Free Women Drinking Benedictine by Sharon Dilworth

surly, short-tempered. He tells her that he is too hot and too tired to spend another dull evening with Kevin. Carol suggests they go to a movie theater, and Mitch says it’s either that or the mall. She wants to bring up the woman but doesn’t know how to do it without appearing jealous. Instead, she tells him not to despair. “The heat can’t get any worse,” she promises.
    Donald is standing by the water fountain, and when Carol walks into the library, he gives up his place in line.
    â€œI was thinking about your name,” he says.
    Carol did not expect him to be there so soon. She is slightly annoyed to see him already.
    â€œYour name is like who you are,” Donald continues. “Care. Caring. Carol.”
    â€œOh, really?” Carol plans her dinner with Mitch. Since it is her night to pay, she thinks she will suggest a restaurant where they can order a nice bottle of wine. A place where they can be alone.
    â€œIt came to me this weekend when I was practicing reading,” Donald shows her a piece of paper with her name written across the top. The О and the L are crossed out and an E has been inserted. “You work just like your name. You care about people.”
    Carol is uncomfortable with this praise. She is just about to change the subject when Donald does.
    â€œI’m learning to read because my wife killed herself.” Donald is speaking too fast, and Carol misses the conjunction.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œMy wife killed herself last October.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Carol says. “That must be difficult. To be alone and all.” She makes a vague gesture with her hand as if to include all his sorrow.
    â€œI’m not alone,” Donald tells her. “I’ve got kids. Four kids.”
    I’m sure they’re a help.”
    â€œSometimes,” Donald says. “But mostly they’re a drain. A financial drain.”
    Carol nods in sympathy.
    â€œI couldn’t read my wife’s suicide note,” Donald says.
    Carol motions for him to lower his voice. He is not bothering anyone, but she feels that the things he is telling her should be whispered—at least talked about in low tones.
    â€œShe left it on the table for Julie to find. That’s my oldest, Julie, and she’s always the first one home.” Donald rips the newspaper article into long thin strips, then shapes them into different-sized spheres that remind Carol of spitballs.
    â€œDid your wife know you couldn’t read?” Carol had always assumed that adult illiterates hid the fact that they couldn’t read, especially from people close to them. But through the program she had found that there are just as many who are proud of the fact that they can’t read. One of her students was arrogant about her illiteracy. The student saw herself as a member of a private club—a club with only a few members and the numbers dwindling.
    â€œOf course she knew I couldn’t read. I was married to her, wasn’t I?” Donald arranges the newspaper balls in a line and flicks them with a snap of his thumb and index finger. They fly off the table and disappear into the gray carpet—the same color as the newspaper.
    Carol puts out her hand to stop Donald from littering in the library, but he thinks she is playing a game and aims directly at her hand as if it were a net.
    â€œThat’s why she wrote the note,” Donald says. “She wanted Julie to read it to me so that I would stop her. She wanted me to get there in time to save her.”
    Carol does not encourage him by asking about the note, so when Donald explains what happened, she tells herself that it’s not her fault. Donald talks the rest of the hour, and even though they have read nothing, when she fills out his progress card she checks the box marked satisfactory improvement.
    â€œIt’s so sad. Just a sad, sad story.” Carol stops talking to sip her wine.