Free Other Plans by Constance C. Greene Page A

bringing it up.
    â€œHe didn’t say anything about a visit. He’s fine. His arthritis is acting up, but otherwise he’s in fine fettle. Sends his love to you all.” His father sat down, took out a cigarette, rolled it between his fingers, looked at it, then put it on the table.
    â€œThere’s nothing I can say that I haven’t said many times, John. Same old stuff. I imagine you’re getting tired of hearing it. I know I am.” His father smiled, a slight upturning of his lips that, if he hadn’t been watching him so closely, he might’ve missed. The old fight wasn’t there.
    â€œYour time could be better spent studying than listening to me. I have to call Ed, find out how he is. You might as well go. Just try to remember I’m not talking because I enjoy the sound of my own voice. If you don’t get serious about your school-work, you’ll regret it. That’s all I had to say. Good night.”
    His father turned again to the telephone, picked up the receiver, and began to dial. He was dismissed. Without a hassle.
    Hardly believing his luck, he stumbled over his feet in his haste to leave—before the old man changed his mind.
    â€œHey, Ma,” he said, a feeling of goodwill toward men flooding him. “How’s it going?”
    The reading lamp cast long shadows on her, making her seem smaller and older than she was. She raised her head and gave him a blank look, her eyes glazed and far away.
    Then, because she looked so sad, so tired, he said, though he hadn’t planned to, “How old is this chick, anyway?”
    â€œChick?” she frowned. Then a smile broke and laugh lines fanned out from her eyes, her mouth. “You’ll take her? Oh, John, you are a love! About your age, I should think. Grace will be so pleased.”
    â€œI’m not out to please Grace,” he said. “But before we get into this any further, we have to draw up an agreement, Ma. Sort of a premarital. Like who gets the TV, who gets the BMW, that kind of junk.”
    â€œHow about who gets the kids?” she asked.
    Sometimes she got pretty big for her britches, he thought. “If she’s under fifteen or over thirty, the deal’s off. And I’m not just whistling Dixie, Ma. I mean it. A guy’s gotta have standards.”
    She pushed her glasses back into her hair and laughed. He knew he had her.
    â€œFirst,” he said, ticking off on his fingers, “I need plenty of cash. A tenner for the flicks and another tenner should do it.”
    â€œFor what?” she asked, highly amused.
    He raised his brows. “For the fun later, down at Alfie’s. What else?”
    Alfie’s was a lively gin mill down by the station that had a certain cachet due to the frequency with which its regulars got themselves juiced up and, in a strong feeling of camaraderie, had been known to put fists through windows and pound heads on floors. Not an ounce of malice was involved. In the morning, they were all friends again.
    He’d never been inside Alfie’s, but he and Keith had often hung around outside, breathing the delicious smells of stale beer and perspiration Alfie’s exuded, speaking to them of manhood, sophistication, and, best of all, debauchery.
    â€œHow’d it go with Dad?” she asked, crossing her arms on her book. “Did you part friends?”
    â€œI’ll need some ones, too, Ma, in case this girl has a sweet tooth and has to have a box of Reese’s Pieces. And we’ll need at least two bags of popcorn. A minimum of two.”
    â€œWhy don’t I just write you a blank check?”
    â€œMa, I’ll say one thing for you. When the chips are down, you give in gracefully.” He patted her on the head. “Dad’s getting as soft as a grape. He was talking to Grandy, and when he hung up he told me to get lost. I’m home free, no bruises, no nothing. How about that?”
    â€œOh,