Porchlight

The sound of something heavy hitting the floor made him jump. He'd deliberately left the porch light on and tipped up a single slat in the blinds with a sweaty finger to look outside. The backyard was deserted, the porch swing a moving shadow in the oozing half-light of a mosquito lamp. Children's toys were alien shapes in the darkness. Rusty handlebars from a tricycle were partially buried in the ground. It seemed as if one day it would grow from the dirt fully-formed and brand new. A bald baby doll with a jackal's grin sat propped up under the oak tree. Her face was shapeless but her glass eyes shined as if she could see through him into all the things he'd done.

Kathy never made those kids pick up their damn toys.

Anger was a familiar emotion. It slipped over him like an old sweater as the blinds closed. He leaned back in the recliner to stare at the ceiling.

The glass of water on the table was his alibi. The reason he snuck out of the bed he'd shared with his wife for more than a decade. The reason he sat curled up in the darkest part of the living room. If Kathy came lumbering down the stairs in that nightgown she wore that made her look like a lumberjack - her hair in curlers and a sleepy scowl on her face - he wouldn't have to lie. Not really.

The sound came again and this time he knew it for what it was. His body moved faster than his mind could follow because he was suddenly standing on the back porch, barefoot and cold, with the door half-open behind him.

She was there, standing just outside the circle of light from the porch lamp. She looked tired. Hair unwashed and hanging around her face in greasy clumps. She wore dirty jeans and a shirt a few sizes too large.

He carried no guilt. Feeling, as he did, that the situation spinning out of control had never been under his control to begin with. He couldn't feel guilty about something that he couldn't stop.

He came down the steps slowly, a prey animal scenting the wind or a hunter approaching a timid deer with a thirty aught six hidden behind his back.

She was the first to speak. Her voice was soft and hoarse as if she had to whisper so as not to scream.

"I got your message."

He reached into pocket of his robe, fumbling in the loose fabric, and pulled out a wrinkled envelope.

"Here."

Their fingers touched for a small moment and he instantly retreated. Backing up to the porch, the safety of his living room was only yards away.

The envelope lay on the ground where he'd dropped it. She eyed it warily but made no move to pick it up.

"What is it?"

"Take it?"

She bent and grabbed the envelope, tearing into it with the enthusiasm of a sullen child with an unwanted Christmas gift.

"Money."

It was several bills, large and small, collected from many sources and neatly folded in half.

She rifled through it with the fingers of one hand. Her lips moved softly as she counted.

"It's five hundred dollars."

"What for?"

"I don't have to tell you to take it."

He didn't. The cash had already disappeared. Into the pocket of her jeans or under the ratty shirt and into the lining of cotton panties. He told himself that it didn't matter.

She was feeling better. Her chin jutted forward a bit and her back arched ever so slightly.

"Is that all you wanted?"

"Yeah, that's it."

His back was turned and he climbed the stairs, almost free. She was braver than he expected.

"Wait."

She was there at the bottom of the stairs.

"Shouldn't I say thank you, or something?"

He knew that she wanted something from him. As he looked at her face, sharp and angular, he couldn't imagine what it might be. There was nothing left to give. He finally spoke.

"Kathy's upstairs."

Her face closed down. The only emotion left was an anger as cold as his own.

"I won't keep you."

She faded back into the darkness, her footsteps silent in the wet grass. He had no idea where she was headed. The only certainty was eventually she'd be back.