presence made it so much worse for them, made him feel embarrassed, too.
He stood. “I should be going,” he said apologetically.
“No,” Elsie said firmly. “Please—sit down. We haven’t finished our meal yet. Alexander’s the one who needs to be leaving.”
Alexander looked at her for a long moment, and Milton feared that he was going to defy her. He started to consider what he would do if he became violent. He would have to do something. Alexander was scrawny and would be simple enough to subdue, but would that just make things worse?
Alexander sneered at them. “Fuck it,” he said. “Fuck you, all y’all. You prefer to have your dinner with someone like that, someone who don’t give a good goddamn fuck about you, you go right ahead, it don’t mean nothing to me.”
“Mind your language in this house,” Solomon said.
“Yeah, and fuck you too. I’ll find the money somewhere else.”
With that, he turned on his heel and left the room. There was a pause, the sound of something soft being thrown to the floor, and then the slamming of the door.
Milton remembered. His jacket was hanging out there, and his wallet was inside it. He knew, without even having to check, that Alexander had lifted it. Izzy went into the hall, and Milton followed behind. The jacket was on the floor. She picked it up and gave it to him. It was lighter, and he didn’t need to check.
“He hasn’t taken anything?”
Milton shook his head. “Nothing in it to take,” he said.
#
THE ATMOSPHERE was subdued after that. Solomon tried to lighten the mood by telling the story of his friend who said that he had seen a four-foot alligator drinking from a broken water hydrant on Choctaw. Elsie managed a laugh, reminding her husband that his acquaintance had been smoking weed for years and had once sworn an affidavit that he had been abducted and experimented upon by aliens. Solomon chuckled that that was true, but that, on this occasion, he believed him. They tried hard to remove the stain of Alexander’s visit, but it was something that couldn’t easily be forgotten.
They cleared the table. Milton offered to wash up, but Elsie would hear none of it. She called her husband to help, and the two of them shepherded Milton and their daughter out into the lounge, but not before Izzy snagged a couple of long-necked beers from the fridge.
They went outside, closing the door after them and sitting down on the wooden porch with their backs up against the wall.
“You want one?” she said, holding the cold bottles up.
Milton felt the usual quiver, the waver in his resolve. It would be nice, after all, to share a drink with a pretty girl. That was what civilised people did after a pleasant meal, after all. Right? And then there came the persuasive suggestions—you’ll be all right, it’s just one beer, you’ll be better company with a little booze inside you, it’ll help you ignore the voice telling you that you’re not worth her time—and he moved a little closer to saying yes. But he had been concentrating on his sobriety for the last few months, that had been the purpose behind his long trek through the wilderness in Michigan and Minnesota, and, for now at least, he was buttressed well enough to recognise the danger.
“No,” he said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Not ever?”
“I’ve got a problem with it,” he admitted, surprised at his own candour. “With drink. It got out of control a year or two after I was here last. I had to stop completely to get it sorted out. It’s been a while now.”
She looked down at the bottles as if embarrassed that she had brought them out.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You have a drink. It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. I’ll have a smoke. That’s my vice now.”
She popped the top of one of the bottles and took a long slug of beer. She finished half the bottle, wiped the back of her hand across her lips, and stood it up next to her.
“Gimme
He stood. “I should be going,” he said apologetically.
“No,” Elsie said firmly. “Please—sit down. We haven’t finished our meal yet. Alexander’s the one who needs to be leaving.”
Alexander looked at her for a long moment, and Milton feared that he was going to defy her. He started to consider what he would do if he became violent. He would have to do something. Alexander was scrawny and would be simple enough to subdue, but would that just make things worse?
Alexander sneered at them. “Fuck it,” he said. “Fuck you, all y’all. You prefer to have your dinner with someone like that, someone who don’t give a good goddamn fuck about you, you go right ahead, it don’t mean nothing to me.”
“Mind your language in this house,” Solomon said.
“Yeah, and fuck you too. I’ll find the money somewhere else.”
With that, he turned on his heel and left the room. There was a pause, the sound of something soft being thrown to the floor, and then the slamming of the door.
Milton remembered. His jacket was hanging out there, and his wallet was inside it. He knew, without even having to check, that Alexander had lifted it. Izzy went into the hall, and Milton followed behind. The jacket was on the floor. She picked it up and gave it to him. It was lighter, and he didn’t need to check.
“He hasn’t taken anything?”
Milton shook his head. “Nothing in it to take,” he said.
#
THE ATMOSPHERE was subdued after that. Solomon tried to lighten the mood by telling the story of his friend who said that he had seen a four-foot alligator drinking from a broken water hydrant on Choctaw. Elsie managed a laugh, reminding her husband that his acquaintance had been smoking weed for years and had once sworn an affidavit that he had been abducted and experimented upon by aliens. Solomon chuckled that that was true, but that, on this occasion, he believed him. They tried hard to remove the stain of Alexander’s visit, but it was something that couldn’t easily be forgotten.
They cleared the table. Milton offered to wash up, but Elsie would hear none of it. She called her husband to help, and the two of them shepherded Milton and their daughter out into the lounge, but not before Izzy snagged a couple of long-necked beers from the fridge.
They went outside, closing the door after them and sitting down on the wooden porch with their backs up against the wall.
“You want one?” she said, holding the cold bottles up.
Milton felt the usual quiver, the waver in his resolve. It would be nice, after all, to share a drink with a pretty girl. That was what civilised people did after a pleasant meal, after all. Right? And then there came the persuasive suggestions—you’ll be all right, it’s just one beer, you’ll be better company with a little booze inside you, it’ll help you ignore the voice telling you that you’re not worth her time—and he moved a little closer to saying yes. But he had been concentrating on his sobriety for the last few months, that had been the purpose behind his long trek through the wilderness in Michigan and Minnesota, and, for now at least, he was buttressed well enough to recognise the danger.
“No,” he said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Not ever?”
“I’ve got a problem with it,” he admitted, surprised at his own candour. “With drink. It got out of control a year or two after I was here last. I had to stop completely to get it sorted out. It’s been a while now.”
She looked down at the bottles as if embarrassed that she had brought them out.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You have a drink. It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. I’ll have a smoke. That’s my vice now.”
She popped the top of one of the bottles and took a long slug of beer. She finished half the bottle, wiped the back of her hand across her lips, and stood it up next to her.
“Gimme
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