SMILE

Bob Cooper

    Every time I drove by her porch she looked sullen. For one so young to look that way hurt my heart. So young, so young. But how young? As you get older you can't tell anymore, they all seem like children. Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? Probably not sixteen, I figured, because I'd never seen her drive a car. Maybe not fourteen, because her blond hair didn't look natural, and kids weren't dyeing their hair that young, were they? Anyway, every time I drove by, even when I gave a neighborly wave, as I usually did, she had that sullen look. Something about it bothered me.

    Something about her bothered me.

    I started dreaming about her. That made me feel funny because forty-two-year- old men shouldn't be dreaming about teenage girls. But I did. Over and over. And mostly it wasn't sex, either, it was weird stuff like seeing her on a movie screen, a famous actress like Marilyn Monroe or somebody, only with a sullen face that said she hated her fame. Weird stuff like seeing her in a place that looked like Hell, with fires blazing and little red guys dancing around her, guys sprouting horns and tails, and me not even in the picture. Weird stuff like me sitting by a mountain lake and happily daydreaming while staring at the green ripples and her face suddenly exploding up out of the water, Miss Sullen herself showering icewater all over me. In all those weird dreams she never smiled once, not a single time.

    Shouldn't young girls be happy?

    Shouldn't young girls smile?

    Her parents were new in town, over from Fairlawn I heard, and I didn't know them. I saw her dad doing yardwork sometimes and waved at him and when he saw me he waved back. Her dark-haired mother also returned my waves from the porch and even smiled at me like she meant it. But not the girl. Never the girl.

    Every time I drove by I looked for her and whenever I saw her I got this little jolt of joy. I kept gazing at her as long as I could in the rearview mirror. Once I was so intent on the mirror that I wandered off onto the shoulder of the road, grinding gravel. My stomach cramped with embarrassment. Every time I drove by and she wasn't there my heart dropped, kerplunk, and I felt bad for hours, peeking through the blinds of my front window in hopes she would come out on the porch. Some days she never showed up at all and I wondered where she was, who she was with, what she was doing. Even though I didn't know a thing about her.

    All right, I admit it, I was ashamed of myself. Getting all worked up over a fifteen year old girl. "This is totally silly," I told my bathroom mirror, "here you are a balding man who has already turned the corner into middle age and you're obsessed with a teeniebopper. And a sullen one to boot. Who wouldn't smile if her life depended on it and who would probably be the biggest party pooper in the history of the world, not to mention that if a thought entered her head it would probably appear to her like an alien from another galaxy."

    But these mental hostilities didn't do a thing to tame the obsession. Maybe they even added to it. Every time I tried to work around the house, every time I tried to read the newspaper, every time I watched TV her image popped up before my eyes, her blond hair and budding t-shirt and filled-out jeans and sullen expression. Everywhere I looked, there she was. I felt like a bull moose or or elk must feel in mating season. One thought in mind. But they only have to worry about it for a couple of weeks instead of all year long.

    When I got my inheritance people said, "You better find something to do with yourself, there's nothing in the world worse than being unoccupied. You'll be bored out of your mind." Well, I really wasn't bored. Even just hanging around the house and doing a little pottering here and there was a darn sight better than working in a finance company. It isn't exactly like a loan officer is a scientist or architect or somebody doing really interesting work, or a doctor or educator doing really useful work. I was just a glorified clerk cheating poor people out of their hard-earned money. Would you ask a grunt at McDonalds why they quit after winning the lottery? Not hardly. Not to compare my inheritance with the lottery, but even so it was enough to get me out of the finance office. By watching my spending I made ends meet. Most people are greedy for stuff they don't need, and that's why if they got the inheritance I did they'd still have to work. Personally I think they're not wrapped real tight.

    But then again maybe you can be bored without knowing you're bored. And maybe that's where my obsession came from. Maybe if you don't occupy your mind enough, it finds ways to occupy itself. Maybe it grabbed hold of that sullen face out of desperation because I wasn't giving it anything to do. But the problem is, once the mind takes control, it's too late. You can't stop it. Because when I realized my obsession might be caused by boredom I tried all kinds of stunts to get unbored. I went to the movies, I walked the malls, I visited the library, I rented documentaries on history and astronomy, I built a soundproof room in my basement to play loud music. I even took a little excursion over to the seashore. But nothing worked. During every one of those activities Miss Sullen controlled my mind. And to tell the truth, as I drove off on my trip to the seashore I was almost crazy at the thought of leaving her. And I couldn't wait to get back.

    I even tried something really extreme. I broke one of my own rules by dating a woman I know named Sally Benoit. When I got my inheritance I swore I wouldn't go out with women anymore because first off, they're too expensive, and second, most women my age haven't held up so well. Once you remove the props and supports and makeup you find that most of them are falling apart. They've lost their appeal. And another thing is that mentally they don't hold up either. They're not very interesting to talk to, they don't even keep up on the news but just want to talk about household stuff and family stuff thats even duller than the finance office. So unless you crave company just for the sake of company, women my age are pretty much a waste of time.

    Even so I was desperate enough to date Sally Benoit. She'd just turned forty and had chestnut hair and dark blue eyes and unlike most of the women around here, didn't appear to be overweight. I knew she was interested in me because a neighbor lady told me so. Sally was a divorced schoolteacher with two teenage boys who gave both her and the law a peck of trouble. I chose a schoolteacher because I figured that if nothing else she would be likely to keep up with current events. We went out to supper at a decent Italian restaurant, took in a light movie and then drove back to my house for a nightcap. The evening was not a success. For one thing, Sally had this odd habit of sucking her teeth while eating. It got on my nerves. For another thing, the movie was not only light but lightweight, and unfortunately it had a girl in it who reminded me of you-know-who, which plunged me back into my obsession. But if Sally had talked about something interesting after we left the theater, some newsworthy scandal or something, she might have taken my mind off it but no, she couldnt do that, she had to go on and on about her problems, how hard it was to raise two teenage boys without a father, and how schoolkids aren't what they used to be, and how the town is going to hell in a handbasket. My neighbor lady was dead wrong about Sally being interested in me. What Sally was really interested in was locating an EAR that she could babble into nonstop. Then things went from bad to worse because as she prattled on and on, not even noticing that I had stopped nodding and was glancing at my watch, I started imagining what she was really like beneath the flowery dress and the bra and pantyhose, and it almost scared me, it really did, because the first picture I got was stretch marks criss-crossing all over her body like someone had used her to sharpen a boxful of knives, and the second picture was the stretch marks darkening and swelling into these fat varicose veins, these plump blue worms crawling through her flesh, and that picture gradually changed into one of this nasty carcass, a big lump of rotten dead meat with these squirmy maggots wriggling all through it. Ugh! But that image actually rescued me because it literally made me sick to the stomach and I told Sally it must have been the ravioli I ate at the Italian restaurant, and I rushed her right home and got rid of her.

    What a relief!

    Back at my place I was actually content for awhile, happy to be alone again without the running mouth and the nauseating images. But then I heard a door slam across the street and naturally I had to peek through the blinds, and the instant my eyes glimpsed that porch it started all over again.

    "Well," I told myself, "thats it, I surrender. I'm just going to have to live with my obsession because the Sally cure was worse than the disease."

    Then the very next day a miracle happened.

    The very next day.

    A miracle, I swear.

    Someone rapped on the back door and I thought it was the UPS man delivering one of my mail order packages, but when I opened up who was standing there but MISS SULLEN! My God! My heart almost stopped. I was dizzy beyond belief. She looked different but it didn't matter. She was smaller than I thought, maybe five-feet-three, and her blond hair was not as glossy as I imagined but sort of dull and with some of the brown roots showing, and when she opened her mouth to speak I saw that she had a wonky front tooth. But one thing I had one hundred percent correct. Her expression was totally sullen.

    In a very confident voice she said:

    "I'm Missy Prentice from across the street."

    "Yes?"

    I hoped she couldn't hear my knees quaking.

    "I'm here to request whether youd' like to have some housework done, being a bachelor and all. For a fee of course, which we could talk about. I need to earn some money."

    I didn't know what to say. Flabbergasted, I just stood there like a tree.

    She said:

    "Can I come in and we can talk it over?"

    I stepped aside as she sailed in and gave everything the once-over while passing into the living room. She sat precisely where Sally had been sitting the night before. What a difference! I had trouble breathing.

    "Nice house," she said. "Better than mine. Ain't you going to sit down so's we can talk?"

    "Would you like something to drink?" I stammered. "A coke? Orange juice? A glass of milk?"

    She said:

    "A beer."

    I stared at her. Hesitated to speak for fear of insulting her. Had no choice:

    "Aren't you a little young to be drinking beer?"

    With a casual hand she dismissed my concern.

    "I drink beers all the time."

    When I continued to stare at her she said:

    "But don't get me one unless you want. It's up to you, Mister Stanley Bacon."

    I continued hesitating. Then:

    "Call me Stan," I said. "Ill get you a beer."

    Which I did, but my stomach was twisting. What if somebody should come by? What if the UPS man should look through the window and see her drinking a beer in my house? God!

She tilted the brew like a pro. Then:

    "Aren't you having one, Stan?"

    "It's a little early for me."

    She gazed at me for a long minute, as though trying to size me up.

    "I'm not used to drinking by myself," she said matter-of-factly. "It makes me feel kinda funny."

    So I went to the kitchen and got myself a brew. Just to keep her company. Even though I hate the taste of beer in the morning.

    She said:

    "Sit down, Stan. So's we can talk."

    I sat. On the sofa. Three feet away from her. Pretended to sip the bitter beer.

    "So Stan, who cleans your house?"

    "Me," I said. "Yours truly."

    She looked around, fixing her eyes first on the coffee table, then on the end tables, then on the TV. Finally she ran a hand along the cushion beside her and inspected her fingers.

    "Between you and me, Stan, you don't do too good."

    "Why thank you, Missy." I gave her a big smile. "Thank you very much."

    Without changing expression she said,

    "No offense, Stan. But there's a ton of dust. Its all over everything. I can see balls of it in the corners. And cobwebs on your ceiling."

    "I hate to clean house. I always put it off as long as I can."

    "I can see that, Stan." She swigged her brew, stared at me for a second. Then:

    "You don't work, do you Stan?"

    "Im retired." I was unsure whether to say it proudly or defensively because some people consider you an idler and a loafer if you don't have regular work.

    "You on a disability or something?"

    "No, nothing like that."

    "I know this guy who's on a disability. But personally I think he's faking. When he goes out in public he limps real bad, but in his house he don't limp one bit. I think hes faking."

    "Some do," I said. "But I'm not on a disability."

    She swigged the brew.

    "You win the lottery or something?"

    "Nothing like that," I said uneasily. This was a subject I didn't like to talk about.

    "So then Stan," she said without changing expression, "you must have robbed a bank or something."

    I laughed.

    "No no no, nothing like that, Missy. Nothing that exciting. I came into a little inheritance, that's all." "Little" was not the word I wanted but I couldn't think of the right one then suddenly I did. "A modest inheritance."

    She gazed at me with her pale blue eyes.

    "Well Stan, when do I start cleaning your house?

    The long and the short of it is I agreed to pay her fifty dollars a week to come in every Saturday morning. She wanted a hundred, which was highway robbery because a friend of mine across town gets it done for twenty-five, so we settled on fifty because to tell the truth, I wasn't so sure shed do it for twenty-five. It wasn't until after she left that I calculated the drain on my budget, and sweat literally popped out on my forehead when I realized I had committed to pay Missy two thousand and six hundred dollars a year to clean my house that really didn't need cleaning. I slumped on the sofa and thought about that for a long time.

    But even so I couldn't wait for the first Saturday morning. The more so, because when I drove by her porch she still stared at me like she didn't know me and refused to return my wave. I decided then and there that come hell or high water I was going to make that girl smile. One way or another she was going to smile, even if it took me a year.

    But the first Saturday I was disappointed. Almost heartbroken. Because when she came over, looking cute as a button in her work jeans and tennies and not wearing a bra under her t-shirt, she hardly said a word to me but went right to work cleaning the house from top to bottom, dusting and scrubbing and vacuuming so vigorously it was like she was angry or something, even furious. And when she was done, hair sweaty and t-shirt sticking to those beautiful buds, she just stuck out her hand for the fifty dollars. Without saying one word.

    I said:

    "You want a beer? After all that hot sweaty work you could probably use one."

    "Nah. Just my money."

    She took the fifty and ran. I was so disappointed I sat on the sofa with my head in my hands. But then I thought: "Look, Missy did exactly what you hired her to do. She lived up to her part of the bargain. Its not like she has the same weird fantasies that you do."

    That line of thinking didn't do much for me.

    The next three Saturdays, the same thing. Work work work, stick out her hand for the money, run off. But the fifth Saturday was different. After doing her cleaning, instead of grabbing the money and running she said:

    "How about that beer you offered me awhile back."

    I almost ran to the kitchen to pop her a brew. When I returned, the sight of her sitting on the sofa made my heart jump about twenty feet.

    She said:

    "Get yourself one too, Stan. I don't like to drink by myself."

    I did, and when I returned she patted the sofa to sit me down. After eying me over the bottle while swigging, she said:

    "I need to make more money, Stan. Fifty a week ain't enough. I'm saving up for college."

    This floored me because I considered fifty a week more than generous.

    Heart in my throat, I said:

    "Missy, I can't afford more than fifty. I just can't."

    "Don't you like the work I been doing?"

    "You're doing a great job, Missy. I have no complaints whatever. But I just cant afford more than fifty."

    "I need more."

    "Well look, Missy, to tell the truth fifty is above and beyond the going rate. The going rate is twenty-five."

    Swigging, she stared at me. It was difficult to keep my eyes off her chest, with the t-shirt plastered to those beautiful buds, but I did my best because I didn't want to scare her off.

    In a softer voice, almost purring, she said:

    "Really Stan, I need more than fifty. I really do."

    And as she spoke a weird expression came on her face, and she wiggled her eyebrows up and down several times, saying:

    "Maybe I can do something else for you, Stan."

    Something else? Something else?

    I was shocked.

    Shocked.

    And excited. More than you can imagine. And worried that maybe I hadn't heard right, hadn't really seen the bouncing eyebrows, was missing her true meaning.

    I said:

    "Well I'm not sure, Missy. What do you have in mind?"

    Clicking down her bottle on the coffee table she placed her left hand on my right knee.

    "Oh come on Stan. Every bachelor has things they need."

    And she squeezed my knee. And at the same time arched her back some, like a cat stretching, the whole time carefully watching my eyes.

    "A hundred and fifty a week would do it, Stan."

    I was still in shock.

    Shock.

    I started to say I couldn't afford it, but my mouth couldn't get the words out. I was so shocked and so excited and so scared that I couldn't speak.

    Still massaging, she said:

    "Ain't I worth it to you, Stan?"

    I was sweating. I could feel the drops sliding down my sideburns. I was almost paralyzed. The hand on my knee seemed to pin me in place with fear and joy.

    After struggling with my feelings I finally said:

    "You're too young, Missy. I could get into trouble. I could go to jail."

    She said nothing, staring into my eyes and squeezing my knee.

    I said:

    "If only you were eighteen."

    Abruptly she removed her hand from my knee, picked up her brew and swigged, looking at me sideways. Then:

    "For your information, Stan, it don't matter that I ain't eighteen. I won't tell one soul about us."

    "But Missy."

    "You don't trust me, do you Stan?"

    "It's not that I don't trust you, Missy. It's such a risk for a man my age. After all, someone could get suspicious. Or you could get mad at me and."

    She stared at my eyes.

    "I'm mad at you right now, Stan. That you don't trust me worth spit. I really am."

    "But Missy, think of the risk. I could go to jail for life. For life!"

    "Don't you like me, Stan?"

    She arched her back again, watching my eyes.

    "I like you a lot, Missy."

    "I thought older guys always go for younger women."

    "I do, I do. You can't imagine. But it's the risk, Missy. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in jail."

    Finishing off her beer, she watched me over the bottle, and continued watching me while clinking down the empty.

    "For your information, Stan, all this worry about jail and all ain't gonna help you one tiny little bit."

    "What do you mean?"

    "What I mean is, I could send you to jail right now."

    What? This statement set off a fire alarm in my head. A screamer.

    "What are you talking about?"

    "Alls I have to do is say you tried to approach me while I was cleaning your house. That's alls I have to say. And everybody believes me, you being a horny bachelor and all. Nobody ever believes the guy. Everybody thinks the guy tried to take advantage of the young girl. You know that, Stan."

    She continued staring at me, sullen as ever, not batting an eye.

    She said:

    "The horse is already out of the barn, Stan. It's my word against yours."

    And with that she walked out, saying she'd give me a day to think it over.

    You can imagine my state of mind! Unbelievable! Suddenly my brain was full of pictures as jumpy as icons in a video game. First me in the arms of my Missy, then me watching my budget go down the drain, then me in a jailcell, then me in the arms of my Missy again, then. I had to get out of the house. Out of the town. I walked for miles and miles into the countryside. Would Missy really claim I'd tried to molest her? Would they really believe her instead of me? Would I really go to jail for the rest of my life? All the hype in recent years about child abuse, about date rape, about sexual harassment in the workplacewith a jury would I have even a ghost of a chance? Not likely. Missy was right. Not a soul would stand up for the evil middle-aged man. Id be an outcast. Molesting an innocent young thing, no more than fifteen years old. Even if she did agree to it, even if she suggested it herself, she was too young to know what she was doing, too young to be responsible for her own actions. But me, I was a grown man so I had to take responsibility for both of us. Even if she did squeeze my knee. Even if she did throw herself at me. How many men could resist such temptation? What happens, I wondered, when young groupies throw themselves on rock stars? Do the stars ever get into trouble? Probably so, but if they do get accused they have the big bucks to settle, so no skin off their back. And if the story gets out it probably just improves their image, increases their, whats the word? mystery. No, mystique. Increases their mystique. But me, a lowly ex-finance company employee with a modest inheritance that would be different story. Theyd try to hang me. On me, the ordinary citizen, theyd take out all their rage over the rock stars they can't lay a hand on. That's the way it works. I had never been so nervous in my life. Cold sweat covered my entire body. My mouth was so dry I had trouble swallowing. I lost my appetite for food and everything else.

    Talk about terror!

    That night I didn't sleep a wink. Not one wink. Just laid there tossing and turning, turning and tossing, until my sheets were so tangled I couldnt straighten them out. By morning I was exhausted. It was the first time I didn't look forward to seeing Missy. Dreaded it, in fact.

    As luck would have it she showed up bright and early. My whole body seemed jammed into my throat and my mouth was as dry as the Mojave.

    Terror!

    She sat in her usual spot on the sofa. This time I didn't offer her a beer.

    She said:

    "You look worried, Stan. Ain't you excited over my offer?"

    "But this is extortion!" I blurted out. "Youre blackmailing me, Missy, without me doing anything wrong. That's rotten. Rotten! What would your parents think? What would your mother say?"

    If anything, her sullen expression got even more sullen.

    "For your information, Stan, I don't have no parents."

"How can you say that? Who are those folks across the street?"

    "Foster parents. I don't have no real parents, Stan. I don't know who my real dad is, and I ran off from my mom."

    This took some of the wind out of my sails.

    "Well then, what would your foster parents think about you blackmailing me?"

    "They won't never find out unless I want them to. Anyways if they was ever to give me trouble over anything I'll just run off again, like I done before. And next time they won't never find me. If they even bother to look."

    "Thats an ugly thing to say."

    "They don't care, Stan. Thats a fact. They just want the money from the county. If I run off, theyll fake like they're looking for me and then head on down to the county and get another kid who aint as much trouble."

    I was losing my outrage. The fatigue was setting in, the effects of a sleepless night. My tongue felt thick and there was this grey fog behind my eyes. I was trying to think my way through things. If she has a history of problems, I figured, then she probably wont hesitate to accuse me, the bad publicity wouldnt bother her, she might even glory in it. On the other hand, with her history maybe nobody would believe her, maybe the verdict would go my way. But could I take that chance? If I guessed wrong life in prison. Life! I was so tired I started confusing myself. I needed to sleep it off and attack the problem with a clear mind. I stammered to Missy that I needed another day to decide.

    She wouldn't hear of it.

    "I ain't waiting, Stan. Besides, I already know your decision and so do you. Why don't you come get your reward?"

    Rising, she took my hand and led me to the stairs. I didn't even resist. Not one tug of resistance! I just followed her upstairs like a puppy and on into the south room with the queen-sized bed. And before I could catch my breath she was kissing me all over. And then one thing led to another and Ill tell you this, even though she was only fifteen she knew more about bedroom stuff than any grown woman I was ever with, by far, no comparison whatsoever. That girl knew tricks I'd not only never felt before, but never even heard of. It was like being initiated into unheard of pleasures by a mature woman of the world.

    Wow!

    And the odd thing is, once I made my decision I never looked back. Somewhere deep inside I just decided to quit worrying and make the most of this opportunity, because it suddenly dawned on me that I was living my fantasy. How many people have a chance to do that? Almost no one. I refused to think about the consequences, even the assault on my budget, and made up my mind to enjoy Missy to the hilt, so to speak. And my attitude paid off because those wild Saturdays were about the happiest times of my life. They were perfect. Well, not quite perfect, because the one negative was that she never smiled. No matter how much pleasure we shared, no matter how excited she got, no matter what jokes I cracked, she never smiled. Not once. That was the one negative.

    The only one.

    Our perfect Saturdays went on for nearly three months. Paradise! You can't imagine. A girl who knew all the tricks and didn't care a hoot whether or not I loved her and never asked me to pretend I did. What more could a forty-two-year-old man ask for! Pure physical pleasure, thats all she cared about. And of course collecting her hundred and fifty dollars.

    Then one Saturday instead of grabbing my hand and dragging me upstairs, she brushed by me into the living room and sat down.

    I said:

    "What's up?"

    "We have to talk, Stan."

    She seemed especially serious. Which for some reason got me more excited than ever.

    "Talk about what, Missy?"

    "About me not wanting to do this no more."

    What? What?

    I felt like a good friend had just hit me with a sledgehammer. I lost my breath. I couldnt speak.

    She said:

    "I found somebody else, Stan. He's younger."

    Younger? Younger?

    I tried to take it in, stammering, "Somebody elsesomebody youngersomebodybut who?"

    "Somebody I met. It don't matter who, Stan. Don't matter worth spit."

    Suddenly I felt like I was in a soap opera, but my part was tearing my guts out. I heard myself say:

    "But Missy what about us?"

    "Its over, Stan. Everything ends." She appeared to consider her own words for a second, her pale blue eyes staring at me. "Most everything ends."

    "But Missy but Missy"

    I still wasn't quite comprehending the reality of the situation.

    The finality.

    Then she added insult to injury by saying:

    "I still want the hundred and fifty a week, Stan."

    "What?"

    "The hundred and fifty. I still need it."

    "What?"

    "Just cause I'm with a new guy don't mean I don't need the money, Stan. I do. Big time. The new guy don't have a dime."

    "Never!" I almost screamed. "Not if you leave me. Never!"

    I was all agitated, but she stayed calm as a cucumber.

    "But Stan, I need it."

    "And I need you, Missy! No money without you!"

    She just stared at me.

    "Its over, Stan."

    She meant it.

    I was desperate. I needed to think of something. Fast. Luckily, even in my agitation I had a brainstorm.

    "Ive got it!"

    "Got what, Stan?"

    "We can share you, Missy. Me and the new guy. We can share you!"

    I felt a big hopeful smile lift my face.

    "No way, Stan."

    "Missy, please!"

    "No way. My new guy is the jealous type and mean as a snake. He don't know about us and he ain't gonna know, cause there ain't gonna be no us."

    This knocked the wind completely out of my sails. I could feel myself droop, my face and my body too. My heart ached and I felt twenty years older.

    I said:

    "There must be a way we can stay together. There must be."

    Staring at my eyes, she shook her head.

    "There ain't no way, Stan. It's over."

    Suddenly my despair sparked into anger.

    "Then I'm not giving you any money, Missy. None. Not a penny."

    "I need it, Stan."

    "You think I'm paying for another man's fun? Think again!"

    "I need the hundred and fifty, Stan. I really do."

    "No!"

    "You'll give it to me, Stan."

    "No!"

    "If you don't I'll go straight to the cops and tell them you're doing me, a fourteen year old girl."

    "Fifteen."

    "Fourteen, Stan. Way underage."

    This threat had an effect. But I tried to bluff.

    "I'll deny it, Missy. And with your history they won't believe a word you say. You won't have a leg to stand on."

    I thought this would knock her back, but she just continued her icelady stare. "I have evidence, Stan."

    "Evidence?"

    "Three hankies."

    "What are you saying?"

    Rising, she calmly walked toward the door.

    "I kept three hankies with your stuff all over them."

    "Don't leave, Missy. Dont leave!"

    "Put the money in an envelope and leave it on the back porch, Stan. Every Saturday morning."

    And she was gone. Out of my life. Just like that. Leaving a hole in my heart and a debt that would completely wreck my budget and maybe even drive me back to the slavery of the finance company. Handkerchiefs! DNA evidence! It came to me that she must have been planning this all along. She must have been faking pleasure while dreaming of a hundred and fifty a week for life. Maybe there wasn't even any "new guy." Maybe he was just a cover story for fleecing yours truly without giving anything in return.

    "Don't fall apart," I said to myself. "Don't fall apart. Don't fall apart."

    But how could I live without my Missy? How could I live without those crazy Saturdays? My life before her now seemed dull, boring, stupid, a kind of slow death.

    No spirit, no wildness, no fun.

    No Missy.

    What to do? What to do?

    For two straight weeks I brooded on the situation. Brooded brooded brooded. Both Saturdays I put the envelope on the back porch as Missy had specified, and peeked through the curtain as she sashayed up cool as you please to collect her unearned money. I opened the door and tried to talk to her but she ignored me, took the money and sauntered off. It was the second Saturday, as my heart sank into my shoes, that an idea came to me. Not an idea, an inspiration! Instant excitement! I could hardly wait to see her again. Within a few minutes the note was written, and all week it sat on the kitchen table waiting to go out on the porch in place of the envelope. I was so nervous I must have paced a thousand miles.

    Finally the day arrived.

    Saturday!

    Just after sunup I started peeking through the curtain. Finally, at about 9 a.m., she showed up. Bra-less as usual, and her sweet flesh poured into tight jeans. My heart clutched as she spotted the note, frowned, hesitated, then picked it up and read it. Read it again. Then looked at the window and found my smiling face. Squinting her pale blue eyes, she hung back for a minute. Then suddenly made up her mind and pushed right into the house, almost banging my head with the door.

    She said:

    "Do you mean it, Stan?"

    "Yes!"

    "One thousand dollars?"

    "Yes!"

    "Just for this morning?"

    "That's right, Missy."

    "A thousand dollars for one morning?"

    "For one morning. That's how much I need you, Missy."

    She seemed suspicious, studying my face.

    "What's the catch?"

    "No catch, Missy."

    She didn't believe me. Not quite. But greed pushed her on.

    "Where's the thousand, Stan?"

    "In the basement, Missy."

    "The basement?"

    "That's where I keep my strongbox."

    She stared into my eyes.

    "I want to see it, Stan. Before we do anything."

    "Don't you trust me, Missy?"

    "I want to see the thousand dollars, Stan. I want to hold it in my hand."

    "No problem, Missy. Follow me."

    Which she did.

    Down into the basement.

    Where I finally made her smile.

    And she's been smiling ever since.

FLUNKY
by Jon Boilard

I sniffed model airplane glue with Walter while his mom waited tables at the VFW. His kid sister smelled like soap. She said she was sick and stayed home from school. I gave her money from my uncle's wallet so she'd ride to the center of town on her bike with the basket to get us a family-size bag of ranch-flavored Doritos and two one-liter bottles of Pepsi. Mighty Mouse was flying over cartoon skyscrapers. We watched him on the black & white television that had rolled-up aluminum foil for an antennae. A train went by on the tracks right outside the house and from the couch we saw it pass in dark kitchen-window-size squares. When the cabinets stopped rattling Walter said Fifteen cars. When we couldn't even hear it anymore because it already went under the dry bridge past Elder Lumber I told him I counted seventeen. He said he hated that I always had to have the last word. He punched me in the shoulder and said I always had to be right. A fat black fruit fly was trying to escape through the screen part of the side door. It buzzed and bounced against the cat-scratched screen and buzzed and bounced trying like hell to get out.

     The yellow telephone erupted like a fire drill. It was on the chipped-pink tile floor of the bathroom where Walter's mom talked in a hushed whiskey voice from the edge of the clawfoot tub between cigarette drags late at night when she thought everybody was asleep. I rubbed my eyes and my head where it hurt from the glue hangover and Walter woke up too and said Don't answer it. He said It's probably the school. Then my nose started to bleed and I filled my nostrils with Kleenex. From the big-numbered clock hanging crooked from a nail on the wall I could see that it was the beginning of fourth period at the high school where we were freshmen.

        We'd left right after home room. We'd walked across the parking lot and past the weed-cracked tennis courts and through the softball field and the old Dwire Lot to the house that Walter's mom rented from Chip Patluski. Walter's kid sister was in eighth grade and she had good marks and blue ribbons from 4-H and a fancy letter from the board of education saying she could spell better than anybody in Franklin County. Walter's mom called Kayla her last hope. I heard her put the kickstand down on her bike and take hold of the plastic bag from Rogers & Brooks. I heard her come through the side door and it banged inside the frame and she jiggled it until it shut all the way. Walter went into his bedroom and came back with a pack of EZ-Wider and the Sucrets tin where he kept the dope he bought from Jimmy Warfield's father. He told Kayla to get lost, to do homework, and he licked his index fingers and thumbs and rolled a fat one in his lap. We took a few hits and ate the Doritos and I drank my Pepsi. Batman and Robin were on the television. The fruit fly was bouncing off the screen door again and the plastic clock was ticking and the wind outside was brushing a weeping willow branch against the vinyl siding of the house. The telephone rang four and a half times. Somebody on the television said We've got to get out of here. Walter was breathing through his nose and making snoring sounds and when I looked at him the ends of his fingers were Dorito-orange and all around his open mouth was Dorito-orange and the plastic one-liter Pepsi bottle was unopened between his legs.

        I heard Kayla in her room with the door mostly shut listening to Bryan Adams on Walter's old boom box and turning the pages of a magazine. I pushed the door open with my big toe and the rusty hinge creaked. She was lying face down on her bed that looked like a little girl's bed. She was wearing somebody's old Calvin Kleins from the hand-me-down store in Northampton and a three-quarter sleeve REO Speedwagon concert t-shirt. I told her that she smelled like Dove soap and she let me come in and sit on the bed with her. We made out and I took her shirt and bra off and dropped them on the sticky hardwood floor. Then she stood up and locked her door and took her jeans and panties off. She told me I made her feel beautiful and grown up and somehow unconnected to anything. I said some things that I knew she wanted to hear and after a short while she took my clothes off and said Make sure you take it out this time.

        The greenish paint was flaking off the plaster walls of her room. There were dark spots of mildew on the south one that faced out over the front yard. We smoked some old Marlboro lights that she got from the dresser in her mom's room and she said that her mom would kill her if she found out. She said her mom put too much pressure on her to be perfect. She said I was lucky not to have anybody to tell me what to do. I told her more lies about my feelings and things to shut her up and blew smoke rings that drifted up to the bowl of the dead-moth-filled ceiling light. I listened to the wind outside go around the house and from her window I watched it make mini tornadoes of raked maple leaves in the yard and dirt and driveway. The rain came straight down and then the wind turned it sideways for a while. Kayla said Oh shit the windows and put her jeans and shirt on and pushed herunderwear under the bed with her foot. She closed her window against the rain and I heard her going through all the rooms closing windows while I got dressed.

        Walter woke up and said Where the hell did you go off to? I told him it was raining. There was a game show on the television. Walter told his kid sister to leave the one in the living room open because we wanted to fire up another doobie. She looked right at me, flipped me the bird, went into her room, slammed the door. Walter said What's up her ass? and I shrugged my shoulders. We took a couple hits and tried to blow the smoke toward the window so his mom wouldn't smell it when she got home. We didn¹t know any answers to the game show questions but there was only one other channel that was from Springfield and it didn¹t come in during rain.

        The one good headlight lit the room up for a few seconds when Walter's mom turned into the driveway from Stage Road. Her car hiccuped and sputtered when she turned it off. I heard Kayla spray Lysol and open her bedroom door a few inches. Walter's mom came in holding a Greenfield Recorder over her head and a paper bag against her hip. She said It's coming down like cats and dogs out there. Kayla boiled water for macaroni and cheese, chopped hot dogs, buttered slices of stale white bread. Walter's mom served iceberg lettuce that was brown around the edges with a mayonnaise and ketchup dressing that I watched her mix with a fork. Then she brought our dinners on paper plates to the couch where we ate. Walter's mom took a shower and said she was going to be late. She said It's poker night. She said It could be a big tip night. She said I can't afford to be late. She jerked her thumb toward us and told Kayla to stay away from the flunkies. I don't want them rubbing off on you. Walter nudged me in the ribs and I laughed out loud.

        We drank vodka right from the bottle I took from my uncle who had temporary custody of me. Kayla smoked one of her mom's cigarettes. Walter was passed out again. Kayla told me she made an appointment with Nurse Harper for between study hall and History on Wednesday. The radio played a block of Def Leppard. She made a face when she put the bottle to her lips but tilted her head back and gargled the vodka like Listerine and eventually swallowed. She went on to say that Nurse Harper was going to give her the results of a test. She told me that she already pissed on one from the pharmacy and it was positive. Kayla was leaning on her elbow and trying to find something in my face that was not there and I took a long snort so I could close my eyes. She cried and said my name to bring me back but the wind outside was the familiar ghost of something a long time dead. Rain came down in big drops that sounded like a devil's footsteps. --Jon Boilard