The Sperm Donor’s Daughter and Other Tales of Modern Family by Kathryn Trueblood

watching the blinker lights on the truck as it pulled out of the driveway. Then he spoke, his head slightly to one side, as though I might not want to look at him. “I was tired of those two jawing all day about what they could do to women. Thank you ma’am. I need this job.”
    I nodded, “You’re welcome, Lyle. I’ll keep you on as long as I can.” Then I squitched my way to the office in as dignified a manner as I could manage. I sat on the steps unlacing my shoes, the image of the small lacerations on the underside of Lyle’s neck so sweet and painful I wanted to run to him and tell him about Jess and the baby, but I didn’t. And why not? A soda, some solace, a break. With the right timing it amounts to a lot. I didn’t used to think so. It was the kind of thing Jess would have done.
    At The Albatross, there’s a sign taped to the cash register: NO BRAINS, NO SERVICE . The massive back bar was brought down from a hotel in Alaska; black walnut cherubim frolic around the mirror, little rumps of innocence in love with temple columns and falling blossoms. It could make you maudlin except the place is so loud, there’s no way to fall into a romantic reverie. Pool balls clack and roll on the table, the bartender dumps a lug of ice and swears, a man shouts over my head. The sounds keep me nervous, shaken up like salad dressing.
    I know the bartender, Maynard. He’s a tile and mortar man, did a bang-up job on a bathroom when the black and pink tile floor buckled. He’s got snappy blue eyes, and he’s never let anyone bother me. His reputation for having a temper is local lore—supposedly he left a spade in some guy’s head years back yelling “Want a piece of pie?” Now he’s so swollen with booze and bellicosity, his red cheeks look like they’ve been pattied up for the grill.
    â€œHow’re you?” I ask.
    â€œF.I.N.E.” he answers, spelling it out. “Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional. How about you?”
    I shrug. “My daughter’s helping me build character, I’m developing a Mt. Rushmore brow. Can you see the scaffolding on my forehead, the little guys pinging away with ball-peen hammers.”
    He squints at me smiling. “Right, another goddamn growth experience.”
    â€œShe’s putting me through changes.” I banter, because he knows I’m not here for specifics. Just the red red robin bob bob bobbin along .
    After he’s fixed my brandy, Maynard suddenly reaches across the bar and lands a handshake next to my shoulder. “Frank, how’s it going?” From my perspective, the handshake looks like a moment of miniature thumb wrestling. When it’s over I look down the length of arm anchored to man-bulk, this basso profundo standing behind me and stirring up the hair on my neck.
    â€œMe?” Frank fairly shouts, “I’m putting 30,000 dollar nets in the water and bringing up nothing. I own the boat and I haven’t made a crew share. I’d sell my house but my ex-wife is in it. The bank’s about to repossess my boat. That’s this season.”
    â€œDrink coming up,” Maynard says, making a long amber pour into a barrel glass.
    â€œHey, get her one too,” he motions towards me. “I bet you like a man who doesn’t try to impress you with money.”
    I flicker over him, quick take on the man: an impression of glistening, darkly, green eyes, a moment of engagement. So what of it? What’s it to you? He juts his jaw at me, looks back to Maynard. Then I try not to look, but I feel the man’s weight shifting onto the bar stool. I can hear the creasing and uncreasing of his leather jacket as he gets his wallet out. I keep my vision peripheral, limited to the black jacket which is so old the wear marks show the brown of the original hide, beyond that the belt and the Buck knife sheath and the swell of one