Stray Kitten

By Geoffrey A. Feller

Milton Erlandsen is 30 year old underachiever. Stuck in an entry-level job and with no steady girlfriend, his luck starts to change when he joins an apparently hopeless political campaign, puts himself forward for new responsibilities at work, and gets closer to Willow, his emotionally scarred female roommate. Then things move out of Milton’s control. Milton has to decide: should he resist the changes, try to influence their direction, or just go along for the ride no matter what happens? We meet Milton’s conservative yet kindly landlord, learn a girlfriend’s darkest secret, and get to know Anniken, Milton's irrepressible kid sister. In “Stray Kitten” fear and anger threaten the kind of safe haven everyone needs for love to grow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoffrey A. Feller
• Release date: Aug 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476391397

Geoffrey A. Feller

I was born fifty-seven years ago in the Bible belt but grew up in a Massachusetts college town. I am married and my wife and I have moved frequently since we met. We've lived in Minnesota, Massachusetts, and New Mexico, as well as a brief residency in Berlin, Germany. I have worked peripherally in health care, banking, and insurance. In addition to writing, I have done a bit of amateur acting and comedy performances. I am afraid of heights but public speaking doesn't scare me. My wife and I live in Albuquerque with our chihuahua.

Book preview

STRAY KITTEN

A Novel by Geoffrey A. Feller

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Geoffrey A. Feller

CHAPTER ONE

I was thinking: Charlie Mendin, I’m gonna kick your ass!

But, no, it wasn’t him. I unclenched my fist and watched the young man continue on down the sidewalk. His hair was the right shade of chestnut brown and approximated the texture I remembered. The height was about the same, as was the build. But when he turned his head to look into the storefront window ahead of me, no, it wasn’t him. The face was different.

It was August, 1993, and I was thirty years old. I was walking through the neighborhood where I had lived the first time I’d moved to this city, visiting this familiar place on a whim after work. I didn’t feel like I missed the neighborhood, exactly, but it was clear that I was around more people my own age than I was over on Schurz Avenue. They were mostly young but not too young; old enough to be graduate students assuming they were in college. It had been almost ten years since I’d been in college myself and I hadn’t graduated.

I worked in a downtown office building and had been in the same job more or less since I first moved to this city, initially as a temp. By now I was a genuine employee of Great Plains Bank in the credit card customer service department, working regular hours with paid time off for all the federal holidays. I neither loved nor hated my job and it paid a lot better than what I had been getting from the temporary agency.

My old neighborhood, with its independently owned coffee houses, food co-op, bike shops, populated with gays and neo-hippies, was south of downtown. But I had moved north of downtown and east of the river into a bowling alley, blue collar enclave. The rent money went farther now, especially since I’d given in to the idea of having roommates.

My share of the upstairs half of a three-bedroom duplex was over a hundred dollars per month less than what I’d paid for a small one-bedroom apartment south of downtown. Even though we’d lost one paying roommate since starting out, my pay hike from the bank had more than made up for the increased portion I’d been forced to come up with.

Charlie was my ex-roommate. He didn’t owe us back rent and circumstances of his departure had been welcome to Henry and me. But we talked about beating him up for another reason if he ever crossed our paths again. Not that we really would, either singly or as a team; more likely we’d just glower at Charlie if we really did see him.

I hadn’t actually taken a southbound bus after work for a few months, not since late spring. At that time, I had come to this same coffeehouse to meet a woman for a blind date and she’d stood me up. It was disappointing but I had gotten over it easily enough. Still, I hadn’t been in a steady relationship for a long time.

It had been two years since I’d fallen in requited love. She was a tall Scandinavian artist with an eccentric personality. Like me, Katherine had been a late bloomer when it came to romance. Being part Norwegian myself we also had a certain ethnic connection although we were hardly exotic in this part of the United States.

Katherine was big and voluptuous, soft and warm. I could barely keep my hands off her. It went on for us into the New Year only falling apart because I wanted more than Katherine did. It was just about a week after the breakup that Henry and Charlie invited me out for beers and brought up the notion of renting the duplex unit together.

I could only laugh at first: Katherine and I had just broken up after she refused to move in with me.

I had still needed some persuasion. I’d met Henry and Charlie when the three of us were all temps at Great Plains. We’d bonded over a mutual preference for unconventional cinema over professional sports and we proceeded to socialize outside of work. Among the three of us, I was the oldest and ultimately the only one hired by the bank. Henry and Charlie went on to other temporary assignments but we kept in touch. They were my new local friends but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to actually live with them. Having shared rent with roommates back East, I knew it was a risky proposition even if male roommates didn’t tend to end up fighting the way female ones would.

Still, I’d been hoping to vacate my little apartment and, even if I wouldn’t be going on to cohabitate with Katherine the urge to move out was still there.

Then I wasn’t so sure about just where my friends wanted to live. It would be another world from the neighborhood I’d gotten used to. I wondered how out of place I’d feel in a working-class district like that. Although I’d failed at college I was still a product of the academic milieu.

But it was known to be a safe neighborhood and a fairly quiet one. Although I was a drinker, I hadn’t been interested in having loud parties since my student days. In fact I’d made sure to avoid living anywhere near the state university campus when I’d planned my initial move to this city.

My final reluctance was over the fact that our landlord was in residence on the ground floor. What if he was some kind of intrusive weirdo? Did that mean we couldn’t have parties at all, even quiet ones?

My friends’ counterargument was that the landlord and his wife living below us was a factor in the rent being so low. They’d also have to be more responsive to maintenance issues than a faceless apartment management company since the problems would affect them as well.

I had finally agreed to at least look the place over. I needed to make up my mind quickly because my lease would be up at the same time the duplex was becoming available.

So, almost a year and a half after that conversation, not only had I agreed to move there, I was on a second lease with Henry and Charlie was no longer our friend.

Not owning a car, I rode one bus back to downtown and transferred to another to get back home. I had been well used to public transportation from my life back East; the only problem was that this smaller city lacked a nice, fast subway system. On the other hand I was saving enough on my reduced rent to put towards a decent vehicle of my own one of these days.

It was a warm evening. I slouched in my seat and gazed idly out the window next to me. Since the air conditioning wasn’t working, I made what I could of the breeze coming in through the partly opened window until my stop came along.

I had a three block stroll to reach the duplex after getting off the bus. There was a convenience store at the corner by the bus stop and I bought a soda there, sipping from the can as I walked home.

I decided to amuse myself by counting lawn signs for the candidates on my way up the elm-shaded sidewalk. In the summer this far north the sky didn’t get really dark until well past nine o’clock so I had no trouble making them out. It was six weeks until the municipal primary election and the big contest locally was for City Council. Our ward’s boundaries had been redrawn and two incumbents ended up running against each other because of that.

Although there were several candidates for the office, I had only noticed lawn signs for Jansen and Wright, the two incumbents, in front of the small houses and duplexes on my way. Both campaigns used blue signs with white lettering, the difference being that Jensen’s name was italicized as if to suggest action and Wright’s name was displayed in solid, upstanding boldfaced capital letters.

By the time I crossed onto my block, I had counted eleven visible supporters for Jensen to seven for Wright. The home block yielded three more Jensen signs to just one more for Wright, seeming to forecast a landslide for Jensen. But then my precinct had been part of Jensen’s original ward so I expected more lawn signs for him.

In front of my duplex was an exception to the Jensen-Wright lawn sign competition. This sign had blue letters on an orange field proclaiming: AMBROSE FOR CITY COUNCIL with a subtitle that read True Independence.

Sheldon Ambrose was not only a candidate, he was our landlord.

His surname appeared on a brass nameplate under the lower doorbell. Three other names were tacked up over the upper doorbell, typewritten on a piece of paper inside a plastic cover sheet. M. Erlandsen was my name with the M for Milton; H. Defries was for Henry; and, written on a label stuck over Charlie’s name, was W. Tolland. The W stood for Willow.

The Ambroses’ car was not in the driveway and the first floor seemed very quiet despite a light shining in their foyer. But they usually left a light on when going out after dusk. I made my way upstairs to our own entry door. I had already seen lights on in the living room windows, which overlooked the front lawn. But I wasn’t sure whether Henry, Willow, or both were home.

I dropped off my briefcase in the foyer and found the living room empty with the TV on. Heading back to the kitchen so that I could toss my now-empty soda can into the recycle bin, I met Willow as she was closing the refrigerator door.

Hi, I said.

Hello, Willow replied. You’re home late today.

I went for coffee after work, I said, noticing that my roommate had taken a bottle of beer. I just felt like it.

All by yourself?

I nodded.

You should’ve called me. Maybe I could’ve joined you.

Next time I will, I replied. This time it was really a spur of the moment thing. I almost took the regular bus home.

Willow smiled. She was a pale and very thin girl with long, straight black hair and black rimmed glasses over big brown eyes, bridging a prominent nose. Willow’s T-shirt, like most of her tops, was baggy on her; she was wearing sweatpants despite the summer heat and was barefoot. Willow wasn’t really tall but her hands and feet looked like they should belong to a more statuesque if still slender woman.

It was more than body parts that seemed disproportionate, out of place, about her. This was a nineteen year old girl living with two men over the age of twenty-five. The short answer to how this had happened was that Willow had been Charlie’s girlfriend.

I think I’ll have one of those, too, I said, looking at the bottle in Willow’s hand that no reputable liquor store would have sold to her.

Before she could offer to get one for me, I slipped past her and opened the refrigerator myself. Willow smiled slightly and left the kitchen. Before joining her in the living room I carried the bottle with me to my bedroom where I shed my work clothes for my own summer home lounging wear of T-shirt and denim shorts. I had a queen size bed, a dresser, a wooden desk, and a couple of bookcases in the rather small room. But there always seemed to be enough space when I wanted solitude.

I gulped down about a third of the beer at once despite having finished that soda – or pop as the natives here called it. Then I stopped in the bathroom to make room for more. Before shutting the door, I flipped a double-sided sign over to the side reading Gents instead of Ladies. It was hanging from a string attached to a nail, partly a mild joke about coed living but also meant to guard against accidental anatomical sightings.

Henry and I had first met Willow when Charlie had brought her home with him eight months earlier during the bitterly cold winter. After introducing her to us, Charlie would have Willow stay overnight with him. There was nothing so unusual about that except maybe the fact that Willow was so young. We teased him about it, of course yet all the same Willow was past the age of consent and Charlie was really only six years older than her.

But then the occasional sleepovers stretched out from a couple of nights a week to days on end. Henry and I discussed it separately from Charlie, wondering why Willow was becoming the de facto fourth roommate. We decided that we needed to confront Charlie about the situation if for no other reason than to understand what he was getting us into, and even though both Henry and I found Willow likeable.

In fact, her oddness made Charlie’s girlfriend a sort of kindred spirit for us. Our acceptance seemed to become clear to Willow over time and she soon lost her shyness around Henry and me. She liked the same kind of movies that we watched and laughed at our jokes. The only serious flaw I could see in her tastes was when it came to music: she listened to Grunge groups such as Nirvana, Soundgarden, and Alice in Chains. I wasn’t too fond of their self-indulgent depressive songs but it was preferable to boy-band bubble gum pop. Besides, I was still listening to a lot of music I liked when I had been Willow’s age, mainly British or East-coast American New Wave and Punk.

She was still generally shy, quiet, and laconic, the kind of person who fades into the background. Her pallid complexion and thinness suggested a general sickliness that was confirmed by a lingering cold Willow suffered from all through February. She would sit curled up on our living room sofa wearing one of Charlie’s sweaters and a pair of his socks along with those same sweatpants, sniffling and coughing her way through a box of tissues.

I felt sorry for Willow then and wanted to do things to take care of her. When Charlie hadn’t been home to do it, I brought Willow soup and orange juice. But despite my sympathy it was during Willow’s suffering that Henry and I decided to ask Charlie some hard questions.

It was after Charlie had put Willow to bed for the night that we told him in soft voices what we wanted. To make sure that the poor sick girl wouldn’t overhear us, we all put on our coats and went outside. We walked a couple of blocks over to a vacant playground, speaking with vaporous breath and kicking at the hard ground with our boots over by a swing set.

What’s the problem? Charlie asked, looking up at us (he was a few inches shorter than we were).

How much longer is Willow staying with us? Henry responded.

Why, is she getting in your way? In Milt’s way?

That’s not it, I told him. It looks like all of a sudden she’s living with us and you never asked if that was okay.

Guys, c’mon. Willow’s sick. We can’t ask her to leave now.

Well, of course she can stay…

Hold on, Henry interrupted, touching my forearm. Is she so sick that she can’t take care of herself at her place? Why don’t you spend time with her there?

I can’t.

What do you mean you can’t? Henry demanded skeptically.

Willow doesn’t have a home to go back to, Charlie said after a pause.

She lost her apartment? I asked, puzzled.

That’s right, last month.

You should’ve have told us! Henry shouted. What, were you easing her into our place gradually so that eventually we’d forget that she wasn’t always there with us?

Kinda, Charlie said with a grin.

That’s not funny, Henry scowled while I shook my head.

Damn it, I added. You have to level with us. Besides, if she moved out, where’s all her stuff? Furniture? More than a week’s change of clothes?

The landlord’s impounded all of that for back rent, Charlie explained, looking away.

So she’s a deadbeat, you’re saying? Henry asked. She’s obviously not working.

I told you she’s a student, Charlie protested, glaring back at him.

Student, my ass.

What? Charlie sputtered angrily.

Listen, I interjected. Henry and I were talking about this. If she was in college, she’d be getting ready for the spring semester by now. And I never heard her talk about school.

She doesn’t talk much, Charlie sighed. You know that.

She talks enough, I said. You, me, Henry, we all talk about work, right? A student talks about school.

If Willow’s in college, what’s her major? Henry asked suddenly.

She’s… Charlie began hesitantly.

Never mind lying, Henry told him.

I’m not!

The fuck you’re not, Henry snapped. You were starting to make something up. If you were really dating a college student you’d know what her major is the just like you know your own job title. C’mon!

What the hell do you want to do, throw her out? Charlie whined. She’s got nowhere to go!

What about her family? I asked.

They don’t live around here. Willow’s from Montana. She got into a fight with her folks and…

Oh, shit, I muttered.

What? Charlie asked.

I glanced over to Henry and said: I owe you twenty bucks.

"C’mon, what?" Charlie insisted.

I bet twenty with Milt that Willow’s some runaway you found. God, I hope she’s really nineteen and not some kind of jailbait for your sake. Where’d you meet her, the bus station downtown?

No, Charlie moaned. It wasn’t like that!

"What was it like, then?" I asked.

I told you where we met, the record store over on 36th. We started talking and Willow took my number…

"Your number because she didn’t have one," Henry sneered.

Never mind that stuff now, I said. It doesn’t matter how they met; we can’t just have Willow in our place freeloading after she gets better.

Fuck it, I’m paying her way, Charlie told us.

Listen, you dumbass, Henry said irritably. What if Old Man Ambrose doesn’t want some street kid living in his goddamn house? What if he evicts all of us when he finally gets around to figuring out what Milt and I just figured out?

That won’t happen, Charlie said as if trying to persuade himself as much as anyone.

Oh, won’t it? Henry replied.

Let’s talk to Ambrose, then, Charlie suggested.

And tell him what? I asked.

The truth, Charlie went on. Willow’s my girlfriend and she needs a place to stay and would it be okay if she lives with us until I can figure out a way to get a place for the just me and her?

So that’s your plan? I asked.

Yeah, Charlie answered, looking at me, then Henry, then back to me. Why not?

I think Milt’s asking whether that’s just your plan for dealing with Ambrose or if that’s what you intend to do about Willow for real.

I nodded my agreement.

No, I want to do that for us, Charlie said. Look, the lease is up in May. By that time, we’ll get another place somewhere. You can stand to give it another few months, can’t you?

Maybe if you stop bullshitting us in the meantime, Henry said. Obviously we can’t give Ambrose the whole story but he’s just a private homeowner. It’s not like he’ll try to run a credit check on Willow, or anything.

Thanks guys, Charlie said, venturing to smile. I promise: no more bullshit. Okay?

Of course by that first week in August, not only was Willow over her cold, she was still living with me and Henry. But Charlie wasn’t.

A box fan was spinning in the window closest to the sofa and easy chairs in the living room. Since the furniture hadn’t all come from the same tenant, they weren’t a matching set but none of us ever complained about it.

Willow was sitting in one of the easy chairs, legs curled up under her on the seat, beer on the round topped side table alongside her. I walked past her and dropped into the other chair at the other end of the coffee table; it was closer to the fan.

Henry’s out with Gretchen? I asked after taking in a moment of the TV program Willow had chosen to watch.

Yeah, he left about an hour ago.

I nodded. Odds were that he’d be out all night.

You know, I really do wish you’d called me about going out for coffee, Willow remarked during a commercial break several minutes later. I wasn’t just saying that.

I know you meant it, I said; she was not just shy but also somewhat agoraphobic and said she often stayed at home alone all day. But would you have been okay taking the bus by yourself to meet me downtown?

Yeah, Willow replied, a little irritation in her voice. I haven’t needed a stroller since the eighties!

Her sarcastic back talk made me grin.

Okay, cabin fever girl, I said, leaning forward. How ’bout going for a walk?

Since Charlie had left, Willow and I had done things together outside the house such as take walks, go shopping, see movies, and haunt coffee houses. This was happening not just thanks to Charlie’s departure but also because Gretchen and Henry had become more serious as a couple. I realized that if my casual outings with Willow had been dates, she’d be more of a girlfriend to me than anyone since Katherine. But Willow was more like a sister.

I actually did have one brother and one sister. Clark was two years younger than me and our sister Anniken was the baby, following Clark by seven more years. Our father was a nuclear physicist and our mother an amateur violinist and composer. Clark had inherited the old man’s scientific mind, applying it to the design of diagnostic medical equipment for a company in Upstate New York. Anniken was talented like Mom, at this time playing the acoustic guitar and studying music at Wellesley. As for me, I couldn’t do algebra or carry a tune.

I had originally looked forward to a late dinner of leftover meatloaf, cold from the refrigerator, but this change in plan also made me rethink the meal. When Willow said she hadn’t had any dinner yet, either, I suggested we stroll over to a pizza parlor that was across the street from the convenience store.

At my request, we walked down the street parallel to ours. I had two reasons for that: on the practical side, it would line us up to the crosswalk closest to the restaurant; on the playful side, I could get the lawn sign count from another strip in the precinct.

I had Willow keep track of the Wrights while I added up the Jensens. When we reached the wide avenue on the bus route, the end results had little impact on the percentage for either candidate. The overall count was now 25-13, Jensen leading easily. We didn’t see any additional Ambrose signs.

Why are you so interested in politics? Willow asked as we crossed the busy street on a walk signal.

I have to be interested in something competitive, I suppose, and I don’t care much for sports.

That’s why I wondered if you were gay when we met, Willow said, stepping up onto the curb.

Because I like politics?

Because you don’t like sports and you like artistic stuff. Besides, you seemed so, well, gentle. I mean I had no idea how really gentle you were at first but I could, you know, sense it.

And straight guys aren’t gentle?

Not often enough, they aren’t. And I said I only wondered, not that I was sure you were gay.

I wouldn’t care if you had been sure.

Well, I like it a lot that you aren’t upset about it.

I smiled at her, thinking that I ought to tell Willow some stories about how I’d been approached by men in public. But since we were walking into the pizzeria it was not the time or place for me to boast about being some guys’ idea of a good time.

Have you voted before? I asked Willow after we’d placed our order with the counterman and taken a table near the door.

No, not yet.

I was curious because you would have been old enough last year.

I just wasn’t into it then. Clinton, Bush, Perot. I didn’t like any of them.

When I was your age, I couldn’t wait to vote. But that’s me. Not that I was enthusiastic about my choices, either. I voted for Carter mainly because I was afraid that if Reagan got in, he’d start a war and draft me to die in it, either in Central America or the Middle East. But he wasn’t as dumb as he looked.

I guess that could motivate a person. As for me, they don’t draft females and even if they did, I’d never pass the physical.

Hearing that, I wanted to be teasing and playful with her but something made me hold back. All I did was chuckle at her joke.

A short moment later, we had our food. Mine was a chicken parmesan sandwich and Willow’s a bowl of baked ziti. We ate quietly as a boisterous group of kids out on what looked like a double-date were devouring a pizza two tables down.

They finished before we did, three of them standing alongside our table as they waited for the fourth to come out of the bathroom. I gazed up at them idly, seeing two athletic boys in blue jeans and T-shirts with a chubby girl who had big, curled blonde hair and was wearing tight Capri slacks and a football jersey. She gave me a momentary, disinterested glance and then observed Willow, a perhaps unconscious scowl starting to form on her face before I looked away.

The second girl emerged from the bathroom, laughing at something, and the group began following her outside. I looked up once more and this time the first girl caught my eye.

Make sure she eats all of it!

Although the girl had spoken loudly, her words had come out so rapidly that it took an instant for them to sink in. By then the door had swung shut.

Bitch! I hissed.

I looked at Willow, hoping that perhaps the snide comment had been unintelligible to her but the stricken look on her face dashed that hope.

My mother, Willow said dreamily, she loved the fall and winter. She was always wearing coats, sweaters, and jackets. And big, long skirts, dresses with hems down to her ankles. Even in the summer she wore long sleeves. But people could still see her neck, her face, see how thin she was. My mother said it was as if God didn’t want her to be substantial.

You told me all this before, I reminded her calmly.

And I’m cursed with her body, Willow went on, not acknowledging my comment. I hear whispers saying ‘anorexic’, ‘anorexia’. I want to scream back at them: ‘I never asked to weigh ninety-five pounds!’ I’m not some stupid girl who starves herself. I can’t afford weight-gain formula, either.

She paused and stared at the table top.

Or anything else, Willow sighed.

C’mon, I murmured.

It’s easy for you to be kind, Willow said. You’ve got a steady job and a nice body.

She pushed back from the table and stood up. I felt embarrassed and didn’t know how to cheer her up.

Willow dumped the rest of her ziti into the garbage receptacle at the end of the counter. She’d almost finished it at least. I got up too and walked my empty plate over to a dirty dishes container on the counter.

I held the door for Willow and she walked out with her head bent downward and shoulders stooped. She walked briskly ahead of me as though we weren’t together. I caught up to her in the crosswalk, heading towards home.

Willow pushed away from me and ran to the corner of the intersection. I froze for a moment, wondering how upset she was with me and why she could be. But then Willow bent over, bracing herself with one hand on the traffic signal post, and vomited into the gutter. I approached her slowly as she heaved up the noodles and sauce mixed with stomach acid, Pepsi-Cola, and probably some of the beer she’d been sipping when I got home.

She threw up in three waves, gagging and spitting after each flow. Drivers in a couple of passing cars honked at her, whether in disgust or encouragement I couldn’t tell. Finally, Willow accepted my handkerchief, which I carried to dab the sweat from my face, wiping her mouth and chin with it.

You won’t want this back, Willow whispered.

I shook my head; even though it could be laundered, we’d still have to carry it home. She dropped it on the heap of regurgitation and looked up at me with a timid smile.

Sorry for the gross performance art.

You couldn’t help it.

I wish I could blame it on the cook but…

Willow shrugged.

But what?

Anxiety, she said as we began to walk away from the corner. Sometimes it gets me that way. No wonder I’m such a skeleton.

I supposed she needed to see a psychotherapist but kept that idea to myself. Maybe a free clinic had openings; I wondered if I could look into it on Willow’s behalf without telling her.

It reminded me of another time I’d wanted Willow to see a doctor. It was the night four months earlier when Henry and I had come home late and saw how she looked.

Willow’s face had been bruised and swollen and bloody, the purple contusions and blood stains all the more vivid on such pale skin. Her nose was not broken, as it turned out but was bleeding profusely all the same. She was sitting there in the middle of the sofa in shock, her shoulders trembling with sobs past any more tears. Willow had to have been sitting there for quite a while but even she couldn’t say for how long.

Henry and I crouched on either side of her, upset to see her like that, asking her more questions than we should have under the circumstances. Gradually Willow let us know that Charlie had beaten her up but didn’t tell us why.

After promising to kill our roommate for her, Henry and I started trying to persuade Willow to get to the emergency room and let us call the police. She flatly refused both of those urgings and said that her only need was to wash up and get some ice on her face.

What can we do if she won’t press charges? Henry asked while Willow was using the bathroom.

Maybe she’ll change her mind when she sleeps on it, I suggested. Let’s just back off on that for now.

All right, Henry agreed.

Man, I didn’t even know they were fighting and now this!

Well, we can’t let him back in here after this, Henry insisted. Let’s put the chain on the door and one of us should sleep here on the couch in case he comes back tonight.

We can ask Sheldon to change the locks for us, I added.

Won’t have to, Willow said as she rejoined us.

Why? Henry asked.

He’s gone. He packed up his clothes and left.

As if to make sure Willow wasn’t delusional, Henry and I went into what had been Charlie’s room. Sure enough, there were open dresser drawers and a mostly empty closet. Personal effects were missing, too, from the table Charlie had used for his desk and also from the top of his dresser.

Think he’ll come back for his furniture? I asked.

Fuck him if he tries, Henry responded. He told us Willow’s furniture was impounded and now we’re impounding his. He complains and we threaten to call the cops on him for assault.

I turned around to look at Willow, who was standing in the doorway.

Would you even want to sleep in his bed?

It’s been as much my bed as Charlie’s for months now, she told us with a slight shrug.

I’m still going to camp out in the living room in case he tries anything tonight, Henry declared.

I don’t think he will, Willow reacted, but thanks.

She walked past us and sat on the mattress.

Could one of you bring me some ice? Willow asked.

I volunteered for that duty, getting a handful of cubes and wrapping them in a dishtowel as Henry brought his pillow and blanket into the living room. I returned to Willow’s room and gave her the makeshift cold pack.

Milt, would you sit with me for a little while?

Sure.

I’m not feeling so brave all of a sudden.

She held the towel to her face with her right hand and reached out to me with her left. We held hands and Willow rested her head on my shoulder, the sobs starting to come back. I was too numb with the situation to do anything but sit there; even my rage towards Charlie was dissipating – I was more sad than angry by now.

As we walked home that August evening I was thinking of the way Willow had literally leaned on me that night and how I hadn’t given her a consoling touch since then. Maybe she needed it again. Maybe she needed to be reassured, to know that I wasn’t ashamed of her.

I reached out and found Willow’s hand once more. Without a word from either of us, our fingers intertwined and stayed that way until we reached the Ambrose house.

CHAPTER TWO

Henry came home that night after all and he brought Gretchen up to our apartment with him. Gretchen’s car, an old Plymouth Horizon, had a distinctive rattle coming from somewhere inside the transmission. I could hear it plainly through the open window despite the box fan growling away. I had heard that same rattle from inside Gretchen’s car often enough.

It was not just from being the occasional third wheel when Henry and his girlfriend went somewhere unromantic. Gretchen and I had dated in the early spring. We had coffee together twice, went out to dinner two other times, saw one movie, visited one museum, slept together once in her bed and once in my bed, otherwise at least kissed on all but our first and final dates.

Over this time, Gretchen also met my roommates, Henry making the best impression on her. She transitioned from me to him just before Charlie’s crime against Willow and at first they saw each