relatives anyplace else. You needed money if you wanted to move; you had to move if you wanted money. The mill had stayed closed, and then it had stayed closed longer, and eventually most of it was demolished. She remembered when everyone came out to watch the two- hundred- foot- tall and almost brand- new blast furnaces called Dorothy Five and Six get toppled with dynamite charges. It was not long after that that terrorists blew up the World Trade Center. It wasn’t logical, but the one reminded her of the other. There were certain places and certain people who mattered a lot more than others. Not a single dime was being spent to rebuild Buell.
At the end of the dirt road she turned in next to their trailer. Virgil had promised he’d be home by two but it was nearly four. He was breaking his promises already. You knew this would happen, she thought. She called the women’s shelter in Charleroi to tell them she wouldn’t be coming in to volunteer the rest of the week, had a pang of sadness, it was her lifeline to the rest of the world, all sorts of people worked there, a teacher, a pair of lawyers from Pittsburgh, a financial adviser, all women, they would sit around listening to the public radio stations you couldn’t get in Buell. That was what she planned to do, if she could ever afford to finish her degree—become a counselor.
Why not, she thought. Even if it takes six or seven years, you could just start now. She went into the kitchen to prepare her heating pad, put the pad into the microwave oven and turned it on. While she waited, she took a pile of newspaper and started a fire in the woodstove, piled kindling on top and one thicker piece. The timer beeped and she went and got her towel from the microwave, scorching hot, she let it cool for half a minute and sat down on the couch and wrapped her hands. It burned at first but a few seconds later the relief came. She leaned her head back and focused on the feeling. It was almost like sex. She felt good all over. She felt herself get sleepy. She knew if she drifted off she would wake up with the towel cold and damp but it was worth it. She thought about Buddy Harris, a strange and guilty thought now that Virgil was back. The K-Y stayed under the bed with Bud, they’d been on and off for years, two different times she had nearly left Virgil for Bud Harris, but in the end she hadn’t been able to do it, he was too awkward and quiet and she hadn’t been able to imagine a life with him. She wondered if she had used him, poor Bud, though she didn’t think so. Ten years ago he’d become chief of police, though, as he was always pointing out, it wasn’t like being chief in a real city, there were only six full- time officers, and with all the financial crises, half of them were due to be laid off. At any rate here she was, still thinking about him, she and Virgil had broken up so many times that she’d dated a dozen other men, only somehow she was still thinking about skinny old Bud Harris.
She heard a truck come up the road and pull into the driveway. Virgil came inside. He was drunk, maybe stoned, she could see that. That would suit her purposes. She kissed him on the neck, took his hand and put it between her legs.
“What a good day,” he said.
“What’d you do?”
“Went fishing with Pete McCallister.”
She put the towel aside and laid against him. She rubbed his leg.
“I thought you said you’d be out looking for something,” she said.
“It’s a goddamn Saturday,” he said.
“Well, that’s what you told me.”
“I forgot what day it was when I said that.”
She shrugged. “I heard U.S. Steel is doing aptitude testing next month. You could put in a call up there.”
“Goddamn hour and a half in traffic each way.”
She could smell the booze on him. “We could move closer in to the city, live in an actual house.”
“We ought to be moving further away. Live a real country life instead of trying to pretend we’re gonna move up in the world.”
He looked at her. “What are you laughing about,” he said.
She shook her head and stopped smiling. They looked at each other awhile longer and there was something about his face. She was looking at him and he had a strange look and then she knew.
“What,” he said.
“Virgil,” she said.
“What?”
“The mortgage is due this week, plus it’s April and we still owe taxes from two years ago. I’m on a payment plan with the IRS.”
“Danny Hobbes owes me three hundred bucks. We can always make more money.”
It was quiet and she kept rubbing his leg. “Remind me again why you came back,” she said.
“You know I’ve got money.”
“What about your disability this month?”
“That’s what I lent to Danny.”
She nodded.
“What about getting other money from the government.”
“We ain’t gonna pass the asset test for welfare. Plus they sign you up for some shit job now so you’re fucked if you think you’re gonna have time to look for a real job. There’s no goddamn point if it don’t lead to actual wage- paying employment.”
“You should apply for it anyway,” she said. “Your son isn’t working, either.”
“I already looked into it,” he said. “Between the house and my truck we’re not even close to qualifying. It’s the asset test.”
“Your truck is six years old and I make nine- fifty an hour.”
“Well it’s too much,” he said. “You still giving away your time at that shelter thing?”
She looked at him.
“Maybe for a little while you could do something else that paid instead, I mean if you’re so worried about all this.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“I was just thinking out loud,” he said. “Don’t get all mad, now.”
“We’ll get by,” she said. She still had her eyes closed.
He leaned over and kissed her.
“Let’s have a drink to get this out of our heads.” He grinned and went out to the truck.
Give him some time, she thought. Be a little more generous. He came back inside brandishing a half- empty bottle of Kentucky Deluxe and, after finding clean glasses, poured one for her and one for him. She wanted to tell him about Billy coming home hurt last night but something stopped her. She took down her shot of whiskey and so did he and then he started kissing her.
Then he unbuckled her jeans and slid them down.
“You don’t want to go to the bed?” she said.
He shook his head. He slipped inside her and she lifted her legs around him. Soon she could feel it building and then she forgot where she was, she was pulling him in and in and trying to get closer, they could not be close enough. He was still going and she hoped the feeling wouldn’t end. She felt him get very hard and his whole body went rigid and it started to build up in her again but then he stopped moving. She rubbed his back and he was not looking at her, or at anything, he was just still. She found a comfortable position for her legs and they were like that for a long time. She dozed awhile, had strange thoughts, if Virgil was able to take home some money she’d be able to go back to school, here he was, then she thought you could probably plant the tomatoes soon, take them off the windowsill and get them into the garden, the peppers as well. She decided she could spare a few dollars and plant more herbs this year. Virgil began to move again inside her.
“Let’s go to the bed,” she said. “I don’t want Billy coming home and seeing us like this.”
She got up and walked to the bedroom; Virgil followed after her carrying the whiskey bottle. Worry about tomorrow’s problems tomorrow, she reminded herself. They sat in bed and Virgil took a long pull from the bottle and then another, and then passed it to her.
“Drinking that whiskey like you stole it.”
He mumbled something in response—there was something going on. He didn’t look at her; when she reached between his legs again he wasn’t interested and then she didn’t think she was, either.
“What’s going on with you?”
