Free Cities I've Never Lived In: Stories by Sara Majka

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    The next morning they picked up his work then found a pair of boys’ boots for her in a thrift store on the way home. As they drove, the highway emptied and the sky widened. Pines on both sides grew taller and thicker. When Leigh fell asleep, he opened the bottle of whiskey, drank. What did it matter? It was straight road for hundreds of miles. He stopped outside Bangor at a discount food store. Near Orono there was a place that sold expired beer. He looked at a pumpkin beer clouded with sediment. The man working there tipped the bottle in the light, said, Should be fine.
    They drove 9 toward 193. He had wanted to name her after a small town there called Aurora. The center of town was a gas station with a café, and the town hall, and then two-family apartments with porches. He thought it could be a place to start over. There would be as good as anywhere. He wondered what it would be like, to pull to the side of the road, and enter the café to ask about a place to stay, and the next morning finding a job and building a life without anyone knowing who they were. He didn’t want to bring her back home. He wanted to start again, but it also frightened him, because there would be nothing to keep them from trying again and again, until it became a repetition, each time the surface of them growing dimmer, more transparent, a father and daughter in the entrance of a café. He told her they would be like settlers, like in Oregon with the wagons, and waited for her to ask what that was, but she just looked out the window during the time it took for the town to pass.

    When he was married and would take work to the gallery, he used to sleep in the cab of his truck. He preferred it to sleeping at a friend’s place, arriving and standing in the middle of the living room, tall and slim, alien to his surroundings. If they asked, he’d say he was sleeping at a friend’s that they didn’t know. Stepping out of his cab in the morning to the sun low and bright down the tree-lined streets, he’d blink and pound one fist into the other. Then he’d walk to get coffee and rolls at the bakery, walking until he was either warm or at the water. At the water he’d throw bits of bread for the birds. And then often it was to the library or the museum. If it was warm enough to sit in the park, he’d find a shaded place to drink and write descriptions of what he saw. He liked to be a little drunk when calling his wife.
    It was harder for him to tell what came next. He had decided they would have to move to Portland so that he could find work. He left Leigh with Sheila so that he could go to Portland to look for a place. Walking in the West End, Paul saw a sign in a window and called. He thought they would be renting the rooms that had the sign, and he imagined the tall windows looking onto the street; that they would have a piano, and if the ceilings weren’t tin, they at least would have molding. Instead the woman took him to rooms behind the building. There were collapsed lawn chairs and a plastic pool someone had tried to grow a garden in. Tall trees lined the back. The woman had trouble with the keys. At last she got the door open and drew back a curtain.
    You can plant outside if you want, she said.
    Does it get sun?
    It does, she said, it’s just too late now. She said it held heat well and he couldn’t imagine much of anything getting out anywhere. She said that someone was coming to look at it at three. He remembered his years of living alone in these kinds of apartments and told the woman he would take it.
    When he told Sheila that he needed to return to Portland to look for work, Sheila didn’t question him, so he didn’t have to explain. He had put the new key on the ring, but he didn’t tell her this. They smoked on the stoop while the children played. He wondered what he would grow in the summer, if the window would get enough light to be able to grow seedlings. Leigh would grow marigolds, he thought. There was a