Free Belly by Lisa Selin Davis

serious.
    “What can I get you to eat?” The waitress flipped the sheet on her guest-check pad.
    “Western egg sounds good. With meat, lots of meat.”
    Belly sipped from his lukewarm coffee and counted the paintings on the wall. Then he counted the booths, then the tables,
     the chairs, the stools at the counter, then he started on the napkin dispensers. Still, Eliza did not speak.
    “So,” he said. “They all know you here.”
    “I’ve been working downtown for eight years.”
    “That long, huh?”
    “I was two blocks away from the bar for four years, and you never came down to see me.”
    “You try running your own business and see how much free time you have.”
    “Especially if you’re running two businesses.”
    They had never discussed it. Not once. In all the time he took bets at the bar, Eliza never made mention of it, and when he
     was with her, he pretended to maintain his position as upstanding citizen, small businessman. He and Eliza never talked of
     the booking, of Loretta, of his third daughter, or of Eliza starving herself, and now he wondered what words had ever spilled
     out to fill the space between them. What could he possibly have to say? He didn’t know what to tell her about it, how to explain.
    Twelve booths, sixteen tables, fourteen stools at the counter, twenty-six napkin dispensers that he could see. She wasn’t
     even trying to fill the silence. She was doing that hippie thing, that psycho shit: just staring, just sort of smiling.
    “Right,” he said. “What else is new?”
    “Henry and I are in counseling.”
    “Jesus. Doesn’t anyone have a happy marriage anymore?”
    “I am perfectly happy being married to Henry,” she said, her voice lifting a bit. “I simply think there are times in a marriage
     when perhaps one person can use a little privacy or a bit of extra space, and that it doesn’t have to signal the end of everything.”
    “Are you telling this to him or to me?” Belly asked. He cleared his throat as Eliza continued her steady gaze upon him. “So,
     why don’t we talk about what’s happened to the retards who used to live on Union Ave.? There’s a fine topic of conversation.
     Something a little lighter, please. Man fresh out of jail here.”
    “Surely you know something about being married and living apart.”
    “I know that I didn’t marry some fat Jew guy who doesn’t eat meat like the Bible tells you to. Some freak who doesn’t like
     football and, you know, can’t make babies.”
    “I really don’t think his infertility is any concern of yours.”
    “Of course it is. The guy cannot make grandchildren. And you married him anyway.”
    She had her fake smile on again, but this time sadness seemed to seep out the sides. “Why would I want to bring children into
     a family like this?” she asked.
    “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
    “Why don’t you like Henry? He’s never been anything but kind to you. Think about how much Phil hates you. Is that better?
     Someone who punches you at a family picnic?”
    “That’s why I don’t like Henry. At least Phil is honest. Kind men are not to be trusted, Eliza.”
    “Oy vey,” she said as the waitress presented their sandwiches.
    “Anything else?” she asked, placing Belly’s plate before him. He tapped his fingers on the cool purple Formica.
    “Nothing,” said Eliza.
    Belly leaned over the table and whispered, “Eliza, has he turned you into a Jew? You sound like a Jew.”
    A little groan escaped her.
    “I’m not a Jew. I didn’t convert. I’m Catholic till I die and maybe even beyond that, so please, Belly, please drop the anti-Semitism.”
    “Hey, I’m not against the Jews or anything. They’re fine, just not to marry.”
    She shook her head. “Oh my god, you’re just so pathetic.”
    “Don’t say that to me.”
    She put her hand on his, but he swiped it away. She took a breath, then said quietly, “You’re fucked up, Dad.”
    He’d almost never heard her