How to Talk to a Widower

his head and flexing his biceps for the ladies. “Angie is unhappy, and Russ is unhappy,” he says. “It’s my job to make them both happy, and the way I see it, there’s only one way to do that, and the answer is you. And I know I’ll just be confirming everyone’s notion of what a shitty father I am, but in the end, doing what’s right for your son is more important than looking good, right?”
    “So you’re saying giving up your son is the noble thing to do?”
    “I’m not giving him up. I’m giving him his freedom.”
    I look at Jim, sweating through his polo shirt, so certain he’s got the upper hand, and I think about Hailey, about how big her eyes would get when she talked to me about Russ, about how hard she was on herself about being a good mother. And I think about Russ crying into the unyielding granite of Hailey’s grave, and lying in the humid dankness of Jim’s basement listening to him and Angie fuck. And I think about how alone I am, how the desolation is like a cancer spreading through my gut, and I hear Claire’s voice in my head, but I’m pretty sure that it’s my own voice coming out of my mouth, saying, “Yes.”
    “What do you mean, yes?”
    Just say yes.
    “I mean okay. He can stay with me. I’ll take him.”
    And if Jim is surprised, he doesn’t let on. He just says, “Okay,” and reaches across the table to shake my hand, like he’s just sold me a car, and for reasons that elude me, I shake his back, smiling like an idiot. “He can come down to Boca to see us on holidays,” he says.
    “He’ll be thrilled to hear it.”
    “Great,” Jim says, getting to his feet. “He’ll live with us until January, when we move. Maybe, once he knows he’s not being forced to come, he’ll be able to calm down and enjoy himself, get to know Angie and his brother a little bit better.”
    “Sounds good,” I say.
    “Okay,” Jim says, reaching down to pat my shoulder. “Good talk.” And then he’s gone, weaving his way through the crowd to rush home and tell Angie the good news, no doubt figuring it will get him some extra loving tonight.
    I sit there for a long time after he leaves, staring into space, oblivious to the crowd around me, running my tongue over the smooth lip of my beer mug. They’re playing an old Billy Joel song on the jukebox, and I’m fifteen again, and I’ve just crashed a stolen Mercedes. My tongue is cut and I can taste the blood in my throat, my head is spinning as I watch the cops running in slow motion toward me, and I’m wondering, as I so often do, how I manage to get myself into these messes?

21

    LONG AFTER THE COMING ICE AGE HAS BURIED this civilization, when archaeologists dig up downtown New Radford, the first thing their shovels will hit is the giant fiberglass Starbucks coffee cup suspended over the strip mall on Broadway like a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. It’s far and away the highest structure on the street, second in height only to the clock tower above the elementary school two miles away. Studying the way the town spreads out in concentric circles from Broadway, they might deduce that Starbucks was our temple, and coffee our God. And, much like God, I don’t believe in coffee. I don’t care how they flavor it, steam it, caramelize it, whip cream it, or foam it, it will still score your stomach lining like acid, ruin your breath, and strip the coating on your nerves, leaving them raw and exposed. Studies have not yet shown that Starbucks causes cancer, but the lawsuits are coming. I’m sure of it.
    The problem with New Radford’s downtown is that there’s just not very much of it. Because of the municipality’s maniacal determination to preserve the rustic feel of the town, the nearest true business district is three and a half miles down, where Broadway becomes South Broadway and New Radford becomes just plain old Radford. But where Broadway runs through New Radford, there’s just the one block of stores: Antonelli’s Pizza, CVS, a few surprisingly mediocre restaurants, a mom-and-pop stationery store, the adjacent offices of the town’s two competing real estate brokers, the Riviera Hair Salon, the Pink Petals Nail Salon, Mom’s Homemade Ice Cream Shoppe, and, of course, Starbucks. Around the corner, on Roaring Creek Road, is the Super Stop and Shop and Blockbuster Video. A handful of investors tried to buy a piece of the Stop and Shop parking lot to put up an arcade, but the zoning board shot them down, just