managing at White Pine. I called him there. He was glad to hear from me, thought I might be able to help him out with his suit. I don’t know how. All I had to do with the book was what’s on that wall. I didn’t even finish reading it; too depressing. I was nine when the riot broke out and I remember my mother being too scared to let my brother and me outside to play. We lived clear up in St. Clair Shores, miles from the trouble.”
“My folks were the same way during the riot in sixty-seven, and I was older than you.”
“We’re past due for a third. Anyway we met for lunch, and I guess it was pretty clear an old fat woman wasn’t going to be much use, but I couldn’t help telling him my setup. He said there was a vacancy at the park and he could get me a deal if I didn’t mind living in a mobile home. I said I wouldn’t squawk about a cardboard box if it didn’t come with my niece’s husband.”
“Was he propositioning you?”
“It wouldn’t have bothered me if he was. I’d have put out, too. It’s been a mighty long time, and Gene is a good-looking man. The itch doesn’t go away when you pass fifty. It just gets harder to scratch.”
She was growing younger; and I thought of the broad battered face in the photo on Eugene Booth’s driver’s license. But someone had to fall for the pugs or there wouldn’t be so many of them. “I take it from the use of the subjunctive case you and he weren’t an item.”
She showed off her well-fitting teeth. They might have been all hers at that. “Subjunctive. I know what that is. You’ve hung around a few writers yourself. No, he wasn’t trying to get into my pants, and he didn’t. It was just a friendly deal. All the people his age who lived at White Pine were miserable or dull or both. Usually both. A tin box in a row of them is okay for starting out but rotten for ending up. All he ever heard around there was complaints. That’s part of the job, but you sure don’t want to have to listen when you’re with the people you call your friends. If he’d tried to strike up anything social with any of them, he’d have gone as dotty as me.”
“I haven’t heard anything dotty so far.” I got rid of my Winston. It had taken me twice as long as she, and her second had burned down almost as far as the logo. That breathy voice was pure vaporized nicotine.
“What a sweet thing to say. My family says I’m nuts. I wouldn’t care about that, but Gene thought so too. He was the one who told me to come here. It seems I took a little walk one night and he was afraid I’d finish up under a bus. He said,
‘You
might not mind, Flea, but a clichÉ like that would be an insult to me.’ He calls me Flea. Guess ‘cause I’m bugs.”
I smiled. My teeth weren’t fitting as well as hers and I’d grown them myself. “What did you talk about when he came to visit? Was he writing?”
“I never heard him talk about writing even when we were young. I didn’t know many writers, but all the painters I knew either talked about their work all the time or anything else but. Gene belonged to the second group. At White Pine, he talked about his dead wife, the army, his brother, some of the jobs he’d had; I guess what most men his age talk about. He loved his wife, hated the army, got along okay with his brother. Oh, and he liked to fish, but he said he hadn’t been fishing in years. The rest of the time he sat and listened to me chatter on. Pretty dull, huh? I guess we weren’t so much different from the others after all.”
“His brother’s name was Duane, wasn’t it? I heard he’d died.”
“Gene never said and I didn’t ask. You don’t, you know, at our time of life. It’s tactless. He always spoke about Duane in the past tense, so I guess he did.”
It was all wearing thin. Either her personality or the surroundings were leeching all the freshness out of the morning. I thought about showing her Booth’s note on the Alamo letterhead, about a gelding
“My folks were the same way during the riot in sixty-seven, and I was older than you.”
“We’re past due for a third. Anyway we met for lunch, and I guess it was pretty clear an old fat woman wasn’t going to be much use, but I couldn’t help telling him my setup. He said there was a vacancy at the park and he could get me a deal if I didn’t mind living in a mobile home. I said I wouldn’t squawk about a cardboard box if it didn’t come with my niece’s husband.”
“Was he propositioning you?”
“It wouldn’t have bothered me if he was. I’d have put out, too. It’s been a mighty long time, and Gene is a good-looking man. The itch doesn’t go away when you pass fifty. It just gets harder to scratch.”
She was growing younger; and I thought of the broad battered face in the photo on Eugene Booth’s driver’s license. But someone had to fall for the pugs or there wouldn’t be so many of them. “I take it from the use of the subjunctive case you and he weren’t an item.”
She showed off her well-fitting teeth. They might have been all hers at that. “Subjunctive. I know what that is. You’ve hung around a few writers yourself. No, he wasn’t trying to get into my pants, and he didn’t. It was just a friendly deal. All the people his age who lived at White Pine were miserable or dull or both. Usually both. A tin box in a row of them is okay for starting out but rotten for ending up. All he ever heard around there was complaints. That’s part of the job, but you sure don’t want to have to listen when you’re with the people you call your friends. If he’d tried to strike up anything social with any of them, he’d have gone as dotty as me.”
“I haven’t heard anything dotty so far.” I got rid of my Winston. It had taken me twice as long as she, and her second had burned down almost as far as the logo. That breathy voice was pure vaporized nicotine.
“What a sweet thing to say. My family says I’m nuts. I wouldn’t care about that, but Gene thought so too. He was the one who told me to come here. It seems I took a little walk one night and he was afraid I’d finish up under a bus. He said,
‘You
might not mind, Flea, but a clichÉ like that would be an insult to me.’ He calls me Flea. Guess ‘cause I’m bugs.”
I smiled. My teeth weren’t fitting as well as hers and I’d grown them myself. “What did you talk about when he came to visit? Was he writing?”
“I never heard him talk about writing even when we were young. I didn’t know many writers, but all the painters I knew either talked about their work all the time or anything else but. Gene belonged to the second group. At White Pine, he talked about his dead wife, the army, his brother, some of the jobs he’d had; I guess what most men his age talk about. He loved his wife, hated the army, got along okay with his brother. Oh, and he liked to fish, but he said he hadn’t been fishing in years. The rest of the time he sat and listened to me chatter on. Pretty dull, huh? I guess we weren’t so much different from the others after all.”
“His brother’s name was Duane, wasn’t it? I heard he’d died.”
“Gene never said and I didn’t ask. You don’t, you know, at our time of life. It’s tactless. He always spoke about Duane in the past tense, so I guess he did.”
It was all wearing thin. Either her personality or the surroundings were leeching all the freshness out of the morning. I thought about showing her Booth’s note on the Alamo letterhead, about a gelding
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