Free Gathering String by Mimi Johnson Page A

food. “The Red Sox/Yankees game. Opening day.”
    “Great. You with the Sox or the Yankees?” She grabbed the remote, and started flipping through channels.
    He made a face. “It's a genuine accent, hon. You?”
    “Love the Yanks. I was born in upstate New York.”
    “Aw, they’re all juiced. How else do you explain Bucky-Fucking-Dent?”
    She shook her head. “Before my time.”
    Sam frowned at that and said, “There’s the channel.” He shifted carefully, trying to maneuver to see better and relieve the ache.
    Watching him, she said, “You’re uncomfortable. Move over there.” She indicated the chaise in front of the TV. “I’ll bring the fries.” She took the plate and sat down on the floor next to it. He felt a little silly, but it did feel better to stretch out, taking the pressure off his ribs.
    They came in on the top of the eighth, Boston up by two. Together they watched with rapt attention, sharing fries and trash talking. By the bottom of the ninth the game was tied. She cheered wildly, he swore bitterly, when the Yankee shortstop homered with a man on and two out. “Christ, every year they buy themselves a team. Well, fuck those fucking prima donnas.”
    “Oh, but they’re such good prima donnas,” she laughed at his scowl, but then her smile faded. “You look really tired, Sam. Why don’t I go down and get your card? You need to sleep.”
    For the last half hour Sam had been aware of a drifting feeling, the pain medication and beer working together, taking the edge off. He shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s such good idea. I’m OK. You were right. It’s better with some company. Want to go see Mount Rushmore? It’s supposed to be pretty at night.” The streetlights had just come on outside.
    “I don’t know.” She stood up, putting the plate on the table, and glanced at the window, not bothering to remind him that it was raining. “My face is such a mess. And my hair is wild.”
    He liked the way she wore it, a short mass of curls framing her face, and he said, “The swelling’s down some.” Then he asked, randomly, “Do you look like your mother?”
    She looked up from brushing crumbs off the front of the robe. “My dad says I do. We have the same coloring. I don’t remember her. When I was two, she was pregnant again and her blood pressure whacked out. She died of a stroke. The baby went with her.”
    “That’s tough. Guess that’s why you’re close to your dad.” She nodded. “You really got two brothers who are Navy fliers?”
    She nodded again. “They went to Annapolis. So did my father. He never remarried.”
    “He taught his boys to fly, but not you?”
    She shrugged. “He wanted to when I turned 16, but we were living in Hawaii then, and I was really into surfing. I …” she paused. His vacant look told her he wasn’t following.
    “Did you always wear it short?” His voice was a little slurred, and her brow knitted in confusion. “Your hair? No mom to fuss with it? Put it in barrettes for you when you were little?”
    She ran her hand through the curls self-consciously. “I suppose.”
    Looking at her, standing by his side, he was absently surprised when he heard himself actually murmur what he was thinking. “You are so pretty.”
    Staring hard into his dilated eyes, Tess suddenly smiled. “Have you been taking some of those pain pills, Sam?”
    The eyes drooped closed. “Right before you knocked.”
    “OK. Well, I’m going to go down and get your keycard so you can get back into your room and sleep.”
    “They won’t give it to you. And you’re wearing a robe,” he muttered, but couldn’t force his eyes open as she replied softly, “They don’t know which room I took. I’ll keep my head down, and people will just think I’ve been in the pool.” He heard her mute the TV. “Don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute.”
    Sam didn’t want her to leave, but his eyelids were too heavy, and he couldn’t find the words to stop