aside again. “While you’re at it,” she said, “will you pick up some Pop-Tarts? We’re all out of Pop-Tarts. Frosted Cherry flavored, okay?” “Sure,” he said. “Cherry flavored.” Vicky’s mother spoke up from the spare room. “Frosted Cherry!” she hollered. “Frosted Cherry Pop-Tarts, you good-for-nothing. And don’t come back with no liquor. You know how the Lord feels about liquor.” Buell looked into the spare room. His mother-in-law was in her robe, reclining on the foldout bed, looking for discounts on shoes in the Pennysaver. “If I can just loosen your hold on Vicky and get you out of the house and back with your old man maybe things around here would get back to normal,” he said. “Just get them Frosted Cherry ones,” she said without looking up from the newspaper. Buell had nothing more to say so he went to the closet next to the front door, reached behind the broom and grabbed the suitcase he’d packed one night before going to bed. Buell hurried down his apartment steps to the sidewalk. Exhaust fumes and honking horns jammed the city air. He walked two blocks to a liquor store. Next to the cash register, a radio played Mariachi music. A Latina emerged from a back room. She pulled back her hair and secured it with a rubber band from around her wrist. “The usual?” she said. “Yep.” “Anything else?” “Just a pint of Beam and a pack of Marlboros.” She stretched on tiptoes, got the pint from a shelf behind the counter and put it in a paper sack. He gave her exact change. Outside, he worked his lighter against a cigarette. Then he went across a vacant lot, peeled back a small section of chain link fence, slipped through, went across a street to the Seasons Motel and made his way toward room #107. When his knocking went unanswered, he tried the doorknob and found it unlocked.
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