Nobody's Fool

“I’ve loved him until my heart broke right in two. You could care less, so you’re the one he wants.”
    â€œListen, Vera—”
    â€œYou should have heard the filth that little tramp said to me,” she said. “It was like a terrible
smell
coming out of the phone, polluting my home.”
    â€œI wasn’t there, Vera,” Sully reminded her. “I didn’t hear it.”
    â€œlike a foul stench,” she went on. “I’ve made a clean home, Sully.”
    â€œYou sure have.”
    â€œAnd this is what he trails into it,” she said. “What’s the use?”
    â€œI don’t know, Vera,” he conceded, tired of the conversation. “I’m going to hang up now.”
    â€œRight,” she said. “Run away.”
    â€œScrew yourself, Vera.”
    â€œBe thankful you can run away,” she said. “Be thankful you’re not the one with no place to go.”
    Back at the bar Rub and Peter were right where he’d left them, and before them a pretty amazing pile of chicken bones. Peter met Sully’s eye, and his expression was that of a man who’d intuited at least portions of Sully’s conversation with his mother. Just as mysterious and annoying, Rub, for some reason, was crying.
    â€œWhat the hell’s wrong with you?”
    â€œThey’re spicy,” Rub explained. He had the orange sauce all over him. His hands were orange to the wrist, as were his cheeks and the tip of his nose. There was orange in his crew cut.
    â€œMessy, too, looks like,” Sully observed. Even Peter, a fastidious eater, Vera’s boy, had orange hands.
    Rub examined his own as if for the first time, then began licking his fingers.
    â€œI bet they were good,” Sully said. “You know how I can tell?”
    Rub looked genuinely curious, as he usually was concerning all forms of mental telepathy.
    â€œBecause you didn’t save me a single one.”
    Rub looked down at the pile of bones in front of him, as if in search of any that had not been picked completely clean. Not finding any, his expression darkened. “He ate as many as me,” he said, indicating Peter. “How come you never get mad at him?”
    â€œI’m not mad at anybody, Rub,” Sully said. “I was just making a simple observation. I noticed you ate all the wings.”
    â€œHim too,” Rub insisted.
    Sully couldn’t help grinning at Rub’s wonderful ability to restore other people’s spirits at the cost of his own. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m
glad
you had a good lunch. You might have saved me one wing, but if you were hungry, I’m glad you ate them all.”
    Rub’s head hung even lower now. For such a short man, he had a large head, and when it was full of shame, he was unable to hold it erect. Peter, who’d been toweling off with napkins and was apparently disinclined to share Rub’s burden of shame, leaned over and stage-whispered, “If he wants to talk about sharing, you might remind him that the six hundred Carl Roebuck paid us went right into his pocket and never came out again.”
    Since this was true, Sully gave them each two hundred. Rub folded his bills carefully with orange fingers and put them in his shirt pocket. “How come you’re looking at me?” Rub said, since everybody seemed to be.
    â€œWhat do you say we go back to work?”
    â€œOkay,” Rub said, sliding off his stool.
    â€œWait outside a minute,” Sully told him. “I need to talk to my son.”
    Rub’s face clouded over again.
    â€œNext time save me a wing and I’ll talk to you too,” Sully said.
    When he was gone, Peter said, “Jesus, you’re mean to him.”
    â€œHe knows I don’t mean anything.”
    â€œYou’re sure?” Peter said skeptically.
    â€œPretty sure.”
    Peter didn’t say anything.
    â€œYou better take a few minutes and go see your mother,” Sully told him. “She’s all upset.”
    Peter sighed, shook his head. “About Will?”
    â€œAbout you.”
    â€œMe? What about me?”
    â€œWho the hell knows? I never pretended to understand your mother. She did say you’d gotten a phone call from some woman in West Virginia.”
    Peter rolled his eyes. “Oh, Christ. Okay.”
    â€œYour mother thought you might want to tell me about it.”
    â€œI