Danger, Sweetheart by MaryJanice Davidson Page B

before she left the first time.
    There were many For Sale signs on lawns. There were many Going Out of Business sales advertised in windows. The few cars and trucks parked on the streets were old, though neatly kept. He didn’t see a single vehicle from the twenty-first century. That could have been a matter of personal preference but, as he took in obvious signs of a town sliding into the void, plus the lack of car dealerships, Blake doubted it.
    His phone buzzed, alerting him to a text. He plucked it off his hip and read: R U in town tonite? 3rd month-aversery of divorce let’s fuck!
    Jeanine! In Vegas and feeling sentimental; how charming. He wished she would have called instead; he found texting for sex (or to turn down sex) to be a little cold for his taste. He wasn’t Rake, dammit. He wasn’t a goddamned barbarian.
    So sorry, out of town for a few days. Congratulations again. Your ex was a fool.
    He hadn’t had a chance to put his phone away when it buzzed again. U R a sweetie!!!! Sorry to miss U LV not the same when U R not here!!!
    He sighed; he loathed text-speak (another reason why he preferred the more personal touch behind a phone call). Was it so difficult to spell out words and use appropriate punctuation?
    Sorry again. Hope to see your lovely face next time you are in town. Ciao, bella.
    And that was that, and just in time, because here was the Dipsy Diner
    (God!)
    on the corner of Main Street
    (there are main streets literally named Main Street? outside of nineteenth- and twentieth-century American fiction?)
    and Elm, across from a Realtor’s office and beside a drugstore with a For Sale sign in the windows on either side of the door. He stepped inside, rolling his eyes at the cheery ka-jang jang! of the bell hanging directly over his head
    (like a scythe, one that sounds cheerful as it separates your head from your spinal cord)
    and spotted his mother, seated in her favorite location: a booth equidistant from the kitchen and the restrooms. She nodded and waved him over and, as he couldn’t see a weapon, he crossed the room to her.
    â€œMother.”
    â€œBlake.” She shook her head at him but found a smile. “We’ve had this talk every year since you were three.”
    â€œRight, too formal. Mom? Mommy. Mama. Madre. Mère? ” He could remember explaining to his mother on his third birthday that only babies used “Mommy” or “Mama,” while Rake laughed and laughed in the background. Now Blake only used “Mother” ironically, except when he honestly forgot.
    Distracting her with multiple languages would work, but not for long. But here came the waitress with menus and their water. Excellent; his mother would never eviscerate him in front of a witness. Blake thanked the waitress and gave himself over to the luxury of enjoying a water glass his brother wouldn’t steal and drain in three noisy gulps. Meanwhile, the waitress, who was likely sixteen due to employment laws but looked a harried twelve, was bending an attentive ear to Shannah Tarbell.
    â€œMultitask, dear,” she was suggesting, accepting the menus. “You have to go back to the kitchen anyway, so grab dirty plates on your way. You’ve got to refill drinks for another customer; ask the new customers if they want drinks right away, since you’ll be over there anyway.”
    â€œOh! That’s … yeah. D’you want drinks? I mean besides water?”
    â€œMom, you’re not in charge of her training. Leave her be.” He didn’t even have to look to know he was getting The Glare. I have literally faced death and walked away unmoved. And yet I’m terrified of my mother, a petite woman in her fifties I’m almost certain I could take in a fight. If I had any sort of a life, this would probably bother me.
    â€œMilk, please,” his dictator-for-life mother was saying, “and more ice water.”
    â€œOkay. Yeah. Those are