= SUBURBAN RENEWAL
  by Art Montague


The 'burbs are with us.  Row on row, laid out as economically as a farmer's field.  After all, folks have to live somewhere, preferably somewhere appropriate to their means.  This is how democracy works when combined with the notions of land ownership, an abundance of land, and low interest rates.

But despite this tidy economic definition,  people are still people, with an uncivilized (some would say sinful) streak.

For instance: forget time and the rest is easy.  Forget that tomorrow is the next day of the rest of your life, even if it's printed on your T-shirt.  Think instead, today is your life.  Use it or lose it!  These were the thoughts that eventually bubbled up inside Harv Liebstrom's mostly civilized mind.

Some nights very late--three thirty, maybe four--Harv  would awaken.  He'd lie on his back motionless.  Sometimes he'd move his eyes off to one side toward the window faintly outlined by the street light two doors down, or off to the other side toward Ethel in the adjacent bed, outlined faintly by the same light.  Mostly he just stared at the ceiling which remained a black hole despite the street light.

Harv thought about his mortgages, his car payments, his wife, Pepperpot the dog--his wife's dog that is--the fishing trip he never got to take, his home renovation and swimming pool business.  None of these worried him.  They simply comprised his life and, truth be known, they bored him.  That did worry him.

Children might have helped; a reason for all of the rest.  But Harv and Ethel had no children. Harv assumed Pepperpot was her substitute.  The dog may have answered the call of Ethel's maternal instincts, but it left Harv's paternal instincts cold.  And, as near as he could tell, he had no pet-loving instincts.

Tuesday mornings for Harv were as fine as any other except Sundays and holidays because he could get away to work before Ethel got up.  His neighbors said he was working himself into an early grave.  He knew better.  Not only did he keep himself in reasonably good shape for a man soon forty-five, he paced himself.  If anything would put him in an early grave it wouldn't be over-extended hard work and long hours, it would be Ethel's cooking.  

He didn't fault her cooking aloud but he made a point of avoiding it as much as possible.  She'd just never acquired the knack and didn't seem to have any interest in doing so.  Installing a microwave in the kitchen had aced it, as it probably has in many households.  The convenience astounded Harv, introducing a vast new range of culinary oddities to his palate.  As a matter of fact, he benefitted from the microwave, for now Ethel's offerings had names -- he had only to check the packages. And Ethel, freed from bondage to the hot stove, could now spend more time ministering to her various ailments.

Harv didn't exactly rush off to work at five thirty every morning, he just got out of the house.   No mistake, he liked his house and he was proud of it.  He had half an acre like everyone else in Glenforest Glade, the weedless flat lawn, four aspens in the backyard, two spindly maples in the front too young to have begun forming canopies, and caragana hedges front and back, probably because they grew quickly and hadn't cost the developer near as much as cedar would have.  Harv had the double garage feature, one side for the car, the other for implements and junk.

If there was one thing more he wanted for the house, an in-ground swimming pool was it.  Ethel wanted the pool too.  She did a lot of day time entertaining -- card parties, coffee klatching, support groups.  To do this pool side in the summer, preferably this summer, would have added a fine touch.  Harv, on the other hand, knew money was tight -- tight but still comfortable -- and he was trying to hold the line on the pool construction until next spring.

By five-forty on work days, Harv would be pulling into the Denny's at the Jetstream Mall by the airport for breakfast.  He favored their eggs Benedict with fried ham but once in awhile he'd go for two over easy with bacon or the trucker's special which had three eggs, ham, bacon, and sausage, plus extra toast.  Within reason, he liked variety in his life.

By seven he'd be at the shop loading the truck for the day's work, burning off his breakfast-- manhandling drywall sheets, bags of concrete, pipe, lumber, shingle bundles, equipment, whatever the job required.  Harv had two employees, who started at eight, and he usually arranged to meet them on the job site, saving some money on travel time that way.  He didn't mind driving the truck himself, rather enjoyed it actually--a full size, three quarter ton, red, Ford crew cab with the big red on white magnetic signs, "Harv Liebstrom Construction and Renovations.  Guaranteed Work Free Estimates," on the door panels.  He'd wanted to put "Pools A Specialty" on the signs but thought better of it when he realized that he'd look pretty ridiculous in the January dead of an upstate New York winter.

The employees, Peter Muir, his full time year-round helper, and Little Ricky Steen, the part timer, were on the button at eight when Harv backed into the Smithers' driveway on Third Avenue South.  Little Ricky, Gung Ho personified, had the tailgate down for unloading even before Harv had the truck stopped.  Typically, Peter waited in his car until Harv had alighted, then emerged, looking achy and hung over.  Peter always worked better in the afternoons, especially if he got down a couple of beers with his lunch.

This Tuesday, as soon as the truck was unloaded, Harv went over to Peter's house on Gate Beach Lane.  Peter had finally wangled financing to build a party room addition on his house and Harv had offered to cut him a good deal.  He went over to do some measuring before he did an estimate.

Maybe it was the weather that morning, maybe it was that it was Tuesday, maybe it was that Harv was just in a mood.  Whatever it was, the smell of Annie Muir's oatmeal raisin cookies coming hot out of the oven stopped him in his tracks.  The aroma went right up his nose, right through him to his toes, as Harv's mother would have said.

Harv  didn't come right out and ask for a warm cookie but he did hover in the kitchen until Annie made the offer.  They sat at the kitchen table for a time nibbling cookies and sipping milk, almost like a couple of kids; for Harv, very relaxing and, he thought, for Annie also.

"I bake because it's fun," said Annie.  "Peter rarely eats the stuff, says he hates it, but I do it anyway and give it away to neighbors and their kids."  Peter and Annie, like Harv and Ethel, had no children of their own.

"These cookies taste great to me," enthused Harv.  "They're a lot better than the ones at Mr. Cookie in the mall.  Maybe you missed your calling, Annie."

"Oh, I don't think so," she replied.  "We're okay the way we are."  She sounded a bit wistful.  Maybe just tired.  She had a pretty face, porcelain smooth and pale except for a few freckles around her nose and a bruise on her cheek bone.  Harv wondered about that but didn't figure it his place to enquire.  Her eyes were soft--deep perhaps, gentle--a lot of understanding and patience there, he'd have bet.  Peter said she had the temperament of a rabid alley cat.  Harv couldn't see it in Annie--though he'd seen Peter like that when he'd had a few too many.

Harv and Annie chatted some more -- nothing personal, walking softly around topics, mostly about the party room to be.  Apparently it didn't overwhelm her.  "Peter's wanted it a long time so that he can entertain more.  Monday Night football, things like that.  It's always nice to be able to have friends in and right now we really don't have enough space.  Mind you, I'm not much of a sports fan;  I just fetch the chips and beer.  I do have my bingo, though,  and it's a lot of fun.  I go as often as I can."

"I haven't been to a bingo for years," said Harv.  "Ethel and I used to go once in awhile, but we got away from it.  It was a lot of fun even when we didn't win, which was mostly."

"Same for me.  I once sat beside a woman who won three times in a row, including the blackout jackpot and I wasn't waiting a single time the whole night.  Now that's a bummer!"  They laughed about it, and it warmed Harv.

The rest of that Tuesday rolled out as if charmed.  Little Ricky and Peter made excellent progress on the Smithers job, putting a bedroom addition on top of the garage -- the Smithers were expecting another baby, making four now.  Harv also got two calls on estimates he'd put out and both were contract confirmations, plus he found time to finish Peter's party room estimate.  The icing on the cake was the lunch special at O'Malley's, beefsteak and mushroom pie with puff pastry crust, Harv's all-time favorite.

He arrived home at six thirty.  Ethel had not had a good day, so things were normal .  The air-conditioning had given her a sniffle.  Harv refrained from suggesting she may have had it turned too low.  The noise of the air conditioner had given her a headache.  He offered no suggestion for that either.  Shutting it off did come to his mind, but this was officially summer. For Ethel, constant air conditioning was part of summer;  he'd have been wasting his breath.

"Jane Coltrane was supposed to come over for coffee today," she said when the air conditioning ailments were dispensed.  "I thawed date squares and brownies and she didn't show up.  I left some on the counter for your dessert.  I went to a lot of work for nothing and, God knows, with the state of my back, I shouldn't have even looked at the vacuum cleaner let alone vacuum the entire living room."

"It looks very nice," Harv offered.  "Great job."

"Jane wouldn't have noticed anyway.  She's a morning drinker and probably so blitzed by noon she wouldn't know a clean living room from a landfill.  I don't know why I bother," said Ethel in her best long-suffering voice, fingernails on glass.

Dutifully Harv sat down at his place at the kitchen table, timed precisely to the ping of the microwave finishing off his dinner.  Ethel from her chair reached over and took his plate from the machine.

"Smells good," said Harv.

"I'm busy, but I try," said Ethel.  "I always get a meal on the table.  On time too, no matter how ill I am."

"It sure looks good and I could eat a horse tonight," he said, trying to brighten Ethel's spirits. He looked at her place and asked "Aren't you eating?" 

"No, my stomach's been so gassy today, the thought of food nauseates me."

"I'm sorry to hear that.  I thought we could go out this evening, catch a movie or go to bingo."

Ethel flared, "That's a ridiculous idea.  I've ben sick and slaving all day, stuck in this house with no company except Pepperpot, thank goodness for her being here, while you've been out since dawn doing whatever you like to do, and now when I'm exhausted in every fiber and aching in every bone you want to go and make a night of it somewhere.  If you want to spend our money, put the pool in the yard with a nice patio where I can relax in the evening and get some fresh air.  You always want to waste money.  We can see the movies on cable which we already pay for and, as for bingo, you may as well throw the money to one of those rip-off charities and save yourself some time." Over the years, Harv had come to accept these extended tirades as her version of conversation.  Sometimes he forgave them; sometimes he forgot them.  They had their habits, did Harv and Ethel.

"We'll have the pool and patio for next summer, Ethel."

"I could be dead by then, so I hope you enjoy them," she replied.  

"Our work schedule is nearly full for this summer.  Even if we had the money now, I'm not sure we could get to the job."

"Sure, but I bet you'll find time for Peter Muir's project, won't you?  After all, he's your valued employee and I'm just your poor stupid wife who sits penned up all day waiting your every command.  You don't have to suck up to me."

"Peter's paying for the work, Ethel.  It's not the same."

"A bargain rate, when you could be making more profit doing something else.  You may as well hire out again as a concrete finisher for wages.  Let someone else give the bargain rates."

Harv had been picking at his supper.  He wasn't too sure just what it was, but he suspected it to be a pasta or potato salad that shouldn't have been nuked.  At least if he wolfed it down, though, he wouldn't have to taste much.  

When he put the plastic container in the trash he peeked at the empty package already there; sure enough, it had been a salad.  Ethel had left him a brownie and half a date square from her afternoon dessert platter.  He counted himself fortunate Jane had been a no-show.

Harv knew Jane's husband, Carl.  They'd bowled one year on the same team.  That was before Ethel's ailments increased and Harv had to quit bowling.  As Harv recalled, Carl was in hardware.  He was of the same generation as Harv and always seemed to be a nice guy.  Harv remembered he'd grown up in Utica, not so far distant from North Tonawanda, Harv's home turf.  Jane was a bit of a puzzle though; Carl had never struck him as much of a drinker.

"It's time for Pepperpot's walk," said Ethel.  "Make sure you keep her in the shade tonight; the sun's still too hot for her."

"I will, don't worry."  Every night after supper, Harv walked Pepperpot, a bichon frise, a ball of fluff with needle sharp teeth, that spent as much time at the vet's as Ethel at the walk-in medical clinic.  Harv, of course, got to transport both of them.

He didn't mind the evening walks.  They got him out of the house.  He'd walk Pepperpot slowly up the block and around the corner, slowly because the dog's legs were only about four inches long, then he'd tuck the dog under his arm and step out fast several blocks to the McDonald's.  Usually he'd get large fries and a couple Big Macs, though (depending on how heavily that night's supper offering was laying on his stomach) sometimes he'd get only one Big Mac.   Harv had some notion that Big Macs contained enough chemicals to not only aid self-digestion of the Big Macs themselves but had enough left over to break down anything else he may have ingested.  They were a lot more filling than a Tums too.

"-- Harv would never dare do that!  He knows I'd have him in court so fast the ink wouldn't have time to dry on the writ."  Ethel was on the phone when Harv came in with Pepperpot.  She looked up and scowled -- not really a scowl, just her normal look.  "Speak of the devil, Harv just got back with Pepperpot.  I'll have to let you go, Nan.  Let me tell you though, I totally sympathize and if I can help you out in any way, call me."  With that she hung up and turned to Harv.

"Nan Jeffers has absolute proof Larry is seeing a waitress from Denny's over in the mall.  Can there be anything more disgusting!"  The Jeffers were neighbors at the end of the block.  Larry  managed the paint store at the Mall, part of a chain of paint stores that specialized in do-it-yourself decorating -- sponge painting, self-adhesive wallpaper, that sort of thing.  Harv knew him well, even had breakfast with him periodically at Denny's.  He wondered which waitress, not that it mattered.

"That poor woman is absolutely beside herself with worry.  I always thought Larry had a roving eye.  Don't ask me why; a woman's instinct.  He makes my skin crawl."

Harv had a good idea where this topic was going.  When Pepperpot began frisking at Ethel's ankles, Harv managed to slip out the door to water the lawn.

While doing the backyard, he envisioned the pool and patio -- their location, their shape, the landscaping he could incorporate into the overall design.  His yard had great potential, he decided.  He knew his ideas and Ethel's didn't quite mesh as to how the yard should be laid out.  He liked the idea of a big barbecue pit, for which they had the space, and barbecuing was something he'd always wanted to try his hand at.  Ethel, though,  was of the view that cooking outside was barbaric and eating outside even more so--unless it was a garden party with take-out from Oscar's Deli or perhaps a sandwich and salad tray from the Safeway.  He hoped for a compromise, possibly a small propane barbecue in exchange for the wrought iron yard chairs and table she favored.  He could keep it in the garage when it wasn't being used, in the corner by his golf clubs.  He should sell those, he realized, he didn't golf any more anyway.

Harv dawdled outside until past nine o'clock, chatting with his neighbor, Jim Stoneweather, for half an hour or so.  Jim had lived alone since the previous summer when his wife had taken off somewhere, leaving him with two kids, the mortgage and payments on the swimming pool Harv had put in for him.

Jim always said the last straw for his wife may have been the pool.  Jim had wanted it, she hadn't.  She split while the work was still underway.

Yet Jim seemed to be doing all  right.  He had a live-in nanny to look after the kids, a lovely woman named Catharine.  Harv wouldn't be surprised if sometime down the way, Jim and Catharine worked out something more together.  They'd have to wait though because Jim had had no contact with his wife, and with no idea where she was, he couldn't do much with legalities except wait.

When Harv came in, Ethel was already propped in her bed, watching television.

"I'm certainly glad you decided to spare some time for me," she greeted him.  "I wanted to remind you I have an appointment at the clinic tomorrow at one-thirty.  I hope you can fit it into your busy schedule."

"No problem, dear," he replied.  "Peter and Ricky can handle the job for a couple of hours."  Maybe she'd go to sleep so that he could watch "Homicide: Life in the Streets" at ten.  He liked the burnt-out hippie detective.  More likely she'd stay awake through Jerry Springer.  He hoped he'd be asleep before then.

Little Ricky could easily handle the couple of hours, and probably cover for Peter who, Harv knew, would slip off to the nearest bar. Were he not such an excellent finish carpenter, Harv would have let Peter go because of the drinking.   Little Ricky was coming along fast, though, and would soon be good enough to replace Peter.  Just a matter of time.  So much was.

Lying in his bed, half listening to Jerry and his freaks, he thought of Annie, the freckles, the oatmeal raisin cookies, the bruise, the breasts.  Sympathy, concern, anger, comfort; he felt a strange mix of emotion. That night he slept straight through, no staring at the ceiling.  Every Tuesday should be so good.

The work went well over the next couple of weeks.  Little Ricky and Peter wrapped up the Smithers job and Harv, hiring on another part-timer, was well underway on Peter's party room.  The deal was that Peter would do his own finishing, Harv the framing, wiring, what have you.  Where Peter would really save would be on finishing material which Harv could buy through the business and get a contractor's discount.

Annie was gracious, thoughtful, seeming not the least ruffled by workmen and their mess cluttering her house.  At morning coffee time she'd be there with warm muffins or rolls, fresh that day and home-made too.  Then she'd put out a lunch that shamed O'Malley's on its best day, followed by cookies or cake with afternoon coffee.  Harv began to think he was thickening a bit at the waist.
The helper brought his own lunch, which he usually ate in the truck.  Harv and Annie talked a blue streak during lunches.  They didn't talk about anything in particular, but they shared and they laughed, and Harv felt the same comfort that he'd felt that first Tuesday.

Once in awhile he'd get a notion she was buttering up the boss so that Peter could keep his job, but she was too genuine.  What you saw was what you got, and what Harv saw was lost on Peter, for sure.

She didn't badmouth Peter, not the way he did her.  On the other hand, she didn't praise him to the skies.  She'd say, "Peter wants it this way," or "Peter would insist," or "Peter has his moments," and that was as far as it went.  In fact, they hardly ever talked about Peter. . . or Ethel for that matter.

Nothing changed for Harv on the home front.  Ethel did as Ethel always did; similarly Pepperpot; similarly Harv.  But things really changed for Harv's neighbor, Jim Stoneweather.  His wife re-surfaced in Buffalo and was suing him for community property and ongoing support.  His lawyer was not optimistic and Jim had already listed his house with a real estate agent.

"You can't win, Harv.  As soon as you think the cherries may come up, the lemons stop in front of you."  Understandably, Jim felt badly.  "I guess she has every right to do what she's doing.  By law.  And she always did have a tough time with the kids, even though Catharine has no problem with them.  The worst part is the she'll probably get almost everything, plus I know she has a live-in boy friend.  She'll probably end up supporting him with my money.  That's the part I have trouble with.  She said she'd come down for a weekend later in the summer to straighten things out and pick up some stuff.  I'm not sure I should even let her in the door.  I'd rather just leave it to the lawyers, but I find it hard to just dump it off so casually."

Harv couldn't think of much to say, but then, he thought, Jim probably needed a sympathetic ear more than lame advice.

"Catharine's going to stand by me.  That's amazing.  I can't afford to pay her but she's willing to hang in.  'We'll make a home for the children regardless,' that's what she said."

"So," offered Harv, "maybe you can win a bit after all.  Catharine seems like a fine person."

"Oh, she's that.  Sometimes I think of her as more than a nanny.  I mean she looks after the kids but she seems sometimes to look after me too, especially since this mess hit, and the kids absolutely love her."

Ethel had her own opinion of Jim's troubles.  "What did he expect?" she pronounced.  "His wife goes away to try to get some relief from the kids and get her act together to put up with his constant arguing and demands and, you know how it was over there as well as I do -- the minute she's gone he installs a new woman.  A nanny!  Give me a break!  I feel sorry for the kids but she deserves everything she can squeeze out of him and then some."

No one thing compelled Harv to put in his pool and patio right away instead of waiting until the following spring.  He'd wanted it for a long time.  So had Ethel.  But those weren't reasons, they were wishes.  Yet he had reasons, for he wasn't an impulsive man.

Enough is enough?  The path untrod?  The greener pasture?  The dreams unrealized?  The unnerving, dehumanizing, and depersonalizing of human relationships endemic to post-industrialization?  Not that, for sure, because Herb never listened to talk shows and would, in any case, not understand their attendant bafflegab.  What Harv would have said was that  he really and truly hated his situation.  Those things which he had valued, that had given him surcease and purpose ... that had given him dignity and value as a person .... the book on his life was damn near closed.  And Ethel seemed to him to have her hand on the back cover.

Oddly, or contrarily, now that he'd acceded to Ethel's wishes to hurry the job and announced the work for this year, she began to question whether they could afford it.

"A week ago you told me we couldn't afford it.  Then you told me you wouldn't have time.  As for money, you give Peter Muir a deep discount on his job when you should be firing the drunken lout and suddenly you also have time.  If you have time you should be out getting more work, not doing personal home improvements."  She was right, of course.  On every count.  But  he was going to weather these winds of discontent head-on for once.

"My margin on Peter's job is intact, the gross just isn't as high as normal because he's doing some of the work on his own time.  Lots of people do that."  That wasn't exactly the truth; more than once he'd turned down just such a proposal from a potential customer.

"You could have done better," she responded, "and you know it."

"I do, Ethel, but what's done is done and that's what a person has to deal with.  A person moves on."

"So what you're saying is your summer work season is going to be a bust but we'll be able to float in our pool while we worry about it."

"Our pool will be a showpiece.  I can show it off and it'll bring in customers.  It'll be like the showrooms the car dealers have."

"Are you saying I'll have to spend the rest of the summer with strangers traipsing around my backyard.  Not in this lifetime, boy!"

"Well, it was just a thought," he said, wanting now more than anything to keep the peace.  But Harv didn't back down.  

While Harv juggled work schedules, ordered materials, and got site preparation underway, Ethel contracted a stubborn cough, developed a limp, and pleaded numbness in her fingers.  Complaints of vertigo, cramps, and palpitations of the heart became commonplace.

The excavators and plumbing contractors came and went.  The footings were poured.  In the course of a weekend Harv and Little Ricky did the forming for the sides and pads.  They wrapped up the work late Sunday afternoon and Harv invited Little Ricky to stay for supper.

Harv looked for Ethel to let her know.  He told Little Ricky he was going to suggest they order pizza, but she wasn't in the house.  Nor was Pepperpot.

"I haven't seen her since morning break, just before I went back to the shop to pick the last of the 2 x6's for the forms,"  Ricky offered.  "Maybe the noise got to her and she went over to a neighbor's."

"Maybe," agreed Harv.  "Listen, I'll order some pizza anyway and a six-pack.  It's been a long day."

When Little Ricky left around eight, Ethel still hadn't returned.  Later Harv shared the last two cans of beer with Jim Stoneweather.

Jim was in a buoyant mood.  "Well," he reported, "she came, she saw, she's gone away.  We made an arrangement I can live with and she was out of here by one o'clock."  Harv was very glad to hear that, though Jim did confirm he was still going to sell the house.  "Too many memories, Harv," he said, "and the housing market is on an upswing.  Catharine and the kids and I will be just fine."

"Well, I do hope you'll come to the grand opening pool party next month."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Harv spent another two hours making everything was perfectly ready for the morning pour, having to finish up with a flashlight.  It was after midnight before he got to bed.  Ethel had still not returned.  He was up at five as always, but skipped Denny's because at seven the concrete crew and trucks arrived to pour the pool walls.  That afternoon they also poured the patio and barbecue pit pads.  Harv personally screed and power troweled both of them.  One thing no one ever argued -- Harv knew concrete.

On Wednesday the wall forms came off -- a beautiful job -- another late night for Harv.  On Thursday at seven the crew was back to pour the pool bottom, eight inches thick with lots of rebar.  "When I'm my own customer," Harv told the crew foreman, " I want the best.  I've got two feet of tamped gravel fill just below and a sand/clay mix tamped below that.  This pool is better built than my house."

The plumbers returned, and the filtration specialists and the ceramic finishers followed.  Harv had Peter and Little Ricky fence the yard, tearing out the back caraganas in the process.  A landscaper dug out the one remaining aspen and planted cedar shrubs and fir seedlings.  Harv wasn't much for flowers but he did like evergreens. And since he had no intention of moving, he could watch the fir trees grow tall over the years.

After a week, having heard nothing from Ethel, Harv reported her missing.  Jim Stoneweather's wife's lawyer reported her missing about the same time.  Subsequent investigation, plus Jim's assistance,  turned up the fact that some of his wife's jewellery was missing.  That, added to the fact, the wife's boyfriend had decamped for parts unknown -- even with the new math, two and two still had to add up to four.  A warrant was issued for the boyfriend, now sought for questioning in the disappearance of the two women, the dog Pepperpot, and some jewellery.

Shock swept the community for three days.  
It was late August before Harv felt he could give his pool party.  As a sales tool, it was too late in the season to have much value, but, as he said whenever the subject came up, it was what Ethel would have wanted.

Jim and Catharine came in from Albany for the party.  As Jim had predicted, he'd obtained a good price for the house and, given his tragic circumstances, his company had enabled a lateral transfer to another job.

Harv called everyone in Ethel's "friends" book, all the neighbors with whom he was acquainted, some of his suppliers and, of course, some of his past and present customers.  By three in the afternoon it was quite a wingding.  By five it had spilled into the front yard.  The pool was full of squealing kids, once every few minutes a cannonballing adult; the barbecue was billowing  enough smoke to make the fire department nervous.

Harv found that, beyond putting out the invitations, he didn't have to do much.  The women  brought food, perhaps out of deference to his loss; men brought booze.  Harv spent most of his time sitting on a wrought iron chair beside the wrought iron table.  They had been Ethel's wish for the patio and Harv had decided that the least he could do was honor that wish.  After all, she hadn't been all bad.

Harv's seat was a good vantage point.  From it he could watch Peter Muir by the beer keg putting some moves on Jane Coltrane.  He wasn't shocked, not even surprised. Harve had seen them together several evenings at O'Malley's, where these days he was dropping in for a few brews after work.

Earlier Harv had had a moment with Carl, Jane's husband.

"It's a beautiful pool, Harv.  It must have set you back a bundle," Carl said.

"Just the initial outlay.  I can write off  most of it through the business.  You know, sales promotion, that sort of thing.  It has an extra thick base.  It'll still be here after the house is long gone.  Call it a hidden feature.  An earthquake wouldn't budge it."
"I can see advantage in that," Carl replied.  "Never any chance of it leaking, that's for sure."

"Right you are, Carl.  Say, if you ever want to talk seriously about a pool like this, give me a call."

Carl looked thoughtful for a moment.  His eyes strayed to Jane, now well clutched, swaying against Pete.  He said, "I may, Harv.  Yessir, I may just do that.  Maybe next week sometime."  With that Carl had moved off into the growing crowd.

Of course, Nan and Larry Jeffers were there.  Nan, it turned out, was a good friend of Annie Muir.  "Small world," Harv commented when Nan mentioned this.

"Annie's told me you build the best custom pools in upstate New York but I wouldn't have believed it until I saw this.  It's too bad Ethel isn't here to enjoy it."

"Yes," agreed Harv, "but it reflects her planning totally, and in some sense I'm certain she's here."

"Oh, I thought she hated barbecues?"

"She does, but I hate wrought iron furniture.  We compromised."

"A first for her, I'm sure," laughed Nan.  "You know, Harv, a pool in our yard down the street wouldn't be a bad idea.  It'd be great for the kids, and for me a kind of. . . monument to the joys of family."

"They can be that for all of us, Nan.  Should I give Larry a call?"

"Heavens, no, Harv.  Let's surprise him."  They laughed together.

The day's highlight for Harv was Annie's presence.  "I brought something," she said.  "For you, not for the masses."  He lifted the cloth from the plate, oatmeal raisin cookies.  "I baked them this morning.  Peter even ate one and told me they were to die for.  I don't what's gotten into him lately."

Harv looked from the cookies to Annie's eyes, still deep, still understanding, but maybe twinkling, and still a comfort.  "I'm glad he liked them.  But he's wrong.  They aren't to die for, they're to live for."

She smiled then.  "Peter has some buddies coming in Monday night for the pre-season game.  Would you like to meet at the bingo hall?  It's soon, I know.  After Ethel,  I mean.  But you should try to get out a little."

"You may be right.  Yes.  Yes, Annie, I'd like that."
Later in the afternoon he saw her in the pool.  She was ignoring Peter, who had progressed to nuzzling Jane Coltrane.  Annie was slim, all of her as porcelain pale and smooth as her face.  And light; he watched her splashing about with some of the smaller children, obviously having as much fun as they were.   Anyone who could do that could live forever.

When she got out of the pool, she grabbed a towel and came over to sit beside him.  "I love this pool," she said.  "I'm going to tell Peter I want one exactly like it."

"No need, you can use this one any time.  And I think there'll soon be so many in town you can have your pick."


From crime and horror to satire and romance, Canadian ART MONTAGUE's writings reveal his eclectic interests and diverse writing styles. Art's fiction has been published by Peridot Books, Plots With Guns, and The Harrow; he has an upcoming story in the October 2000 issue of LoveWords.

Copyright (c) 2000 Art Montague