"And then Jimmy needed shoes for basketball. They just had to be Nike, you know, so I took him to that new place in the mall."
Dottie, with a death grip on the sofa arm, leaned forward to reveal the triumph of western civilization. She pushed an open photo album across the low table beyond her legs.
"I took these of him trying on every pair in the store. Let me tell you, I wasn't prepared to pay two hundred bucks for a pair of shoes he won't be able to cram on his feet six months from now, so we walked out of there and ended up at that shoe warehouse. Have you been there?"
Margaret, in the chair opposite, face arranged for maximum empathy, nodded gravely. Her eyes flicked past Dottie, beyond the Christmas tree, to the man folded into a lounger on the far side of the living room. He stared at a muted television, with no apparent awareness of anyone else.
"Well, I ended up getting those exact shoes for eighty bucks, and that really helps, you know?" Dottie settled back into the sofa, searching Margaret for confirmation.
"It all helps, Dottie, that's for sure."
Margaret returned her gaze to the thin, slightly hatchet-faced redhead. Nervous green eyes looked back, traveled around the room, widening slightly to take in the silent television, and watcher.
Margret reached for a bottle on the table between them, nodding at the photo book. "What about a little more of this excellent pinot noir and then you show me some of those darlings."
"Sounds good to me." A small tic of a smile made Dottie's freckles show faintly through heavy make-up. She raised her glass toward the bottle.
"That's plenty. I'm planning on driving home ya know." She drank half the wine, shook her head as Margret proffered the bottle again.
"Nonsense, Dottie." Margret filled the glass again. "It's the holidays."
Dottie set her glass down, eyes pooling with sudden moisture. "Some Christmas."
Margret jumped up, sat beside Dottie and put her arms around her.
"Come on girl, you did the right thing. You know that."
"Bastard sent me a letter, said he'd contest every dollar of child support I was awarded."
Margret gently rubbed the wet tracks from Dottie's cheeks. "What does the lawyer say?"
"She says not to worry," Dottie sniffed. "But that's what she always says."
"And she's been right so far, hasn't she?"
Margret rose smoothly, pressed the wine glass into Dottie's hand.
"C'mon, show me some pictures. You haven't brought Cathy and Jimmy over for ages. You know I'm dying to see them—why didn't you bring them?"
"'Cause I've been busy kicking a son-of-a-bitch out of my house."
Margret giggled, "You certainly have been."
Dottie's eyes locked on Margret, a tiny snert of a laugh escaped tight lips.
"I'd of brought them, but Cathie's at her friend Marsha's for the night and Jimmy just had to roam the mall with his friends. We had these taken at Thanksgiving." She flipped through the photos.
"Wait... Dear?" Margret turned toward the television "Why don't you come over and join us. Dottie brought some pictures of the kids."
He was lost in the magic of television. One of his favorite programs was on, a commercial for a local auto dealership. He despised the big-budget national ads, peopled with sleek models spouting edgy bits of patter over quotes of famous music. They simply prompted his scorn by attempting to conceal their hard sell beneath a fraudulent patina of pop-culture.
He much preferred this Neanderthal standing in front of a dingily lit showroom. This guy wasn't pretending anything. He had a lot full of gas-sucking SUVs few people wanted these days and his deadly-jovial face said more then whatever spiel he was mouthing. The mute screen invited speculation. The poor schlub would say anything, do anything, to unload all that iron. The watcher's lips turned up in a private smile: the art was in the choice. Eyelids drooping, he leaned back to conjure up a little of his own pictorial magic.
"Hi folks, Big Daddy Martinelli here, and we're right in the middle of our 'There's nothing we won't do' sale." Big Daddy gestured right and left to the nude man and woman draped over the hoods of shiny SUVs.
"Folks, take a good look at this. This is the lowest priced four wheel drive in the country. Huge V-8 gives you lots of towing capacity and you can drive this baby away for zero down and just seventy-nine ninety-five a week.
But that's not all. This lovely lady with her butt in the air is my wife, Tina. Forty-three years young and fellas, she's still tight as a virgin in a donkey show. I should know. The first five people to drive one of these babies off the lot get to drive off with Tina for twenty-four hours. And guys and gals, she will absolutely wear you out. She'll suck the paint off a billiard ball.
Now ladies, have we got something for you. Take a good look at my sixteen year old son, Dirk. As you can see, he's got all the right equipment. He's my boy all right, but ladies, he's just a total dumb- fuck. Completely clueless, wouldn't know pussy from flank steak. Think of the fun you could have teaching him just what you like. You drive one of these purty SUVs home today and I will personally deliver Dirk to your door with fake I.D. in his wallet and a dildo up his ass.
Now for you folks of the gay persuasion, we're running our big Chicken Hawk Special all this week..."
Or something like that. Distracted, he turned from the silent picture to gaze toward his wife. Margret waved at him to come over. He looked closely at her slightly flushed face as she smiled at him. She must have at least half a bottle in her to chance this. She who knew him better than anyone, knew what he was capable of. Look at Dottie's eyes, big as quarters. She'd always been afraid of him—she knew better than to tempt him.
"Hiya Dottie, how's it goin?" He grinned as he flopped onto the couch next to her.
"As well as can be expected, Harry. How 'bout you?" She edged away from him a bit and his smile widened. Yes, she was already spooked.
"I'm great." He looked down at the open photo album, up at his wife.
"Dottie brought some pictures," Margret repeated, an implicit warning in her voice.
"I see that;" false gaiety in his voice. His wife eyed him but he wasn't having any. She'd screwed up by dragging him over and there were penalties for that.
"Okay," he nodded. "Fire away."
