Free April & Oliver by Tess Callahan Page A

you’ll smother the kid.”
    “We were just talking,” the man said. “She reminds me of mine when she was that age.”
    Her father pointed his thumb over his shoulder and the chinless man left, but April had not been afraid. She was acquainted
     with the thickness in his speech, the careful clumsy way he moved; he was like someone she had known a long time.
    “Hey, pipsqueak,” her father said, sitting down. “You flirting again?” She smiled. He tapped a cigarette on the tabletop.
     “So, who you gonna marry when you grow up?” he asked, lighting up. It was a ritual question.
    “You, Daddy.”
    “Then you better save yourself.” He smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”
    It is one of the few memories she recalls from before Buddy was born.
    April in the mirror appears haggard and small, but her father always looked confident behind the bar, in his element. She
     can still see the quiet, pleased expression on his face when he could make a girl blush with a simple compliment. If she lingered
     until his shift was over, he would invite her to play pool, stand behind her as she shot, brush against her lightly as he
     circled the table and took aim. Often her father forgot April was watching.
    When their parents fought, Buddy would come to April and huddle against her. April rocked, listening to the rising crescendo
     of their voices, bracing herself.
    Once when she was nine, she awoke in the night to the sound of her mother screaming. April’s fingers iced over and her pulse
     throbbed in her ears.
He’s killing her,
she thought. Halfway down the stairs, April stopped. In the dim, greenish glow of the fluorescent stove light, she saw her
     mother on the kitchen floor, nightgown shoved above her breasts, hands clutching her husband’s back. He was moving against
     her like a boat docked in a storm, rocking helplessly against the pier. He kissed her, swallowing her sobs with his mouth,
     and for one shocking moment, April understood.
    By midnight, the commuters are gone and the bar is sparsely filled with the after-dinner crowd, people escaping arguments
     or planning them. April eats pretzels to keep her awake and mops the floor behind the bar to give people the message.
    The front door opens. She moves the mop and wrings it out, taking her time before acknowledging the customers who have seated
     themselves at the bar. She straightens up, wiping her hands on her apron, and sees Oliver’s face, stark in the mirror, with
     Bernadette beside him.
Jesus,
April thinks with a jolt. How did they find out where she works? They look sleepy and rumpled, suggesting they were curled
     up in bed only moments before. She turns to them. “What’ll it be?”
    Oliver hesitates, startled by her tone. He has never done this before, not since they were teenagers and he would stop by
     her father’s bar to bring her a sandwich for dinner. That was different. At fifteen, busing tables was nothing to be ashamed
     of.
    “Last call,” she shouts. Customers glance at their watches. She turns back to Oliver and Bernadette. He is wearing a UC Berkeley
     sweatshirt, she, a sizeable denim jacket, probably his. Without makeup, she looks pale and delicate, her thin, silken hair
     loose around her face. Oliver is unshaven, smelling faintly of breath mints and cologne. They have just made love, April concludes,
     and in the sweetness of the aftermath, decided to make her their mission. She turns her back and straightens up the bar. In
     the mirror, she sees Bernadette staring up at the stuffed merganser with cigarette holes in its wings, her forehead tense.
     Oliver puts a protective arm around her. “Have you made a decision?” April asks. “I’m trying to get out of here.”
    “Seltzer,” Oliver says.
    “You don’t have tea, do you?” asks Bernadette.
    “I can make some in the kitchen,” April says. “It’s the generic stuff. Nothing fancy.”
    “It’s too much of a bother.”
    “No bother.” April puts a seltzer on the bar in