Read Marine Park: Stories for Free Online Page B

softer and took her to restaurants, brought her things from his uncle’s candy store.
    He was good but the two of them were different, like the Canada trip had shown. A half century of marriage, and they’d traveled out of the country once. He spent the whole time on a motorboat they had rented, going from one side of the lake to the other, ferrying back and forth. He’d come back, be happy, having been outside all day, feeling refreshed. She didn’t call the phone number like she usually did for that one. She had thought they might get away from it. She had thought they were on vacation.
    Why did she do it? How does it feel to make dinner every day and three courses on Sunday? How many times did she actually work the polls? Five, six times a year? And she’d always loved the gangster stories—Diamond Jim out in Chicago, who owned all the brothels, and how the government took him down. It’s the type of thing that you keep doing, out there in the white house by the water and the highway. Sometimes she hated that house. Nothing going on. So much he didn’t know. The amount of money you make for poll work. He’d never voted in his life.
    She got up in the morning and cleaned up the bedroom, came downstairs around ten. Vincent was already sitting at the kitchen counter with his coffee. She scrubbed each dish twice, her back to his.
    Nice day, he said. Thinking about going to get the oil changed on the Toyota.
    Aurora patted him on the back of his neck, got the orange juice out of the refrigerator.
    Nice day for a drive, he said. Or a boat ride. Haven’t taken her out in a bit.
    Sure, she said, and then she knew.
    Just really one of those days, no? Nice morning days?
    Like out on the lake in Canada.
    Sort of, he said. But it’s nicer here. Everything is clearer.
    True. She poured him some more juice.
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    When Vincent got to the candy store at two the next afternoon, the CLOSED sign was already swinging on the door to the shop. He went in and there was Benducci, sitting behind the cash register.
    You lost a little hair, Vincent said.
    It’s the insurance payments, said Benducci as he came around the counter to say hello. They embraced, Vincent’s palm on Benducci’s back. He could feel the skin over his bones.
    They used to do them together, the jobs. Benducci was younger, and they always sent him with Vincent because Benducci was the muscle, on the off chance that something went wrong. Benducci had this Italian surname, but his family had been in America for generations, uncles of his always telling stories about the way it was before the guineas got here. They were a southern family. Benducci had a southern belle sister that everyone in the neighborhood knew: her name was Everleigh, a family tradition. An aunt far back on a plantation used to sign her letters, Everly Yours.
    They sat on the stools. Vincent spread his arms and laughed.
    Look at me, he said. I’m too old for this garbage. He pointed at Benducci. You too.
    Come on, sixty-five is basically sixty, and then you’re in your fifties, he said. And that’s just middle-aged.
    That’s the optimist talking.
    Honestly, I haven’t done a job in years, and I got excited. He opened his hands. Who else would I call?
    Vincent walked around to the Coke machine and took a can. Benducci eyed him. You gonna pay for that?
    Vincent put a quarter on the counter.
    They’re a little more now.
    So. Under the Parkway Bridge, seven thirty?
    Just offshore, right where people fish.
    They’ll be no one on the bridge?
    I’m heading over right now to put up some signs and talk to people.
    Anyway, no one ever notices.
    Benducci didn’t answer.
    Anything I should know?
    Should be fine. The boat’s a twenty-footer, they’ll have two handlers too. No cops. Any cruisers, we split. Supposed to be important that the drop point doesn’t get found, it’s the last