Stop Here by Beverly Gologorsky Page A

relief.
    He pulls a chair from the wall to the bedside. A few more words, then he’s out of here. “I know you’re worried about Michael. His tour will end and—”
    â€œHe could be dead right now.” The sharp words stab his gut. He takes a deep breath.
    â€œYou and me, we made it out. So will he.”
    â€œYou don’t know that. Horrible things happen there every day.”
    â€œYou have two other kids waiting for you to pull yourself together.”
    â€œTheir lives are their own,” his voice barely audible.
    â€œYou mean if they’re not in danger you don’t care about them?” His own voice louder than necessary.
    â€œSomething like that.”
    He flashes on three-year-old Glory riding his shoulders. Each time they reached a doorway, she’d yell, “duck.” And he’d quack. She thought that was hilarious.
    â€œMy daughter’s in the Middle East.”
    Nothing.
    â€œShe’s a witness . . . for peace.” Sounds ridiculous, like some religious calling. Even with Ava he doesn’t talk about what Glory’s actually doing there. Does he know? He wants to believe in her bravery, her expectations, but how can something good hurt him so much?
    â€œShe wants to make a difference,” he continues, but this too sounds stupid. It doesn’t matter. Bruce isn’t listening, his eyes still closed, his face expressionless. He could be dead, but he’s alive. No mistaking the stone finality of dead: it’s the first thing that hits, even before the smells.
    â€œI’ll see you soon. Try and get it together.” But even as he says this he wonders if Bruce is finished trying. He wants to give his arm a brotherly pat but is afraid to touch him, a man stalked by doom. He heads out but doesn’t stop to speak to Shelly, because what can he say?
    The receptionist eyes him suspiciously. “Forget it,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m not moving in.”
    â€¢ • •
    It’s a few streets to reach his car. He walks quickly, Bruce heavy in his head, the hospital’s sour smell with him as well. Not a hint of sun, the air thick, punishing. Heat and traffic noise follow him. He could do with a cold beer. The whole world sucks is what.
    Triborough Bridge or Midtown Tunnel, which one to take? He’s already having trouble breathing, being underwater won’t help. Before he can stick the key in the ignition, Bruce’s open-eyed face appears in the windshield. Not a good sign. He switches on the radio. Bruce’s face refuses to disappear. He fiddles with the dial to get conversation. Bruce stares at him.
    He shuts his eyes. It’s a visitation, a warning, the kind Scrooge received. Only it isn’t about time past, it’s about now, maybe the future. “Anything can happen to anyone anywhere, we know that, man.” He’s talking out loud. To Bruce. That’s crazy. But he can’t stop himself. “Our kids want to live. They’ll take care same as we did. You and me, Bruce, we share the doom, but that’s it, man. Things are changing for me. I’m beginning to get a life here.”
    He opens his eyes: the grimy windshield holds only a vision of a narrow street of small shops, garbage cans along the curb. Taxis whiz through changing lights. People rush by. Destination is all. He has one, too. He’s taking Ava to a late afternoon movie. When was the last time he’d done that? The film could make Ava late for her shift. Rosalyn will stay an extra hour, friend that she is.
    The voice on the radio sounds serious. He ratchets up the volume. The man’s selling prepaid funerals. He laughs.

 
    6
    Butter and Ketchup
    Getting out of the shower, she hears the phone, grabs the towel robe, and hurries to the living room.
    â€œYes? Hello?” A little breathless.
    â€œDina? It’s Rosalyn. You sound funny.”
    â€œIt’s unusual to get a call