Free A Good Divorce by John E. Keegan Page B

Graphic evidence was unforgettable. But if I caught her, I could end this sickening, lingering fascination. Maybe I could make a case for having the kids if their mother was neglecting them in favor of a parade of tomcats sneaking into the house. You were who you slept with.
    I lowered myself to the patio. My arms were shaking and there were grooves where the edges of the brick windowsill had dug into my skin. I brushed the grit off the front of me, wondering if I’d have to take the suit to the dry cleaners. Avoiding the rake, wagon, and planter boxes on the patio, I crept along the back of the house. The bottom of the dining room curtain had caught against one of Jude’s cactus plants on the sill and left a triangular opening through which I could see two people at the table. They were engaged in an animated discussion, the kind that good first impressions are made of. The only light was the glow from the kitchen so I couldn’t make out their faces.
    When I reached the street, I tried the door to the VW and it was open. The hedge across the top of the retaining wall hid me from the house. The driver’s seat was in a forward position and I had to work to get my knees under the steering column. I could smell the plastic straw in the seat protector and a faint orange blossom perfume. Behind the laminated holder attached to the visor there were some papers that I slid out, looking for the registration. Instead, I found an envelope with phone numbers and dollar calculations on the back. It was addressed to Lillian Epstein.

5.
    I went to the Deluxe Bar & Grill for dinner and took a table near the back that had enough light to write by. One of the Group Health therapists had suggested I start keeping a journal to get in touch with myself. I couldn’t stand to be home alone anyway. It didn’t matter whether I talked to anyone. The clatter of dishes and scraping chairs were company enough. Monday night football played on the TV over the mirror behind the bar.
    Jude and I had met once in a noisy tavern like this in Wallace, Idaho when a friend and I were driving home from a spring break ski trip in Kalispell. My friend’s girlfriend and Jude had taken the train and we’d agreed to meet at the biggest tavern that had the word silver in the title. In its glory days, Wallace had some of the most productive mines in the west and the most notorious whorehouses. When we walked into the Silver Bucket in our ski parkas, the girls were sitting there in skirts. “You sure look good with color in your face,” Jude had said. I don’t think she ever blinked that night as we drank pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon and she stroked the hair on my arms. On the way back to Quincy, my friend drove while Jude and I necked in the backseat. We were a little tipsy and massaged each other’s ears with hand lotion in lieu of other pleasures.
    A waitress with dark rings around her eyes, hollowed from lack of sleep, brought my open-face Deluxe steak sandwich. It was medium rare, with juice dripping into the toast, surrounded by thick, hand-made fries. She plunked a bottle of ketchup and A-l sauce on the table and left. Jude would have gone ballistic; she said I should cut down on red meat and the fries were poison. I wasn’t all that hungry and turned the plate the long way to make room for my journal. All I could see was the grease.
    I couldn’t stop thinking of the kids, how when I came home from school at their age my mom was there. I didn’t even own a house key because the door was always unlocked. There was always stuff in the refrigerator to make snacks with. Mom would often have something baked cooling on the breadboard. She’d ask how school went and, if I was going over to someone’s house, what time I’d be home. She always knew where I was.
    I tried chewing the matching squares of steak and toast that I’d cut, but the meat was gristly and made my jaw tired so I spit it onto my