The Other Shoe by Matt Pavelich Page A

his palm and blinked steadily at them from beneath it as if they were at the far end of a field. There were welts on his cheeks from heavy sleeping; he’d had no recent acquaintance with the light of day. This, Karen thought, must be one of those blue periods he’d mentioned by way of explaining the times, the months, when he didn’t come around. He’d told her he was prone to burrow in, but this was the first she’d seen of him in hibernation. He was smaller for it. The twist and stiffness in his body were more pronounced. He looked at them, and there was something mechanical in his regard. “Karen? Did I . . . is there something I don’t know about?”
    â€œDon’t play stupid, Brusett. You know what this is.” Galahad had decided that he might after all be, in the right circumstance, a hard man. If sufficiently wronged, he might even become a hero. Either way, it appeared he was working himself up to some kind of drama with the rifle.
    â€œThis is a misunderstanding,” Karen said. “I told him. I told him and told him and told him, he’s got it wrong.”
    â€œYeah,” said Henry. “But what? What’d he get wrong?”
    â€œI told the paper guy I might come up here to live. That’s all it was. And now I think, well, I know , he’s got some misunderstanding out of it. Dad. Dad. I told you. Come on. Please.”
    â€œThe paper?” said Henry. “The new spaper?”
    â€œYou could say it slipped out.”
    â€œWhat slipped? I think I gotta have a few more details.”
    â€œAnd where did she come by that idea, Brusett? The two of you up here? Don’t that make a cozy arrangement for you?”
    â€œI don’t recall that it was ever discussed.”
    â€œI explained that, too,” said Karen. “I told him it was my own idea. Just my idea. And I told him that. And it wasn’t even an idea, hardly. Just something I said at the moment.”
    â€œShe could stay here if she wants,” said Henry. “But where?”
    â€œRight,” said Galahad. “Where? If she got the idea she should come here, then you must’ve put it there, and if she’s coming here, even if she’s just been here before with you, that calls for a ceremony in my mind. The ring, the ceremony, the blessing—you better get ready for the whole shitaree . . . I mean the sacrament or whatever it’s supposed to be. See how mad this has got me?”
    â€œWhat’re you gonna do, Mr. Dent? Shoot me?”
    â€œYou’ll do the right thing, Brusett.”
    â€œHow could you wish that on your own daughter? Damn. Look at me, would you? You want this for her? What the hell?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” said Karen. “What do you mean, ‘Look at you’?”
    Henry drew his robe closed. “Let’s everybody settle down. First thing, why don’t you switch that safety on? Were you gonna shoot me, or what?”
    â€œI think you better say you’ll do the right thing.”
    â€œPut the gun down.”
    â€œAll it was,” said Karen, “I told the newspaper I worked for you. Not even for you—I told ’em I worked for some body . I told the paper I might come up here to live. But I wasn’t even thinking. I hadn’t thought it through, I just said it.”
    â€œSeems to me,” said Galahad, “that neither one of you has been thinking too much. But you better start now.”
    â€œSomething got by me here,” Henry said. “I must be missing something.”
    â€œYeah. A proposal of marriage. You want her livin’ here, that’s what it’ll take.”
    â€œHe never asked me to live anywhere,” Karen repeated. “Or do anything, or . . . ”
    â€œSo,” said Galahad, “he didn’t even have to ask. Does that make it any better?”
    â€œHold up,” said Henry. “I think if you keep talkin’ like