Short Cuts by Raymond Carver

hear me?”
    I got up from the table and went to Dean’s room. He was awake and in his pajamas, putting together a puzzle. I helped him find his clothes and then went back to the kitchen and put his breakfast on the table. The telephone rang two or three more times and each time Stuart was abrupt while he talked and angry when he hung up. He called Mel Dorn and Gordon Johnson and spoke with them, slowly, seriously, and then he opened a beer and smoked a cigarette while Dean ate, asked him about school, his friends, etc., exactly as if nothing had happened.
    Dean wanted to know what he’d done while he was gone, and Stuart took some fish out of the freezer to show him.
    “I’m taking him to your mother’s for the day,” I said.
    “Sure,” Stuart said and looked at Dean who was holding one of the frozen trout. “If you want to and he wants to, that is. You don’t have to, you know. There’s nothing wrong.”
    “I’d like to anyway,” I said.
    “Can I go swimming there?” Dean asked and wiped his fingers on his pants.
    “I believe so,” I said. “It’s a warm day so take your suit, and I’m sure your grandmother will say it’s okay.”
    Stuart lighted a cigarette and looked at us.
    Dean and I drove across town to Stuart’s mother’s. She lives in an apartment building with a pool and a sauna bath. Her name is Catherine Kane. Her name, Kane, is the same as mine, which seems impossible. Years ago, Stuart has told me, she used to be called Candy by her friends. She is a tall, cold woman with white-blonde hair. She gives me the feeling that she is always judging, judging. I explain briefly in a low voice what has happened (she hasn’t yet read the newspaper) and promise to pick Dean up that evening. “He brought his swimming suit,” I say. “Stuart and I have to talk about some things,” I add vaguely. She looks at me steadily from over her glasses. Then she nods and turns to Dean, saying “How are you, my little man?” She stoops and puts her arms around him. She looks at me again as I open the door to leave. She has a way of looking at me without saying anything.
    When I return home Stuart is eating something at the table and drinking beer.…
    After a time I sweep up the broken dishes and glassware and go outside. Stuart is lying on his back on the grass now, the newspaper and can of beer within reach, staring at the sky. It’s breezy but warm out and birds call.
    “Stuart, could we go for a drive?” I say. “Anywhere.”
    He rolls over and looks at me and nods. “We’ll pick up some beer,” he says. “I hope you’re feeling better about this. Try to understand, that’s all I ask.” He gets to his feet and touches me on the hip as he goes past. “Give me a minute and I’ll be ready.”
    We drive through town without speaking. Before we reach the country he stops at a roadside market for beer. I notice a great stack of papers just inside the door. On the top step a fat woman in a print dress holds out a licorice stick to a little girl. In a few minutes we cross Everson Creek and turn into a picnic area a few feet from the water. The creek flows under the bridge and into a large pond a few hundred yards away. There are a dozen or so men and boys scattered around the banks of the pond under the willows, fishing.
    So much water so close to home, why did he have to go miles away to fish?
    “Why did you have to go there of all places?” I say.
    “The Naches? We always go there. Every year, at least once.” We sit on a bench in the sun and he opens two cans of beer and gives one to me. “How the hell was I to know anything like that would happen?” He shakes his head and shrugs, as if it had all happened years ago, or to someone else. “Enjoy the afternoon, Claire. Look at this weather.”
    “They said they were innocent.”
    “Who? What are you talking about?”
    “The Maddox brothers. They killed a girl named Arlene Hubly near the town where I grew up, and then cut off her head and