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“Hello? Joe?”
He looked up, startled: not a voice he expected here, ever. “Mom,” he said. “What are you doing here? Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Can a lady come in?”
“Sure, sure!” He walked around his desk, dragged a chair from the corner. “It’s just a surprise.”
She looked at the picture on his desk.
“Nice. Mighty big for a matchbook, isn’t it? But I suppose you squeeze them down. Pretty girl.”
“What brings you down here? You should have called –“
“I wanted to drop in and see what it looks like around here when you’re not expecting anyone. Didn’t want to give you time to hide the chorus girls.” She wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t smell very well in here.”
“It’s – well, it’s lots of things. Glue and plastic from the buttons, we just got a shipment. The boss smokes cigars. You don’t notice it after a while. You want some coffee? I can call down.”
“No, no, I won’t be long. You’re busy.” She looked at the wall behind Joe. “Are all those yours?”
“Most of them, sure. Better than diplomas.”
“What do you mean? Your dad wanted you to get your diploma, you know. He wasn’t very happy when you –“
“I know. I know. But I have a sheepskin back there that says I sat in a room for four years, what does that tell anyone? I put up my best work, a client can see what I can do. Not that I have a lot of clients up here.”
“Good. Because it smells.”
“I know, you said. I’m still going out to the clients, making the pitch. Probably always will, because it’s that kind of business. No one gets dressed up and shines his shoes because he’s going to see the Matchbook man. But I still like to have the art up. It’s like podiatrist, you know? He works with feet all day but he still likes to look at the paper that says he’s a doctor.”
“A diploma, you mean.”
“Yeah, well, okay. Bad example. So why are you downtown?”
“Doctor in the morning and the lawyer in the afternoon. Thought I’d make a day of it. Everything’s fine, don’t get that look. I got a good thump and clear lungs and no glaucoma, and what was not so hot last year isn’t any worse this year. So there’s that. Doesn’t mean I won’t get hit by a bus tomorrow, though. Say, I would like some coffee. Do you have any around, or should we go down to that nice little place off the lobby?”
“Downstairs is fine. I was going to knock off for a while anyway.”
“Who’s she?” Joe’s mother looked at the drawing on his desk. “I’ve seen her.”
“Someone I made up.”
“Really? She looks familiar. Oh, do you know who called the other day? Laverne Butler. You were in fourth grade together. She was in Kenya for a while, imagine that, Kenya, but they moved back and she’s a member of the church now, we talk on Sundays sometimes, and she was going through some things she’d unpacked after their return, and found a valentine you gave her. She wanted to know if you’d like it. For old time’s sake.”
“Why would I want that?” Joe said. It came out stronger than he had intended.
She looked at him for a second. “Just a thought. I’ll tell her not to bother.”
She took out a pack of cigarettes; Joe pushed a matchbook across the counter, watching her.
“Thanks. Of course the doctor said I should quit these – oh, my.”
She looked at the matchbook, looked up at Joe. “Find these in Dad’s suits, did you?”
“Remember it?”
“I do. We had a flat coming out of Indianapolis and stopped here while it was fixed. It took forever. It was in a suit? I thought I went through all the pockets.”
Joe shrugged. The matchbook had come in the mail the day before, postmarked Salt Lake City, with a note that made him walk around downtown for an hour.
“Why were you in Indianapolis?”
“Oh, I don’t remember. Seeing your uncle Frank, probably. It wasn’t a romantic get-away, if that’s what you’re thinking. Now how about that coffee?”
They stood. She put the matches in her purse. “Oh, I know who that is,” she said, pointing to the drawing. “That’s the girl you’re supposed to draw to see if you have art talent. For that school. Are you thinking about taking classes?”
“Mom, I do this for a living. I could teach classes. It’s for a client. They wanted someone chic. It’s just a basic girl.”
“I suppose. Well, shall we?”
They rode down the elevator in silence. Seamus touched his cap when they left the cab. Joe’s mother didn’t notice. Joe shot him an index finger.
Weekend shift, the note had said. Nights. But she won’t be here forever. Who does!
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