It was a muggy Sunday afternoon, July half gone, mosquitoes swarming Nick’s boots after the early morning rain. The yard was a mess of overgrown shrubs and towering poplars with half-dead branches and roots bulging and snaking towards the house. The sagging garage was little more than a shed, filled with rusted rakes and an old lawn mower seldom used.
Nick set up a couple old lawn chairs beside the fire pit and lit the kindling. He watched as the flames burst then fizzled around the half-burned log. It was smoke, not heat, he was after, to dissuade the bugs.
Tomorrow he’d be back to work, back to his normal routine, except there was this kid in his house that belonged to him, and nothing would be like it was before. He’d been planning this father-son talk for days.
He’d set everything up on the wooden picnic table, the one he’d stolen from the campground after his parents had moved on. Cokes packed on ice in the cooler, chips and dip, a package of Red Hot beef jerky. The only thing missing was the boy, and Nick had run out of reasons to keep stalling.
He walked slowly to his back door, opened the screen, and yelled inside. “Billy, can you come out here for a minute. We need to talk.” He let the screen slam, went back to the lawn chair, and waited. It took forever, but Billy finally came to the landing and yelled, “Yeah?”
“No, come here,” Nick said, leaving no room for hesitation. “We need to talk.”
Billy walked painfully slow and slumped in the chair beside Nick. “Yeah?” he said again.
“You want a Coke? I got chips too.”
“No thanks. Is that it?” Billy pressed his hands into the armrests and leaned forward, ready to take off again. Nick knew he was pissed at getting picked up early from Prairie View and not being allowed to go back. He’d been locked in his room since.
“Hold on, Billy. I just got some things to say.” Nick’s mind went blank, his rehearsed words evaporating into the smoke. “I went to Prairie View last night. Kinda late. You’d already gone into your room, and I figured you might be asleep, so I didn’t want to bug you. Plus, I figured you’d been there all day, so you probably needed a break from that place. Anyway, someone had called. Not Sarah, somebody else, a Rose or Ruby, it doesn’t matter, but she left a message and said Evelyn needed . . . well, supplies, so I stopped at the drugstore and headed over.” Why was he babbling like a running toilet? Billy didn’t need to know all this.
But the boy had been listening. He sounded indignant when he demanded to know what supplies, like no one had a right to get into their business. “Grandma has toilet paper,” he added. “And paper towels too. I check every day.”
“I know. I sorta overdid it in the toilet paper department. They just asked me to pick up some other personal stuff.”
The kid wouldn’t let it go. What stuff, he wanted to know.
“Depends. Like pull-ups, only for adults.”
“Pullups!” Billy spat out the word. “You mean diapers.” He looked horrified. “Grandma doesn’t need those.”
“I guess they think she does. She’s been having little accidents.”
Billy clamped his mouth shut and stared at the ground. “I didn’t know,” he finally said.
“It’s not your job to know, Billy. That’s what the staff are for. To help with those things. Anyway, Evelyn’s all squared away. She was asleep, so I left the package in the staff room. What I wanted to say is that your mural is amazing. I can’t believe how much you’ve done. It’s really something.”
Nick was astonished by what the boy had accomplished. His boy. The unit had been quiet when he’d used his fob to open the locked door. Colour splashed across the wall. He had to sit in one of the chairs across the hall just to take it in. One of the night staff sat beside him, and they stared together for a few minutes before she put her hand on Nick’s knee and whispered, We all love it. The staff. The residents. The families. Ruthie’s daughter blubbered when she came by last night. That’s some special kid of yours. Her words made him feel foolish, like he’d been the only one not let in on the secret. He couldn’t move for nearly half an hour.
“It’s going faster than I thought it would,” Billy was saying. “The projector works good.”
“It hasn’t given you any trouble?”
“Nope. Starts up quick. Doesn’t take much to get the zoom to fit.”
“The trouble light? And ladder? You got all you need?”
“Yep.”
“You and Evelyn. You make a great team. I really like the bulrushes. And the sky. It’s so real, like the photograph, but not like the photograph.” He wanted to tell Billy that the painting made him feel like he was standing on a boardwalk in some better world, but he couldn’t get his mouth to work.
Billy stayed quiet. Nick thought maybe he should move on and get to the main reason for this meeting, but then Billy asked tentatively, not more than a mumble, “So you like it?” The question felt precious to him, breakable.
“Yeah. I do.” Nick placed a hand on Billy’s arm and held it there.
“Yeah, okay.” Billy squirmed away. “Maybe I’ll have a Coke.”
“Behind ya. In the cooler. Toss me one. There’s chips too.”
Billy rummaged through the cooler on the picnic table. Smoke billowed in their faces, so Nick dragged the lawn chairs to the other side of the pit. Billy came back with two Cokes and chips, tripping on the uneven ground. When he tore the bag open, chips scattered everywhere. When he popped the Coke tab, fizz bubbled up and onto his T-shirt. The kid was a disaster without a paintbrush in his hand.
They took turns reaching into the bag, chomping on chips, tipping their heads back and guzzling their Cokes.
“The boardwalk isn’t quite right,” Billy said. He had chip pieces all down his shirt. “The railing is fatter on one end than the other.”
“That didn’t jump out at me. The proportions looked right. And I stared at that boardwalk a long while. What does your grandma think?”
“About the boardwalk?”
“About the mural.” Nick wished he hadn’t asked it. How could Billy know what was in Evelyn’s head? She didn’t know herself.
“She’s foggy when she starts out. Yesterday, after breakfast, when she came down the hall and stood close to the wall, her eyes got really wide. She ran her finger over each brush stroke, turning her head one way and another, taking it all in from different angles. I tell her, You painted this, Grandma, and she says, No, I didn’t. I did not, like she can’t remember holding a brush. But once we get her set up her brain clicks in. She gets sharper the more she works and that blank film in her eyes goes away. After lunch she said, Billy, you’ve grown two inches since breakfast. We’ll have to buy you some new jeans before school.”
Billy kicked at the half-buried root. “That’s good, right? Her telling a joke? Her remembering I’m supposed to go to school?”
It was a lot of words. And more coherent than anything Nick could drum up. Billy had been caring for his grandma for God knows how long. All that time, he’d deserved boyish hopes, careless days. Instead, he had to worry about whether Evie would remember to turn off the stove, pay the light bills. Nick couldn’t imagine all he’d lost out on.
“That’s good, right?” Billy repeated.
It was Nick’s turn to say something. “Yeah. That’s good. Really good.” It’s not like he had much better to offer the kid.
The smoke shifted again, drifting across their shirts, into their eyes. They sat without speaking for a while. Nick grabbed more Cokes and the package of beef jerky. Billy kept swigging and chomping.
“I gotta start work again. Tomorrow morning,” Nick said.
“Yeah? Okay,” Billy said, like it had nothing to do with him.
“So that means you’re on your own during the day.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“You gonna keep on painting?”
“Yep. We’re gonna do the train wall next. Close to the dining room.”
“Good.”
Nick felt nervous. “I got something for you.” He ducked inside the dilapidated garage and came out wheeling the new BMX street bike. He’d picked it up at Pedal Pros in Red Deer, where he was assured it was the most popular brand for teenage boys. When he was asked his boy’s weight and height, Nick shrugged like a dipshit absent father.
“I won’t be able to drive you to Prairie View on my workdays.” He avoided Billy’s eyes as he wheeled the bike to the fire pit. He might think himself too old for a bike. He might think his father dumber than a box of rocks. “It’s a long walk across town. Figured this would be faster.”
Billy stood. “I can borrow this?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean, it’s yours. I didn’t notice a bike at your old place. Thought you could use one.” A mad thought ran through him. This couldn’t be the kid’s first bike? Did Billy know how to ride a bike?
“It’s been a while.” Billy pressed his thumb to the seat and watched it spring back. “Can I take it for a spin?”
Nick stopped holding his breath. “Yeah, sure. Go for it.”
Billy rested one foot on the pedal and coasted through the yard, then swung his leg over the bar and took off. He looked like a normal kid, rocketing away on a Sunday afternoon.
Nick sipped on his Coke. The log had quit smoking, and the bugs were taking over. He used the metal poker to stir up the embers. He didn’t trust the easiness of it, all that giving and receiving. What pieces was he missing?
By the time Nick had polished off the last of the chips, Billy was gliding back up the gravel driveway. He braked hard, skidding, cheeks red, hair wind-whipped.
“Did you try all the speeds?” Nick asked.
“Yep. They work.”
“There’s a bike lock on the kitchen counter. You can set your own combination. Keep the bike in the garage when you’re home, and lock it when you take it out, okay? Even at Prairie View. You don’t want a grandpa using it as his escape vehicle.”
Billy didn’t laugh, but he didn’t scowl either. He walked the bike into the open garage, came out, and pulled down the door. Nick tossed him the jerky bag, which Billy easily caught with his left hand.
“You’re left-handed,” Nick remarked, already knowing this, but saying it out loud.
“Yep.” Billy plunked down on top of the picnic table and ripped off a piece of jerky with his teeth.
Until now, Nick had been the only one in his family to sign his name with his left hand. “I’m left-handed too,” he said.
“I know. What about a helmet?”
Nick had never worn one except for football and hockey. “I’ll pick one up.” He’d tell Sarah about Billy’s helmet request, ask if Carter had any suggestions. But he should have thought of it on his own. Kids were expected to protect their brains; parents were expected to know that. “You’ll probably live until tomorrow if you follow the road rules. You know your signals, right?”
Billy rolled his eyes.
“Good. I bought lunch meat for sandwiches and apples and bananas and cookies. There’s baggies and brown bags in the drawer under the cutlery. Make yourself a lunch before you head out in the morning. Since Dorothy doesn’t want you in the dining room, I guess you’ll have to eat in Evelyn’s room. Or come home for lunch. That would be good too.”
“What kind of cookies?”
“Oreos.”
“Okay.” Billy held out the jerky bag to Nick, but he shook his head. Red Hots made Nick’s throat burn and eyes water. Billy was snarfing them down like candy.
“And there’s a backpack in the closet,” Nick added.
Billy crinkled up the empty bag and stuck it in his pocket. He leaned forward on the table, hands on knees, and looked down at the ground. “Thanks for the bike.”
Nick waited for him to look up, which he didn’t. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t think you had a job,” Billy said.
“Yeah, I do,” he answered too sharply. “I work five days a week. All year long.” It riled him that Billy hadn’t registered he’d taken time off work to help him get settled. But then why would he? They hadn’t spent time together. Hadn’t talked about what came before, what might come next.
Nick surveyed the overgrown yard, the decrepit house, the tilting garage. They had a roof over their heads but not much more. All the colour at his grandma’s house; art plastered on every wall. Window planters filled with petunias. The mushroom-shaped cookie jar. The straight rows of carrot tops and lettuce leaves waiting to grow. All gone for this.
“I’m a home inspector,” he said, trying to create some legitimacy. “I pick up inspection requests every morning, usually four or five renos and new builds. I check structural stuff mostly. Joists and beams, firewalls, railings, foundations, that kind of stuff. Then I write a report—pass, fail, what needs to be done. I go all around the county.”
He couldn’t tell Billy how he spent the rest of his time. Stopping in at the bar at the end of each shift, guzzling every beer Candace brought to his table, passing out in a drunken sleep so he could do it again the next day. That routine had to change now anyway. Now he’d be required to come home, dig out something decent to feed the kid, find the adult diaper aisle in the drugstore, hit the milk aisle at the Foodmart. It made his head spin to think of what would now be expected of him.
Billy made a big deal of choking as he stepped off the picnic table and into the black smoke. He dragged the largest log from the back of the wood pile and chucked it onto the fire pit, sending sparks and flecks of char flying.
Like that would work. Nick wondered if the kid had ever built a fire. He found a couple dry logs and split them in three with the axe. He dumped the stack of wood beside the firepit, along with kindling sticks scattered around the chopping block. With the poker, he pushed Billy’s log to the side of the pit, throwing kindling into the centre.
“Take these pieces of wood and stand them up, like a teepee, let the air get under.”
Billy got down on his knees and did what he was told.
“Now slide this kindling between the wood chunks. It’ll catch from the embers.”
Billy wedged the sticks into the teepee’s holes, meticulously slow, stopping between each to see what would happen.
“You might want to blow?” Nick said.
“Blow?”
Definitely the kid’s first fire. “Get your head down, level with the base, nice long blows, help it get started.”
Billy got on all fours, puffed his cheeks out, and gave it everything he had. They heard the crackle before the first burst, one tiny flame, then another, then all the kindling ablaze and spreading up the sides of the splintered wood.
Billy sat on his knees, and rubbed his hands together, brushing away the pebbles and dirt clumps. He had a smug look, one side of his mouth curled up.
“Good looking fire.” Nick pulled the lawn chairs up close to the fire’s edge and they sat side by side, staring into the flames. He handed Billy the poker. “I’d let it be for a bit before you stir it around. You built it, you tend it. That’s the rule.”
There should be other rules too—curfew, laundry, chores—but Nick didn’t want to break from this moment. It was a Sunday afternoon, and he was sitting by a fire with his son.
Billy piped up, “Would you give Grandma’s house a pass or fail?”
“You mean as a home inspector?”
“Yeah.”
“I wasn’t wearing my inspector hat when I picked you guys up. It looked pretty sound to me. Your bathtub wasn’t filled with kitty litter. No pigeons in the attic.” He could have filled the kid with horror stories. “Mostly, I just thought how interesting your house was. An artists’ house. Exciting. Like what you’re making Prairie View.”
One of the logs tumbled over, and Billy carefully turned it over with the poker. “What about your house? Pass or fail?”
“This house? Fail. Definitely. It’s tilting like a ship in bad weather. In case of emergency, crawl out your bedroom window. And don’t stay in the garage too long. That roof’s hanging by a rusty nail.”
“Maybe I should keep my bike in my bedroom.”
They both laughed at the same time, a first, which made Nick wish he’d caught it on video. “That reminds me.” He pulled the cellphone from his back pocket and handed it to Billy. “This is for you.”
Billy looked dumbstruck, like the phone was radioactive and he was afraid to touch it. He turned it over, examined it from every angle.
“I put my cell number in there already. And the Prairie View desk. Your birthday is the password, month and date. Zero four, twenty-seven. There’s not much data, so use the computer to surf, not your phone, okay? No porn. No sexting. It’s more a can you pick me up, we need cereal sort of device.”
It took a few minutes, but Billy finally punched in the password and stared at the icons.
Nick didn’t know what to make of him. “Earth to Billy. What did I just say?”
“No surfing,” Billy said distractedly, clicking on the Contacts icon. Nick cell. Prairie View, just like he’d told him.
“You can fill that up with all your friends’ numbers once you start school.” Nick was at a loss as to why Billy was acting so weird. “Or add your old friends’ numbers in there. Texting is free so you don’t have to worry about long distance.”
Billy got out of Contacts, put the phone on his lap, and stared at the screen. A spark soared up, a loud popping sound. Billy’s hands flew over the phone to protect it, then he leaned forward and tucked it in his back pocket.
“So we all good here?” Nick couldn’t tell.
Billy kept his head down and poked at the fire. Then he mumbled, “I’ve never had one of these.”
Seriously? The kid was fourteen years old. “You’ve never had a cellphone?”
Billy looked up indignantly. “Of course I’ve had a cellphone. I had a stupid old piece-of-shit phone. It got busted when Grandma was in the hospital. I just meant I’ve never had one of these.”
“Oh,” Nick said, imagining what made his son hurl his piece-of-shit phone against the hospital wall. “So you’re an iPhone virgin. No big deal. Give it a day and it’ll be an extension of your arm. You won’t leave home without it. You might forget pants, but you’ll have your phone.”
Billy turned and stared at him. “How do you know my birthday?”
Nick wanted to get this right. It took a full minute to figure out the words. “I don’t know much, but I want to.” When Billy still looked dubious, he added, “Your birthday was in the paperwork they FedExed up here. If I’d known about you before, I would have been there for every one of your birthdays.” He felt bitter and sounded it. God knows if he’d have shown up, but he should have been given the chance. “Now I know Evelyn’s birthday too. End of September, right? Maybe they’ll throw a party at Prairie View.”
“Or we could have one here,” Billy said.
Nick didn’t bother to respond to the absurd idea.
“Do I have another grandma?”
“Yep. You have another grandma. And a grandpa.” Nick hadn’t spoken to his parents in months. The last time he saw them was two years ago, for his mom’s sixtieth birthday. They met at a diner along the highway, a sorry and stilted affair that filled him with guilt.
“Do they know about me?”
“Not yet. But they will.” The kid would figure out soon enough that they were on their own. “My mom loves art. And artists.”
“And camping. You guys had a campground, right?”
“Yep. That’s where I met your mom.”
Billy nodded, like he’d heard the story already. Mommy and Daddy on a warm summer’s night, moonlight shimmering off the water, love in the air.
Nick didn’t know what the boy knew, other than their DNA was a supposed match, the gods amused as they knocked their heads together. “She was really pretty,” Nick added, to make her sound real.
“I don’t remember her.” Billy sounded flat, emotionless. “She died when I was little. I always lived with Grandma.”
“I know,” Nick said. The paperwork included a copy of Miranda’s death certificate and a few scattered facts. Miranda Peat. Age twenty-two. Ovarian cancer. (He’d since googled the chances: incredibly rare.) Billy would have been in diapers.
The big log had caught fire and Billy banged it with the poker, scraping off the outer black chunks. The sky darkened, and a cool breeze swept in.
“I’ve got hot dogs and buns,” Nick announced. “Wanna roast some wieners?”
“Sure,” Billy said. “Did you live in a tent or what? At the campground?”
Nick laughed. “No. We lived in a house up the hill from the campground. The campground was only open May through September. The rest of the year, I went to school, did my homework, played hockey, had a few scrapes along the way like every other kid.” He instantly regretted describing what he thought every kid did. Billy had probably never scored a goal, never got into a brawl.
“Do you know how to play crib?” Nick thought to ask. He’d played crib with his father on Sunday afternoons. An ancient crib set, the wood scarred and chipped, toothpicks for missing pegs.
“Sure.” Billy sounded like he thought the question stupid. Like do you know how to brush your teeth.
Nick and his father kept a journal of wins and losses, each score accompanied by Nick’s childish declarations. Happy faces, mad faces, LOSER, He scores AGAIN. He could search through the boxes in the basement. Find the crib set. Buy a new journal.
“So how come your family got rid of the campground?” Billy wanted to know.
The answer was straightforward. He’d started a fire and burned it all down. “It stopped being fun,” was what he said to the boy. “We just decided to move on.”
“To here?” Billy scrunched his eyes. He had a right to be skeptical. Why this dump?
“Yeah.” Nick looked around, disgusted. He’d been living here four years and hadn’t so much as pulled a dandelion. “We got some fixing to do. You’re in charge of design. I’ll try and be more handy.”
“You should start in the bathroom,” Billy said. “That shower. Be easier to use a squirt bottle.”
Nick nodded. “Yeah. It’s pathetic. You should start in the living room. Get some of your art on the walls. Or Evie’s. Rearrange the furniture.”
“Or blow it up and start over.”
Nick laughed. “No explosives. House rule.”
“Get decent dishes,” Billy said.
Nick whistled through his teeth. “You mean matching forks?”
Billy seemed to consider it. “Why not. All the plates are chipped.”
“Listen to us. Yacking about home decor like a couple of ladies.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “That’s sexist.”
“Like a couple of old cowboys, then.”
“That’s stupid.”
They were laughing when the rusted red Ford churned into the driveway. Nick stood, knocking his chair over, as Candace sauntered towards them. She was busting out of her skimpy sundress, hotter than a jalapeño on a summer grill.
“Nick Ackerman,” she yelled. “Where have you been?”
“What are you doing here?” His hands balled into fists as he marched to her. She kissed his lips and wrapped around him. He pulled her off more roughly than he intended.
“I came to meet Billy.” She wove around him and waved at his son. “Hello, sweetie. I brought you a present.” She held up the bag and stepped forward.
Billy was standing by this point. Backing up, getting dangerously close to the fire. It was too late now, Nick’s life presenting itself as a spectacle of sorry detours.
“Billy. This is Candace.”
She threw her arms around Billy. He stood stock still, arms planted firmly at his side, eyes huge. He spread his legs to keep from tipping backwards into the flames.
Nick grabbed her waist and pulled her off him. She pushed the bag into Billy’s chest, laughing.
“It’s comics and stuff. And a drag racing magazine. And Tootsie Rolls.”
“Thanks,” Billy said.
She sat in the chair Billy had just stepped out of. Billy backed all the way to the picnic table and climbed up.
“I met your daddy at Ploughman Tavern. It’s going to be mine one day, you wait and see. Candy’s Bar and Grill. I’ll give you your own special table. You play pool, right?”
Billy shook his head.
Candace laughed, throwing up her arms. “What, no pool? You’re a shark, Nick. Why haven’t you been teaching your son?” Then to Billy, leaning forward and winking conspiratorially, breasts spilling out. “Don’t worry, sweetie, we can fix that. We can sneak you into the tav during off-hours. By the time we’re done, you won’t just be sinking balls, you’ll be whispering sweet nothings to them.”
Nick panicked. She was talking about we. We. The word a threat, teetering on the edge of disclosure, like going back meant no going forward, no getting out.
She continued happily. “So what do you think of our little town? Quaint, right? Not exactly postcard material. But football’s a big deal here if you’re into that kind of thing. And there’s a skate park. Best advice. Avoid the diner, especially the blueberry pie.”
Clouds were rolling in fast, a chill in the air as the wind picked up.
Nick stood. “It’s time for you to go, Candace. We’ve got plans.”
She cast him a withering look. “Well, that’s rude. Billy and I are in the middle of a conversation.”
“Thanks for dropping by.”
She ignored him and tilted towards Billy. “So tell me. Is Nick being good to you? He’s a good daddy, right. It must be a big change for you coming here. Have you met some new friends?”
Nick glanced at his bewildered son, who kept his eyes on her as he chewed on his lip, bounced his knees.
“Look at you, sweetie. You got Nick’s mouth. The way it turns up on one side. So sweet. The first time your dad came into the Ploughman, he had that exact same deer-in-the-headlights look. You remember that night, don’t you Nick?” She ran her fingers along Nick’s thigh.
That was enough. He clamped his hand on hers and hauled her up.
“What’s this now, baby?” she said, suddenly serious, eyes narrowing.
“It’s time for you to go.”
Candace stood her ground, flinging his arm away as he tried to push her into leaving. “I just got here. You got something to say, then bloody well say it.”
“Go,” he yelled. Billy jumped. She stared defiantly, before finally turning to leave.
As she stormed towards the car, he turned to Billy, whose pasty face spoke volumes. The kid had caught a glimpse of his real father. Mean. Thoughtless.
Shame washed over Nick. “Sorry, Billy.”
They both turned to see Candace yank on the car door, step inside, bang it shut.
“Give me a minute,” Nick said, desperate.
“Whatever,” Billy turned away and hunched over the dying fire.
Nick bolted down the driveway and jumped into the passenger seat as the car roared to life. He needed just a minute. To explain, to say sorry. But Candace slammed hard on the pedal, the car hurling backwards, spitting gravel, the momentum slamming Nick’s door, shutting him in with a resounding thud.
She drove at a crazy speed and braked hard when she pulled in front of her place. More slamming doors. Their houses were six blocks apart, hers as crumbling as his own.
“What the hell, Nick,” she hissed, as soon as they were inside. “You’re an asshole. What did I do that was so wrong? I just wanted to meet the kid. Is there a reason Billy and I can’t be friends?”
“I know. I know.” They faced off in front of the open door. He had trouble looking her in the eye. “I’m sorry.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know.” He studied the toes of his work boots. “It’s, it’s hard to explain.”
“Well try, moron.”
He swallowed hard before speaking. “This afternoon, I was having a moment with my son, okay. I haven’t had too many of those. None, if I’m honest. I didn’t want it to end.”
“And then I showed up and the moment went to shit.” Her voice cracked with hurt. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“The spell broke. That’s all.”
“You could have told me nicely.”
“I tried. You didn’t take the hint.”
She pushed his shoulder, knocking him against the wall beside the door. “You embarrassed me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Her expression softened. She rubbed her shoulder like a weary mine worker. “I sprang a double shift yesterday. Frigging inventory. I’m the only one in the bunch knows how to do any of that. Up all night. I ache all over. My feet are killing me. And now this. You and your shit. Keep it together, asshole.”
Nick nodded. “I will. I’m sorry. I should get back.”
“Stay here.” Candace stomped down the hallway and out of sight.
He ignored the voice in his head, his feet glued to the floor. The rain had started, pressing down like a heavy hand. This was the first time he’d stepped through her door. Her house was remarkably tidy. The beat-up coffee table wiped clean. A blanket folded across the battered chair arm. Worn hardwood gleaming. No butts floating in stale beer. No sign of the roommates. Candace split the rent with two long-haul drivers and a greasy-haired dishwasher from the Ploughman. Every penny counts for a businesswoman with dreams. The neatness of the place would have been Candace’s doing. She ran her shifts at the Ploughman with the same military rigour.
She sauntered back with a fattie wedged between her lips, lit the paper, sucked a long, wet toke, and passed it over. Nick leaned into the wall and inhaled deeply. He needed to be less present, less acutely aware of how screwed up he was. They passed the joint back and forth until there was nothing left.
“That’s better,” Candace said, her voice smoky and far away. “Wanna beer?”
“I gotta get back.” He didn’t move.
He held her beside the open door, tasting spits of rain, loud as drumbeats, bits of leaf at the back of his throat, bits of Candace on his tongue.
Her fingers spidered across him, under his shirt, sliding their way down. She got his pants bunched down around his knees. She got on her knees too. Nick didn’t stop her. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and drifted off until he was floating in a wet dark void.
She stayed on him until he came with a wretched shudder. He pulled up his pants looking down on her.
“Candace, why do you do this?”
She smiled wearily. “Well, that’s new. You’ve never seemed to question the way I do you. You got a problem with that?”
He reached down and pulled her up and held tight.
“I didn’t think so,” she mumbled into his sleeve. “I’m so done. I gotta get some sleep.”
He half carried her down the hallway to her bedroom. She curled into a ball on top of her crisply made bed. He slid a pillow under her head.
“I need water,” she said, eyes closed.
He found a glass in the kitchen. When he got back, she was out. He placed the glass on her nightstand, adjusted the pillow, and covered her with a purple blanket he found on a chair. He kissed her damp forehead and left her there.
He walked home slowly, the rain doing nothing to wash away his shame. He thought about this woman he’d left, and the boy too, needing for him to be someone different. Needing for him to be more.
By the time he got back, the rain had extinguished the fire. The cooler had disappeared, and the lawn chairs were folded under the garage awning. The bike was gone. No trace of Billy, no trace of their afternoon. No way for Nick to explain what he’d made of his life.