Second Coming
“He became a truck driver for Heartland Freighters after the war,” Mary said, splitting her microwave enchilada down the middle with the side of her fork. “Drove the rest of his life. That’s how his face became a half moon.” She pointed to her favorite portrait of him, propped upright at the end of the table where he had eaten her dinners for half a century. “I used to tease him that I was the only one who could see his dark side.”
Blake kept his eyes lowered while he poked at sticky remnants of melted cheese. By now, however, Mary knew better than to take offense at his indifference—this was her fourth consecutive summer hosting college baseball players for the local scout team, (her daughter had suggested it after her husband passed), and she had learned that the arrangement was like fostering pit bulls: the amount of attention she received from these young men was usually correlated to their appetites.
“You may be dismissed, darling,” Mary said, acknowledging Blake’s empty plate. “Are you sure?” he said, rising from his chair before the end of the question to grab his luggage. “Yes dear. Leave it there, I’ll wash up,” she said. “Okay, thank you,” he said, his heavy feet debossing tufted carpet as he made his way across the living room toward the bedroom Mary had readied for his arrival. As he passed the fireplace, she saw him double take in the direction of an old picture on the mantel of her posing next to her longtime pastor.
Dropping his bags and closing the door behind him, Blake deflated onto the room’s lone twin bed with a sigh, the bedsprings moaning under his weight, and in doing so noticed an antique bedside table next to the headboard. Inside its top drawer he found a glossy nest of 5x7 inch photos, one of which caught his eye—a young woman in a yellow bikini, in repose on a beach with her back to the camera, head turned slightly so that her profile was concealed but for the tip of her nose by long strands of wet hair.
“Blake? Are you decent?” he heard Mary suddenly call from outside the bedroom door. Startled, he threw the photo back in the drawer and slammed it shut.
“Uh, what?” he blurted, unfamiliar with the expression.
She glanced at the photo from the mantel, now cradled in her hands. “Never mind darling,” she answered, “I’ll come back once you’ve had some time.” It wasn’t too late, and there were dirty dishes in the kitchen she could take care of until he was ready for the story.