Then it was home again. Seventeen steps from the car to the porch stairs, four of those. Six to my door. Fourteen stairs up, into my apartment. First time I’d noticed.

   I stumbled into bed and slept until six-thirty. After a long shower I grabbed two beers from the fridge, took them into the living room and plopped them down on top of the big plastic bin that was sitting in front of my couch. It was clear with a lime green cover and held all my sweaters except for the red one I was wearing. It was serving as a temporary coffee table, remarkably similar to the coffee table I’d had in my very first apartment. I’d constructed that one myself. Spray painted three white plastic crates in various neon shades and tied them together, lengthwise, with wire. Then I made two end tables for a matching set. At age eighteen plastic furniture is a symbol of freedom. Independence. It shouts, Fuck you, World, I don’t need any help. At age thirty four it whimpers, I’m fucking pathetic.

   I made it quickly through my first beer and cracked open the second. Halfway through it I stared at the box I still hadn’t opened. It claimed to contain three 182 oz size jugs of Clorox bleach. Because when you’re a cleaning lady you buy your bleach in bulk. If I shoved the box into the back of my bedroom closet, right now, then in three days time I’d have myself convinced that it really was a box containing three bottles of bleach. In a month or so I’d buy a real coffee table, scoot my plastic bin of sweaters in front of the bleach box and, the day after that, completely forget that the box of bleach was there.

   I finished beer number two, walked over to the box of bleach, and picked it up. And that’s when my illusion was shattered before it even had a chance to begin, because of one word written in bold block letters on top of the box. Black permanent ink:

   Jason’s writing. He had packed the box on his fateful last trip to our apartment then given it to Dave to give to me. I had shoved it, along with everything else, in Dave’s garage. And now--apparently--it was Mine.

   I chucked it back onto the floor, picked at the tape with my fingernail, loosened it with shaking fingers, then yanked quickly. It released the scent of fresh cardboard, the scent that seemed forever linked in my mind with goodbye. I crumbled up the tape, blindly grabbed a handful of pictures, and flipped through them slowly.

   It was a mistake.

   Because there we were, Jason-and-Tess, captured in time. Trapped on dozens of four by six pieces of paper. I was holding our last vacation in my hand, our tenth anniversary weekend in Bar Harbor almost two years earlier. I closed my eyes and I was there again. The sharp, tangy scent of the ocean. Laughter--his and mine mingling together--as we imitated tourists’ accents in the gift shops. His hand, strong and warm, resting on my leg while we drove around Park Loop at sunset. His trim, gorgeous beard, rough and hot against my cheek, my shoulder, my breasts; the sweet sting of the carpet on my back as we made love in our hotel room, ignoring the soft, giant bed…

   I could feel the tears threatening again, and this time I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop. But then I heard it. Brian’s truck, about half a mile away. I wiped my eyes and listened. Waited. Hoped.

   Truck door slammed. Porch door. Then his footsteps up the stairs and a knock at the door. I chucked the pictures onto the coffee table, ran to the door and greeted my rescuer with a sweet smile. Then I remembered my silent promise to Laura’s silent plea and toned down the enthusiasm. If the sudden change in my demeanor surprised him he didn’t show it. He just cleared his throat and said:

   “Your hair looks good blonde.”

   “It’s not blonde. It’s…” Laura had called it 7NA. I called it Honey. “It’s just a lighter shade of brown.”

   “Um…okay.”

   I nodded to the bag he was holding. Radio Shack. “What’s that?”

   “This,” he said, grinning, “is everything you need to get free cable TV.”

“Amazing. And I thought it was just a bag.”

   He dug inside and pulled out two packages of wires. The kind that weren’t coiled up and held together with bread bag ties. “I’ve got the cable run through the wall from downstairs, so all I have to do is hook it up to your TV with these.” He noticed my uncertainty. “I do it for all the upstairs people. The last couple took off with the splitter, so...” he held up one of the packages. “I had to get a new one.”

   “We won’t get in trouble for this?”

   “Nah. The cable guys never come all the way out here unless there’s a problem, and when they do I disconnect everything until they leave.”

   “But is that fair? I get free cable, but you have to pay.”

   He shrugged. “I have to pay for it anyway.”

   “At least let me split the bill with you.”

   “Why? No one else ever did.”

   “I’m not a freeloader. I either pay for half or you don’t hook it up.”

   He gave me a scowl and waited. Probably thought I’d change my mind if he did it long enough. I folded my arms and scowled right back.

   “Fine.” He sauntered past me, into the living room and went to work. When he was done he gave me a tour of the channels. There were almost a hundred of them and only five of them jumped out as something I’d actually watch. I thanked him anyway.

   “That really is a nice sound system you got there.”

   I nodded. Jason had fallen in love with it three years earlier. It was ostensibly a birthday gift for me, though, and therefore Mine.

   “Have you played anything on it since I hooked it up?”

   “Yep. Neil Young sounded great while I was unpacking.”

   He rolled his eyes. “You know what you need?”

   “Uh…”

   “Gunshots and galloping horses--”

   That was my second guess.

   “--so I can fix the surround sound for you. And you’re in luck, because there’s a John Wayne double feature on tonight.”

   “John Wayne.”

   “Don’t you like John Wayne?”

   Chauvinistic he-man with a heart of gold. What’s not to like? My dad had every one of his movies, which was pretty funny. I really should brush up on my Freud.

   “I do, actually.”

   “Cool. True Grit starts at eight.” He bounded over to the couch, taking the remote control with him. He set it down on the makeshift coffee table and picked up the pictures that I’d left out. Out in the open. Like an idiot.

   I held out my hand. “Give them here. I’ll put them away.”

   “You don’t want me to see them?”

   I considered for a few moments. What was the harm? They were just pictures after all. Slices of life trapped on dozens of four by six pieces of paper. Nothing to be afraid of.

   I sat down beside him and shrugged. “Go ahead.”

   He stared at the photo on top. I leaned over to see what it was. Windy Haired Tess on Cadillac Mountain. “This is a real good picture of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  He flipped to the next one. It was Golden Haired Jason. His eyes were beautiful; clear, bright blue like the sky behind him. It was my favorite picture of him because he was smiling. It reminded me of how I used to live to see him smile.

   “Your husband?”

   “Ex-husband.” It was the first time I’d said it. Ex. It tasted sour.

   Brian studied the photograph for a few more seconds then continued through more of The Doomed Dyers’ Bar Harbor Weekend. When he was finished he set them down gently on the bin and asked, “What does he do?”

   I couldn’t say lumberjack. Because, like Dave, Jason didn’t have the kind of job that was just a means to and end. Not only a way to earn money for food and rent and all the rest. It was his passion. His life. Who he was.

   “He’s a teacher.”

   Brian nodded and I looked at my bare feet, wishing I had painted my toenails instead of opening the box of bleach. Finally he asked, “What happened?”

   “To what?”

   “I mean...why didn’t it work out?”

   I cleared my throat. “Isn’t it time for the movie to start?”

   “Still got half an hour.”

   “Oh.”

   I chucked the pictures back into the bleach box. Glared at the plastic bin, as though it was to blame for all my troubles instead of just a representation of them. I looked at my toes again, praying for inspiration. A topic for conversation. Anything. And my eyes fell on my two empty bottles. I asked him if he’d like a beer and he gave a reluctant nod. We drank in silence for awhile while he scanned the canvases on my walls. He’d nod at one, smile at another. I followed his slow gaze until he got to the last painting. We shivered at the same time.

   “Isn’t that Mount Kineo? On Moosehead lake?”

   “Yep. Have you ever been there?”

   “A long time ago.” He pointed to its reproduction. “It doesn’t look spooky like that during the day, though.”

   I nodded and we fell silent once more. I finished my beer and got another for each of us. They weren’t doing the trick. I was still seeing blue eyes.

   Brian cleared his throat. “I saw a nature show last week about these chimps in the Congo. I can’t remember what their real name was, but they called ‘em hippie chimps because all they do, pretty much, is just have sex all the time.”

   He waited for me to respond. I didn’t, of course, so he continued.

   “It was kind of sad, though, because they’re almost extinct. You’d think with all the sex they’re having that they’d reproduce quicker’n rabbits, but there are these poachers who--”

   “What?”

   “Poachers. I guess the meat on those chimps is pretty tasty, because--”

   “I meant, what the hell are you talking about?”

   He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t like awkward silences.”

   “Monkey sex is better than an awkward silence?”

   “Definitely.”

   “Ah.”

   He looked at his watch then picked up the remote, because--finally--it was time for the movie. True Grit. A grizzled U.S. Marshall and an arrogant Texas Ranger help a spunky teenaged girl track down her father’s murderer. Justice and revenge. No better way to spend an evening. Brian interrupted the movie several times with ‘important trivia’ and a very bad impersonation of the Duke. I’d forgotten Glenn Campbell was in the movie and, under the influence of more beers than I could count, sang the chorus to Rhinestone Cowboy every time he came onscreen. The second movie--which I kept forgetting the name to--passed by in a haze of galloping horses and gunfire. By the time it was over there were ten empty beer bottles in my sink and eight more littering the living room floor. Brian and I were both sprawled out, heads back against the couch, our feet propped up on the lime green coffee table.

   He rolled his head towards me and slurred, “Your hair looks good like that.”

   I was going to tell him he’d said that already but I didn’t. Didn’t tell him that I thought his hair looked good, too. That I liked the way it curled behind his right ear but not his left. The way it almost touched his shoulders but didn’t. Not quite. And that I wondered if he always kept it long or if he had it cut short during the summer. Because he probably worked outside a lot and long hair might be too much in the heat. I didn’t say any of that, even though I was thinking it, because talking and thinking about hair reminded me that I’d promised Laura something.

   “What did you promise Laura?”

   “Did I say that out loud?”

   “Yep.”

   “Well, I promised her I’d use the conditioner she made me buy. I have to use it every day.” That wasn’t a lie, because I really had promised her that.

   “How was she today?”

   “She was good.”

   “Did she tell you all about my sad, terrible childhood?”

© 2007 R.J. Keller - All rights in this book are reserved by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.