Free The O. Henry Prize Stories 2011 by Laura Furman

sinews in his cheeks.
    That would be me, I say with a little laugh. I can’t remember the last time I was alone, or with a stranger, someone I had to say new things to.
    Who’re you going to visit? Cody asks. We stop at a four-way and he sits there too long.
    Just a guy, I say. He owes me some money.
    Cody snorts. Don’t I know it, he says. Then he launches in, telling me all about life at Tommy’s place, which he should definitely not do to anyone outside. For miles, he talks about their new satellite dish, his bust last year and how Tommy bailed him, how much product Tommy’s putting out, then, inevitably, there’s the story of some girl who he has the hots for, this one being Tommy’s old lady. Blabbady, blab, blab, blab, goes Cody, as only a meth head can. We get to the city. What will be, will be, Cody the philosopher finally says about life and love at Tommy’s.
    That’s fatalistic, I say, pulling out the word from someplace. You can’t do a thing about a life like that, man. Stop here.
    Cody pulls into the parking lot at the playground I used to go to when I was a kid. It’s too cold for anyone to be on the swings, and the slide would catch even the tiniest piece of skin. I turn and smile at Cody.
    Duck down, he says, pulling the pipe out of the glove box. We laugh.
    …
    I race the five blocks to Oak on foot, keeping my head down. I practically do the two-step. I rub my fingers together inside my mittens. On Oak, all of the houses are bigger than my old one. They’re huge blocks of brick—brown, red, cream, with the sun hitting their front windows so the glass glows like porcelain. Richard von Behren at 653 Oak is at the end of the block. The house is two-story, red and brown in alternating groups of bricks, and there are two tall windows in the front, both of them with fake little wrought-iron balconies.
    From the skinny window next to the front door I can see back into one of those kitchens that flows into a dining room. Richard von Behren is getting a plate down from a high shelf. When he answers the door and sees it’s me, he scrunches his eyebrows together and purses his lips.
    Sorry, he says, but we’re not buying anything. I could have put my son through college on what I’ve paid for candy and magazine subscriptions. A dog snorts and sticks its black muzzle between the man’s leg and the doorjamb.
    I’m lost, I say, for lack of something else. My car broke down, I add.
    What? Richard von Behren asks. Where’s your car? He sticks his head out and looks up and down the block.
    It’s up on the big street, I say, pointing with my mitten. My hand is shaking. I’m sorry to discover that I’m hopping up and down on the front mat.
    Jesus, it’s cold, Richard von B. says. Get in here, and we’ll figure this out.
    I walk in and the dog immediately puts its big paws on my shoulders. Batman, down, Richard von B. says.
    My boots drip water onto the Oriental rug in the hallway. To my right is the flowing dining room and kitchen, everything gleaming; to my left is the living room with deep red walls, bookcases and pictures, and a huge piano. Oriental rugs all the places my parents have carpeting. Richard von Behren is skinny and hasthe same thick blond hair and pink cheeks as my dad. A blonde woman comes down the stairs with an empty laundry basket. Her hand squeaks along the banister.
    Dick, Richard von B. says to me, holding out his hand. And that’s my wife, Sherry. Hi, Sherry says, making the same face her husband did.
    This young lady is lost, Mr. von B. says. Oh, no, Mrs. von B. says.
    Share, I say. I’m Sharon. My car broke down a few blocks back. I wave my hand behind my head. I’m stamping my feet, but quietly.
    And you came all the way down here? Sherry von Behren asks.
    Where are you trying to go? Dick asks, interrupting her.
    I thought I went to school with somebody who lives on this street, but I was wrong, I say. I was coming home from band practice, I say, and my car broke