April & Oliver by Tess Callahan Page A

fire.
    “Crazy bitch,” he says. “Your brother is barely in the ground and all you can think of . . .”
    “Get a condom,” she says.
    He moves her back against the door and drives his tongue into her mouth until she almost gags. She gropes for the glove compartment
     until it pops open.
    “Fine, fine,” he says, reaching for the box. It’s awkward in the pickup but it’s never stopped them before. He finds his way
     into her with a minimum of undressing. She wedges her hands over her head to keep from being pounded into unconsciousness,
     though in her mind she lets herself free-fall backward, the way Oliver taught her to make snow angels, trusting the white
     blanket to catch her.
    T.J. clenches his eyes, his rage pure and clean. She’s too dry, but tells herself not to think about it. She’s seen plenty
     of lovemaking on television where the man is tender and the woman enjoys it, the usual Hollywood bullshit. That kind of sex
     is as unreal to April as snow on Christmas, one of those things that, while theoretically possible, simply never happens.
    “Harder,” she says. “Make me cry.” But no tears come, not one. She thinks of Buddy dying alone in her car. His last thoughts.
     She wants to know if he had a premonition. She wonders if she is having one now.

Chapter

5
    T HE TRAFFIC TO QUEENS is strangely light. April finds a parking space in front of Nana’s duplex, though cars are double-parked everywhere. The
     spot would have been too tight for her old car, but Buddy’s slips in on a single try.
Lucky,
she thinks,
now when it doesn’t matter.
    She turns the rearview mirror to assess the circles under her eyes. It’s hard to pull one over on her grandmother. She goes
     over her story again in her mind. She’s driving Buddy’s car because hers is in the shop. She couldn’t make it last Tuesday
     because someone called in sick at work. Yes, she knows she looks like hell, but it’s just that she’s tired. None of it will
     work, April thinks. Her grandmother catches everything.
    She gets out of the car. Dandelions sprout from cracks in the sidewalk, trees from squares of dirt. Above, the centers of
     sycamores are cut out for power lines. Curls of bark litter the sidewalk. Up and down the street duplexes hug one another
     for balance, like people overcrowded on a subway car.
    Three boys play basketball in Nana’s narrow driveway. They grow quiet when April approaches. The basketball net was Nana’s
     idea, to give Buddy something to do during endless holiday visits. It has been years since he last used it. April waves to
     the boys, but they only stare at her.
    Inside, she finds Nana in her bedroom, still wearing her nightgown, sifting through a drawer of nylons, her eyes raw and moist.
    “Nana, what’s wrong?” April tosses her purse on the bed. Her grandmother’s hair is in disarray, half fallen from its bun.
     She leaves the drawer open, stocking legs hanging out, and goes into the parlor without her walker, lifting her leg like a
     piece of luggage.
    “Nana?”
    The secretary is open, contents sprawled, the coffee table stacked with yellowed copies of a Catholic newspaper. Couch cushions
     lie in a corner.
    “Were you robbed?”
    Nana moves her fingers through the pockets of a housedress draped on the back of the recliner. “I had it yesterday,” she says.
    “You’ve lost something?”
    Nana skims her fingers along the mantel in and around the crowded picture frames. April notices one of Buddy, twelve years
     old, a dead pheasant raised in his fist, their father’s hand on Buddy’s shoulder, both squinting in the harsh sun. Nana smudges
     the glass with her fingertips. Has someone told her?
    Nana reaches to the shelf, skin loose on her bones, biceps softly deflated. She removes a photograph and wipes the dust with
     the hem of her nightgown. It is a picture of her, taken in Spain some twenty-five years ago, her only trip back since emigrating
     as a teenager. In the photograph,