Harry knocked at the front door…
…he waited.

Harry knocked again…
…again he waited.

“Ah, fuck you!” He yelled.

Hank opened the door and stood there, half-asleep with his eyes all crusty, mouth pasted shut, hair all over the place, naked except for his skivvies, which hung to the crack of his ass. “What man, what!” he yelled. “I’m trying to sleep. Or did that not register, me not answering the door?”

Harry stood there looking at him and shook his head. “You could at least answer the door in a robe or something, for Pete’s sake. No one wants to look at that thing flopping all around. Nasty, hairy, overstuffed belly you got. Go get decent, will ya.”

“Well, don’t look at it then. I obviously don’t care. How about next time I answer the door stark naked?”

“Knock it off, Hank. Can I come in or not?”

“No,” he said, slamming the door.

“Well, fuck you!” Harry screamed.

Hank reopened the door. “You still here? For all the shit in the White House, come on, come on. Make yourself at home. Foolish bastard.”

Harry entered without grace, he was a klutzy oaf most of the time; there was nothing smooth about him. He entered and stumbled over the very small step leading up into the living room. Hank’s place was a small, one-bedroom apartment. Cozy, with a kitchenette and a similarly undersized living room, which was where the front door led. It was a decent place. The carpets were somewhat new, and the walls had a fresh coat of paint. The cabinets and the kitchen counter tops also new. “Don’t fall down on me; I don’t want the hassle of calling the EMT’s on your old ass.”

“Old, huh,” Harry sniggered, “you’re just as old.”

“Well, I’m forty-eight, and you’re fifty-nine. There’s quite a difference.”

“Give yourself two years, because when you turn fifty, it’s all the same.”

“Yeah, I suppose you have got a point. Want a beer?”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

“Thanks for sharing, now, do you want a beer or not?”

“Christ, twist my arm why don’t you. You know, you are great at putting on the peer pressure. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Yes. You. Now, do you want a goddamn beer or don’t ya?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll take a beer.”

Hank opened the fridge and pulled out two Corona Extra bottles, popped the tops, stuffed a lime in each with a sprinkle of salt on the rim and brought them to the sofa.

“That’s all you drink now, is this Mexicana stuff,” remarked Harry staring at the label.

“I like the Mexicana beer. The other stuff makes me feel bloated, like I just ate dinner.”

“Oh, yeah. So that’s all the hoopla with this Mex stuff, then, it’s lighter on the belly?”

“I don’t know. I like it. The Mexicans make a good beer.”

“I ain’t ever heard of putting fruit in beer.”

“It’s a lime, jackass! You gonna bitch all day about it or drink it?”

“Ah, hell. I’ll drink it. Just tell me one last thing.”

“What?”

“Why the salt? I mean lime and salt?”

“Because, I’ll tell ya why. You like tequila don’t you?”

“Well, it ain’t too bad, if I want a quick get up and go.”

“Well, the Mexicans make a fine tequila, too. Corona is sort of like, their tequila in beer form. That’s the best way I can best describe it. Could be wrong.”

“Oh, I see. Alright, don’t get testy about it.”

Hank finished his beer and went in for another.

“Grab me another will ya, Hank.”

He grabbed two more. With plenty of lime and too much salt, it began to bubble over the top. He gave the overflowing sudsy bottle to Harry and watched him chase the foam, licking and slurping as it ran down the sides. He laughed his pants off watching Harry trying to suck at all the foam. “There,” Hank said, “that’ll teach you to complain.”

Harry kept fondling at the foam.

Hank drank at his beer, watching, laughing.

“I suppose you think it funny.”

“Yeah, Harry, I do. I think it very funny. Maybe now you’ll quit your bitching.”

“Ahhh,” he said waving his hand at him in a swatting motion.

“Back at you, you fucking grouch. What bug crawled up your ass?”

“Margaret died.”

“Marge? She’s dead?

“Yeah. This morning, around four thirty…in her sleep.”

“Jesus, Harry, wow. From what?”

“The docs don’t know yet. Too soon to tell. Should know something by this afternoon. They speculate a heart attack. I think that was the cause, also.”

“That’s awful, Harry. She wasn’t too much older than me.”

“Yeh.”

“Shit, that’s what, the third one to die on you?”

“Yep, don’t remind me.”

“I would suggest not remarrying.”

“Good advice. I doubt that I will. Marge was a good one.”

“For sure. The best of the three.”

“Amen to that. And I only had her for five years.”

“Yeah. You had Linda; the first one for what was it, twenty-two years before her fatal accident?”

“Tragic. She was cut off and spun into a guard rail.”

“I liked Linda. She was a hottie.”

“Damn right! More beautiful than any of ‘em.”

“Then there was Samantha.”

“Hmmm. Sam was a great woman, carefree and daring. A true Dead Head. Loved her Mary Jane. I think she was the only one that really enjoyed your company.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Yep. She loved art and poetry, all the shit you’re into.”

“I liked her best out of the three. But, she reminded me a lot of the girl you went with when we first met, I was ten years old, you, what, twenty-one—”

“Oh, yeah! Our folks had know one another, I remember when we would go to your house for dinner and how you loved to break my balls. You and your spit wads.”

Hank smirked in recollection. “Those were the days. But what was that broads name you had with you?”

“Angel. She was a real treat. Boy, could she suck. Liked it too!”

“I remember you telling me how her lips could wrap a Christmas present.”

Harry laughed.

“Those were the good ole days, aye Harry?” Hank said, slugging his beer.

“Yes they were. I shouldn’t have told such things to you, being so young and all.”

“Ahh, not to worry. I needed something to hope for. Here’s to you, old buddy,” Hank said, and they tipped their beers.

“Thanks Hank. We’ve been friends a long time.”

“If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

“Will do.”

“Sure, sure. Hey, uh, I’ll get you another,” Hanks said.

“Sounds good. Best news I’ve heard all day,” Harry said pounding the rest of the bottle.

Hank went to the kitchen, popped the tops, brought in two more beers.

“So, what do you want to do today, Hank?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I got a few pages to write. That stupid article on for the paper.”

“Hey, next time, easy with the salt. I’m burping my fool head off.”

“Yeah. You gonna quit griping like an old maid?”

“I’ll stop. So, whatchya have planned, besides the article, I mean?”

“Nothing. Whatchya have in mind”

“I was figuring on maybe going to the park, feed some geese.”

“That sounds like a hoot.”

“It takes my mind off things. You got a better idea?”

“Not really. Let’s call up Pete and Selma, we can get her loaded again and watch her dance on the coffee table. That ought to take you mind off things.”

“You can be a dick sometimes.”

“Sorry. Just trying to cheer you up.”

“Well, it’s not working. Marge is still warm.”

“Okay, okay. I’m a dick. All apologies.”

Pete and Selma lived on the next block over in some dumpy duplex. The duplexes were nice at one time, but over the years, the landlords changed hands and they never made repairs, just collected the rent money and lived like kings. Eventually what happens is, the landlords have the places condemned and then sell the land to the state. It’s always about money, never pride or humanity, not anymore. Those days are over. The building Hank lived in was newer, well; his landlord wanted to up the real estate value, so he fixed up the place and in turn jacked up the rent. It went from four hundred and fifty a month to seven hundred. Who could afford that? Definitely not the welfare trash, or skid row bums. Only those who worked for good paying jobs could live there. Hank did alright. The place had private parking, trash removal, and heat. The electric and water were on the tenants. But who could complain? They never froze in the winter. New York winters could get harsh. The places could have been larger, but for one person, it was reasonable. The larger apartments were on the other side, reserved for families. They were a cool grand per month, but well maintained.

“I wouldn’t want to watch Selma even if Marge were still alive. It gets old,” Harry said finishing one beer and starting on the other.

“I fucked her,” Hank said.

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But it would have been nice,” Hank said.

“Yeah. One for the grandkids,” Harry said.

“If I had any.”

“Can you still get it up?”

“On occasion, if I need to.”

“I hear they got some new pills. Supposed to be better than that Viagra shit,” Harry said.

“You don’t say.”

Hank finished his beer.

“Yup,” Harry said.

“Another?”

“Sure. You know, those Mexicans really do know how to brew,” Harry said admiring the empty bottle.

“I told you,” Hank said.

He came back, put the beer on the table. Harry picked it up and swilled. “I think I’m hooked,” he said still marveling. “I don’t want to drink any other beer. What’s the label read? ‘Cerveza mas fin’ I don’t know what that means. You?”

“Come on Harry, you know I speak Spanish. The label says, ‘The best beer. Made in Mexico.’ See, ‘Hecho en Mexico’ right there,” Hanks said, pointing at the words on the label.

Harry looked and nodded. “So, what do say? You wanna go to the park? We’ll bring the beer. It’ll get us out for a couple and into the fresh air. Besides, you stay cooped up too much.”

“Yeah, you’re right Harry. But I like this cooped up living.”

“So, you’re gonna waste the day? This nice sunny day. The sun is out and besides, I could use the company.”

“Okay, but let’s finish up the beer first, there’s not much left.”

“Sure.”

They both sat there, drinking and talking. Hank lit a pipe. He like an occasional pipe. You have to be in the mood for a pipe. It’s not just something someone should do all the time. The pipe ain’t cigarettes, as Hank would often say. The pipe is for personal enjoyment. Anyone who got hooked on a pipe, Hank always thought, was a damn fool.

Just after they finished the last of the beer and the clock read noon thirty, there was a knock at the door. “Who is that?” Hank snapped.

He set down his beer but kept his pipe dangling from his mouth. He thought it made him look more distinguished.

“You’re not gonna answer the door again,” Harry barked.

Hank looked down, still in his skivvies, belly jostling from side to side, hanging, fat and hairy. The knock came again. “Listen, Harry, can you ah…”

“Yes, I’ll get it. Go get dressed.”

“Yep.”

Hank went to the bedroom and got dressed. Pair of jeans, white button up shirt, gray socks, loafers. He liked loafers, even if they were for queers. He could hear Harry talking with someone out in the living room. A female’s voice. Hank went to the bathroom, on the other side of his bedroom and washed, brushed his teeth, and got in a quick shave. As he was shaving, he was trying to make out the voice. It sounded like a woman, but it couldn’t have been, but maybe…he strained his ears some more. The voice sounded like Selma’s from across the street. “Ow, shit-cock and yellow balls!” Hank Yelled. Harry came running into the bedroom. “What’s the matter Hank?” He looked at him and saw wads of toilet paper stuck all over his neck. “Oh, by the sounds I thought you had stumbled into the shower and broken a hip,” Harry said.

“No, Harry, just trying to shave too fast, that’s all. Who you got in there? Who was at the door?” Hank asked.

“You’re not gonna believe it.”

“Try me.”

“It’s the pretty young thing we were just talking about.”

“Selma?”

“Yup. In the flesh.”

Hank always got a big rise out of attractive young women. Selma had just turned thirty-two a few weeks earlier. Her and Pete came over for some drinks, to celebrate her birthday. She was so polluted that she stripped down to her panties and started dancing on Hank’s coffee table. Pete was the jealous type. He ran at her, scooped her up in his arms, and rushed her out the door. The party didn’t start at Hank’s, but it ended there. It was the most people he had ever had over in the ten plus years he had lived there. Mostly it was just he and Harry, and he liked it that way. Too many people disturbed his writing. He had seen a lot of change in ten years. Most of it worthless. Everything made as a throwaway these days. Don’t like something, throw it away. Even the women. Just as careless. A shame, too. There are many good women out there, hauled away with the trash.

“Shit,” Hank said running around in circles. “Do I look alright?”

“Let me see, your collar is crooked—”

“Guys, is everything okay in there? Hank, you okay?” Selma called.

“Yeah, everything’s fine Selma,” Hank called back to her. “Just nicked myself shaving.”

“Oh, the way you sounded gave me a fright.”

“He’s fine, just a bit disheveled,” Harry answered.

“Fix me up old chum, fix me good.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll straighten you out,” Harry said working his magic.

“How about the wads of toilet paper stuck on my neck?”

“Ah, you had better leave them alone. Otherwise you’re liable to continue bleeding.”

“Yeh, you’re right.”

“Hank,” Harry paused.

“Huh.”

“Do you think maybe you might be stringing yourself along with this dame?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean she’s with someone.”

“Well, they ain’t married,” Hank snarled.

“Take it easy. Just a thought from a concerned friend is all.”

“I’m sorry buddy, tender topic. It’s been awhile since I’ve been with someone and she fits the bill nicely.”

“I hear ya.”

“Say?”

Harry looked up. He looked awful. His face was a bit peaked, his eyes withdrawn. The death of his wife and lack of sleep wearing on him. “Yes?”

“Are you gonna be alright?” Hank asked.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Wives die all the time.”

“Right. Hey ah, when is the funeral?”

“Monday morning. I figured on getting things together over the weekend.”

“Good idea.”

With that, they both exited the bedroom. There she was, sprawled out on the sofa, flipping through Hank’s scrapbook of articles. “I never realized you wrote so many,” she said smiling.

“Yep, been doin’ it for some time now.”

She sat up. Harry sat down on the sofa, opposite side her. Hank sat in the recliner chair.

“Wow that is so cool. I wish I could write like you,” Selma said.

“Everyone can write, it’s the fear that holds them back.”

“You think so?”

“Sure,” Hank said, “like anything else.”

She looked at him, “Huh, maybe you’re right.”

“Fear. It holds everyone back from anything. Fear of the unknown. Failure. Love. The grave. You name it it’s there, waiting, as does the tiger in the brush.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I guess you have a point. But I can’t write. I mean I can, just not like you.”

“There, now you’ve got it. You can do anything you want. Some people just do it better.”

“What brings you out this way?” Harry asked, interrupting.

“Pete and I were arguing and I just wanted to get away for awhile.”

“Well, stay as long as you like,” Hank said.

“Thanks,” Selma said.

“Let’s go to the park,” Harry chimed.

“Oh, how nice,” Selma said. “Can I come along?”

“Of course you can,” Harry said.

They all piled into Hank’s car and left, first stopping by Harry’s to get a stale loaf of bread.

Hank owned a standard 1969 Volkswagen beetle. What a great car. He bought it used off a wannabe hippie punk who needed money to get to San Francisco. Apparently, he thought he was living in the sixties and that Haight-Ashbury was still booming with LSD and The Grateful Dead. Hank offered him two hundred bucks and the boy jumped on it. There were so many problems with car that he nearly went broke fixing it, trying to get it to look as it did from the factory. They stopped off at the liquor store and picked up two jugs of Taylor port wine. They didn’t need two jugs but it was on sale, so why not? It was not too hot a day, just right for wine.

When they arrived at the park, it was full of old people, seventy years and up. Most of them had walkers, canes, and false teeth. They walked a ways and Harry found a bench and took a seat. Just as Hank was about to sit down and old geezer stepped in front of him. They can move when they want to, walkers and all. If an old man needs to get somewhere fast, watch out, he’ll damn near run you down. “Excuse me,” Hank said, “but I was about to sit down.” The old man looked at him, not saying a word. Hank repeated himself. “I know!” the old man barked. “I need to sit for a minute, if that’s alright with you.” Selma gave a look as if to say, what a mean old bastard. Hank just shrugged his shoulders. Harry ignored the whole scene, pulled out his loaf of stale bread, and began feeding. The geese gathered all around him, honking as they pecked at the crumbs. Selma grabbed a few crumbs and threw them out there. The geese were ferocious. They had no fear.

Hank became tired of standing; it had been close to twenty minutes. Normally he would have said or done something to someone taking his seat but the man was old and feeble. Hank noticed the old man gawking at Selma, as a crazed sex fiend. When she would lean over to feed the geese, he would gawp down her shirt and grin. Hank just stood there, like a schmuck, but he had to do something. Harry opened a jug of wine and poured a glass, handed one to Hank. “Where did you get the glasses,” Hank said. “At the liquor store while you were getting the wine in the back, they sold these up front.” He took the glass and sucked it down as fast as I could, then poured another. The old man looked up at him and made an ugly face. “Would you like some,” Hank said.

“No, I don’t touch the demon juice. Besides, there are already too many merry-andrews in the world without it. No sense in creating anymore.”

“Well that’s just fine,” Hank said, “but there’s no need for sarcastic nastiness.”

The old geezer gave a mean look and scoffed at him.

Hank had had enough. The rest of the other benches were full so there was no place else for them to move to. He slugged down the rest of his wine and set the down glass next to Selma’s feet. He leaned over and grabbed a handful of stale bread and crumbled it directly in front of the old geezer’s feet then threw the rest of the crumbs all around him. “Hey,” he yelled at Hank, but he just ignored him and stepped away, picking up his wine glass. He went over to the jug and poured another glass. The geese were inching closer to the bench. One goose had a big set of brass balls. Selma fed it from her hand. Then another came in, closer, closer. Slowly all the fear had fled them and they all came in. They found the bread by the mean old geezer and began pecking at his feet. He yelled at them to no avail. Hank laughed. He glared at him. The geese started getting mean. They bit his feet when he tried to shoo at them. Hank tiptoed around the side of the bench and stole the old man’s walker. No one noticed. He pulled the walker farther behind the back of the bench. A goose reached up, stole the bag of bread right from Harry’s hand, ran a few feet, and dropped it. The old geezer kept yelling. Hank laughed. The people from the other benches were awestruck at the scene. Harry got up to get the bag of bread but a goose attacked him. There was a crowd now. Selma stood up and ran behind Hank, who watching from behind the bench. Harry soon did the same. He downed his glass of wine and went in for the jug but a goose bit his hand. No blood, but it hurt. He reached in for it again but the same goose attacked him. The old geezer was pinned to the bench yelling obscenities. He reached for his walker but it was amiss. “Argh,” he screeched. “They’re going to kill me!” Harry broke out in a whirl of laughter. “Let’s get outta here,” he said.

“I agree,” Selma replied.”

“Not just yet,” Hank said. “This is a real hoot. Besides, we can’t leave without the jugs.”

“How are we supposed to get to them? The fucking creatures are all over them like a shrine or something.”

“I have an idea Harry. Here, hold this.” Hank gave him his empty glass.

The old geezer looked back at us, he saw his walker, “Give me that,” he said.

“No, you old prick. You just sit there,” Hank said.

Harry finally caught on, looked at the walker and shook his head. Selma was clueless and amazed at the chaos. The geese were crazy. Someone yelled over from a far away bench asking if they needed any help. No one responded. The old geezer kept hooting for his walker. He got Selma’s attention and she went to give it to him, but Hank seized it and tossed it away. By now, the bread was almost gone. The geese had shredded the bag and flung the crumbs all around. Hank went running at them and they all scattered. Then, quickly, he dipped down, grabbed the wine jugs, and made a run for it. Four or five geese gave chase after their wine god, but he kept moving. Selma and Harry followed. The old geezer kept yelling but no one wanted to go near him for fear of the mad geese. They made it to the car and Hank stopped to relish the moment. The bench was now off in the distance and one goose was on it, pecking at the geezer. He fell off and began to crawl towards his walker. The geese followed, pecking. “Are you happy now?” Harry said. “You’ve maimed an old man!”

“Yes. Extremely,” Hank said in hysterics. “He should’ve given me the seat.”

“Let’s go before someone calls the cops,” Selma said climbing into the car.

“Good idea.”

“So much for a grieving day at the park,” Harry said.

With that, Hank turned the engine and they sped off back to Hank’s place.

They pulled up and got out laughing their balls off, even Selma. They all headed up the walkway to the front door and went inside. Hank needed a drink. That fiasco left him drained. Harry carried the jugs of port and Selma got the glasses. They sat down and Harry began to pour, toasting to a hair-raising day. Harry seemed to forget about his dead, third wife. Another hour passed and Selma got a little drunk. She felt good, very good, and looked the same. Hank got a hard on. She began to sit closer and closer to him. Her haired smelled of wild strawberries. They all sat there talking, drinking, laughing for hours. The minutes waned into hours, and hours waned into the evening. Soon the clock struck six and the sun turned a different, darker shade of yellow. Hank did have some work to finish for the newspaper, a few articles to touch up, but he figured it could wait until Sunday…Selma was on a role.

“Hey, why not give these old boys a table dance,” Hank said to her as he got up to pour more wine.

“No, now, come on, Hank. That’s not necessary,” Harry hollered.

“Oh, it’s no trouble, really,” Selma said. “After these rounds, I’ll put on a real show.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hank said edging her.

She smiled.

They talked some more then Selma got up to use the bathroom. “Well, I’m gonna take off,” Harry said finishing his glass.

“You’re leaving? And just before the show?”

“Yeah. I’m tired. Besides, I have to prepare for this funeral procession.”

“I hear ya old friend. Take it easy. Are you gonna stop by tomorrow?”

“I’ll stop in, in the morning if I can.”

“Well, try to get a little sleep.”

“Uh-huh. Goodnight Hank.”

“Goodnight Harry.”

He opened the door and stumbled out into the night.

A few hours later, Hank got his table dance, naked. Then the two of them went to the bedroom and made it. Fabulous. Selma was more than any man could dream. Contentment eased Hank’s heart and mind for the first time in a long time. He slept the sleep of the gods.

Later that morning, Selma had to leave, but first, she made some eggs and coffee. Hank saw her to the door and just as she opened it, there was Pete, waiting. He looked unhappy, his hands closed to a fist, knuckles white with tension.
Pete yelled very loudly, “Where in the hell were you!” He pointed his finger straight in Selma’s face.

“I was just out at the park,” she said meekly.

“All night! ALL MORNING!”

“Pete, not now,” she said. “Can we just talk about this later?”

“No! I want to talk about this shit now. Let’s go,” he said yanking her arm. Then he pointed a finger at Hank, standing in the doorway, and said, “I’ll deal with you later, you no good piece of shit!” Just as Pete turned to walk away, Harry arrived on the scene telling him to relax and get calm.

“Pete, now, just calm down,” Harry said.

“Old man, this is none of your business. Now, just stay out of it.”

“Old man,” Harry said.

“Yeah. Old man. Are you deaf, too? Want me to kick your old ass?”

Harry was an old time boxer, golden gloves many years ago. Back in the day, in Harry’s golden glove years, it was Harry “Right Hook” Feldman. He might have been old and out of shape, but he could still fight. Those fists were still good for something. Pete was hopping mad and he would not let it go. His attention had turned from the Selma situation, to poor old Harry. Pete appeared as though he had not been to bed in several days. On the ride home from the park, aside from talking and laughing about the mad geese, Selma had mentioned something about Pete’s cousin, John, coming for a visit from Michigan. She said it was an awful scene when he did because they stayed up all night drinking and doing God knows what. She was right. Pete looked awful, and across the way, sure enough, there was a man standing there in the shadows, Pete’s cousin, John, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other, eyes dark and sallow. This did not concern Harry, if John had stepped in, he would have dealt with him just the same, and with him burying another wife, Harry was not in any mood for gibberish.

“Nah, I ain’t deaf. Just don’t like being treated in that tone,” Harry said. “Now, back off and let go of Selma. You’re hurting her arm.”

Selma wriggled away and ran to the front steps. Pete looked at Selma, then, with rage and anger, he took a sudden swing at Harry. Just as soon as he did, Pete kissed the pavement. He never even had a chance to stumble or mutter. Never saw it coming. Hank and Selma stood there in a daze. Everything happened too fast. In fact, Pete’s cousin John never even moved. He watched on like a coward, sipping his beer, as his family member lay unconscious.

Hank and Selma looked at Harry, then at Pete sprawled out on the tar. Harry calmly stepped over him and went inside. Hank went to close the door but Pete’s hand was in the way. It stopped the door from closing. Hank kicked it out of the way, Pete grumbled and rolled over, eyes still closed. Cousin John sipped his beer, looking on with a blank mind. Hank closed the door.

“Who wants some coffee?” Selma asked.

“I’ll take a cup,” Harry said.

“Me too,” Hank answered, grabbing a seat on the sofa.

“I’m staying here, for awhile Hank,” Selma said, quite matter of fact.

“Okay.”

“I mean, for as long as we can stand each other, if that’s alright?”

“No need ask,” Hank said.

Harry smiled.

Hank asked Selma to bring him a peach from the fridge, he took a savory bite, allowing the juice to dribble down his chin a little before wiping. Selma stayed in the kitchen and washed the dishes. Harry drank coffee. Outside there was a lot of yelling and shouting as Pete came around. He banged his fist on the door once, told them all to go screw themselves and told Hank, “You can have her…you can keep the worthless whore…” Harry looked out the window wondering if he should go out there for another round, but it there was no need. Pete hobbled away, one hand on his head.

“I’m glad that’s over with,” Selma said.

“Yup. Pete’s last gasp,” Harry said.

“Go riddance,” Selma said.

“Anyway, Hank,” Harry said. “I just stopped by to tell you that the funeral’s scheduled for Tuesday.”

“I’ll be there,” Hank said.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, old man. Think you might want to retire from marriage?”

“Yeah,” he said, “sounds like a plan. Besides Hank, I believe it’s your turn now.”

Hank looked at Selma standing in the kitchen, tidying up and humming a cute little ditty. “Well, maybe just once, Harry. Maybe just once.”