Chapter Five: What would Studs Terkel say?

Time is funny sometimes. This afternoon feels like one of the longest of my life. Otto is on his third beer, making quiet conversation, and I'm barely talking. I just want to sit here and listen to him, feel the cadence of his voice rolling over me, wrapping me up. I want to believe that what he is saying he would tell only to me, but I know it's not true. Otto can talk to anyone, and does; one of those friends of the world that's nonetheless hard to get under the surface of, until he's ready. Still, like me, he's lived in this town for a long time and has a lot of friends around here. Already one of our other regulars, Theo, has come and gone again after a beer's worth of catching up.

The sunlight from the windows is ebbing, shrinking back towards the windows, and it raises a sudden yearning in me. For just a second, I allow myself to hope for this baby - not that I am pregnant, the other side of my brain chimes in - that I might get to hold it and look into its eyes and hear its voice as it squalls out its protestations at being thrust into the cold, bright world. But the image is replaced by one of my dead baby in my arms, so still and silent and grayish-white. For god's sake, I couldn't stand to go through it again - and if I'm alone this time - I look at Otto and try to tune back into what he's saying, but I can't concentrate. Who is he?

We'd really only just started to get to know each other when we hooked up at that party, even though we'd hung out in the same circles for years. He's an unknown quantity, is what he is, I say to myself, suddenly realizing that I'm a little buzzed from the beer I've been drinking. I stand up and pour myself an ice water, and Otto interrupts himself to ask for one too.

"So anyway, there we are, stuck in the middle of the fucking desert," he continues, telling me an apparently hilarious story from his road trip that I haven't listened to at all. I'd better start paying attention, I think, and try to focus on what he's saying, but all I can think about is whether what he says shows signs of being a good dad or not.

"Hey," Otto cuts into my thoughts, "are you okay? You seem preoccupied with something. You sure you don't want me to find somewhere else to crash?" My hand is resting on the bar, and he covers it with his. I look down at them; his hand is huge, and his fingernails are short and a little ragged. I lace my fingers through his.

"No, I'm good. You're welcome to stay with me." I smile at him and lean across the counter for a kiss. Might as well enjoy it for what it's worth. "I'm going to go have a smoke. Want to join me?"

We go out front so I can keep an eye on any incoming customers. This is one of the depths of the off-season, so it's not likely anyone would stop by on a late Sunday afternoon, but you never know. It's cold outside, crisp, probably about 40 degrees. Otto lights his cigarette and starts pacing up and down on the sidewalk in front of the store, gesturing with the smoke as he talks. I watch the cars going by and a couple walking on the other side of the street, farther down the block.

I feel a twinge in my abdomen and try to ignore it. The other side of my brain is circling thoughts of implantation, of the sac your body builds as a stopgap while it makes the placenta. I take another pull off my cigarette and look at it, listening to Otto talk with half my attention; I have no idea why he's on to state taxes in Nevada now. Apparently it relates to the conditions of the roads there.

Before my first pregnancy ended, it had been years since I'd quit smoking. I started again after Eric left, and had been smoking for the last two years or so. If I'm pregnant, I'll have to quit again, I thought. I look at Otto, trying to imagine him with a two-year-old perched on his shoulders, laughing against the bright winter sky.

Otto has finally finished ranting about road conditions in the Southwest and draws close to me again. "So, listen," he says, putting his arm around me, "can I take my stuff over to your place?"

I raise an eyebrow. "How much stuff do you have?" He laughs. I wasn't joking. I exhale my cigarette smoke through my nose.

"Not much. Couple duffle bags and a couple coolers in the car. The rest of my stuff's in storage, in those rental units up on Higginbotham Flats, but I don't really need it." He starts talking about learning about minimalist living on the road, and I study his face. Strong jaw; long-lashed brown eyes; that perfect, perfect mouth. Just enough stubble to look sexy as hell, and a mole right near the outer corner of his left eye.

Otto smiles, and says, "So do you have a spare key?" I stub out my cigarette and we go back in so I can retrieve my keys from my purse. I tell him where the extra key is, in the kitchen, and he promises to stop back by with my key before I get off work this evening. He pauses in the doorway. "Got any dinner plans?" I shake my head. "You do now," he grins before he walks out, the bell clanging as he pulls the door shut.

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I'll pretend I'm being interviewed by Studs Terkel. "I have no idea what it means," I say aloud to the empty shop. "I'm just trying to get by one day at a time."