The Constant Heart by Craig Nova

Bang. Then she went back to staring at me.
    â€œAs though I didn’t have enough trouble, you’ve got to
come back into my life, too. Bad luck isn’t spread out evenly. It comes in clusters. Like a cluster fuck. Right?”
    â€œI guess,” I said. Clusters of stars. The distortion in gravity I knew was there. But how could you explain it?
    â€œI don’t think there’s any guessing here,” she said.
    â€œSo what’s wrong?” I said.
    â€œYou really want to know?” she said. She looked down again. Then she wiped her face with the handkerchief. She rolled a shoulder, bit her lip.
    â€œYeah, well,” she said. “At least it’s something new.”
    â€œSo what’s the trouble?” I said.
    She began to sweat and her fingers fluttered like moths around a light. The only thing that stopped them is when she held the shot glass, although she cried again, too, and used my handkerchief. Then she shrugged, a gesture of such resignation as to scare me, but it only lasted a minute and showed how she was on a high wire between panic and despair.
    It took a while, but she went through it, right from the beginning, slowing down now and then, and then, when she was finished, she said, “Well, what do you think my chances are, Mr. Ph.D.? Huh? Would you bet on me? The truth now.”
    â€œIt’s hard to say,” I said.
    â€œNow that’s the understatement of the year. Jesus. I’m running out of time, too. You know, sometimes you can figure things out, but that takes time. And that’s something I haven’t got.”
    She took another drink. Bang.
    â€œWhat do you do when you’re in trouble or scared?” she said.
    â€œI go fishing with my father,” I said.

    â€œWell, sometime I’ll go with you,” she said. “If I last that long. Write down your address and phone number. Mr. Ph.D. Astronomer. And where do you meet to go fishing? At your father’s house? Does he still live in the same place?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    Then she got up and walked out, into the sunshine.
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    MY FATHER HAD seen my picture on TV, and after I dumped the Samsung in my living room, I picked up my fishing things and drove to his house, where he already had his waders, fly rod, vest, and our sleeping bags in his car. A basic 4Runner from work. It looked institutional, that is, the color of the walls of a cheap hospital, a sort of jaundiced yellow, but it didn’t look like a cop would drive it. Responsibility without authority.
    â€œHey, Jake,” he said.
    We drove along the strip with a bunch of AutoZones, McDonald’s, BP gas stations, and dollar stores, and a Radio Shack, too. In the distance, in the haze of the late afternoon, you could see the those green foothills, which looked liked enormous creatures with ridges on their backs, and they were lying side by side. Between them, of course, is where the rivers flowed, like silver in a foundry. Or sometimes the water spread into a pool, where the sky and the bank and sometimes even the flowers were reflected. Still, from here, the hills were just green and wrinkled, a little misty, ominous, and filled with promise.
    Halfway there we pulled into the parking lot of a place called the Palm, which usually had nude dancers, but it was Monday and the place was closed, so we just sat there in the parking lot for a while.

    The Palm was a long, cream-colored box, the wall that faced the parking lot covered with stucco. A hand-painted sign, in red letters on what looked like a bed sheet, said AMATEUR NIGHT THIS WEEK. It was inexpertly hung with a couple of pieces of rope from the roof of the building.
    My father reached into the glove compartment and took out a box of Junior Mints.
    â€œHere,” he said.
    My fingers were shaking a little, but I picked one up and put it in my mouth. Sweet, cold. I started sweating, the film of it on my forehead.
    â€œThey’re not so