Free Snow Angels by Stewart O’Nan

clothes except no tie. He’s arranged to take the day off even though he’s only begun his thirty-day probation. He’s been in this Burger Hut before, but years ago, when it was a Winky’s. To him, the real Burger Hut is downtown, across from the parking lot where everyone still hangs out. He and Annie used to end up there after a movie at the Penn. It has a counter and a grill and you have to elbow your way through. This one’s typical fast food, arow of swabbed yellow tables like gym equipment between the window booths. The one he sits down at has salt all over it. He takes a napkin and scatters it, makes sure her seat is clean. The place is relatively empty. Pairs of women have drifted over from the shopping plaza, a couple clumps of kids from the high school, a fat man in a suit and tie having two coffees with his meal. Outside a yellow Midas truck grinds by. Glenn checks his watch and looks at the draft from the traffic keeping leaves afloat over the road. His father’s Fury sits in the lot, newly washed this morning, and he wonders if Bomber has enough water. His mother says he’s crazy if he thinks Annie’s going to take him back. His father understands that he has to at least try.
    She’s late—only ten minutes, but he’s sensitive. She doesn’t take the empty space on either side of the Fury, instead swings into a spot against the window, the Maverick’s front tires hitting the concrete stop, rocking the car back. She gets out and slings her purse over her shoulder and heads purposefully across the lot, then sees the door and angrily reverses direction. By her stride, Glenn can tell she’s pissed off. He’s not ready for this, but stands to welcome her, unconsciously brushing at his jacket. She opens the door and scans the crowd with the same impatience. He’s overdressed—again—and curses first his luck and then his stupidity. He waves and she sees him.
    She doesn’t offer her cheek, doesn’t even sit down.
    â€œTough day,” he asks.
    â€œYour daughter,” she says. “And my mother on top of her. I don’t want to talk about it. Did you order yet?”
    â€œI was waiting. What do you want, your usual?”
    â€œSure,” she says, dropping her purse on the seat and taking off her jacket. “Vanilla shake though. My face has to be good for work.”
    He heads for the counter, hoping she won’t call him back to give him money.
    At the table Annie lights up and pulls a silvered-paper ashtray in front of her. On the way over she zipped into a Stop-n-Go for a fresh hardpack of Marlboros and had one in the lot with the car off, torturing herself for hitting Tara. She hates losing control like that, but she gets worked up and Tara won’t listen. “Do you think I like to yell at you?” Annie screams. She wonders how much Tara understands, how much she’ll remember. Annie can’t reach that far back, only to first grade, her classmate Vanessa Cheeks standing in the middle of the room, reddening as she pees on the floor.
    It’s cold next to the window, and she drapes her jacket over her shoulders. She looks around; there’s no one who knows them. She doesn’t know what shewants from this lunch, why she’s here. She’s tired of her life being fucked up.
    Glenn comes back with the shake and a numbered pickup slip. “I thought you quit.”
    I m just upset.
    â€œWhat was the trouble?”
    â€œShe wanted to come too. Actually she wanted you.”
    â€œI know how that can get,” he says. “She does that with me all the time. ‘I want Mommy, I want Mommy.’ It’s normal according to my mother.”
    â€œYeah,” Annie says. She’s heard enough of Olive’s wisdom; she doesn’t need advice from a woman who’s never given birth. She puts out her cigarette and starts on her shake, hoping he’ll let it go.
    â€œYou’re