Page 12 of The Husband Hour
“What position do you play?”
He squinted up at her. “I don’t know. We change around a lot.”
“Okay, well, that makes sense. I guess it’s a little early to lock in on something. Do you watch sports on TV? Football? Hockey?”
“Sometimes. Brett watches a lot of hockey.” Oh, yes. Stepdad Brett.
“Yeah. I’m sorry Brett isn’t around this summer. Are you upset about that?”
Ethan shrugged. “Not really. He wasn’t around that much anyway.”
Lauren, at a loss for what else to say on the matter, suggested they turn around and head back.
“Aunt Lauren?”
“Yes?”
“Are you mad at my mom?”
“What? Oh, no. Why do you ask?”
“You yelled at her at dinner.”
True. She did.
“Well, sisters argue sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything, really.”
“Do you like my mom?” he asked. Lauren started to respond and found herself feeling choked up.
“Of course,” she said. “She’s my sister.”
Maybe it was time they both started acting like it.
There was a bar like Robert’s Place in every town. At least, in every town Matt could spend any amount of time in. In Longport, New Jersey, it took him about thirty seconds of asking passersby on the street for a “good place to drink” before he was steered to Atlantic Avenue and North Essex Street. He needed to be good and loaded to fall asleep in his car now, unlike the old days, when he could crash anywhere. That was the difference between a twenty-four-year-old news correspondent and a thirty-four-year-old filmmaker.
Inside, he was greeted by a Bruce Springsteen song playing on the jukebox, the smell of old beer, and a framed poster of the 1974 Flyers Stanley Cup championship team.
It was early enough to get a seat at the scarred wooden bar under a ceiling covered with Phillies 2008 World Series championship pennants and Budweiser posters. The walls were lined with awards and commemorative plaques. And there, propped against the back of the bar, next to a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, was a framed photo of Rory Kincaid in his U.S. Rangers uniform.
It was a good omen. He was in the right place, the right town. He was going to get this film finished.
“What are you having, doll?” The bartender had heavily bleached blond hair and a raspy voice. She might have been thirty or sixty. It was tough to tell.
“A shot of Tito’s, thanks.”
He glanced around the room, the filmmaker in him taking in the scene. He made a mental note to come back with a camera and get a picture of the bar with Rory’s photo.
The bartender slid his shot over to him. Matt asked her name.
“Desiree,” she said with a smile. Definitely closer to sixty.
“I’m Matt,” he said, raising his glass.
“Nice meeting you, Matt,” she said. “You here for the summer?”
“Just a week or so. Visiting.”
A bearded man two seats away in a trucker hat glanced at Matt contemptuously and raised his empty beer bottle at Desiree. She left Matt with his vodka, and by the time she drifted back, he had summoned the nerve to ask:
