The fire is almost out, and I want to keep it there. So instead of turning around, I chuckle and shake my head back and forth. Poor working-man, that’s what I’m saying with my body language. I know he’ll get the drift so I hurry to my car and load the three brown bags of groceries quickly. I don’t have time to fight this man. I shove the cart up against the ice bag machine and jump into the car.
As I back out of the parking space, working-man appears in the red glow of my taillights. If I push on the gas, I’d run him over. It would be ruled an accident. He’s barely visible in the fading light. He pauses, hands on hips, weighing his options, his chances. And then he flips me the middle finger of his right hand and I smile. He moves out of the way as I reverse, just like I knew he would. This life is about one thing, winning and losing. He knows he lost.
As I pull back through the open gate into the perfect little community, I check to be sure working-man isn’t following me. I doubt he would brave the gates—we do have security even when it’s not high season. Still, it is rather easy to follow someone, tail them in your car, if you’re skillful and careful. I’ve done it before, not lately, but enough times to know how. It’s sort of like in the movies. You wear a black shirt, make sure it’s a dark, moonless night if you can. Most of the time, people don’t notice their surroundings. They wouldn’t even realize if the same car was following them for miles.
It’s the same following someone on foot, or, say, sneaking into someone’s home. It’s easy if you’re quiet and methodical. Take my father, for example. It’s as if he was blind, not deaf. It was the middle of the day. He should have seen me sitting in the corner of their cramped living room, suit coat tossed on the couch and my tie loosened, waiting for my mom to come home from running errands. He walked right past me on his way to the bedroom, but he didn’t notice. He never did see me for who I am, always underestimating me.
It wouldn’t have changed anything, but he should have seen me coming.
6:15 p.m.
11
I drive slowly down Second Street, and note the line of twenty or so people waiting to get into Sloopy’s. That spot is going to be packed all weekend and my favorite pink-haired waitress will be making some good tips. I’m glad I made a reservation for us tonight at a new Italian restaurant in Port Clinton. It actually has its own herb garden, which will make my wife happy. I hope it’s not as crowded there as it is here. I’m still surprised so many people had the same idea to head to the lake this weekend. The economy is back on track, I guess, for most people.
I pass the park, lit by streetlamps in the growing dusk, and see a young mother pushing her child on a swing. I have so many images in my mind of Mia doing just that with our boys, their squeals of delight floating through the air, reaching me as I sit on the park bench watching over them all. Neither of my boys inherited my rage, I am almost certain. I’ve seen no hints. No rock throwing, no toys mangled and destroyed. Instead, they play together nicely, are polite and happy, I think. The generational darkness of rage has skipped over them, though most likely it will appear in their children. It’s a strong gene, anger. But for now, I will continue to nurture their happiness. They are my gift to the world, my sons are.
I stop in front of the Boones’ cottage. All of the lights are on, it seems, in every room of the place. They are entertaining people from our neighborhood, no doubt, wining and dining them at their grand historic cottage. I try to look in the windows, to get a glimpse of who else may be seated at their long table for twelve. But all I can distinguish are shapes of people, some overall characteristics maybe, but not enough to identify who they are. Most of the neighbors don’t know me, or care to, and the feeling is mutual. There’s another feeling I can name: disdain. But they do know Mia, many of them, and are friends with her, too. Mia is a person many want to befriend.
Take Buck, for example. I turn the corner onto Laurel Street and our cottage is glowing with light, too. There are two people on the screened-in porch. They sit in the two chairs that face the sofa. The furniture is old and rather embarrassing. The ancient outdoor wicker set itself is valuable—they just don’t make them like this anymore—but the fabric covering the cushions is obnoxious, a gaudy green-and-pink-floral design that reminds me of my mother’s favorite teacup pattern, blown up. I know this set came with the place and we haven’t invested in new cushions. Perhaps that is an expense for this summer. Because no matter how often the slipcovers are laundered, there is always the smell of dust, lingering and thick. It climbs onto your clothes when you sit too long, seeps into your pores like a small dose of poison. Sneaks up on you, I guess. I start sneezing if I spend more than ten minutes out there.
Mia knows this, and yet, there they sit. The two of them. In my cottage. On my porch during my romantic weekend. I dig my fingernails into my palm, enjoying the sting.
I pull into the driveway and stop the car in front of the back door. I realize Mia does not like it when I park here, considers it lazy, and would prefer it if I pulled into the garage. It is more civilized, she explains. That may be the case, but I’m late and I have three grocery bags. I am anxious to question Mia about the credit card, our credit card being declined, but will wait until Buck is gone. Which will be soon. We have dinner plans.
I pop open the trunk and gather the bags in my arms. I’m trying to figure out how to turn the knob to open the back door when Mia opens it for me.
“What took you so long? I thought you got lost,” Mia says. Her face is flushed, either from laughing or from alcohol. Or both. She wrestles one of the bags out of my arms as Buck appears behind her.
“Can I help?” Buck says. “Must have been a big line at the grocery.”
“There was a line, yes,” I say. My tone is calm, measured. I am fighting fire. I place the two bags on the counter next to the one my wife plunked down. I look in the third bag and notice the pack of cigarettes. I had meant to leave them in the car. I reach into the bag and slide the pack up my palm and into my shirtsleeve. I will hide them in my briefcase upstairs.
“We’ll unload these, Paul. Why don’t I make you a drink? Tito’s with a squeeze of lime coming right up,” Mia says. “Go sit and relax.”
I don’t want to leave the kitchen, but I need to dispose of the cigarettes.