God Is Dead by Ron Currie Jr.

says. “What’s the damage today?”
    â€œOne tire, gutted,” I say. “Driver’s-side window, smashed.”
    â€œOuch.”
    â€œJeff’s getting more ruthless every day.”
    â€œThe man is without ruth,” Selia says. “Completely sans ruth.”
    â€œHow’s your mom?”
    â€œThe same. Today she thought I was a burglar when I came out of the bathroom. And she’s still calling me Betty.”
    â€œAny mail?” I ask.
    â€œJust the usual. Coupons. A dozen hate letters.”
    I kick off my shoes and sidle next to her. “You sure you still want to be the girlfriend of the most loathed man in town?”
    â€œIt’s not so bad, other than the sneaking around,” she says. “Let’s do this, buckaroo. I have to get back before she starts mixing herself toilet-water martinis again.”
    We take each other’s clothes off. Selia puts in her diaphragm and a triple dose of spermicidal foam. I double up on the condoms. We dim the lights. It’s nice.
    Afterward she kisses my forehead, then my hand, and asks if I need her to get some dinner. When Selia’s not around I have to drive sixty miles to the Shop ’n Save just across the county line in Dover, because no one here will sell me food. But tonight there’s half a bag of spanakopita in the freezer, along with some Tater Tots. I tell her I’m fine.
    â€œYou’d better hit the servants’ exit,” I say, meaning the underground tunnel that runs from my basement to an alley two blocks away behind the Malibu Tanning Salon, where Selia parks her car.
    â€œI wish you’d quit,” she says. She puts on her jacket. “Then maybe, after six months or so when everyone didn’t hate you so much anymore, we could just spend time together like a normal couple. Go to dinner at Primo’s. Maybe take in a movie without having to drive to New Hampshire.”
    â€œHon, I can’t quit,” I say. “No more than you can quit taking care of your mother. These people need me.”
    â€œEff them,” she says. “They need someone. Not you specifically. There’re other CAPPs.”
    I laugh. “It’s not the sort of job that people are scrambling to fill.”
    â€œFine, fine,” she says, grabbing her handbag from the coffee table. She gives me a last peck on the lips. “Bye. Remember, you’re my favorite little martyr.”
    I watch her disappear into the tunnel entrance and think, I could say the same about you, hon, with your mother hanging around your neck like a leaden life preserver. But that’s not fair, really. Because like I said to her before, the sum total of adulthood is squelching the desire to run, screaming bloody goddamn murder, from the unpleasant things you’re obliged to do. Selia’s got her mom. I’ve got this town and the people in it.
    But to keep moving forward, to remain faithful to those unpleasant things, everyone’s got to reward themselves once in a while. I’m no exception. So I wait until I’m certain Selia’s gone, then go to the safe in the bedroom and take out my vintage (not to mention illicit) collection of children’s-clothing catalogs. There are forty-eight of them, everything from flimsy newspaper inserts to the collection’s centerpiece, a glossy 700-page tome from BestDressedKids dating back to the Christmas before the adult population went gaga over children. Now, of course, children’s-clothing catalogs—and the manufacture, distribution, or possession of them—are strictly forbidden, but with the money I make as CAPP I’ve been able to easily (if cautiously) acquire nearly fifty individual catalogs over the past year. Most come from Scandinavia, where there are few laws governing images of children, so the models have a noticeable blond-and-blue uniformity, but this is not a problem for me. Kids are kids.
    I sit on the floor