Recently, we had to get security cameras. Long story. But that’s not what this is about.

It’s about the cameras.

I’m an old broad, but I’m proud to say I did pretty good setting them up—for an old broad.

No tears. No swearing. Well… maybe a little, but nothing too blue. Channeling my grandmother, I may have uttered a potlicker or two.

Now we have security cameras here and there and, well, damn near everywhere.

I checked the cameras.

Who’s that old woman on my deck? Is she stooped. An old man hobbles into the house behind her.

Is that my husband?

I guess that’s what decades of marriage does.

Decades of anything.

Anyway, I have a new mantra.

Butt in. Boobs out.
Butt in. Boobs out.

I practiced it all day strutting through Aldi‘s, the dentist office and Kwik-Trip as I repeated my posture-positive mantra under my breath.

Butt in, boobs out.

I also threw a colorful scarf through the bonnet of gray curls haloing my head for a youthful bohemian flair.

I fear it’s less boho and more Mrs Roper.

There’s a lady in a red riding hood walking through my woods.

Look at her—playing on her phone instead of watching for the likes of me. The stupid woman has no idea what danger she’s in.

Red’s a big gal. Muscular, more than plump. Oh well. That’s what tenderizer’s for.

I wonder what’s in that basket she’s carrying. Perhaps a bottle of bubbly that pairs nicely with human flesh.

That would be lovely.

I yawn, stretch, then slip closer through the trees.

I pull back her hood.

“Hello, Big Red.”

The woodsman smiles and swings his axe.

Pa had a draft horse named Henry. A sharecropper, Henry was Pa’s only possession of value, and he loved that horse.

“I swear,” Ma would tease, “you love Henry more than me.”

Pa would grin and say, “Not so, Essie. I love you the same amount.”

When God took Ma, Pa struggled to tend both crops and kids. One day the landowner came and said he wasn’t running a charity. There were plenty of good orphanages, and Pa needed to farm or get gone.

Pa took Henry to town and traded him for a rusty old truck.

On the way home he cried as hard as when Ma died.

The next day we loaded our few belongings into that old truck

and left the only home I’d ever known.

If you enjoyed this flash piece check out Delmar Hickey, my serialized novella set around Easter 1991 in a factory town on the shores of Lake a Michigan.

Darkly funny, rough-edged, and painfully human, Delmar Hickey is a story about grief, family, bad decisions, and the terrifying possibility that love might ask more from you than you can give.

“Jack, all I’m saying is, truth’s a tricky son of a bitch,” Neil said as he refilled my coffee cup.

I sat on one of a dozen stools. Neil stood behind the counter. Except for the two of us, the diner was empty.

“That’s bull. Truth is truth,” I countered, pouring creamer into my coffee.

Studying me, Neil absentmindedly scratched his head with the eraser end of the pencil he kept behind his ear.. I knew I was in for one of his long-winded analogies.

“My favorite pie is pecan,” he began, “but Mary doesn’t like it, the boys either, but every year for Thanksgiving, she makes one just for me. Last Year she burned it. She got busy and forgot to set a timer. Mary felt awful and wanted to make another one but it was only a couple of hours until we ate, and she already had her hands full and ...”

He straightened a stack of crumpled newspapers as he rattled on. I sipped coffee, only half listening. Over the years, I’d become pretty good friends with Neil and his wife, Mary, the owner-operators of Big Ed’s Diner. Neil was a likable guy, balding with a bit of a gut, ‘self-inflicted’ he liked to say. Mary was a pretty little thing with red hair and freckles.

“...so I told her it wasn’t burned, it was toasted.”

“Sounds to me like you lied to her.” I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I ignored it.

“No, I didn’t lie. Burnt and toasted are…” he chewed on the pencil, “…a matter of opinion.”

“You do know, from now on, you’re gonna get burnt pecan pie?”

Neil’s expression told me he hadn’t thought of that.

“Damn; now I want pie,” I grumbled and leaned sideways to see the dessert board blocked by Neil’s stocky frame. “What kind of pie you got?”

“Apple, pumpkin, chocolate cream,” he rattled off.

“No, pecan?”

“Nope, pecans are too expensive.”

“Pumpkin then, with extra topping.”

Neil buried a piece of pumpkin pie in whipped cream and set it down in front of me.

Picking up my fork, I said, “You know what I think? You didn’t want Mary to make another pecan pie because you’re cheap.”

“I’m not cheap, I’m frugal. There’s a difference.”

I laughed..

Neil scowled. “Pecans are pricey, that’s true. But Mary had her hands full. That was true too.”

“So toasted was a lie.” I declared.

“No, it wasn’t. They’re all true. Like I said, truth is tricky.”

As I whittled the pie down to its fluted edge Neil filled and wiped off the salt and pepper shakers in silence. This wasn’t normal. He always had something to say and it was making me uneasy.

Finally, Neil ran a hand through what hair he had left, and said, “So, here’s some truth. I’m worried about Mary.”

“Why? Is she sick?”

“No, nothing like that. She’s been, well, different lately; distracted and nervous-like. Also, she joined a book club. It meets two nights a week. But here’s the thing. I never see her reading a magazine, let alone a book.” He exhaled, “Jack, I think she’s cheating on me.”

I make myself meet his gaze. “That—doesn’t sound like Mary,”

“Well, I don’t know what else to think!” His voice was thick.

My phone vibrated again.

“Oh, damn. I gotta go.” I stood up and patted the cell phone in my pocket. Neil looked like he was going to cry.

Geez oh, man. I sat back down.

“Listen Neil. Mary loves you. Only God knows why you bald buzzard. And, don’t you know people use smartphones to read books now?”

“Really?”

“Yup, my sister does it all the time. She even has an app that reads the book out loud in a man’s Scottish brogue. She’s always had a thing for a man in a skirt.”

Neil chuckled and wiped at his eyes.

“I think it’s good Mary has something to do besides chase after those boys you two keep producing. What is it now? Three or four?”

“Three.”

“Three carbon copies of you? Huh! You better treat her like a goddess before she comes to her senses. Buy her some flowers or, I don’t know, scented candles.

“Mary does like scented candles.” Neil scratched his head with the pencil.

Time for me to get the hell outta here. I reached for my wallet.

“Put that away, Jack. It’s on me today.” He came around the counter and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Jack, a damed good friend.”

“Thanks, Neil. I appreciate it. Tell Mary hi for me.”

“I sure will.”

When I got to my truck I looked back and saw Neil smiling as he wiped down the counter then checked my phone. Two messages from Mary.

Neil’s right. Truth is a tricky son of a bitch.

First, I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even miffed.

Second, my logic was solid.

If I carried his head around with me, he’d be able to hear everything I said, as opposed to repeating half of everything or saying, “What? Hold on. I’ll be in there in a minute.”

He blames the TV, the Lake Michigan waves, hell, even the birds chirping.

But not his hearing.

Like all of a sudden, they got louder?

Yeah. Right.

I’m a problem solver. And there’s usually a compromise.

No hearing aids, you say?

No problem.

I’ll just carry your head around instead.

Like I said, my logic’s solid.

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My puppy lies barely breathing. Rotting flesh hangs from his skull. He whimpers, eyes begging. I’m crying so hard I can barely see.

It’s the nightmare that’s stolen my sleep for weeks.

But this time, I’m awake.

I swing the shovel once. Twice. The third blow ends it. Bone gives way with a wet scrape. The acrid smell of blood fills my nose.

I drop to my knees, clutch him, and scream—

Wait.

That screaming isn’t mine.

My eyes snap open.

In my arms: bone, brain, ruin.

Across the room, my wife shrieks,

“My baby.”

That’s strange. I hear the roar of waves, but Lake Michigan is calm as glass.

I Google it. A dangerous phenomenon—many drownings attributed to it.

My neighbor calls to me, but I can’t hear her above the roar.

“What?” I yell, then continue toward the dead-still water.

She runs as best an old lady can in sand until she’s only steps behind me.

“Get back!” she screams. “It’s not safe!”

I laugh and point at the lake. “Does that look dangerous to you?”

She grabs my arm and tries to pull me back, but I shake her loose.

“This is silly. There’s no danger here. Look at the water. Smooth as glass.”

Just as the words leave my mouth, a translucent female figure rises from the lake.

I barely hear my neighbor scream as she covers her eyes and runs away.

Mesmerized by the shimmering woman of water and foam she

beckons me closer.

When my husband died and then my child, the part of me that manufactured love dried up.

It was the same for him, or so he said, at the grief support group and on long walks down narrow paths through decaying foliage. I felt comfortable with him, and he with me—no demands for something we didn’t have to give. Time was all we had to share, so we did.

Winter snow and frigid winds closed the walking paths, so we went inside. Puzzles, books, old movies, crackling fires. I felt moments of contentment, and so did he, or so he said.

A baker of homemade breads, his rye complimented my mother’s Irish stew. My husband’s chili recipe paired perfectly with the sourdough his wife had so adored. We shared meals and then a bed. Our grief mingled, and we carried it together, lighter somehow.

When spring arrived we went outdoors and walked the same paths where decayed foliage nourished new life to full bloom.

I come from homely people. Not average. Not plain as a mud fence. Unmistakenly homely. According to Mom, it’s our curse.

Grandmother Carpenter says Mom loves nothing more than a pity party.

“Besides,” she says, “what’s Dawn complaining about? She’s managed to get close enough to at least two men.” Then she cackles like she’s told the best joke in the world.

It's true. Mom has two kids, and neither of us has ever met our father. We don’t even know their names. That’s the one subject Grandma is as tight-lipped about as Mom.

Still, if you listen to Grandmother Carpenter, being homely isn’t a curse at all. It’s a blessing. If people like you, she says, it’s because they actually like you. Not the shiny packaging.

But by that logic, couldn’t someone dislike you just as easily because of the packaging?

I mean, I love periwinkle. But just looking at chartreuse makes me want to vomit. I’d never pick a package wrapped in chartreuse unless it was the last one. Even then, I might go without.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m an ugly duckling. There are unknown genes rumbling around inside me. Not knowing what my father looks like leaves room for hope. Maybe there’s a splash of periwinkle in there somewhere.

If not, I’ll rely on brains.

New to Delmar?

—> Chapter 1

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25

I gotta give it to Father Gil. Last night he got Margie back in her seat and a hymn going, then shut down the open mic before anyone else could run their mouth. After that, it was prayers and hymns only.

I saw him give Aunt Billie her letter. She left in a huff, with Uncle Mort trying to keep up.

I’ve got the ugly green suit back on and am waiting for Margie in the car.

“I need to apologize to Aunt Billie,” she says, slamming the passenger door. “That was awful, what I did.”

“I thought it was cool.”

“I don’t want to hurt her feelings. And Ma loved her.”

“Suit yourself,” I say, backing down the driveway.

We get to St. Patrick’s early. We want to see Ma one more time.

They’ve got her coffin outside the sanctuary, ready to wheel in. The funeral guy opens it and steps back.

“She really is pretty in that dress,” Margie whispers.

“Yup.”

“Her hair’s nice too.”

Margie touches Ma’s hand and starts crying. I do too.

I lean over the coffin and whisper, “I’m your son, Ma. I’m your son.”

We cross the street in front of Trudy’s after the funeral. Margie talked to Aunt Billie before Mass. I don’t know what Ma wrote in that letter, but Margie said Aunt Billie apologized.

Her song for Ma was beautiful. I teared up. But she don't need to know that.

I’ve never seen Trudy’s Bar lit up like this. Both front and back doors are open, fresh air blowing through the place. Good thing too. Otherwise it’d smell like cigarettes and beer. Maybe Ma had a hand in it. The pool tables covered up and serves as a table for what Trudy calls finger food.

I spot Margie sitting at a table with Trudy’s nephew. They’re talking about something. Neither one notices me watching.

Everett comes up beside me. “Who’s the boy with your sister?”

“That’s Benjamin.”

“The one from Texas?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.” Everett smirks.

I watch them for another minute. Margie and a boy. I don’t know how I feel about it. Maybe I’m just sad. Sad over endings, I guess.

I take a long drag on my cigarette. Hell, maybe I’m just jealous.

I turn to say something to Everett, but he’s gone. I catch sight of the back of him following Sheila toward the bar. Seems she’s gotten into the habit of buying rounds.

I don’t see what's wrong with that.

The place is getting stuffy. Ma had a ton of friends. Half the town, it seems. They all want to shake my hand or hug my neck.

I slip out back, passing the steps to my old room.

I can’t believe how nice the day is. If there’s a heaven and Ma’s there—and of course she is—she’s gotta have a hand in this.

I decide to walk around the block.

I miss walking. Not going to work. Not walking from Trudy’s to Ma’s. Just walking. It’s only been a few days, but I miss it.

Tiny buds are starting to form on a lilac bush as I pass a house behind Trudy’s. The sky looks different too. Friendlier. Big cotton-ball clouds. They remind me of toilet paper. We’re gonna need to buy some of that.

I turn the corner back toward Trudy’s.

That’s when I see it. End of the block sits a car that looks a lot like Gina’s. There’s a lot of Hondas in town.

But still…

<—Chapter 24

—> table of contents

That’s it. That’s the book.

Thanks for sticking with Delmar all the way to the end — he wasn’t always easy to love, but neither are most of us.

If this one got you, tell someone. Share it. Comment. That’s how stories like this find their people.

New to Delmar?—> Chapter 1

—>Table of Contents

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24

I’m already opening the Marlboros as I push my way out the 7-Eleven door. I light up and head for the car to wait for Margie. When I left her, she was trying to decide between sour cream and barbecue potato chips.

I hear the door open and swing around.

“So what’d you pick?”

My heart climbs into my throat. It’s Gina.

She looks back at the door. “What?”

“Oh. Ah… I thought you were my sister.”

“Monkey, right?”

I shrug. “It’s Margie now.”

She nods and starts walking. “Good.”

“I thought you were in Hawaii,” I say.

She stops a few feet from me. “Why would you think that?”

“You quit work.”

“Yeah…” She pulls her coat tight around her. “I found a job closer to home.”

Gina steps up, touches my chin, and turns my head, checking my cheek.

“It’s almost gone,” she says, sounding disappointed.

Her hand drops.

I reach out to touch her face.

She catches my wrist.

“Don’t.”

The word hits harder than a slap.

“Gina—”

“No.” She lets go of my wrist and takes a step back. “I’m not doing this.”

“What?”

She starts across the parking lot, then stops and wheels around.

“What the hell, Delmar?” She almost charges toward me. I jump back. “The way you were drooling over me made me uncomfortable, Delmar. You made me uncomfortable!”

I look down at the cigarette burning between my fingers.

“I thought you were my friend, Delmar.” Her voice is almost normal. “I thought you were a good guy.”

“Delmar is a good guy!”

We both turn.

Margie’s standing outside the 7-Eleven with her hand in a bag of sour cream chips.

“Well, pretty much.”

Gina starts walking away.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She sighs. “I’m sorry too.”

She looks away.

“I didn’t mean to bring this up. Not now.”

She stuffs her hands into her coat pockets.

“Just… with your mom and everything. Everyone says she was a really good person.” She swallows. “Everyone says she was really nice.”

“Gina—”

“I gotta go. Goodbye, Delmar.” She gives a sad wave to Margie and starts walking toward her car.

“Gina, wait.”

She walks faster and grabs the car door handle.

“What about you and Frank?” I call after her.

She turns and looks at me. “You think I’d trade one pawing, drooling asshole for another?”

“Don’t compare me to fucking Frank.”

“Then don’t act like Fucking Frank.”

<—Previous chapter 23

—>Chapter 25

New to Delmar?—> Chapter 1

< Chapter 22

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23

At six o’clock on the nose, the funeral guy swings open the carved wooden doors and people start pouring in.

They shake my hand, say how sorry they are, talk about Ma, then move on to Margie, who’s sitting on the leather couch with Aunt Peggy—her namesake—and the tremor guy.

Aunt Billie and Uncle Mort are standing by the casket like they’re showing Ma off at the county fair. Uncle Claude and Aunt Charlotte wander around. Growing up here, they know half these people.

I see Everett and Sheila come in. Everett’s wearing the suit from their wedding. Sheila’s in a fur coat that makes her look like a fat polar bear. She hugs me quick, leaving perfume hanging in the air like poison fog, then clomps off toward the coffin.

Everett waves the stink away.

“That perfume cost five hundred dollars,” he mutters, checking that Sheila’s out of range. “She smells like a whore.”

I grin. “But not a cheap one.”

“Don’t I know it. Op! I’d better stick with her—she can spend money in a closet.”

People from work show up—Jake Thompson and some of the others from the B line. We do the handshake-sorry routine.

Then Barney comes over and tells me he’s sorry. He already knows I’m going to days, but saying it out loud makes it real.

Someone taps my shoulder and I turn around. It’s Trudy.

“Delmar.”

The first thing I notice is her eyes. No blue eyeshadow. She’s in a black outfit and looks like a real estate lady.

“Delmar, this is my nephew Benjamin.”

A boy maybe sixteen, with red hair and freckles, is leaning on metal crutches that hook to his arms. He offers me his hand.

“Nice to meet you.” His legs are bent and twisted under him so he has to look up at me.

“Benjamin’s come from Texas to live with me,” Trudy says beaming. Then she looks at me hard before yanking me into a hug.

“I like this stand-up guy,” she whispers in my ear.

When she pulls back, she grabs my hands.

“If there’s anything I can do for you and Margie, let me know. I mean it, Delmar.” She lets go. “Now—where’s your sister?”

Before I can answer, Uncle Claude wanders over and says, “I need a cigarette.”

We step outside and move around the building to get out of the wind whipping off the lake.

The parking lot’s jammed and cars line both sides of the street for two blocks. We talk about Detroit, building cars, and chainsaws. Just shooting air. Turns out he introduced my old man to Ma. They were in the same platoon in Vietnam. I like Uncle Claude, so I won’t hold it against him.

From the funeral home stoop, I see Margie cup her tiny hands around her mouth. The wind shoves her hair everywhere.

“Delmar—it’s starting.”

The front row is reserved for family. I sit down next to Margie. Aunt Peggy and Uncle Arnie stay on the little couch, walkers standing duty.

As soon as we sit down and old lady in a bad wig starts to play the organ and Everyone finds a seat. Margie squirms in her seat and I see her eyes are big again. I squeeze her hand.

Father Gil steps to the podium and calls a hymn number. Everyone rises and sings. Then he prays. I look at my new shoes.

After that the father talks about what a good parishioner Ma was, how many boards she served on, all her outreach stuff. He talks about her growing up, then about her as our mother. Says God’s got her now.

We sing another hymn. He prays again—longer this time—then talks some more. Finally, he says anyone who wants to speak can come up. Aunt Billie shoots out of her seat like her ass is spring-loaded and bee-lines to the podium.

“Ahem.”

She grips the sides like she owns it.

“I am Wilhelmina Steele—Janice’s older sister, although only thirteen months older, and a lot of people thought we were twins.”

The room chuckles. Aunt Billie doesn’t.

“Janice was more than a sister. She was my friend. We talked for at least an hour every day.”

I know who did all the talking.

She smiles sadly. “Janice was a good sister, a good friend, and a good person. I will miss her more than anyone will ever know.”

She dabs at her eyes. “I take comfort knowing Janice’s precious child, Margaret, will be living with Mort and me.”

She looks right at Margie, who freezes like a fawn in headlights.

“It’s the Christian thing to do.” Aunt Billie makes a show of moving to the coffin, setting her hand on it, then sits back down.

Father Gil is back at the podium. He waves me over but I don’t move. He waves harder, arm flapping like he’s trying to land a plane.

Then he steps toward me. I can smell coffee on his breath. “Did you give your aunt her letter?” he whispers.

“No. You just told me to bring them.” I pat my jacket pocket.

His mouth tightens. “Give them to me.”

As I pull the letters from my suit pocket, the gingerbread-man cookie cutter falls out, rolls away, and lands in front of the podium.

I hand him the two letters—Aunt Billie’s and Margie’s.

“Delmar wants to share a few words,” he announces.

“I do?” I mumble.

He pats my back and steals my seat. I pick up the cookie cutter, turn it in my hand, then hold it up.

“I found this after Ma died,” I say. “I was looking for something in the pantry.” No need to tell them what. “Ma and me used to make Christmas cookies with it. Back when it was just me and her. “I forgot all about it, but seeing this...” I trace a finger around it. “It brought it back.” I look over at the casket. “She was a good Ma. I’ll miss her.”

I sit in the only empty seat—right next to Aunt Billie. Aunt Peggy hobbles to the podium with Uncle Claude helping her.

“That’s mine,” Billie hisses at me.

“What?”

“The gingerbread man,” she mutters out of the side of her mouth. “It’s mine.”

“Like hell it is.”

“I remember distinctly lending it to Janice in 1973.”

Father Gil, three chairs over, leans forward to glare at us.

“Squatter’s rights,” I growl.

Billie huffs like a pissed-off mare, folds her hands, and stares ahead. As I slide the cookie cutter into my pocket, she grabs my wrist and tries to wrench it free. I hold tight. She yanks harder, nearly knocking me out of my chair. I shove her, and her chair bangs into Uncle Mort’s.

Aunt Peggy and Uncle Claude stare from the podium. Everyone in the front row leans forward—except Margie. She’s still reading. Then she jumps up, eyes blazing.

“Ha! In your face, Aunt Billie!” She shakes the letter at her. “I’m living with Delmar!”

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22

We stand in the funeral home, me in the ugly green suit Aunt Billie bought and Margie in her Christmas dress. The first thing I see is the casket at the front of the room with flowers stacked on both sides. The place smells like a greenhouse. Folding chairs run from the back wall almost to the coffin, spaced so people can see Ma.

Margie grabs hold of my arm, I look down. Her eyes are huge.

Aunt Billie’s standing next to the coffin with Uncle Mort. Father Gil’s a few feet away talking to some guy I don’t recognize. An old couple is parked on a velvety couch along the wall.

I lean over and whisper to Margie.

“Right now it’s family only, right?”

She nods.

“So who are they?”

She shrugs. “Family?”

Aunt Billie spots us and rushes over. “Margaret, why aren’t you wearing the dress I bought you?”

Margie sputters, “I… ah…”

“She spilled something on it,” I say.

Looking down at Margie, I see her face has gone white. At first, I think she’s scared of Aunt Billie, but then I see she’s staring at the coffin.

I lead her to the first folding chairs we come to while Aunt Billie trails us, yammering on. “What did you spill on it? You couldn’t have cleaned it off?”

“She spilled beer on it,” I say. “Didn’t smell too bad to me.” I raise my hands. “But she wouldn’t listen.”

Aunt Billie’s beady eyes bulge. “You gave her beer!”

“Delmar’s kidding, Aunt Billie,” Margie says quickly. “I hope it’s okay. This is the last dress Ma made for me. It seemed right to wear it today.”

Aunt Billie nods slowly.

“I spent a lot on that outfit. But, I guess it’s okay.” Her mouth is pinched at the corners.

“Who’re all these people?” I ask.

Aunt Billie brightens.

“That’s Claude, my brother — your uncle.” She points. “And his wife, Charlotte.”

Then she calls out:

“They finally made it. This is Janice’s children — our dear little Margaret…”

Her voice hardens.

“…and Delmar.”

Aunt Billie drags us over to meet the old couple on the couch — Ma’s Aunt Peggy and Uncle Arnie. Matching walkers sit parked beside them.

The old lady struggles out of the couch, insisting on hugging us.

“My namesake.” She smiles at Margie. “Only folks call me Peggy. I never did figure out how Peggy comes from Margaret.”

Margie’s face lights up. “Oh! You’re my Ma’s favorite aunt.”

The old lady smiles at that, then looks at me. “We met you, Delmar, when you were about seven at your father’s funeral.” She turns back to Margie. “And you, young lady, we only knew from your mother’s Christmas cards. You sure do look like my Janice.”

Margie glows.

“Janice and I looked a lot alike,” Aunt Billie says, “so Margaret, honey, you look like me too.”

Aunt Peggy studies Aunt Billie. “No. Wilhelmina, you take after your daddy. He was a handsome man,” she says, shaking her head. “But bossy, and my goodness was he ever controlling.”

Margie hides a smirk. I don’t.

Father Gil calls us over, and before I know it we’re standing over Ma, looking down at her in a box.

She looks plastic. Like one of her dress dummies, only with a head. She’s wearing makeup too. Ma hardly ever wore makeup. Only for special occasions. I guess this counts as one.

Margie sniffs, and a tissue gets thrust at her by the funeral guy. What the fuck! Was he hiding in the wall?

We’re all standing around staring at Ma. Even Father Gil. Margie’s back to squeezing my arm. She leans over and whispers to Aunt Billie, “Ma looks pretty in that dress.”

For once, the old bat doesn’t say anything. She just gives a little smile and nods.

Father Gil says, “Let us pray.” And for the second time in a few minutes, I find myself doing something before I realize I’m doing it.

During the prayer, Father Gil starts telling God all kinds of flowery things about Ma. I hear soft crying and glance at Margie.

But it ain’t Margie.

It’s Aunt Billie.

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21

Earlier today, I gassed up Ma’s rust bucket, drove it to work, and filled out the paperwork to go days. It starts Monday — fuckin 7 a.m. I can’t remember the last time I got up that early, let alone did any work.

On the way home, I stopped at St. Pathetic’s to let Father Gil know Margie’s staying put.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded like he already knew. Usually that would’ve pissed me off.

When I told him Aunt Billie was gonna raise hell, he said not to worry about it. Ma had it covered.

He leaned back in his chair. “You still have the letters?”

“Yup.”

“Bring them tonight.”

Back home, Margie’s still sewing on that dress and I’m doing the dishes cause I wanna stay busy so I don’t think about Gina. Besides, Margie already let me know she’s not gonna be the maid.

Vern’s old fridge is back in the garage by the workbench, loaded with the beer she keeps hauling out of the kitchen fridge to make room for funeral food.

My chest aches. Dull. Deep. Staying busy ain’t working.

Last night, when we couldn’t find Margie, it burned like a Smokey Joe loaded with hot charcoal. With Ma? With Ma, it feels hollowed out.

What the fuck’s happening to me? I’m turning into one of those feely types. Next thing I know I’ll be knitting.

Earlier, we shoved the rest of my shit into Ma’s bedroom. After all the funeral stuff, we’re gonna move the sewing machine in there and I’ll take my old room back. That way we don’t gotta paw through Ma’s stuff yet. Just move the sewing machine, a dresser full of fabric and crap, and those two headless statues.

“You like it?” Margie asks, twirling in a dark blue dress and bagged-out polka-dot socks.

“Looks good,” I say, like I would know.

She beams and sock-skates across the kitchen.

“I’m saving it for the funeral. Tonight I’m wearing the dress Ma made me last Christmas.”

She slides back and forth. She’s been bouncing around all day. Even singing. Mostly hymns, but still singing.

I flip over the pan from the brownies we polished off last night.

“How come there’s names on these dishes?”

“So people get their dishes back.”

She watches as I paw through the stacks of bowls, pans, and plastic containers spread across the countertop.

“She used a throwaway.”

“Huh?”

“That girl, Gina. The apple pie was in an aluminum tin. It’s a throwaway.”

I put down a pan with BETTY T. written on the bottom. “I’m just making sure the dishes are clean.” I start washing one of the crusty plates that’s been soaking.

I can feel her looking at me.

“What?” I bark.

“You should go see her.”

I don’t look up. “I can’t. She’s on a trip.”

“When she gets back, then.”

I suck in a breath. “I’m not… welcome at her house.”

Margie opens her mouth to say something, then shuts it. Avoidance. Ma would be proud.

She says, “At work then.”

“She quit.”

“So call her when she gets back from her trip.”

I turn on the hot water and let it run over the plate. She watches me, waiting. I put the plate next to a pan so it’ll drain. Then another.

Finally, I say, real low, “She’s with Frank now.”

“Frank’s a piece of shit.”

I can’t help smiling. “A piece of shit that just won the lottery.”

She grabs a dish towel. “He’s still a piece of shit.” She starts wiping the plates. “Besides, why did she bring the pie?”

“Uh… her coworker’s mother died. She’s a good person.”

“She could’ve sent a sympathy card. But she didn’t.” She stops wiping and points at me. “She wanted to see you, Delmar.”

I start to think about that, then shake it off.

“Maybe. It don’t matter now.”

“Why?”

“I told you. She’s with Frank. Guy’s got millions.”

“Are you saying Gina’s a gold digger?”

“No,” I say fast. Then, “I’m saying it’s too late.” I swallow. “I fucked up.”

She chews on her bottom lip and goes back to drying. She sure reminds me of Ma.

We keep working, me washing, her drying. It’s quiet except for the dishes rattling and the squeak of the faucet when I turn it on and off.

Margie’s face lights up. “Hold on.” She throws the dish towel on the counter.

I watch her sock-skate to the table and start pawing through a pile of sympathy cards.

“I just remembered. She had a card on the pie. This is it.”

She holds up an envelope. “I know it’s hers. See?” She points at little sticky fingerprints on the corners.

“Maybe she wrote you something.”

I hear paper tear.

“What the heck? Delmar, there’s a lottery ticket.”

Soapy water drips off my hands as I cross the kitchen and take the card from her. White flowers bathed in sunlight peeking through clouds are on the front of a small card.

I open it.

Delmar,

I’m so so sorry about your mother.

I found your ticket.

Gina

I stare at it.

A flash of that night crashes in on me. I remember.

I wanted her to have the ticket. I wanted her to win. To be mine. But I don’t know if I told her any of that. Hell, I don’t know if I told her anything. Truth is, I could barely see straight.

But I saw fucking straight enough to shove my hand and a lottery ticket down her shirt.

I touch my cheek.

Part of me hopes the bruises never go away.

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20

Up ahead the 7-Eleven comes into view. No cop cars. Good.

I spot Gina’s Honda pulling out of the factory lot. My heart jumps.

“Stop the car.”

Father Gil hits the brakes. Before we’re fully stopped I’m out the door.

“Gina!”

Her taillights keep moving. I take off running. She’s halfway to the intersection.

Monkey crashes into my head.

Monkey. Ma. Trudy. Father Gil. Everybody wanting something from me. Everybody telling me what I gotta do.

Her car reaches the stoplight just as it turns red. I start running faster. It’s a short light.

My chest gets heavier with every step. Just a little farther.

Without trying, I slow down. I stop. I watch the light change. Gina turns left. Her taillights disappear.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

For a second, I just stand there in the middle of the street. Then I start walking back.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

I kick crusty grey snow lining the curb. Send it flying.

“Fuck Ma!”

“Fuck Trudy!”

“Fuck Father Gil!”

“FUCK ME!”

The words tear out of me so loud they echo off the factory wall.

Father Gil pulls alongside. I stare at the empty street where Gina was, then kick his tire as hard as I can before getting in the Nova, door creaking a complaint when I shut it.

My hands are shaking as I light up and take the longest damn drag I can.

“If she’s not at the house we go to the cops,” I say.

Father Gil nods and pulls away.

—

I find Margie sitting on the porch steps, her head tipped back, staring at the stars. I offer her a cigarette. She shakes her head no.

“What are you looking at?” I ask, glancing up.

“Nothing.”

I sit next to her, lean back on one elbow. The skies peppered with stars.

Margie sighs, “I miss Ma.”

“Yeah.” I say, “Me too.”

“It doesn’t feel real,” she says. “Feels like Ma’s just on a trip.”

“Ma never goes anywhere.”

“I know. But it feels like that. Like she’ll come back.”

“And when she does, she’ll make chicken and dumplings,” I say, blowing smoke at the sky.

“No, goulash.” Monkey smiles. “She’ll bring back gifts too.”

“What kind? Where’d she go?”

“The ocean,” Margie says. “She finally went to see what floating in salt water feels like.”

“It’s too cold this time of year.”

“Not there. It’s warmer there.”

“California ocean, huh?”

“Yes.” She hugs her knees. “Ma got us T-shirts that say California on them. And she got me sunglasses, movie star kind.”

I bump her elbow with mine. “What about for me?”

“She got you a beer mug with a woman in a bikini on it.”

I smile. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah, she knew you would.”

We go back and forth like that — dumplings, goulash, both cause pretending feels better than the truth.

A dog howls somewhere blocks away. A siren follows.

I tap her foot. “So what do you want to do, Margie? Stay here or go with Aunt Billie and Uncle Mort?”

“That’s a stupid question. I want to stay here. But she said she’d take it to court. Said you’re not fit to be my guardian.”

“Fuck her.” I blow smoke. “But she’s probably right.”

She looks at me. “We don’t have money to go to court.”

“Let me worry about that.”

She doesn’t argue. We just sit there and stare at the stars, waiting for something to feel normal again.

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Chapter 21

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19

“Officer Benic?”

“Yes. But now I’m Father Gil.” A smile tugs at his mouth. “In a way, thanks to your mother.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I met your mother when you destroyed the VA clinic mailbox.” He glances at me. “She’s the one who turned you in.”

I stare at him.

“Ma turned me in?”

“She said she had to. That it would be a sin not to.”

He pauses.

“That impressed me.”

“I got sent to reform school because of that!” I snap. “I can’t even fuckin’ hunt!”

“No. You got sent to reform school because you destroyed federal property,” he snaps.

The newspaper carried the story for weeks. Big mystery. Tang for Change, they dubbed it.

“How’d she even know it was me?”

“The Tang containers under your bed.”

Christ. I thought I’d covered my tracks.

Vern was sick for months before he could get in to see a VA doctor. Then months more before he saw a specialist. By the time they diagnosed the lung cancer, he might as well have picked out a coffin.

After he died, I built a bomb.

It’s not like I did it on a whim. I spent weeks planning it and getting everything I needed. Firecrackers. Gunpowder. Tang containers. A bunch of other dumb shit.

Then I blew up the mailbox outside the VA clinic.

The explosion lit up the whole parking lot.

At the time, it felt fantastic. One of the best nights of my life.

“Even in her grief for her husband,” Father Gil says, “she fought for you. She begged the VA to press charges, not drop them.”

“That’s not fighting for me!”

“Yes, it is.”

He looks at me hard.

“She thought accountability would save you.”

I shake my head.

“Do you know how easy it would’ve been for her to do nothing? Say nothing?”

His voice softens.

“She loved you. That’s why she did it.”

I look out the windshield.

“My own mother sent me to reform school,” I say quietly.

“We can deal with that later.”

The light ahead turns yellow.

“Right now, Margie’s whole world has been blown apart.”

He slows to a stop.

“She’s grieving her mother and doesn’t know if she’s about to lose everything familiar. Have you thought about that?”

“Some,” I mutter.

“You had your mother.”

I watch a pickup roll through the intersection.

“She doesn’t.”

The light turns green.

He looks over at me.

“So whatever—or whoever—is factoring into your decision, figure it out.”

“For Margie.”

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18

We head toward the Nova. The chainsaw factory stacks across the street is blowing off so much steam the night sky looks white.

I spot Gina’s car in the parking lot and check my watch. Forty minutes till her shift ends.

Back inside the Nova, Father Gil clears his throat.

“Let’s check the bus station.”

He pulls out of the 7-Eleven lot, rolling slow so we can watch the sidewalks for Margie.

“You really think she’d hop a bus?”

“We might as well check while we’re over here.”

I squirm, picturing her stuck on some cross-country bus full of creeps.

I pull out my Marlboros and offer him one. He pops the dash lighter, lights up, hands it to me.

My knuckles look like hell. Scratched. Blood drying.

I flick ash and try not to think about what’s coming.

“You think the cops will show up?”

“If someone calls them. That’s why I wanted us out of there. I’d have to tell the truth.”

He glances over.

“And I still will, if they ask.”

I scan the Piggly Wiggly lot for Margie’s coat, her shoes, anything.

“How old are you anyway?” I ask.

“Thirty-five.”

“I thought you were my age. You look it.”

“You’re rough on your body, Delmar. Maybe it’s you who looks my age.”

“That cigarette in your hand doesn’t exactly scream healthy.”

He stares at it.

“You’re right.” He takes a long drag. “It’s a bad habit from my prior life. I need to expunge it.”

“Do what?”

“Quit.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

For the first time all night, Father Gil laughs. It’s quick, but it’s there.

Then he pulls into the bus station.

The place is a big glass box. I can see everything inside — ticket counter in one corner, restrooms in the back, rows of beige lockers along the wall.

A skinny woman works the counter. An old guy sleeps across a row of seats with his coat over him. Another man hunches over a book. Otherwise, it’s empty.

“I know her,” Father Gil says, nodding toward the ticket lady. “I’ll ask if Margie came through.”

He crushes out his cigarette and heads across the parking lot.

I watch him go inside and start talking to the lady. I check my watch again. Half an hour.

But Gina always waits out the rush. She hates getting boxed in by the punch-out mob. Gives me thirty five minutes.

The lady hands Father Gil a slip of paper. He writes something down, gives it back, then returns to the car.

“Margie hasn’t been here,” he says. “Gladys will call if she shows up. I gave her both our numbers.”

“Good.”

My stomach loosens a notch.

The thought of Margie alone on a bus scares the shit out of me. Her getting off one somewhere scares me worse.

He backs out and heads down Center Street.

“We should check your house. If she’s not there, we go need to the police.”

“The police?”

“Definitely. She’s easy prey.”

I swallow hard. The dash lights throw a sick glow over everything.

“It’s always better to err on the side of caution.” His voice is calm but his eyes are hard.

We ride in silence, both watching the sidewalks.

After a minute he asks, “So what’s with you and that Frank guy?”

“No one calls my sister names.”

“I gathered that. What else?”

“He’s an asshole.”

“And?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

We ride another block.

“Frank knows how I feel about Gina, but he moved on her anyway. What kind of friend does that? A back-stabbing bastard of a friend, that’s what. We were buddies since grade school. Not like Everett, but he was my friend.”

I stare out the window.

“And now he’s taking Gina to Hawaii. Frank wins the damn lottery and steals Gina.”

I shift in the seat, stare out the window at nothing

“I hate him,” I mutter.

No answer. The only sound is the tire whine on the road.

“You’re not gonna tell me it’s a sin to hate?” I ask.

“Come to confession and see.”

I snort. “Yeah right.”

After a moment he says, “This girl. Gina. Does she know how you feel?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t told her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Delmar, you either told her or you didn’t.”

There’s no way in hell I’m mentioning my blackouts.

“It’s complicated.”

Father Gil sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair.

“Margie called me earlier. About a list you made.”

“So?”

“She thinks it’s pros and cons about moving home. She says Gina’s name is on it. Is that why you don’t want to do what your Ma asked in her letter?”

I don’t say anything. Nothing to say.

“I barely know you,” he continues, “and I had doubts about you taking care of Margie.”

I flick ash out the cracked window.

“But Janice had none. She was adamant you were the best person to take care of her.”

He pauses.

“And after what happened at the 7-Eleven…”

I keep my eyes on the windshield.

“I understand why she believed that.”

That catches me off guard. I was expecting the opposite. For him to tell me Ma got it wrong. That she saw what she wanted to see.

A part of me would’a been relieved. A big part. I’d be off the hook.

Instead, here he is agreeing with her.

I take a drag and let it out slow.

“Do you remember when your stepdad died?” Father Gil asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You remember how hard that was? And you still had your home. Your mother. Your school. Your friends.”

He waits a beat.

“And you still ended up in trouble with the law.”

My stomach tightens.

“Did my mom tell you about that?”

“No.”

“Margie?”

“No.”

Heat climbs up my neck. “Aunt Bitchface then.”

A corner of his mouth twitches.

“No.”

“Then how the hell do you know?”

He glances over.

“I was involved.”

“Involved how?”

“The incident.”

I stare at him.

“What incident?”

“The one that got you arrested.”

I look at him harder. Really look at him.

“You don’t remember me?” he asks. “The other day, I thought you did.”

I shake my head.

“I was the arresting officer.”

Everything goes quiet. The tires are still humming. The engine’s still running. But for a second I don’t hear any of it.

I’m sixteen again.

“You gotta be shitting me.”

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Chapter 17

I drop into the chair and lean forward, my head in both hands, trying to stop the room from spinning.

Everett’s standing over me. “You okay?”

All that comes out is a groan.

“I know if you weren’t so drunk, you wouldn’t have done it. Gone for her like that, I mean.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” I say.

“I just mean... that ain’t you, Delmar. Not when you’re regular drunk.”

I pull myself up and lean against the potato bin. “Do you know what I did the other time I blacked out? When Frank and I moved Gina back to her folks?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Tell me.”

“Really, Delmar. I don’t know!”

I scowl, scratch my head. I ain’t got time for this.

Everett’s got a tell when he lies. His ears go red.

“Look out the window,” I say. “Now look at the stove.”

He does. Fuck! He’s telling the truth.

I cross the kitchen, stumble over his size-fifty clodhoppers and grab my coat.

“Where are you going, Delmar?”

“Work. I gotta talk to Gina.”

I gotta tell her I’m an asshole. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her—don’t go to Hawaii with Frank. Stay here—with me.

I grab my coat. “Tell Monkey I’m leaving,”

That’s when it hits me. When Father Gil noticed Monkey was gone during the funeral-planning shitshow, I told him I’d seen her go to her room. Even stuck my head in and said she was sleeping. I figured she was out on the back porch hiding from Aunt Bitchface. After they left, I figured she was at church. Again.

Jesus Christ. I never actually checked.

“Never mind. I’ll do it.”

I check there first. Empty. Bathroom. Empty. Sewing room. Nothing.

There’s a feeling in my gut. I tell myself it’s about Gina. Monkey’s fine.

—-

I ain’t been inside the church since Vern’s funeral, and I ain’t going in again till Ma’s.

Leaning against the stone wall by the double doors I wait for her. Or anybody who’s seen her.

For once, the wind ain’t coming off Lake Michigan. The air’s almost warm. I pull off my gloves. I unzip my coat and pat my chest to feel for Ma’s letters in my shirt pocket.

Another reason to talk to Gina.

Two cigarettes later, nobody’s come in or out. 10:39 PM.

“Shit.” Gina gets out of work at midnight.

I try the doors. Locked. What the fuck. “When’d they start locking the church?” I grumble.

“After we were vandalized.”

I spin around.

Father Gils standing at the bottom of the steps, holding a baseball bat. “I got a call about somebody lurking around.”

“So you show up with a bat?” I jerk my head toward the church. “What if it’s just some poor bastard looking for what you’re selling?”

He lets that go. “We lock up at ten. But we can talk at the rectory.”

“I’m not here for you. I’m looking for Monk—my sister. Has she been here?”

His face shifts. “Is she missing?”

“I don’t know. She’s not home.”

I look past him to the street. She could be anywhere. And it’s his fault.

“And it’s your fault,” I bark. “If I wasn’t there today, Aunt Billie wouldn’t a gone off.”

He takes that too.

“Margie wasn’t here when I locked up,” he says, shouldering the bat. “But she could’ve been earlier.”

Father Gil’s jaw tightens. “Come on. I’ll get my car.”

As we cross the lawn toward the rectory he asks, “Where would she go?”

“Other than here? No idea.”

We go through a side door into a small garage. He flips the light on and a fluorescent bulb hums and flickers to life.

“Any friends besides Lillie?” he asks unlocking the doors to a sky-blue Nova.

I run my hand over the camel colored leather. Nice car. I don’t tell him that.

I ask, “Who’s Lillie?”

“Her best friend since grade school.”

“Oh, yeah. She moved?”

He frowns. “Yes, months ago.”

“What about a boyfriend?”

I think about that porch talk. “No. But she wants one.”

“Yeah, I know.” his voice is quiet.

I turn in the seat. “You seem to know a lot about my family.”

“I’m a priest. People talk.”

He backs out. We drive slow, scanning sidewalks. Blocks slide by. Nothing but two guys passing a bottle and some old man walking a ratty-looking dog.

I see the 7-Eleven sign up ahead. “Let’s stop. See if she’s been there.”

Kids go there when they’re bored. They go there when they’ve got nowhere else to be. Everett and I did to score long cigarette butts out of the ashtray out front. Right now, I’d settle for any of the three.

As soon as Father Gil parks I climb out and head for the door. As soon as the warm air inside hits me, I gotta piss so bad my eyes water. I make a mad dash for the can.

When I come out, Cal and Father Gil are talking.

“Delmar, I’m sorry, I didn’t know your Ma died,” Cal says.

“Thanks.” I step up. “You seen a girl about this tall?” I gesture somewhere between my gut and chest.

“I told Father Gil—Margie hasn’t been in since I started at five. I didn’t know she was your sister.”

“How do you know her?”

He nods at Gil. “Through Church. Your Ma helped me out once, too. She got me some crutches when I busted my ankle.”

“Sounds like Ma.”

“Poor kid,” Cal says. “Lost both her folks.” He shakes his head. “She’s lucky she’s got you, Delmar.”

I snort. “If she was lucky, Ma and Vern would still be alive and she’d be five-six.”

Cal nods slow. “Maybe. But having you ain’t nothing.”

The bell over the door rings and Fucking Franks in.

“Well, well, Delmar,” he says, strolling in. “Come to get your picture with a winner? I’m here now.” He spreads his arms, blocking the door like he owns the place. “Better hurry. Tomorrow it’s off to Hawaii. Seven days in the sun.” He smirks. “Hawaii... the place for lovers.”

Cal says, “His sister’s missing.”

Frank grins. “The Monkey’s missing?”

I step forward and hit him. Hard.

He stumbles, takes out a rack of candy, slams into the chips, drops to the floor.

“Don’t you call my sister names!”

“You call her that!” he shouts, scrambling backward.

I step closer. He stays down.

“Her name is Margie.”

“Aren’t you gonna do something?” he yells at Cal.

Cal leans over the counter.”Geez, man. What’d you trip on?”

“You know I didn’t—”

Father Gil grabs my arm. “Let’s go.”

We walk out while Frank’s still yelling at Cal to call the cops.

—> Chapter 18

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  go ahead make my day. Who am I kidding? Make my week.

Bernard looked up from the grill.

“You’re late.”

“I know, I know.” Sally ran through the diner door, grabbed an apron, and slid behind the counter, tying it as she went. “I’m sorry.”

“Your car again? I told you I know a guy—”

“No. Not my car.” A smile crept onto her face. “Spider interrupted my shower.”

Ted snorted into his coffee.

“Did you kill it?”

“What? No—”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of spiders,” Bernard said.

“Guys, you don’t understand.” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail.

Bernard slid a plate in front of Ted. “It’s just a spider. Squash it.”

Sally opened her mouth to explain, then closed it again.

“I can’t do that.”

“The hell you can’t. Use a washcloth.”

Ted pointed with his fork. “Or the bottom of the shampoo bottle.”

“That’s disgusting.” She quickly washed her hands.

“Then rinse it down the drain.”

Bernard placed a roll of burger patties on the grill in preparation for the lunch rush.

“You women act like they’re grizzly bears.”

Sally shook her head as she dried her hands, grabbed the silverware tray, and started wrapping silverware.

“You guys really don’t get it.”

“I get it. You’re scared of an itty-bitty spider.” He mocked.

Sally bit the inside of her cheek.

“I’m not scared of this one.”

Ted took a sip of coffee.

“Then what’s the problem?”

A grin tugged at the corner of Sally’s mouth.

“Actually, I’m kinda crazy about him.”

Ted lowered his mug.

“Him?”

Sally shrugged.

“I might be in love.”

Bernard looked up from the grill, where the patties sizzled away in their own juices.

“Hold on.”

“Yeah,” Ted said. “Back up.”

Sally focused hard on wrapping silverware and not cracking a smile.

“What?”

“You just said you’re in love with a spider.”

A snort escaped before she could stop it.

“No. That’s what you said.”

Bernard pointed his spatula at her.

“Then who the hell are we talking about?”

“The guy I’m dating.”

“The guy you’re dating is named Spider?”

“Nickname.”

Ted leaned back.

“Oh.”

Bernard frowned and flipped the burgers.

“Then why’d you say you found a spider in the shower?”

“Because that’s where I found him.” She blushed. “And why I’m late.”

The two men exchanged a disgusted look.

Sally burst out laughing.

“You idiots thought I meant an actual spider.”

Bernard turned back to the grill.

Ted picked up his coffee.

Neither said a word.

Finally, Ted shrugged.

“That’s what she said.”

Bernard scowled a nod.

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As soon as Aunt Billie and Father Gil leave, I go straight to making Bloody Marys. I need one after that shitshow.

I grab a jam jar, pour in vodka, shake in Tabasco, top it with tomato juice. Drink. Gag. Spit it into the sink. Rinse it down. I ain’t got celery salt, but it wouldn’t a made no difference.

I try again. Less vodka. Even less Tabasco. More tomato juice. I choke half of it down before I give up and dump it. Should’a paid more attention to Trudy making them, but I didn’t know I needed to.

Third try, I land on something drinkable. Not good. But it goes down.

Slumping into the kitchen chair, I prop my feet on the step stool and sip my Bloody Mary. Rooster canisters older than me line the counter. A cookbook’s open like she’s coming back to it. Her reading glasses sit next to her Bible.

It feels wrong sitting here without Ma. I reach out and touch the bow of her glasses.

A hard knock rattles the back door. I jump. Bloody Mary sloshes onto my lap.

Everett gives two more quick knocks, then sticks his head inside. “Anybody home?”

“Hey,” I say, grabbing a dish towel off the oven door. I blot at my jeans.

He wipes his boots on the mat, steps in, and shuts the door behind him. “I’m really sorry about your Ma, Delmar.” His big face looks like it might cave in.

My eyes drift around the kitchen. “Yeah… thanks.” I hate this part.

“I woulda come earlier, but we were gone taking care of the lottery—” He cuts himself off. Now he really looks like he’s gonna cry.

I laugh. Can’t help it. His face is doing too much at once.

“I’m sorry, Delmar,” he stammers.

“It’s not you I’m laughing at,” I lie. It’s definitely him and his dumb sad mug, plus the vodka’s starting to hit.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, tossing the towel toward the laundry chute. “Why the fuck aren’t you in Cancun or Hawaii or somewhere warmer than this shit?”

“I can’t leave. My best friend’s mother died.”

I look at him. “No shit?”

“You’d do the same for me, Delmar.”

Would I?

“I’d been here sooner,” he says, pushing on, “but Sheila and I just got back. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork the lottery had us do.” He lets out a long breath.

“You want a Bloody Mary?” I ask.

“Ah… yeah, sure.” He kicks off his boots, then pulls off his Packer Backer hat and tosses it into one of them. His dark hair’s plastered to his forehead.

I grab another jam jar. Everett drops into a chair and sucks in a breath.

“It just don’t feel right winning all that money without you, Delmar. You’re my best friend. And Frank’s family. I hate that you two are fighting. I get it, but I still hate it. I sure wish you’d pooled your ticket with us so we’d all be rich dicks.” He exhales hard and stares at his feet. Both socks got holes blown out at the big toes.

“I feel bad, is all.”

“Don’t,” I say.

“Don’t what?”

“Feel bad.”

Everett nods and sinks deeper into the chair. “I still can’t believe your Ma’s gone. What’d she die from?”

“Heart.”

“How’s Margie?”

“Okay, I guess, for a kid who found her Ma dead.”

“Man.” He shakes his head. “Poor kid. Anything I can do?”

“You hungry?”

He scratches his head. His plastered hair loosens some. “I’m always hungry.”

“Good. Eat some of this damn food people keep bringing.”

I get up, stick my head in the fridge, and start pulling out covered bowls and pans.

He frowns. “How’s that helping?”

“I need room for beer.”

Everett nods like it makes sense.

I fish around in the cupboard for plates, and we fill them with beans, potato salad, ham, a couple different kinds of cold salad, one with tuna, one with nuts and orange chunks in it.

“Taxes ate up half the winnings,” Everett says, stacking food like he’s building something.

“That don’t surprise me,” I mumble around a mouthful of ham.

“Uncle Sam’s worse.”

My jaw clenches. The VA screwed Vern over when he got sick. “Fuckin bastards.”

I hand him a fork, then the Bloody Mary. He takes a swallow. His eyes water.

“Well?”

“It’s… different.”

We eat. The kitchen’s quiet until the fridge hum rattles to a stop, like it’s finally caught its breath.

Everett goes back for seconds. Then thirds. Heavy on the beans.

I grin. Sheila’s gonna love that later.

“What you gonna do with all that money?” I ask, reaching for my cigarettes. My hand bumps the gingerbread man. I look at it, then set it beside Ma’s Bible, change my mind, and put it back in my shirt pocket.

Everett stops mid-bite. “Sheila’s got a whole list. First thing—a house on Lake Michigan.” His fork bobs while he talks. “She says she’s sick of looking at the Chevy dealership. She wants a lake view.”

“I get that,” I say, an unlit cigarette hanging from my mouth.

“I don’t want a different house. I was born in ours. My dad too. And in the winter the wind off Lake Michigan’s brutal. Heating bills would be insane.”

“So what? You’re rich.”

“I guess.” He chews his lip. “It hasn’t sunk in.”

“I’ll tell ya right now, I’m not quitting my job.”

I snort. “You outta your mind?”

“I like my job. And what would I do all day?”

“Rich pricks play golf.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Learn.”

Everett perks up. “Will you play with me?”

“Fuck no. Golf’s for pussies.”

Everett nods. “Exactly. We ain’t no pussies.”

I bury a laugh. He absolutely is.

Sheila’ll get the lake house. I know it. Sheila knows it. The only one who ain’t figured it out is Everett.

“You get a big boat,” I say, “and I’ll fish with you.”

“Maybe. But I can still work. I mean, you’ll be working. We can fish on the weekends.”

“Suit yourself.”

I start tapping the end of the unlit cigarette on the table. “If I had that kind of money, I wouldn’t work another day.”

Everett shrugs. “You got a beer?”

His Bloody Mary’s already abandoned.

“Yeah. Warm.”

“That’s fine. I got German in me.”

I grab the six-pack from the corner where Monkey stashed it, hand him one, and take one for myself.

As I turn toward the fridge with the last two beers, Everett’s staring at me. “Wow. She really walloped you.”

I automatically touch my cheek. “Who?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Nope.”

He studies me. “You really don’t remember?”

I shake my head. “Last thing I remember is playing Pac-Man. Somebody said I played pool with Fucking Frank. Hope I won.”

“You did. Beat him bad. When we got there, you were drinking Boilermakers. You held the table all night.”

That’s a lotta Boilermakers. Part of me feels proud. Part of me don’t.

Everett cracks his beer and takes a pull. “You were on a streak.”

He shakes his head. “Hell, you couldn’t miss. Frank kept feeding quarters into the table trying to beat you.”

“So who smacked me? I know it wasn’t Trudy or Rachel. They’d a bragged.”

“We played a couple more games after that, too. Real close ones.” He’s stalling. I can tell.

He studies his beer. Rotates the bottle between his palms. “What kinda boat you think I should get?”

Why’s he trying to change the subject?

I lean forward. We’re almost nose to nose. “Who the hell hit me, Everett?”

He lets out a long breath. Then looks down at his feet. “It was Gina.”

Everything in my chest goes hot, then cold. “Wait. Gina was at Trudy’s?”

“Yeah. She came with Frank.”

“And she hit me?”

“Yeah.”

Something cold settles in my gut. “Why?”

Everett rubs a hand across his mouth. “You were real drunk, Delmar. Plastered.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

My guts clench so hard it hurts. “Like what I did.”

He hesitates. Looks at me. Looks away. Then the words run right out of his mouth.

“You put your hand down her shirt.”

I’m on my feet before I know it. “No way.”

Everett doesn’t flinch. “I saw you do it. We all did.”

The room tilts. I drop back into the chair. Air goes outta me. “Fuck me.”

Next chap 17

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