Brownie Points by Jennifer Coburn

the station so I could stealthily grab my purse and go. Instead I heard a male voice that was not Jason’s.
    “This helped me a lot,” he said.
    What helped who a lot? I wondered as I stood beside the open door.
    “PFLAG?” Jason asked after I heard the sound of a book dropping on his desk.
    “Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. I heard you talking to the missus and … my brother was gay.”
    There was a long, uncomfortable silence, followed by a sparse reply from Jason. “ Was? ”
    “Yeah,” said the man. God, men certainly aren’t a chatty lot, are they?
    “No more?” Jason asked. What?! Is my once-sane husband actually thinking of gay rehab for our son, ’cause I don’t think there’s a referral list in that PFLAG book.
    “He died. Killed himself when he was seventeen.”
    Silence fell like fog.
    “Man, that’s tough. Sorry, Chuck,” Jason finally said.
    “Know who’s sorriest?” Chuck asked. Jason must have gestured for him to continue. “My dad.”
    I heard Jason’s seat cushion exhale as he sat down on it.
    “A boy’s gotta know his old man’s behind him no matter what.”
    “Wow,” Jason said, still absorbing what he’d heard.
    “More common than you think,” said Chuck. “Read the book.”
    In the moments that followed — that time when women would embrace and sob in this revelation — there was stillness in the room.
    As I waited to hear Chuck close the conversation, I heard footsteps coming toward the door. Shit, that was it! They’re done. I panicked as I looked down the hall for a place to duck. I leaned into a doorway and the men exited and began walking in the opposite direction from where I crouched. As soon as they turned the corner, I’d be free to run in and grab my purse and make a quick escape.
    “Well, whatcha doin’ there, Mrs. Taylor?” twanged another firefighter I will, forevermore, simply refer to as Gomer.
    Jason’s head whipped around to catch me hiding, clutching a bag, looking like an inept cat burglar who almost got away with the first aid kit. “Lisa? I thought you left,” he said, rushing toward me without a trace of anger. Chuck and Gomer left us alone, and Jason grabbed my hand and pulled me back into his office.
    “No, I had to come back,” I said, holding the bag. “I forgot something.”
    He looked at me intently. “Baby, I’m okay with it.”
    ™˜
    “I’m so glad you made it after all,” Barb said, greeting me at her door.
    Thankfully the filter between my brain and my mouth was working properly that night, or I may have disclosed that the only reason I agreed to come to another Bunco game was because Michelle begged. I don’t kid myself into believing it was my charming company they were after. They needed a twelfth player again this month.
    Olivia and Val were matched as partners, which meant a pearl-yanking, ribbon-unraveling brawl could break out at any moment. Surprisingly, the two were in agreement on the pressing issue of the season — kids who didn’t live in Utopia trick-or-treating in the development. Both Val and Olivia agreed that it was a problem. How to solve it was an entirely different matter.
    “The gates are locked, Olivia,” Val said, rolling her eyes to seek support from Marni and me. “That’s the whole point of a gated community. That half-wit security guard lets them in because they’re kids and they look harmless enough in their little bunny get-ups and whatnot.”
    Marni was not about to ally herself with Mean and Meaner. “And you think they’re a danger because —”
    Val raised her perfectly shaped eyebrow and replied, “I didn’t say they were dangerous , but this is not where they live. They should trick-or-treat in their own neighborhood.”
    “Exactly,” said Olivia. “They only come here because we’ve got better candy.”
    “It’s taking advantage,” Val concluded for her. Could we possibly be witnessing a healing of the bitch rift over the issue of taking candy from