TWELVE

It was ten thirty when she heard the knock at the door. She was stretched out on the couch in sweats and sneakers, reading a Jude Deveraux paperback, her hair tied up. The knock came again, soft.

She put down the book, went to the front window, and inched the blinds aside. Billy was on the steps, holding a pizza box in one hand, a plastic bag in the other.

She undid the chain and dead bolt, opened the door, looked at him through the screen.

“Hi,” he said. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

She brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

He raised the box. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Not at all. Just wanted to come by, see you. That’s all. Figured I’d bring a peace offering.”

“I never eat this late. You know that.”

“Then do you mind if I have a slice? I haven’t had dinner yet.”

She unlocked the screen door, pushed it open.

“Thanks,” he said. She held the door for him as he came in.

“Danny’s sleeping,” she said.

“I’ll be quiet. I tried not to knock too loud, but I was worried you wouldn’t hear.”

She closed the door behind him.

“Long time since I’ve been here,” he said.

She took the pizza from him, went into the kitchen. He followed her. She put the box on the table.

“Paper plates on top of the refrigerator,” she said.

He set the plastic bag on the floor, got two plates down, napkins and a salt shaker, set them on the table.

“I’m not eating,” she said.

“In case you change your mind.”

A piece of Danny’s artwork was on the front of the refrigerator, held there by magnets. A colored pencil drawing on construction paper of a blocky police car, a figure with a smiling face behind the wheel. Next to it he’d written in oversized letters MOM.

Billy looked at it, smiled. “He’s getting pretty good,” he said.

“He’s growing up.”

“Are you going to let him trick-or-treat this year?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You should. I mean, what’s the harm?”

“Well, that would be for me to decide, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re right.” He sat, opened the box, the smell of the pizza wafting up. He dragged a slice onto a plate.

“This is the only house on the block with no decorations,” he said. “Couldn’t help but notice.”

“I didn’t want to make him feel worse. Remind him of what he was missing, that he couldn’t go out with the other kids.”

“Makes sense, I guess. If you say so.”

She sat across from him. “How’d you know I didn’t have company?”

“Just a feeling. I’ll leave if you want.”

“Eat your pizza first.”

He slid another slice onto a plate, edged it toward her. She ignored it.

“You have anything to drink?” he said.

“Some Bass in the refrigerator. Ice water, soda.”

“I’ll take a Bass, if that’s okay. Want one?”

“Sure.”

He got up, took two bottles from the refrigerator, opened them.

“You want a glass?” he said.

She shook her head. He set the bottles on the table, sat down again. She could smell his cologne.

“Where’d you park?”

“On the street. Didn’t want to leave my truck in the driveway, get your neighbors talking. I got sausage. Hope that’s okay.”

“You trying to make me fat?”

“No. You’re in great shape.”

“For my age?”

“You know what I mean.” He salted a slice, folded it, and began to eat.

She’d felt irritation when she answered the door but found it fading now. It was good to have him back here, in the closeness of the kitchen, sitting across from her. It reminded her of a better time, back when she was naive enough to think they would someday be a family.

She sipped Bass. It was cold and sweet. He reached for the plastic bag.

“I saw this today,” he said. “Thought Danny might like it.”

He took out a square box with a painting of a tyrannosaurus on it.

“Plastic. The parts snap together. They’ve got a whole series.”

He put it on the table. She looked at it.

“That’s a lot of parts,” she said.

“I know. I was worried about that. The box says ages eight and up, but he’s a smart kid. I figured he could handle it. Think he’ll like it?”

“He’ll love it.”

He ate in silence for a moment, wiped his mouth with a napkin, drank Bass.

She looked at the slice in front of her, pulled a piece of sausage off with her fingers, ate it.

“That was a bad scene last night,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized.”

“I need you to know that, though, how I felt.”

She nodded, didn’t look up.

“If I could make it up to you, I would,” he said.

She turned away, looked out into the hall.

“I’ve got a better idea,” she said. “How about we just never mention it again?”

“Okay.”

She pulled off another piece of sausage.

“Pizza’s good, isn’t it?” he said. “I got it from Sabatico’s. Haven’t had one in a long time. Last time I was there the old man asked me how you were. He must have seen the look on my face. He let it drop.”

“This where you ask me to feel sorry for you?”

“No. I know better than that.”

She pulled the slice toward her, tugged it into ragged halves. She dropped one on his plate, wiped her hands on a napkin.

“Table manners elegant as always,” he said.

“Shut up and eat.”

She folded her half, bit into it. It was still warm, the cheese thick, the crust thin and crunchy the way she liked. She finished it in three bites.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

“That’s an extra thirty sit-ups tonight.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“You think it’s easy, staying in shape with all the junk food and bad coffee I consume on a normal shift? It’s not. It’s work.”

“I know. You always were more motivated than everyone else around you. One of the things I admired most.”

He opened the box, pulled another slice onto his plate.

“Got a knife?” he said. “We’ll do it right.”

“I’ll pass.” She got up. “Back in a minute.”

She went down the hall, looked in Danny’s room. He was sleeping, face to the wall, the night-light the only illumination in the room. She pulled the door almost shut, left it open a crack. The old clock in the kitchen began to bong softly. Eleven o’ clock.

She went back into the kitchen, washed her hands in the sink. The slice was untouched in front of him.

“So where’s Lee-Anne tonight?” she said.

“I don’t know. Home, I guess.”

She dried her hands on a dish towel, turned to him. “How come you’re not there?”

He shrugged, rocking on the chair, all his weight on the back legs.

“Don’t do that,” she sat. “It’s bad for the chair.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

He sat forward, let the front legs touch down. “I’ll clean up,” he said. He put the uneaten slice back in the box, got up and gathered the paper plates and napkins, put them in the trash can beneath the sink.

She went into the living room, looked through the blinds. His truck was parked down the street in the shadow of a willow tree.

She heard water go on in the kitchen, then shut off, heard his footsteps. She didn’t turn. She felt him come up behind her, smelled his cologne, let him slip his arms around her waist, pull her tight.

She closed her eyes. His face was buried in her hair, his chin on her shoulder. She knew his eyes would be closed. She felt his arms around her, strong but gentle, put her hands over his, fingered the thick veins, the knobby knuckles. A worker’s hands. A man’s hands.

He kissed the back of her neck, and she felt goose bumps rise, tilted her head to give him better access. What are you doing? Why are you letting this happen?

She pushed back against him, felt his hardness through the jeans. His lips explored the side of her neck, the hollow behind her ear. She reached back, felt his thickness straining against the material, the shape of him. He sighed softly and his hands came up, cupped her breasts through her sweatshirt. She was braless and her nipples responded, hard to his touch.