Free Dangerous Times by Phillip Frey Page B

threatened.
    “Oh Gawd, my son’s mad at me.” She took a
defiant swallow and set the glass on the table, put her hands on
his shoulders and pushed him down into the chair. “Yeah, an’ I’m
jus’s mad at you, mister!”
    “Take it easy,” Kirk said. He ladled some
stew into his bowl. “Why don’t you go lie down,” wanting her to
leave the kitchen so he could eat in peace.
    “Take it easy,” Beverly mimicked him. She
took her drink off the table and took another swallow. “How can I
take it easy when I worry ‘bout this space—place all the time.
Jesus H,” she complained, “why’s the pool temp’ture so high? Nobody
uses it, so cold out.”
    “Thermostat, probably. I’ll check it in the
morning when I clean the pool,” Kirk told her, hoping she was done.
In the uneasy silence that followed he started in on the stew.
    “Darn thermal-stat,” his mother said at the
sink, gazing down at a soaking pot. She turned to him and caught
his smile. “Oh, an’ now Mr. Take It Easy thinks I’m bein’
funny.”
    “It’s therm-o-stat,” he explained.
    “It’s not the thermal-stat, it’s the water
heater. Works, doesn’t work, works, doesn’t work—Mrs. Fleming
bangin’ on my door ‘bout it!”
    Kirk watched her put a hand on the
countertop and steady herself. Lowering his eyes he had more stew.
And he forced his thoughts onto the carburetor he would be putting
in tonight; going over the other parts he needed to check to make
sure the car would perform properly.
    Thoughts soon broken:
    “Mrs. Fleming bangin’ on my scream-less
door. Where is the new scream door you promised me? Place’s is
gonna be flull a lies—I mean full a flies,” Beverly giggled.
    “Scream door,” Kirk said with a sad shake of
the head. “It’s winter, Mom. There aren’t any flies,” he added with
appetite dwindling.
    “Oh Gawd, guess I’ll jus’ hafta wait ‘til
summer,” she spoke in singsong.” Then said harshly, “Jesus H!”
    Kirk wanted her to stop. He wanted them all
to stop; Staub…Lisa…
    Beverly going on about how she can hardly
meet the mortgage, the one vacancy driving her to ruin. She said,
“You get pract’ly free rent with that tramp you live with—an’ you
don’t help like you’re s’posed to!”
    “Lisa’s not a tramp,” he insisted, feeling
the need to protect her. Though he did have his doubts, wondering
again about her…semper fidelis, always faithful.
    Beverly took another drink and backed
against the sink to support herself. “I know what it is,” she
nodded. “It’s her lookie-looks. Yup, Lisa’s a real plum. Well,
lemme tell you this, mister, every plum turns into a prune.”
    “Hasn’t happened to you,” Kirk said.
    Beverly turned her back on him and played
nervously with the ends of her long blond hair. “You’re my son,”
she said. “You see me different…”
    Face hidden from him, he could hear her
crying. Kirk got up and went to her. “C’mon,” he said, draping an
arm around her, “a little sleep will do you a lot of good.”
    “No!” she snapped, freeing herself from him.
“I wan’ my darn scream door!”
    “Okay then, I’ll go to the hardware tomorrow
and have your screen door made; I promise.”
    “Tomorrow—everything with you is tomorrow!
It’s Friday night an’ they’re open ‘til nine,” Beverly pleaded
drunkenly.
    “That’s it, we’re done,” Kirk told her.
“Have another drink and I’ll see you later.”
    Passing the kitchen table he grabbed his
jacket off the back of the chair. He headed for the door and heard
Beverly holler after him:
    “You get back here, mister, an’ finish your
food! If your father were alive!”
    Damn it, how many times had he heard that.
He left her there, crying softly, repeating, “If your father were
alive…”
    • • •
    Frank stood at the side of Kirk’s Cottage
Six, in the shadows under the burned-out security bulb. He had a
clear view of Kirk leaving Cottage One and heading for the