Who+Favors+the+Stew?

 There are no free lunches. //No free lunches? No free rides. // That’s right. You pay bus fare, you pay the chauffeur. Valet parking. You pay for gas down at the Exxon-Mobil. You pay taxes. //It’s kind of unfair, isn’t it?// Unfair? No. It’s a system. //But some things are free.// Some things are free. //The sky is free. The dirt and the grass and the rocks are free.// The air is free. //And people//. No. //What?// People aren’t free.
 * Who Favors the Stew? **

Mrs. Romanoff drives a Volvo. She lives next door with her husband Dmitri, who works at the local pharmacy. Before she got married she was Bridget Warner and then she met Dmitri and became Mrs. Romanov. And then they anglicized that but it still doesn’t stop kids down the street from painting little red flags and occasionally sticking them on their front lawn. I know because I saw them do it last week when I was sitting on the porch, and I was going to tell them to go home but right then Margaret and James pulled up in a Chevy and told me to get in. “Where are we going?” I asked. James fiddled with the keys in the ignition. “Just get in.” They drove to a field behind all the houses. They parked on the grass. Then they took off their shoes and sat up against the rear of the truck, pressing their backs into the tires. It was dark by then and you could hear the faint hum of mosquitoes beneath the leaves. “Here, light me up.” Margaret was holding a cigarette to her lips. James struck a match and lit it for her. “Thanks,” she said. “Don’t forget Zoey.” James turned to me. “You want one?” “Sure,” I said, and I heard the scraping of a fresh match. I curled my legs up against my chest. The grass underneath was still a bit damp from rain. “God.” Margaret drew in a breath and exhaled. “You shoulda been there. You really, really shoulda been there, Zoey. Me and James saw the whole thing.” I looked up. “What whole thing?” “There was an //ordeal//,” she said. “Cops and everything. They were gonna be locked up. They wiggled out somehow.” “Who?” James handed me the cigarette, already lit. “You know who.”

There is such a thing as preference. //Preference?// It perpetuates desire. They walk hand in hand. They walk down the road, holding hands. And when you see two people who walk down the road holding hands—that’s because of preference. //What about other things?// Let’s say you have two options for dinner. Option One is leftover stew and Option Two is filet mignon. Who favors the stew? No one. Everyone wants steak. Now that, I think, is universal preference. //But if everyone dives for the steak at once, what happens?// That, my friend, is why nothing good comes for free. They’ve got us all mapped out. //I see. Do you have the answers?// I do if you want me to.

“Your neighbors.” He grinned. “The Bolsheviks.” I watched him lean back as Margaret rested her head on his lap. Tendrils of smoke wound up and flared underneath his nostrils. “The way I figure,” he coughed, “it was only a matter of time.” Margaret told me that James thinks I am good-looking even though I got “no tits and a forehead like a light bulb.” She laughed and said that James prefers his friends to be attractive to make up for his own numbers. I remember it whenever I see him. And I remembered it when he bent down to kiss Margaret through the gray haze. “Dammit,” she said. “I wonder what they found.” “Well, nothing, obviously, if no one got the can.” James dragged his fingers through Margaret’s hair. “What would they have found?” Margaret shrugged. “Maybe some shady paperwork, or burning flags or something. How should I know what people like that keep in their house?” James said nothing. He continued stroking. “Stop that.” James looked down at Margaret’s face in his lap. “What?” “Pulling it.” “I’m just—” “You’re pulling it and it hurts.” James scowled. I flinched and his eyes found mine. If you seek out your neighbors, they might first ask what hurts and who made it hurt. Even then, it is always your fault. You weren’t behaving like a lady. Your dress was too short. The list goes on and on—but it is always your fault. I looked away. Margaret sat up and pushed her hair back into place. “Why weren’t you there, Zoey? I haven’t seen you the entire summer.” James shot me a glare. “Were you on vacation?” Margaret said. “Yes.” The words rolled around in my mouth. “I went to Florida.” “Neat.” She exhaled a ring of smoke and allowed it to diffuse. “Didja bring us anything?” “Um, no. Sorry. I didn’t get any spending money.” Margaret nodded. “That’s okay.” She yawned and stood up, brushing the grass off her dress. “It’s getting buggy out here. I think I’ll go sit inside.” James glanced up at her. “You sure?” “Yeah.” She handed him her cigarette and said, “You finish it.” Then she walked around the truck and I heard the passenger door slam. James sat there dumbly, holding the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger like a pencil. It was almost down to its filter. He looked at me. “I better be sure,” he said. “I got to make sure.” The last few embers hang on and burn slow, clinging to their final moments within papery walls, glowing brightest in the instant before they die out against cold flesh. Also, they sting.  There are many reasons why. // Go on //. First, no one believes you. You have a rampant imagination. You want attention. So you are manufacturing memories. Second, if they do believe you, there is virtually nothing they can do. // That’s what professionals are for, though. // To a professional, you are a black box. They poke and they prod and they shake you a couple times to see if they can hear something rattling around inside. And then they make an educated guess. // Educated //. Yes. But still a guess.

I came home the next morning to see Dmitri standing on his front lawn, pulling something up from the ground. Upon moving closer I saw that it was a short wooden rod with a square of crimson paper attached to it, flapping feebly. He uprooted the flag and cradled it under his arm along with several others. I waved to him from the pavement. He looked up from the hole in the earth where the flag had been stuck. “Hello, Zoey,” he said. “Been out?” I nodded and walked up to the lawn where he was standing. There were many visible punctures. Dmitri swept a lock of hair away from his face and I saw that he had a very neat, square jaw. I stared at it. “Where did you go?” he asked. “Downtown. I caught a midnight show.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think your parents are probably worried?” “They don’t much care.” I looked toward his doorway. The lights were off inside the house. “Is Mrs. Romanoff home?” “Bridget is away on business.” He sighed. “She won’t be back until Monday.” He plucked another flag from the ground and brought the bundle over to the roadside, emptying it into the trash can. It was very hot out and the back of his neck was glossy with sweat. I looked out over the lawn. “I can fix it for you if you want me to.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “What’s that?” “Your lawn. I mean. . . we’ve got a lot of stuff in our tool shed. I can help you fill in some of these holes.” He walked over and stood beside me. “That’s very sweet of you, Zoey. But it won’t be necessary.” “You know, I never thought. . . I never thought that you were a. . . you know.” He nodded. “I know. I appreciate it.” I kneeled down and examined the holes more closely. The mud was very soft and raw underneath the grass, and some of the holes were already oozing together. “They’re not very big,” I said. “They wouldn’t take a while.” I rubbed the grass off my knees and stood up again, my hands resting on my hips. “There’s just a lot of them, that’s all. I mean, the rest of it looks very nice, and the grass isn’t cut too short, so you probably can’t even see them unless you get up close.” I turned to smile at him. He did not smile back. He was staring at my arm, his eyes very wide. “Zoey. . . .” My hands dropped to my sides and started to quiver. I focused upon the ground. “Yes, sir?” He lifted my arm gently from the wrist and his fingers grazed two small, circular marks. “Where did you get those from?” I hesitated a moment before answering. “There was an accident with some candles,” I said. “Yesterday was my birthday.”

They don’t last long. //I suppose they don’t//. Advertisements lose their appeal once the product is purchased. Nothing stays fresh. This is how it’s always been. //Don’t talk that way//. Why not? //It’s upsetting//. But you said it yourself. It’s fact. All this squeamishness has got to go. //It’s not squeamishness//.// Your words are bending into the light//. They are perfectly straight. //No//. How come? //Because it’s not about advertisements and it’s not about products, and it’s not about buying and selling and free lunches and free rides. It’s about—// The new pretenses are up for sale. Come and get your pickings.

I walked fast out the front door, down the driveway, past the twin mailboxes and past the Romanoffs’ blue Volvo. It was dark outside and the air was chilly, so I had on a coat and a stocking cap. The thick, woolen material stretched wide to cover my ears. I could still hear the mosquitoes. I walked to the end of the street and turned onto the next one, without looking back over my shoulder. Many of the lawns in front of houses glittered with lamps that smelled of citronella. Insects hovered over the street, peering up driveways. All the lights inside the houses were off. I headed out of the neighborhood and passed by the deli and the farmer’s market, and soon the post office with its glaring, white awning. I walked faster. Before long I was passing the bus stop and the Exxon-Mobil, a mile out. I kept going. My shoes were loud as drums in the long stretches of quiet. After a while I stepped off the road and sat down on a wooden bench by the curb. I closed my eyes and rested. About an hour later, I awoke, startled, to a loud rumbling noise. A plane was flying overhead. I turned around and walked home.