Lorrie Moore - 100 Years of the Best American Short Stories

At first, Morse was expecting her to put the bite on him, but she never did. He did not understand what she wanted from him, or why, unprompted, he had offered to come here tonight.

“So he’s gone,” she said finally. “You’re sure.”

“Afraid so.”

“Well. Good to know my luck’s holding. Wouldn’t want it to get worse.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Why didn’t you call first?”

“What, and let on I was coming? You don’t know our Billy.”

Julianne seemed to fall into a trance then, and Morse soon followed, lulled by the clink of crockery and the voices all around, the soft scratching of the crayon. He didn’t know how long they sat like this. He was roused by the tapping of raindrops against the window, a few fat drops that left oily lines as they slid down the glass. The rain stopped. Then it came again in a rush, sizzling on the asphalt, glazing the cars in the parking lot, pleasant to watch after the long, heavy day.

“Rain,” Morse said.

Julianne didn’t bother to look. She might have been asleep but for the slight nod she gave him.

Morse recognized two men from his company at a table across the room. He watched them until they glanced his way, then he nodded and they nodded back. Money in the bank — confirmed sighting of Sergeant Morse with woman and child. Family. He hated thinking so bitter and cheap a thought, and resented whatever led him to think it. Still, how else could they be seen, the three of them, in a pancake house at this hour? And it wasn’t just their resemblance to a family. No, there was the atmosphere of family here, in the very silence of the table: Julianne with her eyes closed, the boy working away on his picture, Morse himself looking on like any husband and father.

“You’re tired,” he said.

The tenderness of his own voice surprised him, and her eyes blinked open as if she, too, were surprised. She looked at him with gratitude; and it came to Morse that she had called him back that night just for the reason she gave, because he had spoken kindly to her.

“I am tired,” she said. “I am that.”

“Look. Julianne. What do you need to tide you over?”

“Nothing. Forget all that stuff. I was just blowing off steam.”

“I’m not talking about charity, O.K.? Just a loan, that’s all.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“It’s not like there’s anyone waiting in line for it,” he said, and this was true. Morse’s father and older brother, finally catching on, had gone cold on him years ago. He’d remained close to his mother, but she died just after his return from Iraq. In his new will, Morse named as sole beneficiary the hospice where she’d spent her last weeks. To name Dixon seemed too sudden and meaningful and might draw unwelcome attention, and anyway Dixon had made some sharp investments and was well fixed.

“I just can’t,” Julianne said. “But that is so sweet.”

“My dad’s a soldier,” the boy said, head still bent over the place mat.

“I know,” Morse said. “He’s a good soldier. You should be proud.”

Julianne smiled at him, really smiled, for the first time that night. She had been squinting and holding her mouth in a tight line. Then she smiled and looked like someone else. Morse saw that she had beauty, and that her pleasure in him had allowed this beauty to show itself. He was embarrassed. He felt a sense of duplicity that he immediately, even indignantly, suppressed. “I can’t force it on you,” he said. “Suit yourself.”

The smile vanished. “I will,” she said, in the same tone he had used, harder than he’d intended. “But I thank you anyhow. Charlie,” she said, “time to go. Get your stuff together.”

“I’m not done.”

“Finish it tomorrow.”

Morse waited while she rolled up the place mat and helped the boy collect his crayons. He noticed the check pinned under the saltshaker and picked it up.

“I’ll take that,” she said, and held out her hand in a way that did not permit refusal.

Morse stood by awkwardly as Julianne paid at the register, then he walked outside with her and the boy. They stood together under the awning and watched the storm lash the parking lot. Glittering lines of rain fell aslant through the glare of the lights overhead. The surrounding trees tossed wildly, and the wind sent gleaming ripples across the asphalt. Julianne brushed a lock of hair back from the boy’s forehead. “I’m ready. How about you?”

“No.”

“Well, it ain’t about to quit raining for Charles Drew Hart.” She yawned widely and gave her head a shake. “Nice talking to you,” she said to Morse.

“Where will you stay?”

“Pickup.”

“A pickup? You’re going to sleep in a truck?”

“Can’t drive like this.” And in the look she gave him, expectant and mocking, he could see that she knew he would offer her a motel room, and that she was already tasting the satisfaction of turning it down. But that didn’t stop him from trying.

“Country-proud,” Dixon said when Morse told him the story later that morning. “You should have invited them to stay here. People like that, mountain people, will accept hospitality when they won’t take money. They’re like Arabs. Hospitality has a sacred claim. You don’t refuse to give it, and you don’t refuse to take it.”

“Never occurred to me,” Morse said, but in truth he’d had the same intuition, standing outside the restaurant with the two of them, wallet in hand. Even as he tried to talk Julianne into taking the money for a room, invoking the seriousness of the storm and the need to get the boy into a safe dry place, he had the sense that if he simply invited her home with him she might indeed say yes. And then what? Dixon waking up and playing host, bearing fresh towels to the guest room, making coffee, teasing the boy — and looking at Morse in that way of his. Its meaning would be clear enough to Julianne. What might she do with such knowledge? Out of shock and disgust, perhaps even feeling herself betrayed, she could ruin them.

Morse thought of that but didn’t really fear it. He liked her; he did not think she would act meanly. What he feared, what he could not allow, was for her to see how Dixon looked at him, and then to see that he could not give back what he received. That things between them were unequal, and himself unloving.

So that even while offering Julianne the gift of shelter he felt false, mealy-mouthed, as if he were trying to buy her off; and the unfairness of suffering guilt while pushing his money at her and having his money refused proved too much for Morse. Finally, he told her to sleep in the damned truck then if that was what she wanted.

“I don’t want to sleep in the truck,” the boy said.

“You’d be a sight happier if you did want to,” Julianne said. “Now come on — ready or not.”

“Just don’t try to drive home,” Morse said.

She put her hand on the boy’s shoulder and led him out into the parking lot.

“You’re too tired!” Morse called after her, but if she answered he couldn’t hear it for the drumming of the rain on the metal awning. They walked on across the asphalt. The wind gusted, driving the rain so hard that Morse had to jump back a step. Julianne took it full in the face and never so much as turned her head. Nor did the boy. Charlie. He was getting something from her, ready or not, walking into the rain as if it weren’t raining at all.

Economic pressures and the digital revolution continue to affect the publishing of short fiction. Borders Books closed in 2011. In 2013 e-books accounted for nearly 20 percent of larger publishers’ revenue. New questions about the foundations of publishing have arisen: What should e-books cost? What value does a publisher bring to a book, and is it preferable for authors to self-publish?