The Sloan Men: Short Story by David Nickle Page A

.”
    Judith realized again that she wanted very much for things to be just fine with Herman thirty years down the line. But if this afternoon were any indication . . .
    Herman had been uneasy about the two of them going to Fenlan to meet his parents at all. But, as Judith explained, it was a necessary step. She knew it, even if Herman didn’t — as soon as they turned off the highway he shut his eyes and wouldn’t open them until Judith pulled into the driveway.
    Mr. Sloan met them and Herman seemed to relax then, opening his eyes and blinking in the sunlight. Judith relaxed too, seeing the two of them together. They were definitely father and son, sharing features and mannerisms like images in a mirror. Mr. Sloan took Judith up in a big, damp hug the moment she stepped out of the car. The gesture surprised her at first and she tried to pull away, but Mr. Sloan’s unstoppable grin had finally put her at ease.
    “You
are
very lovely,” said Mrs. Sloan finally. “That’s to be expected, though. Tell me what you do for a living. Are you still working now that you’ve met Herman?”
    Judith wanted to snap something clever at the presumption, but she stopped herself. “I’m working. Not at the same job, but in another salon. I do people’s hair, and I’m learning manicure.”
    Mrs. Sloan seemed surprised. “Really? I’m impressed.”
    Now Judith was sure Mrs. Sloan was making fun, and a sluice of anger passed too close to the surface. “I work hard,” she said hotly. “It may not seem — ”
    Mrs. Sloan silenced her with shushing motions. “Don’t take it the wrong way,” she said. “It’s only that when I met Herman’s father, I think I stopped working the very next day.”
    “Those must have been different times.”
    “They weren’t
that
different.” Mrs. Sloan’s smile was narrow and ugly. “Perhaps Herman’s father just needed different things.”
    “Well, I’m still working.”
    “So you say.” Mrs. Sloan got up from the kitchen stool. “Come to the living room, dear. I’ve something to show you.”
    The shift in tone was too sudden, and it took Judith a second to realize she’d even been bidden. Mrs. Sloan half-turned at the kitchen door, and beckoned with her five-fingered hand.
    “Judith,” she said, “you’ve come this far already. You might as well finish the journey.”
    The living room was distastefully bare. The walls needed paint and there was a large brown stain on the carpet that Mrs. Sloan hadn’t even bothered to cover up. She sat down on the sofa and Judith joined her.
    “I wanted you to see the family album. I think — ” Mrs. Sloan reached under the coffee table and lifted out a heavy black-bound volume “ — I don’t know, but I hope . . . you’ll find this interesting.”
    Mrs. Sloan’s face lost some of its hardness as she spoke. She finished with a faltering smile.
    “I’m sure I will,” said Judith. This was a good development, more like what she had hoped the visit would become. Family albums and welcoming hugs and funny stories about what Herman was like when he was two. She snuggled back against the tattered cushions and looked down at the album. “This must go back generations.”
    Mrs. Sloan still hadn’t opened it. “Not really,” she said. “As far as I know, the Sloans never mastered photography on their own. All of the pictures in here are mine.”
    “May I . . . ?” Judith put out her hands, and with a shrug Mrs. Sloan handed the album over.
    “I should warn you — ” began Mrs. Sloan.
    Judith barely listened. She opened the album to the first page.
    And shut it, almost as quickly. She felt her face flush, with shock and anger. She looked at Mrs. Sloan, expecting to see that cruel, nasty smile back again. But Mrs. Sloan wasn’t smiling.
    “I was about to say,” said Mrs. Sloan, reaching over and taking the album back, “that I should warn you, this isn’t an ordinary family album.”
    “I — ” Judith couldn’t form a