By David Larsen
Lucy McBride grimaced as she studied the picture on her bedroom wall. The sweeping landscape of the plains of western Nebraska, a gift from her aunt and uncle in Grand Island, had been swapped out without her knowledge, replaced with a pen and ink sketch of Tom’s former girlfriend, Susan, naked as a jailbird, leering seductively at the artist and the world. What in the world can Tom be thinking? she wondered.
Tom Bracewell had moved in three days earlier, lock, stock and barrel, including the disturbing piece of art. Lucy was far from a prude, yet this seemed to push anything goes beyond its limits. The nicely-framed piece—the nude—was well done, or so she supposed. What did she know about art? She was a first-grade teacher. She knew crayoned stick figures and finger-painted swirls and smudges. To have a naked woman wantonly glancing over her bare shoulder at her, and, of course Tom, from the wall of her bedroom seemed to be asking for more open-mindedness than she was prepared to offer. And not just any naked woman, but a slender-hipped woman Tom had slept with up until six months ago, a woman he might retain feelings for.
“Couldn’t we hang it someplace else?” asked the divorced thirty-two year old. “Not in the bedroom.”
“But where?” Tom laughed. “You don’t want it in the living room for my poker buddies to ogle when they come over, do you?”
“Your poker buddies?”
“Yeah,” said Tom, “I’ve told you about that. I get together with some of the guys from work every Tuesday…for cards.” He grinned. “I hadn’t mentioned it but I was hoping that you’d be willing to fix something for us to nibble on. Something simple. It doesn’t have to be much. We rotate the game, so we’ll only be here every fourth or fifth week. The wives and girlfriends of the other fellas throw something together, chili, nachos, pizza, whatever. It can be anything that would be easy for you to prepare, something that goes well with beer. It doesn’t have to be fancy. The guys aren’t fussy. This Tuesday will be my turn to host.”
“Where will you sit,” asked Lucy. “I don’t have a card table.”
“I assumed we’d play at the dining room table,” said Tom. “There are only six of us, sometimes seven. We’ll use a folding chair or two if need be.”
“That mahogany table belonged to my grandmother. It’s an antique.” Lucy bit at her lip. She wanted to cry. “I’m not sure I want a bunch of men playing cards around it…gorging themselves on God knows what and guzzling beer.”
“We’ll use coasters…and ashtrays.”
“Ashtrays?”
“A couple of the guys smoke. Most of us just like to chomp on a cheap cigar. Jinx Morgan smokes that godawful pipe of his but he’s the only one who’ll stink up the place.”
Lucy sighed. A pipe? In my dining room? “The rest of you don’t smoke the cigars?”
“We do…and we don’t. We light ‘em, of course. But nobody inhales a cigar. We just like to have a stogie in our mouths for effect. You know how it is…with men.”
Lucy didn’t know. Her father, a Baptist, never smoked…or played poker for that matter. Nor, for heaven’s sake, drank beer. Her ex, in spite of all of his faults, didn’t smoke or gamble. Although, Ronald did have a thing for other women. Damn him.
“I don’t get it,” said Lucy. “You sit around with a lit cigar in your mouths? What’s the point, if you don’t smoke the thing?”
Tom grinned. “It’s just the way guys are.” He shrugged. “That husband of yours didn’t like to hang out with a group of his friends?” He tilted his head then smiled.
Lucy’s lower lip trembled. For some reason, she felt defensive when it came to her ex, even if he was a jerk. “Ronald preferred the company of women,” said Lucy.
“Unfortunately.”
“Don’t we all?” said Tom.
Lucy winced. Just the thought of her boyfriend chasing after women like her ex made the room spin. Now what? she thought. Cigars? Poker? What else?
“Do you lose much money?” she asked. Tom’s job at Smart Fashions didn’t pay all that much. How could he possibly afford to gamble—on his commissions, paltry as they seemed to be?
“Not really,” said Tom. “We just like to get together and tell stories. Locker room talk as the president called it.”
My dining room isn’t a locker room, she wanted to tell him, but she held back. She desperately wanted everything to work out with Tom.
Tom looked at his cellphone, frowned then scraped his keys across her dresser, another antique. “Can we hold off on supper for another hour or two?” he asked. “I’ve got to run over to Susan’s house and pick up Rowdy.”
“Rowdy?”
“I’ve told you about Rowdy. My dog. You’re gonna love him.”
“You’re bringing your dog here, to my apartment?” She paused. “You never said anything about your dog.”
“Where else would he go?” Tom blinked. “He’s no trouble.”
“What kind of dog is he?”
“He’s a mutt, part hound, part terrier.” Tom shook his head. “If one of us walks him, and cleans up after him, he’ll be happy. He doesn’t shed…not much.”
“I have a cat you know. What about Cheeks?”
Tom nodded. “If Rowdy bothers Cheeks, just give him a whack on the nose. He’ll learn.”
“I don’t want to hit your dog.”
Tom laughed. “He’s used to it.”
With Tom gone Lucy went into the bathroom. Tom’s wet towels and washcloths, strewn across the tiled floor, smelled mildewy. She collected them, gagged then tossed them into the hamper.
When he gets back, she thought, he’ll be more than surprised to find his clothes, his golfclubs and his precious girlfriend’s picture on the front porch. Then I’ll call Ronald. We can work things out, I hope. He always said we could. He called just this morning.
* * *
David Larsen is a writer who lives in West Texas, two miles from the border with Mexico. His stories have been published in numerous literary journals and magazines including Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Change Seven, Literary Heist, Aethlon, Pattern Recognition, Coneflower Café, The Raven Review, Voices, Smoky Blue Literary Arts Magazine, Mobius, The Griffel Literary Magazine, Bright Flash Literary, Floyd County Moonshine, The Mantelpiece, Oakwood, Nude Bruce Review, Canyon Voices, County Lines: A Literary Journal, The Word’s Faire, Rundelania, Red Dirt Forum and October Hill Magazine.