He didn’t get it. He’d read the poem. It said “clean linen,” not “laundry,” but he still didn’t get it. And he didn’t correct her when she shouted it out wrong. It made her happy. She had told him the poem was about forgiveness, that to love the world was to forgive it. But he’d never gotten what all that had to do with laundry and thieves.
But he figured it had something to do with the fact that she’d volunteered to do laundry for this homeless guy named Gator. He was a Vietnam vet, and he lived in the marshlands across the river. He made what money he could by working as a river guide for tourists and fishermen. He was a good guy, all tanned and blue eyes, not bad-looking when he smiled. But he was just a little bit crazy in that he preferred living his life out there with the gators and snakes rather than with people. Billy just figured that was what war could do.
And Gator was looking a whole lot better with Katy’s care. She cut his hair once a month, and she did his laundry every week. Brought it home in a trash bag from the bar and took it back all folded and neat in another trash bag, a clean one.
Billy thought maybe Gator had some idea where Katy was. He’d been a scout in the army . . . maybe he knew something. Maybe he could help. After three days of solid drinking and steady smoking, Billy wasn’t blind yet. He could see enough to know he looked like a drunk in the mirror. He could see her panties on the towel rack, the empty wastebasket, the grime around the tub. He took the framed picture off the wall, hugged it to his chest. “Hold on,” he said as he walked to the kitchen. He saw that it was bright with daylight and a wreck of Chinese takeout and uneaten pizza. Flies buzzed all over. “Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry, Katy.” He swatted at flies around the sink and stuck the dishes in the dishwasher. He poured the powder, slammed the door closed, and jammed the button to click the machine on. He opened the back door, used a newspaper to swat flies out. Then he dug under the sink for the last trash bag. That was on Katy’s list. She was going to pick up trash bags at the Rite Aid when she got her prescription. There were other things they needed that she’d been supposed to pick up that day. He stood gripping the sink, enjoying the steady vibration of the dishwasher. As long as he gripped that countertop, he was pretty certain he wouldn’t fall to the floor and be a puddle of hungover mess when that REV lady showed up. He remembered she was coming tomorrow. But tomorrow was today.
“Shit,” he said, and he pitched beer cans, containers, and boxes into the bag. They had company coming, and Katy would want it clean. He sprayed air freshener all around the kitchen. “It will be fine, Katy,” he said, talking to the framed words of the poem. He grabbed a broom. “We’ve just got to go through the motions of looking for you. It’s like that drill bit I thought I lost one time. I was looking and looking, and when I reached in my pocket for some quarters, I found it. It was right there next to me the whole time. I’m gonna look and look for you. And then I’m gonna turn and see you are right here. Where you belong. With me.”
The Luckiest Girl in the World
Molly Flynn panted hard in the last stretch of her five-mile run. Her house was in sight. Time to sprint the last quarter mile. Then she saw the guy with the dog at the end of the street. She stopped, slowed to a walk. If she sprinted, she’d meet up with him, but if she went real slow, he’d have to keep moving and be on the side street if he really was out just to walk that dog. He lived just a little ways over, and of all the trails and streets he could take, he always seemed to pick her street. She didn’t like the way his eyes traveled up and down her legs, over her arms, her chest. He never really did anything she could say was wrong, but it was like he was making fun of her somehow. She knew without speaking to him that he was a jerk.
She saw him look her way as if he might wait for her. She pretended not to notice and crouched down to retie her shoes. For God’s sake, it was a nice neighborhood. A girl should be able to run in shorts and a sports bra without feeling like the neighbors would jump her bones first chance they got. She looked up, saw him bend and pat the dog like he was speaking to it. Then, without another look her way, he moved on. Thank God. He was so not her type, cute but a little too lean with these tight muscles, like all he was made of was muscle and bone. He looked like some kind of guitar player, wannabe rock star. He had the looks, all right. “But not my type,” she said out loud as she walked toward her house. She hoped he’d gotten that message by now. She ignored him whenever she drove by him while he was walking that damned dog on the sidewalk. He’d let the dog shit anywhere, never once picked it up. He might live in the neighborhood, but it was clear to most everybody that he didn’t belong.
By the time she reached her house, he was out of sight, so she didn’t pretend to fiddle with the lock; she just pushed the front door open and walked in. Her mother had fussed at her for not locking the doors. But a five-mile run with a house key dangling from your wrist, who needed that? She was sweaty, and the sudden rush of air conditioning gave her a chill. She grabbed her hoodie from where she liked to leave it on a chair by the door—her mother didn’t like that either, said the living room was a place for greeting people, not a place for throwing down your clothes wherever convenient. She pulled the hoodie on as she headed to the kitchen for a bottle of water. Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate, her coach always told her, so when she wasn’t running or drinking water, she was usually needing to pee.
She went to the bathroom, washed her hands, studied her face in the mirror. She’d forgotten to put on sunscreen, and her skin was so delicate. It was something her mother had told her: “Freckles are cute on a girl, but not on a woman. They start to look like age spots after a while, and you’re too pretty for that.”
Molly Flynn had the face of a Botticelli angel. People often told her this. She was striking in a way that could make strangers walk up and say things like, “You have the face of a Botticelli angel.” It always made her blush, but she’d learned to just shrug, say “Thanks,” and turn away. She had looked up Botticelli’s art at the library one day and had to admit there were similarities: the fair skin, round face, delicate lips, long hair that kind of rippled down the shoulders, and big, dreamy eyes. Yeah, she was kind of like that. But she wasn’t impressed. It was just a lucky mix of her mother’s Italian and her daddy’s Irish genes. And these days, looking like a Botticelli angel wasn’t exactly the hottest thing. She’d studied the magazines for what was hot, and she was not. Her thighs were too thick from all the running and gymnastics, her ass just a little too, well, round. They’d never pick her for the J. Crew catalog. She was glad Matt loved her just the way she was. He said women in the fashion magazines looked scary, while she looked real and hot and sweet.
So she looked like some old Italian painter’s idea of an angel, the same painter who would’ve painted Jesus with blond hair and blue eyes. What did art know about anything anyway? It was all just somebody’s idea of things.
Molly wasn’t big on angels, like many of her friends. They’d buy little statues of angels to keep on their bedside tables, little angel bookmarks, posters; one of her friends even had an angel tattoo on her belly, a sexy little angel. “Great place for a guardian angel,” Molly had said with a laugh. “Think that will keep the boys out of your pants?” But her friend had just given her a sly look, said, “Oh, no, it’ll make ’em want to come a little closer for a good look at what I have.”
Molly thought that was trashy, but she didn’t say so. She knew the way to keep her friends was to keep half her thoughts to herself. Like church. Most of her friends went to church. Mostly Baptist, and they were always trying to bring her along. But she got out of it by saying she was Catholic; she had her own faith. Right. They used to be Catholic, which meant her dad could run around all he wanted as long as he confessed, said a few Hail Marys. All that faith in God hadn’t done her mother any good with the breast cancer. No, it was a good doctor and a plastic surgeon who’d saved her from that. Her mother had learned a few things from how the church and a husband could fail you. She went to a women’s support group every Wednesday night—an excuse to drink wine and gossip, but it made her mom strong. She’d learned a few things there and