try paying me.”
Vince doesn’t say anything.
“And it’s just…I told everyone it was a regular date.”
“It was a regular date.”
“No.” She brushes a strand of hair back from her eyes. “No, it wasn’t. It might not have been the other thing, but it wasn’t a date. You know when I realized that?”
“Beth—”
“When I saw that girl. The blond girl?”
“Beth—”
“I don’t blame you. She’s pretty.”
“Beth, there’s nothing going on.”
Beth nods. “She’s screwing that married guy. The politician. No, it was more the way you looked at her…”
“Beth—”
“I realized…you could never look at me that way.”
“Listen, Beth—”
“No, it’s okay. But I could never be something that you wanted like that. Remember what you said last night—that it’s okay to want something better? Well, I could never be something better for you.”
“Listen, Beth,” Vince says, “I’m leaving town for a while.”
Her eyes shift, but otherwise nothing. “When?” she asks. Vince feels deflated by her matter-of-factness. Not that she doesn’t care, just that they’re the kind of people—sitting in her mother’s apartment at four in the morning—who don’t bat an eye at disappointment, who expect it.
“Now. Today.”
The strand of hair falls back in front of her eyes.
“Are you coming back?” she asks.
Vince reaches up to push the hair back from her face and she allows him, watching closely as his fingers brush her temple. “I don’t know.”
She pulls away from his fingers. “You’re going to miss my open house.” Then, before he can say anything: “It’s okay.” She clears the dishes, smiles, and says, in a voice rich with delusions, the voice of real estate hookers and criminal bakers: “Well, you’ll just have to come to the next one.”
VINCE HAS THE cabbie drive him past Sam’s Pit. Len’s Cadillac is gone. Then the cabbie drives the block behind his house, and sure enough Vince sees the Cadillac through the gaps in the trees and houses, parked in his driveway. The cab waits down the block as Vince slinks along his neighbor’s shrub line. He can see shadows behind the shades of his window, someone tossing the clothes in his dresser, another figure lifting the mattress. Vince returns to the cab and has the driver drop him two blocks from the donut shop. It’s already after five—the morning inching toward light. He works his way down the alley and doesn’t see anything. At Donut Make You Hungry, Vince peers through the small window in the back door. Tic has finished his prep work and is sitting at a table, talking to himself, arms at his sides, as if he doesn’t know what to do next. Vince opens the door and eases into the kitchen. Tic’s back is to him. Vince realizes he’s never seen Tic quiet before.
He looks up, relieved. “Mr. Vince! You weren’t here and…I couldn’t do the maple bars and…I…I didn’t know—”
It strikes Vince that in the two years since he finished his training as a baker, he hasn’t missed a single day at Donut Make You Hungry, Monday through Saturday, for two years. He was supposed to train Tic to work one day a week by himself, but Vince never thought the kid was ready. So six days a week, six hours a day, for close to two years, he has worked every minute of every shift. When the owners hired him, they said something about vacations, but Vince has never taken one. Where would he go?
Tic stands up. “We can make the maple bars now, huh?”
“No,” Vince says. “I can’t work today. I’m sorry, Tic. I have to go out of town. There’s a…funeral.”
“That’s too bad. Somebody died?”
Vince goes back to the broom closet, opens it, and turns a mop bucket over. “That’s generally why they have funerals, Tic.” He climbs on the overturned bucket and slides a ceiling tile from thebroom closet. From there, he takes a key and an empty manila envelope. “Wait here,” he says. “I gotta go
Vince doesn’t say anything.
“And it’s just…I told everyone it was a regular date.”
“It was a regular date.”
“No.” She brushes a strand of hair back from her eyes. “No, it wasn’t. It might not have been the other thing, but it wasn’t a date. You know when I realized that?”
“Beth—”
“When I saw that girl. The blond girl?”
“Beth—”
“I don’t blame you. She’s pretty.”
“Beth, there’s nothing going on.”
Beth nods. “She’s screwing that married guy. The politician. No, it was more the way you looked at her…”
“Beth—”
“I realized…you could never look at me that way.”
“Listen, Beth—”
“No, it’s okay. But I could never be something that you wanted like that. Remember what you said last night—that it’s okay to want something better? Well, I could never be something better for you.”
“Listen, Beth,” Vince says, “I’m leaving town for a while.”
Her eyes shift, but otherwise nothing. “When?” she asks. Vince feels deflated by her matter-of-factness. Not that she doesn’t care, just that they’re the kind of people—sitting in her mother’s apartment at four in the morning—who don’t bat an eye at disappointment, who expect it.
“Now. Today.”
The strand of hair falls back in front of her eyes.
“Are you coming back?” she asks.
Vince reaches up to push the hair back from her face and she allows him, watching closely as his fingers brush her temple. “I don’t know.”
She pulls away from his fingers. “You’re going to miss my open house.” Then, before he can say anything: “It’s okay.” She clears the dishes, smiles, and says, in a voice rich with delusions, the voice of real estate hookers and criminal bakers: “Well, you’ll just have to come to the next one.”
VINCE HAS THE cabbie drive him past Sam’s Pit. Len’s Cadillac is gone. Then the cabbie drives the block behind his house, and sure enough Vince sees the Cadillac through the gaps in the trees and houses, parked in his driveway. The cab waits down the block as Vince slinks along his neighbor’s shrub line. He can see shadows behind the shades of his window, someone tossing the clothes in his dresser, another figure lifting the mattress. Vince returns to the cab and has the driver drop him two blocks from the donut shop. It’s already after five—the morning inching toward light. He works his way down the alley and doesn’t see anything. At Donut Make You Hungry, Vince peers through the small window in the back door. Tic has finished his prep work and is sitting at a table, talking to himself, arms at his sides, as if he doesn’t know what to do next. Vince opens the door and eases into the kitchen. Tic’s back is to him. Vince realizes he’s never seen Tic quiet before.
He looks up, relieved. “Mr. Vince! You weren’t here and…I couldn’t do the maple bars and…I…I didn’t know—”
It strikes Vince that in the two years since he finished his training as a baker, he hasn’t missed a single day at Donut Make You Hungry, Monday through Saturday, for two years. He was supposed to train Tic to work one day a week by himself, but Vince never thought the kid was ready. So six days a week, six hours a day, for close to two years, he has worked every minute of every shift. When the owners hired him, they said something about vacations, but Vince has never taken one. Where would he go?
Tic stands up. “We can make the maple bars now, huh?”
“No,” Vince says. “I can’t work today. I’m sorry, Tic. I have to go out of town. There’s a…funeral.”
“That’s too bad. Somebody died?”
Vince goes back to the broom closet, opens it, and turns a mop bucket over. “That’s generally why they have funerals, Tic.” He climbs on the overturned bucket and slides a ceiling tile from thebroom closet. From there, he takes a key and an empty manila envelope. “Wait here,” he says. “I gotta go
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