HAPPILY EVER AFTER, I GUESS

THIS IS THE STORY of how Rachel and I got married.

After we moved in together, I had to look for a new job. The hospital had stopped calling us in after that accident in their Emergency area, and we were almost out of money.

I got up at eight in the morning every day and showered and dressed in my nicest clothes. I made myself a lunch and Rachel kissed me on the cheek as I went out the door. It was like I was really going to work.

I had a routine. I went to the variety store at the end of the street and bought a paper and a coffee. Then I went another block over, to a park between a dollar store and a row of houses with boarded-up windows. I sat on a bench and drank my coffee, looked over the classifieds. Rachel had given me her lucky pen to circle ads with, but there was never anything I was qualified for.

There was a fenced-off playground in one corner of the park. There were maybe a dozen children that played in there every day, and a pair of women who watched them. There were always another five or six people and their dogs in the opposite corner of the park. The people drank coffee and talked while the dogs fought.

And there was another man with a paper who sat on a bench near mine. He was there every day by the time I arrived. He wore a suit and read the entire paper, not just the classifieds. The first day I was there, he saved my life.

One of the dogs from the other end of the park — a large Rottweiler — came running over when I sat down on the bench. It stopped a few feet away from me and started growling. I looked at the people with the rest of the dogs, but they were still talking to each other and waving their coffee cups in the air. With each growl, the dog moved closer to me.

“It doesn’t know you,” the man in the suit called out to me. “It thinks you’re a stranger.”

“I am a stranger,” I said, and the dog moved closer. It was almost touching me now.

“Just give it something so it knows you’re friendly,” the man said.

I didn’t have anything but my lunch, a sandwich in plastic wrap. I dropped it to the ground. The Rottweiler gave me one last growl, then picked up the sandwich in its jaws and ran back to the other dogs.

“That was a close one,” I said to the man in the suit, but he just nodded and turned to the business section of the paper. I watched the Rottweiler eat my lunch on the other side of the park, and then I watched the clouds shift back and forth overhead for a while. When I looked at my watch, it wasn’t even ten yet. I wandered over to the playground and leaned on the fence there. The kids didn’t notice me, but the two women watching them did. They stopped talking and kept glancing my way, as if I was going to run off with one of the kids if they stopped looking at me for even a moment.

It made me wonder how I would have turned out if I’d had somebody like that watching out for me.

DURING THIS TIME, Rachel began working for a chat line, the kind you see advertised on television after midnight. She told me about it when we were watching a movie in bed one night, and I asked her if it was one of those phone-sex jobs.

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that,” she said. “I’m just going to be talking to people.”

I muted the television and sat up. “You’re going to be talking to people?” I asked. “Or you’re going to be talking to men?”

“Women don’t really call these lines,” she said. “That’s why they’re hiring me.”

“But why do the men call?” I asked.

“Look,” she said, taking the remote from my hand and turning the volume back up, “one of us has to work.”

Rachel worked the night shift at the chat line. She took the bus to the call center, which was in this old hotel at the edge of downtown. The company she worked for had made some deal to rent an entire floor, and each of the operators had a separate room.

“It’s like you’re a prostitute or something,” I said when she told me about it over breakfast after her first shift.

“It helps me get into character,” she said. “I even have a name. Velma.”

“What kind of name is that?” I asked.

“I think it’s supposed to be Russian,” she said. She spoke in a thick accent that didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard before. “Russians are in style these days.”

“Is everyone there Russian?” I asked.

“No, we have a couple of Asians, a German, an Australian, even a Brazilian.” She laughed. “But everyone playing them is white.”

I went to the counter and poured myself a coffee, then went over to the kitchen window. It looked out onto the street, and for a while I watched people go past in buses or cars, on their way to or from work.

“What kind of calls do you get?” I asked.

“I had this one guy who wanted to talk about his mother,” she said. “Then he asked all sorts of questions about mine.”

I turned back to her. “What else did he ask about?”

“You don’t want to know,” she said, shaking her head and laughing.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“No, you don’t.”

AFTER I’D GONE to the park another few days, the man in the suit offered me a cigarette. I went over and took it, even though I don’t smoke, and sat on the corner of his bench. The Rottweiler chased a Lab across the park to us, and for a moment both stopped to sniff at our ankles. I was ready to give them my sandwich, but they moved on without even growling at us.

“So what do you do?” I asked the man.

He watched the dogs a moment before answering. “I’m a broker,” he said.

“Stocks?” I asked.

“Something like that,” he said. He looked at me. “What about you?” he asked.

“I’m self-employed,” I told him.

“All right then,” he said, nodding.

We sat there in silence for a moment, him smoking and me pretending to smoke, and then I asked, “So how long have you been coming here for?”

He looked all around the park now, and for a moment he didn’t answer. Then he said, “About a month.”

“And she hasn’t figured it out yet?”

“I have savings,” he said. “I can probably go another month.”

“And then what?” I asked.

“And then?” He blew smoke at the sky. “Then I guess it’s over.”

“I don’t think I can go that long,” I said.

“Oh, you’ll be surprised what you’re capable of,” he said.

“What do you do when it rains?” I asked.

“I drive,” he said.

“Drive where?”

“Nowhere.”

We didn’t say anything else until the cigarettes were finished, and then I said, “One of us should bring a chess set or something like that.”

“Why would we want to do that?” he asked, looking back at me.

“You know, to pass the time,” I said. “We could be like those people you see on television, the ones that play chess in parks all day long.”

“But this isn’t a permanent kind of thing,” he said.

“But it could be,” I said.

“I’m still working, in a way,” he said. He patted the paper beside him. “I’m keeping up with the stocks. In case they call me back.” When I didn’t say anything, he added, “Or in case someone else calls me.”

“Have you applied for any other jobs?” I asked.

“I’m doing lots of research,” he said.

“Well, I still think we could play chess or something,” I said.

He picked up the paper again. “I’m not one of those people,” he said.

I got up and went over to the playground again. One of the women came over to where I leaned on the fence, but she was careful to stay out of arm’s reach.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked.

“Are you looking for help?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“I need a job,” I told her. “And I’m good with kids.”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” she said and walked back to join the other woman.

A boy of maybe five or six went down the slide. When he reached the bottom, he looked at me. I waved at him and he waved back.

“Don’t talk to strangers,” the woman who’d spoken to me told him.

“I’m not a stranger,” I called over to her.

The boy stared at me until the woman came over to stand between us.

“Ask the dogs,” I told her. “They know me.”

“If you don’t leave now,” she said, “I’m calling the police.”

RACHEL STARTED OFF slow at her new job, only two or three nights a week, but it wasn’t long before she was up to five or six nights.

“People have been requesting me,” she told me as she was getting ready for work one night. “They’ve been phoning the main line and asking for my home number.”

“They’re not going to be calling here, are they?” I asked.

“I’m just going to work more shifts,” she said, putting on her coat. “We may even try some different personalities.”

“Why would you do that?” I asked. “It sounds like enough men are calling you now.”

“We want to get the ones that aren’t calling,” she said, kissing me on the cheek and walking out the door.

I barely saw her at all. I slept alone in the bed most nights, and when she came home, I got up to go look for work. Once, she came home and stood at the foot of the bed, watching me until I woke up.

“What are you doing?” I asked, sitting up and staring back at her.

“I was thinking about you last night when I was talking to this guy,” she said, “and I forgot what you looked like.”

After maybe two weeks of this, I asked her what kind of men were calling. I was taking a bath, and she was sitting on the edge of the tub. “Are they all unemployed?” I asked. “Are any of them calling from jail or anything like that?”

She put a hand in the water and moved it around but didn’t touch me. “Most of them are businessmen,” she said. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”

“What kind of businessmen?” I asked.

“Executives away from home on business,” she said. “CEOs taking a break at the office. That sort of thing.”

I stared at her but didn’t say anything.

“These calls are expensive,” she said, taking her hand out of the water and drying it on her pant leg. “Not everybody can afford to talk to me.”

I STOPPED GOING to the park after the incident with the man in the minivan. The first time I met him, he cruised around the park twice, looking in at us, before he parked on the side of the street. He sat there for another few minutes before he finally turned the engine off and got out.

He walked right up to me and stood between me and the sun, so that when I looked up at him, I couldn’t see his face.

“How’d you like to make a hundred bucks?” he asked.

“Who do I have to kill?” I said, but he didn’t laugh.

We went back to his van. There was a baby seat sitting loose in the back, and a couple of brightly coloured plastic rings. The man in the suit watched as we drove away. I waved at him, but he just looked back at his paper.

“So what’s this all about?” I asked the other man.

“I just need you to do something for me,” he said. He kept checking all his mirrors, like he thought someone was following us. “It won’t take long,” he added.

He drove us a few streets over, to a postal station. He parked in the lot and looked all around one more time. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a driver’s licence. “I want you to go inside and open a post-office box,” he said. “They’ll ask you for ID. Give them this.” He handed me the licence.

I took it and looked at the photo. It was a man with a beard and glasses. I didn’t look anything like him. Neither did the other man.

“This is some sort of fraud, right?” I asked him.

“They don’t usually look at the card all that closely,” he said. “If they do, just tell them you shaved the beard since you got your licence.”

“What if they don’t believe me?” I asked.

“Then run,” he said. “But don’t run back here.”

I went inside and registered for the post-office box. The woman who filled out the forms and gave me the key didn’t even look at the photo on the licence, just wrote down the number. I was back in the van in under ten minutes.

“Who is this guy anyway?” I asked, handing over the licence and the key. “Is he dead?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” the other man said, looking around the parking lot. “I just borrowed it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Whatever. Where’s my money?”

He took out his wallet, which was bulging with money, and paid me in twenties. It looked like there was a thousand dollars in there, and maybe a dozen credit cards.

“Jesus,” I said. “I should just rob you here.”

Now he laughed. “Where can I drop you off?” he said.

I CALLED THE CHAT LINE Rachel worked for. I bought a phone card at the convenience store down the street, so she wouldn’t be able to track it to me. I turned off all the lights in the bedroom and muted the television, then called the number. When a woman whose voice I didn’t recognize answered, I hung up. I called back until I got Rachel.

“Who’s this?” she said when she came on the line.

“This is Jack,” I said.

“Jack,” she said, and I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was smiling. “This is Velma, Jack.”

“Hello, Velma.”

“Hello, Jack.”

There was a creaking in the background, which I took to be the springs of the bed in the hotel room.

“So what do you do, Jack?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“What kind of job do you have?”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then I said, “I’m a broker.”

THE MAN WITH THE VAN came back the day after I first worked for him. This time he waited in the van, its engine running. I went over and opened the door. “Have you got another job for me?” I asked.

He smiled but didn’t say anything. I got in.

We drove across the city, to a discount mall. He parked in front of an appliance store and took a gold card from his pocket, handed it to me. I looked at the name. Veronica Young, it said.

“Here’s a list of what I want,” he said, giving me a slip of paper.

I took it but didn’t look at it. “But this is a woman,” I said, indicating the credit card.

“If they ask, say it’s your wife,” he said. “But they probably won’t ask.”

“What happens if I get caught doing this?” I asked. “Who exactly is breaking the law here, is it me or you?”

“If they call anybody, then run,” he said. “But remember, don’t run back to me.”

I went into the store and looked at the list. A television. Laptop computer. CD player. There was a list of specs beside each one. I found a man who worked there in one of the aisles and gave him the list. “This is what I need,” I said. “For my wife.”

He helped me load up a cart with the boxes and I took it to the cash area. The woman who rang everything through didn’t look at me or the card. I had to leave the cart in the store, so I carried everything just outside the door and waited for the man in the van to pick me up.

We loaded the boxes into the back of the van, beside the baby seat. “If you want me to keep doing this,” I said, “you’re going to have to pay me more.”

He smiled at me again. “Just a couple of days on the job,” he said, “and already you’re asking for a raise.”

I PAID RENT with the money that I made working during the days. When Rachel asked me where the money came from, I told her I had some money in savings. What I didn’t spend on rent, I spent on phone cards so I could talk to her at night.

I liked to talk to her about my job. That is, I liked to talk to her about Jack’s job. “I administer various funds,” I told her when she asked what was involved in being a broker. “I make sure we’re always getting the highest returns on our investments.”

“That doesn’t sound very exciting,” she said.

“It’s not,” I said. “But with my salary, I can buy whatever I want.”

“That sounds much better,” she said.

“In fact, I’d like to buy you dinner some night,” I said.

“But we barely know each other,” she said.

“What better way,” I said.

“Where would we go?” she asked.

“One of the places downtown,” I said. “The kind where you can only get in if they know you.”

“And do they know you?” she asked.

“They all know me,” I said.

“What about dress codes and all that?” she said. “I don’t really have anything fancy.”

“I’ll buy you a nice dress,” I said. “Wherever you want.”

“A designer boutique,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to shop at one of those.”

“Fine,” I said. “Then we’ll go out to dinner.”

“Someplace with martinis,” she said. “If you’re in a fancy dress, you should be drinking martinis.”

“All right,” I said.

“And people doing drugs in the bathroom. The good kind.”

“And we eat the most expensive meal they have,” I said.

“What would that be?” she asked.

“Something from another country,” I said. “Something endangered.”

“And for dessert,” she said, “something flaming.”

“I pay for it all,” I said, “and then I take you back to your place.”

“You move quick, don’t you?” she said.

“And I kiss you on the doorstep,” I said.

“Fresh,” she said.

“And then —” I said.

“And then I go inside,” she said. “Alone.”

“Really?” I asked.

“We have to leave something for the next date,” she said.

I WORKED EVERY DAY for the man with the van. We bought things all over town with his credit cards, opened more post-office boxes, even went into banks and cleaned out people’s accounts with their own bank cards. I was making more money working for him than any other job I’d ever had.

One day, as we drove away from a Wal-Mart with a load of vacuum cleaners, I asked him what his wife did.

“What do you mean?” he asked, staring into the rear-view mirror.

“Does she work? Does she stay at home with the kids?”

“What wife?” he asked. “What kids?”

“You don’t have kids?” I asked.

“What makes you think that?” he said, looking at me now.

“The baby seat in the back,” I said. “I thought …”

He laughed and shook his head. “What makes you think this van is mine?” he asked.

ONE NIGHT, WHILE we were eating dinner and watching television before Rachel had to go to work, I asked her if she’d had any interesting calls lately.

“I have this broker who keeps calling me,” she said, not taking her eyes off the television. “He asked me out on a date the other night.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“I told him no,” she said.

“Really?” I said.

Now she turned to look at me. “Isn’t that what I should have told him?” she asked me.

“Of course,” I said.

She looked back at the television. “So,” she said, “how’s the job hunt going?”

“It’s tough out there,” I said. “No one’s hiring.” When she didn’t say anything, I added, “I might have some interviews next week.”

“That would be good,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “It would.”

I didn’t say anything else for a moment. Then I said, “So tell me what this broker is like.”

BUT I HAVEN’T TOLD YOU about the incident with the other man yet, the one that made me stop working for him.

He picked me up at the park one morning but then didn’t take me anywhere. We just drove around the neighbourhood again and again. We went past where I lived twice, and I imagined Rachel inside, sleeping in the bed I had just left.

“You’re not a cop, are you?” the man asked after we’d been doing this for maybe twenty minutes.

“After all we’ve been through,” I said, “you could think that?”

“I had to ask,” he said. We drove around in silence for a few minutes more. Then he asked, “So what do you charge, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know,” he said. “When you’re working.”

“Do I actually hear what I think I’m hearing?” I asked.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not a cop either.”

“Where did you get the idea that I was …” I didn’t know what to say.

“Well, you were in that park,” he said, looking at me. “I thought you were working.”

“I wasn’t working,” I said, “I was looking for work.”

“What’s the difference?” he asked.

“Oh, there’s a whole world of difference,” I said.

“Anyway,” he went on. “What do you charge?”

“That’s not what I do,” I said. “You couldn’t pay me enough.”

“No?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“What about if I gave you everything in my wallet,” he said. “Would that be enough?”

THE NEXT TIME I called Velma, I asked her to marry me.

“This is a bit sudden,” she said. “We haven’t even met in person.”

“I feel like I know you,” I said.

“I don’t think I’m ready for marriage,” she said.

“I’ve even got a ring,” I said.

“You’ve got a ring already?” she asked. “But I haven’t even said yes yet.”

“But you will,” I said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because this is my call,” I said.

“What would we do if we were married?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Happily ever after, I guess.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” she said.

“Why don’t we meet somewhere?” I said. “In real life?”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready for that kind of commitment,” she said.

“When’s your next night off?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“I’ll meet you at the mall downtown,” I said. “The south entrance. Six o’clock.”

“How will you know what I look like?” she said.

“I’ll know,” I said.

“All right,” she said. “Maybe.”

“And don’t tell your boyfriend about this,” I said.

“Who said I had a boyfriend?”

I REALLY DID have a ring. I’d bought it from an old man in the street. He’d been trying to sell it for months. Every day he stood in front of the Starbucks by my place and offered the ring to anyone who walked past. He was there even when it rained, wearing a black wool overcoat and cap despite the fact that it was summer at the time. He never spoke, just held the ring out in his hand. It was a thick golden band with no markings on it. He looked as if he hadn’t talked to anyone in years.

Once, an older woman started yelling at him. “How dare you,” she said over and over. She was leaning on a walker herself. The man just stood there, holding the ring out to her. Together they blocked the entrance to the Starbucks. A crowd formed around them, waiting to get in. “What would your wife think?” the woman shouted at him. “What do you suppose she’s thinking right now?”

I bought the ring from him a few days later. I went inside, bought a latte, then went back out and asked him how much he wanted for the ring. He still didn’t speak, just shuffled a step closer to me. His brows went up and down, like he was signaling something to me in code.

I took a ten out of my wallet. “Is this enough?” I asked.

He took another step closer. Now I could smell his sweat. His mouth worked but still nothing came out.

I pressed the ten into his hand, took the ring out. “All right?” I asked. He kept shuffling toward me. I took out another ten and put it in his hand, along with the first. His hand clenched into a fist around the money.

I backed away from him, but he kept coming. All the way down the sidewalk he followed me, shuffling at the same pace, staring at the ring I held in my hand. I crossed at the corner just as the light changed, but still he came on, straight into the traffic. That was the last I saw of him, standing there in the middle of the street, amidst all those cars, hand still stretched after me.

AFTER I STOPPED GOING to the park, I spent a few days at the art gallery downtown. The first morning, I stood in line to see how much it would cost to get in. The woman behind the counter told me it was pay-what-you-can.

“What if I can’t pay anything?” I asked. “Do I get in for free?” I still had some money from working for the man with the van, but I didn’t know when I’d work again.

She adjusted her glasses before answering. “There are suggested minimums,” she said. “Most people pay five dollars.”

I put a dollar on the counter and she stared at it. “It’s all I have,” I said.

“All right then,” she said, printing me a ticket.

“Really,” I said.

The inside of the gallery was cool and dark. There was hardly anybody else in the place at this time of day. I wandered from room to room and looked at paintings I didn’t understand.

After about an hour or so of this, I found myself in the medieval room. The walls were covered in wood carvings of people in churches, and there was a large Christ on a cross on one wall. I sat on a bench in front of the Christ. The room was completely silent. I couldn’t hear anything but my own breathing. It was like the city outside of the gallery didn’t exist at all.

I lay down on the bench and stared up at the Christ. It was made of some sort of painted wood, and it hung slightly off the wall, like it was about to fall on me. After a time, the overhead lights turned off and I was in the dark, except for a small spotlight in the ceiling that lit up the Christ’s face. It kept on staring at me, until I closed my eyes.

I don’t know how I long I slept. I was woken by a woman in an art gallery uniform. “There’s no sleeping in here,” she said. “You have to go somewhere else to do that.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” I said. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The lights were back on now. “I was praying,” I told her.

She backed away from me, putting a wooden altar covered by a glass case between us. “Don’t make me call security,” she said.

RACHEL TOLD ME she had to go to work the night I was supposed to meet Velma at the mall.

“I thought it was your night off,” I said. “I thought maybe we’d do something.”

“I got called in,” she said. “We need the money.”

“True,” I said.

“Maybe someday you’ll get a job too,” she said.

“I’m sure,” I said. “Any day now.”

AFTER SHE LEFT, I drove downtown and parked in the mall’s parking lot. I went into the coffee shop across the street from the south entrance and bought a coffee, then sat in a window seat. I watched for Velma. Six o’clock came and went. Then seven. At eight, I gave up. Velma never came.

I went home and phoned the chat line until I reached her. “What are you doing?” I said. “We had a date.”

“You can’t keep calling here,” she said, and now her Russian accent was completely gone.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “The whole point is that I keep calling.”

“I’m working,” she said. “Do you understand that?”

“So it’s over? Just like that?”

“I’m working.”

WHEN I WENT BACK to the art gallery, I didn’t go anywhere near the medieval section. Instead, I went to the modern art section. There was another man there, sitting on a bench and drinking a coffee while he looked at a life-sized picture of Elvis dressed in a cowboy outfit. Behind him, on the floor, was a pile of empty fast-food containers.

“Someone’s left some garbage here,” I said.

The man looked over his shoulder. “That’s not garbage,” he said. “That’s an exhibit.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“That’s art,” he said.

I looked down at the pile of containers. There were even little bits of food left in some of them. “Are you sure?” I asked. And there were other little bits of garbage mixed in with the containers: crumpled photographs, movie ticket stubs, a doll’s head.

“They paid almost ten thousand dollars for it,” he said.

“They paid ten thousand dollars for garbage?” I said.

“They paid ten thousand dollars for art,” he said. When I just stared at him, he added, “It’s an installation piece.”

“I’ve never had that much money in my life,” I said.

“Who has?” he said.

“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked him, sitting beside him on the bench. “Do you work here?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m more of a collector.”

I looked at the picture of Elvis. Actually, there were four pictures of Elvis, side by side. He was in the same pose in each, pointing a gun at me, but the colours were progressively more washed out as the panels went along, until he was almost invisible in the last one.

“What do you think this one’s worth?” I asked.

“That one’s a Warhol,” the man said. “It’s priceless.”

I stared at it. “I don’t understand,” I finally said.

He moved closer on the bench. “It’s about commodification of the individual,” he said. “See how Elvis is repeated so many times, until he becomes nothing more than a product?”

“Like those soup can paintings,” I said.

“Exactly,” the man said, nodding and smiling like he was my teacher.

I shook my head. “I could do this,” I said.

“But you didn’t,” the other man said. He sipped from his coffee again and then looked at me. “So what do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a broker,” I told him.

He studied my clothes for a moment. “You don’t look like a broker,” he said.

“I’m on vacation,” I told him. I looked at him. “What do you do?”

“Ah, well, this is where things get awkward,” he said. He finished the coffee and set the cup down on the floor, then stood up. “I’m a mugger,” he said.

I stared at him for a moment, until he pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at me, much like the Elvii were pointing their guns at me.

“Is this some sort of art thing?” I asked him.

“I’m afraid not,” he said.

“I don’t have any money,” I said.

“You’re a broker,” he said.

“I was just making that up,” I told him.

“Why don’t you make this easy on the both of us,” he said, “and give me your wallet.”

I looked around for anyone else but there was no one in sight. “Help!” I called. “I’m being robbed!” My voice echoed through the empty rooms, and then the man hit me across the head with the gun. Suddenly I didn’t have control over my body any more. I fell to the floor and curled up in the fetal position.

“I’m sorry about all this,” the man said, “but I have a wife and kids to feed.” He took my wallet from my pocket and walked away with it, disappearing into the gallery.

I don’t know how long I lay there before I could move again. When I touched my forehead, my fingers came away with blood. I heard footsteps and sat up. An old couple with cameras around their necks were wandering through the room, but they stopped when they saw me. I tried to call to them for help, but I could only croak. I waved a bloody hand at them instead.

“Must be one of those performance pieces,” the woman said.

The man grunted. “Well, I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like it all.”

WHEN RACHEL CAME HOME the morning after I was supposed to meet Velma, I was waiting for her. I was wearing my suit, the one I’d bought for all the job interviews I’d never had, and I had the old man’s ring in my pocket. I’d lit candles and put them all over the living room, and put a bible on top of the television.

Rachel stopped in the entrance to the living room and stared. “What’s all this?” she asked.

I took the ring out of my pocket and held it out to her. She didn’t look surprised to see it.

“Is that what you really want?” she asked.

“That’s what I really want,” I said.

She rubbed her eyes for a moment. “All right then,” she said. “All right.”

© Peter Darbyshire

 
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