“Jackie Collins isn’t exactly great literature, kid.”
“Lucky Santangelo is a classic character,” he said. “I don’t remember Half Pint and Pa fighting the Mafia or flying around the world in a private jet.”
“No,” she admitted. “I was thinking that you might like John Steinbeck or Edgar Allan Poe.”
“You thought wrong,” he said, and began to iron. He smoothed down the collar and made quick work of it. It stuck out, flattened, in a wicked little point.
“Cannery Row,” she said. “There’s sex in it. And it’s very political. I think you’d like it.”
“I’m not allowed to read about politics,” he said. “Bert’s rule.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “I’ll find you the book you’ve been wanting, if you promise to read Steinbeck.”
“That’s blackmail,” he said. “I learned about blackmail from Jackie Collins.” He started on a pair of madras pants. “Therefore, I approve.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “Your high school English teacher will thank me one day.”
“I’m asking to be sent to boarding school,” he said. “It’s on this year’s Christmas list.”
“That’s nine months away,” said Rachel.
“I don’t believe in public school,” he said. “Lucky Santangelo went to school in Switzerland.”
“I don’t think your mom can afford that,” said Rachel.
Jake ignored this. “How did you make it through public school?”
“I didn’t know there were any other choices,” she said. “Although my mom always threatened to send me to live with the Mennonites.”
He shuddered, and carefully placed the pants on the least-stained part of the countertop. He unfolded a pair of blue jeans.
“It’s my only pair,” he assured her.
“You iron your blue jeans?”
“Of course I do,” said Jake. “Can I do your laundry?”
You Will Know the Person When You See Them
Bucky made three trips to his truck on the morning of Saint Patrick’s Day, returning to Rachel’s living room with a sewing machine and a miniature desk. She had decided upon the corner where the fireplace had been, and where the bricks remained. Upon this platform, Bucky placed a tall lamp, the fringed shade mounted on an adjustable arm. Jake insisted on doing her laundry, then proceeded to help her paint the hallway, and organize her bedroom closet until it contained everything she owned. Sorted by color, of course. She loved the help, and let his propulsion carry her.
She moved a metal folding chair behind the desk and hung a framed photograph of David Bowie just above the lamp. It once sat on her nightstand, but there was no room in this new house. Shocked that Jake knew nothing about David Bowie, she played cassettes for him the rest of the afternoon while they worked.
Rachel checked her watch, and it was quarter to eight. Bucky had left half an hour earlier, and she had lost all track of time creating the sewing corner. Jake promised to make curtains for her house, and although Rachel still feared Bert, she needed window treatments.
Jake could manage to sneak away without notice. Bert was usually gone with the reverend, and Krystal was too wrapped up in daydreams about the wedding.
Rachel left the front door unlocked, and navigated the berms of snow as she drove to work.
Saint Patrick’s Day. The Dirty Shame was slammed with teachers who would probably call in sick the next day, and unemployed regulars who wouldn’t need to. Rachel refused to make green beer, despite her mother’s demands.
The holiday fell on a Sunday. Laverna and Red Mabel arrived at nine in the morning, scouting out what Rachel had done. They heckled her from their table in the corner. Rachel could tell they were already drunk.
Laverna was full of criticism and pain medication. She nodded off in the corner, in between heckling, dressed in an ancient, shapeless green sweater and slacks the color of split pea soup. Red Mabel plucked the cigarettes from Laverna’s mouth when her eyes closed and her head slumped forward. Rachel knew that Red Mabel helped her mother dress in the morning. The thought made her uncomfortable.
The bar was lined with eight Crock-Pots, all different makes and models, that Ronda filled with corned beef and cabbage the day before. Extension cords piled in loops behind the bar, and Rachel was extra diligent not to get tangled up and spill any drinks. She refused to serve any of the food. It smelled like an outhouse. Instead, there was a tall stack of Styrofoam plates and napkins, and a new box of plastic forks and knives. The patrons would have to serve themselves for once.
Martha Man Hands and Black Mabel played Yahtzee beside the jukebox, as far away from Laverna and Red Mabel as possible.
The Chief came in and sat right near the taps, and read the newspaper.
“I didn’t know Quinn had so many Irish,” said Rachel as she poured him a cup of coffee.