Peter Leonard - Quiver

She took a drag and turned and blew smoke toward the breakfast room. “The neighbor hit on you again?”

“It’s been six months, he thinks that’s long enough,” Kate said. “I’m fair game now. He came over yesterday and said somebody looks like she could use a hug.” Kate poured more wine in her glass.

Maureen said, “What’s his name?”

Kate said, “Anders.”

“Let me guess, he’s Swedish.”

“You don’t miss much,” Kate said, “do you?”

“Is he the real thing?”

“You mean, was he born there? I don’t think so.”

“I mean, does he eat raw fish for breakfast? Real Swedes eat it like they’re going to the chair. I dated this scene-maker named Sven Lundeen, couldn’t get enough, had breath like Shamu. He was a hottie, too. Had blond highlights in his slicked-back hair. Always wore a white shirt unbuttoned to his navel and tight jeans.” Maureen sipped her wine and took a drag, blowing smoke out. “What’d the hugger say?”

“He put his arms around me and said, ‘I bet you could use a hug.’”

“How well do you know him?”

“We’ve been neighbors for ten years. I see him over the fence or through the pine trees. We’d wave to each other, but that’s about it. Anders and Sukie came over for dinner one time a bunch of neighbors got together.”

“Sukie? What’s her real name?”

“I think Susan.”

“What’s she like?”

“Kind of ditzy,” Kate said. “A secretary who married her boss.”

“So he came over and hugged you. Then what?”

“He had his body pressed against mine and I could feel something hard sticking into me.”

“Jesus,” Maureen said. “What’d you do?”

“I said, ‘What’re you doing?’ And he said, ‘I can’t pretend anymore. I’m crazy about you.’” Kate remembered the dreamy look in his eyes.

“Were you nervous?”

“I said, ‘Anders, why don’t you take your little buddy home, give it to Sukie.’”

“I’ll bet she doesn’t want it either.”

“He said, ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’ I said, ‘What are you doing? We’re neighbors,’ hoping that would bring him to his senses, snap him back to reality.”

“How about your husband died seven months ago,” Maureen said. “Did you remind him of that?”

“I looked him in the eye and said, ‘You’ll be all right. Try to keep busy. Go clean the garage, take the empties back.’”

Maureen grinned. “What’d he say?”

“Nothing. He walked out and I haven’t seen him since.” Kate finished her wine and poured a little more. “Another neighbor asked me to call him and said he had something important to tell me. I dialed the number, he answered, recognized my voice and started saying things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Describing what he’d like to do to me like he was reading a porno script.”

“How dirty was it?”

“Dirty,” Kate said.

“What’d you say?”

“I laughed. He was so serious, and it was so dumb. I said, ‘Frank, am I giving off some kind of desperate vibe, or what?’ He’s an engineer at GM. He drives a Buick and has outlines of all his tools on a pegboard in the garage so he doesn’t put something in the wrong place. I thought, wow, where’d that come from?”

“What kind of neighborhood do you live in? All these perverts coming out of the woodwork.” Maureen finished her wine.

“He and Owen were friends, played tennis in a league together for years.”

Maureen lit another cigarette. “So how’re you doing? You doing all right?”

“I’m okay.” Kate looked away, glanced out the kitchen window at the pool still covered for a couple more weeks.

Maureen said, “You’re not very convincing.”

“I’m fine-most of the time, but then I’ll see something of Owen’s, or a picture of him. The other day, his Corvette pulled up in the driveway and for a couple seconds I forgot and thought he was home. He left it at the shop and one of the young guys was returning it.” Kate felt her eyes well up. “Night’s the worst, I reach for him in bed.” She lost it now, tears coming down her face like she had no control, and Maureen came around the island counter and hugged her and she was crying too.

“Should’ve happened to those two schmucks I married-not Owen.”

Now they were laughing, Kate picturing Maureen’s first husband, Carlo, a short balding director who shot five-Step Restroom Cleaning, thought he was the next Spielberg.

“All right, I’m going to stop asking questions. I came over to cheer you up and look what I’ve done.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Kate said. She lit a cigarette. “People have been calling, offering ways to help me cope, handle what I’ve been through.”

Maureen said, “Like who?”

“A group called Afghans for Widows invited me to stop over,” Kate said. “They express their grief by knitting.”

“What’s that all about?”

Kate said, “They knit afghans to help relieve their stress and loneliness.”

“Come on.”

“And a woman from the Community House asked me if I wanted to join her poetry workshop. Said poetry is a common way of expressing grief.”

Maureen lit a cigarette.

“Every workshop starts with a reading-it might be ‘Grieve Not’ by William Wordsworth, or ‘Grief ’ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.” Kate sipped her wine. “And then all the grieving poets write a poem. The woman said a few lines of poetry can express deep emotional feelings.”

“Are you putting me on?”

“It’s okay. People are trying to help,” Kate said. “I packed up all Owen’s clothes in boxes and had the Purple Heart come and pick everything up.”

Maureen said, “Why?”

“It’s time…” Kate said. “I think about him every day and I probably always will, but… it’s time to move on.”

Maureen poured more wine in her glass. “How’s Lukey?”

“He’s not getting any better,” Kate said. “I’m worried about him. His counselor called and said his teachers are concerned about him. He’s in class but he’s not there. Doesn’t do his homework. His grades have dropped.”

Maureen said, “Do you talk to him about it?”

“He doesn’t talk. He comes home and goes to his room. He doesn’t see his friends. Doesn’t do anything.”

“Isn’t he seeing someone?”

“Yeah,” Kate said. “A psychiatrist recommended by the school.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t need help, I’ve got all the neighborhood men.”

Maureen grinned. “What did the dirty-talker say?”

Kate took a sip of wine, trying to remember and then she did and started to laugh.

Amber told DeJuan about this dude was looking for someone to pop his wife. DeJuan said, “Why you telling me?”

Amber said, “ ’Cause he’s offering ten grand and I thought maybe you’d be interested.”

She was behind the bar, mixing a drink, looking fine in her black low-cut outfit. DeJuan said, “I strike you as somebody going to kill some motherfucker for money?”

Amber said, “Why you think I’m telling you?”

“That the way you see me, huh?” He picked up his drink, Courvoisier and Coke and finished it.

Amber said, “Want another one?”

He nodded. The music was so loud he could hardly hear her. Place was packed with scene-makers on a Thursday night. Two-deep at the bar. He was in one of the swivel bar chairs, watching an early-season Tigers game on the flat screen. Amber put a fresh drink in front of him. He said, “How you know this dude is looking for someone?”

“We used to go out,” Amber said. “Let me put it another way. He used to take me to his place in Bermuda. Fly down in the Gulfstream, Marty doing lines like the governor just pardoned him.”