The Constant Heart by Craig Nova Page A

bad,” he said. “Want another?”
    â€œIn a minute,” I said. “I think I’m going to get out and stand here in the parking lot.”
    â€œYou’re not going to get sick are you?” he said.
    â€œMaybe not,” I said.
    He got out, too, and we both looked at that homemade sign.
    â€œYou know what?” he said. “On TV I had the strangest feeling that the woman who was in the store was Sara. You remember her, your pal from high school? Lived in—what did she call it?—the Gulag.”
    â€œI remember,” I said.
    â€œSo, was it her?” said my father.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “She’s in trouble.”
    â€œIt can’t be that bad,” he said.
    I turned to those distant hills, which now more than ever looked like green monsters, prehistoric beasts.
    â€œI wouldn’t bet on it,” I said.
    â€œI had the strangest feeling over the last three or four years,
since you’ve been back. The phone would ring and someone breathed there for a while. A woman’s breathing. Then she’d hang up.”
    â€œProbably Sara,” I said.
    â€œBut why didn’t she speak?” said my father.
    â€œShe thinks she’s damaged goods,” I said.
    â€œWell, that’s just silly,” said my father. “Say, you sure you’re not going to be sick?”
    â€œThat’s the funny thing about being scared,” I said. “It’s not in the moment. Everything is kind of bright then. But later, you know, the shadows start. That guy could have shot me and Sara, too. Just like that. Bang. And now the greens on that ridge don’t seem to be the same color. Darker.”
    â€œWell, you must have done the right thing in the store,” said my father. “Because he didn’t do it.”
    â€œDo it” was a stand-in for “getting shot.” But that was my father, who was polite.
    â€œMaybe I just got lucky,” I said.
    â€œYou didn’t panic,” he said.
    â€œNo,” I said. “Not right out where you could see it.”
    â€œSo,” he said. “That’s enough. It got you through.”
    â€œThat’s all there is to things like that?” I said. “Just patience and keeping your mouth shut?”
    He shrugged.
    â€œI don’t know what to say. Here. Have a mint.”
    I took another one and put it in my mouth. The sweetness lingered as I looked at that sign.
    The door of the Palm opened and a man of about fifty came out, wearing a sports jacket that was double-vented and had a belt. Could have come from Yugoslavia, Budapest, someplace
like that. His hair was brushed back and looked like an inexpensive hairpiece, but it was probably real. He came into the parking lot. A young woman was with him. She had short hair and was wearing blue jeans and a checked shirt. Glitter on her eyes, and dark mascara. High heels with the jeans.
    The man looked at me and my father and said, “We’re closed. Come back tomorrow. Gonna be amateur night this week.”
    I looked at the sign and at the young woman. The sweetness of the chocolate lingered on the tip of my tongue, although I could still hear the sound of that shot. My ears still rang, as though the knowledge of evil had a sound. I wondered if you could hear it in places where people had died for some stupid, ugly reason.
    â€œCome back for amateur night,” the man said. “Going to be something.”
    â€œWe just stopped to rest for a moment,” said my father. “We’re going fishing.”
    The woman with the glitter on her face looked at him and then at us.
    â€œSay, weren’t you on TV?” she said to me.
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    â€œCome on,” said my father. “Let’s go.”
    We pulled back onto the highway, which was just two-lane blacktop.
    â€œCome on,” said my father. “Let’s go fishing.”
    Soon the stars would be out. That was the