Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 84 Page 85 Page 86 Page 87 Page 88 Page 89 Page 90 Page 91 Page 92 Page 93 Page 94 Page 95 Page 96 Page 97 Page 98 Page 99 Page 100 Page 101 Page 102 Page 103 Page 104 Page 105 Page 106 Page 107 Page 108Fiction O c t o b e r 2 0 1 6 1 0 1 Illustration by sean Kruger W e’d been playing pretend for almost a year and he still wouldn’t go back to his life. Meade wouldn’t acknowledge he had an- other life at all, though he’d bring me into it in ways, mentioning how Cole seemed to like me, driving me by the horse farm where he and Cole and his wife had lived before the great domestic unraveling com- menced and she moved out to Deer Isle. Testing, I suppose, fantasizing—feeling at the edges to see how I might be assimilated into his greater life. It was Saturday before my shift at the hospital. Meade was cleaning out my apart- ment cabinets and making lists of domes- tic goods he thought I needed. I found his possessiveness comforting, though I ad- mitted that to no one. He said, “You need paper towels.” I said, “You have a wife who may or may not actually want a divorce.” He touched his ear with his thumb, just the quickest gesture. I prided myself on be- ing able to recognize his myriad ticks. He could have been brushing away a fruit fly, for whatever I didn’t have, I had fruit flies. We’d tossed out all the produce weeks ago, and the flies still rose from the dark when we opened any drawer in the kitchen. A friend said to fill a mason jar an inch full with vinegar then make a funnel from a sheet of paper and slide the funnel into the jar. This paper chute was supposed to steer the flies to an acidic death. We filled the jar and it sat on the counter for a week next to a piece of plain white paper. Neither of us seemed able to roll and insert the kill- ing device. Meadesaid,“Youalsoneedaluminumfoil. Thenwecouldsaveleftoverswhenwecook.” It happened like that a lot—something I needed subtly moved into something for both of us. “And a son,” I said. “You have a maybe wife and a son.” “New dishtowels, too,” he said. “Meade,” I said. The room was too qui- et. I wished fruit flies made noise, like the blood-sluggish horse flies Meade had point- ed out when he drove me to his horse ranch out beyond Lincolnville because he wanted to show me where he’d come from and where he still was. “Where I’ll probably always be,” he said and ground a cigarette out in the grav- el, going quiet under his moment of self- pity. “People see the ocean and think sail- ing and lobsters are all we’ve got. Truth is the midcoast has produced some damn fine race horses throughout history.” The wind moved across the land and rapped gravel against the fenders. I tried to imag- ine racehorses charging around these roll- ing pastures overlooking the sea. I don’t think Meade had anything in mind but to show me that road and that house and let me feel that wind and see those rocky pas- tures after months meshed together on my floor and in my bed. Cole would be getting out of school soon. He was the first one picked up in the mornings and the last one dropped off in the af- ternoons, and the bus ride home was exactly one hour long. That was one of about five facts Cole had shared with me the one time we’d met. Meade had called me at work and said, “Come to the Irving up the highway for lunch. I got a surprise.” The surprise turned out to be an eleven year old boy, shaggy blond hair squirting out from below a Portland Sea Dogs cap, drinking a Cherry Coke through a straw, and looking very little like his fa- ther, the man who was oblivious to the cru- elty of such a surprise and whose face and body I knew too well—the small brown eyes edged at their corners with crow’s feet, the acne scars along his shoulders, the an- kle he’d dislocated twice being tripped up on lobster boats and which popped when he stood after sitting for too long, the huge horse-halter calloused hands, the penis which he was self-conscious of and felt was small and was kind of small but didn’t mat- St. Anthony’s By Greg Brown