Free Burying Ben by Ellen Kirschman Page A

hesitates. “So what did you do this w eekend beside beat yourself up?”
    “Nothing much.”
    “Seeing an y one?”
    “You sound like m y m o t her. No, I’m not seeing anyone. All the decent m en want wo m en way younger than m e.”
    “Not all of the m . Janice and I are the sa m e age.” He takes another draw on his pipe. “I know you. You have pretty high s t andards, m aybe too high when it co m es to m en ? ”
    “I have two standards, vertical and breathing. And no therapists. I’m through with m en who’d rather talk about a relationship than have one.”
    Mark and I had spent m onths in therapy. All the ti m e he was secretly seeing Melinda, displacing his guilt onto m e while I struggled to understand what I had done to m ake him so distant. I was trying to patch things up. He was trying to let m e down easy.
    “One m ore thing,” I add. “Whoever he is, he should be turned on by cellulite.”
    Gary m akes a face and gives m e a gentle punch o n m y ar m . “ A s a m atter of fact, I have an idea for you. Janice and I are re m odeling our house. We like the contractor a lot. He ’ s easy going, responsible and plenty s m art. I have no idea if he likes cellulite. His na m e is Frank and he ’ s single. Interested ? ”
    “ W ait ‘til t h e dust s e ttle s .”
    “ W hen will that hap p e n ?”
    “Your guess is as good as m i ne.”
    Chapter Twelve
     
     
    Fran’s Coffee Shop is a favorite with Kenil w orth cops. Fran her s elf is a legend. I’ve been asked by the cops so m any t i mes if I’ve e a ten th e r e, t h at I f eel like I’m f ailing s o m e basic rite of passage.
    This is one failure I can fix.
    Fran is behind the counter turning e n or m ous h a mburgers on a griddle using a sheet rock trowel as a spatula. Onions and gar l ic sizzle in a pool of cooking oil. Her face is flushed and her hair curls da m ply over her ears.
    She sets a bowl of soup in front of m e. “Start with this, hon. I’ll get your dinner order in a m i nute.”
    She m oves quickly for a large wo m an, orchestrating conversations bet w een patrons and shouting at a s m all troupe of developmentally disabled m en wo r king in t h e kitchen. At the rate they move, I suspect she e m ploys them m ore as an a c t of charity than efficiency.
    Police m e morabilia and plastic flowers dec o rate the wall over the griddle. In the center is a s m all shrine to Fran’s husband, B . G., a Kenilworth cop who was killed fifteen years ago responding to a do m estic violence call. There are spots of grease and to m ato sauce everywhere but on B.G. ’ s photo.
    Three young Kenilworth cops are eating at the counter. One of them looks up. “ W hat ’ s up, Doc ? ” he says, grinning, as though he had invented the joke. They laugh and si m ultaneously tilt their heads to their shoulder mics. They ’ r e on their feet and out the door in a m i nute, leaving their h a lf-eaten m eals on the counter.
    “Poor kids never have ti m e to eat, let alone digest.” Fran wipes her hands on her apron. “You m ust be the depart m ent doctor I’ve been hearing about. I’ve been wanting to m eet you, but I know you’ve been busy. Tragic about that Go m ez boy.” She hands me a m enu. “ W h a t’ll you have ? ”
    I order the m eatloaf. It arrives from the kitchen, big as a place m at, covered with gravy and surrounded by potatoes. Fran asks t w ice if I want a se c ond helping and when I refuse, she s ets a p i ece o f pie and a cup of c o ffee in front of me.
    “Mind if I join yo u ?” She calls so m eone to co m e out of the back and tend to the counter. “I gotta get off these feet.”
    She p ours herself a coffee and squeezes he r bulky body onto the st o ol next to me. I look down at her feet. H er ankles are swollen. Ropey purple veins twine around her thick calves.
    “Things settled down yet ? ” she asks.
    I want to t e ll h e r th a t t h ings have s e ttled down so m u ch it’s like Ben never existed. Out of