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Is this a test? she asked.

What?

These questions you’re asking.

No, he told her. This is not a test. These are just questions. You can answer them or choose not to. It’s up to you.

I’ve never been on a date where I felt interrogated. Asked over and over. Have you done this? Did you do that? It’s quite annoying, to be honest with you. Do you question every woman you go out with?

Yes.

Have any of these dates turned into long-term relationships?

No.

I wonder why. 

They never return phone calls. Always leave me in the dark. I guess the term is ghost. Yes. They ghost me. I never heard from them again, he said. Are you enjoying your meal?

The food here is quite good.

Yes. It is. I like it.

Do you bring all your dates here for questioning?

I know the menu.

I see.

You’re almost done. I suppose you’ll take a cab home.

Yes.

Leave me with the tab.

Did you want me to pay for my meal? she asked.

I would.

I wasn’t expecting to.

Well, I thought you would answer the questions.

No. It’s none of your concern. She leaned over the table. Yes, I’ve had several lovers. Yes, I’ve been married twice. Yes, I’ve had one night stands. What else do you want to know? I had an abortion back in ’98. My step dad always had his eye on me. Mom hated me.  Anything else?

No. I was just curious.

Excuse me, won’t you.

Of course.

There were holes and burn marks all over his easy chair. A pipe and Prince Albert sat to his side on the small table. An over-filled ashtray, and a glass of whiskey kept him company throughout the night.

Silence. No noise. Just a hum from the furnace. The refrigerator rattled a bit. Head of a buck stared down on him. Shot the animal back in ’86. The year his son left home. Last time the old man saw him.

He remembered hunting with the boy. Teaching him gun safety and how to be patient. Let em come to you, he said. Like women. Just wait. They’ll come around. Don’t pursue them. Less chance of getting your heart broke.

The old man packed his pipe. Lit it with his brass Zippo he got in Vietnam. Looked up at the buck. Wondered where his son was.

He looked for him a long time ago. Thought he might have gone to New Orleans. Drove all over that town. Took a picture and asked folks if they’d seen him. People shook their heads.

Went all the way to New York City. He remembered the boy talking about moving there. Had nothing to trace him with. No leads. Didn’t know the city. Drove around aimlessly for three days. Looked in porno shops owned by Pakistanis, diners, and pool halls. Bars. All over Manhattan. Millions of people. Kind of all blended together. No one stuck out.

He did get a phone call a few years later. There was no voice on the other end. The old man knew it was him.

Listen, the father said. I know that’s you. You don’t have to say a word.  Just listen, he could hear the boy nod. You remember the time we went hunting, and I got that buck. I’m staring at it right now and thinking of you, he told him. I thought you were scared out in the woods. But, you weren’t.  You’re not scared of anything. Are you? Never was.

There was no talking for two minutes. Quiet. Two men with nothing to say. You take care. Hear me? Take care.

What did you say?

Nothing. Nothing important. Mumbling, really. Talking to myself, he said to her.

About?

Just things. Things that don’t matter anymore.

Like?

It’s a type of malaise. A depression perhaps, he confessed. Little things are slipping by me, he lit a cigarette. Raking the yard. Cleaning gutters. House could use a new coat of paint. Everything is all at once. I just don’t care anymore.

Right, she told him. I feel that way at times. There is always something to do, and I just don’t want to do it, she laughed.

Have we become lazy?

No. Just old.

Flood lights on over the garage. A lamp in the front room.Wind blows an American flag. Trash dances down the street; wrappers from chocolate bars.

A twenty-four hour gas station. Various cars and trucks fill up with petrol. The lottery sign glowing in the window says $42, 000, 000. That would be enough, he said.

To what? she asked

Start a new life. Move to a new town. Not have any worries.

You’ll always have worries, she told him. In fact, they get bigger. All them people want money from you. A constant line of folks asking. Yelling for help.

Yeah. I’ll take my chances. They both laughed. If I won the lottery, we’d leave this town immediately.  Go someplace nice. Like Vermont. Or Maine. Maybe New Hampshire. 

I’d live in Chicago or New York. Have a place in the Hamptons. I saw it on Bravo. Real Housewives of New York City. Now, they have money. And, they have problems.

Are they worried about eating?

No.

Then they have no problems.

They drink a lot. So do the other housewives on Bravo. Orange County, the Potomac, New Jersey, Beverly Hills, Salt Lake City. And they’re always yelling at each other. Always a fight. Yeah. Maybe being rich ain’t that great, she said.

I’d like to give it a try.

They drove through town in their old rusted Buick. Looked at the American flag waving. Lights on at midnight. Wrappers from chocolate bars dancing down the street.

Jack’s flying out tonight. He wants to talk to you, Bob said.

What about?

Things. Here at the plant. He’s heard rumors. People talking.

About? Tom asked.

Just talk. He wants to put a stop to it. These things he’s hearing. So and so said this and so and so said that. One guy stabs another in the back, and a whole house falls down, Bob told him.

Do you believe in redemption? That a man can redeem himself.  Make up for his faults. Mistakes.

That’s not for me to say.

What? Is Jack an mighty god? Is he coming here to save my soul or cast me to hell? Tom lit a cigarette. Took a drink of whiskey.

Rumors. Give me a break. Bunch of hens talking. Men not being men.

That may be.

Including Jack.

He built this company.

Yeah. And he’ll destroy it too.

You think so? You’re so sure of that.

Yes. What am I under a microscope?

We all are. This is business.

What did you do with him?

He’s in back.

Of the truck?

Yeah. Tied tighter than a mummy. 

Anybody see ya?

Nope. He was heavy. A good 210. Just tossed him back there among the other stuff; boards, hammers, saws, power cords. Covered him as best I could. I don’t think anybody will notice.

So he’s dead?

Nope. Wrapped him alive. Casey held a gun to him while I wrapped the cloth around him. Placed a hand towel in his mouth.

You’re going to toss him in the river alive?

Well. Yeah. Gunshots make a mess.

Taking him out in the boat?

I figured we’d drop him off the bridge. More dramatic that way.

How much did he owe?

A lot.

How much?

$50,000.

That’s not much money for a life.

I guess not. Not in the grand scheme of things.  He’d been way behind for too long. Always an excuse. Made us chase him across the country. It was taking up time and money.

He didn’t offer to wire it a bit at a time?

No. Never leave a paper trail. Bad enough, we talked on the phone. These things always come back to haunt you. Sure way of getting caught.

I see.

Let’s do this thing.

What is it with you and the dark? she asked. Turn a light on. That lamp. Turn it on, she said. You sit here. Awake. You sit in silence. Come back to bed, she told him. This is not good for you. Sitting out here. Letting your mind wander. That’s how bad things happen.

Did you ever read Salinger? he asked. His short stories?

No. I don’t read.

You should.

I watch TV. Movies mostly. I didn’t bring you here to talk about that. She moved closer. Placed her hands on his shoulders and straddled his legs.

There’s one. Something about suicide. A man on vacation with his wife kills himself. Right there in the hotel room.

That’s dreadful. Why are you telling me about this?

I don’t know. It’s called The Perfect  Day For Bananafish. It makes you think.

About what?

Society. America. War and its effects on soldiers. Commercialism.

I see.

Yeah. Salinger lived by himself in New Hampshire all those years. Everybody knows him as the guy who wrote The Catcher in the Rye.

Right, she stood up. Come to bed.

Give me a minute.

Don’t be too long.

He sat there. Thinking of Bananafish. Not saying a word. Just being in solace.

Are you coming to bed or what?

I think I’ll what.

You can get dressed and leave if you’re going to be like this. I didn’t bring you here to discuss books.

Yes. I know that.

He stood up and walked over to the window and opened it. Looked down on 8th Avenue. Lights. Cars. Smells of trash and food. Music. A blaring of music. People below.

He jumped.

It is November. This weekend, the clocks fall back an hour. Winds will get a little colder. Maybe a dusting of snow before the month is done. There is frost on grass.

The furnace kicks on. Heat comes through vents. Cats warm themselves. Spiced wine in a glass. Leftover candy.

Maybe you’ll come home.

He’d stay up all night looking at pictures. Colored photographs of when they were younger, taken with a Polaroid.

There were shots of her wearing a graduation gown. Long blonde hair covered her shoulders. A tassel with an ’86 on it. Colors of blue and white. The cap matched her eyes. 

They married soon after. He got a job at the factory making gas pumps while she stayed home and took care of their newborn. A baby boy. A girl would follow.

Those pictures of family vacations, dates to the prom, the boy in his football uniform, daughter in a marching band outfit. She played the piccolo.

But the snapshots that really got to him were of her down at the beach. They drank beer and had barbecues with other couples. Cruised Lake George. Watched the sun go down.

And now he sat by himself. Kids off in other towns; spread apart by states. The daughter married some insurance salesman in Georgia while the boy joined the Marines; he always wanted to live in California. 

Pictures. He touched her face with his fingertips. Held them up to the light and kissed her. It had been a long time since she left. 

He took off a couple of nights a week. Told her he was going fishing, or hunting, or overtime. A couple of nights turned into three or four.

One night, she followed him down the Lincoln Highway into Ohio. She watched as his pickup truck turned into the driveway, a light on over the porch. 

This woman greeted him while holding a baby. She bounced it in her arms and handed it to him. He kissed the girl’s forehead and walked into the house. She slowly drove away.

Now he was alone. Wrinkles in skin and hair gray with a bottle of Pepsi beside him as he popped peanuts in his mouth and looked at old pictures. Photographs of her.

                          

I don’t know. Couldn’t tell you, he said. All this. Stuff. Too much stuff, Bobby told his friend. Piles of it. Everywhere. You can’t walk through the house. He turned in his swivel chair; torn leather, yellow foam seeping through cracks.

Over the years, Tom looked around. Things accumulate. Stacks of magazines get higher. Dishes go unwashed. Trashcans overfill. What can you do? Clean? Downsize? Too much work.

We need a woman, Bob said. They have an eye for this sort of thing. Attention to detail, he pulled out a chewed on cigar from his desk drawer.

Don’t light it. The whole place could burn. One little spark. Just chew on it.

That’s all I do is chew on it. After a while, you want some results.

Just pretend.

That’s all we do is pretend, Bob yelled. Ever since we met. Years ago. We pretend.

About what?

This, he pointed around. We live amongst trash. 

Don’t say that, Bob. This is ours. Belongs to us.

We still could use a woman. 

A cleaning woman?

Yes.

How would we pay for that?

With beer. Alcohol.

Right.

All those whores on Broadway willing to sell their souls for a drink. We’ll just ask one. Buy her a six-pack and let her go to it. It’ll be like having mom around. 

Your mom was a whore? 

Watch your mouth, he laughed. Just a tremendous drunk who kept a tidy house. And the whore could cook for us too. Hamburgers, meatloaf, potatoes, all kinds of exotic foods.

All for a six-pack?

Yes. You’d be surprised. We’ll choose a different one every week. You put in three bucks, and I’ll put in three. Get em something nice like Miller High Life.

The champagne of beers.

Yeah. The champagne of beers.