Free When the Saints by Sarah Mian

laughing. “I swear to Christ, that’s the last thing you said to me before you left home a million years ago.”
    “It’s probably true,” I tell Kim. “And he was only eleven.”
    I look around at his walls. He’s got a Jack Daniel’s calendar with Jewell’s prenatal appointments scrawled on it and a pay phone mounted next to the fridge, which he tells me is the kids’ college fund. Someone actually drops a quarter in it and makes a call while we’re sitting there. I don’t know how he rigged that up, but it’s proof enough he’s Daddy’s son.
    I glance at a photograph of him and Bird taped to the refrigerator. Their arms are slung around each other’s shoulders, hunting rifles down at their sides. Bird looks big and solid, at least a foot taller than Jackie.
    “We used to go up to the hunting cabin,” Jackie says, pointing to the photo with his bottle. “Bird shot four pheasants that day and rubbed it in my face for months. Now I tell him that was me. He don’t remember.” His smile fades and he takes a long swallow of beer. “You seen him?”
    “Yesterday,” I say.
    He doesn’t say any more. Kim brushes some highlights in my hair, talks to me about her Labrador retrievers while they’re developing. Then she leads me to the sink, rinses it all out and fluffs my hair with her fingers as she blow-dries.
    “Tabby!” Jackie whistles. “You look like a supermodel.”
    I go look in the bathroom mirror, come back smiling. “Holy shit, Kim, how can I thank you?”
    She unclips the plastic bag from my shoulders and gathers up her supplies. “See that sawed-off turd over there in the work-boots?” She points to a snaggle-toothed kid drinking out of a mug that says SEX IS BETTER THAN GRASS IF YOU HAVE THE RIGHT PUSHER. “Don’t let him near me.”
    She heads for the deck and, sure enough, he’s hot on her heels. I tap his shoulder, introduce myself, and for the next two hours get the long version of his whole life story. His last name’s Miller and since everybody calls his older brother Miller, he got stuck with Miller Lite. He’s the only game hawker in the Maritimes, training his falcon eight hours a day and getting paid zero dollars and zero cents for all his hard work. I feign interest as he shows me all his claw marks and peck scars. Secretly, I’m staring at the reflection of my new hairstyle in every available surface, including the metal toaster.
    “So, anyways,” Miller Lite says, reapplying the Band-Aid he pulled back to show me his infected neck gouge. “You should come over sometime and see my bird.” He plucks a badly rolled joint from behind his ear and lights the wrong end.
    Jackie overhears on his way to take a leak. He thumps Miller Lite on the back and says, “Sorry, man, my sister’s only interested in seeing guys’ dicks if they’re over three inches.”
    “Aw, fuck’s sakes, Jackie,” Miller Lite says, coughing out billows of smoke. “Why you got to tell everybody everything for?”
    J ACKIE NAVIGATES THE WAY TO BLUEBELLES. HE RECOG nized the address. He says his friends call it Blue Balls because married men go there after work to watch the dancers before driving home to their homely wives.
    “Course, you can buy some relief in the backroom,” he says, twisting his cap in his hands.
    “So, who’s Lyle Kenzie?”
    Jackie sticks his hat back on his head. “Just some fat fucking loser who can’t even be an alcoholic right.”
    “There’s a right way?”
    “You don’t get drunk on every kind of booze there is. You pick one staple. I seen that guy one time with a rum and eggnog sprinkled with fucking nutmeg, sipping it out of a cinnamon stick.”
    “Who is he to Poppy?”
    “I don’t know. She got herself mixed up in that skid soup down at the autobody shop. Probably buys drugs off him.”
    “When’s the last time you saw her?”
    He traces his finger in the dust on the dashboard. “Been about three months. She says she’s fine, but she ain’t.