The Leftovers

sloppier, a lumpy, slapdash affair with as few frills as possible. But the box he was holding had been wrapped with care, the paper taut, the corners sharp, the ribbon curled between scissors and thumb.
    “She would’ve killed me,” he added, breathing harder than she would’ve expected after such a short run.
    Laurie accepted the gift, but made no move to open it. She could see that he wanted to stay and watch, but she didn’t think it was a good idea. They’d already had enough of a family Christmas, way more than was good for them.
    “All right,” he said, taking the hint. “I’m glad I caught you. And thanks again for coming.”
    He started for home, and they continued on to Main Street, stopping beneath a streetlight near Hickory Road to open the present. Meg stood close, watching with an eager expression as Laurie methodically undid her daughter’s work, pulling off the ribbon, breaking the tape, stripping off the paper. She guessed that the box contained jewelry, but when she removed the top, what she found was a cheap plastic lighter resting on a bed of cotton. Nothing fancy, just a red Bic disposable with three words painted on the barrel in what must have been Wite-Out.
    Don’t Forget Me.
    Meg took out her cigarettes and they each lit up, taking turns with the new lighter. It was a really sweet gift, and Laurie couldn’t help crying a little, picturing her daughter at the kitchen table, inscribing that neat, heartfelt message with a tiny brush. It was an object to treasure, full of sentimental value, which is why she had no choice but to kneel down and drop it into the first storm drain they saw, poking it through the grate like a coin into a slot. It fell for what seemed like a long time, and hardly made a sound when it landed.
     

Part Four
    BE MY VALENTINE
     

A BETTER-THAN-AVERAGE GIRLFRIEND
    THE COUNCIL CHAMBERS WERE PACKED for the January town meeting. Kevin had been home from Florida for two weeks by then, so he was a little surprised by the number of comments he received about his tan.
    “Looking good, Mr. Mayor!”
    “Little fun in the sun, huh?”
    “Were you near Boca? My uncle’s got a place there.”
    “I could use a vacation!”
    Was I that pale? he wondered, taking his seat at the center of the long table at the front of the room, between Councilman DiFazio and Councilwoman Herrera. Or were people responding to something deeper than the ruddy glow of his skin, an inner change that they couldn’t otherwise account for?
    In any case, Kevin was delighted by the healthy turnout, a vast improvement on December’s dismal showing, which had consisted of no more than a dozen of the usual suspects, most of them tightwad senior citizens opposed to all government spending—federal, state, and local—except for the Social Security and Medicare they depended on to get by. The only attendee under forty had been the reporter for the Messenger, a pretty girl fresh out of college who kept nodding off over her laptop.
    He gaveled the meeting to order at seven on the dot, not bothering with the customary five-minute delay to accommodate the stragglers. He wanted to stick to the schedule for once, keep things moving, and adjourn as close to nine as possible. He’d told Nora to expect him around then, and didn’t want to keep her waiting.
    “Welcome,” he said. “It’s good to see you all here, especially on such a cold winter night. As most of you know, I’m Mayor Garvey and these good-looking folks up here on either side of me are your town council.”
    There was a polite smattering of applause, and then Councilman DiFazio rose to lead them all in the Pledge of Allegiance, which they recited in a rushed, vaguely embarrassed mumble. Kevin asked everyone to remain standing for a moment of silence in honor of Ted Figueroa, the recently deceased brother-in-law of Councilwoman Carney and a prominent figure in the world of Mapleton youth sports.
    “Many of us knew Ted as a legendary coach and guiding force behind the Saturday Morning Basketball Program, which he co-directed for two decades, long after his own kids had grown up. He was a dedicated, generous man, and I know I speak for all of us when I say he’ll be sorely missed.”
    He hung his head and counted slowly to ten, which someone had once told him was the rule of thumb for a moment of silence. Personally, he hadn’t been all that crazy about Ted Figueroa—the guy was an asshole, in fact, an ultra-competitive coach who