tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49175723669669024912024-02-19T10:47:49.772-05:002becomes1Widowhood for the rest of usDebby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-47940638832450283422020-07-05T22:09:00.000-04:002020-07-05T22:09:43.810-04:00Real People Real Stories Redux—Virtually!This program is on the Ancram Opera House website—ancramoperahouse.org until July 11. The link is below.<br />
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You no longer need to register, just go to the link and have fun!<br />
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<b class="">Ancram Opera House Opens 5<sup class="">th</sup> Anniversary Season with REAL PEOPLE REAL STORIES: REDUX Saturday June 27 at 8PM<span class=""></span></b></div>
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<b class="">A Virtual Event Celebrating Five Years of Authentic Storytelling by Local Residents <span class=""></span></b></div>
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Ancram Opera House opens its fifth anniversary season on Saturday, June 27 with a special, free edition of REAL PEOPLE REAL STORIES: REDUX, the storytelling event that has been a signature part of every AOH season since the theatre opened its doors in 2015.<span class=""></span></div>
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REAL PEOPLE REAL STORIES: REDUX will be streamed virtually at<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><a class="" href="http://ancramoperahouse.org/">ancramoperahouse.org</a><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>and feature some of the most memorable personal narratives shared over the years by local residents. The storytellers are:<span class=""></span></div>
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<span class="" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span class="" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span>Jan Hopkins, Gallatin, with a story about escaping Czechoslovakia during the Russian invasion of 1968.<span class=""></span></div>
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<span class="" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span class="" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span>Brett LaFave, Albany, with a story about a misguided bungee jumping adventure.<span class=""></span></div>
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<span class="" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span class="" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span>Debby Mayer, formerly of Hudson, now San Diego, with a story about driving west for one more adventure. <span class=""></span></div>
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<span class="" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span class="" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span>Mark Senak, with a story about an unexpected journey to Manassas Battlefield Park.<span class=""></span></div>
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AOH Co-Director Paul Ricciardi, who curates and directs the series, said, “We’re proud of the way our community has embraced REAL PEOPLE REAL STORIES during the past five years. We’ve done 10 REAL PEOPLE REAL STORIES productions, featured 35 local storytellers, each with an amazing tale to tell, and expanded the concept by hosting six storytelling workshops at local libraries and community centers. And we’ll be teaching storytelling at the Taconic Hills Central School District Middle School in the fall.”<span class=""></span></div>
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While the performance is free, audiences need to register online at <a class="" href="https://www.ancramoperahouse.org/real-people-real-stories-redux-2020" style="color: #954f72;">https://www.ancramoperahouse.org/real-people-real-stories-redux-2020</a> to view. The video will be available for viewing on the Ancram Opera House website and YouTube channel for registered audiences through the end of August.<span class=""></span></div>
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Ancram Opera House in southern Columbia County is an intimate showcase for fresh, contemporary work by visionary theater and<span class="" style="color: #1a1a1a;"> musical artists, where audiences can connect with performers in immersive, immediate ways. For more information visit </span><a class="" href="http://www.ancramoperahouse.org/" style="color: #954f72;">www.ancramoperahouse.org</a><span class="" style="color: #1a1a1a;">. <span class=""></span></span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-24083175635707261322019-11-14T15:04:00.000-05:002019-11-14T15:04:34.448-05:00Grey Online (and Offline) Dating<br />
Nan Bauer-Maglin is developing a new anthology, <i>Grey Online (and Offline) Dating When You Are Over 60, 70, & 80: Our Stories</i> (working title). Nan is the editor of <i>Widows’ Words: Women Write on the Experience of Grief, the First Year, the Long Haul, and Everything in Between</i>, which includes my essay "10 Scary Things I Have Done Since My Husband Died."<br />
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Nan has put out a call for <i>Grey Online</i> essays: details below.<br />
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<b>Deadline for proposals: January 15, 2020.</b><br />
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If you’re frowning, perplexed, and saying out loud, “Debby whut are you thinkin??? Online dating, are you kidding?” etc. please read Nan’s note, below, where you’ll see that she’s casting a wide net, to women and men, gay and straight, from diverse backgrounds—economically, racially, culturally—with dating experiences comic and tragic.<br />
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Maybe you know someone who could write about this.<br />
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Feel free to copy and paste Nan’s note and send it far and wide, post on social media, etc. <br />
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Me, I have nothing to say about online dating, elder or otherwise, but I’m writing and editing up a storm, and will be in touch.<br />
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<i>Grey Online (and Offline) Dating When You Are Over 60, 70, & 80: Our Stories</i> (working title)<br />
<br />
Call for contributions to an anthology about older dating<br />
<br />
Coeditors: Nan Bauer-Maglin and Daniel E. Hood<br />
<br />
<i>I didn’t think I’d be dating in my 80s. My guy, pushing 90, is even older than me. . . When we’re not together, we’re on the phone, worried when one of us gets sick, more worried than we were when we were young — and immortal.</i> From “My Nearly 90-Year-Old Boyfriend” by Phyllis Raphael (“tiny modern love stories,” NY Times)<br />
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<i>Put simply, now that you’re past 50, dating is a different experience than it was when you were in your 20s or even your 30s. You’ve changed, the culture has changed, and who you’re looking for is likely to be quite different as well….Online dating isn’t for everyone, but it’s where the people are. Millions of them, in fact. And the fastest-growing group among them is people over 50. </i>From "Dating After 50 For Dummies" by Pepper Schwartz<br />
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The older online dating cohort is a growing demographic. “The desire for companionship has led many older adults who are single, divorced or widowed to sign up for online dating,” reported NPR's Morning Edition.<br />
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We want to publish your story: from contemplating going online (or deciding not to), to exchanges online, to first dates, to the development of a relationship (or not), and all the baggage, excitement, and disappointment around such an experience.<br />
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Because you are over 60 (or 70 or 80), how is this different from when you dated as a younger person?<br />
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What issues do older daters confront?<br />
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We are looking for contributors who are men and women, straight and gay, from diverse backgrounds—economically, racially, culturally. We seek a variety of voices, tones (comic to tragic), genres, perspectives, and experiences.<br />
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While we are looking primarily for personal narratives, some analysis within the narrative can be included. Historical or sociological pieces are welcome. Write in an accessible voice. Writing with another person or persons in dialogue or as an interview is also welcome.<br />
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Some topics to consider (always in the context of age and relationships):<br />
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Good/bad online experiences/funny/learning/dangerous experiences<br />
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Choosing to go it alone/rejecting online dating<br />
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Online and offline dating after being widowed; dating after divorce or during separation<br />
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Ghosting, lying, inflation, and other online behavior<br />
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Differences in male and female experiences<br />
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Same-sex online dating<br />
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Issues particular to older daters: economic, health, sexuality, the weight of the past <br />
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Family reactions<br />
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Compare different online sites: general, elder, targeted and specialty<br />
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<b>Preferably by January 15</b>, send us a one-to-two-page description of what you are interested in writing (cc. both of us). Include a few sentences about your previous publications.<br />
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Please forward this call to family, friends, and colleagues.<br />
Nan Bauer-Maglin Daniel E. Hood<br />
nan.bauermaglin99@ret.gc.cuny.edu dan.hoo42@gmail.com<br />
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<br />Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-72544400741486893912019-06-25T12:25:00.000-04:002019-06-25T12:25:10.112-04:00Go West, Old Women
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The summer Dan was ill, when my days consisted of driving a half-hour
each way to work, and my evenings of driving an hour each way to the hospital,
I began to tell myself a story, in which our dog and I drove west.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We lived in Upstate New York, centrally located in the
middle of nowhere, as Dan used to say. Now Dan’s illness was terminal, and as I
drove, and drove, I planned a meandering route across the country, for the dog
and me. We would visit friends in Chicago, and Colorado Springs, and
Albuquerque. The other nights we would stay in Holiday Inns, because they took
dogs and they had swimming pools. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We would proceed slowly because we would, finally, have no
appointments, no obligations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We would drive right to the Pacific and stand at the water.
The dog would bat at things in puddles while I gazed out at the horizon. After
a few minutes, we would look at each other, the dog and I, and I’d ask her,
What do you want to do next?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A friend took me out for lunch during that terrible summer,
and I told her this story. Fantasies are important, she said, and I thought,
No, no it’s real. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dan died that August, several years ago. We had been
together for 25 years. But I had lived alone before him, and now once again, I became
a team of one. I started this blog, 2becomes1: Widowhood for the Rest of Us, </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzSaCJEwsPb_SC_RhMJ8tcpNTyciTZKuvt-m2GK7b5aw__Lfw7BjnpU7jkL2gu7tTd_icRZqTm1n-HFoaCG3x6SF0pIptAzHBPsSYYIsLxRkL08auvjkRJcKvHH6-V6jxzFmEDaT0Hpe4/s1600/B1-blog+on+license+plate.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzSaCJEwsPb_SC_RhMJ8tcpNTyciTZKuvt-m2GK7b5aw__Lfw7BjnpU7jkL2gu7tTd_icRZqTm1n-HFoaCG3x6SF0pIptAzHBPsSYYIsLxRkL08auvjkRJcKvHH6-V6jxzFmEDaT0Hpe4/s320/B1-blog+on+license+plate.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
and there I developed an essay, “10 Scary Things I
Have Done Since My Husband Died,” where I listed all kinds of things I
accomplished. <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I traveled by myself, to the West Coast, of course, and also
to Japan, China, Russia, places I had dreamed of seeing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I dealt with the snake in the bathroom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I sold the house that we had shared and moved west 13 miles,
to Hudson, a walkable city named for the river it bordered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The dog who would
have driven to the Pacific with me grew old, and died, and after a while I
adopted another dog, a nine-year-old with the attitude of an adolescent and the
name of Sizzle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last June, 2018: a raw, windy day in Hudson. The air should have
been mild, and sweet with the scent of roses and the promise of outdoor
swimming. Instead, the damp cold seeped through my jacket and the scent recalled
not the grass beach at the pond but a stormy sea, tossing the ship. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After a brutal winter, a winter so cold and windy that I
forgot to go skiing</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC24zfizgP8aYuOGZqHi6cJqos9Yl1zwPmPvph7S_DQ2Eqw-2yMmhhf7QeWnM_75aPhyphenhyphendTMy81CNmbyXJIOQWvjNYSN94dBw_p5AsMBW8vyl2JwTqflEOk21GQRXqv4iGD-jgOlnqGPK8/s1600/C1-Deb+skiingJPG.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="1600" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC24zfizgP8aYuOGZqHi6cJqos9Yl1zwPmPvph7S_DQ2Eqw-2yMmhhf7QeWnM_75aPhyphenhyphendTMy81CNmbyXJIOQWvjNYSN94dBw_p5AsMBW8vyl2JwTqflEOk21GQRXqv4iGD-jgOlnqGPK8/s320/C1-Deb+skiingJPG.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
the spring brought no relief—nothing
but acute allergies. On that June day I was
walking home from CVS, having scored yet another over-the-counter medication
that might help. I was wearing a jacket and hat, socks on my feet and a scarf
around my neck. <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I was freezing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was freezing, and I was thinking, I can’t take this
anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Arriving home, I greeted Sizzle and went upstairs to my
laptop. I Googled “San Diego, condominium, $250,000.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And what a sweet place Google showed me! Swimming pool!
Patio! Carport! I tried to be skeptical: I looked at each photo twice. I studied
the description, trying to read between the lines. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then I sent the link to my friend Tamara in San Diego. She
knows everything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is this in a bad neighborhood?” I asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She replied within the hour: “Not a bad neighborhood,” she said,
“but it’s near Rose Creek, so it could be stinky sometimes. Here, try this
one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She attached a link for another condo, even sweeter, at
$250,000. Swimming pool! Balcony! Garage!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I thought, I can do this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I thought, there’s no rule that says I have to suffer this
stupid weather. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, I thought, I have time for one more adventure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Moving west started when I told myself I couldn’t do it: I
didn’t have enough money, or my parents were too old to leave, or I was too old
for such a big move. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But moving west had stayed in my head, and in my heart,
since I had comforted myself with a story years before. It wasn’t a fantasy, it
was a dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In February of this year, Sizzle and I left Hudson </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJQQs8StgizRX_6R3BC9frwwd4fziqIsJUd7C2s2y1GujyRNlRhyphenhyphenFKy_HtVaEdryAReHmXlFd48ptJFG6CYaryjXxvGt_kmfHtCUwweSEDtgzZs5L-R3D6DB76AxyJbUC1acFB0gVcO4/s1600/E01-Hudson+winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJQQs8StgizRX_6R3BC9frwwd4fziqIsJUd7C2s2y1GujyRNlRhyphenhyphenFKy_HtVaEdryAReHmXlFd48ptJFG6CYaryjXxvGt_kmfHtCUwweSEDtgzZs5L-R3D6DB76AxyJbUC1acFB0gVcO4/s320/E01-Hudson+winter.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
in sub-zero temperatures. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7V3BUtC5eX7gNMA2pc-gPa4rQvnqm5UCZ_JULIDFHAlk79ni1Njv0CfOgjw1rafHd-CxHB6txmhWPCGZhU7dRhzD-ylwiQH0iLDEhEgWquIqpvXzUSqLZOCEZqSYSc1DySseAHnFecg/s1600/E02-packed+car+back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7V3BUtC5eX7gNMA2pc-gPa4rQvnqm5UCZ_JULIDFHAlk79ni1Njv0CfOgjw1rafHd-CxHB6txmhWPCGZhU7dRhzD-ylwiQH0iLDEhEgWquIqpvXzUSqLZOCEZqSYSc1DySseAHnFecg/s320/E02-packed+car+back.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
I had
sold my house and bought a condo in San Diego. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHp0LuFXPDWHwpFFb6rbQrQ2LajSz4orw1R15BgCH2e9bMj1tOuF5HRRYDKpAM072Zdr4vRDJodfc34cp7iBOQK2Mye2x0y3v2DK4C0TeEBuM23PPbkCSF-Zb3_hzmfLnPDsQTvYT3rA/s1600/E03-packed+car+front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHp0LuFXPDWHwpFFb6rbQrQ2LajSz4orw1R15BgCH2e9bMj1tOuF5HRRYDKpAM072Zdr4vRDJodfc34cp7iBOQK2Mye2x0y3v2DK4C0TeEBuM23PPbkCSF-Zb3_hzmfLnPDsQTvYT3rA/s320/E03-packed+car+front.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #c00000;"> </span></b>I
had given away 22 cartons of books and 95 T-shirts. <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We drove west, </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Sx6gdeae78L9NNNr_7t06MyieckrZeKqE5SfoymDppEWlmNPFTroScCWMsPuOF9NBAlGScnNlVQh_6vYTkFmY4EgWetvIsGmJftIXv62OclakCIq1SqFpvwrEeSSQixzY0FvvdCAjR4/s1600/E04-Itinerary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Sx6gdeae78L9NNNr_7t06MyieckrZeKqE5SfoymDppEWlmNPFTroScCWMsPuOF9NBAlGScnNlVQh_6vYTkFmY4EgWetvIsGmJftIXv62OclakCIq1SqFpvwrEeSSQixzY0FvvdCAjR4/s320/E04-Itinerary.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
Sizzle and I, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrnnTcl1-3azDd3DxzdWD3BRM4WXDftm6SvsiKyGVgVEgZLyhxwCKqRGgl2wavSyBjJI1jdr4FzyrUyhFRv9ZHBGgpPUVX1TwNwsPKnA4G9pdFEj2J_KN7awiTTjeqrMFxII7TKaCzc8Q/s1600/E05-Sizzle+in+crate.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1357" data-original-width="1600" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrnnTcl1-3azDd3DxzdWD3BRM4WXDftm6SvsiKyGVgVEgZLyhxwCKqRGgl2wavSyBjJI1jdr4FzyrUyhFRv9ZHBGgpPUVX1TwNwsPKnA4G9pdFEj2J_KN7awiTTjeqrMFxII7TKaCzc8Q/s320/E05-Sizzle+in+crate.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
just ahead of two winter storms. People would
say, go to this museum, or that national park. And I would think, Honey, I have
an 11-year-old dog in the car and it’s 11 degrees outside. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I drove. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We did sing. I taught Sizzle some folk songs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8Hy7v7Vw4idj1bJfFmQIXLJAc3FB7y6xpH2sdWobK0FB0OJy36GSZFnhKVotB_cDJbM_5P-xwriuW7vNWHTT93ZZ6-PzjWEB6ab-7x-j6euDdFn23PD07ijfsp0T15gKK9GRGYy56YY/s1600/E06-Deb+closeup+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1203" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8Hy7v7Vw4idj1bJfFmQIXLJAc3FB7y6xpH2sdWobK0FB0OJy36GSZFnhKVotB_cDJbM_5P-xwriuW7vNWHTT93ZZ6-PzjWEB6ab-7x-j6euDdFn23PD07ijfsp0T15gKK9GRGYy56YY/s320/E06-Deb+closeup+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Sun’s gonna shine
. . . <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPNF3cfgirfqQ8LUjAV2Jp-wRJIjMQ1V32A-DvtPEk_qBf0RIpCQ0esK7UKYboIZ8_KsrEEqfPSLp5kO6dsaazmfKVPYEdrlvFJyCm6Fci44xa53CnZzJ-QtgpJkDkBFwU1lW13XmBOmo/s1600/E07Sizzle+closeup.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPNF3cfgirfqQ8LUjAV2Jp-wRJIjMQ1V32A-DvtPEk_qBf0RIpCQ0esK7UKYboIZ8_KsrEEqfPSLp5kO6dsaazmfKVPYEdrlvFJyCm6Fci44xa53CnZzJ-QtgpJkDkBFwU1lW13XmBOmo/s320/E07Sizzle+closeup.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
. . . on my back
door someday!<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #c00000;"> </span></b>Winds
gonna come . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> . . . blow my
blues away!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Good job, Sizzle! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> (giggles) Yeah— <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, I talked to her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look, Sizzle, the St. Louis arch!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, Deb. Where’s the St. Louis hotel.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhBFbVncw601_XTprYAMtbLV94luKXQwqfhEr-9wErU9H8gDhfXLlSVq7aal0nCB0d9QKfbeXshwVxB2TgpSrkNSw1bCq0s7bb4UnZhjw4fOUNXLlHeNS8sDXiZtCKHUdF4cmzRFe8-Q/s1600/F1-Sizzle+in+hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhBFbVncw601_XTprYAMtbLV94luKXQwqfhEr-9wErU9H8gDhfXLlSVq7aal0nCB0d9QKfbeXshwVxB2TgpSrkNSw1bCq0s7bb4UnZhjw4fOUNXLlHeNS8sDXiZtCKHUdF4cmzRFe8-Q/s320/F1-Sizzle+in+hotel.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Louis Woman</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>We didn’t stay in
Holiday Inns, because bring-fido-dot-com didn’t list them, and in the final
rush to get out of town, I forgot to pack my bathing suit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Missouri to Kansas: “Look, Sizzle, the trees and grass are
all glistening with ice!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“HALP!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“God, Sizzle, this road looks like Napoleon’s retreat from
Moscow. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjgF_p5HTqcsC5gXJaM8zMZnbJU4chyvdTAxnWU6NgDmlshjdIFwAdU5qfQQGqVDO4ryQ1EvxtYs4HWuLZf5hJVbg6xbciOnxaG0xsPTGkc7EsTe8d4YQekFTkBs2_JzLA-jZCQeOklOg/s1600/F3-Napoleon+Retreat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="860" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjgF_p5HTqcsC5gXJaM8zMZnbJU4chyvdTAxnWU6NgDmlshjdIFwAdU5qfQQGqVDO4ryQ1EvxtYs4HWuLZf5hJVbg6xbciOnxaG0xsPTGkc7EsTe8d4YQekFTkBs2_JzLA-jZCQeOklOg/s320/F3-Napoleon+Retreat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Without the snow. Do you think all those trucks
off the road were driven by men?” <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> “Hilp.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was careful about gas, until the day I wasn’t. Leaving
Winslow, Arizona, I thought, we’ve got enough to make it to the next station.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, we did, but what I remember of that
drive is rocks and dirt and scrub brush and dirt and rocks, as I watched those
little boxes on the gas gauge disappear, and my terror as the gauge blinked
angrily at me and I still hadn’t seen a single human being—until, like a
mirage, appeared a general store with two pumps.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No cards, cash and carry, and as I paid the
man, I made a weak joke about coasting in on my stupidity.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSyiHiw8uAYZaju966wHCI8lTXAuFS1TrGX7dvxMSqG_5y8mRYgU_Ns1gFiKjWyS3nl3YRxOryTX_q4Nukl-eG44S9BKH-ru2hFk1Cz_O_CKzMwPQ5RQi261OevOPHUsr2xcNSAAcjoe0/s1600/G1-Colorado+Springs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSyiHiw8uAYZaju966wHCI8lTXAuFS1TrGX7dvxMSqG_5y8mRYgU_Ns1gFiKjWyS3nl3YRxOryTX_q4Nukl-eG44S9BKH-ru2hFk1Cz_O_CKzMwPQ5RQi261OevOPHUsr2xcNSAAcjoe0/s320/G1-Colorado+Springs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judy and me with our high school yearbook</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,”
he said, “if running out of gas is the worst thing to happen to you . . .
you’re all right.” </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We did visit our friends in Chicago, and Colorado Springs and <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4a5zhTS3x-mSYow89sMGYqAMg5KQuYNIBm8LGon5PqeXGYVMp9Z_EDRkHYryNEyTRh8y_ST4HMRB5kCWiZrt0Q2aSlC0B8yB5tHY_OCXHn-WsIXQGMfGvPubXYLWKM-MKiuboBiGwNfU/s1600/G2-3+gals.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4a5zhTS3x-mSYow89sMGYqAMg5KQuYNIBm8LGon5PqeXGYVMp9Z_EDRkHYryNEyTRh8y_ST4HMRB5kCWiZrt0Q2aSlC0B8yB5tHY_OCXHn-WsIXQGMfGvPubXYLWKM-MKiuboBiGwNfU/s320/G2-3+gals.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3 gals in Corrales</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Corrales, New Mexico and also
in Boulder <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ8dyMcCJ3lM-y6o4vY7tsU96i9sfRevkcoxRlIJzzxqGdcVvpzjizsO6WPlAb2-WVIgKnMr9uE7DA7EoSDlDgBI_FeraP3HFhRjK-ay0JyUEi0At5MQ_jkO-baUBuN4HjYn_B3Zcgg-I/s1600/G3-Sizzle+petted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ8dyMcCJ3lM-y6o4vY7tsU96i9sfRevkcoxRlIJzzxqGdcVvpzjizsO6WPlAb2-WVIgKnMr9uE7DA7EoSDlDgBI_FeraP3HFhRjK-ay0JyUEi0At5MQ_jkO-baUBuN4HjYn_B3Zcgg-I/s320/G3-Sizzle+petted.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sizzle petted in Boulder, CO</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
and Durango. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We didn’t drive
straight to the Pacific but to our new home. The furniture wouldn’t arrive for
two weeks, but I put Sizzle’s bed on the balcony and she stretched out in the
sun. February 15th, still winter. Sizzle insisted that I keep the door
open to the balcony—re-creating the car, I think—so I wore a fleece jacket, not
a bathing suit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7PGggfgKlzP-bWTxtrKiEQe4sdeEv0ORJIfgsdIOkq3eNtem2idsIRdnN3le0lntToMvds15XQUNsinkqrE4Hwjn6vXWiwawesbv-YE9hfclhzju_iLNCU9LVpEC-FjWOE4TPsb3vhh0/s1600/G5Sizzle-Deb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7PGggfgKlzP-bWTxtrKiEQe4sdeEv0ORJIfgsdIOkq3eNtem2idsIRdnN3le0lntToMvds15XQUNsinkqrE4Hwjn6vXWiwawesbv-YE9hfclhzju_iLNCU9LVpEC-FjWOE4TPsb3vhh0/s320/G5Sizzle-Deb.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
I bought a work table, borrowed
a chair, and got myself connected. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We had done it. Ready to change climates, to live where I
had friends but no memories, and ready for one more adventure, these two old
women packed up and drove west. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-90479600443696877982017-02-06T07:18:00.001-05:002017-02-06T07:18:43.359-05:00Chapter 58 / Snow Day & Chapter 59 / Filters<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Snow day!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kathleen, on the phone, sounding as excited as her kids. “We’re all going to Jaime’s to snowshoe. We’ll pick you up on our way.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Cool! Do you have room for Chloe in her crate?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Of course.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Take your phone,” said Andrew from New York, where he was inspecting the offerings at a police car auction. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll take it, Andrew, but it won’t work. Don’t worry—Liam’s a Boy Scout. Katrina’s studying karate. The bears are hibernating.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—Call me when you get back in, OK?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Snow day! Snow day!” the four kids chanted from the car. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Where’s Andrew!” Liam kneeled on his seat, watching Annie nestle Chloe’s crate among the gear in the back of the van. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He’s in New York, buying us a car.” Annie picked up the whining Chloe, dusted the snow off her head and pushed her into the crate. “Maybe we can rent him some snowshoes on Sunday, do this again.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Chloe shook herself, annoyed, then accepted half a dog biscuit. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Can’t he wear Ed’s?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Liam!” Kathleen called from up front. “If Annie tells you Andrew has to rent snowshoes, that is all the information you need.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Gave them away at the equipment swap last year.” Annie winked at Liam. “Now belt yourself back in, and let’s boogie!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">The snow had fallen hard overnight, keeping the school busses stationary, but now it was squalls and flurries. Kathleen eased the van back onto Annie’s road, which awaited a second pass from the plow, and drove slowly toward Jaime and George’s. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Roads are quiet," she said. "Everyone else has the sense to stay home.” Then, “Anyone want to lead us in a song?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Purple People Eater!” called Liam.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Conor groaned, but he was the one who knew all the words. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">George had broken trail for the first half mile, through their property toward the parkland they abutted. Now he was drying off by the wood stove, willing to keep order among Chloe and the two cats.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Outdoors Conor lead the way at first and then traded off with the three women. Two would head their line while one brought up the rear, “to make sure the bears don’t eat you,” Liam told Maeve, who was six, and the littlest. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“The bears are hibernating!” snapped Maeve, striding carefully forward in her equipment-swap gear: mini snowshoes and the fuchsia snowsuit she loved.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Outward bound, the path was uphill through the woods, the scene of a dream, everything blurred and soft, fir tree branches weighted with fresh snow, the path narrow between them. Their goal was a cleared rise with winter views of two mountain ranges and George and Jaime’s home tucked into the valley below. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">What luck she had been off today, thought Annie. Yes, she should be writing, and she had been writing her novel, when Kathleen called, but she had so little time to spend with friends . . . and immediately, the devil-thought followed . . . <i>you could leave the job . . . write every day, go outdoors every day, not just look at the sun through the window . . .</i> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">She pushed the thought aside. Think about this, now. She breathed through her nose, filling her lungs with air untouched by anything except trees and snow. <i>You could breathe. You could write and go outdoors and breathe.</i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-size: large;">Heading the line, Annie reached the clearing first, followed by Kathleen.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We’ve got ten seconds of silence,” said Kathleen.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ten seconds later, they still heard nothing more than snow falling. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“This is why we live here, isn’t it,” said Annie. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I was just thinking that,” said Kathleen, her smile visible within the hood of her cranberry jacket. “It’s why we put up with this Republican backwater. Speaking of which, how are you?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—You mean the car? I’m OK . . . I wish they hadn’t done it.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“They, not he.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He’s not alone in it. But I’m not either. And we’re stubborn, Andrew and I.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Something to think about.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie nodded. “Not so stubborn that we wouldn’t, each of us, make a deal with the devil.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well!” said Kathleen. “This is a day without filters, isn’t it.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">They laughed, and then from down the hill they heard Jaime: “Mush! Mush, you huskies!” and saw fuchsia and blue, red and black through the trees. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We did it!” crowed Liam. “We got to the top of the mountain!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We could go farther,” said Conor, “to the real top. He looked at his watch. "We have time.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“The girls’ hair is frozen,” said Liam. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, let’s wipe them off,” said Kathleen. She took a small towel from her daypack. “Maeve, your nose is an ice cube.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I did it, Mom!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You did! Congratulations!” Kathleen kissed Maeve’s forehead. “I’m leaving your hair icicles outside so they don’t melt on your neck.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">She did the same to Katrina—kiss and wipe—and then handed the towel to Liam. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Did they spit in it?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No! Dry your face.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We have time to go farther,” said Conor. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I suggest,” said Jaime, “that we all go back down to the house, and then anyone who wants to stay out longer can help me make trails to the compost, around the barn, down to the creek.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Vote!” said Conor. “Who wants to go farther?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">He got one loyalty vote from Liam. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Settled,” said Kathleen. “Let us stand silently, looking around us, for five seconds, and then Conor, please lead the way down.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">At the house, Kathleen and Annie helped the girls off with their snowshoes. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Are we having a meeting of the kitchen cabinet?” asked Conor, who, in this campaign, was secretary to the cabinet. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“When you and Jaime get back in,” said Kathleen. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Five minutes,” said Jaime. “I really want the trail to the compost. C’mon, guys, can you run in your snowshoes?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Indoors, George was on the phone. “Can you put a tarp over it? Just some good-faith indication that you’re trying to cover the back.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">He gave the phone to Annie. “Andrew bought a pickup.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“A pickup?” Annie said into the phone.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I always wanted to be married to a pretty girl driving a pickup truck. Now George says I’m not supposed to take it on the parkway.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Not without a cap on the back. Can you get a tarp, like he says?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll see. It’s sleeting down here.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Shit. How are the tires?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Fine. Thing’s a year old, five thousand miles.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What color is it!” called Katrina from the mud room. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Tell her it’s white. You guys have fun?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Super. We want you to come out on Sunday.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“If I get there by Sunday.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You will. Can you pick me up? You could get off the parkway early, at County 10. It crosses Pumpkin Hollow Road.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Pea soup!” called Jaime. “With a ham bone!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Kitchen Cabinet convened at the dining room table—the three women and Conor. At the counter, George cut up fruit for a salad. The other children were allowed to sit on the perimeter as nonspeaking observers. This meant that Liam and Katrina read their books and Maeve fell sound asleep in Kathleen’s arms. Chloe sat in Annie’s lap, her chin on the table, her eyes a half-mast.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Doug knows this,” said Kathleen, “so I’m updating you: with the seat open, there will probably be a primary.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Sucks,” said Jaime. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Katrina and Liam looked up from their books.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You don’t have to write that down Conor,” said Jaime. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“The useless and idle fragmentation of the left, Conor,” said Annie. “That’s what Jaime means. You can write that down.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Wait—" Conor wrote the phrase, next to <i>Primary</i>.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Democracy, Conor,” said Kathleen. “People step up. The voters decide who among them would be the best to run for the seat.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“After the candidates spend all their money,” said Jaime. “Anyway, then one of them runs against . . .” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“They’re looking at another Neanderthal,” said Annie. She named a man they had all heard of. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Jaime groaned.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He could slide right in,” said Kathleen. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Without the expense of a primary,” said Annie.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“If he doesn’t beat his wife,” said Jaime.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Three sets of sapphire eyes followed the conversation, from face to face. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Anyway,” said Kathleen, “the chairs of the county Democratic committees in the district will interview potential candidates soon and will endorse one of us. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“If they don’t endorse me . . . I don’t know. At this point the state committee is behind me, but if someone else comes up . . . I don’t know.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Do the primary, Mom,” said Conor, with Liam nodding hugely behind him. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you, dear.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We’ve got the bus,” said Conor. “No one else has the bus.” Liam cheered silently.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He’s right,” said Annie. “We can get you on the primary ballot, whether or not those old white guys endorse you.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What do I write,” sighed Conor. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“’Probable G-O-P candidate,’” said Annie, and gave him the name. “Do you need me to spell it?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No, I’ve seen it in the newspaper. Thank you,” he added, feeling Kathleen’s eyes on him as he wrote. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Consensus of the meeting,” said Jaime. “If there’s a primary, Mom runs in it.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“This would be faster, Mom, if I had a laptop,” said Conor, writing. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kathleen rolled her eyes. “If I win the primary, Mr. Secretary, the campaign may buy a laptop.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Conor reached back and slapped hands with Liam.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What’s our action plan,” said Jaime.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Doug rehearses me for the interview,” said Kathleen.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“The kids clean the bus,” said Conor, writing. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We all survey for support,” said Annie. “Like, if Kathleen runs in a primary, will Democrats in the district support her? Donate, yes, but go door to door, get out the vote?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“They supported her before,” said Conor. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“And I lost,” said Kathleen. “They may see me as a loser.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re not a loser!” Conor’s face was stricken. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you, honey.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He’s right, said Jaime, "you lost by a hair. The Dems are crazy to run anyone but you.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“And they are crazy,” said Annie. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright (c) Debby Mayer</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Chapter 59 / Filters</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Doug arrived, having closed his woodworking shop early. Maeve woke up whiny but agreed to a bowl of soup with the other kids. Doug and George joined the kids, so the core Kitchen Cabinet gave up the table and stopped at the teapot on their way to the living room.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We should always meet here,” said Kathleen. “You’ve made this kitchen so beautiful. I love this window for herbs.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I like this little drawer at the sink that tips out, and you put the sponge and the gloves in it,” said Annie. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You can have that Annie,” said Jaime. “It’s not a big deal.” She paused. “Are you and Andrew moving? Are you getting married? What are you doing?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Could we back up?” said Kathleen as they settled at the wood stove. “Did you meet with Father Paul?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes. He gave us his Marriage Expectation Inventory. Six pages! He won’t marry you unless you meet with him, and he won’t advise you unless you fill out this form.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He has a lot of rules,” said Jaime. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Sounds brilliant,” said Kathleen. “I bet you can’t discuss it with us.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No. We’re not supposed to discuss it with each other. You fill it out by yourself and then we meet with Paul again and talk about it. It’s not rules, the form, it’s expectations. What you expect from marriage.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Wished somebody had asked me that,” said Jaime. “Just tell us what the hardest question is.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“. . . Only because I’ve been thinking about it. Actually, there’s a tie: ‘My number one goal in life is’ and ‘what is the best strength I bring to the marriage.’” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Wow,” said Jaime. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Should be required reading in high school,” said Kathleen.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Does it ask about your car?” asked Jaime.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Jaime,” said Kathleen, “she’s not supposed to discuss it.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We talked about the car. Whether I feel safe. That’s all I’ll say.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Can I just say one thing more?” said Jaime. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kathleen and Annie waited. Wiry and intense from her dark hair to her slipper socks, Jaime was going to say it anyway, and really, she meant well. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I just read this, the other day: ‘A third of all spouses of patients with bipolar illness develop serious depression and anxiety themselves.’”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie blinked. “Then two-thirds of them don’t.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Jamie paused, then nodded. “OK. Marry the guy.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We should be happy about this,” said Kathleen. “Are you happy, Annie?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—I’m happy,” said Annie. “Except . . . and this is serious . . . except for dinner. Three-hundred and sixty-five nights a year.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Why is dinner your responsibility?” said Jaime. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Because if it were Andrew’s, we’d starve. Or eat barbecue seven nights a week.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Right, said Kathleen. “He’s not a fussy eater. Neither is Doug. I put a little fresh salsa on everything, and he thinks I’ve worked magic.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“If you want, I’ll give you lessons,” said Jaime. “Both of you.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We want.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Salsa,” said Kathleen. “Learn to make fresh salsa.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Anyone who’s going out to see the truck, please put on a hat!” called Kathleen.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie had been outdoors, taking Chloe for a walk-about, when the big white pickup truck pulled in. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew tumbled out of the cab and embraced her. Once they were walking around the truck Kathleen let loose the boys, followed by George and Doug, all of them wearing their knit hats. Doug brushed off the tarp with a push broom. The boys climbed into the cab. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You got this for two grand?” said Doug.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Standard shift. That’s a deal-breaker in New York.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Good job with the tarp,” said George. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I still got stopped.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Damn!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Young cop. I told him I had just bought it at a police auction. He was fascinated. We stood in the snow while he took notes. Then he let me off with a warning.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Imagine how cute Chloe will look riding in the back,” said Annie. Chloe stood on her hind legs, grinning, her front paws on the wall. At the cab’s back window, Liam looked horrified. He hopped out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Annie you’re not supposed to do that,” he said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m sorry, Liam, don’t worry.” Annie picked up Chloe again and held her. “This is a girl who rides only in the cab.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the other side of the truck, George tapped the fake underbody with his knuckles. “You know it’s got this,” he said quietly to Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew nodded. “It’s that obvious?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“To the pros.” </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Guess I’ll have to keep it empty then.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">George smiled back at Andrew. “Guess you will.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Did you wash your face before dinner?” Liam stared at Andrew across the table. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the table’s end, Kathleen put her head in her hands. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I did,” said Andrew. <i>Ah did.</i> “Hands and face. Don’t you wash up before supper?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Hands. Not face.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“In hotter climates, it might be customary to wash your face before eating,” said Doug. He put a bowl of soup before Andrew and sat next to Kathleen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew nodded, buttering his bread. “In hotter climates. When you’ve been working outdoors. When you’ve been on the road for four hours.” He took a bite of bread, watching beyond the table, as Maeve held Annie in a tete-a-tete by the wood stove. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But we do not customarily ask people about their personal habits at the table,” said Doug. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Or anywhere else,” said Kathleen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Now, Mom, Dad. If you don’t ask, you won’t know, right Liam?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew was directed to sit by the wood stove with his coffee while the others prepared the various households to leave. Maeve found him there and climbed up on the couch to sit next to him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“How are you Andrew,” she said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I’m good, Maeve,” said Andrew, smiling at the mother’s inflection in the child’s voice. “Sure glad to be here. How are you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m good,” Maeve said with a nod. Then, done with the niceties, she shared her news: “Annie said I could pass out flowers at your wedding.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew stared at Maeve, marveling that Annie would send word through an angel, a small being with white-gold hair aloft around her face in the heat of the wood stove, this particular little being who had already struck him as otherworldly, coming from another world as she did, she and her sister Katrina, with their white-blond hair, alabaster skin and sapphire blue eyes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The angel was waiting for a response. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Maeve, honey,” he said, “that’s the best news I’ve had in—ten years.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Since Liam was born,” she said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Since Liam was born, since Conor was born, since your momma was born.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Maeve giggled. “Silly.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“May sound silly, but it’s true. Now, did you and Annie talk about what kind of flowers you’ll give out?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It depends on the season,” Maeve said carefully. “But no roses.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No, we don’t like roses. Too thorny.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It was a day without filters,” Annie explained in the dark. “Maeve said, 'if you and Andrew get married, can I be the flower girl.'” They lay on their sides in Annie’s bed, their legs tangled. Her lips brushed his ear as she spoke. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I felt I should be honest, so I said if we got married, it would be a small wedding, without flower girls. But she and Katrina could pass out flowers at the party afterward. Actually, I like the idea.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The flowers, the party, the small wedding?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“All of it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes, you.” She held him tighter. “Except . . . I worry about how to take care of you. The wedding is easy. Then we have forty years of growing old together.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We take care of each other,” he said. “That’s why we’re doing this. That, and forty years of having a good time growing old together.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re not dreaming?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No,” he said, “no. I’m awake.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright (c) Debby Mayer </span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-37660605044147198992016-12-05T06:45:00.002-05:002016-12-05T06:45:47.297-05:0056 / Family Owned 57/ Mole<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You went to Village Auto?” Annie stopped what she was doing and stared at Andrew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Morbid curiosity,” he said. “Would the guy turn over a set of keys to me, or cut off my hands?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They were sitting at Annie’s kitchen table, cleaning two pounds of green beans. Still Tuesday, and the one night they had this week to cook anything, so they were fixing chicken and green beans for six. Andrew broke the ends off by hand, one at a time, which they agreed was the right way to do it, and Annie cut the ends with a knife, four at a time. She glanced at his hands. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’ve got a car then?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>We.</i> Andrew smiled at the beans as he shook his head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Can’t do it. They knew me when I got out of the car. OK, everybody on the street—on both sides of the river—knows I’m the guy whose girlfriend’s car got torched, and now I’m driving a rental, but . . .”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No olive branch from the chief.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Right. And as I said to the manager, you still haven’t told me what kind of car you want.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What if I list the cars I don’t want?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It would take too long.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The timer rang. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Damn,” said Annie. “I was supposed to put the beans in ten minutes ago, before the chicken finished.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“So we’ll have two courses. The chicken course. The bean course.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Over chicken, they discussed whether or not Kathleen would run for office again. Andrew thought she would and Annie hoped she would, so they couldn’t make a bet on it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">During green beans, Annie told Andrew the latest from work. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“There was a fight last week outside of a bar in Cowpoke,” she said, using the spell-check name for the town. “So Monday’s paper reported that there was a fight, outside of the Dutch Inn. Two people were arrested. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Tina went ballistic. She said we shouldn’t have reported that it was at the Inn.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew frowned, thinking. “Did we ever go there?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“As far as the parking lot. You saw a guy selling drugs out of his car, so we left.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Right. I didn’t want to wind up back in jail because of that turd. Is the Inn an advertiser?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Nope.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And now it won’t be. The owners are friends? The SLA is breathing down their necks?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—It did feel like she was speaking for someone else. Wendy, yes, but—you’re right, they got a call.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Not to defend them, but it’s tough being a small-town newspaper. </span><span style="font-size: large;">A family-owned enterprise, reporting on other family-owned enterprises.”</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Everything around here is family owned. Chief Miller’s crack houses are family owned, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie paused. “That’s why no one reports on them!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They both laughed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Except you,” she said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And even me, maybe not right away,” he said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Are you afraid of the chief?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re afraid to leave Chloe alone,” he said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—I am,” she said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Let’s see what happens to Six-pack.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“That could take months. Years.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We have time, right?” He took her hand on the table. “Yes?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—Yes . . .” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You still think I’ll get bored here? That I’ll want to move someplace where my car is blown up, instead of my girlfriend’s car? I’ve had that, you know. In Cuscatlán. I’m ready to settle down in a completely lawless community.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m not moving to Schuyler.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“There are some beautiful houses there—up the hill, at the east end. Big, with mountain views.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And a police chief who hates us.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“He’ll be indicted or ‘retire’ . . . ”Andrew glanced at the ceiling. “Within two years.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“How do you know all this stuff, about the Neanderthal, and the chief?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—From living through a lot of shit. From not spending time in positive pursuits, the way you do, but in wading through shit, ankle deep. Or knee deep.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Churches are cauldrons of gossip.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m sure they are . . . anything political?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—Not so much. Fr. Paul gets discouraged. I think he’d move on, except that every church is like that.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Should we get married tomorrow, before he leaves?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“He’d give notice. We’ll just keep our appointment with him, next week, and we won’t ask him if he’s going to resign.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll stay right on topic.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Mole</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was an older population, Andrew observed again; even Robin, the real estate agent, had gray hair. Silver gray, and a good cut—she must go to Albany—and inside, smart. She’d been selling real estate around here for almost twenty years, she said, and, I can help with that, was her mantra. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The place was short on charm, especially with a dead bird in the corner of the kitchen. But it did have possibilities, facing south, with two big windows on either side of the door, and on each side of the building. The counter and its twelve stools worked. The mildew smell did not. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Will the owner clean up?” asked Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Robin shook her head. “As is. But I know a good crew—reasonable rates—that will make this place sparkle You’ll put a sign in the window—what’s the name of your place?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Theresa’s, said Theresa. “Till we think of something snappy.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“‘Theresa’s BBQ, Open Soon,’ and people will start to talk about it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Need a new stove, “Glaron sighed to Andrew in the kitchen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Need a big dumpster,” Andrew sighed back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You guys getting cold feet?” called Theresa. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“My feet are freezing,” said Andrew. “Let’s get barbecue.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In Theresa and Glaron’s apartment, the table was set for four and a barbecue sampling was ready for warm-up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“This is lovely, Theresa,” said Robin, walking around, and she seemed to mean it. “Bobbie Smith owns this building, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“She does. You know all the landlords?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s a small world,” said Robin, “and Bobbie takes care of her buildings.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They couldn’t stop themselves, even Andrew; they watched Robin taste the pulled pork. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Delicious, Theresa,” she said. She tasted again, her brow furrowed. “Mole? A sprinkle of chocolate?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Theresa mimed zipping her lip. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The seasoning is subtle,” said Robin. Very, very good. But will you have one that’s less seasoned?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Theresa frowned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“As is,” said Andrew, and Theresa beamed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Think about it,” said Robin, and Andrew was thinking about it, how this woman could save him hours of research in the basement of the courthouse. She probably knew, not only who owned, but who had sold—</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“In the meantime—“ Robin got out red-framed eyeglasses and her legal pad. “You started a business plan?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Focus</i>. Andrew took the two typewritten pages from his coat pocket, and Robin skimmed them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Excellent start,” she said. “Let’s see . . . do you want a liquor license?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Theresa and Andrew spoke simultaneously: “No” and “Yes.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Can two convicted felons who served their time get a liquor license?” asked Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Robin paused. “You might get a waiver.” She wrote, then regarded them: “That’s you two gentlemen?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes ma’am,” said Andrew. Glaron nodded. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No trouble since?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No ma’am,” said Glaron. Andrew shrugged. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—Maybe Theresa can get the liquor license.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Theresa don’t want the liquor license,” said Theresa, “this is for food, not drinking.” </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I understand, Theresa,” said Robin, and Andrew marveled at how lucky they were, to find this calm adult who looked you in the eye every time she spoke to you. “Really, I do. But you know, don’t make money on food. You make money on liquor.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s terrible,” said Theresa. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s why the place you’re looking at went out of business,” said Robin. “Barbecue at that location is perfect,” she added quickly. “And your barbecue is delicious. And unique. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But—beer goes with barbecue, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Right,” said Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Maybe you can get a waiver just for wine and beer,” said Robin, writing. “You don’t have to serve wine.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Good,” said Theresa. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">And, said Robin, they would need a site plan review from the town’s Planning Board and a sign review from the Zoning Board. “I can help with that,” she said. But before any of this, they had to make an offer and the offer had to be accepted. “All of it in writing.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * * </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Fifty thousand cash, pending an inspection and appraisal.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ruth had left, and the three of them sat around the table, finishing the pitcher of water.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Up to you,” said Glaron. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Fifty?” said Theresa. “Not sixty?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It’ll take at least another fifty to bring it back.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Theresa blinked. “We get the guys to clean it up—I feed them barbecue. We buy a new stove.”</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“All that and more,” said Andrew. “We set you up good.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Squirrels probably ate the wiring,” said Glaron. “Place about to burn down.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m going to New York tomorrow,” said Andrew. “I’ll see my lawyer, try to get him up here over the weekend.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Barbecue,” said Theresa. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“A sampling, like you did here for Robin. That was perfect. Think lunchtime Sunday.” Andrew’s gold tooth flashed. “If we can get Stuart on board, we can do this. You ready?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m ready!” said Theresa.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Glaron,” said Andrew, “you ready? For our last great adventure?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Glaron’s gold teeth flashed <i>yes</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re out of your mind,” said Stuart, more an observation than an accusation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You knew that,” said Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sunday, and they stood in winter light. Stuart had accepted a cigarette from Andrew and they leaned against the rear of Robin’s shiny clean SUV, smoking, while she made calls from her car phone, confirming two more places for them to see. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Really, it was going well, thought Andrew. It wasn’t snowing. Stuart had obeyed instructions and dressed warmly from toe (boots) to head (fedora). Annie had charmed Stuart with her good looks and sanity before she went to work. Robin had the sense to line up two additional restaurants for comparison, while Stuart was here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Have I ever done this before?” said Andrew. “Invested in a business that you didn’t find? Asked you to rewrite my will—at least lately?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No,” said Stuart, “these are new.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And the barbecue was great, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Exquisite,” said Stuart. “Mole. Where are you going to get enough mole around here to run a business?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s Theresa’s problem.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Stuart shook his head. “Your problem, if you’re the money.” He looked around him. “Five thousand in landscaping alone.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Things are cheaper here, Stuart.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Which leads me to ask. What <i>are</i> you doing here?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You met Annie.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“She’s lovely. Bring her to New York. Buy an apartment. There’s an investment.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Ten times as much, and what would I have? An apartment in New York. Big deal. Annie has friends here. We have friends here.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Her car was bombed!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Set on fire. I’m working on a book. I need to be here.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“How do you know they wouldn’t torch this place?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—I thought of that." Andrew rubbed out his cigarette with his boot. "By the time we open, the chief will be gone. Or on our side.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Gentlemen, I’m ready when you are!” Ruth called from the car window. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’ll be right there,” Stuart said over his shoulder. He stepped on his cigarette, speaking to Andrew, in a voice barely audible: “Your being back in jail won’t help your friends.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I know that,” said Andrew, just as firm, just as quiet. “I’ll be careful.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-20101977882566461582016-10-29T07:00:00.000-04:002016-10-29T07:00:43.111-04:00Chapter 55 / Guilty<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">On TV, Six-pack got a minute and the Neanderthal got two, because of the punditry afterward. There was no comment from Kathleen, but they did run a still from her campaign and say that she had lost the election by less than two hundred votes. Andrew typed notes on his laptop as he ate two cheese sandwiches with two glasses of water. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As soon as the news ended, his phone rang: the editor of the Post-Intelligencer. They went over the details of the arraignment, and then Andrew said, “You got anybody in Kinsella’s office?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“His wife’s his law partner, and they’ve had the same secretary for seventeen years.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—Who’s friends with the secretary? From church, the library? Their mother, their sister? I want to know who’s paying Kinsella.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll check my church directory.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’ll find a whole new circle. If you don’t, I will.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Give me a couple of days.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“And the Neanderthal. Who are the Republicans going to run?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’re working on it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kathleen’s number was busy; good. Andrew put his plate in the sink, then decided to wash it. People were talking to him; why let the house fall apart. As he dried his hands, the phone rang again; Theresa. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Hey darlin,’” he said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t darlin’ me, darlin,’” she said. “I talked to the real estate agent. They want seventy-five thousand dollars for that fallin’ down shed and two acres.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Offer sixty, cash.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The line went silent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—Theresa?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m here. Where you gonna get sixty thousand dollars cash.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“From my bank account.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">More silence. Then, “You know, darlin,’ I meant to say, you do anything that puts my man back in jail . . . I’ll go in right after him, for what I do to you.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"The money’s clean, Theresa. OK, I have to clear it with my lawyer. He’ll want to meet you and Glaron. I’ll get him to come up here. You’ll make him barbecue.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m off work tomorrow. I can start cookin’ tonight.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I can’t promise him tomorrow. Let’s meet with the real estate agent tomorrow, at the diner. Inside. Will you make the appointment? Don’t mention the offer. I’ll find somebody to come with us who knows about buildings.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now he had an excuse to call Annie. “How’s it going?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Tell you tonight. Did you watch the Neanderthal?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Weepin’ crocodile tears, both of us. Now that his wife’s left him, he wants to spend more time with his family.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“She’s left him? You know that?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Not as a fact. I just know it. Do the witches know who the Republicans will run?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Catherine’s working on it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Good. In the meantime, will you give me the number for the guy who helped you with the house last fall—John? I want him to meet us at the diner tomorrow, tell us what a piece of shit it is.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“He’s your man.” Annie gave him the number. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew left a message for John, then walked around the apartment, thinking about their little diner team. His fingers itched to call Stuart, his lawyer, but he’d do better to wait until after they saw the place. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kathleen’s line was still busy, so he made himself sit quietly at the table for a few minutes, staring at the grain of the wood. He had closed his memory to courthouses, but now he let them slide in, and how similar they were, even when different, imbued in their very air with screw-ups and failures and even, sometimes, evil. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Why would Six-pack agree to do something that he would immediately be fingered for? In prison it was about money, except for the guys like himself, total fuck-ups. Maybe this was both.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And the fuck-ups didn’t carry their guilt around for decades, like a gossamer cape brushing their shoulders in the slightest breeze. For them, it was always something, or somebody, else, it was this, it was that, that caused them to fuck up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He knew otherwise. He closed his eyes and thought, <i>forgive me</i>, to Polly, again, for the one-thousandth time. Some days he added on his parents, and her parents, but not today. They would never forgive him and Polly might; she had loved him once, even if she loved haunting him now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">You’re allowed to move forward was Warren’s mantra, and Annie’s priest would say that what remains for you is to forgive yourself. And he would sing “Guilty,” to them. No more whisky, no more cocaine, but I’ll be guilty for the rest of my life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He found himself on his feet again, walking around the apartment, here now, Annie at work, and they had friends and he had things to do— </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This time Kathleen answered. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Still got those lawn signs in your garage?” he said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re the third reporter to ask me that in the last forty minutes.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—And you said, quote—"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’re having a family meeting tonight, and I’ll issue a statement tomorrow afternoon.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—That’s tight. You talk to your funder?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“He called me, from Palm Springs, where he’s playing golf. He said to make up my mind and then call him tomorrow morning.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That gave him the rest of the afternoon to buy a car. </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-9184574369600067102016-09-20T06:47:00.000-04:002016-09-20T06:47:17.578-04:00Chapter 54 / Gangsta's Paradise<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Can’t talk here.” Andrew stood, shrugging into his jacket. “Call you back in five.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t call anyone else.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m telling Annie. The Observer won’t have it till Thursday. And Josh, from the P-I—does he know?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s his job.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So Andrew made two calls, fuck the T-U, you had to feed your sources; Annie’s line was busy, so he spoke to Catherine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No shit!” she said with relish. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Tell Annie, OK? Tell her to tell Kathleen.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the Post-Intelligencer, Josh knew, but thanked him. “We’re all over that story like a cheap suit, but we don’t have anyone to send to the arraignment. You’re going, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sure am.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They paused. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You know I bought the car that was torched,” said Andrew. “Then I gave it to Annie.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We figured that . . . my editor may call you anyway. Not for attribution.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You got it. Call me a lowly placed source.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">*************</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tuesday dawned another gray, frigid day. From Annie’s house Andrew drove her and Chloe to the newspaper, then headed back into Schuyler, humming along with “Gangsta’s Paradise” on the radio. Once, this kind of weather would have settled over him like Josh’s cheap suit. Now it was just backdrop. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the courthouse, Sheriff’s Deputies—countywide cops—ran the check-in, not the Schuyler police. With sour expressions, two beefy white guys—really, were they separated at birth?—waved in the TV camera crew and then looked at him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For one second, they appraised each other. Andrew mentally noted their names, and the deputies’ eyes recorded his height and weight within inches and pounds, and with looks that said that they wouldn’t have wanted their girlfriends’ car torched either. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Their only curiosity was for the laptop. Andrew slid it out of its case and turned it on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll take notes on the arraignment.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But no pictures.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No sir, it doesn’t take pictures. I leave that to the pros.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Officer Ryan made a face. Andrew resisted lecturing on the importance of public access to courtroom procedures. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Officer Brock touched the edge of the laptop with a fingertip. “I’ll be damned, he said. “Where we goin’ with this.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“How much longer you got on the force?” asked Andrew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After a one-second glance at the ceiling, Brock said, “Ten years, two weeks, twelve days.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’ll learn this—“ Andrew tapped the laptop—“before you leave.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Aw, no!” Brock winced and they all laughed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the stand next to the check-in, Andrew bought his four newspapers, and in the courtroom he sat along the side, where he could see the bench at his left and the door on his right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He skimmed the papers, past the start of the O. J. Simpson trial and Clinton’s rescue of Mexico, until he found, buried within the Times, News and Post, the AP story of the reporter’s car torched in a parking lot in an upstate city suspected as a drug base. The News and the Post each had a photo of Annie’s car. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Catherine sat front and center, she and the court reporter the only females in the room. Alex arrived from the TU—they exchanged glances but no nod. Enough cameras here to fill a shop—five by his count, including one solo guy who might be the AP stringer, all of them here for a three-minute arraignment of a two-bit criminal. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew was typing when he saw his apple-processing colleagues—Glaron, now his restaurant partner, and Billy, who loved to dance. They shook hands in silence and then sat, one on either side of him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Thought only old white guys hung out in courtrooms in the morning,” said Andrew, just above a whisper. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Glaron’s gold teeth flashed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They right behind us,” said Billy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And they were, a line of indistinguishable middle-aged guys, retired or out of work, who followed cops and courts. Behind them Claude arrived, with his walrus mustache and a taxicab cash box under his arm, followed by Steve, watch cap in hand. Claude nodded and sat in back, for easy escape. Steve joined his work crew; handshakes again, and Steve sat next to Glaron. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here they were, their women at work while they hung out in a high-ceilinged, windowless courtroom in the middle of nowhere, intent on news that would always be buried behind O.J. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Judge is late,” Billy sighed at 9:05.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Waiting for the chief,” said Steve.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew looked at him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“In the hall,” said Steve, “talking to the deputies.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At that moment Chief Miller made his entrance, sweeping off his chief hat, surpassing even Steve for tidiness. Slender, clean-shaven, his curly hair cropped, he was a physical and sartorial role model, a black wool coat over his uniform. His eyes swept the room, and Andrew wished Glaron and Billy had sat elsewhere. The chief still would have known, but now they were right in his “dark coffee” face, under his narrow, straight nose. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A white guy offered his seat; the chief shook his head with thanks. He leaned against the wall, where he could see everything, then stood straight as they all rose for the judge. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After one minute of business the court clerk brought in the defendant, an ordinary guy with a moon face and sandy hair thinning on top, a guy who looked like the indeterminate guys in the audience except that he had scared up a Navy blue blazer and a cranberry tie for the occasion, along with a lawyer who introduced himself for the record and named a firm in Albany. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The defendant understood the charges against him, which started with Arson One, because he was accused of being paid for the job—he must be singing until he was hoarse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He pled not guilty. The only debate then was about bail, between the DA and the defense attorney, men of the same generation, in dueling three-piece suits. The Albany lawyer was well prepped, noting that Six-pack was a Schuyler native, had ties to the community, blah blah, but he didn’t mention support of a family, or a job. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The judge compromised by setting bail, high—$100,000 cash or $200,000 bond. Andrew kept his face frozen as he typed, and on either side of him, Billy and Glaron were still. In contrast, a flash of motion and indeterminate sound came from the center, astonishment tinged with anger. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Silence!” The judge—white sideburns creeping from under a glistening brunette coif—slammed down his hammer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They needed to contain themselves for only another minute. Then Andrew nodded to his friends and strode to the lawyer so that he was first in line among the reporters. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Andrew Logan, independent journalist,” he said, extending the business card with his telephone number. “Can I have your card?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Where were your last three articles published?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—Rolling Stone and The Nation.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The lawyer read Andrew’s name through his rimless glasses. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Your girlfriend’s car,” he said, pocketing the card. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Your business card is public information,” said Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The lawyer gave him two cards. “Ms. Williams will handle the case for me in the office,” he said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you, Mr. Kinsella. Who’s paying you?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kinsella stared at him. “That’s between my client and me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew shook his head. “Public information.” <i>Worth a try.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“My client hired my firm.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s not what I asked you.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s my answer. Good day.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He left the courtroom, followed by the TV crew and a gaggle of reporters. If he commented outside the courthouse, it would be on TV at noon, so Andrew stopped at the check-in. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Big deal lawyer,” he said to the deputies. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ryan nodded. “Irish guy. Fought in ‘Nam.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Six-pack paying him?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“In cigarettes, maybe,” said Brock. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sometimes he works pro bono,” said Ryan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Here comes the chief,” said Andrew. “Maybe he’ll know.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The deputies snorted softly. Andrew headed down an empty hallway, where Chief Miller had just left the men’s washroom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The chief nodded to him “How’s it goin’,” he said genially. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew stopped and stared, holding the chief with his eyes. “Girl needs a car.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The chief nodded. “Try Village Auto, across the river. Tell them I sent you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew refused to let himself be dumbfounded. “So they’ll wire the car?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Naw,” said Chief Miller, with the glimmer of a smile, as if Andrew were joking. “They have a good selection. Try them.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-21546339879546083092016-08-19T06:54:00.000-04:002016-08-19T06:54:04.305-04:00Chapter 53 / Real News<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Sit in the back,” said Tony, nodding toward the booths farthest from the diner’s windows, and Andrew sat in the back, where he couldn’t watch the street, and the street couldn’t see him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The diner was quiet between breakfast and lunch, half-a-dozen men of retirement age sitting over coffee and newspapers. Two of them were together at a booth; the others sat solo at the counter. To a man they glanced at Andrew; three of them exchanged nods with him; all of them recorded mentally his presence, in the back of the diner. They kept their eyes on their papers, waiting to see what Tony would do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Three of them were reading the Observer, with its front-page photo of Annie’s car, its rear blackened by fire. Andrew spread out his own copy of the Observer, wise in its tabloid size—not enough news around here for a broadsheet—and stared at the photo. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He thought about the night they’d been stopped in the dark, the dry cleaner bag hooked to Chloe’s crate, flapping in the breeze created by passing cars, and the cops on the scene, four of them with the chief, half of Schuyler’s police force and how none of them had made real eye contact. Eyes maybe, but not contact. Except for the chief. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie had liked this car, he found her this car and gave it to her and she liked it, even if her favorite part of it was probably the sunroof, he must find her another sunroof, and he thought about her driving around by herself night and day for this stupid newspaper. And that made him think of Ed’s accident, picturing this accident that he’d only been told about, and then to remember how a car had frightened Kathleen on the parkway last fall, and about all the ways you can make a car crash look like an accident. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They hadn’t done that here. Here they had said, <i>this is not an accident</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tony slid into the booth across from him, his back to the restaurant, which meant Andrew had about thirty seconds of his attention. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew folded the newspaper and put it to one side, so that Tony could see that the table in front of him was empty. “I just need one cop,” he said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tony shook his head. “Not gonna happen.” His dark, curly hair was damp with the exertion of running a restaurant, and it occurred to Andrew they should be talking about that. He made himself stay on topic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They all support the chief?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Even if they don’t—“ Tony glanced the newspaper—“they do now.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Who doesn’t.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tony sighed. “You wired?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew shook his head. “Just talking.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tony said two names, one of them female. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew wrote nothing down. “Six-pack going to be charged?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tony nodded. “Then out on bail.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Alone?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“’Investigation continuing.’” Tony made tiny quotation marks with his fingers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Behind Tony, 50 feet away, the diner door opened, to an older couple. Tony heard it and slid out of the booth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Hey,” said Andrew, “a friend of mine wants to open a restaurant—"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Where.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Five miles east of here. Barbecue. No competition. Can he talk to you?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“If he wants me to tell him not to do it. The state will kill him with rules and taxes.” Tony headed for the front.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Something to consider, thought Andrew, but in the meantime, if the chief were sitting across from him, what would he say? He thought about this, staring at the point where Tony’s head had been, knowing that anything he said to the chief would be recorded, somewhere, and that you couldn’t make a deal with the devil. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And he reminded himself, that really, he had done a lot in four months, he had a shitload of corroborated information, and if this took another month, or another four months, it could be worth it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In his jacket pocket, his phone rang. Annie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The DA called Tina,” she said in a low voice. “Six-pack will be charged tomorrow morning. She’s sending Catherine for the paper, but I thought you might want to clear your calendar.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sure do. Arson? Second degree? Did he turn himself in?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They picked him up this morning. He’s getting a lawyer. I don’t know the exact charges.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Thanks, darlin’. How are you?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, I’ve gone from being Tina’s favorite, which meant that she yelled at me once a day, to being her least favorite, which means once an hour.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You can leave any time, you know.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Gotta go—”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She was gone, and before the phone had settled back into his pocket, it rang again—the reporter from the Times Union that he had worked with last fall, on the story about the state senator, Kathleen’s opponent, El Neanderthal. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDmxJ3KtOaC1V99n4YFyk9ioRsci9CMScx_QrEZrBO8bopDFd6wRxtQkGm9U83XiQ9-gtnSBjR_BSWCyA6m2x40LjUBY-IQV8r5132cZ1EGabVdBciVF1mfG68i5gWwhyphenhyphenOKxAvMckftQQ/s1600/novosti_sporta.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDmxJ3KtOaC1V99n4YFyk9ioRsci9CMScx_QrEZrBO8bopDFd6wRxtQkGm9U83XiQ9-gtnSBjR_BSWCyA6m2x40LjUBY-IQV8r5132cZ1EGabVdBciVF1mfG68i5gWwhyphenhyphenOKxAvMckftQQ/s1600/novosti_sporta.png" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">“What’s going on down there?” asked Alex.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Real news. You had it yesterday.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The wire story. Now I’m working on it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Coming down for court tomorrow?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“With a photographer. But I want something real for tomorrow’s paper, and I have something to trade for it."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’ll help me?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—Background, not for attribution. Other than that, what’s it worth to me?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Our state senator is resigning. His press conference is the same time as your DA’s.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer </span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-23712711461533012692016-08-15T06:30:00.000-04:002016-08-15T06:30:49.466-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Free! Fun! Interactive!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX57UI4gNzeJN1KE1Hfp_FQ0xHFqAkoEDxV52DUUcnVb-b_vjXlBFKpihKLO8Ool-YtZdURJATo8IXb7HBIcaaCQGs4ERMuT8TIsOPdqn1xbbgcXA8Fu3KQD_txJqNR596EqVvAyh7bro/s1600/Self+Publishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX57UI4gNzeJN1KE1Hfp_FQ0xHFqAkoEDxV52DUUcnVb-b_vjXlBFKpihKLO8Ool-YtZdURJATo8IXb7HBIcaaCQGs4ERMuT8TIsOPdqn1xbbgcXA8Fu3KQD_txJqNR596EqVvAyh7bro/s400/Self+Publishing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-61027652140090540312016-07-26T06:59:00.000-04:002016-07-26T06:59:16.018-04:00Chapter 52 / Woodshed<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Catherine was covering the newspaper this Sunday. “Hey, Annie, Andrew,” she said in a loud, cheerful voice, taking Chloe’s leash and giving them big, round eyes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6J_Q18D3dQS4wqpUSfGTU1Ze7l_qEECej7WpuvFNlR_yBnV0Jd2S8P0H0giDxOqbxv8Jjgt43aXRxmrfdgTOVe9IWVUjVrh2zgepq93LNU3JLgsvWicSqK4_HY2g4qNrsp_-xyIK2a0/s1600/woodshed1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6J_Q18D3dQS4wqpUSfGTU1Ze7l_qEECej7WpuvFNlR_yBnV0Jd2S8P0H0giDxOqbxv8Jjgt43aXRxmrfdgTOVe9IWVUjVrh2zgepq93LNU3JLgsvWicSqK4_HY2g4qNrsp_-xyIK2a0/s1600/woodshed1.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ordinarily, the three couples would have met at the conference table in an alcove upstairs, but today the six of them crowded into the office that Wendy and Tina shared, the door closed against Catherine and two others working on the floor below. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie took what was known downstairs as the Electric Chair, next to Tina’s desk. The three men perched on secretarial chairs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We want to be sure that we all share the same information about what happened to Annie’s car Friday night,” said Wendy. “Why don’t you start.” She turned her gaze to Andrew, as if she were giving him a gift.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew looked at Annie, next to him, and she replied. “Thank you, Wendy, that’s what we want too. Does the newspaper support us?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—We deplore the crime, of course,” said Tina, her brow creased, as if she might, genuinely, be concerned. “It’s front page for Monday’s paper. But why did they target you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Wendy pursed her lips. They must have already gone off course. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Off the record and not for attribution” said Annie, resisting a grin. </span><span style="font-size: large;">“If you report anything we say in this meeting, we will deny it.”</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Think of it as an executive session,” said Wendy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They’re trying to scare us,” said Annie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Who? Who’s trying to scare you?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie looked at Andrew. “Schuyler’s little drug cabal,” he said. “I’ve been researching them for—months.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They’re trying to scare all of us,” said Wendy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Are you scared?” Andrew asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They did a violent act against us, by way of Annie,” said Tina, again looking as if she cared. “We don’t want that to happen again, to any of us.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re a newspaper, Tina,” said Andrew. “You founded and you run a successful newspaper. Sometimes, this kind of shit goes with the territory. The car was in a parking lot at three o’clock in the morning. Empty.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We founded a community newspaper,” said Wendy. “And a business. We founded and we run a successful, community, business.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This silence lasted two seconds. “Go on,” said Annie, trying to sound encouraging.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“If I could say a couple of things here,” said Lewis, Tina’s husband, in such a way that you knew he would. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">All four of them, the women in their bright winter cashmeres, the men just a shade quieter in tweed, looked amazingly healthy for January, thought Annie, after week golfing in Hilton Head. And each of them was used to being boss. So far, she and Andrew had not been flattened by the Witches. But she wished she could hold his hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Lewis was talking. “Annie, every article you write for the paper is a pleasure to read.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you,” she said, taken by surprise. She had had two conversations with Lewis in her life, at staff holiday parties, both about music. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Andrew, I admire your work,” Lewis continued. “I’ve read your book, and I think I’ve read every article you’ve ever written. I know there’ve been some questions, in the past, about your coverage of Cuscatlán. But I—and many others—consider you one of the best journalists working today.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you,” said Andrew, waiting for the “but.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But,” said Lewis, “this—the Hudson County Observer—is a small—a very small—enterprise. We don’t have the financial, and other, backing of the Times or Rolling Stone, or even Pacifica. We have only us. The four of us have put everything—everything that we have—into this. To the world, we’re tiny, but to us, it’s enormous. Either way, it’s easy to bring down.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We told Annie when we first met her that we have nothing in our lives but this newspaper,” said Wendy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You didn’t say financially,” said Annie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, that’s part of it,” said Wendy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You could have opened a restaurant,” said Andrew. “Or a dry cleaner. You didn’t. You opened a newspaper.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“A community newspaper.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I haven’t offered you this story,” said Andrew. “I can take it elsewhere, as I did last fall, with the political story.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But through your private life—which is yours—you have entangled us in the story,” said Lewis.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Who called you?” asked Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No one,” said Wendy. “It’s not a matter of overt threats.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They firebombed our reporter’s car!” Tina burst out. “She had nothing to do with this except she slept with you!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—You have a way of putting things Tina,” said Andrew. “Now Monday’s paper goes out with a firebombing on the front page. The papers fly off the shelves—every single distributor sells out, and you tell me your advertisers don’t want that?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No comment,” said Wendy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The chief would cut off your advertising?” said Andrew. “Who? The car dealerships? The hospital?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the case with his laptop Andrew always carried a small black notebook. What a jerk he was, he should have taken it out as soon as he sat down. His hands itched for it now; he clenched his fists, took a breath, opened his hands again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That is such a great story,” he said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We are not the story!” snapped Wendy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You are the story,” said Andrew. Now he was gritting his teeth. He took another breath. “Let me look into it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No! I have not given you permission to research that!” Wendy even shook a finger at Andrew, then lowered it. “And you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you? That’s your problem, Andrew, you’re a rogue reporter, operating with your own agenda. That’s why the Times fired you, why Pacifica let you go—“</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m on leave from Pacifica,” said Andrew, “and you need an investigative reporter. Otherwise you just feed the public what’s fed to you. Sorry, Annie.” </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie waved a hand, fascinated.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Everything I have is corroborated, at least once,” said Andrew. “I need one more interview, and I’m going to get it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Do you know who set Annie’s car on fire?” asked Don, Wendy’s husband. He’s a lawyer, Annie had told Andrew, but really, he’s a banker.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I have a name,” said Andrew. “Do you know?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Our information is that someone will be charged this week,” said Don. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Will he bring down everybody? Or take the hit.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The room was silent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I can find out,” said Andrew. “Or, the other thing I can do is train someone here to be an investigative reporter.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Not much of a salesman, am I.” </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">They had pulled into the parking lot of East Wynham’s diner, around the corner from the office, so that Andrew could have a cigarette and Chloe could take a walk around the car.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t fish for compliments,” Annie took his arm. “You didn’t go ballistic on them, and you’ve sold yourself to just about everyone else in Hudson County.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“But not those four.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“They’re bastards. Even Lewis.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“But he’s read my book,” said Andrew, unable to resist a tiny smile. “That makes two of you.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Twelve of us. Word on the street is that he’s former Maoist. I know he worked with Doctors without Borders.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Has anyone ever written about him?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Ask him. You’ve got the contact now.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-75054529389313261152016-07-02T06:50:00.000-04:002016-07-02T06:55:02.784-04:00Chapter 51 / Perspective<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Hey—”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Chloe’s feet were on his chest. She was wearing her Christmas cool-dog jacket, from New York City, black Gortex with a sheepskin lining. She seemed happy to see him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie stood next to the bed in the red wool coat he had given her for Christmas, which looked so good with her blond hair and still kept her warm, if she wore enough layers underneath it. She smelled of fresh air and the newsprint in her canvas bag and, possibly, coffee. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie regarded him, concerned, and sat down on the bed, so they were all there together, and Andrew could feel his stomach unclench for the first time since he had woken up last night. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Did you have a hard night?” she asked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I had a lousy night. But now you’re here, right? This is real?” He took off her multicolored mittens; her fingertips were cold from outdoors, so he gathered her hands in his. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Did I call you at six o’clock?” he asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No . . .” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Hm. What day is it?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sunday. You and Chloe are going to hang out while I go to church. I’ve got coffee here, and home-baked bread from Kathleen, and all the newspapers you could need to entertain yourself for two hours . . . did you take your meds yesterday?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I did. Last night all my little containers were empty . . .” Andrew sat up. “Speaking of which . . .” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">When he came out of the bathroom, Annie had set the table in the middle room with coffee cups, bread, peanut butter, oranges and hard-boiled eggs. He stared at it, from the white of the cups to the blast of the orange with all the shades of eggshell and bread in between, at once normal and miraculous. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He sipped his coffee. He should tell her. “I dreamed you died.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yikes . . . wish fulfillment?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s not a joke.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m not joking. I wonder sometimes if it’s boring for you to be with someone . . . so ferociously normal.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re not normal. Remember, we talked about this. I told you, you were the craziest girlfriend I ever had, and you agreed.” Andrew smiled, despite himself, at the way this was going. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Anyway,” he said, “no. Classic anxiety. I was terrified.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—How did I die?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—I don’t know.” He described the dream, leaving out her strange puffiness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Ugh.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You’ll keep Chloe in your sight?” Annie asked when she left for church. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Of course.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“When you take a shower, she’ll sit in the bathroom with you.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’ll take care of each other.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie walked the four blocks to church, and with careful timing, Andrew and Chloe drove to the diner half an hour early, so he could jockey for a parking place, then tip Tony, the owner, to hold a window table for him when it came available. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Keeping an eye on the car, huh,” said Tony. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Know anything?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—Come by tomorrow.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I need a cop.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Tony nodded once, then turned back to the cash register and the next customer: “Everything taste good this mornin’?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“How was church?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">They were seated at their window table, the car parked in front of the diner.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Good.” Annie shrugged. “It gives me perspective. Of the eighty people there, forty of them had no idea my car had been set on fire. Until the other forty told them. Even when people are gunning for you, there is a bigger picture.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Theresa and Glaron stay away from the news. I had to tell them. But I thought you meant heaven.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—I used to believe that we would be reunited with people we loved. And dogs. But now I think, what if we don’t want to see them? Like Ed.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What if we dread seeing them. Like Polly.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—We’ll ask Paul. He’ll have an answer . . . Tony’s trying goat cheese?” Annie stared at the menu insert. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He thinks the neighborhood’s changing.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7MnbnGkIXSIyUElU0j3GZzD2FjOXVxiQ7WPPA2X_8Zx9JzCyVIG_ZAhGHugBtifUVN0G6PoXel4au4WCtDMZ85VUS2K6vTD7tHflCiL_vh17GXn9CK3hLpHb9G2DUiBOKlVM0uP-_VdM/s1600/goatgritcom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7MnbnGkIXSIyUElU0j3GZzD2FjOXVxiQ7WPPA2X_8Zx9JzCyVIG_ZAhGHugBtifUVN0G6PoXel4au4WCtDMZ85VUS2K6vTD7tHflCiL_vh17GXn9CK3hLpHb9G2DUiBOKlVM0uP-_VdM/s1600/goatgritcom.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s really good,” said Claudia, putting the coffee pot on the trivet, nodding with a smile as she pocketed Andrew’s $5. “Have you had it before? I tried it this morning, who knew those little goats could do that.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Two specials?” said Annie. Andrew nodded, and Claudia left them, pleased. </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Did you say anything to Paul about talking to us?” asked Andrew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No. He knew about the car, so we got through that. I’ll call him this week.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You still want to do it—talk to him, about us.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes. I think it would be a good idea.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“A good idea.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Perspective. I mean, should we get new IDs, move to another state?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">She was changing the subject, but he couldn’t blame her, so he followed it. “Let me talk to Tony first. That’s tomorrow.” </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That leaves us talking to the Witches today. I was hoping we’d head for San Diego after breakfast.”</span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Claudia brought their chèvre omelets. “I just want to say,” she said quickly, her voice low, placing their plates carefully, “I’m real sorry about your car. Awful. I hope they get the guy.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What guy,” said Andrew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Look, your water glasses are empty, let me get you a pitcher!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">She returned with a clear plastic pitcher of water. “Ask Tony. Everybody knows.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You should know,” Andrew said as Annie drove them east, and he spoke to her high cheekbone, her slightly upturned nose “ . . . I may say things to Wendy and Tina that sound like I don’t care. About you. I do care. The only way they—the cops—can put me off this story is by threatening you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You should know, I’m reconsidering it. But I don’t want to tell Wendy and Tina that.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You’d give up? After five months of work?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“The work remains. It’s not going anywhere. And remember—when I go to New York on Thursdays I copy everything onto Rosendo’s computer. In case mine gets stolen. Or I have to throw it in the river.” </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">They pulled into the Observer’s parking lot. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Shit,” said Annie, “the husbands are here too. Those are their cars, the Beemers. Are you sure you don’t want to head west?”</span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-80370712048404315332016-06-18T06:43:00.002-04:002016-06-18T06:43:59.600-04:00Chapter 50 / Wired<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">A three o’clock Andrew leaned against the stone post on one side of the staircase leading into the historic courthouse, hands in his pockets. He would give Bryan the length of one smoke before going to look for him. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew liked the view here, which included an alley on either side of the courthouse square; he made a bet with himself, and won, that in one cigarette, he would see two drug handoffs. At this rate, the meth labs would go out of business, there would be no need for them; Schuyler would be a city where everyone made a living selling dope—grass, crack, and now heroin was moving north—to everyone else. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew sighed. Despite the view, he hated this. He wasn’t an undercover cop, and the closed diner on Route 23 was the perfect site for a barbecue chow house. He should be sitting with Glaron and Theresa in their toasty kitchen, eating barbecue and typing up a business plan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">But he wanted this story. He tossed his cigarette butt and headed for Brian’s apartment, in a row of historic, decrepit buildings just blocks from the courthouse. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The street door wasn’t locked, and up two flights of stairs the door was ajar to the apartment that Bryan had sublet from the sublettor. Andrew pushed it and stayed at the threshold. Inside, the room was empty, except for Steve, as tidy as ever, in a black watch cap and Navy pea coat, leaning against the ledge of the one window. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“He took your advice,” said Steve. “I put him on a plane to Florida this morning.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Florida’s good for business. You alone?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Their breaths rose in puffs of steam as they talked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Steve nodded. Andrew walked around the empty apartment, poking his head into the windowless bedroom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You wired?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No.” Steve shook his head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Show me.” Andrew stood in front of Steve.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Steve unbuttoned his jacket and the top two buttons of his shirt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You?” he asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew unzipped his jacket and dropped it to the floor. He pulled his boiled-wool sweater over his head and onto the jacket. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and pulled it open. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Impressive,” said Steve, his eyes drawn to the twisted, layered scar tissue over Andrew’s heart, healed but still simmering like a dormant volcano. “Who won?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I did that to myself,” said Andrew, buttoning his shirt again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Because I’m crazy.” He pulled on his sweater. “Anything I do to anybody else won’t hurt me at all.” </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You are crazy,” Steve said mildly. “You get the best girlfriend in town, and you—treat your luck like shit. Both of you. She with you on this?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Her paper wants to bring down the chief?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew regarded Steve as he zipped up his jacket and everything clicked into place. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Chief thinks I’m working for her?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re no high school dropout.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Everything I put on that form of yours is true. And more. I’m a dumb cluck who served his time for—killing his wife, and now I can’t do anything but move apples.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Do this,” said Steve. “Listen to me. Tell them they can’t unseat the chief. Tell them to forget it. He’s smart, much smarter than they think. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The chief goes when he’s ready to go,” Steve said, standing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s why this place is the way it is.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sounds like you can get me a meeting with the chief.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“He has a telephone. Call him up.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So damned dark here in January. Next year, dammit, they would go someplace warm during the winter. Even if they had to take the dog. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew turned the car onto Annie’s road gingerly and then started up the hill toward her house, relieved to find the pavement dry. So damned cold, slush couldn’t survive. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At Annie’s driveway, he was surprised to find the house dark. The clock in the car glowed . . . nine o’clock. Her car in the garage. She must have been tired, gone to bed early, but usually she would leave a light on for him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He used his key in the front door and strode through the living room to the bedroom. Hey, Annie, he said gently, I’m here. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No sound.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He turned on a light by the bed. Annie lay on her side, her back toward the door, on top of the bed, uncovered, curled around Chloe, a comma around a Cheerio. Even the dog didn’t move— </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie . . . he knelt by the bed. She didn’t respond, her face oddly puffy, round, her high cheekbones hidden by flesh . . . he reached out for her arm, bare below short sleeves . . . </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Oh! Andrew sat up, gasping. A shout had woken him; it must have been him. His bedroom, Schuyler. Alone. “Shit!” He tried to swallow, and reached for the water bottle by the bed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Damn!” He got up and walked around, barefoot, cold with sweat under his sweat clothes, trying to get his breath. He turned on the light by the bed and sat down. Three a.m. To call her now would frighten her. He had to ride this out by himself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Warren, Rosendo, there was no calling anyone at 3 a.m. You couldn’t buy a stick of gum in this burg at 3 a.m., probably just as well, the bars had been closed for an hour. Nothing on TV. He could take a walk, but it was cold and dark and people were watching him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He walked back and forth in this house where he lived on one floor. Eventually his breathing was regular, and he remembered he should write this down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He rustled through some papers on the shelves by the bed and found a notebook. He sat on the bed and wrote out the dream, while he could still call up how he felt driving through the dark and what was that car? And make himself remember—he drank more water—her cold flesh, the odd polka-dot shirt, were there tracks on her cold arm or polka dots, or were the polka dots tracks . . . </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">All of 3:30 now. Also in the pile by the bed was <i>Strip Tease</i> by Carl Hiaasen, which Annie had left him. “This is funny,” she said, “you’ll like it.” He put the book next to him on the bed, lay down with both pillows under his head and pulled the covers to his chin. At six he could call her. Until then he would think. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-14074601093296049082016-06-08T06:38:00.000-04:002016-06-16T06:41:58.646-04:00Chapter 49 / Six-pack <div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie opened her eyes. First light, and Andrew was awake, she could tell, lying on his back; he was always awake now, whenever she woke up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Andrew . . .” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m here.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I dreamed I couldn’t find my house. I was driving around, and it just wasn’t there.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He turned and pulled her close. “Try not to worry. They did what was easy. And I’ll find out who did it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the police station, Annie found her senses heightened; if she ever got home, she must try to sleep. In the meantime she was struck by the shabbiness of the lobby, the dirt in its corners, the stale air in a room with no windows, the dispatcher a bulldog behind a scratched bulletproof screen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The dispatcher frowned. “We tried to call you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“If I’d been home, this wouldn’t have happened,” said Annie. “Right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The bulldog turned away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The police report signed and filed, they returned to Andrew’s house. Annie left a message for her insurance agent, and Andrew called Claude, his favorite taxi driver.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No dogs in the car,” Claude said wearily. Now they were being driven by a walrus: a bald man with a handlebar mustache who sat like a pyramid at the wheel, knowing he was out-maneuvered. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sorry,” said Andrew, sliding into the passenger seat and slipping a folded twenty into Claude’s logbook. “We don’t have a car, and the dog has to stay with us.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m putting this towel on the back seat,” said Annie, spreading out Chloe’s black bath towel. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After that, the men breathed back and forth at each other. Not even whispers, just breathing. Nothing separated driver and passenger in these cabs, and Annie tilted her head toward the breathing, listening with her left ear, her telephone ear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Serious . . . ” breathed Claude.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Who?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Six-pack.” One breath. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Thought you were on the wagon.” Andrew was audible now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Ten years. Almost. Six-pack’s the one who did it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“There’s a guy who lets people call him Six-pack?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Claude kept his eyes on the bridge across the river. “I’m not his mama.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“A guy named Six-pack doesn’t do this on his own.” Andrew slipped another folded twenty into Claude’s logbook, and they began to breathe again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Chief.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew blinked <i>yes</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Crack houses . . . his.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Having worked their way through the bureaucratic maze of two unmarried people renting a car together, Annie dropped Andrew off at his house. They were putting Chloe’s crate into a gray Chevy that should have made anyone invisible when Annie remembered: </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’re supposed to take Theresa and Glaron out to the empty restaurant on 23 today.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll do it. They can drive. I just have to be back here by three.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“When the police station is firebombed.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t tempt me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At home, Chloe drank a pint of water and stretched out on the bed. Annie turned up the heat and resisted joining her. She had more phone messages here, in addition to the ones she had ignored on her cell phone. From the newspaper, Tina said that she and Wendy wanted to meet with Annie and Andrew tomorrow, Sunday, at two. It was not posed as a request. Kathleen and Jaime were genuinely concerned. Annie started with them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Let’s have a conference call,” said Kathleen. “I learned how to do this when I was running for office.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We were on a party line until two years ago,” said Annie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Hang on, I’m patching in Jaime.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In seconds, Annie heard Jaime’s voice too: “What the fuck is going on?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It was a warning,” said Annie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“OK!” said Kathleen. “Be. Warned.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They decided on lunch at Annie’s, Jaime with soup, Kathleen bread. Annie did want to see them, and if they all took Chloe for a walk, together, then she would be less afraid of someone leaping out of the woods at her, which was preposterous, she knew, but still, a fear that had to be addressed, as Kathleen would say. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And it occurred to Annie that Andrew didn’t have friends like these, not here, not now, and she could think of only one friend of Ed’s. Should she wonder about why she connected with solitary men? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And even if you had friends, you couldn’t sit down with them and hash out the pros and cons of marriage to a solitary guy with arsonist enemies and then take a vote—maybe some people did, but it didn’t seem fair. But she did want to talk about this with someone. Andrew would talk to Warren, and she—she would talk to Father Paul, at church. If he married them, he would want to meet with them first in any case. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie was so happy with this idea, she called Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Hey,” he said, “I was about to call you. We’re at the diner. It’s perfect. You’re brilliant.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Good! Um—can they hear you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll move over here . . . what’s up?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Andrew, if we get married, I’d like to be married at church.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Of course. It’s customary. You get married in the woman’s church.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—You don’t have to be on automatic. We could get married—at that diner, if we wanted.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—Let’s get married at your church. What else?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—If we do, Father Paul will want to meet with us first. More than once.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Goes with the territory.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Can you show any enthusiasm about it?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Darlin’, I’m enthusiastic about the whole thing.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You get such a shit-eating grin when you talk to that lady,” said Glaron. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Best luck I ever had,” said Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-48988410005215267472016-05-07T07:08:00.001-04:002016-05-07T10:04:21.053-04:00Chapter 48 / Sign Language<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">When she heard the shower start, Annie went into the bathroom and sat on the cover of the toilet seat, holding a clean bath towel for Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As she found herself starting to curl over the towel, she sat up straight. She reminded herself that while it had been a good car, with an adorable sunroof, it lacked a certain personality. She reminded herself that Chloe’s crate had not been inside, or Chloe, or herself, or Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She had asked Andrew about this immediately, about the crate and the dog and themselves, and he had said, “Somebody chose a freezing night, three o’clock in the morning, in a parking lot. Somebody's a cowardly shit.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And she thought, but did not say, that even a cowardly shit could complicate your life by preventing you from ever leaving your dog alone in a car. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When Andrew got out of the shower Annie wrapped him in the towel, then watched while he patted himself dry, noting the bruise growing over a kidney, another one under his ribs, his scraped knuckles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Andrew, what did you do?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He was silent, rubbing his hair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Andrew. You’re supposed to say ‘nothing.’ You’re supposed to say, ‘he started it.’”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This drew a tiny smile. “Let’s lie down again.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew lay on his un-bruised side, and Annie tucked herself in against him. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We can’t even rent a car in this burg, can we,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No, we have to go across the river. And it’s not in the budget.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We use a credit card.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Poor people don’t have credit cards, but when are you going to tell me what’s going on?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Now.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * * * </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">He had run, under the sound of the sirens and fire trucks, OK, he had jogged, two blocks to the parking lot, aware of Annie’s scent still on him, it was like carrying her, weightless, her scent enveloping him against the cold, he should have worn gloves, and should they just get out of here, go back to New York, but he couldn't give up his article—which was becoming a book—and he knew what he would see—her car in flames. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">They had torched it in the rear, so that the gas tank would burn, flames shooting up toward the streetlight that hadn’t saved the car. Sparks flew, metal crumpled and now the smell was oil. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Fire police were setting up aluminum horses to control the onlookers. Andrew said “shit” once, then panned the two-dozen people that had shown up so far, looking for who was enjoying this. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">He recognized Bryan, even inside his hooded jacket—the upturned nose, the full lips—one instant before Bryan saw him and strode away, his back to Andrew, who followed him.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">The boy might be able to outrun him, so Andrew took a chance, jogged down an alley for two blocks, then turned back toward the street. Moving alongside a building, out of the streetlight, he saw Bryan at the crossing. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">He let the boy go by, then ran silently, not even breathing, until he could grab Bryan from the rear.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Ow!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew clapped his hand over Bryan’s mouth. “Shut up. This is between us.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">He pulled Bryan in between two houses, jammed him up against a brick wall, and the damned kid fought him. His knee had to be twisted away before it hit Andrew’s balls; doing that, Andrew lost his grip, but Bryan didn’t flee, he slugged Andrew in the gut. Like Andrew, he was gloveless and kept his punches and kicks between neck and knees; no face work.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">A man—dark face inside hooded jacket—passed by on the street, glancing at them and going on without breaking stride. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew was operating on adrenalin, he had to get control of this boy. Bryan turned to run and Andrew stuck his foot out. With the boy on his knees in the snow, Andrew grabbed his arms and held them tight behind him. He yanked him up, pushed him chest first into the brick and stood behind him. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Who did this,” hissed Andrew. “What’s going on?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t know! I—”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Whisper!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I heard the sirens and came out.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You don’t live in Schuyler.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I moved.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“To be closer to the cops.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No, you’ve got me all wrong, I don’t have anything to do with them.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“But you know what’s going on.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, find out. My assignment is to find out where you live, which I can do in about twenty minutes. Your assignment is to be able to tell me, in 12 hours, who did this. And then we’re going to tell them, you and I, to leave her alone. We’re going to tell them that anything happens to her—she stubs her fucking toe—I hold you responsible and I take you out.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“OK, Bryan? If you’re not against me, then we’re a team. We meet at that park over there, by the courthouse, at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You’re not there, I go to your house. You’re not there, it’s because you’ve left the state.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Bryan was silent. Then, “I need money to get out of here.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You little turd. I’ll kill you before I pay you a dime.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * *</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">To Annie, he said, “Bryan was watching the fire. The kid from work. We had a chat.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Sign language,” said Annie. “On each other’s ribs and kidneys.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It was a frank discussion. We agreed to continue it at three o’clock this afternoon. In the square. Wearing mittens.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You trust him?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Just checking all the avenues. I gave him an assignment. With an incentive.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">"You’re paying him?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Never. It’s more of a negative incentive.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">They lay quiet, exhausted; last night's barbecue dinner seemed a year ago. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“One question from me," said Andrew. “OK?"</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">"OK."</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Are you still thinking about my proposal?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes,” she said, because she was.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-25365079746757012822016-04-16T07:19:00.001-04:002016-04-21T06:38:43.472-04:00Chapter 47 / Barbeque II<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes,” said Andrew, “you can think about it, if you’ll tell me what you’re thinking. Right now, tomorrow, next week, any time you have a thought.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">He sighed. “There’s no need to look like a trapped animal, dear. Like, right now—are you really surprised?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—I thought we were happy. As we were. Are. I thought, this is getting good. But nothing lasts forever.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew winced, recovered. “Glaron and Theresa. Kathleen and Doug. Jaime and George. Nick and Liza. Rosendo and Caroline.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie nodded. “There’s a divorce in about half those pictures.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Right. And we’ve done that. We’re both widowed, divorced, whatever we are. The youth crap is over.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Annie, Annie . . . ” He laced his fingers in hers. “I love you. Do you love me a little?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I love you, Andrew. It’s just . . . I thought we were happy.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We are . . .” Andrew took a breath. “Come sit here with me.”</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Will that chair hold us both?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes. Stop worrying about everything. I bought the damned chair so that we could both sit in it.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">They kept their hands connected as Annie moved to sit on Andrew’s lap, her right arm around his shoulders. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Give me a kiss,” he said, “to celebrate that we got this far . . . </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Now, let me tell you how it is. People don’t ask people to marry them because they find the person, or the situation, inadequate. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">They ask . . . they decide together, to get married, because . . . they have something good, and they want to formalize it."</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you for not saying, ‘they want to take it to the next level.’”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re welcome. What are you afraid of? The first thing that comes to mind."</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That you will leave.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I won’t leave. If I do leave, you get everything. If I die, you get everything. And you choose where to bury me. Stuart will set it up.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Stuart won’t do that for some nobody from Upstate New York.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes he will. He’ll want to meet you, and he’ll be so happy that someone beautiful, intelligent, hardworking, sensible, and loveable wants to marry me that he’ll set it up in a minute.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t cook.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Neither do I.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We have to eat something!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We’ve been managing to eat for a year.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—True,” she said. “This is your second January here, you know. Your first full-time, but you were here last year too. That’s how we test people, Jaime and I. Whether they can survive winter.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“And I passed?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well. Is there anything else you like about me?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“. . . I love to hear you play the piano at my house. It cheers up me, and the whole house.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Tomorrow we’ll go to your house, and I’ll play the piano for you all day.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you. We can talk about this more tomorrow? It’s amazing to think that neither of us has to go to work for two days.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Of course. I didn’t mean we’d get married tomorrow. Unless you wanted to. I was thinking we’d get engaged, talk to your priest, do the whole thing, however you want.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You did that once. It didn’t work.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I was drunk then. I’m not now. I’ve been sober for . . . two years. And two months! Almost.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s a selling point.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Really?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Really . . . But we have the same name.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll change my fucking name.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“And children. You want children.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t. I’ve left that.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Six children at Glaron and Theresa’s for Thanksgiving dessert, and you became an uncle to them all, in six minutes.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Right. Plenty of children I can be uncle to.” </span><span style="font-size: large;">Andrew rubbed his cheek along Annie’s. “Were your parents that bad?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie returned the rub of his cheek. “Bad enough so that I don’t want to repeat the experience.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Your brother did." </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes. Without children . . . being proposed to is exhausting. Can we lie down?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">They lay entwined in Andrew’s bed. She was still awake, he could tell, but not for long. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Just one more thing," he said, "before we go to sleep?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Do you still like me, now that I’ve asked you to marry me?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">She sounded definite, so he decided to try to relax and get some sleep. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">But Annie had woken up. “There is a difference, isn’t there.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What do you like about me?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew turned onto his back, stretched the full length of Annie, her arm entwined in both of his. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Let’s see, I love it that you love sex, I love to hear you play the piano, . . . but like, like—you don’t ask me if you look fat.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—Why would I do that?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I rest my case. You have to marry me.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew opened his eyes in the dark and tried to identify the sound that had woken him. He was curled on his side around Annie, who lay tucked in against him. If he got up he would wake her, and that would wake Chloe. He lay still until he heard the fire sirens, and then he began to gently disentangle himself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie turned to find him in jacket and sweatpants. “Where are you going?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I just want to see what’s burning. Stay here. Turn on your phone. Don’t leave the house.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Chloe will want to pee.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Put down newspapers in the kitchen. Keep the lights off. I’ll be back.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">In her crate, Chloe shook herself. Annie put on the dog’s lead and unlocked the back door into the yard. She sat on the steps in the dark while Chloe peed. Chloe joined her on the stairs, ready for a biscuit, but Annie took another moment to sniff the air, to notice that the odor almost immediately gave her a headache. She relocked the back door carefully.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew had been gone for five minutes. How long did it take to look at a fire? He didn’t want Chloe in the bed with them, which was fine with Annie—dogs in the bed had been Ed’s idea—but Andrew wasn’t here, so she and Chloe stretched out under the comforter. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What do you think, Chloe? Should we become a team of three?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Certainly life with Andrew was interesting. On the other hand, while the risk of arrest might be exciting, actual jail time would be terrifying. She must make sure he understood this, and thinking of which, where would they live? Her house had been hers and Ed’s, but she hadn’t moved up here to live in a dump like Schuyler. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">She dozed off making a mental list, and woke to the smell of him, she and Chloe struggling to sit up under the covers, Andrew kneeling by the edge of the bed, saying gently, "Annie, I'm back," smelling like gasoline and metal, sweat and blood; this was no campfire— </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Chloe growled. “Hush, Chloe,” Annie said. He had been gone for twenty minutes. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What was burning?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Your car.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-68159982656772614042016-04-09T06:40:00.000-04:002016-04-09T06:40:34.951-04:00Chapter 46 / Barbeque I<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“OK, the holidays are over. Glaron and Theresa have invited us for barbeque.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">With the apple-processing plant closed for the winter, Andrew was either at home writing, or on the road researching, his drug-connections article. At midday he would call Annie to make sure she stopped working for ten minutes. Today his call found Annie and Chloe in their jackets, walking around the parking lot of the newspaper office in the few minutes they had before another snowstorm began. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Cool,” she said. “Give me their number, I’ll call her and see what we can bring.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—I don’t think we can bring anything. It’s their classic barbeque dinner.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m from the country. I bring something.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you, honey, but remember not to bring flowers to a barbeque restaurant.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“This isn’t a restaurant, Theresa, it’s your home, and thank you for letting me bring Chloe.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“She’s gonna stay in that cage?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes. I’ll walk her around your apartment, so she knows where she is, and then she pops into her cratie, out of the way.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“All right then. Once I get the sauce made, I work the front of the house, greeting people, seating them. Glaron’s slicing meat, in charge of the kitchen.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Just the two of you?” asked Andrew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No, we got help. At least one in the kitchen, and a waitress. Depends on how big the place is.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * *</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What are they talking about?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew and Glaron had gone out on the back porch after dinner for a cigarette, and finished minutes ago. Now they leaned against the porch railing in the dark, kitty-corner to each other, in jackets and hats. Their breath rose like steam, in the light cast from the kitchen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghMlEO2f8yLL2UGZjNTHwursECHuTyLmzlArWq0xAfJJUv3sy7xeoTXl2YkMPEtfWc8OMBvLnZoIYLkhfsdWXhdTHw6Tvwcw_0oGcJ68Vmhp-rVMYylurfetAeD65GqqRb_OmHiI8MH_4/s1600/christmascom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghMlEO2f8yLL2UGZjNTHwursECHuTyLmzlArWq0xAfJJUv3sy7xeoTXl2YkMPEtfWc8OMBvLnZoIYLkhfsdWXhdTHw6Tvwcw_0oGcJ68Vmhp-rVMYylurfetAeD65GqqRb_OmHiI8MH_4/s320/christmascom.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Business. You liked the dinner?” Theresa asked again. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I loved it. But Theresa . . . I’m not a food critic. I eat anything. So does Andrew.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Theresa chuckled. “You’re funny. Well, we want to be known for a good feed, not fine dining.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Do you have a place in mind?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">A pot of coffee and a plate of sweet potato pie on the table, Theresa sat again, across from Annie. “No. Can’t decide if we should fight off the drug crap here in Schuyler, or try to find someplace else. Got any ideas?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—There’s a place I pass when I drive from Schuyler to East Wyndham. It used to be a restaurant, but it’s closed now. One-story with lots of parking—"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Stop.” Theresa held up her hand. “Tell them too.” She went to the back door. “Pie’s ready. And Annie’s found a place for the restaurant.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">The routine for staying in Schuyler now was to drop off things—tonight it was Chloe’s crate and two packed barbecue dinners—inside Andrew’s front door and then park the car at a well-lit city lot one avenue over. Schuyler fascinated Chloe, who snuffled along the shoveled snow, investigating what it had turned up. Andrew and Annie walked arm in arm against the cold. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What were you and Glaron talking about? It seemed like some big secret.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The restaurant. What did you think about the barbecue—really. Tell me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I thought it was delicious. I love barbecue. But I’m not a fussy eater.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Good point. We’re both easy to please. Gustatorily.” He squeezed her arm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Theresa said she knew how much work it would be. But the hospital kitchen is different.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Another good point. You’ll be in on the next meeting.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The next meeting?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“They see me as an investor. That’s what Glaron and I talked about.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie absorbed all the ramifications of this until they were inside Andrew’s house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“So your cover means nothing to them,” she said, giving Chloe her evening biscuit. The dog trotted off to the bedroom and hopped onto the bed to eat it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No. As Glaron said, he’s been around the block. And to the library. He said he’d keep a tight trap.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Is he blackmailing you?” Annie sat down with this thought, at Andrew’s one table.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No, no, he’s not that kind of guy.” Andrew sat across from her. “He figures that as a former murderer, like him, I have trouble getting a job, just as he does.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What do you think? About the investment.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m interested. I have to talk to Stuart, of course. For that, they’ll need a business plan. I can help them write it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Money appeared in Andrew’s checking account every month because of Stuart. Stuart’s accounting division paid Andrew’s bills, and Stuart invested Andrew’s family money. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s a great idea,” said Annie. “And unique. But they’re not young. Why don’t they bottle it and sell it? They could get a distributor, go national.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“They want to invite people in. Feed them. Be the hosts. I like that idea. This place does need more restaurants, and this is a restaurant that could sell.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Did you ever work in a restaurant? I did. It was horrible. You’re not making any money unless you’re run ragged.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’re not going to work there, Annie. We’re just the money.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—We?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew stopped, thinking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s true, you know. I think of my money as our money.” He tapped his finger on the table. “Damn . . . do you want a glass of water? That’s all I have.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“OK . . .” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew brought them each a glass of water. He turned off lights until all they had was the warm glow of the lamp at the table. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Give me your hand.” They held left hands, across the table.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“This isn’t how I wanted to do this,” he said. “I was going to make it nice. But, since I think of you as my partner—my love, my spouse, my life—will you marry me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—I just fainted . . .”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-14363929669311202362016-03-22T06:24:00.000-04:002016-03-22T06:24:04.244-04:00Chapter 45 / Neighborly<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“About last night . . ."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew sat at Annie’s kitchen table, overlooking the deck and backyard. He had set Annie’s place across from him, with her cereal bowl and coffee in a capped mug.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Did you sleep at all?” she asked, sitting down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, but I’ve been thinking, it wouldn’t be in Bryan’s interest to give the chief a bad tip, just to get even with me for making his hair sticky. I think he’s smarter than that. Dumb as he seems.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie sipped her coffee, listening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“So it may mean that I’m getting close to the chief. With my research. And he’s trying to—warn me off, as it were.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He was pleased with this idea, Annie observed, excited even. It brought a tiny smile to his face, not enough to flash the gold tooth, but a visible smile. Delusional? He had got the story on the Neanderthal, during Kathleen’s campaign, and he had come through with dozens of stories before that.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I can’t stop now,” he was saying, matter-of-factly, as if he were concluding a report to a board meeting. “I’m connecting Schuyler to New York and Albany, and also to Montreal and Cambridge. I’m getting corroboration, I’m getting facts. It’s probably more information than the witches want, but I’ll talk to them first. Then I’ve got other contacts, at other papers.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie let Chloe in from outdoors as she listened, and gave the dog breakfast, which Andrew had put into her dish on the counter, complete with her dog vitamins. Chloe’s water was fresh. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie sat down again, and Andrew cupped her chin gently to make her meet his eyes. “The question is—are you still in on this?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She kissed his fingertips, imbued with their scent of tobacco and apples, and held his hand. “I thought about it too,” she said, “while you were wandering around in the dark last night. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Here’s the way I feel. If he keys my car, I’ll have to suck it up. If he slashes my tires, I’ll report it to the police, even if it’s the police that did it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“If he poisons my dog, I’ll have to kill him.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew nodded. “That’s fair.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> * * * * * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Logan, get up!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sorry!” Andrew sat up, from where he had fallen asleep, on the concrete lip of a truck bay. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Goddammit,” said Steve, “I can’t have this place littered with bodies like a—homeless camp.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Girl dropped me off early, so she could get to work on time.” Andrew looked around him. “Lucky I didn’t get rolled.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Steve resisted a smile. “Is that your problem, Logan? That you can’t take anything seriously?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew hopped to the ground, wincing at his chilled bones. “No, Steve. Not to be contradict-ory, boss—I have many problems, but that isn’t one of them.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t call me boss.” Steve unlocked the back door of the plant. At 60 degrees, indoors felt warm. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew stood just inside Steve’s office. “More important than my problems—were you going to bail us out last night?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—Depends on the charge . . . maybe.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What did you think the charge was?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Are you interrogating me?”</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">The best undercover identity is closest to your real one. </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“One of my problems is curiosity. You thought something.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Drugs, of course. Or that your lady skimmed a stop sign.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“She didn’t. We’re clean. And because you were sitting there, they didn’t drop anything into the car.” </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">In back of them, men were arriving. Glaron must have driven Billie and JR in Ginger Lincoln. They greeted the other guys, opened and closed locker doors; a toilet flushed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No comment,” said Steve. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Did you tell him we worked for you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I did. And that Ms. Sullivan works for the newspaper. That’s what made the difference. Not apples.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The phone rang, and Steve waved Andrew away. Andrew left the door ajar and leaned against the wall, out of Steve’s sight, listening. Silent, JR joined him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“If you don’t come in today, don’t come in again,” said Steve, on the phone. “OK . . . ,” wearily. “Ten o’clock. No later.” He hung up, and Andrew and JR moved to the locker room. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What do you think?” asked Andrew, putting away his jacket and lunch. “Is that boy smarter than I thought?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">JR shook his head. “Chief’s after you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew looked at JR, who met his gaze. “Why?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You tell me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Who says?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">JR nodded once. “It’s the word,” he said, and moved away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He would miss this place, thought Andrew, if they let him out of here alive. The basketball, the rumble of apples, their sweet smell, the humming with Glaron against the rumble of apples, snatches of Johnny Cash or gospel; last week they had remembered most of the words of “Deeper Well.” Work would go smoothly this morning, till ten o’clock, without the tangle of that boy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You got something on for Thanksgiving?” Glaron asked him now, as they took their positions on the line, where Glaron was trusted with the final sort and Andrew filled and carted boxes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew smiled down at the apples, wanting to hug Glaron, operating in his parallel world, in which money was tight, drugs were sold on the corner and you remembered when Thanksgiving was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Annie’s brother and sister-in-law,” he said. "Come on over, we’ll have plenty of food.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No thanks, we’re ten so far. Just want to make sure everybody here has a place to go. “</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Neighborly of you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“More the merrier. Come by for dessert, all of you. We got four pies in the freezer. So far.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Maybe we’ll do that. I’m just meeting the family, you know. The brother, his wife.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Mm-hmm . . . nervous?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The brother should be like his sister, right? And his wife should be like him, who’s like his sister, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s the way it should work. Don’t always.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Thanks.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, you know.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I know.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’ll get you over one night for barbecue,” said Glaron.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Tonight?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Naw . . .” Glaron’s front teeth flashed as he lifted his eyes from the apples, to make sure Andrew was joking. “Sauce takes days, and tonight there’s some other plan . . . sweet potato pie.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-57094369087408396062016-02-05T07:01:00.000-05:002016-02-05T07:01:04.586-05:00Chapter 44 / Explorer II<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Chief Miller nodded to his officers and then walked the line of perps, stopping at Annie first. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Nice dog,” he said quietly, with fake cheer. “Does he bite?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That stupid question. “Yes,” said Annie. She tried to meet the chief’s eyes, but he kept his on Chloe. “If you reach for her, she will bite you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“And you, miss?” His eyes were still on Chloe and his voice just audible in the dark. “If I reach for you, will you bite?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Name, rank and serial number</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I asked you a question.” Now he raised his eyes to her face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I will kill you</i>, thought Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—You have no reason to touch me, Chief Miller. I have no answer for that question.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Hm!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The chief stopped in front of Andrew now, studying his face while Andrew compiled the chief’s genealogy and work history: <i>dark skin, narrow nose / family in the South, New York City / wedding ring / plus larger ring, fake sapphire—</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The chief had gone on to JR. Each made an effort to keep his face blank. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Where you staying?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“State Street.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Who’s there?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Cousin.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Going to be with us for long?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Forever, you piss-ant</i>. “Long as my job lasts.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">And then Chief Miller walked back to the white Explorer and visited with Steve at the window. The chief listened with his right ear, his gaze on the perps and the cops, half-a-dozen people standing by the side of the road in flashing red light that in half an hour had never ended. The chief might have said “Hm!” again, but as far as Annie could see, he left Steve without speaking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Go home,” he said, in the same quiet voice that covered them, without shouting, under the flashing red light. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew and JR immediately started putting things back into the car. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“He has my driver’s license,” said Annie, nodding at the heaviest of the three cops. The licenses returned, the performance piece reversed, the cops danced back into their cars, and Annie was free to drive again, when all she wanted to do was wash everything—car, hair, Chloe’s bed, everything—in soap and hot water. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, shit,” sighed Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s it,” said JR from the back seat. “Black man in a nice car, they harass you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Are you supposed to be somewhere tonight?” Andrew looked at Annie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Lugubria.” Thirty minutes north of Schuyler. “In 45 minutes. Tina will kill me if I don’t go.” Now Annie was close to tears. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll drive you.” Andrew put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. “You were great, you know.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You had some fine moments there,” said JR in a voice that grinned. “Kiss her for me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew kissed Annie again, then wiped a tear from her cheek with his sleeve. “You have to go, but not because she’ll kill you. You have to be there. As usual.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And we’ll take Chloe too, right?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Right. Chloe and I will wait for you.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">**********************</span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“So what was going on there?” They had dropped off JR and were eating pizza slices in the car before Lugubria's town board meeting. With her blood sugar inching into a positive number, Annie felt a little better. She bit off a piece of the third slice and gave it to Chloe through the grid of her crate. Chloe snatched it and chewed furiously.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Some cop saw you pass that old lady on a double yellow line last week.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“An-drewwww! First, no cop saw me. Second, I’m serious.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The car and the people in it—what JR said. Or, they follow this car all the time. Or—I have to look into this one—some little turd gave them a false tip. I’ll ask Steve tomorrow.” </span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Often these days Andrew’s answers raised more questions. The turd was probably someone at the plant. Annie went for Steve. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Why did the chief talk to Steve?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The chief may talk to Steve a lot about his staff. I just hope he would have bailed us out.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">******************</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Where’s Chloe!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Lugubria’s meeting had finally ended, Andrew was reclined full out in the car's front seat, sound asleep, and Chloe’s crate was empty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Chloe stuck her head out from underneath Andrew’s jacket and wriggled in ecstatic relief. They got out of the car and stretched simultaneously. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“She was having an anxiety attack,” said Andrew. “Can we stay at your house tonight?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Fine with me. Can I get a new car?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I went through that in my head. It would just give them something new to explore.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer </span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-15840817897026112512016-01-29T06:35:00.000-05:002016-01-29T06:35:26.209-05:00Chapter 43 / Explorer I<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Watch the car,” said Andrew as he opened the door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I got the dog.” JR slid the crate behind him and put it onto the ground, Annie’s sweater, in the dry cleaner bag, still attached to it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you,” she said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Shut up!” snapped the cop. “No talking.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie gazed at him, exactly her height, five-feet eight, and in the continual circling of the red roof light, beat after beat, she glimpsed sideburns that extended to the bottom of his ear, and youth, alone in his patrol car but not alone for long; two more cars pulled up in front of her car, their red lights circling, beat after beat, and then simultaneously, one cop stepped out of each car, pulling on his hat, turning back to them, again as if in a dance, and this the chorus. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Only Chloe “talked,” in a soft whimper, as nervous, and as hungry, as any of them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Each cop assigned himself to one potential perp. Annie and Andrew showed a driver’s license. The cop shone his flashlight into their faces, to make absolutely sure the photo matched, and then took the license back to his car. JR gave Sideburns a piece of paper. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t drive. Here’s my last pay stub. Last week. New York Harvest.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Worthless.” Sideburns, a head shorter than JR, crumpled it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Has my address on it. Last four numbers of my social.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">JR didn’t whine. He kept his speaking tone natural and showed no signs of bolting. Andrew breathed out in relief, wishing mightily that they had stayed on the main road. Here the street was darker, running alongside a sort of wooded DMZ where the high-schoolers smoked dope. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the other hand, the street was narrower here, and drivers slowed to pass them. Just as a cop ordered Annie to open the car trunk, Andrew saw Steve drive by in his white Explorer; he took in Steve’s surprised frown. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then Andrew attended to the car, his mind working overtime as to what they would do if the cops dropped drugs into the trunk, or the interior. Annie’s record was spotless, but his cover would be blown and who knew what JR did last week.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">This cop, the tallest of the three, was being cool, not touching anything, ordering Annie to empty the trunk. She took the opportunity to pull Chloe’s crate out of the street, in back of the car next to Andrew, during the instant that Sideburns ordered her not to. Too late; she was now emptying the trunk, placing each item next to the crate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie kept car stuff—Windex, paper towels, Chloe’s extra leash and plastic bags—in a framed, standup bag, which she now removed. In a second stand-up bag she kept her portable file of Observers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The five men stood and watched for fifteen minutes as Annie removed things from the car, and then from the bags, and Chloe from her crate so that the tall cop could turn it upside down and shake it viciously; the dog bed fell onto the ground and Chloe’s yellow tennis ball rolled into the road. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Stand back!” Sideburns snapped. Andrew and JR moved back exactly one step and then, within minutes, inched up again, watching, as the cop shone a huge flashlight into and onto everything. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">In her fatigue Annie observed that the cops had been transformed into theater artists, in costume, and this event a performance piece, lit by three red strobe lights, in which you took every single thing out of the car, and then out of its container, and then out of your purse and your pockets; you named it and examined it, to try to ascertain what your story was. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">And during all of it, the emptying of the glove box, the sifting through the newspapers, half of which had her byline on the front page, Annie was aware that if she were separated from Andrew she would know he could take care of himself, but they would have to rip Chloe from her arms. With that she picked up the dog and held her, resting her chin on the smooth triangle of Chloe’s head.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew had been watching the traffic until he saw the white Explorer again, returning to cruise slowly by the scene and then, having turned yet again, parking in back of Sideburns’s car. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">One of the cops—they were all white, but otherwise the darkness, their hats, obscured a lot of detail—walked back to Steve and spoke with him briefly before returning. “Phone call,” he said. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Tell him to make it somewhere else,” said Sideburns, and at that moment another car—<i>Car 1</i>—pulled in neatly, between Sideburns and Steve.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Well</i>, thought Andrew. This chief that everyone gossiped about. <i>I haven’t finished my research, Chief, but once I do, I want to talk to you</i>.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Well</i>, thought Annie. This meant that half of Schuyler’s police force was assembled right here. <i>Either Wendy will defend me to the death, or fire me</i>. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Shit</i>, thought JR. <i>Black man’s the police chief and it’s still a shithole, should put a spell on the whole damn town, but somebody already did</i>.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright (c) Debby Mayer</span></div>
Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-89310716152256617792015-12-30T08:45:00.000-05:002015-12-30T08:45:59.281-05:00Chapter 42 / 21<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">A week after the election, on a surprisingly mild day, Andrew, Billie, and Clyde (“call me JR”), who was the tallest of the three, were playing their version of 21 at the basketball rim by the picnic tables in back of the apple-processing plant. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Glaron sat at the table keeping score, with three piles of pennies in front of him. The two white boys—in their early twenties but still with soft, petulant faces—straddled the picnic bench across from Glaron, at once bored and jittery, casting occasional glances at the pennies. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Two black men—friends of JR’s, hired for the month because Steve needed a full crew in November—leaned against the building in the sun, smoking, encouraging the players in low voices, tossing a penny on a pile for each basket. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Against the sound of an 18-wheeler backing into the front of the plant with another load of apples, JR and Billie tied at 19. Andrew stepped out of the chalk-marked ring and went to the far end of the table, where he had left his bottle of Gatorade. He took a swig from it and immediately spit it out, spraying liquid in a half-circle around him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">The basketball game stopped. “Piss in your drink?” asked JR. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Vodka.” In two steps Andrew stood over Bryan, who was trying to get up, one leg under the picnic table, and poured the Gatorade over the boy’s head. “Goddammit, Bryan, I told you not to be an asshole!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t touch him,” Glaron said in a low, firm voice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Bryan and his sidekick were standing now. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Nothin’ wrong with your drink, you just want a fight—“ </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You little turd. You think I would pick a fight with a shit like you?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Hold it,” said JR, next to Andrew now. “Not cool,” he said to Bryan. “The brother don’t drink. You don’t fool with that.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">The other men gathered around, ready to separate the two before a punch landed. In front, the driver cut the truck engine. Steve opened the back door and stopped mid-word at what he saw. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What’s going on?” he said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Just a lunchtime discussion, chief,” said JR.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Steve took in Bryan’s wet hair, liquid dripping off his chin, and Andrew standing next to him. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Bryan, get in here.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I didn’t—“</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Come here! Logan, you too.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew moved immediately toward the door, his mouth tight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Thompson,” Steve said to Glaron, “check in the truck.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes sir.” Glaron got up, scraping the pennies into his lunch bag with a cupped hand. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Steve had created an office for himself in a windowless storage room, with one wooden table, two straight chairs, and three metal filing cabinets. It was as tidy as Steve himself, who, Andrew had observed to Annie, favored minimum-security style of denim and a buzz cut. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">The three of them stood in a triangle around the desk, Steve behind it, Bryan near the far wall, Andrew leaning alongside the door. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Why is your head all wet, Bryan?” Steve asked, and Andrew heard some fatigue there, as if this kind of conversation wasn’t new.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He poured his drink on me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Steve sighed. “Logan, why did you pour your drink on Bryan?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He put vodka in it.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I—”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Shut up, Bryan. Logan, did you see him do it?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—No.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Why do you think he did it?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Ask the little turd—”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m asking you.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Now Andrew sighed. “Because he needles me. About the meds I take to keep me from decking him twice a day. About hanging with the black guys. Jesus, don’t get me started—because he doesn’t do the job, because he doesn’t get it, because he hasn’t hit bottom yet.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">The other two stared, Bryan with his mouth half open. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“The rest of us have hit bottom and are on the way up. Bryan’s still clueless.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you, Logan, we’re not at a meeting.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew shrugged. “Saved my life.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Bryan, go back to work. And this afternoon, work.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“My head—”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Leave it. Let it dry, nice and sticky.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Bryan left. Andrew remained, waiting for dismissal. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Logan, one more fight and you’re out.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes sir.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Sit down.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew and Steve both sat, across from each other. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You’ve got a nice lady.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew nodded. “Keeps me straight.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I was going to ask you if you want to stay through the winter. Help me get this place cleaned up, organized.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m here, Steve, I’m not going anywhere. Wish I were, but I’m not.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“But you’re as crazy as the rest of them.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The little shit thought I wouldn’t taste the vodka. I’ll wind up in the paddy wagon.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Watch your language.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He your nephew?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Steve paused. “He told you?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Everybody figures it.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—My sister’s only kid. Other one got drunk, wrapped his car around a tree.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m sorry,” said Andrew, meaning it, thinking, so that’s what this is about. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—Thank you. Nice manners, Logan. Always.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Momma. We all have manners, Steve, they’re just buried in shit.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Bryan doesn’t have any manners.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Thompson does, and he’s not crazy, by the way. Billie’s pretty sane too.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I can’t keep the whole crew on. Thompson’s not strong enough to come back another year . . . maybe you and Thompson. Maybe. Stay out of trouble. Now get back to work.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes sir.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * * *</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He say how long he’ll keep this place open?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew and JR were leaning against Steve’s Ford Explorer in the dark, smoking, waiting for Annie to pick them up. They had done overtime, unloading the truck, and were the last to clock out. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—Not exactly,” said Andrew. “Did say that he couldn’t keep the whole crew on all winter.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, this crew ain’t staying in that icebox all winter.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You got enough weeks for unemployment?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“There you go, asking me something to make me think. You’re too smart for this job.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Girl helps,” said Andrew, wondering, again, if JR were under cover too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Why do you think that? Annie had asked. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Just a certain lack . . . of . . . detail.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">Annie arrived then, and in the second before they moved, she saw the two men—tall, long hair crushed under baseball caps, one white, one quick to tell you he was “high yellow”—leaning against the white Explorer, their legs crossed at the knee in the same direction, right leg over left, as if they might, in the next second, dance away. They wouldn’t dance, of course, they would get in the car, bringing with them the smell of cigarette smoke tinged with apples.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t say anything about today.” Andrew spoke to the road as he flicked his cigarette butt to the curb.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Not me,” JR said to the asphalt at his feet. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“A car with four doors,” he mused, sitting in back of Annie. Next to him, half of the back seat was folded down to make room for Chloe’s crate.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Amazing, isn’t it,” said Annie. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Auction,” said Andrew. “Get you something if you want.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah, they auction bicycles?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“A bicycle you can find.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Find me a bicycle in Florida next month. That’s the thing to do.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I just want to stop at the dry cleaner before they close,” said Annie, turning right, away from Schuyler toward the malls.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re the driver,” said Andrew. “How are the Witches?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Witchy. There was a fight, outside a bar in the town of Cowpoke. So we reported the fight, and the location. Today Tina called Catherine and me into her office and chewed us out for twenty minutes about reporting the location. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We kept saying, but that’s where the fight was, right in their parking lot. She kept saying it was unfair to them, bad for their business.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, yeah. So they called her. Advertisers?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No! Not even.” Annie set the hand brake and went into the dry cleaner.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Your girl work for a witch?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Two of them.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“—I could put a spell on them, you know,” said JR, who claimed New Orleans as home. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Go for it.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Start it tonight.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t tell her.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Can’t tell her.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie hooked the dry cleaning onto Chloe’s crate, then headed to Schuyler by the back way, with fewer stoplights. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As soon as she crossed the city line, a large red light circled in back of her. Annie pulled over, expecting an emergency vehicle to pass, but a police car pulled up in back of her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Shit! What did I do?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Fuck,” said Andrew. “You clean, JR?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m clean,” snapped JR, “you clean?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew nodded. “Don’t say anything about the paper,” he said to Annie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She opened her mouth, closed it. A week earlier, telling a cop, “I should know better! I work for the Observer!” had turned a speeding ticket into a warning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This cop was at the window. “Everybody out. With ID.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-50141701447843323352015-11-30T06:43:00.000-05:002015-11-30T06:43:09.101-05:00Chapter 41 / Absentees<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I am pleased, and proud, and honored to have won this election!” Kathleen shouted to the fifty people packed into the one-room temporary Democratic HQ in Schuyler. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The vote is close! What does that mean, everybody?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Your! Vote! Matters!” they shouted back to her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7gabS_0kH8tOPSX51KzUx9W_JTcUCs0vH5_uisTf_jgvhDrs2oiFyUyIoz7B8ruR3ccF8pSiCQoys23hFFw8-AJOR7J32R9oRP_GklK3YmRGJjgnyjfTfdQ8G-_nqjDmIyYymsw0sLQ/s1600/Abs2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7gabS_0kH8tOPSX51KzUx9W_JTcUCs0vH5_uisTf_jgvhDrs2oiFyUyIoz7B8ruR3ccF8pSiCQoys23hFFw8-AJOR7J32R9oRP_GklK3YmRGJjgnyjfTfdQ8G-_nqjDmIyYymsw0sLQ/s1600/Abs2.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Years later, Annie would be able to recall that night in an instant—the astonished joy as districts phoned in and Jaime filled in boxes on a huge grid with precise, undeniable numbers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes!” said Kathleen. “Your. Vote. Matters. And, for those who voted on absentee ballots, your, vote, matters. My opponent has called for a recount, and in his place, I would too. Then absentee ballots will be counted. The results may change.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But tonight, integrity won. Tonight, a candidate won who listens to the voters. A candidate won who takes a fresh look at the strengths and challenges of our region!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another cheer went up, and Kathleen beamed, without a trace of the fear that had haunted her eyes for a week after the car incident on the parkway. She had been careful, riding always with someone else, but nothing more had happened—not even a weird phone call—and Kathleen had picked up her shoulders, meditated every morning and evening, and gone on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Does she have anxiety attacks?” Andrew had asked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“She’s always been the steadiest person I’ve ever known,” said Annie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tonight Kathleen was also beautiful, her “TV haircut” sculpting her face, her alabaster skin flushed with the surprise—the truly amazing success—of an unofficial win by 132 votes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Last night,” Kathleen was saying, “I realized that the campaign part of this autumn was over. I had done what I could do about that. So I sat down, and I documented my plans—”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Next to Annie, Andrew stiffened, and Kathleen 10 feet away, seemed to feel it—</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I wrote down, everything I plan to do—”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew relaxed again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“When I want to do it, and how.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie would remember the presence of everyone. Absentees were in the distance. Here, they all touched—no, <i>held</i> one another. Up front, Kathleen was surrounded by her family; on her right, the little twin girls grinned, their arms around each other’s waists. They had been told to choose a dress for the evening, so Katrina looked like she was off to a dance, with a double skirt, while Katy might set out for a dinner party, in emerald velveteen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On Kathleen’s left, Conor, in his blue blazer, stood with his arm in Liam’s, and Doug, with his trimmed “TV beard” stretched his arm across the boys. Standing between Liam and Katrina, Kathleen sometimes touched their shoulders as she spoke. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I have so many to thank,” she said now, “starting with the Democratic committees of our four-county election district, who took me in and then took me out, to meet the voters. With their house parties and their road snacks, their bottled water and their gas money for the van, we, did, this.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another cheer. Annie and Jaime stood side by side, arms around each other, hip to hip, ribs to ribs. On Jaime’s right, George stretched his arm over them both. On Annie’s left, Andrew did the same, so that she was banked by the bodies of her two best friends, until the camera of the one local TV station that had showed up began to pan over the crowd. Annie and Jaime stood tall, ready to look unblinking into the round eye. Andrew squeezed Annie’s shoulder and slipped away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Glancing back after being filmed, Annie saw him standing with Glaron and Theresa, Billie and Tiaje, another black man she hadn’t met, maybe the one who liked to play basketball on their lunch break, and a shorter white guy—Steve, the boss, who had given $1,000 to Kathleen’s campaign. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“He hates the Neanderthal,” Andrew had said as he carefully folded his voter registration form and the eight others he had extracted from his neighbors and coworkers, before he delivered them to the Board of Elections. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now the camera headed toward that group, to show that there actually were African Americans in this rural backwater, and they took an interest in this election. Annie turned back to Kathleen, knowing Andrew would absent himself again, moving around or slipping outdoors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“. . . Now, let’s dance!” said Kathleen. “And if you’ll forgive my sounding like a candidate, God bless us, every one!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The crowd cheered and clapped, whistled and yelled “woo-hoo!” George reached right to the boom box on the table, started Johnny Nash in “I can See Clearly Now,” and gathered Jaime and Annie for a three-way dance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew returned, scooped Annie off her feet, and twirled her around, on camera. “He got us,” said Annie as they danced. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s OK. He got me outside, having a smoke, for my fifteen seconds of fame.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In fact, the party went short because everyone wanted to watch the 11 o’clock news. There, Annie and Andrew danced, and Glaron made the audio cut, saying, “She listens to everybody,” as did Jaime: “Did we take a page from the Clinton bus tours? You bet we did! And it worked!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">By midnight in Andrew’s house, a few blocks from HQ, Annie and Chloe had fallen asleep, but Andrew couldn’t rest, getting up and coming back to bed, prowling around in the dark, trying not to wake her, always waking her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“She’ll lose it in absentees,” he muttered. “Nobody’s prayers are going to change that.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie squeezed his hand, trying not to fully wake. She had to be at the newspaper at 8:30, and the Witches would ride hard herd on them today, for election results in the next day’s paper. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Should have got that story out earlier.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Spokesperson,” murmured Annie, envious of Chloe, motionless in her crate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">About three Andrew settled down, curling himself against her. “TV,” he said. “Radio.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At daylight he walked Chloe and returned with newspapers, coffee and hard rolls from the Pakistani bodega around the corner. He fed Chloe and made a day’s worth of peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, two for Annie, four for himself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you,” said Annie, as he poured her coffee out of paper into ceramic, which she preferred. “Refocused?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t make fun of me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m not! You’re wonderful.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Really?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Really. You changed Kathleen’s campaign from a romp—a ride in a VW bus—to something real.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We still don’t have the numbers.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But she did tremendously well for an unknown candidate from a low-population part of the district. And we have the Neanderthal on our side, right? In a year, he’ll be divorced. He may not even run again. You said it first.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re right. And I did. But the question is, do you love me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They were standing inches apart in his galley kitchen, Annie leaning along the refrigerator, Andrew against the counter where he had packaged up the sandwiches. In three minutes, they had to leave for work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No gotcha questions!” Annie put down her cup and reached up for his face. He encircled her with his arms. Inside they were both laughing, giddy, almost hysterical with fatigue and release. They’d got through this. Now something else was about to begin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Answer the question.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—Is it safe?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Not with another question!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—Maybe.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Arrgghh! I made you two sandwiches,” he said, indicating them without letting her go. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You did. And for that I love you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two weeks later, after the candidates and their lawyers had watched the absentee ballot count, Kathleen lost the election by 196 votes, out of 96,509 votes cast.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Hardly a mandate for him,” Annie told Kathleen in a quick phone conversation from work, and that became their slogan for the next year. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kathleen used the concept in her gracious-but-firm concession speech, filmed outside the kids’ school by all three TV stations: “I wish my opponent well, as he joins the State Senate for another term,” she said with a smile. “But I would point out that his mandate comes as much from our side as his.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-26140454098720537342015-10-09T06:24:00.000-04:002015-10-09T06:24:21.990-04:00Chapter 40 / Kitchen Cabinet<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Times Union editorial board interviewed Kathleen on Tuesday. They sounded tough but fair, reported Jaime, who rehearsed Kathleen on Monday and chauffeured her to Albany on Tuesday “so you can be a proper candidate and review your notes and such while I drive.”</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After the Times Union, they negotiated parking in downtown Albany, delivering Kathleen with five minutes to spare to her appointment with the real estate developer. This encounter was deemed fair and miraculous. He agreed with Kathleen that she needed TV for a level playing field in the campaign. He would wire the maximum allowable donation to her campaign committee, which would cover a package of TV ads in the Albany area, which reached the entire district. For creation of the ad, he referred her to the “communications” agency that he used. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The children returned home from school that Tuesday to find Kathleen and Jaime having a glass of red wine at three o’clock in the afternoon. They swarmed like puppies, sniffing the wine and screwing up their faces, even Conor forgetting his indoor voice, demanding, “What happened! What happened!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I want to tell the whole thing once, when Dad gets home,” said Kathleen, putting out their apples and cheese. “But I’ll give you the best and the worst.” When they had washed their hands and sat down at the table, she said, “The best was that everybody I met treated me like I had something to say. The worst was driving around downtown Albany.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But if you’re a state senator, you work in Albany,” said Conor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“In Albany, and here, in our district. I’ll learn how to drive in Albany. And maybe we’ll get an apartment there, for when something exciting is happening.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But we’ll still go to the same school,” said Katrina, who was eight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes,” said Kathleen. “We’ll still go to the same school.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Wednesday and Thursday were filled with soccer games, a parent night at school and working with the PR group via phone and fax to write a 30-second ad that Kathleen believed in. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Friday Jaime met the kids’ school bus while Kathleen was in Albany taping the ads. Driving home in her Mommy Van, she had almost, she swore, been run off the parkway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No groceries tonight,” Annie told Andrew on the phone late Friday afternoon. I’ll pick you up for a meeting of Kathleen’s kitchen cabinet. She’s terrified.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Did she tell the police?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes, but she was scared and didn’t get the license number. They attribute it to some drunk, which is possible . . . if a drunk in a black sedan with tinted windows would carefully edge into you, no matter which lane you were in or what speed you were going.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Stay off the parkway,” said Andrew. The six of them sat around Kathleen and Doug’s kitchen table, talking quietly. The children were by now bored with campaign meetings, waiting only for the next road trip in the yellow VW bus that sat in the driveway, festooned colorful, positive message posters. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I didn’t sign on for this!” hissed Kathleen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes you did!” snapped Andrew. “Sorry. But you’re running for state office here, not dogcatcher.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I signed on for a clean race—issues only.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And who brought up your solidarity trips to Cuscútlan, to Cuba? Your dirty-tricks opponent. Who dug out that you were once a nun, and Doug was a priest. Not to make you look thoughtful and values-oriented but to make you look unbalanced.” Andrew bit off the word: <i>un-balanced</i>. “Your filthy opponent.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Andrew,” said Doug, Kathleen’s husband. He paused, in his deliberative way. “Don’t lecture Kathleen. Please.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I—” <i>You could spend life thinking. Or doing.</i> “I’m sorry,” Andrew said, meaning it, and then, more gently, “Try to have someone else in the car.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I have my children in the car! Will you let Annie be in the car?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie had been gazing beyond the circle of light, envious of the children in the living room. Conor was reading while the younger ones watched a movie that Liam had set up for them on the TV. Two issues of the Observer had been published now, without reporting on el Neanderthal, but Harry, the ad salesman, who was close to the Witches and their husbands, said that the paper would endorse Kathleen, early, saying it was time for a change. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie returned her attention to the adults and said, “I’ll drive you in my car whenever I can. Whenever the Witches let me out.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll be in the car,” said Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll be in the car,” said Jaime. “I’ll get the damned plate number.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You won’t be in the car,” said George, Jaime’s husband. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes I will!” said Jaime “And we’ll stay off the parkway. There’s always another way to get somewhere.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Andrew—we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew here, have we?” <i>They wouldn’t really try to kill her, would they?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No,” he said immediately, and she reflected on that, too, that he always replied quickly, as if he knew the answer, even if, like now, he shook his head, as if to convince himself. “They want to scare her. Bastards.” Again biting off a b-word. He tossed his cigarette out the car window. “Get her to withdraw from the race, thirty days to go.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re muttering.” Annie was driving Andrew back to Schuyler; then she’d go home. They both had to be at work at eight the next morning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In his head, Andrew saw her car, leaving the little city, its outskirts, the next rural town . . . “It is scary.” Andrew paused. “While I was in the city yesterday, someone got into my house.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What?!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They didn’t take anything. Not my thrift-shop TV or microwave. I don’t keep cash there, and I had my laptop with me. I’d suspect someone in my neighborhood just checking the place out, but somebody shat in the toilet and didn’t flush it. I see that as a warning.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yuck. At least it was in the toilet.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Exactly. But I want to keep the laptop at your house for a while, OK? And tonight, drop me at the top of the hill. I’ll walk home from there. Check things out. Protect my little castle.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—OK.” Her car wouldn’t be seen near his house.” I’ll call you when I get home.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“OK. If I don’t answer, it just means I’m walking around.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And you’ll call me when you get home.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Did you tell the police?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No. Nothing taken, no forced entry. Someone small got in the bathroom window and let the others in. Then they walked out the front door. At least they closed it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I could hear the police telling me that I forgot to flush the toilet and lock the door. But I didn’t, and I didn’t leave the bureau drawers open and check all the pockets of my pants and leave them on the floor, or drink half a gallon of orange juice and toss the container on the floor.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Kids?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Might be. Or someone who wants me to think it was kids.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-15693126986715280912015-09-14T06:40:00.000-04:002015-10-06T06:46:40.124-04:00Chapter 39 / The Devil<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;">On a blustery Thursday in early October, Andrew rode his bicycle from his house in Schuyler to Annie's house, at dawn. In New York City Warren was dealing with his father's need for surgery and had cancelled his patients that day. In Hudson County, Andrew's research on Kathleen's opponent for state senate had panned out. He needed the car to pitch the story, beginning with the newspaper in the home city of el hombre de Neanderthal, as Annie and Jaime referred to him. There Andrew had found a curious managing editor and an ambitious young reporter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“If my tires get slashed, Andrew . . . you’re in the doghouse.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You love this." Andrew made a point of stopping at the one stop sign between Annie's house and the newspaper office, just to reassure her, even though there wasn't a car to be seen. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">"I do, because el Neanderthal is such a . . . Neanderthal. But now I'm wishing we had told Kathleen."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">"No point in it. If the papers are too timid to take it . . . no story." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She hugged him tightly before getting out of the car. "Good luck."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"We've got it," he said, hugging her back. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She looked at him. "Luck?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"The story, girl. With any luck."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You've had such a grin, plotting this man's downfall."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"He was rude to you. Just last year. Let's get to work."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">They kissed again, and Annie went into the office. She wrote three news stories from the town board meeting she had covered the night before and edited more press releases than she could count. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">All the while in her mind's eye she followed Andrw up to the southern Adirondacks and back own to Albany in this, the second of his plans. Study of the drug scene in Schuyler was ongoing; the election, thirty days away, was immediate. So Annie prayed silently, frankly: if it be your will Lord, let this happen. Kathleen is the better candidate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At 4:30, right on schedule, she saw Andrew's head above the room divider, as he spoke to Ginny, the receptionist. Annie waved to them as Ginny escorted Andrew, with his laptop in its shoulder case, upstairs to the balcony above the newsroom, to the office of the Witches—Tina the editor and Wendy the publisher. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At 5 o’clock, they were still in a closed-door session. Ginny, Catherine, two ad guys and the production chief sat with Annie, speculating, casting occasional glances heavenward toward the Witches. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At 5:20 Andrew came out of the Witches’ office, walking the long flight of stairs from the balcony, his eyes down, with a sense of fatigue that made him look older than usual, fatigue that disappeared the instant he saw Annie, Catherine and one ad guy still waiting for him. Immediately, Andrew twinkled; wordless, they filed outdoors and sat at the picnic table in the front yard, out of sight of the Witches. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Gonna take us down, huh,” said Harry, the paper’s top ad salesman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Apparently,” said Andrew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What! What!” said Catherine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Read the Post Intelligencer on Sunday.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You did it!" Annie kept her voice down—you could never tell where the Witches were—and leapt up to kiss Andrew. He pulled her onto his lap, his arms tight around her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"We did it," he said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Did what!" said Catherine. "The PI is a hundred miles away."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The Times Union may pick it up on Tuesday. After they do their own research. Only 50 miles away.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Road trip Sunday,” Harry said thoughtfully, almost to himself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But not the Hudson Observer on Monday?” he asked Andrew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They said they’d think about it overnight.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Not the Observer on Monday,” said Harry, nodding. “Hubbies’ll nix it, and Monday I’ll still have a job, with somebody to sell ads to. Sorry, guy—” he held out his hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Andrew shook it. “Maybe I’ll bum a ride with you Sunday.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sounds like a plan. Here are my numbers.” In one fluid move Harry swept a business card out of his pocket. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You on this weekend?” Andrew asked Catherine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She nodded, her eyes big.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Then you’re the one to write it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You have to background me! Come over for dinner, both of you, in an hour. Cookies and water. Jim’ll want to hear this too.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But that’s it,” said Andrew, ”just the four of us.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’ll go to Barrington, get takeout barbecue,” said Annie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Great idea,” said Catherine, “but I’ll do it. Feed the source.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">An hour later the four of them sat at another picnic table, smaller, indoors, off Catherine and Jim’s kitchen. They had inhaled the only takeout barbecue in the region, pulled pork and ribs, coleslaw and sweet potato, as they hashed out the marital problems of Kathleen’s opponent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But she never brought charges,” said Catherine, referring to opponent’s wife. “At the Observer, we don’t run domestic abuse unless someone is transported to the hospital.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“OK, that’s her problem,” said Andrew. “The public problem is the lack of public record. Six times in three years—over the course of two of his two-year terms—the police were called to his home. And each time the police file looks like this . . . Closed.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“People have rocky marriages,” said Jim, who was divorced. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They do, but that doesn’t always bring the police.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“She reaches out,” said Annie. “Then she withdraws. Half-a-dozen times. At least.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You write the feature on patterns of domestic abuse,” said Andrew. “For Monday’s paper, the question is what does this mean for public policy. That’s what I was pitching to the witches, not if ‘it bleeds it leads,’ though there’s probably that, too.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Policies on . . .” Catherine was adding to her notes on a legal pad “. . . domestic abuse . . . child support . . . Family Court . . . police issues . . . what else?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What did you do?” Kathleen asked Andrew on Sunday. “The managing editor of the Times Union called me, to schedule an interview with the editorial board.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Annie had seen Andrew grin, but never like this. “Gimme your hand, girl!” he said to Kathleen. He picked up her limp hand and slapped it. “They’re taking you seriously!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What did you do?” Kathleen repeated, almost pleading.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I did research. Here’s the start of the results.” Andrew put a copy of the Post Intelligencer on the table. “We’re lucky—slow news day, banner headline.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kathleen took up the paper, looking more horrified than happy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Can I read it too, Mom?” said Conor, 12, her oldest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sure. Here, let’s sit.” Another picnic table, this one on the deck, overlooking the swimming pool below. Kathleen shook out the broadsheet to its full size. She and Conor read.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Andrew, will you play softball with us,” asked Liam, 10.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes. But let me talk to your mother first.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Liam sighed and sat against Andrew’s leg. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Liam, there are plenty of chairs,” said Kathleen, turning to the story’s jump inside. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s all right,” said Andrew, “I’m just warm-blooded furniture.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Conor giggled, his eyes glued to the newspaper. Liam looked perplexed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Are human beings warm-blooded or cold-blooded?” Andrew asked him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, right,” said Liam. “Warm-blooded.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And I’m just some ole piece of furniture, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Right! And you’re my coach. And I can’t get rusty in the off season.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Hang on. What do you think?” Andrew asked Kathleen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“—I feel slimy.” Both boys stared at her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No reason. You didn’t do anything. He did everything. And now this race is yours, now you direct the conversation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“But you still have to work for it.” Andrew moved Liam to his other leg so he could lean over and tap a photo in the newspaper. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“See this guy?” Conor stared at the headshot of a real-estate developer in Albany who had commented for the story. Kathleen didn’t take her eyes off Andrew. “Pitch him for TV money. His comment has no substance, but he’s thinking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And it’s very sweet of you to go door to door, to want every person in the district to interview you, but it’s a big district. You need TV.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Are you the devil?” Kathleen asked him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Conor raised his eyes to Andrew, while Liam stared at his mother. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No need for the devil,” said Andrew. “It was there. There for the taking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Call this guy tomorrow. Tell him you’ll be in Albany this week, talking to the TU editorial board, and you want to meet with him afterward.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I have to be home when the kids get in from school.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Then schedule it while they’re in school.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I can do it, Mom, I can take care of everybody,” said Conor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“And I can be here by 3:30, if Conor needs help,” said Andrew. “C’mon Liam, we have time for catch.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Liam didn’t move, frozen on Andrew’s knee, watching his mother, terrified of the devil. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“C’mon, Liam,” said Conor, standing up, “we’ll both throw to you. You can’t get rusty.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Are you OK Mom?” asked Liam. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes,” said Kathleen, looking into his sapphire eyes and lying. Of her four children, the two biological boys, the two adopted girls, she swore she had no favorites. But she did adore this one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Turn on the outside lights,” she said “so I can watch you.”</span></div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-13189205951812876212015-07-21T07:07:00.000-04:002015-07-21T07:07:42.864-04:00Chapter 38 / Food<div class="p1">
“It’s part of the culture, Andrew.” Annie propped the phone on her shoulder and sorted press releases while they talked. “You get paid on Friday, you go to the supermarket, you buy food.”</div>
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“I thought you got paid, you got drunk.”</div>
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“That’s for 20-year-olds, sweetie . . . though you should know I never did that, even at 20.”</div>
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“I know. That’s why I’m here.” </div>
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“—You don’t have to come. Though really, if you want me to buy food for you, it would be nice if you did.”</div>
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“I’m there. I’ll even take a shower first. Can we go to MacDonald’s afterward?”</div>
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“I was thinking Chinese. The place in the mall isn’t bad.” </div>
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“I’m starving.”</div>
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“Take a candy bar and save the wrapper, so that we pay for it.” Annie pulled a shopping cart out of the row. Inside the store, she put a shopping basket into it. </div>
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Andrew chose a Snickers bar and put the wrapper in the cart. “They’re so fucking cheerful,” he whispered. “When do people have sex?”</div>
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“They don’t.” </div>
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“But they have all these children.”</div>
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“—I don’t know, Andrew. You’re a reporter. Ask them.”</div>
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“I’m not a reporter. I move apples. What can I do here?”</div>
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“Take this basket and get two half-gallons of milk. Two percent for me, whatever you want for you. Near there are eggs. Get two dozen. Check that none are broken. Can you do yogurt?”</div>
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“Um. Brand? Price? Flavors?”</div>
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“You’re right. I’ll do yogurt.” </div>
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Annie pushed the cart toward produce. A short black woman in a multicolored turban, with a hospital staff ID on a red ribbon around her neck, was frowning at the bananas. </div>
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“Look at this,” she said, “full of bad spots.” </div>
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“I know,” said Annie. “They’re only good in winter, but I buy them all year.” </div>
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“And 49 cents a pound! My mother told me never to pay more than 25 cents. You remember that?” She looked at Annie with a smile. They were about the same age.</div>
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“Yup. My mother told me never to pay more than 25 cents for a head of lettuce.” </div>
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They both laughed heartily. </div>
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“Well,” said the woman, “have a good weekend anyway.” </div>
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“Thank you, same to you.” </div>
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Andrew walked toward Dairy. It was almost a town square, he thought; people chatted over the food, over their carts. Have a good weekend! they said, oblivious to the camera eye above them at the end of every aisle. </div>
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And staring at the milk shelves Andrew found his coworker Billie. </div>
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“Hey man”—they shook hands—“<i>sak passé</i>?”</div>
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Billie smiled. “Where’d you learn that, Southern boy like you.” </div>
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“In the yard. Where I learned everything else. Looking for some milk?”</div>
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Billie nodded. “Girlfriend wants it.” </div>
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“Likewise.” </div>
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They stared at the milk. Andrew took a two percent and decided on regular for himself, resisting the impulse to lecture Billie on the gross overabundance of American life as they faced fifty units of milk, different types, brands, sizes. Billie, tall and dark-skinned, a watcher and listener, stared at the milk. </div>
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“Does she want two percent?” asked Andrew. “That’s what women usually drink.” </div>
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“No, she want the milk without the milk in it.” </div>
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“Lactaid?”</div>
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“Yeah, Lactaid, which one’s that.” </div>
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“This one.” Andrew ran his finger under the word. “Lactaid. Half-gallon or quart?”</div>
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Billie sighed. “The small one.”</div>
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Andrew tapped a quart. </div>
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“Thank you,” said Billie, his eyes on the milk. </div>
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“No problem. Have a good weekend.”</div>
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At eggs, Andrew found Glaron, another coworker. </div>
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“How you doin.’” Glaron smiled broadly. His gold teeth were in front. </div>
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They shook hands. “Is the whole place here? Steve? The boys?”</div>
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Glaron shook his head, still smiling. “Boys ain’t got the sense. Steve’s got a wife.”</div>
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“You’ve got a wife.” </div>
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“She works. We do this together. I better get some eggs.” </div>
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“Me too. Look at this, Glaron, a dozen kinds of eggs.” </div>
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Glaron nodded. “Silly, ain’t it. These are good.” He tapped a carton. </div>
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“Thanks. Have a good weekend.” </div>
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“Same to you.”</div>
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Andrew found Annie checking the weight on packages of chicken. </div>
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“Don’t get Tyson’s,” he said. </div>
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“Never. Or Purdue.” </div>
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“The whole shop is here.” </div>
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“No kidding!”</div>
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“Well, the nice guys. What else should I get?”</div>
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Near Gatorade, Billie introduced Andrew to “my fiancée, Tiaje,” a tall, slim woman, also dark black, with elegant cornrows and a hospital ID on a silver chain around her neck. </div>
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“What do you do at the hospital?” Andrew peered at the ID. </div>
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“I’m a pharmaceutical technician,” she said, speaking clearly, keeping eye contact with him.</div>
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In paper products he met Teresa, Glaron’s wife, who also wore a hospital ID and worked in the kitchen, she told him. </div>
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“You the famous Andrew?” she asked.</div>
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“—No ma’am . . . I just move apples.” </div>
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“And talk back to the boys. You be careful, you’ll lose your job.”</div>
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“—You think? They related to Steve?”</div>
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“They must be. Why else . . .” Teresa shrugged.</div>
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“Hey, here’s Annie.” Andrew introduced them. </div>
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“Hi,” said Annie. “Teresa and I met in produce.”</div>
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“Are we done?”</div>
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Annie nodded. </div>
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“We’re done! Now we stand in line.”</div>
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“You don’t have much food there,” Teresa observed. </div>
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“We eat out a lot,” said Annie. </div>
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“Tch.” Teresa shook her head. </div>
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“Teresa, mind your own,” Glaron said gently.</div>
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“I got this chicken,” said Annie. “I’ll cook chicken tomorrow night.” </div>
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“I thought we were going dancing tomorrow night,” said Andrew. </div>
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“Sunday then, I’ll cook the chicken Sunday.” </div>
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“Dancing? You’re going dancing?” asked Teresa.</div>
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“Yeah, want to come?” said Andrew. </div>
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“It’s really fun,” said Annie. </div>
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“In your dreams,” said Teresa. “Let’s get in line, you’ll tell me about this dancing.” </div>
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Billie and Tiaje were in the next line over, so Andrew described dancing to all of them while Annie tracked their groceries going through checkout. </div>
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“I thought these were on sale,” she said to the cashier, tapping the two twelve-packs of seltzer that Andrew drank.</div>
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“I’ll check it when I’m done.” The cashier flipped on her “call’ light.</div>
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“Thank you.”</div>
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“What’s up?” said Andrew. </div>
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“Nothing. She’s going to check a price. Can you pack?” </div>
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The others were silent while the manager helped the cashier check the price and reduce the total by two dollars. </div>
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“Well,” said Teresa, “you do run a tight ship.”</div>
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“Twenty-five cents a pound, right?” said Annie, and they both smiled. </div>
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Andrew handed the cashier a 100-dollar bill. She raised her eyebrows just the slightest bit over her eyeglasses, took in all of them and made change for him.</div>
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Glaron was whispering to Teresa; Billie and Tiaje nodded, and Teresa said, “We’re having supper at the Chinese place. Come on and join us. We got a cooler. Glaron’ll help you put your cold food in it.” </div>
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“Thanks,” said Annie, “but it’s not hot tonight.” </div>
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“You put the chicken, the milk, in the cooler. Glaron’ll help you.”</div>
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“She’s appraising us,” said Annie as they leaned against the No Loitering sign near the Chinese restaurant while the others finished at the market. </div>
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“You think?” Andrew tapped the ash on his cigarette.</div>
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“She’s going to ask us how we met.” </div>
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“Remember, stick to the truth as much as possible. We met on an airplane. You were visiting your mother . . . I’ll think of something for me.” </div>
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*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</div>
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“So this is where the cool people eat,” said Andrew, looking around him at the crowded restaurant. </div>
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“African Americans like Chinese food,” said Teresa. “Are six dishes enough, or should we get eight?</div>
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“Eight,” said Andrew and Billie in chorus. “I’ll pay the extra,” said Andrew.</div>
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“We’ll all pay,” said Teresa. </div>
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They were figuring out their order when the waiter came over. </div>
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“Can I get an iced tea?” asked Andrew. </div>
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“No ice tea, hot tea!”</div>
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“OK, how about a pitcher of water for the table.” </div>
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“Order drinks, get water!” said the waiter. </div>
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“Wait on tables, get tip,” snapped Andrew.</div>
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The waiter stormed away.</div>
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“Andrewwww,” said Annie, “he’s going to spit in the water.” </div>
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“Sorry, everyone.” </div>
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Tiaje had followed this with some consternation, but Teresa couldn’t resist a giggle. “He’s always testy, that waiter.” </div>
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The waiter came back, slammed a plastic pitcher of water onto the table and went away. </div>
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“I’ll try it,” said Andrew. He poured a glass. “Well, he didn’t pee in it.” They all took water. </div>
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“OK, in my restaurant, the waiters eat first, and every table gets a pitcher of water, without they ask for it,” said Teresa. </div>
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“You’re opening a restaurant?” asked Andy. </div>
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“Well, the date’s not set. But I think about it.” </div>
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“What kind of food?” </div>
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“Barbecue. With my special sauce.” </div>
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“I’m there.” </div>
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“It’s a great idea,” said Annie. “There’s no barbecue around here.”</div>
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Teresa nodded. “I know. I’m watching. Anybody opens a barbecue restaurant . . .” She sighed. </div>
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“It has a mysterious fire,” said Andrew, patting her arm. </div>
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“Don’t even say that out loud! Where you come from, you and your attitude.” </div>
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“New York.” </div>
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“Should of figured. How’d you two meet?” </div>
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“On an airplane. She picked me up.” </div>
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“He was taking two seats!”</div>
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At this point even Tiaje giggled. </div>
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“Tiaje,” said Andrew, “will you come dancing tomorrow?”</div>
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“It’s at a bar, right? We don’t drink,” she said firmly. </div>
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“We don’t either,” said Annie. “Get a Coke, a ginger ale.” </div>
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“Colored people go there?” Billie asked, barely audible. </div>
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“—Nnno,” said Andrew, “you’d be integrating the dance floor. But they’re nice people. No fights, no drugs.”</div>
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“I think you should go,” said Teresa. “Integrate the damn dance floor. Your age, I would.”</div>
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Copyright (c) Debby Mayer</div>
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Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4917572366966902491.post-39240406709746934372015-06-26T06:35:00.000-04:002015-06-26T06:35:57.321-04:00Chapter 37 / Train Trip
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Some days”—Andrew stood up and walked around Warren’s
office, in a circle past the wall of books, past the window with its skinny Venetian
blinds, past the two doors, one in, one out, that prevented Warren’s famous
patients from seeing one another.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Some days I think I’ll blow this whole thing. Some days I
almost do.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Warren listened, alert. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“And some days I feel like I’m talking to God. Dammit,
Warren, you know all this already, if not with me than with some other patient.
How to you keep from screaming in boredom?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“By reminding my patients not to avoid the hard stuff by
expressing concern for me that while it may be genuine, isn’t helpful, to me or
to them.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“That’s the most you’ve said to me in months.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“You’re getting good at figuring things out for yourself.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Andrew sat down, stood up, walked around again. “I had
shipped some cartons to Annie before I left, so all I had with me was a duffle
bag and my laptop. That was it; all my earthly goods. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“And a huge sense of failure. I achieved nothing in New York.
The radio station was glad to give me an unpaid leave. I know I’m paranoid
sometimes Warren, but I also have a good sense of nuance. I think they were
about to . . . give me the ax. It’s all Middle East now, with some Southeast
Asia thrown in. My fluent Spanish, my dozens of contacts, don’t mean a thing." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Let me interrupt just to say that your achievements since
you left the hospital are immense. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Immense</i>.
Go on.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Thank you, Warren dear. Seriously. Keep reminding me,
because I know there’s a story up there, and I have a contract for it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“So I lock the door on my studio. I get a taxi. I don’t talk
to the driver. He can probably see this black cloud hanging over my head and he
would say God is good, God will take care of you, so we don’t talk. I give him
an extra couple of bucks for shutting up. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“On the train I find a seat on the aisle. I need to walk
around, the people near me with their clutter, their issues, are making me feel
like I itch, even though I don’t. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“The train is moving out of the tunnel, then out of the
city, so I get up and stand between the cars because I love those old,
soft-edged tenements in the late-afternoon light, and I’m still feeling black,
thinking about the concrete down here spreading every day to meet the concrete
up there, yet there’s some comfort in that old brick, and then the conductor
comes along, so I start to give him my ticket and he says, ‘Take a seat, sir.
Riding between cars is not allowed.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I show him my ticket and he doesn’t take it, he won’t take
it until I sit down, so I do that. There are two guys talking in back of me and
I think if I have to listen to them for two hours I’ll start chewing up my
cigarettes, so I wait until the conductor is well into the next car, and then I
stand between the cars again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"We’re in the Bronx now and I’m thinking, look,
it’s just a pile of concrete, there are other places, you can do this, you’ve
got a good idea, a good girl, you can do this. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I lean against the car and try to relax to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chunk-chunk</i> of the train.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“And the damned conductor comes back. ‘Sir, you cannot ride
between the cars.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I look at him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“My mind is humming like the laptop does when I’ve got too
much open on it. Somewhere I’m begging him to leave. He doesn’t. We stare at
each other, and I see that he is being brave. I haven’t said a word to him, my
arms are at my sides, but I’m a head taller and 20 pounds heavier, and I must
be giving him my black empty look, because when he says to me, ‘Sir, if you do
not sit down I will have you put off the train at the next stop,’ there is fear
in his eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Of me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“We stare for another couple of seconds and then I sit down.
I am taking the train to my new life. I don’t want to arrive in Yonkers to a
police presence. In fact, there are two cops at the station when we get there,
but I’m sitting, and I have a ticket. We go on. And every fifteen minutes for
the rest of the ride, a conductor walks through the car, making sure I’m
sitting. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“In Beekman all the rich people get off, leaving my end of
the car to me and two women, each with a little kid. The one is your cute,
practical mom, short hair, loose pants and sneakers, and every time her kid, a
boy, probably about three, has shown the slightest sign of boredom, begun the
slightest hint of a whine, she pulled a new toy out of a big blue bag she has.
She has snacks for him, and games and puzzles and little kid books. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I’m taking notes on my laptop, wishing I could tell her what
a great mom she is, but she isn’t afraid of me, and I don’t want to take her
there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“The other girl—she is a girl—wears a white dress and
three-inch white heels. And she has brought nothing for her kid, who’s smaller
than the other kid, maybe a little younger. Nothing. She sits him at the
window, and he runs up and down the aisle. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I figure the good mom is taking her boy upstate to see some
grandparents. Dad will drive up on Saturday. But the other one, is she going to
be married in that dress? She’s already a shotgun bride whose poppa didn’t have
a shotgun, and now she looks a little spacey in her short white dress, with its
long tight sleeves, as if she doesn’t know quite where she is, or who this kid
is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“When her boy comes over and stares at me I show him a file
on my laptop, but he can’t read, it’s no fun. So I find a couple of sheets of
paper and an old red pencil. No ink on momma’s white dress. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“He just looks at them. I sketch some stick figures, a dog
like Annie’s, with a fox-like face, a cat with whiskers, and offer him the
paper and pencil again. He grabs them and runs back to his seat. We haven’t
exchanged a word. Annie says kids in Hudson County are like that too. They
don’t talk, because no one talks to them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“When I get off the train they all stay, taking their
innocence to another place. For me, Annie is standing at the edge of the
parking lot, with the Village Voice open in front of her and I think, she
doesn’t read the Village Voice, and then she closes the paper, revealing a huge
bouquet of flowers, all yellows and greens and blue-purples, some kind of
flowers, which she offers to me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I put down my two little bags and pick up Annie and her
flowers. I hold her, and hold onto her, I’m home.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Copyright © Debby Mayer</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Debby Mayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12708345568234342495noreply@blogger.com2