Public Secrets

themselves.
In the spirit of self-sacrifice, he decided to deal with them before he settled in with breakfast and the morning paper. He began to stack plates, bowls, cups, forks. Dragging over a five-gallon Rubbermaid kitchen can, he shoved the whole business inside. They were all paper and plastic, a system that appalled his mother, but which suited Michael just fine. Although his modest kitchen boasted a Whirlpool dishwasher, he’d never owned a plate that required its services.
Satisfied, he poked through the cupboards, knocking over a bottle of El Paso salsa and a jar of Skippy peanut butter. Shoving them aside, he grabbed the box of shredded wheat. He shook some into a Chinet bowl, then lifted the coffeepot and poured the steaming brew over the cereal.

He’d discovered this delicacy purely by accident on another groggy morning. He’d nearly eaten his way through his breakfast when he’d realized the coffee was on the cereal and the milk in the Styrofoam cup. Since then, Michael had dispensed with the milk altogether. Before he could sit and enjoy, he was interrupted by a banging on the back screen door.
At first glance it appeared to be a five-foot gray mat. But mats didn’t have wagging tails or lolling pink tongues. Michael pushed open the screen and was greeted exuberantly by the scruffy, oversized dog.
“Don’t try to make up.” Michael shoved the huge paws off his bare chest. The paws hit the floor, but most of the mud on them remained on Michael.
Conroy, pedigree unknown, sat on the linoleum and grinned. He smelled almost as bad as a dog could possibly smell, but was apparently unoffended by his own aroma. His hair was matted and full of burrs. Michael found it hard to believe that he’d picked Conroy out of a litter of cute, gamboling pups less than two years before. As an adult, Conroy had turned out ugly —not homely but down-to-the-ground ugly. This little trick of nature didn’t bother the dog, either.
Conroy continued to grin as he lifted a paw in what both he and Michael knew had nothing to do with subservience.
“I’m not going to shake that paw. I don’t know where it’s been. You went back to that slut again, didn’t you?”
Conroy slid his eyes to the left. If he could have whistled between his teeth, he would have.
“Don’t try to deny it. You’ve spent all weekend rolling in the dirt and slobbering over that half-breed beagle tramp. Never a thought to the consequences or my feelings.” Turning away, Michael rooted in the refrigerator. “If you knock her up again, you’re on your own. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Safe sex. It’s the eighties, bucko.”
He tossed over a slice of bologna, which Conroy caught nimbly and swallowed in one gulp. Softening, Michael tossed him two more before he settled down with his coffee-soaked shredded wheat.
He liked his life. Moving to the burbs had been the right decision for him. It had exactly what he wanted: A nice patch of lawn he could grumble about mowing, a few leafy trees, and what remained of the previous owner’s flower bed.

He’d given gardening a shot, but when he’d proven inept, had abandoned it. That suited Conroy as well. No one got antsy when he dug up the snapdragons.
He’d bought the small brick rancher on impulse, right after the end of his brief and ill-advised affair with Angie Parks. He’d learned something from her, other than kinky sex. And that was that Michael Kesselring was and always would be middle class.
It had been strange to watch her on the screen after he’d been replaced with a twenty-year-old hockey player. It had given him an eerie, almost creepy feeling to see her depiction of Jane Palmer, and to realize that she’d played that part with him all during the three frenzied months they’d been lovers.
He’d gone alone to the theater. A kind of test to make certain he’d gotten rid of any residual, and unhealthy, attraction for her. When she’d bared those beautiful breasts, he’d felt nothing but discomfort. Though it had been by proxy, he knew he had been to bed with Emma’s mother.
And he had wondered, sitting under the dark cloak of the theater, if Emma would see the movie.
But he didn’t like to think of Emma.
There had been other women. No one serious, but other women. He had his work. It no longer amazed him that he had both a talent and an affection for law enforcement. Perhaps he didn’t have his father’s patience and skill with paperwork, but he