“Please,” Maria said to Thomas, her youngest brother, “don’t kill him.”

They sat at a table in an underground restaurant. It was only three in the afternoon, but the place was dark and the exit light shone brightly above the door. The restaurant was in Portland, and Maria knew that the sky outside was dark, as well, because the rain had been falling for seven months and there was no end to it in sight. Nevertheless, she ordered a Mai Tai, toying with its cheerful umbrella as she drank, sipping through a straw that was the diameter of a pistol barrel. She held the colorful elixir in her hand. She stared at it, and was surprised that this day could bear even the slightest resemblance to a festive occasion.

Thomas took a long pull from his third pint of beer. His fingers were white against the glass.

“I did want to kill him, you know.”

Maria tried to guess at the expressions that flickered across his unlined face--anger, for the most part, she thought, with just a hint of cunning. Thomas was a successful building contractor. He collected guns like some people collect coins, but she wasn’t sure he had it in him to kill a man in cold blood.

Maria’s thought of her ex-lover, Carlos, an abusive man who had promptly abandoned her the moment her pregnancy could no longer be ignored. When the question of money came up, he began to make threatening phone calls, late at night. Most recently, he’d stopped sending his child support payments.

Carlos could kill. She was certain of it. But could Thomas? Who knew?

Maria took another drink and it was cold and sweet and the paper umbrella tickled her cheek. She knew she would have a hangover from the mixture of alcohol and sugar but she tilted her glass and drank until the ice broke free from the bottom and clinked against her teeth. Thomas continued.

“But now it’s different, of course. You’ve won your day in court, and that asshole needs to stay healthy enough to send you the child support.” He smiled at her, his face pale and tight. “I might even offer him my services as a bodyguard.”

She motioned to the bartender for another drink and then she smiled in return. Maria was twelve years older than Thomas. When they were younger, there had been no doubt that it was she who was in charge of him. But lately, she'd begun to regret the despotic rule, the harsh law of the matriarch, she had imposed.

She felt warm from the drinks and an image of Thomas as a small child came to her. When he was six years old, he'd had his front teeth knocked out by the neighborhood bully. After a very one-sided flurry of blows, Thomas had picked himself up and gone to her. Blood flowed over his lower lip and darkened his chin, but he didn’t cry. He’d fought the bully with complete confidence because she told him he would win. The look he gave her after his defeat was very sad––a very wise and sorrowful expression for a six year-old boy to have––and she wasn’t sure if he truly loved her, after that day.

At 6 o’clock they ate their dinner. It began with the shrimp salad, their teeth slicing through the chilly pulp of lettuce and the tender bodies of shrimp with the taste of the sea in their juices. There was a flotsam of croutons with hints of butter and garlic. A cool layer of bleu cheese. Dark flecks of pepper. They ate and she tarried on each flavor and texture as if she would never experience the pleasure of them again.

She became drunk and Thomas did, too. Twice, while they ate, Maria let tears roll down her cheeks and she dabbed at them with her napkin. From time to time, she glanced at Thomas’ face. She saw a meanness come into his eyes, even as the food and drink went into his mouth. The wine flowed and Thomas took a shot of tequila every now and then, just to be sure, she thought. They pretended to celebrate her victory, her recently awarded palimony and child support. Carlos would pay. The justice of it was obvious, but it was a pyrrhic victory, after all, because it was brought by force of law, rather than love.

And so they ate and drank to excess. Thomas ordered a prime of rib from the dinner menu and the beef was tender and rare and the hot salty smell of au jus made Maria think of men and guns and the blood of the hunting trips of her childhood. She ordered a plate of clams so she could scoop out their delicate flesh and dip it into silver thimbles of melted butter.

When they finished eating, they ordered more drinks that were decorated with umbrellas and slices of tropical fruit. The waiter showed them the dessert menu, and they both ordered eagerly, as if they had just arrived. Maria cleared her throat, aware that Thomas was looking at her with focused, unblinking eyes, as if he had framed a question that only she could answer. Maria picked up a bar napkin and folded it in half. She folded it again, scraping her fingernail against the creases to make them sharp. Thomas watched her hands and then he looked again into her face. She spoke in a low voice.

“I don’t want the support payments that badly, you know.”

Thomas stiffened. Nodded.

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“Really?” She let a glint of hope shine in her eyes. Thomas shook his head.

“There's got to be a price, and this doesn’t seem to be enough. No, I don’t think it’s nearly enough.”

“It’s nowhere close to enough, is it?”

After that, they spoke of other things––Maria’s infant son, their dead mother, their drunken father. Their understanding remained unspoken. Thomas didn't discuss his plans, nor did she ask. It wasn’t a festive occasion at all, but it was what they had, and so they feasted in solidarity, complicity, with the resolve that only a family can possess. They ate and drank with unblinking intensity. They didn't look at the faces of their watches until it was very late, and then they stood, turned their backs on the uncleared table, and staggered together, mother and son, up the stairs into the Portland rain.

####

Terry DeHart's stories have appeared in online journals such as: In Posse Review, The Paumanok Review, The Barcelona Review and Zoetrope All-Story Extra. He is currently working on a screenplay.

He can be contacted at:mailto:tdehart@earthlink.net.