Hopefully as you read this, issues of NDQ 91.1/2 are on their way to your mailbox! As another teaser from the current issue, enjoy Ryan Kenedy’s short story “Anacortes.” It is touching story suffused with warmth, coffee, and love. 

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Anacortes

Her name was Lacy Dotson. She drove clear up from Oregon to meet a guy she’d been talking to online since before Christmas. His name was Kurt O’Connor. He worked on the ferry, she said, a deckhand, an ordinary seaman. In the picture she showed me, he was wearing a wool hat and beard, a scraggly-looking guy. Anyway, the name didn’t ring a bell. The ferry sailed daily from here to the San Juan Islands. The boyfriend worked on-call.

I showed her the guest bedroom with the queen-size bed. The lamp on the end table was an antique my wife had purchased on consignment. It had a finicky switch. I taught her how to jiggle the switch to make the lamp work. It was then I noticed the alarm clock was flashing the wrong hour. I unplugged it. I turned on the television to show her how easy it was to operate both remotes, and then I turned it off again.

She carried herself with confidence. I thought maybe she poured drinks for a living. She had that level of poise.

The dresser, like the antique lamp, used to belong to my wife. It was empty now. I pulled the drawers open to let Lacy Dotson see inside. She could put her clothes in there, if she wanted, but that was up to her.

I escorted her down the hallway to the main bathroom and flipped on the light. Here’s the bathroom, I said. It’s all yours. Mine’s in the master bedroom.

She was searching for something inside her purse. Then she went into the bathroom and closed the door, for privacy. I’ll be out in a second, she said, from behind the door.

I went into the kitchen and poured a cup of decaf coffee. When she came out of the bathroom, I offered her a cup. It’s organic, I said. I had plenty of sugar and powdered creamer, but she wanted it black.

On the counter were two fresh loaves of bread, cinnamon swirl and wild blueberry. Those were for breakfast.

In the morning you can fix yourself some toast with jam, I said.

That’s nice, she said, but I’m supposed to meet him for breakfast. A cafe called Dad’s Diner. You heard of it?

It’s downtown, I said. They have pictures all over the walls. A lot of pictures.

We sat together at the dinette table and drank coffee. It was after ten o’clock on a Friday night.

I’d offer you something stronger, I said, but I don’t keep that stuff around anymore.

No worries, she said. This is good. I like coffee.

It almost killed me, I said. The drinking. After my wife left.

You had a wife?

We’re still married, I said, technically.

I told her the whole story. How Mel left me for a gray-haired man named Gary Mercedes. That’s his actual name. And he’s rich, too. Real estate.

She rolled her eyes and laughed.

I described how rich this guy was, how he drove around town in a Mercedes Benz, or sometimes a Porsche, depending on the day, and how he lived over in Shelter Bay, with Mel no less, in a big house on the Swinomish Reservation with panoramic views of Hope Island.

Hope Island, she said. How ironic.

I nodded. We drank our coffee. Then I told her how it all started.

They met online, I said. Like you and what’s-his-name.

Oh god, don’t tell me that, she laughed.

No, it’s true, I said. My wife, Mel, she used to frequent these chat boards. That’s what people do in this town. They go online to gripe and complain. I guess my wife had a lot to complain about.

Don’t we all? Lacy said. But, hey, what good does it do?

I don’t know, I told her. All I know is this town is full of hecklers and gripers, and some of them fall in love.

We drank our coffee. It was a local grind. We talked about her long drive up the Interstate. Then I asked her about this boyfriend of hers. They met on Facebook. They shared an interest in a particular rock band and both patronized the band’s fan page. I asked her who it was, the band, and she told me, but I’d never heard of them before. Anyway, as the story goes, Lacy Dotson and Kurt O’Connor were at the same show in Seattle one night in December. They had crossed paths without realizing. It turns out they were both standing in front of the stage on the same side of the room. On the fan page, Kurt O’Connor posted a full recording of the show and Lacy downloaded it. She sent him a message of gratitude and that’s how it started. One thing led to another until it was decided they would meet in person.

He begged me to stay overnight at his place. But I wasn’t so sure. I mean, what if it doesn’t work out? What if gets weird?

You did the right thing, I told her. It’s better you’re staying here, with me.

You get a lot of guests?

You’re the first, I said.

Really? I’m the first?

I listed the room two weeks ago, I said. Everyone’s doing it now. Short-term vacation rentals.

Hey, it’s extra money, she said.

Damn right.

You should rent out the whole house. Get a family in here with kids. You could get double what I’m paying.

But then where would I stay?

She shrugged. You could stay with a friend, she said.

But I didn’t have any friends. Not anymore. I could blame the alcohol, but what good would that do? The fact is I was banned from every bar in town for gross intoxication and for fighting with old friends. I won the fights, but I lost my self-respect.

Maybe I could stay with you, I said.

In Portland? It’s a long drive. Anyway, you’d probably have to miss work. I mean, you work, don’t you?

Sure, I work. Over at the oil refinery on March Point Road.

She looked it up on her phone. Marathon Petroleum, she said.

I’m what’s called a refinery operator. I take crude oil and turn it into gasoline.

You like the work?

It’s a job, I said. But yeah, sure, I like it.

She yawned. Right in the middle of her yawn she started to laugh and then apologized.

It’s not you, she said.

You ever fill up at an ARCO gas station? I asked her.

Sometimes, she said. I mean, whatever’s cheapest, you know.

That’s my gas in your tank.

No shit?

I grinned at her and nodded.

Huh, I guess I never put much thought into it, she said. How they make gasoline. But now it makes sense.

A hundred thousand barrels per calendar day, I said. That’s a lot of crude oil.

She yawned again. Every time she yawned, she laughed with embarrassment. I guess she thought it was rude in a funny way.

Listen, she said, thanks for the coffee, but I’d better call it a night.

You should get some rest, I said. Don’t worry about the cup. I’ll wash your cup for the morning.

You don’t use the dishwasher?

Not anymore, I said. It’s easier to do it all by hand now that my wife is gone.

Well, it’s her loss, she said. Then she said, Listen, you’re going to think I’m really stupid. But tell me your name again?

It’s Lawrence, I said.

Right, she said. Lawrence. I almost called you Warren. I’m so stupid, anyway.

I laughed. Neither of us knew anybody named Warren.

I have to tell you, Lawrence. Your wife’s missing out. This is some good coffee.

Sorry I couldn’t offer something more festive, I

No worries, she said. It’s decaf, so it won’t keep me awake.

We got up from the table. She stretched her arms and groaned softly. It had started raining hard in Olympia, according to what she said, and the traffic through Seattle was slow and wearisome. I went over to the sink and poured out what was left in our cups. I ran the faucet. Outside, it was still raining.

How’d you get sober, anyway? she said. If you don’t mind my asking.

I rinsed our cups and turned them upside down on the dish drainer to dry.

I don’t mind, I said, but it’s a strange story. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’ll have to tell it another time.

Seriously? she said. Now I have to hear it, Lawrence.

Let’s get you into bed, I said. It’s too late for that story.

I’ll go to bed, but first you have to tell me your story.

All right, come on.

I walked her back to the guestroom, but I didn’t go inside. I stood in the doorway, my hands in my pockets, and leaned against the door frame. The lamp was on. She kicked off her shoes and removed her sweater. It was some sweater. She pulled a clip out of her hair and shook things loose. Already the entire room smelled like perfume.

The bed was made perfectly, everything tucked in snugly, the quilt, the pillows. She pulled the covers back and got into bed with all her clothes on. It was a good bed, comfortable, a pillowtop mattress with new flannel sheets. Under the quilt she drew up her knees and kicked out of her blue jeans and dropped them in a pile on the floor next to her shoes.

Tell me a bedtime story, she said and laughed.

I was a wreck, I said. You’ve never seen a wreck like me.

She was your wife, Lawrence. You loved her.

Maybe I loved her. But mostly I was angry, if I’m telling the truth. Listen, I said, when you get up tomorrow morning, look around the house. Take a close look at the walls. You’ll see what I did that night. By the time I was finished, these walls had more holes than a pair of old socks. Eventually, I patched and repainted, but you can still see where the holes were. The scars are still there.

You lost your mind, she said. They’ve done actual studies on this sort of thing. How it shocks the brain.

Totally unexpected, right? I come home from working nightshift, dead tired, and here’s this little note on the refrigerator door. No kidding, I said. She left me a note, in her own handwriting, saying she’s gone to live with another man.

So let me get this straight. While you’re out there working overtime at the refinery, your wife’s down in Shelter Bay humping Gary Mercedes.

That about sums it up, I said. She packed a suitcase full of clothes and left everything else behind.

She didn’t want anything?

Nothing, I said. She said I could do whatever I wanted with our stuff. The house was mine, she said. Whether I sold it or died in it was of no concern. Those were her exact words. I must have read that note fifty times.

It must’ve knocked you for a loop. Did you call her? Did you try working things out?

She blocked my number, I said. Can you believe that? My wife of thirteen years. Anyway, as you might expect, things got ugly at that point. That’s when I started punching the walls. You ever punch a wall?

I’ve heard it feels pretty good, she said.

Sure, I said, if you miss all the studs. But I wasn’t so lucky. I busted my hand in three places that night.

I showed her my right hand.

Not the smartest thing to do, she said.

Another smart thing I did was drink a full bottle of vodka. Her vodka. The cheap stuff from Costco. That was real smart. Next morning I woke up with the sun in my eyes, sick as a seafarer, my right hand all puffed up like a boxing glove. They couldn’t even put a cast on my hand, that’s how swollen it was. None of which sat well with my boss. Try making gasoline with only one good hand.

By now she was sitting up in bed with a pillow behind her back. I’ll bet you wanted to kill those two, she said.

It would’ve been easy enough, I said. I already knew what he looked like. His face is all over town, on the swing posts, the real estate signs. It wasn’t hard to find out where he lived. One night I got a little drunk and drove down to the Reservation and parked outside his house. The moon was full. I could see everything clear as day. The big house, the trees, the bay. Hope Island.

What’d you do?

I’ll tell you what I wanted to do, I said. I wanted to burn the man’s house down, with her inside.

Naturally, she said. Who wouldn’t want to do that, after what they did to you?

Yeah, but I didn’t have the guts, I said. Only thing I could do was cry. I cried so hard it made me sick. I got out of my pickup and puked all over the road.

Your body couldn’t handle it. The pain you were feeling. People shouldn’t have to experience these things.

It wrecked me, I said. After that night the drinking took over. Every night after work I drank until I blacked out. I woke up with cuts and bruises I couldn’t explain. Once I even went to jail for disorderly conduct. That’s how bad it got. And then one night, a few months later, I was driving home from the tavern, totally uncorked, and I hung a left on the wrong street and parked in somebody else’s driveway. I didn’t even make it out of the driver’s seat. I passed out over the steering wheel, keys still in the ignition. Next morning an old man wakes me up, a heavyset guy, wearing eyeglasses. Tells me his name is Bob Felton and what am I doing parked in his driveway? Mind you, my head’s still spinning at this point. I don’t know where I am or what day it is, but I start talking to this guy with my window rolled down. He’s standing right outside my door. Tells me he’s a preacher at some church here in town. I don’t go to church, so I don’t know their names. But this preacher gets me talking. I tell him all the stuff I told you and more. And he’s listening to everything I tell him and he’s nodding his head and saying, uh huh, uh huh, like he’s known me forever. And at the end this conversation, Bob Felton asks me, he goes, Do you want to get saved? Now this is about the strangest morning of my life. I’m three sheets to the wind. My hair’s a mess, mouth tastes like booze, I’m feeling shaky and cross-eyed. Do I want to get saved? He tells me to repeat after him and starts praying, waiting after every sentence for me to catch up. And there we are, Bob Felton and me, praying out loud in his driveway. I admit I’m a sinner, sure. I ask God to forgive me, enter my heart, all that stuff.

Jesus, she said, that is weird.

Yeah, but that’s not the weird part. This next part is where things really get weird. We finish saying the prayer and the preacher says Amen. So I’m thinking, that’s it, I’m saved, we’re done here. But then he puts his hands on my head, like this, and keeps praying out loud. I mean, he really gets into it. He starts speaking another language. It sounds like he’s saying, I should’ve bought a Honda, I should’ve bought a Honda.

A Honda, she said. You mean the car?

I nodded.

Why a Honda?

I don’t know, I said. Maybe it wasn’t a Honda. But here’s the thing. And this is my answer to your question. You asked how I got sober. Well, I’ll tell you, I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since that morning in Bob Felton’s driveway.

You’re joking.

Not a single drop, swear to God. I don’t even crave it anymore.

Lacy Dotson looked at me. I could tell what she was thinking. She was trying to decide if I was pulling her leg.

I told you it was strange, I said. I knew you wouldn’t believe it. That’s why I haven’t told anybody.

She looked baffled, like someone had knocked her on the head. I don’t know what to believe, she said. I was raised Roman Catholic on my mother’s side. My stepdad’s a Mason, whatever that is.

We laughed. I didn’t know the first thing about either one. All I knew was after that morning in Bob Felton’s driveway my life began to change.

Anyway, that’s my weird story, I told her. You’d better get some sleep. You’ll need your beauty rest for tomorrow’s rendezvous.

Lawrence, wait!

What is it?

There was a pause. A long pause.

Goodnight, she said.

Okay, I said, goodnight, and closed her door gently. I stood there in the hallway and listened, but I couldn’t hear anything except rainfall tapping on the roof.

I wasn’t tired or ready for bed. It was still early for me. But I went around the house turning off all the lights. In the bedroom, I unbuttoned my flannel shirt and hung it in the closet. My wife’s side of the closet was empty and bare. Once upon a time her pretty dresses covered that entire wall. Now the hangers on her side hung naked.

In the master bathroom, I brushed my teeth in front of the mirror and swallowed a melatonin to help me sleep. I didn’t know if these pills worked or not, maybe it was all a hoax, but every night since taking them I dreamed about situations that should’ve ended badly but didn’t.

I sat on the bed and read a chapter out of this book I was reading. It was one of those romance novels by Danielle Steel. My wife had read them all. While I was reading the words, I kept thinking about Mel. She had filed for divorce and now we were just waiting for the paperwork to go through.

I was about to put the book down and get undressed when Lacy Dotson appeared in the doorway. She had no idea what a miracle she was, standing there barefoot in her white tank top and green underwear.

Do you want to cuddle? she asked.

The girl had driven all the way up from Portland and couldn’t sleep.

~

Ryan Kenedy teaches English at Moorpark College. His debut novel The Blameless was recently published by the University of Wisconsin Press (2023). His short fiction has appeared in the North American Review, The Greensboro Review, Sou’wester, and The San Joaquin Review.

91.1/2