the same kitchen as us, don’t you? I’ll show you.”

They were still chatting when Nearest and Dearest came in through Amanda’s open door. Amanda associated his tailor-made jeans with senior positions in IT. He wore them swaggeringly as he plunged into their conversation. “Ignore everything my wife says, Dear Neighbour. She has no faith in me.”

“Justifiably,” his wife said, laughing.

“That book-shelf was horribly overloaded. By whom I dare not say.”

It was a teasing, happy routine. Their marriage could hardly have been more than two years’ old and was still an endless source of amusement. They stood arm in arm as he told Amanda how he would move the fridge here and the sink there, sketching the details on the parcel now lifted on to the work surface.

“Won’t it be terribly disruptive?” Amanda asked.

They looked fondly at each other, one of them whispering. “We’re good at co-operating.” She stroked the tight fabric stretched over his bum and Amanda wanted them both out of her home.

Men – confident yet subtle – dominated the evening’s TV. A twenty-seven-year-old billionaire in the news for setting up an African charity. A new drama series featuring a smouldering French film star. Healthy men engaged in outdoors activity. Amanda ate grapes and watched the TV screen dully. Knowing she wouldn’t sleep.

In the eerie early morning of a London suburb she got out of bed, put on her dressing gown and booted up the laptop. Opened Favourites and clicked on Dates – Dates – Dates. Printed out the application form and took out her fountain pen. Reckoning ink would underline her sincerity.

First name. No equivocation here. Her parents, having struggled for a fortnight choosing Amanda, had no energy left for a supplement. “Worthy of love,” went the translation but ten years were to pass before she noticed the ambiguity. A boyfriend who had gone on to Oxbridge had dropped her with: “It’s a good name for an old blanket.”

Gender. Devon, who had avoided all juvenile crushes, would now know whether she shared Zizi’s definition of “physical”. Perhaps she had already sought comfort there. Amanda, more giving then than now, had been drawn to a third-year classmate Glynis because of her slinky name. Then to admire her glowing auburn hair. Then to reposition a barrette amidst that glow. Then to touch the broad waves of hair without the need for any excuses. In the fourth-year Jules and his flared nostrils arrived and the Sapphic fashion was quietly dropped.

Age. At forty-one the “one” sounded pedantic, an unnecessary precision. The questionnaire’s guidance notes suggested vagueness, Late Thirties being one option. But was it right to start lying so early in this self-portrait?

Occupation. Twelve years in Human Resources, previously known as Personnel, questioning and sifting applicants relative to their future employment. Ultimately the questionnaire sought to gather her qualifications as a potential lover but not her durability in that form of employment. Were her professional skills – sympathy, curiosity, persistence – assets in bed? Perhaps Shane should be invited to fill in this deceptively simple slot. Or might she lie?

Bearing (Helpfully subtitled: How we appear when standing up). Amanda was above average height and regularly checked herself in shop windows for signs of stoop. The evidence was elusive since she automatically straightened up on recognising her reflection. Might she surreptitiously hide three inches of height and start wearing flatties? Ah, but men appreciated stilettos and not for the more obvious aesthetic reasons. Something to do with women’s fortitude in the face of discomfort.

Manner. I can be all things to all men, Amanda told herself, knowing this to be untrue. Having had to fight to get into university she found the uneducated hard to take. It wasn’t a class thing. What grated was an absence of certain touchstones that formed a working minimum. That Jane Austen had also written books. Politics: a singular noun. Africa: not a country.  Atoms: divisible. Race as distinct from colour. Maths seen as more than arithmetic. Likeness a snare and a delusion in painting. Strange how often they cropped up – one waited for them, gloomily. Shane had only a handful of O-levels yet had initially redeemed himself by his commitment to affordable housing, a moral standpoint.

Amanda screwed up the partially completed questionnaire and let it fall to the floor. Among the lies. But then lies were everywhere. She had lied to herself that two feeble slaps had constituted a reason for divorce. Had pretended she’d suffered in order to share the real suffering that had driven one friend to take her own life and another to shelter in a relationship that would surely end in tears.

Abruptly Shane’s brief note came to mind: “This barrier just isn’t you.”

Why not me? What did those extra locks represent? An even greater determination to keep men at bay? Looking for help in The Haven had been a logical step. Invalidated by a personal and inescapable lie.

Dawn was breaking and she wearily resumed the cold double bed. Reached beyond the left-hand side where she normally slept. Felt only still colder sheets and sensed the emptiness. Fell into uneasy sleep. Overslept and awoke, as on other occasions, to loneliness.

Worse still, to  banality.

END

Short story verdict?

Blogspot techno-point. It was Lucy who restrained me from getting excited about pageview figures in Stats. Just a single mention of Hitler and totals may rise dramatically. But occasionally they offer a kind of truth.

At over 6000 words my short story, The Geographical Centre of the Buckeye State, is a long read and I didn't expect a great response. Splitting it into two parts (to meet Blogspot restrictions) was also likely to discourage readers. Pageview figures of 31 and 26 for parts 1 and 2 respectively are not huge but are mildly gratifying. Their numerical closeness suggests there  is a relationship (in readers' eyes) between the two parts, that those who read the first part went on to read the second.

And that only 5 readers failed to do so.

Gather ye crumbs where ye may.

Post Nam 1

I lived in the USA from 1966 to 1972 and I'm ashamed to admit I didn't pay enough attention to the Vietnam War. A month ago a 10-part TV documentary, The Vietnam War, took me by the scruff of the neck. Comprehensive, revelatory, coherent, vivid, even-handed, intimate and large-scale, it re-created a state of mind: about a conflict that most wanted to ignore and forget. More especially how returning soldiers who'd given their all found themselves shockingly and unjustly tainted by the political ignorance and incompetence that kicked off the killing.

This story is nominally about that aftermath but the emphasis shifts somewhat in a way that won't surprise the tiny elite aware of my fictional preferences. In two parts because of BlogSpot restrictions.

Geographical Centre
of  the
Buckeye State
A short story (6392 words)

 A WHOLE morning to kill, shee-eet a whole day! A whole...

He stood on the street corner, taking his time, pretending there were choices. He could turn north up Factory on to West Main and stop off at Twist ‘n Shake. Or go right along Union to... where? Centre Pointe Church? And then what? No surprises either way. The only surprise had just happened. Except it wasn’t really a surprise at all.

Some time back there’d been possibilities. Anything could have happened. He’d beaten Nam.

The pair of them, Boone and him, sitting up to the bar at Amvet Post 59, drinking Wild Turkey with draft beer chasers. Outside it was getting dark and Khe San was starting to fade. Whoops! Keerrection! Khe San would never fade.

Not exactly a celebration then, more a revelation: “Hey we’re alive and ain’t that a kick in the head?” Wild Turkey said it all: twice the price, but what the hell.

Boone, sweat gathering on his top lip, turning. “Yuh leaving for Tennessee? The hick town with the crazy name, it never sticks in my mind.”

He’d grinned, it was always a steady joke. “Soddy Daisy, route 27, north of Chattanooga.”

Boone had sipped Turkey, nodded and leered. “Got yourself a Soddy Daisy waiting?”

As a matter of fact, he hadn’t. Sheryl-Lee and her roommate had taken a Greyhound to Anaheim, looking to be cocktail waitresses, graduating to pole dancing. Sheryl-Lee had the legs at least, he couldn’t complain. He said, “Nope. No one’s waiting.”

“Why not try here?”

“Here? What’s Centerburg got that’s hot?”

“Man, it’s the geo-geographical centre of the Buckeye State.” Boone stumbled over the words, the Wild Turkey getting to him.

“Buckeye?”

“Ohio, you prick.”

He said, “Coming in I saw the sign, side of the road. Population: two thousand and change. Place is just a village.”

“CPAs can always get work. Anywhere.”

He sighed. “Told you a hunnert times, I’m no CPA. Ain’t got the brains, never made tenth grade. Just a book-keeper, cash in, cash out.”

“Got the brains for a PFC,” said Boone surlily. Always a sore point; Boone had stayed a grunt the whole tour, left Nam with nothing more than a hash mark.

“The Army’s not like real life. Eat the chow, kill Charlie, use a rubber, avoid STDs. Promotion’s bound to come round.”

He’d slept the night at Boone’s Dad’s. No bed, just blankets thrown down on the rug. It was plain Pa didn’t want him around, didn’t want Boone around either.  Got himself a lady-friend who was more picky than Boone’s Mom, dead two years, worrying about her son at war. In the morning, over corn-flakes and nothing more, Boone’s Pa said, “A widow woman out on North Clayton has a room” - speaking impersonally, avoiding eye contact. “She’ll be glad, good and glad. Son Gary was a Marine, got his in the Mekong Delta. Friendly fire. Left her kinda weird.”

Turned out to be a nice place on a big lot, a new Jeep in the garage. Nor was the widow woman weird, just sorrowful. Mrs Golinski led him to the kitchen, took his hands over the table. He’d expected this would worry him but it didn’t. She said, “It’s Dill, isn’t it? Dill. I’m forgetful these days. And no kind of company, I don’t socialise much. It makes sense you using Gary’s room provided it doesn’t spook you. You and he would’ve...”

“Doesn’t spook me,” he said, speaking quickly to keep back her tears.

“I suppose you’ve seen worse”

“I’ve seen worse, ma’am.”

They sat in silence and it really wasn’t so bad. Made him realise he liked quiet.

“You got kin, Dill?”

His body jerked, blindsided. He searched for words that didn’t mean much. “Ma’am, it’s kinda difficult...”

She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Prob’ly to do with this shitty war. And there I go. I don’t swear, Dill, I promise. But it’s the only word when you think. What are we killing people for? Why are we getting killed?” A week later he told her about his Pa and poor bullied Ma. Raising the flag at dawn, the stupid bumper stickers, his Pa’s uniform pressed and ready to wear at any time, the spit that flew when Pa talked about college kids, angrily switching off the TV. By then Boone had fallen out with his Pa and had moved to Toledo to stay with an uncle. The main thing keeping Dill in Centerburg was the quiet in Mrs Golinski’s home.

Gently he slid his hand away and asked if there was a diner anywhere close. She stared, shocked, as if he’d stabbed her. “You’ve done what the US asked you to do and now you’re hungry! For Chrissake, Dill!” She kissed him on the temple, a soft kiss as if she were his Oma. Said, “I’m swearing again. Perhaps Vietnam is what I saved my swearing for.” She hadn’t the makings for the breakfast she planned and needed to drive to the superette. When the meal was ready it was as if she’d laid out a pagan festival: a dozen fried eggs, a mound of hash-browns, a pound of bacon. Mrs Golinski ate one slice of toast and simply watched Dill. Got up suddenly and returned with an armful of his shirts and underclothes. Muttered, “Might as well start on these.”

Dill paused from slicing his sixth egg. There’d been no formal agreement he was staying but her searching through his kit-bag seemed to say he was. Back from loading the washing machine she sat down and kept on watching him eat, kindly, approving. Finally he’d finished half of what was on the table. Put his fork down, looked up to thank her and burped involuntarily – open-mouthed and loud. Looked away, embarrassed. “Ma’am, ahh, ma’am.”

“A good sign, Dill. You’ve eaten most of it. It was good to see. I eat hardly anything.”

“Gotta let me wash up, at least.”

She waved a hand. “I’ll do that. Makes me feel useful. Bring your coffee to the parlour.”

The furniture was neat, too neat, unused. She noticed him looking round. “Here’s a room I could sell off. Can’t find much use for it these days.” She stretched her legs out. “Chairs are comfortable, though.”

Now she stared at her feet. “Have I scared you?” she asked.

“Scared?”

“A bit too much emotion?”

“Why would that scare me?”

She leant forward. “Holding you, kissing you.”

“Ma’am, it’s happened before. It wasn’t me you were holding, it was Gary. I’ve been on home-visit details. Bringing bad news to the burbs. I learnt a lot.”

“Tell me.”

He put his empty coffee mug on the side table. “Scared, I know about that. Out there in the boondocks we’re all scared. Then the chopper comes and the fear goes away, until the next time.” He laughed lightly to himself. “Of course it could have happened, I could’ve stopped one. One good thing: it’s an end to being scared.”

She was looking at him, through him almost. He said, “But with those folks we visited, that we spoke to, it doesn’t go away. Guess you’re entitled to a little emotion. More than that.”

Nam had dulled him, he realised that now. He wasn’t used to women and three days R&R in Tokyo didn’t count. The women he’d talked to had been mothers, not real women. Sure Mrs Golinski was a mother but different. The emotion had been very strong and aimed at him. She’d done things for him, motherly things. But you could also see those things as favours.

Touching and kissing were sex. Women were sex. But not Mrs Golinski, a mother and therefore old. She saw him as Gary her son – an old relationship - and that couldn’t be sex.

He found himself wanting to look at Mrs Golinski, to study her. But couldn’t. Which was stupid because he had already seen her; heck, he’d been in the house for two hours. Looked, yes. But not studied. And now he daren’t.

“Dill, are you OK?” Her voice was gentle.

“Just thinking. What it’s like to be a mother? To have two smart military guys knock on your door?”

Saying this allowed him to look her in the face. First thing, she wasn’t old. A face saddened with grief, hair pulled back in a careless ponytail, no make-up, but nothing like his Mom with skin starting to melt.

She nodded. “The guys who knocked on my door were Gary’s age. Your age. You see I had Gary young. Silly, we liked the same kinda music.”

Then she straightened. “But let’s talk about you. You staying here?”

“Well, Mrs Golinski, I need work.”

“I’ve been calling you Dill. Time you called me Amy. First thing: don’t pay me til you’ve got work. But what kind of work?”

Amy questioned him for almost twenty minutes. Knew about book-keepers, probably knew too it was a pissy sort of job, saying he’d probably end up helping  out. She used words people kept to hand when looking for work: employment, time-keeping, experience. Soon he found it difficult to concentrate and it was Amy who broke off talking.

“Dill, you’re bushed. You get much sleep last night?”

“Not much.” He didn’t want to mention lying on the rug; reckoned it’d sound like begging for sympathy.

“Poor kid. Look, take a nap. Clothes off you’ll sleep better. I’ll give you a call early evening. The shower’s across the hallway.”

There was stuff in the room – Gary’s stuff -  he wanted to look at. A lacrosse stick and helmet, stacks of vinyls, photo of a teenage girl with long blonde hair in a cheap frame. Marine combat boots in one corner. And a shelf of books, hardbacks with long titles. Stuff that would tell him more about where he was but sleep dragged him down. He woke briefly and heard a distant murmuring voice, couldn’t tell whether it was male or female but wanted very much to know. Fell asleep again and there was Amy calling his name.

He showered and shaved in the room across the hallway; found himself looking in the mirror. Twenty-three but you wouldn’t know. He wasn’t good about ages but if he had to say he’d say older. Something about the eyes, check that, the eyebrows, always arched. Surprise? Or something worse?

Amy had been wearing jeans and a sweat-shirt. Now she’d combed out her ponytail and put on a dress with flowers. Even high heels. Saw him glance then glance away. “Don’t worry, you’re safe from me. I’m all done with emotion. You hungry?”

The huge breakfast was still with him and he shook his head.

“We could take a drive but it’s getting dark. Not much to see. Later I’ll fix the insurance so you can use the Jeep. We can watch TV but how about music? They say the war’s been great for music, gotta be good for something.”

“You got bluegrass?”

“Sure, I got some of that.”

He had the feeling she had something to say and encouraged her: “Play music, sure... and talk. About Gary if you like. If it’s not too sore.”

“Yeah, I wondered. But maybe it is too soon. See, what you’d be telling me is the truth. I might not be ready for that.”

She put on Pickin’on New Grass which was new to him and she explained it was a Baltimore group. That meant nothing but it was obvious music was just background, she was itching to talk. How do you order someone to talk? He lay back in the chair, the shot of bourbon she’d poured for him untouched. “Oh I dunno. Tell me about your working day. Anything normal, just so it doesn’t end up sounding like an AH-1.”

“That being a helicopter,” she said, smiling. “As to a normal working day I’m not your gal. Mostly I work coupla days a week, even half-days. Stepping in when a PA or senior secretary goes sick or takes a vacation. Work that needs a good phone manner and the skill to lie sweetly and quickly.”

“Sounds good.”

“Too restful. Leaves me wandering an empty house, knowing it’s never going to be full again.”

“Gee, yes. Sorry about that, Amy. Not just Gary but...”

“... Jerry too. All of which adds up to my crazy work schedule. Of course I could do forty hours a week like most people, sharing an office. But it’s not something I have to do so I don’t do it. None of which must make any sense, Dill. Let me straighten things out.

“I was in junior year, MBA Business, at State when I met Jerry. Ten years older but pretty damn sexy. Visiting lecturer in applied electrical engineering, divisional head with Turner Construction, money to throw around. I still can’t decide whether it was his grey sideburns, the Pagani or the hotel suite in Las Vegas that did for me; whatever, two pink lines on the marker said I was pregnant. I was an easygoing little hussy in those days, not into the blame game. I let him know that if he gave me half a grand I’d do the necessary.

“Surprise of my life. In a quiet way - which still makes me shiver after all these years – he tells me he’s Catholic and there’s another better answer. Still the independent hussy I said he hardly knew me. It was a shared mistake and it didn’t tie him to me. What’s wrong with tying myself to you? he asked. I pointed out I was hardly out of diapers. Who knew how I’d turn out; it wasn’t a risk he had to take. He said, suppose I see things differently? Just suppose, he said - speaking so quietly I had to lean over our cocktails to hear him – what I’d just told him, the crap thing I was willing to do for him, were the only references he needed. As he spoke he took a table napkin, tied it into a loop, slipped it over my finger and said, ‘Amy, it’s a bigger risk for you than me. I’ve screwed around a lot. Marry me and I’ll do my damndest to reduce the risk to evens’.”

Dill listened, not stirring. Remembered the bourbon and took a sip. “Nice way of putting it.”

“Good enough for me. Looking back at that moment I always supposed I fell in love. But who knows what that means? Jerry and I had two good years. Then the President of these United States – God rot his soul – asked Jerry to form a team of engineers to investigate corruption in an aid project in Colombia. A goddamn honour they said at the time. But the guys with the guns thought differently. I knew Jerry was carrying a lot of insurance, guaranteed  by the government, but I’d misread the zeros, there was an extra one. And I’ve been funny about regular work since.

“Then there was Gary.”

Driven by a vague feeling that it might help Dill allowed silence to spread through the under-used room. Part-used, perhaps, like a funeral home. He said, “Are you sure having me round helps?”

Amy nodded. “Reminding me of Gary. I’ve thought about that. But there’s nothing I can do for him. You I can.”

She engaged his eyes, challenging him. “In fact I worked on that while you slept. I guess I should have asked.”

If it was an apology it was well disguised. But what the hell. He said, “Before Nam I only had the one job. And my Pa helped me get that. I’m not exactly loaded with talent and I reckon I can use all the help I can get.”

Amy said, “I’ve PA’d for a dozen or so company owners in and around Centerburg. They trust me. The free sheet shows they’re hiring but none’s looking for a book-keeper. But that doesn’t mean they couldn’t use one. The outfit I favour is Buckeye Wrecking.” She smiled. “We’re not talking General Motors here but Buckeye’s more sophisticated than it sounds. They strip cars down to the bare bones, separate the valuable stuff, grade it, and sell it on in packages. At a normal wrecker labour costs would be fighting profit margins, but Buckeye has invested. Special equipment tears down a car in minutes; more gizmos do the separation, same speed. They get through thirty, perhaps, forty cars a day. And that’s where a book-keeper comes in, keeping track of the material, some in ounces, some much heavier.”

“With material weight converted into dollars and cents.”

“You get the idea. Hey, I’m talking too much. I need a drink.”

Dill got up quickly. “Stay where you are. A Manhattan hit the spot?”

“I’m pretty certain it would.”

Drink loosened up things. “Buckeye’s owned by Dan Krajik, ex-Omaha Beach. His ad says: Fork truck and general handling. Dare say you’ve never driven a fork truck.”

“I dare say you’d be right.”

“There’s a training centre north of Columbus, this side. A week’s course is all you’ll need; you won’t be operating in tight aisles or high racking. I’ve called Dan. He’s keen because he thinks GIs coming home are getting a raw deal. People who hate the war take it out on the victims, and they include you. He’ll hold the job and ease you in when you start. Best of all, he wants to fit in the book-keeping.”

“This training course...”

Amy waved dismissively. “I’m paying. Got some ideas beyond you driving a fork truck, but we’ll talk about that later.”

In a sense it was like being back in the Army. Someone else making the decisions, saying go there, do this. But then he hadn’t exactly loved the idea of looking for work on his own.

Driving the truck at the training centre was piss-easy except the instructor shouted a lot. Let Dill know he’d been a sergeant, AirCav. Just so Dill would know. That night Dill woke up sweating, a pocka-pocka sound in his ears. Could have been Khe San, he wasn’t sure. What he remembered was the body-bags went first because they needed someone to load them. A lot of body-bags.
 
Krajik was pro-Army and on Dill’s first day they swapped stories over coffee for an hour before Dill went out to the paved area at the back of the shop and used the fork truck to load scrap metal sheet, compressed, strapped and palletised, on to the company’s five-tonner. Then took a little instruction on strapping it to the five-tonner’s deck for safe delivery. Back at North Clayton that evening Amy had meat-loaf and greens waiting for him.

“You could say I’m now a civilian,” he said, drinking Hoppin’ Frog  beer from a glass when the table layout told him there’d be no more gulping from the bottleneck. Two nights later, pocka-pocka sounded again. I can get through this, he told himself.

Post Nam 2

Geographical centre of the Buckeye State. Part two.

SO HE WENT north to West Main. Dragging his feet past the law firm, Cooper, Adel, which had him thinking about that other world, an adult world closed to him. Who knew the law? All those books and serious talk. Of course he’d seen law on TV, heard “Will the witness raise his right hand...” but he was pretty sure that wasn’t how it was. On TV cops and law-men were the same, out to get the bad guys who sat in court and smirked at the judge. And the judge wore a black gown, which was odd. Once his Pa had needed to move house and he’d gone downtown and signed papers. Wasn’t that a law firm? Wasn’t that what real law-men did?

Past the point where West Main became East Main and past the two gas stations, Shell this side, Marathon on the other. He’d filled up at both during the early weeks with Buckeye Wrecking when Amy had insisted he used the Jeep to get to work. Such a short trip that later he’d walked. So why had Amy insisted he take the Jeep? Perhaps because it made him seem like a solid citizen, new car and all. Amy was good at figuring out things like that.

Now East Main had become Columbus Road leading to the pharmacy. He’d picked up a prescription there for Amy when she was away – the only time ever - visiting her older sister in Akron. Why would Amy need drugs? The plastic bag was sealed, would he have looked otherwise? Perhaps.

Walking any more didn’t make sense. He needed to think. Maybe.

Time to cross over to the park. Sit on a bench like an oldster and dwell on the future which wasn’t bright. Experimentally he closed his eyes and the pocka-pocka started up. Kept them closed and it got louder. Worse was the tension across his head, temple to temple, as if something would burst. He opened his eyes and for a time his sight was blurred as the sounds died away. Slowly his view of the park cleared and what he saw was ordinary. Finally depressing. Grass that said nothing.

They said you should forget failure. Push it to one side. For Dill it was all he’d got. Failure reminded him of a patrol scout he knew; whenever they took five he’d get out his Zippo and sort of roll it in and out of his fingers. Juggling it in a small way. Constant movement as if he couldn’t bear to be still. And now Dill juggled failure, cherishing it, feeling it, keeping it moving in his mind.

Dan Krajik had understood, at first. An unloaded  five-tonner, an accounts book with no entries, you had to be sympathetic. War affects young kids. Shit some needed counselling. They’d have laughed at that in Normandy after Omaha, but heck, we’d come a long way since. These kids had gone through hell and killing Gooks wasn’t like killing Nazis. Back then there hadn’t been TV cameras and reporters asking questions.

There were times Dill could manage the work and he saw the relief on Dan Krajik’s face, knowing he hadn’t been made a fool of. Loading the truck and making deliveries was no great sweat, though some afternoons Dill drove as if he were in a panicky dream, away from Buckeye Wrecking as if from a firefight. Sometimes he’d pull over and wonder at solid buildings made to last, homes with tiled roofs not palm fronds.

Funnily it was the book-keeping that was difficult. He’d stare at the blank page and try and remember. Finally, apologetically, go over to Dan to help him with the details.

After a month Dan had phoned Amy and suggested Dill take a short vacation: “Get his mind straightened out.” Amy had him paint the garage and Dill had done a good job; three coats in less than a week. Plus fixing a window frame. Relaxing work but he knew Amy wanted him doing more than odd job work. And the first step would be mastering book-keeping. Three weeks ago he’d gone back to Buckeye and the lapses had started all over. This morning he and Dan had had a little talk with Dan all fake-fatherly. “Son, I reckon you’re some doctor’s problem not mine. Breaks my heart but you gotta go.”

In his back trouser-pocket was a cheque which he hadn’t looked at. Probably a goodly sum, written out by Dan with Omaha Beach in mind. Dill sat surrounded by the grassy park, flat and anonymous. Not a bit like Nam. Again he closed his eyes and heard the insistent noise. Strange really, choppers had been the sound of rescue, now they seemed like a warning. Time to walk back to North Clayton and tell Amy the bad news.

That wasn’t going to be easy. She’d looked after him and more, even touching on the future. Not easy. For some time his legs refused to stiffen, allowing him to get up from his park bench. And even when they did and he was back on East Main his legs didn’t seem to want make a right on to North Clayton, forcing him left instead down Cherry Alley and a small back-street which he’d noticed before.

Fritz’s Guns said the sign, Friendly Service it promised. Old Glory in heavy lustrous material and fringed in gilt hung from an angled pole to the left of the door.

In Memphis, where he’d passed his teens, Dill had been the odd one. Everyone else had been crazy about guns, droning on about muzzle velocity, POI and snake bite. Even now Dill had no idea what a collimator sight was. Funny thing, in the military where guns were supposed to be a big deal, the good ol’ boy recruits stopped slavering about them. Grumbled about the weight of the M16 out on patrol.

For Dill the M16 was something you carried, like your dog tags or your canteen. Sometimes you loosed off a clip, more rarely you hit something that mattered. Nothing to get worked up about.

Gun shops were something  else, almost like churches, no, check that, like whorehouses. Men with wonder in their voices, doing a lot of feeling. But then Dill had never visited a whorehouse.

Was Fritz, of Fritz’s Guns, a real person or something to do with the Nazis? Politics often went with guns. Despite himself Dill found he was edging towards the shop’s display window. Behind the reinforced glass was a card reading Gun of the Week. Surely that was pure BS. Fifty different guns a year? Bee-ess!

The gun itself was a black rifle with tele-sight and suppressor. Priced “to go” at $250. It didn’t look like a gun you’d take off into the woods, the blackness made it seem towny. The tele-sight and suppressor said even more: waiting patiently, staring through the eyepiece, knowing where and when. Not a gun for a bar brawl. Why am I here? he asked. When he went in through the door a recording played Davy Crockett.

It was still mid-morning and the place was empty. Fritz, if it was he, was fat, wore a khaki tee-shirt with some kind of badge, head shaven but not recently, some bristle. Keen to talk, very keen.

“The tan says Vietnam. The build says Marine,” said the fat man extending his hand.

“Infantry. Marines are usually stockier,” said Dill, trying to disguise his reluctance to shake hands.

“Looking for something better than an M16? How about a Kalashnikov or is that kinda spitting on the flag? Seen our Gun of the Week? Good bangs for your buck. But, hey, am I putting you down? Could be you carried a side arm.”

Rank flattery, both ways. No one had ever imagined Dill to be an officer. “Nothing more than a PFC. Name’s Dill.”

“Waddya need, Dill? Could do you a US Kalashnikov, selling over the counter at $940. Special deal for a Nam vet: $900 plus a hunnert rounds.”

Why was he here? Failure had guided him. What were his needs? To overcome failure.

“I guess... I’d like to heft the K. I tried one of Charlie’s in Nam; a clip on the range. Like to see how the US gun compares.” What he needed was time.

The store was still empty and the fat man could afford to indulge him. “Nothing’s too good for a vet.” And unlocked one of the displays.

For a couple of minutes Dill fooled around with the K, as if it mattered. Handed it back, saying something the fat man would like to hear. “Definitely a slicker item than Charlie’s. But I’m here for a hand gun.” He paused to suggest this was a considered view. “Gotta be a Glock, I guess.”

“Smart choice, Dill,” said the fat man. “I got a wide range. Name’s Fritz, by the way.”

“Like the store.”

“Just like the store. How we’re going to start? Price or power?”

Again Dill looked for an answer that would please. “Power, of course, Fritz.”

Half a dozen Glocks were laid out on a table covered in green baize. Fritz said, “There’s another 27 models if you’re really picky. The 35’s close to top of the range. Big with the cops... law enforcement.” Dill nodded; “cops” was less dignified and this was a dignified emporium.

Fritz did the business clicking and clacking, handing over the guns. Dill knew enough to point the guns away from Fritz. This was the first time ever he had held a hand gun and it struck him the Glock had nothing that looked like decoration. Its simplicity made its desirable which was surprising. He’d thought he was proof against that. Was this how these things started?

Self-consciously Dill widened his stance. Held the gun in one hand then two. Put it in his trouser pocket then went to grab it, got it tangled with the pocket lining. Blushed. Vets didn’t blush.

Fritz had kept Dill under observation, reckoned it was now time he could go romantic. “Customers say this about Glocks: you feel safe, feel ready.”

Dill felt sweat at the side of his nose. What am I doing? What do I want from this? Why might this help?

Fritz lolled against the table. “You feel ready, Dill?”

Time passed.

Now Dill found himself hurrying away from the shop with Fritz staring after him from the open door, puzzled but mainly angry. “You sure you were in Nam? Shit, no wonder we can’t beat those skinny little guys.” Fritz tried to slam the door but couldn’t beat the pneumatic closer which uttered a dying sigh.

Dill walked up North Clayton, his heart beating. Found the side door was open and went in. The hard-back books that had once been in Gary’s room were piled on the kitchen table, yellow markers sticking out of the pages. Everything was tidy. Amy was in the parlour, sitting in the chair she had said was comfortable; she didn’t seem comfortable now. Glanced up at him remotely. Dill waited.

Her voice was hardly audible. “Dan Krajik called hours ago. You’ve been gone a long time.”

“Sat in the park.”

“Thought you might. Except I didn’t see you.”

“Walked the streets.”

“Which streets?”

He shrugged.

Amy said, “I drove all the streets between here and Buckeye. You went somewhere.”

He sat down heavily. “I don’t exactly know.”

They’d lived in the same house for two months. Got to know each other. Somehow she knew he wasn’t lying. “Somewhere different?”

He nodded. “But I don’t know why.”

“Perhaps I know why.”

He sobbed and she let him sob. Finally he said in a choked voice, “Fritz’s Guns.”

“Looking to buy?”

“I think so.”

He sensed her inspecting the pockets of his waterproof jacket. She said, “But didn’t?”

He nodded. She said, “Come in the kitchen, I’ll fix you something.”

“I’ll stay here.”

“No you won’t.”

He sat at the kitchen table as she searched through the cupboard. “Cream of tomato soup? That bland enough?”

As she worked the can opener he looked around, picked up one of the books. Leafed through and stopped at a marked page: Chapter Seven. Human resources: Asset or Liability? Amy had reckoned it too basic but he’d interrupted, said it was new to him. Even after she explained he rated it a big fat zero.

Amy watched him spoon up the soup and he knew she was trying to analyse what was in his mind. Another thing she was good at, but not this time.

“You ever think of seeing your family?”

It was the worst thing she could have said: no time to close his eyes. He imagined his Pa in fatigues, waiting on the stoop to pick a fight.

“At Fritz’s, why didn’t you buy?” asked Amy.

“Maybe you should ask why I wanted to buy.”

“That I know.”

“Yeah?” he asked, surprised.

“The US is full of guys solving problems with guns.”

So there’d been nothing special about this morning. Soup finished, he slumped in the chair. Bowed his head.

“Tell me,” she said, quite gentle now.

He spread his hands. “There’s no hassle buying a Glock 35, I knew that. It seemed too easy, I’d’ a wished it was tougher. Wished there were questions. Dan had given me a cheque as severance, Fritz woulda cashed it. Shit, he’d almost got the gun gift-wrapped. Started filling in the sales slip and that’s when I knew it wouldn’t happen.”

“Sales slip?”

Dill looked away. “Sales slip needs an address.”

“But you’ve got an address, right here.”

Now he looked at her, hangdog. “Yeah.”

It took her a while. “You didn’t want me...involved?”

“Didn’t seem right.”

“So the sale didn’t happen. We’re AOK.”

“Fact is, I wanted that Glock. At least I think I did. My mind isn’t too clear these days.” He told her about pocka-pocka, then pointed to the books on the table. “Look what you’re doing for me; trying to give me a future. I can’t take the risk, you don’t deserve it.”

“So you’ll be moving on?”

He tried to smile. “First time a place felt like home. More reason it shouldn’t get wrecked.”

“Give me another couple of days. I’d like to work out some ideas that may help you get work. There’s no real hurry.”

“Sure."

She reached out with her hands, her face relaxed. “I’ve liked you being here. It’s given me purpose. Let’s not be gloomy. Let’s eat out fancy tonight.”

A meal with all the trimmings; wine in an ice-bucket; fish done some way he didn’t recognise. She talked about the fun she’d had with Jerry, convinced he’d loved her. “But then,” she said laughing, “there was hardly time for him to lose interest.” When they got back there were shots of cognac, lighter and smoother than bourbon.

He got into the wide bed he’d be sorry to leave, pleased she was making things easy for him. Knew they would get harder over the next twenty-four hours. But fell asleep anyway.

Woke up in moonlight. Saw her sitting at the end of the bed in her nightgown. She spoke softly. “It’s OK, it’s nothing pathetic.”

He reached for the bed-side light but she intercepted his hand. “We don’t need the light. There is another option. Not the worst thing in the world. What worries you – that bad thing -  isn’t guaranteed, you know. It might happen, it might not. But if it did happen...” She paused and squeezed his hand. “... well, it would be quick, wouldn’t it?” He heard the smallest of laughs. “You could at least guarantee that.”

It was if she were speaking to him from a different world. A world of unbelievable softness. A cloud passed over the moon and when he looked round she’d gone. He closed his eyes and the pocka-pocka was still there but different. Familiar, not a threat. Like the sound of his breathing.

Next morning he smelled breakfast and went straight to the kitchen in his undershirt and pants. She turned, said gaily, “Suppose the mailman sees us? But then he thinks I’m weird anyway. Sleep well?”

Boone’s Pa had said she was weird. Some kind of weirdness! He said, “Would you have expected that? Me sleeping well?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Dill, I’ve never been sure you do a whole lot of thinking. You can, you’re intelligent enough. But mostly you spend time in the present. Probably because of Vietnam.”

“I did some thinking last night. Didn’t sleep.”

Amy sat opposite him, cradling her coffee mug in both hands. “Good.”

“What you said – about it happening – wasn’t the whole story.”

“Indeedy, it wasn’t.”

“You’re gone and I’m in jail for life. One big nothing. Of course I could use the gun - ”

She spoke quickly. “But I figured you’d never do that. It wouldn’t make sense. Not now the war’s behind you.”

“So, just one big nothing?”

“Perhaps. If it happens it happens. No blame from me.” She smiled reflectively. “You’ll remember I didn’t blame Jerry.”

“Shee-eet.”

“I’m betting it won’t happen.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“It’s not betting if it’s a certainty,” she said, smiling.

That stopped him. “I guess not. I must be less certain than you are.”

“Here’s how I see it. You didn’t buy the Glock even though you were tempted. That puzzles you but it seems obvious to me. In the end, you’ll work out your reasons. By then they won’t matter. Then you’ll be ready to move on.”

The scrambled eggs were cooling. He pushed a forkful into his mouth, spoke with a muffled voice. “But why? OK it’s a small risk, but still a risk. And if it does go belly up.... I mean, why?”

“Dill, I’m a mother.”

He was silent. “It’s to do with Gary.”

She was about to reach for his hand then changed her mind. Smiled instead. A beautiful smile, and so near. “Mothers should never hear of their son’s death. It’s unnatural. I mourned, of course. Worse than that was feeling helpless. And mothers are used to helping, it goes with the job.”

Dill tried to remember his Mom when he was just a kid. Before his Pa became kinda insane. Did his Mom help? He couldn’t say.

“When Gary... got killed, it wasn’t your fault. No way.”

“Motherhood isn’t exactly rational, Dill. I wasn’t there to help, however silly that sounds.”

“So now you’re helping me?”

“Let’s get one thing straight. Gary’s dead and you’re not Gary. I’m helping you, Dill.”

“To the point where you’d risk...?”

“I want you to know I’m serious. You’ve been wounded.”

Wounded? Him?

He asked, “So what do we do?”

“A bit like painting the garage. You need more time in a world that isn’t Vietnam.”

He pointed to the book, still open. “Back to Human Resources then?”

She spoke crisply. “For all of ten minutes. Before Vietnam Gary wanted to know about business. It’s something I know about. Before he even put on a uniform I  helped him – for the future. HR’s just a detail, Dill. There’s more important stuff ahead. Financial statements that’ll make your head ache. Tax breaks. Investment. Planning.”

She waved a hand that encompassed what lay ahead and he noticed its delicacy. “Plus muffins. I got muffins.”

“Comfort food.”