kind anymore; to being ignored by all the regular folks who used to envy him. Whereas she’d had a lifetime of getting used to the world’s indifference. But he had been her idol, and he had once stooped down to be kind to her, a nobody, with a beautiful, sincere handwritten letter. So now he needed somebody, so it was Payback. And Payback is a mother. She thought about how famous he was while he grunted and strained on top of her. She pictured that airbrushed poster on her wall.
“Maybe you should charge him,” said Cap, as she was about to walk away.
“I ain’t on the game,” said Maggie.
“Didn’t say you were. But you’re providing a service. Shrinks charge, don’t they? And they got more money than you, Maggie dearest.”
She shrugged. “Some things aren’t about money.”
“Well, if money is no object with you, you can leave early tonight. You might as well. It’s dead in here.”
He said it too loud. Devlin Robey heard him, and she saw his face light up. No use telling him she was stuck here now. Thanks a heap, Cap. At least Richie was gone-sleeping over at Kevin’s tonight. Devlin Robey was already putting his coat on by the time she reached his table. “Boy, am I glad we can get outta here! I’m afraid I might have company tonight.”
His face was even more like a fish belly than usual, and his eyes sagged into dark pouches. “What do you mean, company?” asked Maggie, glancing toward the door.
“Tell you later.”
They went to a different Italian restaurant, but it had the same oilcloth table covers, and the same vino, which he drank in equal quantities to the usual stuff, and she had the angel-hair pasta, less rubbery than that of the old place. He wouldn’t talk about
“Tell me,” she said, and she wasn’t being Fantasy Girl this time.
“It’s okay.” He took a thick brown envelope out of the breast pocket of his suit, and laid it on top of the stacks of
“You’ve been gambling again,” she said.
“Hey, sooner or later
“So you owe some pretty heavy people, I guess.”
He shrugged, palms up. “It’s Atlantic City. They’re not Boy Scouts. I was supposed to meet them tonight with the cash, but I was a little short. Had to come up here, hock some things. Borrow what I could from a homeboy, and hope I got it together before they came looking for me. Now I’m okay. I can take the meeting. It’s not all there, but it’s enough to keep me going. I wrote a note with it, promising more next week. I got record royalties coming.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Why’d you want to see me?”
“Not for money!” He laughed a little. “Maggie, this is way out of your league, doll. You just keep your stash in that cookie jar of yours, and let me worry about these gentlemen. I just came to see you ’cause I love you.”
He probably does, Maggie thought sadly as she led him to the bedroom. He can see the reflection of the record album poster in my eyes.
It was past two when she got up to take a leak. Robey had been asleep for hours, sated with sweat and swearwords. She saw the envelope lying on the coffee table, and scooped it up as she passed. Might as well see how deep he’s in, she thought. Was saving a fallen idol part of the deal? Maybe she could talk him into getting counseling. Gamblers Anonymous, or something. She wondered why dead and famous were the only two choices some people seemed to want.
She didn’t go back to bed. When Robey woke up at nine, she gave him aspirin and Bloody Mary mix for his hangover, and a plastic cup of decaf for the road, but no kiss. He was headed back to Atlantic City, still too sleepy and hungover for pleasantries.
Devlin Robey was not a morning person. Neither was Maggie Holtz, but this morning she was wide awake. She sat in front of the television, listening to the game shows, but watching the phone. It rang at five past noon. The answering machine kicked in, and after it said its piece, she heard Devlin Robey’s famous, not-so-velvet voice, now shrill in the speaker. “Maggie! Are you there? Pick up! It’s me. Listen, you know that envelope I told you about? The one with the cash in it. Listen, I must have left it at your place. There are some gentlemen here who need to know I had it. Could you just pick up, Maggie? Could you tell them about the cash in the envelope, please? It’s important.”
She heard another voice say, “Real important.”
Maggie picked up the phone. “I never saw any envelope, Devlin,” she said. “Can’t you just stall those guys like you said you would? Till you get some money?”
She heard him cry out as she was replacing the receiver. She set the brown envelope back on the table. There were a lot of hundreds inside it, but that wasn’t the point. Some things aren’t about money. It was the letter that mattered, the one he wrote to the gamblers asking for more time to pay in full. That wasn’t anything like the handwriting she’d seen on his other letter, the one she’d received so long ago containing an apology from
TYPEWRITER MAN
BY SHARYN MCCRUMB WITH SPENCER AND LAURA MCCRUMB
WORKING AT NORTHFIELD Nursing Home isn’t nearly as boring as you think, even if it is a building full of old people. It’s not like I’m a volunteer or anything, all right? I mean, they pay me. Less than I’m worth, I admit, but it’s enough to keep me in video games and halfway decent sneakers.
Ever since my dad died of cancer last year, money has been a little tight at home. My mom went back to work full-time. She’s a registered nurse, and now she works as the nursing supervisor at Northfield, and when she told me that the home was short on orderlies, and suggested that they might be able to use a responsible twelve-year- old for a few hours a week, I jumped at the chance. It made me feel good to know that I was helping out with expenses, even if they were mostly
Working at Northfield isn’t exactly taxing labor. I load the dishwashers, and I go down to the basement laundry and gather up the clean sheets and towels and deliver them to the four residential floors for the housekeeping staff. Everybody told me that there was a ghost in the basement, because the morgue is right next to the laundry, but I always turn all the lights on when I go down there, and I don’t waste any time, so frankly I’ve never seen anything weird down there. But Kenny Jeffreys swears he once saw the top half of a guy in a Confederate uniform. Just the
I see them every evening when I push the meal trolley around the halls, delivering dinner. It doesn’t take you long to get the residents scoped out: there’s senile ones, who barely notice you; feeble but chatty ones that treat me like a grandson, which is nice; and then there are a few space cadets scattered about. Mrs. Graham in room 239 always has to have
