Stop Here by Beverly Gologorsky Page A

work?”
    â€œI told you twice, they cut my days to three. After twelve years, it’s a shame. People are saying they’ll call me back. Who knows?” She’s one of two assistants to the head bookkeeper. They check accounts, payment errors, and merchandise received. It’s satisfying, the order of it, the repetition, the predictability. She watches the colorful bustle on the supermarket floor from the little glass cage of an office. If she slides open one of the panels, the cacophony rises up to remind her there’s a world out there.
    â€¢ • •
    As she drives through familiar streets, her eyes flit past houses with extensions not half as good-looking as the one Bruce’s brother built onto their place. His brother is creative but can’t stop drinking no matter how many programs he attends. Once, sitting at the kitchen table crowded with empty beer bottles, he said AA meetings leave him so desolate only a drink can help. Bruce laughed. It wasn’t funny. Later, in bed, Bruce mumbled people choose the way they die. When did he make his choice, she wonders, glancing at him gazing ahead, his face empty of clues.
    â€œHeard anything from your brother?” she asks.
    He shakes his head.
    â€œHe must be on a bender,” she offers.
    â€œWhy do you care?” He sounds bothered, as if she’s taking something from him.
    â€œI’m just talking, that’s all.”
    â€œThings on the news now that no one’s seeing.”
    â€œBruce, millions of people watch TV.”
    â€œWatching and seeing are different.”
    â€œWell . . . that’s true.” Is this the beginning of a conversation? “It’s hard for people to really . . .” but he’s turned away to stare out the window with the same intense look that comes over him when he watches TV, as if there’s something he has to catch before it disappears.
    In the diner parking lot, she waits for him to begin his slow climb up the few steps, her eyes glued to the front door till it closes behind him. She could go in too, have a cup of coffee and chat with Mila, but it’s the morning rush; Mila will be busy. The sun too bright by far, splashes the front windows. She flips down the visor, steps on the gas, and wonders where she’s headed.
    â€¢ • •
    Could be too early to drop in, she thinks, pulling up in front of her son’s garage. Well, she’s here, isn’t she? Ricky rented the small Cape Cod with a deal to buy in two years. He’s working his heart out, but he can’t control construction. It happens when it happens, he’d be the first to say. He’s on a site now, thank god.
    Ricky holds open the door for her. “What’s up?” He sounds concerned. Firstborns are like that, always waiting for the shoe to drop.
    â€œHi son. Drove your dad to work and thought I’d pop in to kiss the baby. Hope it’s okay.”
    â€œJoni still has the coffee hot.”
    Joni is sipping coffee at the table, her thin body hidden in a cotton robe. Shelly notices the mess in the sink, must be two days’ worth of dishes. Should she offer to wash them? She doesn’t want to. Besides, Joni might take offense.
    â€œWhat time do you go in?”
    â€œIn a few minutes. We’re on weird shifts now. It’s a big piece of property near Jones Beach. How’s Dad?”
    â€œHe felt too jittery to drive this morning.”
    â€œPoor guy’s beaten down, is what I think.”
    And what about her? she’d like to ask, eyeing the baby swing next to the high chair, neither of which has been used yet. They were presents from the baby shower where she and Joni’s mom were the only people over thirty. Damn thing lasted for hours. Then the men arrived, including Joni’s father, but no Bruce.
    â€œDad needs to get checked out. A doctor might give him something.”
    â€œI’ve suggested it a million times. He looks at