Free Stop Here by Beverly Gologorsky

Was there something she wanted just for herself? A piece of clothing, a trip, a better job, she can’t remember now.
    What she does remember is what she feared even then, that Bruce wouldn’t last through the marriage, that she’d be left alone with three young children. There were always clues she was good at ignoring. Things can turn on you when you refuse to pay attention.
    She undresses, the purple dress a dark puddle on the floor. Then lowers herself in the bath, slowly stretches out. She reaches for the wineglass. No use letting good stuff go to waste. Faint voices reach her from the always-too-loud TV, sounds that will follow her into the den where she sleeps on the pullout couch. Where she gazes at the painting of three little girls in a field of daisies, cherubs with smiling faces lit by the sun.
    The phone rings. No doubt it’s Patti. Bruce won’t pick up. She’ll ask Patti for two days’ work at the bakery, save enough for a vacation. When’s the last time she left home? Bruce will have to fend for himself. He’ll never get out of bed. He’ll eat a bunch of crap, gain more weight. He’ll develop heart problems. She’ll return to find him in the ICU with just enough time left for her to say sweet nothings before his eyes close forever. The water tickles the back of her neck. Her body relaxes despite her thoughts as the bubbles quietly disappear.

 
    5
    In the Silence
    Wiping his hands on the damp towel, Nick peers over the divider. Amazing the junk customers leave behind. Ava’s clearing tables with the haste of someone stalking free time. She seems more energetic since that lying-faced guy vanished. Bursting past the kitchen door, she deposits a load of trays and turns to go.
    â€œHow’s your son?” He can do better than that.
    â€œFrisky. Girls are different. How’s Glory?”
    â€œShe’s looking for a job, not sure about college, moping, sharing little.”
    â€œYeah . . . well . . . give her time.”
    â€œAs much as she wants.”
    â€œNice beard. I’m going to get the newspapers.”
    How about a drink? What’s so hard about that?
    His ear picks up the incessant drip of the sink tap. He’ll fix it tomorrow. Charge Murray a plumber’s fee. Yeah, right. Bruce shuffles in through the back door, an hour late. A man so worn he makes Nick feel chipper. Bruce wasn’t always this way. He used to pay attention to whatever crossed his path, kept an eye on unsavory possibilities. He would think nothing of taking a heavy bin of dirty dishes out of anyone’s hands. A helper. Now, well . . .
    â€œWhat’s happening?” he gathers his gear.
    â€œNothing.” Bruce speaks even slower than he moves.
    He ought to stay a minute and make conversation. They’re buddies, sort of, or would be if they were on a desert island together. Instead he heads out the back door.
    Except for Ava and Bruce, he has little to do with fellow employees. His run-in with Murray still tastes sour. He tried to enlighten him about the war. Murray insisted in that loud voice of his, the boys over there are saving New York from another attack. Why did he bother? No matter the facts, the man has an opinion about everything. Yesterday it was Nick’s beard, but he’s not about to conform to some cockamamy dress code to work in a kitchen.
    â€¢ • •
    Early morning driving. He loves it—no traffic, Glory still asleep. She’d better be. A girl of eighteen isn’t always where you want her. He’s headed toward Jones Beach, his usual stop before home. No one around but a few male shapes sprawled on the sand. From their garb, he’d guess they have little reason to wake up. The boardwalk is shuttered, light splattering the dark horizon like a cracked egg. He locates his bench facing the ocean. If it weren’t for Glory, he’d stretch out here, count a few sheep. But she’d know he