Exile on Kalamazoo Street by Michael Loyd Gray Page A

Paul. How does that sound?”
    â€œGood, good,” he said, clearly nervous. “I’d love some.”
    He went into the living room as I boiled water. I was grateful for the task and a few minutes to ready myself psychologically for company.
    â€œYou have a cat,” he called out.
    â€œYes,” I called back, annoyed at having to raise my voice.
    â€œWhat’s its name, Bryce?”
    â€œHe answers to Black Kitty.”
    â€œNot a very ambitious name for a writer, Bryce.”
    â€œWho said I was a writer?” I said as I poured honey into our tea mugs. There was no reply. I had already heard my first name invoked too many times.
    I handed him his mug and sat in a chair opposite the sofa. Black Kitty sat on the sofa with Paul, but at some distance to indicate cautious hospitality. Cat etiquette. As we sipped tea, Black Kitty abruptly jumped off the sofa and onto the back of my chair. He curled up behind my head to peek out over my shoulder at Paul.
    â€œIt’s loyal to you,” Paul said.
    â€œI feed him.”
    â€œThe same thing, Bryce,” Paul said.
    â€œSomething like that.”
    Paul was older than me, in his late fifties—fifty-eight, if I recalled correctly. It made me think suddenly of a birthday coming in June. I would be fifty-one. I had not thought about age much in exile.
    â€œHow’s your tea, Paul?”
    â€œThe honey always makes the difference.” He held his mug up in salute. It made me think of people in bars raising beer mugs or shot glasses.
    â€œHoney’s my new religion, Paul.”
    â€œReally?” He cocked his head to the side as though actually assessing this proclamation.
    â€œNo. I’m just saying that to make conversation.”
    We studied each other a moment and sipped tea.
    â€œHow’s life at the college?” I said.
    â€œGood, good,” he said, nodding his head. “Folks ask about you from time to time.”
    â€œSome probably do,” I said. “Some probably don’t.”
    â€œKathryn Miller asks about you, Bryce.”
    â€œHow is Kathryn Miller these days?”
    â€œShe’s the department chair now, Bryce. Since January.”
    â€œHow nice for her ambitions,” I said. “Has she got the rest of you wearing uniforms yet?”
    He nodded and smiled knowingly. “No, no. Well, not yet, anyway.”
    â€œPlenty of time for it,” I said. “See if she’ll go for the beret and turtleneck sweater look, Paul. I think a beret might suit you.”
    He wrinkled his nose and sipped tea.
    â€œShe’s not so bad,” he said. “And she did ask about you.”
    â€œTell her I’m alive. And kicking. Don’t I look it?”
    â€œI can see that,” he said. “You look … younger.”
    â€œMaybe it’s the hair.” I shrugged my shoulders.
    â€œAnd you look … healthier, too,” he said. “Have you lost weight?”
    â€œNearly ten pounds.”
    He nodded approvingly and raised his mug again.
    â€œMust be your diet, Bryce.”
    â€œAnd I don’t drink.”
    â€œAh,” he said, arching his eyebrows. “How’s that going?”
    â€œThere’s no booze in the house.”
    â€œI was just asking,” he said, staring into his teacup.
    â€œThat’s okay, Paul. How are you doing?”
    â€œNo real complaints.” He raised his mug in salute again.
    â€œHow’s Sheila?”
    â€œGood, good.” He nodded and chewed his lip. “We went through a bad spell there for a bit.” He looked off at the wall. “But I think we reeled the thing back in.”
    â€œGood,” I said, raising my mug. “Here’s to fishing.”
    â€œFishing?” He looked confused.
    â€œYou said you reeled it back in. Marriage can be like fishing. You need to use the right bait.”
    He smiled, nodded. “That’s the writer in you, Bryce.”
    I