April & Oliver by Tess Callahan

their faces streaky in the reflection.
    “I picture him flying down the hill in his Big Wheel with that guinea pig, Ratsy, on his lap,” Oliver says. “But I can hardly
     remember what we said to each other the last time we spoke. I keep trying to reconstruct his face. All the photographs feel
     wrong.”
    April stares blankly. She knows this is hurtful, but she wants to hurt him. Oliver looks at her in the mirror. The room smells
     of window cleaner, scouring powder, and, despite everything, urine. Bernadette fidgets uncomfortably.
    Oliver shifts his weight, raising his arm to say something but then running his hand through his hair instead. April feels
     the air move. Warmth radiates from inside his shirt, the heat he generated cleaning.
    Bernadette touches April’s shoulder and she feels her skin flinch involuntarily, like a horse shooing a fly. She knows she
     ought to feel comforted, but she is ready to beg them to leave. “Let’s get you home,” Bernadette says. “We don’t want you
     to have another night like last night.”
    April looks at Oliver, but he puts his hands in his pockets and stares at the drying floor. “Last night?” April says.
    “I brought some herbal sleeping pills,” Bernadette says softly. “Nothing addictive.”
    April looks at him again, but Oliver will not look back. She tosses the cleaning supplies into the bucket and pushes through
     the door.
    Behind the bar, the phone is ringing. April snatches it.
    “Change your mind?” T.J. says.
    April stops, looks at her watch, and turns her back on Oliver. “No,” she says quietly. “Just running late.”
    She feels Oliver step closer.
    “Did you remember what I asked you to bring?”
    April glances at a bottle of Seagram’s. “I forgot to ring it up, and now the cash register is closed out.”
    “So pay for it tomorrow.”
    “It doesn’t work that way.”
    “Who is it?” Oliver asks.
    “Is someone with you?” T.J. says.
    “No. I’m leaving now.”
    “Someone’s there,” he says.
    “I’ll be over in ten minutes.”
    “I’m coming to you.”
    “No. I’ve got my coat on.” At this, Oliver catches her eye, glancing at her bare arms to acknowledge the lie. She hangs up.
     “My friend Carla,” she says.
    He bites his lip and nods. “Well, I guess we’ve done everything we can do here.” He picks up Bernadette’s coat.
    “So you’re staying with a girlfriend?” Bernadette says hopefully.
    Oliver stares at April as he slips Bernadette’s coat over her shoulders. She stares back. “That’s right,” he answers. “She’s
     staying with Carla.”
    April sits on her hands while she waits for the idle to settle down. In her rearview mirror she sees Oliver’s taillights swing
     out of the parking lot. She can relax now, because he will not be back. He saw what a waste of time the evening had been.
     He will go home and press himself upon Bernadette before they are even inside the vestibule. He will think over and over again
     how lucky he is to have someone so sane and benign.
    She pulls out of the lot and drives toward the rented room where T.J. is staying. She isn’t worried about getting to sleep
     because they won’t, at least not until drink and exhaustion overtake them. She will climb the stairs to his windowless room
     with its slanted ceiling and chipping paint and listen to the desperate cot creak beneath the weight of their forgetting.

WINTER

Chapter

7
    P ARCHEESI LIES OPEN on nana’s kitchen table, the playing board strewn with pistachio shells, crimson as rose petals. Beside it a Rock-’n’-roll
     Santa with blue suede shoes gyrates its hips, the battery so drained the jingle is more like a drone. Oliver turns it off
     with a smile, but Nana is oblivious. “I see Mr. Bergfalk was here,” he says, kissing her cheek. She smells of cold cream and
     Dippity-do, her hair recently set.
    “Freesia again.” Nana points vaguely to a vase on the counter, not bringing herself to look at it. “He