feet and make himself a drink (even if his wife would not have one with him) before getting his marching orders for the evening’s proprieties?
“Okay, then,” Maureen said a little more softly. She walked over and kissed his cheek, depositing there some of the sweat from her upper lip. Stall reached up and wiped it off, then turned away and secretly tasted it. Good. (And for the hundredth time wondered why he couldn’t do things like this where his wife could see them.) He loved her sweat but not his own and not these long hot summers. Someday they’d be able to afford air-conditioning. He’d debated with himself about where the first machine should go—their bedroom or the kitchen, which he sometimes called Vulcan’s Forge, though he did not like to think of his wife as a hulking demigod.
The kitchen smelled good. The chicken casserole, probably. Probably Maureen had made two of them, one for the family and one for Sarah Leaf.
Stall found the gin bottle in the cupboard above the refrigerator and began to build himself a martini. “Where’s Corey?”
“Spending the night with Jenny Sprague.”
Maureen said this with a practiced lack of inflection. Stall knew she was thinking, as he certainly was, that tonight, with no daughter in the house, he might lift her nightgown. He even allowed himself to wonder if his wife had encouraged their daughter to sleep under the roof of Gerald Sprague, an agronomist who worked for the university’s Institute of Food and Agricultural Sciences, for reasons of nightgown-lifting. It was possible, and it occurred to Stall that Jack Leaf’s death might have something to do with it. Death, he believed, made people more than ordinarily interested in life.
Maureen left the kitchen and returned with a coat hanger that held a new blazer almost identical to the one Stall had sacrificed to Jack Leaf’s mortal dignity. She stood solemnly holding it out to him. The price tag dangled from a pin in the front pocket. “On sale at Wilson’s Department Store. I thought this might cheer you up. And you need it, so don’t complain about the money.”
“Maureen, I—”
“Oh, shut up and come here.” She held out her open arms to him.
* * *
After the dishes were washed and dried and Maureen had freshened her makeup, she said, “It’s time to call Sarah.”
Stall said, “Okay.” He waited.
“You call her.”
“Me.”
“You. You’re going to be the chairman. You need to practice these things.”
Stall called Sarah Leaf.
“Sarah, I’m so sorry.”
“I know, Tom.”
“Maureen and I want to come over and see you, and bring some—”
“God, Tom, please no food.”
“Oh, oh, well, Sarah, of course, if you—”
“I’m sorry, Tom, that was rude. It’s just that I’ve done nothing since I heard the news but cry and answer the doorbell, and cry, and thank people for casseroles, and then Maddie Harding came over, and we’ve done nothing but play gin rummy for a penny a point and drink bourbon and brush our teeth every time the doorbell rings. I’m just sick of it. I know that sounds terrible, but it’s the truth, and isn’t this a good time for a little truth, Tom?”
“Well, all right, Sarah, we won’t bring any food. Is there, uh, is there anything we can do for you? Anything at all? Anything you need done, we’ll take care of it for you.”
Stall heard a long sigh, then, “Take me to a bar. No, meet me at a bar. The cheapest one we can think of. I know! The bowling alley out on Waldo Road! I want to drink cheap whiskey and not see anybody I know but you two for the rest of the day.”
“Sure, Sarah, we’ll do that. We can do that.” Stall covered the phone with his hand and looked at Maureen, who had only heard his side of the conversation. If her face had been words, it would have said, What the . . . ? Stall said, “So we’ll pick you up?”
“No, meet me there. I want to drive. And I want to drive drunk. I want to take some goddamn risks.”
“Okay, Sarah. We’re on the way.”
Stall had his hand on the doorknob when the doorbell rang. A young Negro man stood on the front step holding a plastic clothing bag. There was an envelope pinned to the bag. The man said, “Dr. Stall?”
“Uh, yes?”
“This is for you, suh.” The man handed him the bag and stepped back. A delivery truck idled in the driveway.
Stall said, “Do I need to sign anything?”
“No, all taken care of.”
Stall dug out his wallet and tipped the man a dollar.
“Thank you, suh.”
The Stalls went back to their kitchen and Stall handed the bag to Maureen, who unzipped it while he unpinned the note. She removed a blazer from the bag almost identical to the one Stall had placed over Jack Leaf’s face. She looked at the label inside the coat. “Fancy,” she said.
Stall read the note aloud: “Dear Tom, With my compliments and my gratitude, Jim Connor.”
Maureen said, “Jim? That’s even fancier. Two coats in one night and this one’s better than the one I got you.”
“I like yours better. And I’m returning this one.”
“Don’t do anything rash.”
Stall hung the coat in the closet by the front door. “Let us go then, you and I, coatless to a bowling alley.”
* * *
On the way to Alley Gatorz Bowling Center, Stall told Maureen about Sarah playing gin rummy and drinking bourbon with Amos Harding’s wife. “And she calls her Maddie.”
“Must be short for Madeleine.” Maureen shook her head and looked out the window of the Packard at one of the town’s ugliest streets, a strip of junkyards, industrial dry cleaners, and auto body shops.
“Bourbon and gin rummy,” Stall said. “Who knew the old lady had it in her?”
“She probably loves getting away from Harding.”
To that, Stall said nothing.
“When I’m an old lady, I’ll have it in me.”
Stall wanted to say, When I’m an old man, I’ll put it in you, but he kept it to himself. He said, “Are you gonna drink, or are you finished with demon rum forever?”
“I’ll let you know when I see the demon quivering in a glass.”
“Fair enough.” Stall pulled into the parking lot.
Bowling alley bars were the same
