Free Tilt by Alan Cumyn Page A

here to make any trouble,” Ron said. He put Lily down. She clung still, a koala bear grappled to a tree limb. Ron squatted and blew a quick puff to clear the hair from her eyes.
    That was something his father used to do.
    â€œDid you bring your checkbook?” Stan’s mother said. “Or I’d be happy to take cash.” Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she said again, “Lily.”
    Lily didn’t move.
    If Stan had his broom handle he could sidekick the innocent grin off Ron’s face.
    â€œLook. This wasn’t meant to be a big thing. I just saw the ad —”
    â€œWhat are you doing for work these days, Ron?” Stan’s mother asked.
    Ron laughed bitterly. “That’s what it always comes down to with you. What’s the bottom line? What’s the measure of a man’s worth?”
    Stan’s mother’s chest shivered with quick little phony breaths. Either she was going to faint from lack of air or claw his eyes out.
    â€œI’m a carpenter,” Ron said finally. He opened his hands — his pudgy, white, non-callused hands.
    â€œFrom law to real estate to carpentry,” she snapped.
    Then a miserable gaze between the two. Stan fell into the trap of it for a time. It was hard to look away. But finally he stepped in and took Lily’s wrist — not harshly, not softly — and pulled her into the house.
    â€œHe’s not going to stay,” she whined in the vestibule. Stan wanted to wait close enough so he could spring to his mother’s aid if need be.
    â€œHe doesn’t deserve to,” Stan said.
    He couldn’t make out what they were saying out there.
    They weren’t screaming. That was something.
    Carpentry? Stan remembered his father trying to replace a spoke on Stan’s bicycle years and years ago. He remembered the wrenches, the sweat, the swear words rising to the basement rafters. And the new spoke broken, poking through the replacement inner tube. The blood on Stan’s father’s knuckles.
    Carpentry.
    Stan’s mother came through the door. Stan glimpsed the front walk. Ron was gone. He’d left on foot for somewhere.
    â€œThe end of a bloody marvelous day,” she said and closed the door by leaning all of her weight against it.
    â€”
    Stan made dinner. Pancakes, his one dish. The recipe was in a beat-up old family cookbook with stained and smelly pages. They were low on fresh milk so he used powdered, which they were also low on. Stan’s mother usually did the weekly grocery shopping Saturday morning, so often Friday dinner was sparse.
    Flour was in short supply, too, so he used more baking powder than usual and slipped in extra sugar to keep Lily happy.
    Not too much of the batter splashed on the stovetop. And there was bacon — last week’s, still hanging tough.
    If she’d just give him the money he’d do the shopping and they wouldn’t run out like this.
    Stan’s mother wandered the house glued to Gary through her telephone.
    â€œWell, what am I supposed to do? . . . I didn’t! I didn’t invite him! . . . I suppose somehow he’s been in contact with Lily. Despite our agreement! Why the hell would I be surprised by anything he does at this point?”
    Ron’s phone was still in Stan’s backpack. But if he told her . . . 
    Now was not the time.
    There was no oil so the pancakes didn’t stick together particularly well. They burned to the nonstick pan instead. The smoke alarm was going to go off any minute.
    Water-paste pancakes, charred and crumbling. At least there was syrup. Lily might eat them yet.
    â€œHe told me that Kelly-Ann and Feldon have gone to stay with her uncle . . . She’s in pre-law. He’s got money to pay for that. Maybe they’re still using her family money. And he’s a fucking carpenter.”
    She was in her work outfit still, her blouse and