- Jim Valvis

Brad entered the café three paces after Loretta Dannings. He planted his feet on the head of her thin shadow, wiped his brow, and looked at her for the first time today. She stood by the menu blackboard, waiting for service, head cocked northeast like a Renaissance painting of the Madonna. Her jacket was open, though it had been windy and drizzly all morning, and now a wet V darkened her blouse. They said nothing. When the hostess returned to her post, she asked them if they wanted to be seated smoking or nonsmoking. "Better make it non," Brad said. "Smoking will be fine," said Loretta Dannings. He stared at the air between them, as if the words still floated there, as if by staring he could shove them back into her mouth. Loretta Dannings pulled her black purse, a Gucci, close to her stomach. Brad raked his hand through his hair. His sneakers squeaked on the polished floor. The hostess took her time collecting the menus. She took her time scanning the early lunch crowd for an open table. When she turned to them, she asked, "Have you decided?" "Smoking," Loretta Dannings said. She disrobed her white gloves, one long finger at a time, like a surgeon trying to keep blood off a manicure. Finished, she deposited the gloves into her purse. "Yes, smoking, definitely." "Smoking, sir?" "I don't give a damn." He was unbuttoning his jacket, denim to Loretta Dannings' suede. When the pause bloated, he stopped unbuttoning and said to no one, "I won't be smoking." The hostess moved in front of them. "Right this way." Loretta Dannings turned her back to Brad and waited with an open palm dangling at her side. After a moment, she yanked her hand up and started walking fast. Brad slogged behind, still unbuttoning his jacket, his stubby fingers having trouble working the metal buttons into the holes. The café was Italian, dark, off the main road. Chairs and tables, which they had to weave through, were placed scatterbrained. The fake flowers looked real but wilted. The crowd dined mournfully, as if they'd been served a beloved pet. They seated themselves. The hostess told them the waitress would be along soon, then hurried back to the entrance, not looking back. Loretta Dannings set her purse on the table between them. She fingered through it, extracted her cigarettes and lighter, then closed the purse and left it there. When she offered him a cigarette, Brad looked at his hands and felt his lips grow thin and bloodless. "I don't see why you have to mock me," he said. "Okay, all right," she said. Then she said, "Meredith promised to go with me." "Yay Meredeth." Loretta Dannings lit her cigarette. She exhaled smoke toward the ceiling and pitched her lighter back into her purse. Her cheeks were tan in November, her fingernails were painted the same color gray as her eyes, her hair was dyed brown and cut short. The rest of her uniform achieved a cheerful neutrality. "You should be grateful." "I'm not," Brad said. "You never are. That's why I like you." She forced a smile that became a yawn, then quickly lipped the cigarette again. Pulling it from her face, she held up the cigarette for examination, like a lab specimen. She moved the ashtray closer to the center of the table and wedged the filter in place. She waved some of the smoke away. "You still like me, don't you?" He nodded his answer. "Well, good," she said. "Though God only knows why. You ought to be with someone your own age. Not that I'm complaining." "We've been through this." "I suppose," she said. Brad leaned against his chair and buttoned his jacket again. Then he began to undo his work. Crimson pressure scars dented his thumbs. He faltered on a difficult button, spit air from his nose, and looked around the café. All he saw were shapes. The waitress approached the table, introduced herself, and asked to take their order. Neither of them had considered the menus, but Loretta Dannings ordered anyway. Angel hair pasta with steamed vegetables, no sauce, and water would be fine. Brad said just water. "Oh, for God sakes, eat." Loretta Dannings expected him to say something. When he didn't, she beat her cigarette dead. "There? Okay? Will you eat now? I get enough martyrs at home." "I'm not hungry." "Give him the same as me," she said to the waitress. She had already begun to poke inside her purse for another cigarette. One of the white gloves popped out like a cadaverous hand rising from a grave. "And another for him to take home. Put it in one of those boxes you people have. Thank you." When the waitress scurried away, Brad said, "I won't eat his food." "It's not his food," she snapped. "It's my food, my money. I'm a woman with my own money. Believe me, I earn it." "I bet you do." She laughed, a hiss, full of graying teeth. After a while she said, "It's not his fault. Like I said, he doesn't even know." "Bullshit." "It's not about him," Loretta Dannings said. She lit her second cigarette and returned the pack and lighter carefully to her purse. She patted the purse closer and ran her fingers over its black leather. She set the purse aside but continued to look at it. "It's about us." Brad said, "I'll pay for my meals." "This isn't about him, Brad," she said. "I never wanted one. I told you that in the beginning." "You told me a lot of things." The noise in the café came in bursts, like a heartbeat. Loretta Dannings started to say something else, then didn't. Her cigarette was short and plump and strange between her elegant fingers. Brad charted the smoke with his eyes. It ascended until it reached the ceiling fan, where it got chopped into oblivion, or the smoke floated sideways, where it became ribbons wrapping everything in loose bows. The waitress returned, placed their food, then left, having said nothing. Brad fiddled with his paper napkin, looking at Loretta Dannings, who had begun to eat, her cigarette still lit but smoldering in the ashtray. She placed her fork next to her plate and reached across the table to touch his hand. He allowed it, but did not respond. Her hand felt soft and cold. "You have to be philosophical about it," she said. "It's the artist in you. You see everything in concrete details. But it's not. At this stage, it's simple. It's just an equation." "An equation," Brad said. "Like, one plus one plus one equals zero?" "Oh, you're good," she said. She withdrew her hand fast. She found her cigarette and pounded it out. "It's not about him, Brad. I don't know how I can prove that to you. I have my own mind." "And your own money." "Yes," Loretta Dannings said. "That too." "And if you didn't?" "I won't be cross-examined by you," she said. "Or by him." She glanced away, stricken. Brad turned to the street window. It was raining hard, the wind pushing the rain toward the café, and water sheeted the glass. Wave after wave, like clear blood, slimed the window. The embers in the ashtray still burned and the smoke twisted up his neck and his chin and into his nostrils. He leaned back as far as he could, pinched his fingers, and fixed his eyes on the other chair across the table, the one that was empty. After a long time, Brad pushed a button through a hole and faced the plate before him. The vegetables, cauliflower and zucchini, smelt like pine ashes. The pasta looked like rodent intestines. When he peeked, she was eating again. "I had to tell him," Loretta Dannings said, still chewing. She swallowed and smiled at him. "You should eat. You should get some food in you." "I'm old enough to know what's right." "I'm paying for it," she said. "With my own money." He bit his lower lip and jerked his head to the side. He lifted a fist and pressed it against his forehead and tapped himself three times. Then his fingers found his eyes and started rubbing. Finally he dropped his hands on the table, palms flat, one on either side of the plate. "I'm Catholic," Brad said. "Maybe today," she said. "Last month you were agnostic." "I've always been Catholic." She sighed, regarded him, and shook her head. "Meredith said you'd pull this. She said you'd try something. Meredith's dumb as a stump, but she's got you pegged. That's why you don't like her." He thought about his reply for a long time. When he knew what he would say, the words came out slow and cracked. "Does she have him pegged too?" "It's not about him," she said in a low and resigned voice. She reached into her purse for another cigarette, abandoned the idea, and instead folded her hands in front of her, tight as clot. "I'm just saying you don't have to worry, Brad. I don't know how I can make this any easier for you. I'm paying for it and Meredith said she'd go with me. Can't you be civil? Will you just eat something? Would you please just eat?" "Murder is civil?" "Will you eat?" she said. Her eyes were becoming red. "Can't we just have a nice meal?" Brad stabbed across the table to her purse. He picked out her pack and flicked the top open. He grabbed a cigarette. He mangled his face and bit the cigarette near the filter line, tearing with his teeth like it was a strip of beef jerky. He chewed with exaggerated bites, leaving his mouth open so she could see. "There," he said. Brown strands of tobacco flew everywhere. "Brad, please," she said desperately. "Please." His mouth was full, watering, chewing, swallowing. His eyes swelled. "Praise be our benefactor. Praise be he who holds the hanger." Those words came out sloppily. He didn't care. When he was done eating the tobacco, he popped the filter like a pill and chewed and made mmm grunts. He couldn't talk anymore. He swallowed the filter and for a moment he thought he might choke on it. The veins in his neck convulsed. He gagged. His nostrils flared and his eyes slammed shut. His hand seized the table. His chin almost touched the food. "Oh, God," he said. Then he stood and bolted to the restroom, where he remained a long time. When he returned Loretta Dannings was gone. Brad sat. Next to his plate lay a note and a check. He moved the check to get to the note, then decided not to read it. He jammed the note into his jacket pocket. He pushed the plate of pasta across the table next to her abandoned meal. He inhaled deeply, studying the check, especially the two names at the top, then ripped it into pieces. He watched the other diners eat. When he was sure he could handle it, he retrieved the note, ironed it on the table with his hand, and began to read.           Dearest Brad,           I can't do this right now. It's too hard. I've made my choice and I assure you it was my choice.           You're too young to understand. You think everything has to be difficult, but it doesn't. It can be           easy. It can be philosophical. I'm sorry you have to walk home, but I'm sure it will stop raining           soon. I will call you when it's over. Or maybe it would be better if I didn't. I'm leaving a check           for the bill and tip. It's my own money.           Loretta Dannings After he read the note twice more, he rolled it tightly and stuck it into the pasta. The waitress came by and he handed her cash. Soon after the waitress brought him the boxes of food. He sat for an hour, watching the rain and picking at his jacket. When the rain slowed, he left the boxes on the table and walked out of the café. The rain started pouring again the minute he was on the street. He trudged head down, his jacket buttoned to the top, his hands punched into its pockets. He was halfway home when he realized whose brand of cigarette he had eaten, but by then it was too late. (c) Jim Valvis 2000

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