Sweet Jesus by Christine Pountney Page A

coats. Norm and Hannah stood in the foyer. It was foggy outside, and the rain had stopped. The trees were still dripping and the road was shiny and black as a canal.
    Be careful, Florence hollered at their backs as Norm and Hannah took off down the hill. They walked as if carrying heavy suitcases. They crossed a spongy field to get to a street of tight rowhouses. At a spot on the sidewalk, Hannah stopped. I’m just gonna lie down here for a minute.
    Norman stood above her and held his arms out. He bent forward and almost fell. He was swaying. Aw, come on, babe!
    The cold was seeping into her, but Hannah felt so tired. She understood the only way she’d get home was if she ran. She leapt to her feet and took off.
    Hey! Norm shouted after her. Wait for me!
    When he got to the house, she was curled up on the front stoop like a cat. He dug in her pockets for the key. Up you get, he said.
    Hey baby, she said.
    Hey.
    I’m so wasted.
    I know you are.
    I love you, baby.
    I love you too.
    I wanna spend the rest of my life.
    I know you do, baby. I do too. Now give me a hand. The screen door hit Hannah’s forehead with an aluminum twang. Sorry, Norm said.
    Didn’t feel a thing, she said.
    That’s good.
    Can we get a puppy, Norm?
    Okay, he said.
    And a little baby? Just a teeny one?
    Norm didn’t say anything to that but folded her carefully over his shoulder and took her upstairs, all the burden he wanted in the world for the moment.

 
    H arlan Douglas Foster locked up and left Home Protection Plus at twelve-fifteen in the morning with the last two of a six-pack of beer he’d bought earlier that evening. They were swinging by the neck from their soft plastic nooses. Something about those plastic rings made him think of lingerie, a drawer full of Connie’s bras. He bleeped the car alarm and slung his briefcase and the two cans onto the passenger seat and got inside his Cherokee Jeep.
    For a moment he contemplated suicide.
    Harlan had deceived his wife. He knew that much. What he didn’t know was how he’d allowed things to unravel to such an extent in the first place. He was a ruined man. And he still hadn’t told Connie.
    How does a thing like this happen? All he wanted to do was please her. Show her how lucky he was, how lucky she was to have him, get that high and hold on to it, that cosy high like a cocoon or a womb where nothing can touch you – not failure or futility, or the fear of death, or the devil himself. That’show a thing like this happens. The devil has crept in, but you don’t know it. You start with a simple equation. A stock that’s breaking through its fifty-day average, verging on parabolic. A ten-bagger. The next Voisey Bay. But then it plummets. They call it a falling knife.
    He couldn’t get away from the thought that it had all begun so promisingly. He was having a slow season in the security business, time on his hands, and started checking his stocks online. He tried his hand at making a trade, enjoyed it, then made another one. He got lucky that year and made fifty thousand dollars off a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of trading. It was a rush, but he should never have fired his accountant and taken over his own investments. Why had he been so stupid? He started playing futures and shorting stocks. He adjusted his account so he could trade on margin.
    Three years ago, he’d tried to take advantage of the depressed American economy. He waited for the equity market to correct itself, but it took another downturn. His investments bottomed out and he found himself in a desperate situation. He started borrowing to pay his mortgage and expenses, and that’s when the calls began. He changed his cell number three times to escape the debt collectors, each time inventing a new explanation to give Connie. He couldn’t bring himself to file for bankruptcy, and then, a few days ago, a collection agency finally sent their repo men to clear out his business effects. Now his lender had a court