takes place in the same universe as "fire in the sky."


lots of things in life are really funny, in retrospect. lots of things are sad, too and kathleen isn't sure if scenting her ex husband's cologne in the middle of a grocery story with jennifer curtis falls into the category of funny or tragic.

most people would say tragic, all things considered. after all, that's what she feels the moment the scent settles on her, for the first time. all those memories come back rushing at once: when he had danced with her in a hotel together on their honeymoon, drunk together after they exchanged vows in front of her whole family, kenneth smiling so wide and pretty — the time he smiled at her and told her that he never wore that cologne for nothing, that he loved wearing it special no matter what — the time that she had hid the bottle for him for a whole week waiting for him to notice and he'd chased her around the house when he'd found it behind the trash can with katie's diapers and he'd picked her up and she had laughed and laughed.

those were all good, there was laughter.

the second, harsher waves of memories aren't funny, really. when she noticed that he started wearing it when he went out, when she had saw that the usually steady line had started to go down and down, when she had finally confronted him with the cologne and the lipstick and he had said to her, "kathleen, i don't think this is good, now."

this being: their marriage, their house, their children.

this being: kathleen, her face struck with terror, with horrible laughter that had floated out of her throat that sounded less like something created out of happiness and love more out of confusion and grief and that awful, awful gut churning anger that had her following him through the house as he picked up his things.

he hadn't even had the kindness to not do it in front of their children. he had packed up his things in a suit, had let two bit watch as he had gotten everything up. she had yelled at him, begged, and still, he had walked out that door, he had gone and was forced to just watch. she was forced to just see him climb into the car, wind down the road and never, ever come back.

so it hadn't been funny. she doesn't think she'll laugh at the memory the way she laughs at the fact that keith — before he'd been sharp little two bit — had accidentally punched out his father's tooth or that she had almost cried herself laughing when she had figured out he and steve tried to work out some silly little scheme selling water.

it hadn't been funny. it wasn't funny as jennifer curtis — the opposite of her, who rarely laughed, whose face was set in sharp lines, who was always so goddamn serious that kathleen had made it her mission to make her laugh at least once and had failed and failed until darrel had made her laugh — grips her upper arm in a grip that felt like talons and says, "don't you turn around, kathleen. don't you dare give him the satisfaction."

she wants to laugh. god above, she wants to laugh, wants to turn around and demand to see the woman, the baby she and two bit and katie were left for. she wants to laugh at the fact that a girl who was once homecoming queen, who used to be rich and pampered, was telling kathleen who had been poor all her life not to turn around, she wants to laugh at the fact that of everyone, it had been jennifer curtis who had supported her more than her own mother and wasn't that funny, that a rich little girl cast out by her parents was stronger in this moment than kathleen?

wasn't it hilarious that jennifer curtis with all her good breeding, was tougher than nails as she drags kathleen close to her, eyes sharp, had more strength?

who knew. who fucking knew.

kathleen makes a sound a lot like she had at that night, when he'd left, that half snicker, half groan of, "i should say something."

"no," jennifer says, those big eyes of hers focusing on kathleen. "we came here to get food for my babies and yours. that prize was too much for the both of us, and you helped me with it. we aren't here to let kenneth make you upset."

it reminds her of the fact that of everyone else in the neighborhood, jennifer had been the one to come see her. she had been the one who brought over casseroles, the one who had driven kathleen to the bar to get a job, the one who had fed kathleen coffee the first week working, the one who had been taking her kids to school until kathleen could get it together.

how many times have they talked over cigarettes? how many times has kathleen reached out to her over someone else?

she can hold it together for five minutes. she can forget what it was like to have kenneth kissing her, what it was like to be in love with him in a balmy summer, she can forget how much she wanted to ask him to stay, she can forget how much she had wanted to ask him, what's she got that i don't?

the baby he's got, she can hear giggle and laugh. she can scent the newness of the baby, and she can tell the woman with him is an omega. jennifer keeps her rooted to the spot, and she wonders if the woman's shorter than her, if she's curvier, prettier, if she stepped out of some glossy magazine. if she's a sweet suzy homemaker.

that's an answer only jennifer curtis can give her as they walk away. an answer that jennifer doesn't answer as she steers kathleen down the aisles, her voice cutting through, "they said we have $100 we can use, and i only need half. go on, we still have that list we worked out."

kathleen has no choice but to move in the grocery store, to stick to the list. she has to try and not to think about that baby scent, try not to think about the fact that the ring spot on her hand is almost tanned away, try not to laugh sometimes, when she thinks about it all, about the horrible little joke of a marriage she had before.

she glimpses him just once as she and jennifer pack the car up. he's across the way, with a fancy new watch on his hand, with the baby in his hand, hopping him or her. jennifer looks at how beautiful he is in the sunlight, at how he smiles at the baby he never had for katie or two bit. she looks at the way that he kisses the child's cheek, at the laugh he gives and she wishes she could wipe it off of his face.

she thinks about walking over. about hitting him. about making a scene.

jennifer honks the horn.

kathleen walks over to the passenger side, opens the door. jennifer flicks on the music, and they peel out, on the opposite side of where they came, away from him.