“I don’t mind.”
She stretched and yawned, then went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. I stood in the doorway for a minute, then came to stand beside her. Around the sink the caulking I’d redone the day before was bright against the scuffed pink tiles. She hadn’t wanted me to bother with it, but when I pointed out that bad caulking could damage the wall, she relented. I ran my finger along the lines of grout; they had dried and the sink looked better now. “So can we finish our conversation?” I asked.
“What conversation?”
“What we were talking about before Fierro showed up.”
She looked at me through the mirror and the appraising gaze I’d noticed in her eyes earlier that evening returned. She rinsed her mouth, put her toothbrush in the plastic cup next to the tap, and stood still. Unmoving. Unyielding. I slid a finger under the strap of her dress and moved it off her shoulder. As I pressed my lips against her skin, a wave of sadness hit me; all I would ever get from her was this, nothing more. Already I could see how it would end. I should enjoy this while it lasts, I told myself.
But then she turned to face me. “You really want to hear that piece?” There was a note of challenge in her voice. She was asking me something else: she was asking if I was really prepared for the thing I said I wanted. Outside, the wind chime started clinking, disturbing the silence. The turtledove cooed in response.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
She walked over to her laptop and scrolled through her files until she found the right one. While the music played, I sat on the couch and closed my eyes, moved not just by how beautiful the piece sounded, but by how easily Nora had opened her heart to me. She held nothing back, and it terrified me that someday she might expect the same of me.
Anderson
It was an accident. Of course, the daughter tried to make it seem like it was more than that, got some people all riled up about it, but she didn’t live here and didn’t know what it was like. It was just an accident. Unfortunate and unavoidable, like the lawyer said. I wasn’t even going to hire a lawyer, but Helen insisted because she didn’t trust the police, and I guess she was right. I was glad we had Miss Perry in our corner, she looked out for us, even though we could barely afford her fee. What I don’t understand is, what was that guy doing crossing the intersection when it was so dark out? The problem here, what we really should be talking about, is we need signals and lighting on that highway. But it makes no sense accusing people about something that couldn’t’ve been prevented. Accidents happen. Why is that so hard to understand?
After my lawyer told me about the daughter’s crazy accusations, I thought about visiting the restaurant next door and having a word with that young lady, telling her how she was mistaken about the whole thing. Miss Perry talked me out of it, though, said it would only make it seem like I had done something wrong. And I hadn’t. I was trying to do the right thing.
People were different, back in my day. I remember another accident, in ’75 or ’76, a couple of years after Helen and I opened our bowling alley, and it didn’t end up like this. It happened on Family Night. The special ran on Thursday afternoons from three to six p.m., but we still called it Family Night, so it would fit with the other themes Helen posted on the board out front. One day, a family with six kids came in. “You might want to get two lanes,” I said to the father. He had a thick mustache, the kind that was popular in those days, and he looked so young it was hard to believe he had six children. But he wouldn’t hear of paying for two lanes. He and his wife took their little tribe to lane 8. It took them a long while to play their games, especially since the youngest kid looked about three years old, and afterward, their seating area looked like a pigsty. The seats were covered with potato chips, even though the sign at the front clearly said that no food was allowed in the bowling area.
I had two parties waiting in the concourse, so I told my porter Greg to hurry up and clean up after them. He was sweeping the floors when he hit the bumper rail with his broom. It went down and so he kicked it back up with his foot, not thinking much of it, but the bumper fell right back down and sliced through his shoe. Greg is a big, burly guy from Moreno Valley, and yet the pain was so bad he passed out. I ran to his side, helped him up, and Helen got him some ice water. We drove him to the hospital—back then, that was High Desert Memorial in Yucca Valley—and waited with him to see what the doctor would say. They didn’t have the technology they have nowadays, though, and he lost two toes on his left foot. Greg was a champ, he went back to work a couple of weeks later. We put up new signs about keeping food off the bowling area, and we were strict about enforcing safety rules. But we understood when something was an accident. We didn’t go around trying to blame other people for what happened.
This town has changed a lot since then. Hardesty’s Groceries is gone, and so is Steeley’s Sporting Goods. We have a Walmart and an Applebee’s now. We even got a Starbucks. All kinds of people have been coming here. All kinds. I go to the store these days, I don’t recognize anybody. Used to be I always ran into friends or neighbors or even acquaintances from church. Not anymore. And the changes are happening so fast. Ten years ago, you could still have some peace and quiet around here, but now you have lines of tourists, their cars idling, waiting to get into the national park, or getting rowdy in their Airbnbs, doing drugs or God knows what. Some people say I should be grateful for the business that the newcomers are bringing to the town, but the way I see it, they’re changing this place and wanting me to be grateful for it. They didn’t ask if we wanted them here, they just came.
Coleman
When I don’t have all the evidence I need, I trace a story from the few details I have, and see if it holds up. Late one Sunday afternoon, after I found Miles sprawled on the couch again, staring longingly at his Instagram, I told him that he could invite his new friend to dinner. As soon as Brandon texted that he could come, Miles ran off to clean his room—made his bed, picked up his dirty laundry, brought out the trash. Then he took a thirty-minute shower. Of course, Ray didn’t notice anything, his eyes were glued to the TV. The Lakers were playing that evening, and no passion compares to that of a fan who’s switched allegiances. I peeled the potatoes, marinated the chicken, and set the table for four. Miles came back into the living room reeking of Old Spice, and I dropped a fork just to make Ray look up. But no. Lakers at 78, Nuggets at 75, going into the third quarter.
Brandon rang the doorbell promptly at seven. He was in an old T-shirt and frayed khakis, but he’d made some effort to brush his floppy hair into place with gel. His bike was set next to my car on the driveway, and I noticed that the bottle in the holder was covered with a sticker that said REAL MEN RIDE BIKES. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Coleman,” he said as he stepped inside.
“My pleasure,” I said.
Ray paused the basketball game and got out of the easy chair to shake hands with our guest. “Hello, young man.”
“This is Brandon,” I said. “He’s in the same grade as Miles.”
“Uh-huh,” Ray said, his eyes darting back to the TV screen.