Luck and a Good Woman

The back door opens, closes. Whoosh. Stifling heat follows him.
“Whew! Damn, it’s hot!” He says. Words more wheezed than spoken.
His breath hisses like exhaust from a balloon let loose.
Sweat bubbles up, rolls from his face, falls to the floor and fractures.
“I need a drink,” pushing his cap back, looking into the mirror.
He grabs a towel, mops his head and tosses it into the sink.

She hears him, fills a glass with chunks of ice, then water.
The ice explodes—pop, crack, pop. Frost enshrouds the glass.
“Here. Sit down, cool off,” she says, handing it to him.
He takes it, shakes it and raises it to his lips. Then the phone rings.
“Visa again?” He curses like the intrusion of another IRS agent.
He sets the water down, answers it.

“Hello,” he says. A faint voice is heard. Silence fills the room.
Then, “Really?” He listens, draws tiny circles on the frosted glass.
She stands, looks at the man. Now what, she thinks.
His shoulders suddenly slump, he leans against the kitchen counter.
“What?” he says. “You kidding? When?” His demeanor visibly stiffens.
She moves closer, wipes sweat from his neck. “What?” she mimes.

He looks at her, then the water, picks it up and shuffles his stance.
The Voice continues to speak. He listens, shakes the ice cubes.
They clink. Condensation forms, beads up, then drops.
“Could it be a mistake?” he says to The Voice on the phone.
She moves closer, asks who. “Charles,” he lip-syncs. She stands rigid.
He sets the glass down, picks up a pen, “Repeat that.”

He scribbles a number, an address, a date and a time.
“What now?” he asks The Voice. The glass sits in a pool of water.
“What if I can’t find it?” he says.
The Voice is agitated. “Ok, Ok, I’ll look now. Hold on,” he shouts.
He lays the phone on the counter. She hands him the glass of melting ice.
“Here,” she says. “Not now,” as he brushes past her, his eyes flicker with fear.

She stands still, waits. He returns, picks up the phone and sits down.
“Guess what?” he says. Then, “That’s right.” He listens some more.
An expression of pain appears from the wrinkles on his glistening forehead.
She brings him the water glass. The ice is melting. He sweats profusely.
He nods a thank-you, raises it to his lips, feels the cool edge of the glass.
Then, “Remember, I asked you what if….” The Voice interrupts, he listens.

His shirt is wet, stained, soaking into the chair’s fabric.
She grabs his arm, shifts him to a stool.
The water glass sits on the table, ignored, unused, pooling.
She takes it, wipes the table, refills with ice.
“Did you keep a copy?” he says to The Voice. “What?”
“You forgot? You forgot? You’re my lawyer, and you forgot?”

She asks what he’s looking for. He tells The Voice to hang on.
“Hon, it’s a large brown envelope, has a paper I need,” he says.
“What paper?” she asks. “Our future, or our funeral,” he says.
“I’ll look. You couldn’t even find a truck in your mess.”
She leaves. He says to The Voice, “She’s looking.” Then, “No, I never told her.”
He stares at the water glass, it glares back. Suddenly his thirst burns.

He and The Voice exchange blame. She returns, holding an envelope.
“This it?” she asks. He grabs it, rips it open, looks inside. “Yes!” he shouts.
“Found it,” he tells the Voice. “We still have time. On my way.”
He smiles, his first. He gets up, hugs her, pours the water in the sink.
“What are you doing?” she says. “Thought you were thirsty.”
He says, “Baby, water’s cheap. Open the champagne. We just won the lottery.”

Ah, the value of Luck AND a Good Woman…what a combination!!

Bud Hearn
September 21, 2011