Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

That was the bedroom he’d slept in the first two nights. But he’d had trouble sleeping, and found himself wandering in the wee hours into the bedroom he’d shared for so many years with Karen. Both nights he wound up sleeping on top of the covers. On the third night, he started out in that room and, at some point, crawled under the covers.

That felt better to him. That felt right. Was it odd he always seemed to end up on her side of the bed?

Yes, things were going well, but there was no question about it: Krista was trying a little too hard. His daughter had spent God-knew-how-much at Walmart buying a 65-inch TV, one of the new 4K models (whatever that was), for the basement rec room, specifically to encourage him to fix the space up as a man cave (awful term!) so he could invite his buddies over for Cubs, Bears, Bulls, and Blackhawks games — also Hawkeyes football and basketball, since so many of his old cop cronies lived over in Iowa.

He’d tried to get her to take the monstrosity back — it seemed ridiculously large to him — but she refused, claiming she thought it would be fun to watch movies on.

This was patently untrue, because the rec room was in no shape for regular viewing, and anyway they had a perfectly good flat-screen half that size in the den where the family had always watched TV. The room was cozy with a two-seater overstuffed couch that was definitely not Arts and Crafts, though the built-in bookcases were (albeit not designed for the collection of DVDs and Blu-rays that lived on those shelves now, Krista’s British shows, and his own John Wayne — centric collection).

Anyway, Krista was clearly overthinking his circumstances, as if she were afraid if he wasn’t kept busy, he’d stick the barrel of his Smith & Wesson M&P nine in his mouth again.

The very first day she had presented him with a list printed out on her computer. It said:

Things that need fixing (easy to harder):

bathroom faucet dripping (also tub)

wall switch in upstairs hallway

replace stained ceiling tiles in basement rec room

fireplace damper won’t always close

add more shelves in the linen closet

replace old kitchen sink with stainless steel (cast iron too heavy and expensive, though it would look very nice — DISCUSS)

patch where the squirrels are entering the attic (you may have to get up on the roof — so BE CAREFUL)

repaint rooms that need it (check with me first on color!)

sand and refinish wood floors downstairs (later upstairs can be done)

re-caulk the outside windows (many need new glazing)

Going over that list, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe suicide wasn’t such a bad option.

But he would chip away at the list. He was up for all of it, although he might leave the sink and the squirrels to more experienced hands.

On Wednesday he’d put the Smith & Wesson M&P nine millimeter automatic in the top drawer of the guest bedroom where he’d at first been sleeping. On Thursday, he decided to move all his things back into that master bedroom he and Karen had shared for so long. When he first opened the drawer, to start the move across the hall, he thought Krista had removed the gun, maybe hidden it from him. But then he realized he must have covered up the weapon inadvertently, just getting into the drawer for his drawers.

He chastised himself for thinking ill of his daughter, but when he hefted the S&W, the weapon felt light. Upon closer examination, he realized it was unloaded.

And his box of nine millimeter shells, which he’d tucked in one corner among his underwear, was MIA. He searched the drawer and then, somewhat ridiculously, all the other drawers, even the nightstand ones.

So she’d left him his gun, but stolen his bullets.

He could confront her, of course — “Even Barney Fife got one bullet!” — and she would undoubtedly cave and give them back to him. But he would rather find them. If discovering her previous housemate’s recent presence wasn’t enough to convince her of his detective abilities, he would further demonstrate.

As George W. Bush had once said, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.”

He tried her underwear drawer, figuring she might stash the cartridges where she figured he’d be too embarrassed to look. A cop should have known better than that. And maybe she did, because he found no bullets stored among her bras and panties and lacy unmentionables, leaving him with nothing but the red flush of embarrassment.

Still, he figured he was on the right track. An intuitive flash sent him to the upstairs bathroom near Krista’s bedroom. He opened the supply closet onto shelves of towels, Band-Aids, Q-tips, bubble bath, hair spray, deodorant, toothpaste, bathroom cleaners, toilet paper, and... Tampax.

Three boxes, one in front of the other.

He just stared at them for the longest time — maybe five seconds. Couldn’t quite bring himself to look inside. So he shook the first one. Nothing but a gentle, papery rattle. He shook the second one. The same. He shook the third, which had already tipped its hand by its weight, and heard a clunk.

The previously opened, and otherwise empty, feminine hygiene box contained his black box of 147-grain Speer Gold Dot nine millimeter cartridges.

He reclaimed them.

Then, with a smile, he went to his daughter’s room, where she had a notepad by her nightstand phone, and wrote: If you need to borrow ammo, just ask. This he tore off the pad, folded, and put inside the empty feminine hygiene box.

If she’d found the note, it hadn’t come up at any of their subsequent regular evening meals. Or at their breakfasts, which she was fixing, the same as her mother always had — scrambled eggs, toasted English muffin, butter not jam, and orange juice. He had never been a coffee drinker and she got hers at work.

As the week progressed, he settled into a routine. On Tuesday he’d arranged for a membership at the local fitness center, where he would exercise three mornings a week and swim any day he felt like it. He had always enjoyed the many restaurants a tourist town like Galena offered and would, unless he got tired of it, take lunch somewhere downtown. So far he’d tried the Victory Café, the Golden Hen, and the Green Street Tavern. Liked them all.

In the afternoon, he would chip away at Krista’s list of things for him to do. And, so far at least, he would by midafternoon be preparing supper for his daughter and himself. He had planned the whole week’s menu, and driven on Tuesday afternoon back to Dubuque for meat at Cremer’s Superette, and Hy-Vee for everything else.

Today, he made skipperlabskovs — veal again, a pound and a half of it, onions, peppercorns, medium-size Idahos (peeled and cubed), chives, bay leaves, and plenty of butter. This would make more than one meal for them, and the smell of the stew was sheer ambrosia.

Oh, how nice it was to be back in this kitchen again. He could almost feel Karen peeking in to see how he was doing, or sense her creeping up on him to give his ass a friendly pinch. But she’d always known not to hover.

When Krista came home, she knew immediately from the warm, wonderful aroma what her father was cooking. He knew it was another favorite of hers, and a couple of times a year (after he and Karen moved across the river) they would have their girl over for the stuff.

“Sailor’s stew!” she cried, coming in the kitchen door. “Fantastic!”

Keith, in a BEARS sweatshirt and jeans and socks, smiled as he stirred. “Faucets just needed new washers.”

“Nice to have a man around the house,” she said, just behind him now, putting an arm around his waist and squeezing.

He almost said, “You mean nice to have a real man around the house,” but thought better of it.