Shame

confines of his room. There was a cat clock in the kitchen that kept him company whilehe sipped the milk. The cat’s large eyes moved in time with its pendulum tail. He tried to hypnotize himself by watching the moving clock. No matter how many times he told himself that he was getting sleepy, the clock just kept telling him it was getting later. He kept thinking about Anna and the kids and the havoc his secret life was undoubtedly creating. Anna had always told everyone what a good father he was, but Caleb knew that good fathers didn’t run out on their children. Maybe he wasn’t much different from his own father. He shivered. Being like his father had always been his greatest fear.
    The tightness in Caleb’s chest returned. Changing rooms hadn’t helped. The memories knew where to follow. Glass in hand, he started to retrace his steps back to his room. A voice emerged from the darkness of the living room. “Couldn’t sleep?”
    Caleb held on to the glass, but only barely. Lola was seated in the corner, her figure scarcely visible in the shadows. She leaned forward in the easy chair, half of her materializing. She was wearing a sheer nightgown with a low, clinging décolletage that showed off her curves.
His
curves, Caleb remembered. He wished Lola had just remained a voice; her revealed flesh bothered him.
    “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “I assumed you heard me come out of my room.”
    “I hope I didn’t wake you,” Caleb said. “I couldn’t sleep, and I thought some milk might help. But I intend to pay you for it.”
    “You didn’t wake me, and you’re not going to pay me for the milk. My refrigerator, such as it is, is yours.”
    Caleb hesitated at the entrance of the living room, not sure whether he should continue down the hall or take a seat.
    “Would you like some light?”
    “No,” he said, “that’s not necessary,” then found himself sitting down on the sofa, albeit as far away from Lola as the room allowed.
    “I’ve been meaning to go shopping. I doubt whether you found much of interest in the fridge.”
    She kept her voice low, little more than a whisper. It made the room feel smaller, more intimate. Her Southern accent was soft and beguiling, gentle and unaffected, and very feminine.
    “I wasn’t really hungry anyway,” Caleb said. “I just thought I should put something in my stomach.”
    “When was the last time you ate?”
    “Before this all began.”
    “Milk’s a good start, then. And I suppose it’s been a while since you slept?”
    He shrugged, not sure if she could see the motion but not willing to comment further.
    “The secret is not putting pressure on yourself to sleep,” Lola said. “If you find yourself getting tired, just tell yourself that you’re going to take a little nap. That way you don’t feel as if you have to perform to some standard, and it lessens the stress.”
    “Do you suffer from insomnia?”
    “Suffer’s not the right word. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, but that’s all right. My mind’s just telling me it wants to do some thinking. Outlook is everything. It’s a way of turning trials and tribulations into blessings.”
    Caleb wasn’t in the mood for Norman Vincent Peale, and Lola read his skepticism in the silence.
    “You’ve never been in therapy, have you?” she asked.
    “No.”
    His eyes had gradually adjusted to the dark room. He could make out her figure but not her face and assumed he was similarly cloaked from her. The darkness comforted Caleb, offering anonymity.
    “Did your sleeplessness bring you any answers?” Lola asked.
    “No. Just questions.”
    “Such as?”
    “Who’s doing this to me, and why.”
    “Any theories?”
    “No. If I believed in the supernatural, I’d say my father’s come back to ruin my life again.”
    “That almost sounds like wishful thinking.”
    “I can assure you, it’s not.”
    “I’ve known people who would be lost without their villains. Their villains are their reason to exist.”
    “That’s not my case,” Caleb said emphatically.
    “Was your father abusive?”
    Caleb didn’t want to talk about him but forced himself to. “He never hit me, if that’s what you mean. But he wasn’t around very much while I was growing up.”
    “So you felt abandoned?”
    “I’m not keen on psychobabble. His going to jail wasn’t what made my life a hell. It was how people responded to his crimes. In his absence, I became their target.”
    “Did your father