A strong distaste in his nostrils and back of his throat, like something rotting. A sinus infection, perhaps, or a general distaste of the smell of things. He wandered around the rooms of his lake home. On the dock he could see his little girl fishing, her legs dangling over the side, the bobber floating on the still water. She would fish from sunrise to noon with a patience that escaped him. What you fishing for, he’d ask, and she would respond “For mermaids, Daddy. Now go away, you’re scaring them.” Odd girl from the loins of an odd mother.
He went to the living room, pulled a Kleenex out of the box and tried blowing his nose again. Noting came out. He felt dried up and like his nasal passages was a closed up house with milk rotting on the kitchen counter.
He grabbed his car keys of the table and headed out.
He drove fifteen minutes to Mainstreet and pulled up outside the 8th Street Grill. It wasn’t on 8th street any more; it had moved from 8th to Main about six years back, but the owner didn’t want to pay for new printing on the paper napkins. Inside, the noise of families and friends talking, the clink of dishes, the cash register printing out checks, the hiss of food from the kitchen. He grabbed a seat at the counter. The waitress, Doreen, had high arching eyebrows like the McDonalds golden arches. Can those be real, he wondered? They didn’t look drawn on. She took a pad of paper and held it, ready for his order. What did he want? What did he really want? He didn’t know but he couldn’t make her stand there forever so he asked for a blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee.
He’d forgotten about his daughter; she was still on the dock, and unsupervised. So what if she wore a Snoopy life vest, that wouldn’t save her from a kidnapper or a bear. He almost got out of his seat to drive back, but then realized it wouldn’t matter if he drove back. She wouldn’t be there anymore. She’d have been taken in by the mermaids of the lake by now, and she would be submerged in the deep pools while the mermaids decorated her with clam shells and long draping garlands of seaweed.
“So where’s the wife today?” the cook asked from over the counter, smirking to the dishwasher clearing trays.
Probably fucking that shoe salesman out at the mall. “I don’t know Sam, do I look like I gotta track her comings and goings all day?”
“Just a question,” Sam replied, wiping his hands on his apron and snatching another order from the carrosel. He ducked back into the kitchen and Doreen slid a cup of coffee on a saucer front of him. “You hafta pick out your own muffin at the counter.”
“What the hell for?”
“Because that’s the policy, and I am not one to go against policy; now it’s just a few feet away. You can handle that, now can’t you Clark?”
For fuck sake, why does everybody have to tell me what to do? But he walked over and spent considerable time examining the muffins to find just the right one. By the time he made it back to his seat, his coffee was cold. Have to put more sugar in it now. He shoveled sugar into his coffee, then dropped the spoon with a clatter onto the saucer. He took a grim satisfaction of how Doreen jumped at the sound.
He could have his own affair, he figured. Maybe that elementary school teacher of his daughter’s, or maybe the girl that worked the counter down at the feed mill. She was probably too young for him, but leaving his wife for someone far younger than her would be all the better.
What the hell do I care if she’s screwing around with someone, he wondered? It’s only because of what people might think, is all. When you get right down to, does it matter to me if she’s found someone else? If she was to keep seeing that guy and nobody would find out, I don’t think I’d give a rip. But I want something too. If she gets to have someone on the side, some taste of satisfaction, then I deserve that too, don’t I? It just doesn’t have to be an affair. The last thing I need right now is another woman, so what’s it going to be?
Yeah, what’s it going to be, he asked himself, taking a sip of cold coffee that was bitter and sweet and at the same time, then a bite of one perfect blueberry muffin. Have to tell Sam he really knows how to bake them. Maybe later, he decided, still sore about the insinuation about his wife.
A boat? Yeah, a boat. He’d wanted one ever since they bought the lake home but his wife had always said no. He could escape out on the water from sunrise to noon. What you fishing for, Clark? Mermaids. Quiet down now. You’re scaring them away.
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