A WET AFTERNOON IN APRIL

John Cantwell

It was a morning like any other spring morning.  The weather was part-time, with brief patches of sunshine in between the multi visible drops of rain.  The everyday expression seemed to have forgotten the wisdom of the past and was neither happy nor sad in the present.  The noise industry, under the somnambulant citizen’s nose was hard at work, trying to make a profit before anybody noticed the design of architecture and old-fashioned bedroom wallpaper had the same mundane quality and unvaried background. 

What was noticeable on this fourth month of the year though, was an elderly woman of small stature and build, quietly bending to retrieve something of interest from a deserted footpath, then depositing it gently and safely without haste on a nearby ledge out of harm’s way.  With her task done she smiled in a kind manner, holding the last snail comfortably in the palm of her hand, studying diligently its horned head as it moved from side to side, inevitably allowing it to make one’s way and join the ranks of the slow-moving scavengers. 

Suddenly, without warning, the phenomena of the physical world changed and the smallest particle of a wish dropped into her head exploding like a nuclear bomb and she remembered she had to be somewhere else as well.  The straying snails in no man’s land had distracted her for a short moment, a thought-provoking distasteful reminder of the few times she had come across a hard shell that had fallen foul to a clumsy pedestrians large shoe size, whether the act was accidental or deliberate, crushed like a conker, its sticky remains hurriedly scraped on the side of a pavement.  Not quite the thing to stir a thought, the payment of bills coming first in the line. 

In the meantime it started to rain again, so she raised her umbrella against the falling drops once more, and turned to go.  In her head she had prepared a column of words to say to her three sisters who had doubts about her well-being, ever since she complained on the phone of been too busy or tired to pay a call.  But that was weeks ago.  She knew her sisters would be wondering where she was particularly Clare, the youngest and most fastidious of the three.  Even as children playing hide and seek or riding a tame donkey on a pebbly beach somewhere, it would be she who stood out all alone in the shade and watched from a distance, fresh-faced, listening to the dying waves, ignoring their voices full of energy, pleading eagerly for her to come and join them as they frolicked by the sea.  She would always refuse, then and now, not wanting to dip her toe in the water in case she got her pigtails wet. 

Though she was a half an hour late, the Edwardian house the three sisters happen to live in wasn’t that far away.  The old tram road it faces on to is well known to the local branch of historians and visiting American families for the stray bomb that nearly flattened it during the Hitler war, more so its leafy façade and view of the rugged coastline.  Margaret was the only one in the redbrick house at the time having moved into the family home with her newlywed husband, who shortly afterwards left to join the war and never came back.  ‘Just like Hitler to put a damper on a person’s enjoyment and recreation,’ she remarked to the postman when the bomb landed, but failed to explode, in the open space below the front garden.  In some ways being a war widow suited Margaret, even though she was only married for a short time.  Like those women who send their sons and husbands off to war and never see them again, Margaret never complained. 

The showers of rain stopped as she took a seat next to the window.  In between standing and sitting a young black man had suddenly jumped up and cheerfully offered his seat as a goodwill gesture, which, when her heart had recovered from the experience, she smilingly accepted.  Gradually, the bus picked up speed along the Coast Road, soon she would be there with minutes to spare this gave her plenty of time on the journey to think of other things.  To start with, the young man reminded her of Agnes, who married an African-American man a short time after the war had ended and went to live in Boston, Massachusetts.  Their poor mother was broken hearted because Agnes, the second of their four children was the clear favourite, notwithstanding the fact that Margaret is the oldest and takes after mammy in many ways.  Her two sons are, up to the present time, very happy living over there.  They’re married now with their own children, doing well by all accounts, a doctor and barrister by profession. 

When Marcus, her husband died Agnes became progressively homesick and returned soon after.  Now all three sisters live together under the same roof, all except one.  She could feel the relaxed atmosphere of the bus seep through the back of the chair against which the small of her back rested, relieving her headache, and reducing any tension she might feel towards meeting her sisters for the first time in countless years.  A light breeze, sprinkled with spots of rain coming from the uppermost part of the window, landed fresh on her face that continued to show a quickness of mind in defiance of her age.  ‘Better than a good night’s sleep,’ she thought scanning with interest her tired reflection in the shot glass frame, monitoring the progress of the disease which, eventually, after one month, would leave her, who wished to remain proud and independent in old age, at the mercy of strangers. 

It was hard to imagine her life had boiled down to this.  Even now, it was difficult sometimes not to feel sorry for oneself, especially when she wanted to do things on her own.  ‘Come on, Fionnuala, snap out of it,’ she’d say.   Of course it’s true she had squandered several opportunities in her life for happiness.  After university, there were remote teaching posts followed by love affairs, and alcohol.  To get over the second of the two, she took up writing an ability you could say never left her even when things seemed to be at their worst, and became a successful authoress.  She had no sooner written a bestseller than the telephone rang producing from beginning to end a series of high-pitched offers, one of which invited her to occupy a lectureship in English Literature.  In her journalism too, she hasn’t looked the other way.  Like Clare, she also refused to dip her big toe in case there was a sharp stone lurking beneath the water, and remained an unmarried woman.  ‘Fionnuala Conneely, of no fixed abode, Spinster….’ 

The bus stop was closer than she realised, so she manoeuvred herself near to the edge of the seat and waited patiently for her turn to come. When the single-decker bus slowed its speed and arranged to stop, she moved forward slowly and got off remembering in passing to smile and say thank you to the bus driver who, surprisingly, returned the compliment. While she moved at a regular pace encountering many unfamiliar sounding voices, a proverb her mother used to quote whenever any of the children got out of hand ran through her consciousness, varying the volume of sound as she got on, “curses, like chickens, come home to roost, young lady.”  A saying like the closed sign up on the door, she imagined ghost trains, from beginning to end, throwing off small fiery particles, similar to a display of fireworks over a beehive hairstyle, proceeding through her minds eye, across invisible steel rails closing a rift from one end of the old quarter to the other. 

The Edwardian house built long ago was hard to make out from the straight path she travelled on, nestled between the next-door neighbours complementary bowl shaped aerials.  Its four-barred gate made a slow creaking sound under the soft pressure of her weight, striking a jarring note in those picturesque surroundings.  Meanwhile, the sight of the weed grown garden she’d silently entered filled her with even more sadness.  ‘Margaret used to make such an effort with her flowerbeds.’  Indeed, surrounded by wild plants, it was a place Margaret and their mother found common ground like the dilapidated tree house the children played in.  ‘The trees here were such a delight to climb,’ she demonstrated patting the powerful trunk consolingly with the flat of the hand, ‘The last High King of Ireland.’  Yet, as she got closer to the doorbell and an outside windowsill, a display of brightly coloured bedding plants coming into flower greeted her.  Also, the left over leaves at the door, instead of in advance, were swept into a dustpan and put harmoniously to one side for the sake of neatness.  In need of words, her grey eyes stared down at the well-organized pile. 

She was an awkward seventeen-year old when she left home after leaving boarding school for college.  A brilliant academic child is how she was once described by a senior teacher to her parents when they deemed it worthy to pay a visit, the whole time her cheeks burning with resentment at the tall proud arrogant man that was her father.  Minutes passed, the suddenness of a distant bark made her look up exactly at that moment the door opened.  Margaret welcomed her inside with open arms, in the end, sailing her with childlike directness, through a narrow gap to a kitchen table heaped with tradition, rather like those golden days before the war, where the remaining two sisters, soon to be examined in more detail presently, stood attendant, giggling uncontrollably, with hands crossed in schoolgirl expectation.  They kissed and hugged each other in light relief, occupying the intervening moments with tender reprimands for not keeping all those firm promises she had made each year to come home at the earliest opportunity.  For a moment everybody was too busy to speak properly as they drew up their chairs and got ready to eat lunch, which the sisters had lovingly prepared in the meantime.  ‘Oh dear, I’ve forgotten to take my medicine again,’ she said noisily pressing an eventual tablet from its silver wrapping. 

Agnes, her hair grey and feathery, hadn’t noticed a thing, too busy admonishing a meowing ginger cat whom she felt needed to eat less snacks and chase after more mice scurrying freely in and out of the dustbins in the back garden.  Even with all four sisters seated, Agnes continued to talk down to the small furry face looking up, meowing at her comfortable feet.  And, when quietly remonstrated to by Margaret would look up as well with a confused expression on her face and gaze around the table hardly recognising her three sisters sitting there.  When she was encouraged to talk it would only be about her family in America. 

Later, Clare wanted to know all about the beautiful things she had experienced during her life as a writer living abroad and leaned forwards to listen, two bony arthritic elbows resting on the edge of the table, confirming the speaker’s slow spoken account with reference to a newspaper article or colour photograph she had seen previously in a magazine.  Afterwards, recounting her own past history as a typist in London during the war years.  Margaret listened with a pleasant smile shadowing her age worn face, refilling here and there an empty glass with no more than a sideways glance, before returning rapidly to the conversation at hand with a story of her own to tell, of trying, for instance, to locate her late husband’s grave in the aftermath of the Blitz. 

As time passed by, there were fewer slippers shuffling around the kitchen table, so enraptured were they with each others storytelling that time, was, for the moment, almost a sleeping child in the room next door.  When told by her doctor that the cancer was incurable and that she only had a short time to live she turned down any offers of chemotherapy.  A bed had been booked by her agent for the sick and terminally ill.  In a short time the brightly coloured windowsill would disappear.  The path swept clean would soon be in disarray.  And the last tree cut down.         

John Cantwell lives in Dublin, where he sometimes teaches English.  He holds a degree in journalism and loves reading short stories that portray the world we live in.                    

HE ALWAYS ATE ALONE

Farha Hasan

It was not going as well as she had imagined -  college in this crisp white town, thought Aysha, as she cleared the tables and scraped off dishes impatiently looking at her watch. Three hours left.  For the first time in her life, it was dawning on her what it was like to be different, her name, the color of her skin, her faith - most of all her faith. She was not like them. She knew it and they knew it.  Until now she had taken for granted the diversity that had insulated her in her gritty home town but it was different here. Here people believed what they heard on the news.  The quaint old world campus that had seemed so ideal in the brochures was coming up short – literally. In fact it was only by bussing tables at Oliver’s that she was able to make up the difference between her scholarships and her student loans.

The clientele at this upscale bistro was not unique considering its location. Oliver’s was situated in between campus and the financial district attracting both academics and investment bankers and Aysha in a couple short weeks had learned to identify just about everyone – everyone that is except him. He was not like the others, too young to be a professor and too casual (rough looking jeans, with a nice shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbow) to be an investment banker.  Yet something about him reeked of money. There was a planned carelessness about him that could only be spelled designer and Aysha had been watching him intently, his easy strides, his dark features, his warm smile. Every time he walked into the restaurant Aysha could feel her palms sweat, and her pulse quicken. Today he was seated at a corner booth away from the activity of the restaurant. He always ate alone, that’s why it never occurred to her that he might be waiting for someone – and then she walked in.

After all this time Aysha finally noticed the glint of his wedding band as he stood up to greet her, this well coiffed young woman not too much older than Aysha herself. The woman, Aysha noticed, was a tigress with a luxurious mane of honey blonde and a self-satisfied smile that reminded Aysha of a well fed cat - albeit one that came with very sharp teeth. She carried herself with a poise and experience that went beyond her years and when the man greeted her coolly she seemed not to notice.  For a moment all Aysha could do was stare, that is until her supervisor noticed her vacant expression.

“Aysha, table three needs cleanup,” he said, his gruff voice breaking Aysha’s trance. Aysha turned and nodded in his direction. He gave her a look that meant ‘right away’.
Aysha, wiped the sweat off her brow and headed to table three suddenly feeling self conscious about herself, her clunky shoes, her dark complexion, her wild hair that always seemed to be spilling out of her ponytail. Of course she would deserve him, thought Aysha, as she brushed back a stray lock. They made a handsome couple, Ken and Barbie, perfect for this plastic town.

Clearing table three Aysha looked up again at the power couple, the two were now immersed in a heated discussion. At first the woman spoke calmly stroking his hair and kissing him lightly like old lovers but the man rejected her advances.

“Cut it out Angie, you had an affair. I’m not just going to forget that…”
A cold look crept into the woman’s eyes and Aysha could see that her mouth had turned into a snarl as she hissed her response. The man remained calm although the pleasantness had drained from his face and he looked at the woman intensely.  Although Aysha tried not to listen she couldn’t stop the sound of muffled words being spit into the air like bullets, ugly words like… pre-nup… settlement…scandal.  Even as Aysha made her way to the kitchen she could feel the tension in the booth rising and seeping out like acid and although the tigress still wore that hungry smile her words made the man’s eyes darken and jaw tighten.

Aysha was relieved that her next table was all the way across the room where the air was still light and the conversation still pleasant. A party of ten had just finished a lunch for a colleague.  Humming softly to herself she began to clear the table - the unfinished drinks, the half eaten chocolate cake. Chocolate cake had always been her favorite while Zeba, her best friend, had always preferred cheesecake. Now Zeba was married and living in another country and Aysha was on her own, friendless, loveless with only this mysterious man to occupy her interest. She watched him, thought about him all the time. Absorbed in her own little world Aysha started thinking about the man who had unknowingly become such a large part of her life. She started to wonder what it would be like to be sitting in the booth next to him, to smell his cologne, to feel his breath. She let these thoughts warm her soul and became lost in the depths of her own imagination, when she suddenly looked up he caught her gaze. Her heart stopped and a slow blush crept across her face. The man noticed her embarrassment and bestowed upon her an amused smile, until his wife’s cold words wiped it off and turned his face to stone. The tigress slammed her hands down on the table and was about to leave when he grabbed her wrists and forced her to sit down.

Aysha hurried into the back, glad that it was time for her cigarette break.  Downstairs in the dark parking lot Aysha could close her eyes and take a deep drag of her cigarette letting the tension leave her body. When she returned to the cool air conditioned restaurant she could see that the couple’s discussion had gotten worse; and before Aysha could understand what was happening the woman flung her wedding ring at the man and began to storm out.

The diamond encrusted wedding band bounced off the booth and landed in the aisle where it spun round-and-round until a two year-old from a neighboring table grabbed it and promptly stuck it up his nose. Unruffled the man straightened his shirt before sitting down, ordering a scotch and finally finished his meal. The restaurant now was quiet and would remain so until the dinner crowd trickled in.

What a friggin, crappy day, thought Aysha as she packed up and got ready to head out looking forward to finally getting off her feet, going home, and sinking into a bath and the half finished novel she had left by her bedside, but before she could exit her manager caught up with her.
        
“Hold up a minute,” he said giving her a little wave that seemed unusually delicate for such a large man. Aysha panicked afraid he was going to reprimand her for eavesdropping or worse but before she could explain he said, “Good job, next time we’ll let you waitress a couple tables and by the way can you change your shift to Friday instead of tomorrow.”
“Sure,” said Aysha breathing a sigh of relief.
And he continued “I was wondering if you could train…” but was interrupted by the blaring of his cell phone. He handed Aysha a small envelope.
“Before you leave, this belongs to the gentleman in the corner booth.”
Paralyzed Aysha stood there for what seemed like an eternity holding the tiny envelope in her hands. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. Finally, after much deliberation Aysha gathered her nerve and cautiously approached the alluring stranger that she had only watched from afar.
“Excuse me sir,” she said holding out the envelope. “This belongs to you,”
He looked up at her making Aysha catch her breath and feels a little light headed - as if she was floating.

“Why don’t you keep it,” he said and walked out the door.

Farha Hasan is a librarian living and working in Boston. She has come back to writing fiction after a brief stint in advertising where she was involved in copywriting, casting and strategic planning. Her short stories have been published in various ezines such as, Samizdada, Down in the Dirt and Toasted Cheese.        

THE CAT WITH THREE LEGS

Roger Poppen

A horrible screech came from under the hood and Hale immediately shut off the engine. Millie 
found the yellow kitten on the ground beneath the front of the pickup. Its body was limp and one 
hind leg dangled by a thread of skin, but it was still breathing. Hale wanted to fetch the shotgun 
to put it out of its misery but Millie pleaded so tearfully that he relented. "Don't say I never 
gave you nothin'," he said with a smirk. 
 
Millie named the kitten Buttercup and paid the veterinarian bills with her own money she earned 
sewing for the ladies uptown. Hale gave her an allowance for household expenses out of his 
salary from the factory. He didn't pay real close attention to what she spent, so long as food was 
on the table and the light bill was paid, but she was careful to avoid extravagances that might 
draw his notice. 
 
She had wanted to apply for a job down at the new Wal-Mart but Hale insisted that a woman's place 
was in the home. His woman's, anyway. There might have been need for more money if they had 
children, but whenever she talked about getting a job his eyes squinted in that way he had and she 
dropped the subject.
 
Millie had wanted a baby when they first married, and Hale had been agreeable enough. But when no 
child happened, he'd resisted going to the doctor with her for tests. "It's God's will if we have a 
baby or not," he'd said. It was the only time she'd ever heard him mention 'God' without a 
'damn.' Besides, his $18.25-an-hour not spent on baby things paid for a nice fishing boat and 
outboard motor. And Jack Daniels down at the Tip Top Tap. After a couple years, she decided it was 
a blessing that they didn't have a child, though if it were an act of Providence it was not a 
generous one. A hobbled cat, it seemed, was the closest family she'd ever have.
 
Millie fixed up the second bedroom, what would have been the baby's room, as her sewing room, 
with an old electric Singer and a second-hand chest-of-drawers to organize her spools of thread 
and rolls of fabric. She had a little television set with rabbit ears that got only three 
channels. The big set with cable was in the front room where Hale and his buddies watched ball 
games when they weren't at the Tap. Her TV was enough to get the afternoon programs, where women 
would tell the host about their problems and the audience would clap and call out to show support; 
problems like breast cancer or promiscuous daughters or abusive husbands. Millie turned it 
off if it was about husbands. And she had an old rocking chair for reading. The Bi-Lo had a 
'Give-A-Book' box, where people donated books and you could take one for free and give it back when 
you were done. About half were self-help and diet books, and the rest romance novels. Millie read a 
romance almost every week, even though they were pretty much the same - a beautiful woman lives in 
some awful place, a handsome stranger shows up who has troubles of his own, and against all odds 
they solve their predicaments and make passionate love. Sometimes she read aloud to Buttercup, 
purring on her lap.
 
***
 
The cat with three legs clambered to the back of the sofa, nosed aside the lace curtains and 
peered through the window at the neighborhood cats quarreling on the front stoop, vying for 
advantage when Millie's footsteps approached. Millie opened the door and the cats sang and 
danced at her feet, shouldering each other aside to attack the aluminum pan she set down, redolent 
with chicken grease and bits of skin. Buttercup made an attempt to join the celebration but the 
door closed before she could sneak out. Her perch on the sofa revealed enticements outside, tiny 
creatures that chirped and buzzed and hopped and flittered. Sometimes she managed to sneak out, 
but the world beyond the stoop was no place for a cat with three legs and before long she would be 
calling to be let in.
 
When Hale got home from work, he picked up the baking pan, banged open the front door and 
stomped into the kitchen. He tossed the pan into the sink. Millie turned at the clatter and he 
slapped her face with an open palm. "I ain't eatin' no goddamn food cooked in no goddamn cat 
pan!" he yelled. He grabbed the roast chicken from the platter on the table and flung it on the 
floor, then stomped out. 
 
After he'd gone, Millie tore off a piece of breast meat for Buttercup, then hurled the rest 
of the chicken out the back door. "The bastard can eat Spam the rest of the week," she told the 
cat.
 
As spats go, this one was minor. Hale got his own breakfast, ate his supper of fried Spam and 
boiled potatoes without complaint, and did not challenge Millie's short words and cold 
shoulders. By Friday, the score seemed settled. Millie fixed cheeseburgers and baked beans with 
brown sugar and Hale asked if she wanted to go to the Tip Top Tap with him. Millie did not like the 
Tap; it smelled bad, the men who hung out there made Hale seem like a gentleman, and the women 
made her wonder what direction her life was headed. But this time, she said yes.
 
Millie put on her tight jeans - the ones that made her butt look like a pair of bowling balls, 
and her push-up bra and scoop-necked pink angora sweater that showed the hiding place for the 
little gold cross that hung from a thin gold chain. Powder and rouge hid the faint bruise on 
her cheek and glossy pink lipstick covered the slight swelling on her lip. A touch of mascara 
and eye shadow, large gold hoop earrings, and she was ready.
 
"Whooie!"  Hale reached out to grab her.
 
She pushed his hand away. "You be good now."
 
Buttercup rubbed against Millie's red cowgirl boots as if she also was excited by her looks. 
Millie went to the cabinet where she kept the cat chow.
 
"C'mon," Hale commanded from the front door.
 
"Hold your horses." Millie poured kibble into the cat's dish, filled the water bowl, shrugged into 
her fringed brown leather jacket, then went out to the pickup where Hale sat, gunning the engine.
 
***
 
A payday crowd filled the Tip Top Tap. Men from the factory as well as short-haul truckers, 
orchard workers, car mechanics - you could tell their occupations by the bulk and bend of their 
bodies, the dirt under their fingernails, and the logos on their ball caps.
 
"Hey, Hale!" a voice called out, "What'cher wife gonna say when she finds out about this babe?"
 
"Funny fellow," Hale growled. He steered Millie to one of the small tables, varnished wooden 
disks on pipes bolted to the floor that jutted like tall mushrooms in a dank cave. She pulled 
out a stool and placed one round buttock on the seat, giving a push with the toe of her red boot 
to hike herself up.
 
"Hang up my coat, would you, honey?" she said.
 
Hale held the shoulders of her jacket while she 
slipped her arms from the sleeves. "What'aya want 
to drink?" he asked. "A person could die of 
thirst waitin' for a waitress on Friday night."
 
"Coors light. In a bottle." She fished in her purse for cigarettes. "And get some change for 
the cigarette machine," she called after him. She didn't smoke that much, only when she was 
nervous. She twisted around on the stool to see who had yelled at Hale. She knew she attracted 
men's eyes. Sometimes it was frightening, strange eyes on her like little hands, groping. Sometimes 
it made her angry, the furtive eyes of old men and pimply kids in the grocery store. Tonight, 
the attention energized her.
 
A man at the bar smiled at her. He wore a yellow cap with a large black 'Z' emblazoned on the 
front. The cap looked too crisp to be an actual work hat. It was a company hat from the factory; 
Hale had one like it that he never wore. The man had dark curly hair that coiled from underneath 
the cap, and a dark moustache and goatee, neatly trimmed. He'd been the one who'd yelled at Hale 
when they came in. She couldn't say how she knew this - his look just seemed to match the voice. 
She smiled back, then shifted her eyes to find Hale. He was collecting their drinks from the 
bartender.
 
Hale set the glassware on the table with a clunk. Millie said, "That guy in the yellow hat," she 
nodded toward the bar, "he seems to know you."
 
Hale turned to look, bobbed his head, then turned back. "Frank," he said.  "New foreman.  Thinks 
he's one of the guys. Asshole."
 
Millie took a small sip of beer, letting her lips linger on the top of the bottle before setting it 
down. "Why's that?"
 
"Just is. Whata' you care?"
 
Millie shrugged. "Just making conversation." She 
took another slow pull on the bottle.
 
"Well, conversate about somethin' else. I din't come here to talk about work." Hale downed the 
shot of Jack and reached for his beer.
 
A clamorous wedge of men entered, honking greetings like a flight of geese. Hale turned at 
the noise. "Hey, Tim! Charlie!" he yelled. Two men detached themselves from the group and came 
over to the table, large men with grinning faces and bellies like Thanksgiving turkeys stashed 
under their shirts.
 
"Hey, Hale, how's it hangin'," the first one said. 
 
The other said, "Hey, Millie." He had a face like Porky Pig:  round cheeks and squinty eyes and a 
turned up-nose. Millie smiled. Tim and Charlie worked at the factory with Hale, his fishing 
buddies. 
 
"Gotta go to the ladies," she said, slipping off the stool.
 
"Hi, Millie," the man in the yellow hat said as she passed. His voice was deep, not like Tim's 
piggy squeal. He sat with his back to the bar, the heels of his black boots hooked on the bottom 
rung of his stool. His red-and-black checked shirt was tucked in neatly at the waist of his 
black jeans - no turkey stashed there - and he had a big silver belt buckle with a black 
enameled 'Z' on it. 
 
"I don't know you," Millie said curtly.
 
"You could." He smiled, even white teeth showing beneath his dark moustache. His eyes smiled too, 
so it wasn't just a leer.
 
"Why'd I want to do that?" She meant to say this scornfully but it came out sassy.
 
His smile widened and his shoulders shrugged slightly. "Life's full of surprises."
 
"I gotta' take care of business," she said, and abruptly turned away.
 
Returning from the rest room, she had to walk past him again. "How's business?" he asked. She 
gave him a dark scowl and hurried back to the table. 
 
The men were in heated discussion about two-stroke and four-stroke outboard motors. 
Millie lit a cigarette. Her freshly applied lipstick left a bright pink stain on the filter.
 
"Oh shit," said Hale. Frank was advancing toward their table, a waitress with a tray of drinks 
following. 
 
"Hey, fellas." Frank stood aside so the waitress could unload her cargo. She balanced a corner of 
the tray on the edge of the table and, like the pinsetter at the bowling alley, smoothly 
exchanged empty bottles and glasses for full ones. Frank raised a bottle of Heineken as a 
toast and said, "Thank God it's Friday."
 
"Friday," Tim and Charlie echoed, and downed their shots of Jack. Hale said nothing.  He 
picked up his shot glass and sipped slowly. 
 
"What'cha guys doin' this weekend?" Frank asked. "Fishing season ain't started, has it?"
 
"Boat show over in Center City," said Tim. "Might go look at the new outboards. Supposed to be some 
neat new two-strokes." 
 
"Too buzzy and smoky," said Charlie, renewing the discussion they'd been having.
 
"Yeah, I heard there's new technology on the two-strokes," said Frank. "Made 'em quieter, 
cleaner too."
 
Tim nudged his pal at this confirmation. The other grumped, "We'll see."
 
"Gotta pee," said Hale, and he moved off toward the restrooms.
 
Frank turned to Millie. "You goin' to look at boats too?"
 
She gave him a look like she'd bit into a wormy apple. "Rather go to the dentist."
 
Tim and Charlie laughed in chorus at the absurdity of Millie going to the boat show. 
"Fishing's Millie's favorite thing," said one.
 
"Yeah, 'cause it gets Hale outta the house," said the other. Their laughter doubled at the joke 
they'd never say to Hale's face. 
 
"So what are you going to do this week-end?" Frank persisted.
 
"Oh, shopping, laundry, cleaning, the usual," she said.
 
"But whataya do for fun?"
 
"This is it." She rummaged in her purse. "Damn, 
out of cigarettes." She looked up at the men.
 
Frank shook his head. "Don't smoke."
 
Tim dug under his shirt pocket flap and took out a crumpled pack of generic filter cigarettes and 
offered it to her. Millie made her wormy-apple face. He shrugged, tapped a cigarette out of the 
pack for himself and one for his pal. They went through the lighting ritual and sighed in smoky 
contentment.
 
"What kind do you smoke?" Frank asked. "I'll get you some at the machine."
 
"That's okay.  I don't smoke that much anyway. Just being in a bar seems to make me want to." 
She took a sip of beer. "Hale don't smoke, neither. That's a good quality."
 
"That's his only good quality, "Tim laughed.
 
"Whose good quality? What?" Hale had come up behind them.
 
"Your good quality," said Tim.
 
"One of many," said the other. "You're also kind to animals."
 
"And pay your taxes."
 
"And go to church every Sunday."
 
Hale cut them off. "You guys are pathetic." He was not smiling.
 
"Don't suppose any of you do go to church?" asked Frank.
 
Hale waved his hand at the room. "Not too many 
church people come to the Tap." This absurdity 
did bring a smile to his face.
 
Just then, the waitress arrived with another round of drinks that Hale had ordered at the bar. 
The waitress looked at Millie's half-full bottle of Coors; holding the fresh bottle, she looked at 
Hale. 
 
"Leave it," he said.  If she don't drink it, one of these funny men will."
 
"You got that right," said one of the funny men. 
 
When the waitress had gone, Frank continued, "I'm serious. I was thinking of finding a church to go 
to myself." The men looked at him like he'd said he wanted to get a prostate exam. "To meet some 
decent women," he added quickly. "Haven't found any place where single women hang out since I 
moved here. So I was thinking, maybe a church." 
 
"Not going to meet any decent women in the Tap, that's for sure," said Tim. 
 
"Except Millie," said the other. 
 
"She never comes here; she don't count as a Tap woman."
 
The two pals looked around, as if taking inventory of the dozen or so women in the bar: 
the waitresses, a few wives and lady-friends, a small group of middle-aged factory women 
celebrating a birthday, a couple of hard-looking refugees from the truck stop.
 
"There's single women at the truck stop, up on the interstate," Charlie said. They both laughed 
at this. 
 
"Not the church type, though," said Tim.
 
Frank chuckled. "You guys are a big help."
 
"There's a couple college bars in Center City, lots of college girls," Hale offered. They all 
turned to look at him. "That's what I heard," he added.
 
"Yeah, some of the part-time college guys on the floor talk about them," said Tim, quick to help 
out a buddy. 
 
"You're up in the office; don't hear about that stuff," said Charlie.
 
"Need to spend more time in the break room."
 
"Not that we do."
 
All the men laughed.
 
***
 
"You go to the college bars in Center City?" Millie asked. Stones flew and the pickup lurched 
as the tires spun on the gravel driveway and then bit into the blacktop. Millie flinched, as if 
expecting a slap, but Hale needed both hands to steer out of the slide.
 
"Very funny!" He spat the words when he got the truck heading straight. "That asshole Frank is 
the college man." He said the last two words in a sneering sing-song. "He should go to the fucking 
college bars and stay the hell out of the Tap." Hale turned and glared at her. "And don't think I 
didn't see you looking at him!"
 
"What d'you mean, looking at him?" 
 
"You know goddamn well what I mean!" 
 
Millie leaned on the passenger door, putting as much distance between herself and Hale as she 
could. "I never . . ."
 
"Don't tell me what I saw!" Hale roared. The road curved suddenly and again he was obliged to keep 
both hands on the wheel, swerving to get back on the right side of the road. "That faggot little 
beard and moustache," he went on. "Goddamn pussy-mouth; that's what he is, a goddamn 
cock-sucking pussy-mouth homo. Gives me the creeps just to look at the guy."
 
That night, Hale pounded like a steam engine between her legs. When they were first together 
Millie had been aroused by his ardor. But she'd come to realize it had little to do with her, and 
she'd become more actress than participant. But tonight was different. She'd actually had a good 
time going out to the bar. She'd gotten a buzz from the beer, Tim and Charlie made her laugh, 
and there was that big silver belt buckle with a 'Z' on it. 
 
***
 
They slept late. Millie made pancakes and they lingered at the table. Buttercup wandered into 
the kitchen and rubbed, purring, against Millie's furry slippers. She should have attended to the 
empty food bowl but she just sat, sipping her coffee and enjoying the bright red splash a 
cardinal made on the brown landscape outside the window. The cat rubbed against Hale's bare foot 
and was launched in an arc, landing with a thump on the far side of the kitchen. She scrabbled to 
get her three legs under her and dashed from the room.
 
"Goddamn cat," Hale said. There was no malice in his voice; it was merely an observation, like 
saying, 'the cat's hungry,' or 'looks like a nice day.' Tears welled in Millie's eyes and she stood 
quickly before he could notice. 
 
The phone rang; Millie answered and gave the receiver to Hale. She cleared the table while he 
talked, ducking under the long coiled phone cord. At Millie's request, he agreed to ride to the 
boat show with Tim and Charlie so she could have the pickup to get groceries. 
 
After he'd gone, Millie took a long shower, then wrapped herself in her big quilted robe while she 
dried her hair. The whir, the warmth, the tactile sensations of hair-brushing had a mesmerizing 
effect and she only gradually became aware of knocking at the door. Frightened at the thought 
that maybe Hale had forgotten something, had locked himself out and was banging to be let in, 
she rushed to the front door and flung it open. With a mixture of relief and surprise she found, 
not Hale, but Frank, standing on the porch. 
 
"Uh, hi," she stammered, "Hale's not here. Were you going to the boat show with him?"  It hardly 
seemed possible, knowing how Hale felt about him. But maybe Frank was going to just invite himself 
along, like he had last night at their table.
 
"Oh, when did he leave?" Frank seemed disappointed.
 
"About a half-hour ago; maybe longer. I was drying my hair." She pointed to her damp hair, 
suddenly aware of her lack of coiffure, her lack of make-up, her lack of clothes. "Didn't hear the 
door. Sorry. You could probably catch them at the show. He went with Tim and Charlie."
 
"That's okay." Frank was wearing a black cap with a yellow 'Z', and a black leather jacket, not a 
motorcycle jacket but a regular jacket, made out of soft leather. She couldn't see if he was 
wearing that big silver belt buckle. He took a step forward. "Could I talk with you? A couple 
minutes?"
 
"Well, Hale's not here. What about?" Her head wagged like a bobble doll on the dashboard. Cold 
air swirled about her bare legs under the robe. Buttercup dashed past her bare feet and down the 
porch steps. "Damn cat," she exclaimed. "Here, at least come in out of the cold." She stepped aside.
 
"Want me to catch the cat?" Frank offered.
 
"No, she's okay. Come in." She closed the door behind him. "Sit down.  I need to finish 
dressing. Help yourself to some coffee in the kitchen." 
 
She hurried down the narrow hall to the bedroom, closed the door and leaned against it, suddenly 
light-headed. What if Hale came back and found Frank here, with her practically naked? She'd 
just tell him what happened - Frank showed up at the door while she was dressing. She didn't know 
what Frank was doing here. She should have told him to leave right away. Damn cat. She did NOT 
make plans to meet Frank last night. She didn't even know when Hale was leaving. She did NOT call 
Frank after he left. Check the goddamn phone records. He'd kill them both. Did Frank know how 
to fight? Where was the shotgun? She had to get Frank out of here. Get dressed, get dressed. She 
grabbed underwear out of her drawer, a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt. No time for lipstick. Get 
Frank the hell out of here.
 
"What's wrong?" Frank asked. He stood up from the sofa by the front windows, where Buttercup liked 
to stretch out in the sun. "Are you sick? You look really pale"
 
"Look, you shouldn't be here. It's not . . .   If Hale would find out . . ." Her voice trembled.
 
Frank nodded. "I see. I'm sorry I frightened you. I just wanted to talk, find out some things about 
the town here."
 
"You didn't frighten me. It's just . . . just . . ."
 
"Hale?"
 
She nodded.
 
"Well look, I'm leaving. Tell you what. I'm going to the public library later, on Sycamore. You 
know where that is?"
 
She nodded.
 
"Why don't you come there, in a little while, after you calm down. I'll be in the reading room. 
We can talk. I don't think Hale and his buddies hang out there."
 
She had to smile at the image of those three in the library. 
 
"Okay?" he asked.
 
She wagged her head from side to side. "Maybe.  I don't know."
 
"It's up to you."
 
She watched his retreating figure through the lace curtains. He got in a shiny black pickup 
truck, one of those fancy new ones with four doors and a metal bed cover. When he'd driven 
away, she heard a meow at the front door. "Bad kitty," she said, letting Buttercup in.
 
***
 
Millie got groceries, quickly, just the essentials, so it would be obvious where she'd 
been in case Hale got home early. She hadn't been to the library in years, not since high school. 
It looked the same: the high ceilings with the suspended glass globes, like luminous, dangling 
lollipops; the hushed funeral parlor atmosphere; the dry scent of words buried in paper tombs. She 
found the Reading Room, a homey chamber with couches and chairs covered in dark-blue floral 
print, parchment-shaded brass floor lamps, and shelves with newspapers and magazines set out 
like vegetables at the farmer's market. Nobody appeared to be in the room and she had a sinking 
feeling that she'd missed Frank, or maybe he never showed up at all. She turned and saw him on 
the sofa beside the doorway, out of sight of anyone just glancing in. 
 
He stood up and smiled. "Glad you could make it." He took both her hands in his, gave a light 
squeeze, and let go. "How're you feeling?"  
 
"Okay. A lot better. You don't want to come around when Hale's not home."
 
"Sorry. Though I'm glad he wasn't home. I'd rather talk to you." Frank sat down and she sat 
also, leaving space between them.
 
"What about?"
 
Frank bent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, and looked at the floor. He was slim, 
skinny almost, but his shoulders were broad and his blue chambray work shirt stretched taut 
across his back.
 
"Well, I thought I wanted to see if you had any girl friends, single women, you know, you maybe 
could introduce me to or tell me how to meet, like I was saying last night." He sat up and 
turned to face her. "But, since meeting you . . ."
 
"What?" A vertical line between her brows added an exclamation point to her question.
 
"I'd rather just see you." Her hand rested on her knee and he placed his hand lightly atop it. A 
warm hand, soft, with clean fingernails.
 
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" She didn't remove her hand, afraid that would leave 
his hand on her leg.
 
He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with happiness that he had no business feeling. He 
nodded. "I think so."
 
She pushed his hand away and sat back, away from him. "That's crazy," she whisper-shouted. Then, 
in a low voice, "I'm married, in case you haven't noticed. I don't do that . . . that sort of 
thing."
 
"I couldn't stop thinking about you last night," he said, as though admitting it to himself for 
the first time.
 
"You know what Hale would do if he knew we here? He'd kill us. He'd shoot you and he'd shoot me. 
Just for sitting in the library talking."
 
Frank put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him, kissing her, pressing his chest into 
hers, parting his lips. The hair around his mouth pricked her face, his moustache tickled her nose. 
'Pussy-mouth' she thought, though not in the way Hale said it. 
 
***
 
"Wha'shu doin'?" Hale slurred, leaning against the doorway to the sewing room. 
 
She'd been silly to think he'd get home early. She looked up from her book and smiled. "How was 
the boat show?" 
 
"Great, just great!" He straightened up with the recollection and walked over next to her rocking 
chair. "They got such great stuff: 'lectric-start motors, 'lectronic fish locaters. 
Lotta money, though. Maybe you should go for that job at the Wal-Mart, you know? You still wanna' 
do that?" He bent down and kissed the top of her head.
 
"Maybe," she said. "I'll check into it on Monday if you want."
 
"Yeah. That'd be great. Hey, wha'shu readin'?"
 
She held up a hardback copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover. "A book, a real book of literature. I went 
by the library today and got me a library card. There's a lot of stuff there I want to check out."
 
The cat on her lap purred and stretched its three legs.
 
 

Roger Poppen took up creative writing after retiring as a professor of behavior analysis. He has published one novel, MISTER LUCKY, and several shorter works in online and print magazines, including Flashquake, Long Story Short, Ducts, Gowanus, and Skyline.
More is available at: http://mypage.siu.edu/drrock/

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