hand in his and opened it to release the vial. The glass was colder than her skin. It made him feel colder than he was, the way putting a finger on an ice cube will freeze the sweat on your face on a hot day. He remembered the pony, light brown snout down, rooting around in the clover. The boy standing there, holding the pony. All the sun, outside the diner. He closed her hand around the vial and gestured for the waitress. The waitress came to their booth with the bill. “You have a good day now,” she said, slapping the bill onto the table, even though he was holding out his hand.
“Want to have a good day?” he said to Lucy, getting up.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “I think I might wait until the party to have a good time.”
She followed him to the cash register, but when the cashier dropped her pen on the floor and hopped down to get it, Lucy wandered out to the vestibule. Hildon looked at her, reading business cards that had been tacked up on the big bulletin board. He saw a large flyer from the ASPCA. Lucy walked out the door. He gave the cashier a dime and took two mints.
Lucy was walking ahead of him. She opened the car door and sat in the driver’s seat. The news on the radio droned on. He opened the door on the driver’s side. “Move over,” he said. She didn’t resist. She lowered the emergency brake and carefully maneuvered her way across it. Her lips were chalky pink in the sun. On the news, they were talking about the Montrealer. She sat in the passenger’s seat, with her hands folded in her lap.
He dropped his hands into his lap and looked straight ahead. She caught on and laughed. He leaned over and kissed her. He unwrapped one of the mints, one-handed, and put it in her mouth. The chocolate had already begun to get sticky soft. While she was sucking on the mint, he kissed her again. This time he waited for her to end the kiss. She ended it when she had to swallow. He put his arm around her, and put his other hand around the side of her thigh, stroking his thumb across the top of her leg. Someone started a car and drove away. He leaned over farther and kissed her shoulder through the material. “Where’d you get the coke?” he said.
“I visited one of the kids in my art class, who had a tumor removed. His mother had coke. We did some in the hospital bathroom. I bought this from her later.”
11
M YRA was deep into the article. She cleared the dinner dishes off the card table and went back to her desk. The chair she usually pulled up to the card table had broken, so she typed sitting on the ironing board facing the kitchen counter. She had a sudden brainstorm after a day of sitting this way: she turned it so that it was parallel to the high counter. That way, she did not feel as if she was poised at the end of a diving board, about to plunge into her Smith-Corona.
She had done all the necessary research, and all that she needed to do now was bang out the rough draft. Cameron Petrus, the hard-hitting reporter, actually lived for the time he could throw his javelin. Nigel McAllister, who took such wonderful photographs and who submitted his work to photography magazines, expressed his cynicism about photography’s ability to communicate to the students whom he befriended at the community college where he taught and spent his time meditating at an Ashram. Noonan, who had made a fine art of parody, was deeply committed to campaigning for gay rights. And Lucy Spenser, the lady counselor, was apparently unable to guide her own life gracefully. Myra had found that out when she discovered the letter to Cindi Coeur from Les Whitehall.
Myra spent a few minutes analyzing herself: was she trying to get Lucy Spenser on the phone because she secretly liked the idea of making her uncomfortable? It wasn’t that easy to make someone as together as Lucy uncomfortable, but the letter from Les, whoever he was, seemed sure to do it. There was no reason to mention in the article that Lucy and
“Want to have a good day?” he said to Lucy, getting up.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “I think I might wait until the party to have a good time.”
She followed him to the cash register, but when the cashier dropped her pen on the floor and hopped down to get it, Lucy wandered out to the vestibule. Hildon looked at her, reading business cards that had been tacked up on the big bulletin board. He saw a large flyer from the ASPCA. Lucy walked out the door. He gave the cashier a dime and took two mints.
Lucy was walking ahead of him. She opened the car door and sat in the driver’s seat. The news on the radio droned on. He opened the door on the driver’s side. “Move over,” he said. She didn’t resist. She lowered the emergency brake and carefully maneuvered her way across it. Her lips were chalky pink in the sun. On the news, they were talking about the Montrealer. She sat in the passenger’s seat, with her hands folded in her lap.
He dropped his hands into his lap and looked straight ahead. She caught on and laughed. He leaned over and kissed her. He unwrapped one of the mints, one-handed, and put it in her mouth. The chocolate had already begun to get sticky soft. While she was sucking on the mint, he kissed her again. This time he waited for her to end the kiss. She ended it when she had to swallow. He put his arm around her, and put his other hand around the side of her thigh, stroking his thumb across the top of her leg. Someone started a car and drove away. He leaned over farther and kissed her shoulder through the material. “Where’d you get the coke?” he said.
“I visited one of the kids in my art class, who had a tumor removed. His mother had coke. We did some in the hospital bathroom. I bought this from her later.”
11
M YRA was deep into the article. She cleared the dinner dishes off the card table and went back to her desk. The chair she usually pulled up to the card table had broken, so she typed sitting on the ironing board facing the kitchen counter. She had a sudden brainstorm after a day of sitting this way: she turned it so that it was parallel to the high counter. That way, she did not feel as if she was poised at the end of a diving board, about to plunge into her Smith-Corona.
She had done all the necessary research, and all that she needed to do now was bang out the rough draft. Cameron Petrus, the hard-hitting reporter, actually lived for the time he could throw his javelin. Nigel McAllister, who took such wonderful photographs and who submitted his work to photography magazines, expressed his cynicism about photography’s ability to communicate to the students whom he befriended at the community college where he taught and spent his time meditating at an Ashram. Noonan, who had made a fine art of parody, was deeply committed to campaigning for gay rights. And Lucy Spenser, the lady counselor, was apparently unable to guide her own life gracefully. Myra had found that out when she discovered the letter to Cindi Coeur from Les Whitehall.
Myra spent a few minutes analyzing herself: was she trying to get Lucy Spenser on the phone because she secretly liked the idea of making her uncomfortable? It wasn’t that easy to make someone as together as Lucy uncomfortable, but the letter from Les, whoever he was, seemed sure to do it. There was no reason to mention in the article that Lucy and