Winter Light by Barry Garelick, black coffee

After a rainy week in February, Jack awoke to pale sunlight that gave his room a silver-like glow. The one window in his room offered no view other than the rooftops of old buildings that surrounded the hotel.  It was a single residence hotel where he had lived for a year – one of a rapidly diminishing number of such hotels in the poorer neighborhoods of San Francisco.

Two telephone messages were waiting for him at the front desk. The first was from Judy who had just returned to San Francisco from a two-year absence while getting a master’s degree from University of Hawaii. She wanted to see him, she said. The second was from his ex-wife who was visiting a friend in San Francisco. She left a phone number; she also wanted to see him.

Jack was in his mid-fifties, his hair white but retaining a youthful bushy waviness. In the last two years he had returned to sporadic drinking binges. His face was drawn and he had lost some lower back teeth. It was 1983; unemployment was at an all time high in what Jack called “Reagan’s economy”. He made a meager income selling paintings and even less with his poetry. His latest book of poems was published two years ago by a publisher that would soon go out of business like many others who had published him. The glory days of the San Francisco poetry scene of the 50’s and 60’s were in the final stages of disappearing.

He tried calling Judy from a pay phone down the block from the hotel but there was no answer. She was out, maybe for a moment; he decided to walk to her apartment on the chance she would return before he arrived. His walk took him through various neighborhoods; there was hardly an area that he did not know nor where someone didn’t wave to him, recognizing him from a poetry reading or seeing him on his walks through the city. He wore an almost threadbare denim jacket over a gray unbuttoned vest over a dirty white shirt, baggy light grey pants, and a new pair of shoes.

Judy’s apartment was near where she lived two years ago, in an area between Noe Valley and the Mission District. The buzzer buttons did not have apartment numbers nor first names listed. Jack looked at the names and tried to remember Judy’s last name, finally picking one that seemed familiar. He was buzzed in about a minute later.

Standing in front of her door for a moment before knocking, he tried to remember how many years they had known each other. He pictured various years, trying for a year in which he didn’t know her.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Jack.”

“Jack?”

“Yeah, Jack,” he said. “I got your message. tried calling you but there was no answer so I thought I would just come by. Warning! I have some teeth missing and I don’t look too good.”

The door opened and Judy stood, wearing her usual blouse with the top few buttons unbuttoned and a pair of blue jeans. They hugged and as they did, he recognized the perfume she always wore.  She said “Jack” in a voice so soft he thought he imagined it. If anyone not knowing who they were saw them just now they would think they had been lovers, he thought.

“Come in,” she said and he found a spot in the living room that didn’t have boxes.

“I got your letters,” she said. “Did you get mine?”

“I got them,” he said grabbing her shoulders. “You look great. I look like shit, right?”

“You look older.”

“I am older. It’s true. You look the same as when I last saw you,” Jack said. “How long have you been back?”

“About two weeks. I was staying with a friend. She found this apartment for me. It was hectic. I had to call the moving company with the address. And then I had a job interview. With the University of California Family Health Project.”

“How did it go?”  He walked over to one of the two windows facing the street. The sun was still out, and the street and sidewalks were littered with leaves from last week’s storms.

“Alright. I think. The woman interviewing me is head of the program. It was one of those interviews where we talked more about the job than asking me a bunch of questions.”

 

While she went into detail about the interview Jack tried again to remember when he first met her. He knew it was at one of his poetry readings. Maybe 1975. Jack described her to his poet friends as “a social worker who thinks she’s taking care of me.” The two of them would get together, sometimes at her apartment, other times at Old Uncle Gaylord’s Ice Cream Parlor on Market Street, giving each other advice. He wrote a poem about the two of them once; describing them as two spheres orbiting around each other – impossible to tell if any sphere was motionless. He may have read it to Judy but could not remember.

Judy finished talking about the interview, ending with some words about capacity building.

“What the hell is ‘capacity building’?”

“Sorry. It’s jargon. It means a lot of things I guess.”

“Well just give me one thing.”

“Giving people the means to take care of their lives.”

“And you think she liked you?”

“I think so. I hope so. It all depends on whether they get enough money. And in this regime, social programs are not a big priority.”

“A rainbow in other words.”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”  She went into the kitchen and set up a coffee maker she had unpacked. Jack sat down at a table just outside the tiny kitchen. “I’ll make some coffee if you want.”

“If you’re making it, I’ll drink it.” He took out a notebook from his denim jacket and a pencil stub from his shirt pocket and wrote something down.

 “What are you writing about?”

 “I just wrote ‘A cop decided not to arrest me for being drunk and singing on the street. I saw him at one of my readings once.’”

“Is that true?”

“I can’t honestly remember whether it happened or I dreamed it. But there’s truth in what I write, whether it happened or not.”

She laughed. “I missed you, Jack.”

“I missed you too, Judy.”

“How are you doing?”

“OK. Fine. Perfect. How is anyone doing?

“Are you drinking again?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Once in a while.” She said nothing. “Every few weeks,” he added. More silence. “Maybe more frequent than that.”

She was busy with making coffee and a minute passed with no further mention of his drinking. The topic of his drinking was finished. Time to change the subject; just to make sure.

“How’s your social life?” he asked.

“You sound like my father.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. It isn’t bad. I like it when he asks. I hate it when my mother asks, though.”

“Why?”

“It seems like meddling.” She frowned. “She tends to be critical of me. I don’t know; I just take it that way.”

“Yeah. That seems to be the way things are: mothers at odds with daughters, fathers at odds with sons. I didn’t get along with my father. He lost all his money in the 1929 stock crash, and that’s the year I was born. I’ve always felt he blamed me for it. Not that he ever said so. I’m rambling.”

“I don’t mind.”

“What was I talking about?”

“My social life.”

“Right. How is it?”

“Too early to tell.” Judy smiled. “I assume you want your coffee black,” she said, handing him the cup.

“Nice of you to remember.” She suddenly became busy, unpacking a box in the living room, taking out a stack of books and setting them on the floor by the window.

“What are you not telling me?”

             “I called Karl,” she said.

“Karl? I thought you had broken up with him.”

“Well... Yes. I did. Or he did. He left me. But he kept writing me postcards after we broke up. He went to Germany once for a vacation and even wrote me postcards from there. So, I thought that maybe he really wanted to get back together. People do. And enough time has passed that it seemed possible.”

“How long has it been?”

“About six years.”

“Jesus. That’s a prison sentence.”

“Interesting metric, Jack. Anyway, so I called him.”

“And?”

“And he’s getting married.”

“Oh.”

“It was the first thing out of his mouth after I asked how things were going. It felt like he had to say it because if he didn’t, we might get together.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I’d like to meet her.”

“Are you going to?”

“Believe me, she doesn’t want to meet me. If in fact Karl even told her about me. And she probably told him the same thing.”

“Which is?”

“That I wouldn’t want to meet her. And I don’t.”

Judy went on about how she wanted to get together with him, but at the same time she wanted to get off the phone.

While she talked Jack imagined the two of them getting together, having sex in her apartment. A poem Jack would write, maybe.

 

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get married again,” she said.

“You don’t seem the type who needs to be defined by a relationship.”

Judy went back into the kitchen, putting plates in a cabinet, making more noise than Jack thought necessary.

 “What makes you think I need a relationship to define me?”

“I just find it interesting that you need to find a guy, along with an apartment and a job.”

“So what, Jack? You’re the one who asked about my social life.”

Judy returned to the living room, looking in various boxes. She glanced over her shoulder at Jack. He smiled at her and waved. “I’m still here.”

She turned away. He waited for the anger to pass. She started talking again after a few minutes.

“I’m thirty-six, Jack. Most people I know my age are married. Or re-married. And they got their master’s years ago. I feel late to the game. I’ve returned, but to what? I hate feeling like I’m in between. I like it when I’m no longer that way. When I know how things worked out.”

“I don’t think about the future.” he said.

“Must be nice.”

“It is. Most of the time, anyway.”

“How do you define yourself, Jack?”

He sat back in the chair and looked across the room. The sun was still out, now casting shadows of the spindly trees in planters across the street. “Define myself or see myself?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Some people define me as a beat poet. I see myself as a poet. And in either case, a poet is not something I ever wanted to be. It just happened. I wrote something once; in my twenties, I think. Various thoughts I had about something that I no longer remember. Someone looked at what I wrote and said I was a poet. I didn’t believe him. Eventually I saw myself as he defined me. I think that’s how it works. If you’re not dead you’re defined by something. Life defines me. I write what I see and call it poetry.”

Judy reached into a box and pulled out an amplifier, a turntable and wires. She’s young, he thought. It takes time to know who you are.

“It takes time,” he said.

“What takes time?”

“Everything.” He watched her connect the turntable and amplifier. When she finished, she came over and sat at the table. “How’s your social life, Jack?”

He smiled. “I’m not lacking friends. But since you asked, I got a message from my ex-wife. She’s in town, staying with one of her friends. I don’t know who the friend is; she didn’t say. She says she wants to see me. I have no idea why.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“About a year ago. In L.A. She rarely comes to San Francisco. I think it must have been five years ago.”

“You said she’s visiting a friend. So maybe she just wants to say hello.”

“Yeah. Maybe. It can’t be that she wants money from me because I’m broke and she knows it, unless she knows about the twenty dollars I won at the track last week. And I spent that.” He lit a cigarette and used his empty coffee cup as an ashtray.

“Do you not get along?” she asked.

“We get along as long as we’re not together.”

“Do you love her?”

 He ran his hand through his hair and then over his eyes.

“Yes. Sometimes. Maybe all the time.”

“Does she love you?”

“I think she does. We’re in different worlds. Sometimes she reminds me of you.”

“How so?”

“She’s interested in politics. Local politics. She reminds me of you in that way. Trying to ‘build capacity’,” he added.

She smiled at this. “Is that how you define me?”

“Back to that again? I don’t know how I define anyone. You and my wife want to save the world. It’s how I would write about you. And my wife if I were to write about her. But I mostly write about the down and out, the marginal, the fringe, the dispossessed. I make the invisible visible. People draw their own meanings and do what they want with it.”

“Do you think about her?”

“Sometimes. When I’m walking. I talk to her. I talk to a lot of people in my head when I walk. Sometimes you, sometimes her. Sometimes even out loud and people think I’m one more crazy person on the street.”

“What do you talk about?”

Whether she meant his wife or people in general didn’t matter. The conversation with Judy was over.

“I have to go,” he said, standing up and patting the paunch of his stomach. “I need to think about what to say.”

“You’ll think of something. She probably wants to see how you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” he said, opening the front door. “Maybe.”

 They hugged. He lit a cigarette before starting down the stairs and turned to her. “I always enjoy talking with you, Judy.”

“Me too,” she said and closed the door.

 

Outside the sun cast a bluish silvery light – a winter light that gilded the branches of leafless trees and even those that still had them. He thought about painting a picture of a tree with silver branches; or writing a poem about them.

He walked up a hilly street that took him to Bernal Heights, where gothic looking houses appeared to be floating in the sunlight. He stretched out his arms; they were now wings and he was a glider, floating in and out of wind currents that pulled him up the hill.

When he arrived at the top, he was at Precita Park, across from a cafe/bar, one of many he had visited over the years. There was a pay phone in front of the bar which he looked at from a bench in the park for several minutes as if it held the answers to the universe. He finally walked over to it, put in a dime and dialed the number his ex-wife had left him.

The phone rang six times before a woman with a husky voice said hello.

“This is Jack; is Patricia there?”

“Jack? Yes, she said you might call. How are you, Jack? I’m Loraine. An old friend of hers. From Pittsburgh. I met you once. It was at your wedding. We danced. You probably don’t remember.”

“I don’t remember. It was twenty years ago. Was I a good dancer?”

“Yes, you were. Anyway, Patty’s just visiting; she thought you could come over for dinner.”

“I’ll check my calendar.”

“OK, let us know.”

Jack laughed. “That was a joke. I don’t have a calendar. Anyway, I can call back later.”

“Where are you? Are you at your hotel?”

“No. I’m in a park at the top of a hill.”

“Well, here’s my address.”

She gave it to him, but he couldn’t find his pencil. He’d get it again when he called later.

“Can you give her a message?” he said. “Do you have a pen?”

“I have a pencil,” she said.

“Even better. Tell her this. Tell her I’ll call again later and tell her I’m surrounded by the light of the winter sun. Tell her it’s a light unique to San Francisco. It cannot be painted, but it can be written about. I might write about the light. And maybe her. About how we once loved each other and probably still do.”  He waited; there was silence on the line.

“Did you get all that?”

“Yes, Jack. I’ll tell her you’d like to come over for dinner and you’ll call her later.”

“Exactly right,” he said and hung up.

He looked around at the park and beyond, at people walking on the streets that lifted them to the multiple levels that made up Bernal Heights and started his way back to the hotel. On his walk he waved to people he knew or thought he knew. Almost all of them waved back. His head was full of conversations with people he knew, some friendly, some not, some alive and some dead. He walked along different streets than the ones he took on the way to Judy’s and

Eye in the Sky by Rob Molan, flat champagne

They can’t see me but I can see them. They don’t mind as they think of me as their guardian angel looking down from above providing them with protection. I’m known as the eye in the sky.

Sitting in front of bank of twenty screens, I can see what’s happening in each branch of YouBet through the CCTV cameras which they’ve installed. I monitor what’s going on and watch for problems such as customers arguing with or threatening staff, or fighting amongst themselves. If I see something kicking off, I switch on the microphone in the shop and listen to what’s happening and intervene if necessary.

 ‘You are being recorded on CCTV,’ I announce over the loudspeaker. ‘Leave the shop or I’ll call the police.’

That usually does the trick. Some panic and run out. Others look up and give the camera the finger before casually strolling out. The staff usually provide a thumb’s up.

There is a button under the counter which colleagues can discreetly press if they feel under threat and catch my attention. On one such occasion, I saw a pair wearing balaclavas with baseball bats shouting at a female colleague who was cowering behind the screen.

‘Hand over the takings or we’ll climb over.’

I stepped in immediately.

‘The police have been called and you are being filmed.’

I dialled 999.

They were not deterred and waited while the girl nervously took the takings from the safe and the till and transferred them into a bag. Luckily, a squad car was in the immediate vicinity and officers arrived just as the thugs were leaving. After a tussle, they were arrested and taken away.  When they’d gone, she blew a kiss to her unseen saviour. I’d liked to have given her a hug.

Most days though nothing happens. Moving from screen to screen, I see the expectant looks on the faces of punters who thought they’d backed a certainty and their crumpled looks as they watch their horse disappoint. And I watch staff take money from these eternal optimists and –very  occasionally – put a big smile on someone’s face.

I feel really sorry for the losers. Last Christmas, I saw my neighbour, Carol, place a bet in the local branch. I was surprised as she’s on her own and has young kiddies. She watched the race on the TV and tore up the betting slip before leaving. I didn’t think she’d be back. But I was wrong. I spotted her two days later and listened in as she stood at the counter.

‘Number three at Kempton, twenty pounds.’ That’s a lot for her, I thought. ‘It had better win or they’ll be no Crimbo in our house.’

Her luck was out and she left in tears after the race.

Christmas day wasn’t the disaster she feared though. She found a box on her doorstep that morning packed with prezzies for the children and a turkey.  I watched her from my window as she looked around wondering where it had come from. The following day I started volunteering for the gamblers’ helpline and am still doing it six months’ later.  I haven’t told my employers. If they found out, they’d probably sack me because it’s a conflict of interest. But that’s a gamble I’m willing to take.

 

About the author 

 

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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The Price of Love by Sharon Boothroyd, a good hot cup of tea

'A cuppa these days seems to cost a small fortune!' My friend Rachel opened her purse and rooted through the coins.

'Don't worry. I'll get it,' I said.

A look of relief crossed her face. 'Thanks, Clare.'

We met at the park cafe every fortnight on a Saturday. But recently, things had changed...

Three months ago, Rachel had introduced us to her new partner, Luke. My hubby Kit and I had genuinely warmed to him.

The couple had met via app dating.

Both are in their forties and childless (like us). Luke's a car mechanic and Rachel's in IT. Kit and I are teachers.  

It was a heady, whirlwind romance, when Rachel gave up her warm, cosy rented flat and moved into Luke's place, I had reservations.

I'd thought it was way too soon, but blissfully in love, Rachel had waved away my concerns.

'Luke says it's silly for us to fork out for two lots of rent,' she'd reasoned.

It was a fair point, but... I'd actually thought she'd hesitate, as she lived in a nice area, overlooking the park. 

When I visited her new home (Luke's place) I was taken aback.

Luke had a small, damp, grubby terrace, off a main road, that was stuffed full of takeaways and a discounted supermarket.

I didn't mean to sound snobby, but it was quite depressing.

The tatty curtains and carpet, freezing cold bathroom, sparse junk city furniture and scuffed paintwork was a world away from the soft carpets, tasteful décor and the pleasant view that she was used to. Her lovely furniture looked out of place here.

I just couldn't see her settling here. Her gorgeous furniture looked out of sorts, all crammed in.

'I've put my bits and bobs into storage,' she announced. Luckily, Luke was out.

'Good. I'm glad about that,' I said.

'I know it's a bit grotty at the moment, but I'm going to transform this place into a little love nest,' she declared.

Good luck with that, I thought.                                                                              

'I'd have thought Luke would want to move into her apartment,' I'd said to Kit later that day, when I arrived home.

'It's a far higher standard. It'd be a big improvement for him.'

He'd shrugged. 'Well, maybe it's about cutting costs as a couple. Rachel lived in a decent district. Her local deli and bistro are lovely, but they're pretty expensive. I mean, even the park cafe is classy.'

I nodded - it was.

'I expect her rent's higher, too,' he added.

'She could afford it. She earns a higher salary than him,' I concluded.

'Hmm.' Yet Kit didn't expand any further.

 

                                                                          ***

 

I was given updates from Rachel when we met in the cafe.

'Luke's so organised with our fiances. He's set up a spreadsheet of our monthly income and outgoings,' she'd said.

I'd smiled. 'It's good that he wants to be efficient.'

'Well, I was absolutely hopeless with money wasn't I, Clare?' she'd giggled.

I'd frowned. I hadn't seen any evidence to support that. 

In fact, Rachel had been a stickler for paying her bills and rent on time. She'd never been in debt and had kept a close eye on her banking.

I was about to gently challenge that, when a customer entered the cafe with a cute dog and Rachel became distracted.

I couldn't prove it, yet I suspected the 'hopeless with money' remark was down to Luke.

Then I noticed that Rachel only had a five pound note in her purse.

 

                                                                         ***

'She probably hadn't had time to visit the cash machine,' Kit said later, when I explained about the single five pounds in Rachel's purse.

'Then there's his spreadsheet...'

'We have a spreadsheet for our finances,' he pointed out.

'True. But you don't tell your friends that I'm useless with money when I'm not. Why is he feeding her lies and why is she accepting what he's saying?'

We hadn't socialised with Rachel and Luke, either.

We'd invited them round for weekend lunches, but Clare had trotted out excuses about why they couldn't come.

He sighed. 'I don't know, but I wouldn't become involved in this, Clare. If you argue with her, no doubt she'll defend him, and it could all backfire.'

'I can sense that something's not right. I won't interfere - but I can listen.'

He nodded. 'Well, it's takeaway tonight. Who's paying?'

I grinned. 'We both are.'

The online payment was taken out of our joint account.

 

                                                                 ***

Next time at the cafe, Rachel looked longingly at the sandwiches.

'Why not stay for lunch? My treat,' I added hastily.

'Okay. If I pay for anything, I have to keep the receipt. Luke likes to see receipts.' She didn't seem in the least bit bothered about this.

We found a quiet table and got settled.

'Luke's really good. He allows me to have my favourite biscuits on the online supermarket shop', Rachel whispered, as we tucked in.

I was puzzled.

Why was Luke a good person by 'allowing' her a packet of biscuits? It was a rather bizarre attitude. What was the reason behind it?

I shifted in my seat, yet I adopted a joky tone. 'It sounds like he keeps a tight rein on the grocery expenses!'

'Well, everything is more expensive now, Clare. The cost of living is going up all the time.'

I couldn't argue with that, yet I wondered if she was parroting one of Luke's phrases.

'Kit and I do the online weekly shop together. Do you and Luke do the same?'

She shook her head. 'He does it all.'

I had to speak out. 'Look Rachel, don't take this the wrong way but I really hope you haven't given him access to your PIN and bank account.'

'Of course I haven't. I contribute to the bills by giving him cash. He puts it in his account later.'

'Right.' Yet I still felt uneasy.

 

                                                                         ***

Then, a few weeks later, a problem between the couple reached crisis point, and they had a bad quarrel.

It was coming up to Rachel's Mum's birthday. She wanted to book a weekend at a luxury spa hotel as a gift for her.

Of course, Luke had hit the roof and refused point blank.

Rachel demanded to know why she couldn't treat her mum.

He'd trotted out the 'we need to keep to our budget' line but this time, Rachel wasn't buying it.

The rose tinted spectacles suddenly fell from her eyes and the reality made her see that Luke was a financial coercive controller.

'I packed my bags and went to Mum's,' she tearfully told me over the phone. 'I wish I hadn't been so eager to give notice on my flat. Oh, I was so silly!'

'Don't be hard on yourself. You sensibly placed your furniture and things into storage and you've now regained full ownership of your own financial choices. You don't have to keep receipts or answer to him any more.'

'No.' We were both mulling things over. The situation could have been much worse if she'd  awarded Luke access to her bank account and PIN.

'I'm going to book that hotel for my mum's birthday,' she said.

'Good. I'll see you on Saturday as usual.'

'See you. Oh and I'm paying for the coffee - and lunch.'

I updated Kit.

'The split doesn't surprise me. Luke didn't strike me as a guy who'd feel comfortable about his partner earning more than him- hence asking her to move into his place.'

I nodded. 'I'm just so relieved that she's seen finally seen the light!'

About the author  

Sharon is fifty- something, happily married and lives in a small town in West Yorkshire. As she  suffers from anxiety, writing short stories helps her to focus on something creative. It's like occupational therapy. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Saturday Sample: Dry River by Alicia Rouverol, fruit juice

 

October 2007

 

Chapter One

 

That business about my marriage; it went something like this: I decided to walk to the library, up the winding hill and in the shade of redwoods, where it was lovely and cool and the ferns had not yet faded. It was mid-October and the season had changed. The kids were in the stroller; Mark was two, Jacob not yet four. He still had a penchant for running ahead, so he was just young enough that it was maddening having him walk. And I was especially on my guard after that last incident. So I insisted Jacob stand behind Mark on the back end while I steered that tank-of-a-stroller up the hill.

A man overtook us. He smiled, taking in my load and said, “Well, that’s a haul up the hill. Where on earth are you going with that?” This made me laugh.

“To the library,” I said.

“Do you want a push? I could just push it. I mean, I’m going up there too. It’s not like it’s a problem.”

“Nah,” I said. I didn’t let just anybody hold onto my kids’ stroller.

He fell into step with me all the same. He was dressed in jeans and a short jacket and had blond, close-cropped hair. He was almost exactly my height. I was thirty-eight and he looked my age or younger and not like the typical Mill Valley lawyer or banker type. His stride was quick, his pace energetic, and I liked that about him, instantly.

“You live around here?” I asked.

“Yeah, down by the old library.”

“Sure, I know the area. What takes you to the new library?” My world was obvious; the stroller said it all. But I was curious about his world.

“I’m a builder,” he said. “But I do my own design. Like an architect but a lot cheaper.” He grinned. “I’m taking a look at the library—they’re thinking about expanding.”

“Oh? Like another wing, or something?”

“Sort of. I’ll find out what they’re thinking in about fifteen minutes. I’ll let you know what they say,” he said. “These your kids?”

“Yeah,” I said with a laugh. “Why, have any kids of your own?”

“Ah! No, I know better than that madness.” He said this, but then he couldn’t take his eyes off my boys. Jacob turned around to face him. His eyes narrowed; the man narrowed his eyes right back at him. He didn’t do all the usual things like ask what their names were or pretend to engage them just to get my attention. Just then Jacob leaned his belly against the strap designed to hold him in, but the snap was jammed.

“Hey, don’t lean too hard on that, cowboy, or you’ll fall out. You need to fix that strap,” he said, reaching forward to free it and re-fasten it. “You okay with this?”    

“Sure.”

Jacob held the strap beside the man’s hand, the big hand and the small one together. His hand was tanned, the fingernails neat. Jacob said, “Who are you?”

“My name’s Zeke. Ezekiel.”

“What kind of name is that?” Jacob said.

“Jacob, honey,” I said.

“That’s okay. I get that a lot. It’s a Biblical name,” he said. “Who’s your brother?”

“Mark.”

“And your mom?”

“Sara.” Jacob liked being the little big man, calling me by my name.

“Sara.” Zeke turned to me just as the breeze picked up. The sun was warm, the air deliciously cool. “Sara—anything?” he said.

I smiled. “Sara Greystone.”

“Greystone, that’s a nice, strong name. I’m Zeke Harris.”

 

That night when my husband Tye came home, I didn’t mention Zeke, but Jacob did. “He was nice.”

“Oh?” Tye said, raising a brow. “And who is he?”

I hid my smile. “A new neighbor,” I said. “A builder doing some work for the library.” I tore up the lettuce, tossed it into the spinner, but pulled the string too hard. It broke. “Drat,” I said, dropping it in the trash; there was no fixing it. It meant another expenditure. “Yeah, it was really a hassle getting the stroller up the hill to the library. I won’t do that again.” Actually I was already thinking about doing it again.

“Okay day?” Tye asked. He leaned against the counter, and stared past me to the magnolia tree outside. It was holding onto a few blossoms still.

“Sara?” he asked, to my silence.

Because by then we’d become increasingly silent. Whole days would pass without our saying anything of real import. It was all logistics: the kids’ day at preschool, Jacob’s dental check, Tye’s IT boss insisting the client had fifty-four new requirements they’d missed.

Jacob was bouncing around in front of us, though Tye didn’t see him. He was watching my face. I looked away. I didn’t say that this chance encounter made my day because there was no sense to it. There was no isolating this feeling, there was no knowing if there was any deeper feeling there at all. Or just curiosity.

 

The next morning, Tye got up at 6:00 am, which he had been a doing a lot of recently for work. I followed behind, trying not to wake the boys. We were still getting up together at that point. The mornings were always rushed, because we had to fit in what we could before they woke; it was the only real time we had to talk: “Are you getting the dry cleaning, or am I?” “I made the appointment but had to cancel; Jacob had a field trip that day.” Sunlight cast shadows on the wood floors. As he padded down the staircase in his slippers, Tye kicked some of the toys at the base of the staircase by mistake.

“Shhh!” I said, as if he’d just dismantled the entire house.

“Sara, it’s not going to wake them.”

Tye began making his lunch to take to work, while I fixed his eggs. He scanned the fridge. I pointed him toward last night’s leftovers. We were in the California economy now: we recycled food daily. He poured his coffee, took a seat in the alcove by the window, and stared out of it. I slid the plate of eggs across the table and took a seat opposite him, so he would have to look at me. I remembered my folks’ talking things over when I was growing up, my dad hunched over the table, his face steadily watching my mom’s. But Tye seemed so distracted all the time.

I’d been thinking about money lately—or the lack of it. We were making it, but barely. “Do you think I should go back to work?” I asked. It wasn’t just the income. I hadn’t practiced Law in five years. I missed the Public Defender Office, missed the intellectualism of the East. Since coming back West, I couldn’t seem to find a strand of it embedded anywhere out here in this granite rock.

“I don’t know, Sar. I think it would be more difficult. Can we do more difficult?” He took another sip of his coffee and turned to watch the hummingbird outside as it fluttered and dropped from sight.

 

###

We didn’t run into Zeke again until a few weeks later. The boys and I saw him at the market, perusing the blood oranges at the fruit stand. When Jacob spotted him, he called out, “Hey, Zeke! It’s my birthday!” It was days away from Jacob’s birthday, and he was obsessed with it. Zeke looked over and lifted back his sunglasses. Strips of morning sunlight fell across his face from the lattice awning above us.

“Hey,” he said, meeting my gaze. A buzz shot through me. “Which one?”

“It’s my fourth,” Jacob said, and continued to chatter. Zeke listened patiently, while Jacob described his upcoming climbing party at the park. He ended his monologue with an invitation.

“Jacob,” I said, “Zeke probably has other things to do.”

But Zeke said, “When is it?”       

I laughed, blushing. “It’s this Saturday at 1:30. Really, you don’t have to come.”

“Are other adults coming? Or is it kids only? Do I need to rent some kids?”

“No, my brothers are coming, and my mom and dad. A couple of old friends, a few neighbors.” I trailed off, thinking, What would Tye make of Zeke being there?

“So it’s a climbing party,” Zeke said. “What else do the kids like to do?” He seemed genuinely interested.

“Well,” I said, “one week they play ‘store’ and the next ‘bank’ and recently it’s been ‘park,’ making a park in the backyard.”

“The boys right down from me play Iraq,” he said.

“You’re kidding, right?” I hadn’t heard about kids playing ‘war’ in ages, not since moving to Marin—the land of the politically correct. Largely white, heavily moneyed, the county was a Democratic stronghold. I couldn’t believe he’d just said this. We’d only been back a few years, but I’d already grown accustomed to the homogeneity.

“That was a joke. Actually, though, I think their father is in the Army.”

“Like that makes it all right?” I said with a laugh.

Jacob pulled at Zeke’s jacket. “Are you coming to my party?”

Zeke didn’t answer, but he didn’t say no. Then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I scrawled my number on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

He shoved the paper in his pocket, holding back a smile. “See you later, Sara.”

 

###

I was out running errands on a Saturday morning a month later when I saw Zeke at the bank. I was standing a few people behind him in line as he was finishing his business at the counter. He leaned forward, set down his sunglasses, and ran a hand through his hair. He wore his clothing well, effortlessly. But he radiated more than this: a sense of intelligent containment, of quiet control. He pulled out his wallet and slipped out his ID, his movements precise. When he spoke to the teller, he didn’t flirt as much as engage and pay attention. I was tingling like I was fifteen again.

Zeke walked past me toward the exit. “Sara,” he said, turning.

“Zeke. Hey, how are you?” I said, as casually as I could.

“Good. Where are the kids?” He scratched his head, looked away, then back at me. He studied my face, standing quite close to me.

“At home,” I said, and stopped there. It was obvious they were with their dad.

The woman before me, dressed in a high-end tracksuit and Nikes, began chatting to the woman ahead of her, spinning her silver bangles as she talked: “I’ve taken her to every studio in town; the level isn’t high enough. I’ve got to take her into the City for ballet at this point.” She sighed.

Zeke followed my gaze and shot me a conspiratorial smile. I smiled back. He stayed beside me as the line progressed. “I didn’t call you about Jacob’s birthday. I had to be away that weekend.”

I nodded. “Well,” I said, “I mean, he’s four. He invited a lot of people to the party.” Jacob, at least, had long since forgotten about it.

He looked at me steadily with his almond-brown eyes. I tried to look away.

“I’ll wait for you up front,” he said, as I stepped up to the counter.

He held open the door as we stepped out into the cool December air. At the edge of the parking lot, I stopped beside a tree, its branches stripped bare of its leaves. I felt bare; I had no children to cover and protect me.

“The library gig didn’t happen,” he said. “I got some jobs out in Chicago through a friend, and then I’ve been traveling the past month.” It was cold there right now and he liked it, in a way, but then coming back to California, he knew he really couldn’t handle that sub-arctic weather. The man had the gift of the gab, and I was partially enthralled, but partially wondering what the hell we were doing.

“What about you? What have you been up to?” he asked.

“I’ve been studying for the bar.” I had told no one this, not even Tye.

“You’re studying to be an attorney?” He raised a brow.

“No, I am an attorney. I practiced for years and then we moved out here.” I paused, because the “we” made things very apparent. “And now I’m facing the music on taking the California bar.”

“Is it hard? I mean, how hard is it?”

“People fail all the time. I failed the North Carolina bar the first time. It was mortifying.” I laughed and then pulled back, painfully aware of how hungry I was for adult conversation. “And, of course, I can’t blame it on just being out of Law School this time.”

“So you can’t take it again if you don’t get it—pass—the first time?”

“Well, I can, it just doesn’t look great. It wouldn’t feel great, either.”

“So you’re ready to go back to working?”

“It’s either that or another kid,” I said. It was a nervous joke, and now I didn’t know where I was headed. “But I don’t think my husband will go there.” I gave an uncomfortable laugh. “So it’s the bar for me.” It was anything but funny. This was the crux of my crisis: a marriage on its edge, my children’s departure from infancy, and the fact that I wouldn’t be having another child, as much as I wanted one. I knew then that I was deeply in trouble with Zeke. I had just laid out how I felt without working out my defence ahead of time. I was completely exposed. He nodded and listened, and told me stories about the Windy City that made us both laugh. I was sharing what I was because of who Zeke was. I’d broken my own silence. Even I wasn’t fool enough to miss what that meant.

 

At home that evening, after dinner, I went upstairs with Jacob to put down Mark. He slid under his covers and I sat beside him on his bed, one foot off the ground, and read him the Mike Mulligan book, which was his favorite. He kept stopping me to examine the steam shovel, pointing at it, as he did every night. Jacob crouched beside us, listening, picking at the sole of one of his footed jammies. He kept pulling at one of the threads to undo it.

“Don’t undo it, honey. You want to keep it intact.”

He stared up at me. “In what?”

I smiled. “You don’t want it to come apart do you?” I turned out his brother’s light, checked the nightlight, and then took Jacob into his room.

“Bedtime, sweet guy. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” he said, climbing into bed. I read to him, but he wasn’t settling. He kept chattering, running his finger along my cheek, his brow furrowed, as if he knew I was distracted. I stroked his head for a long time in the dark, until he fell asleep.

 

After the boys went down, I told Tye I was studying for the bar. We were in the alcove off the living room, and I was sitting up on the little sofa cushion on the built-in bench, stretched out reading. I set down my reading glasses, took a sip of tea, and announced it as if I was dredging up some sort of dirty little secret.

“You are?” He set down the high-tech rag he was reading.

“Yeah, I think it’s time.”

“You mean, you want to go back to work?”

“Yes. Why? Is that a bad thing?” Zeke had thought this was a great idea.

“Sar, how are we going to manage the kids?”

“How are we going to manage the kids or how am I going to manage the kids? What you’re really saying is ‘Sara, you need to manage the kids. What do you think you’re doing going back to work?’”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Tye, you all but said it. What do you expect me to do, hang up all that education, all those years working in Raleigh?”

“Oh, come on, you didn’t work that long.” He stared at me flatly. His tone was chilling.

I shivered and pulled the red wool blanket beside me over my lap. I felt cold now, a hard naked cold, a my-husband-wants-to-fuck-me-over cold. I didn’t feel clean anymore, the way I had earlier that day, exposed to the essentials of who I was.

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About the author

Alicia J Rouverol is co-author of “I Was Content and Not Content”: The Story of Linda Lord and the Closing of Penobscot Poultry, which was called “compassionate and sorely needed” by The New York Times and nominated for the OHA Book Award. She lives with her family in Manchester, where she teaches at the University of Salford. Dry River is her first novel.