Heteroflexibility by Mary Beth Daniels Page A

wouldn’t want this? All the love and family and gush.
    Harry Senior came forward to clasp my hand. “This is a fine, fine day, Zest.” He gestured back to the family, “Fifty years. When I had that triple bypass in ’86, I didn’t think I’d live to see this.”
    The wife touched his sleeve, her hand veined and pale against the dark wool. “You’re too stubborn to kill off that easy.”
    I forced a smile. This was part of the job. In the background, Bette Midler warbled to her climax about flying higher than an eagle.
    Harry Senior grasped me more firmly. “Trust me, Zest, there’s nothing like looking back at all the years you’ve spent with wife and family, and knowing they were the best thing to ever hit you.”
    Hitting something. Violence was becoming a viable option. I pulled my hand back, acting as though I needed to adjust the equipment. “I know what you mean,” I said, even though I didn’t, randomly changing dials on the camera.
    The grandmother pulled the eldest son to her and kissed his forehead. “You were so smart to plan a photo,” she said.
    I walked behind them, clanging the roller chains against the metal poles as I raised the background. Swimming against the tide of tenderness was exhausting.
    I tried to avoid doing the math, but the numbers came anyway. If I managed to find a new man and remarry within a year, I’d be seventy-eight at my own fiftieth. Someone would probably have to stick a hat on my head as I slumped on a motorized geezer cart.
    Congratulations, Zest, here’s your anniversary cake puree.
    Harry Senior squeezed my shoulder. “You okay, Zest?”
    I snapped off the studio lights. “Now don’t be late to your big dinner. I’ll call you when the proofs are ready to view!” Not sure where I’d be or where I’d show them, but I’d have them.
    They all began hugging me in turn as they filed out the side door, other than freckle boy. I gulped in air between each embrace, holding stiff to avoid letting their sentiment rub off on me. No more anniversary shoots, not for a while. Screw the money, I couldn’t handle it. The little girl peeked out from behind her father’s leg again. She didn’t offer a hug but gave me a shy smile. I pushed on my hair and pointed at her brother. She smiled bigger.
    When the last one was gone, I turned back to the garage. I’d spent weeks getting it converted to a studio, what seemed a lifetime ago. Time to pack it.
    In the quiet, the CD served up the next song. Celine Dion. “My Heart Will Go On.”
    One CD Frisbee smashed against the wall, coming right up.

 
    Chapter 10: Sweet Destitution
    I pushed my red cart down the aisles of Target, dodging mothers with toddlers hanging from the sides of their overloaded baskets, and snagged the cheapest self-inflating mattress from the shelf. On an end cap I found a fuzzy pink blanket, as soft as I’d ever laid my hands on. It would make a good set piece for infants anyway, pastel and washable. I could write it off as a business expense. The IRS didn’t have to know that I’d photograph three-headed dogs in hell before subjecting myself to the presence of a bundle of joy.
    Pillows cost more than I’d figured. Anything fuller than the squished flat things in the bottom bins were $30. I pulled one off the middle rack and tucked it under my arm. Cade would probably have to pay half of anything I bought anyway, since we were still sharing credit.
    With that thought, I headed over to housewares. Fern had the most useless kitchen ever, nothing but a microwave and a blender. She subsisted solely on alcohol and protein shakes. I grabbed a couple Pyrex dishes and a saucepan, then on impulse, a coffee maker. No more pricey Starbucks for me, unless I had a meeting set up there. Time to act like the impoverished wretch I was.
    I picked up a few food items on the way back to the registers. I should be set for a little while. I wheeled the cart to the checkout lane, where a beehived woman in her fifties