Free The City Still Breathing by Matthew Heiti Page A

But he’s already moving, crossing on the red and away. Martha eventually brings her hand down.
    â€˜Where’d he get those fancy things?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The boots. Putting them all over the furniture at the restaurant.’
    Martha looks down at the water Slim’s kicking up and sees the dark brown leather cowboy boots on his feet. She’s never seen them before but they look familiar anyway.
    â€˜Thinks he’s Randolph Scott or something,’ Lucy snorts.
    Martha flicks her cigarette, the white nub buoyed by the melting snow and then dragged down into the storm drain. ‘Well, maybe I’ll get him spurs for his birthday.’
    â€˜Why not a goddamn horse while you’re at it. Be your regular knight in shining armour. Not like his deadbeat father.’
    â€˜Lucy.’
    â€˜I’m just saying – the apple don’t fall far from the vine. What’s this business with that boy changing his name anyway?’
    â€˜His name?’
    â€˜Yeah, he’s going by Slim Slider now. Is that his … his gang name?’
    Martha looks back up the street toward the small figure of her son, just like a little boy at this distance. ‘That’s my maiden name.’
    â€˜Oh.’ Lucy shifts her purse awkwardly. And then laughs – hard, fake, an of-course-I-knew-that laugh. ‘Well, whatever name he’s trying to hide behind, he’s gonna turn out just like his father.’
    â€˜Van’ll be back.’
    â€˜Fuck’s sake, Martha.’ And she heads down the sidewalk, yelling over her shoulder. ‘Van Novak ran out on you just like that boy’s gonna.’
    â€˜He’ll be back.’ But she says it just quiet enough while Lucy’s walking ahead that no one can say any different.
    Lucy’s wheezing by the time they climb the stairs at the Empress and step onto the thick red carpet. Paper lanterns, the smell of oil and fish. Jean leads them to a booth in the back, one of the ones where you sit on a cushion on the floor. Lucy doesn’t even bother with a menu. ‘Take a Northern.’
    Martha sits with a clear view to the stairs. ‘I’ll have a tea, Jean, thanks.’
    â€˜Fuck that, she’ll have a Northern too.’
    â€˜No, really.’
    â€˜Yes, really.’
    Jean disappears behind a curtain. Lucy crosses her legs and places her palms face up on her knees, starts humming.
    â€˜Lucy, stop it.’
    â€˜What? I’m doing some yogi.’ She rolls her head from side to side, as always enjoying the performance, even more since she played the mayor’s wife in that amateur production of Bye Bye Birdie last year. ‘How’re you gonna know it’s him?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Willy.’
    â€˜Walter. I dunno, Velma didn’t say.’
    â€˜Ugh, that’s never a good sign.’ Lucy brushes imaginary crumbs off the tablecloth.
    â€˜You should let me set you up again.’
    â€˜No.’ A few dismal nights resurfacing. Men Lucy met working at Gloria’s.
    â€˜What? Didn’t you like that Indian dentist I found for you?’
    â€˜Prabir. He’s a psychiatrist.’
    â€˜What was wrong with him?’
    â€˜Nothing.’ Martha plays with the edge of her placemat, a cheap piece of paper with the Chinese zodiac printed on it. Year of the dragon, year of the rat, year of the monkey. That monkey looking all pleased with himself. That big goofy grin she’s seen before.
    â€˜Bet he did yogi. They don’t eat pork, right?’
    â€˜I dunno. He was a Catholic.’
    â€˜Don’t know how you could live without pork chops. Pork chops and dill.’
    The curtain shivers and Jean comes back through, putting two cold glasses of golden ale on the table. Lucy shakes some salt into her glass, watches the nest of bubbles rise to the surface.
    â€˜What about that hockey player I seen you talking to?’
    And for a second it’s