Don’t Ask By Bernie Hafeli

Before Randy saw the car he’d been watching the sun skitter

across the lake as if thousands of silver-finned fish swam just below

surface, bouncing back light. The radio was tuned to WAPB.

Marlene’s play list alternated between small combo swing and

dinner jazz, like it was still 1955 when the two-lane blacktop he

currently traveled would have still been dirt, oil and gravel. A sad,

blowsy song swayed leisurely to its close and Randy was surprised

to hear the sax player identified as John Coltrane, whose music

would later explode with such turbulence. It was funny how

Coltrane’s search for inner peace manifested outwardly in stormy

improvisation. That’s what Randy was thinking when he came

upon the car, which was off on the shoulder, its nose nudged into

the bushes like a large dog tracking a scent.

Randy stopped the truck. Near the car was a path angling

down to the water and a little boy was running toward it. A woman

trailed in pursuit. By the time Randy got out of his truck both the

boy and woman had disappeared. Randy walked over to the car.

Despite being buried in the foliage, everything seemed intact. It

hadn’t hit anything of consequence. Stooping down to investigate

the front axle, he heard footsteps whumping back up the path.

“Mom! There’s a man!”

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2

Randy turned and straightened up. The boy was Asian,

about seven or eight, and the woman held him by the hand. He

looked at Randy with the wide-eyed fascination of a child who

doesn’t encounter grown men often. The woman was Caucasian

and watching him warily, as if he might bite or begin talking about

Jesus at any moment.

“Looks like you had a little accident,” he said.

She lifted her chin and looked beyond him at the car.

“Is it alright?” she asked.

“Seems to be. Only next time you go off-roading, I’d suggest

something with four-wheel drive.”

He gave her the most neighborly, non-threatening smile he

could muster. She was pretty, Randy decided—thin, with the

athletic build of a runner or bike rider. She had rust-colored hair

that rippled in the lake breeze.

“Thanks for stopping,” she said. “Some raccoons ran across

the road. I swerved to miss them.”

Her eyes were the blue-green of Navajo jewelry.

“They ran that way!” the child yelled, pointing to the path.

“Raccoons!”

He grinned like it was Christmas morning then ran up to

Randy.

“Let’s go find ‘em,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “My name is Deirdre. That’s

Harvey.”

Randy knelt down and held out his hand, palm up.

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3

“Gimme five, Harvey.”

Harvey slapped down hard.

“Ow!” Randy said, shaking his hand. “You’re a strong kid,

Harvey. You’ve been eating your broccoli.”

“Yuck,” Harvey said and made a face.

Randy turned to Deirdre. “My name is Randy,” he said. “I

was on my way to work and saw your car here. I work up the road

at the radio station.”

“The radio station? Are you a deejay?”

“Six to midnight,” Randy said, “holidays excluded. Maybe you

could give a listen sometime. I take requests.”

The swamp fog of “Sea of Love” segued into “Sea Cruise,” the

Huey “Piano” Smith original. Following that would be “La Mer” by

Charles Trenét, then “Baïlèro” by Frederica Von Stade. Randy liked

to mix things up—rock, jazz, country, blues, classical, but there

needed to be a thread. Each song had to flow organically from what

came before, whether due to similarity of title or lyrical theme, a

common performer or songwriter, a shared rhythm or beat,

emphasis on a particular instrument, there needed to be a reason

for the song’s inclusion, even if it was discernible only to Randy.

Sometimes his life seemed to play out in the same fashion. If he

just looked deeply enough, he could find a string that tied one

seemingly random event to another. This could go on for years

until something wholly unexpected severed the line, something

from deep left field that knocked him upside the head and sent him

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4

sprawling in the dirt, whose only message was that there was no

message, that everything was arbitrary.

One reason Randy liked his job was that he never had to

engage very long in any one line of thinking. There was always the

next song to get ready, the next lyric to take him in a different,

perhaps more promising direction. Although that night he found

his thoughts returning again and again to the same well-worn path,

the one leading to Deirdre. It wasn’t his nature to ask strangers for

their phone numbers, but that’s what he’d done. And she’d given it

to him! Who knew why? Perhaps because of the chord he seemed

to strike with Harvey, her kid, who looked nothing like her. In any

case, Randy felt better than he had in weeks. He was practically

happy. So good did he feel that he found room for several

musicians who didn’t usually make the play list: Louis Prima,

Raymond Scott, the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. He even played

“Rocky Raccoon,” which he dedicated to Deirdre.

There was something about her. She made his hormones

quiver. Since he’d left Detroit, he rarely made the first move with a

woman. Usually she had to show some interest, however minimal,

before he asked for a date. After his first marriage ended, thanks to

his rat-bastard brother Harry, his relationships had been of the

spider-fly variety, where he feigned disinterest while setting subtle

traps that, once triggered, led to the capture and cocooning of the

desired prey. They weren’t relationships so much as hostage

situations, which his partners only realized over time, and he’d had

one everywhere he went—Chicago, Albuquerque, Providence, here.

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5

Even his second marriage had begun in this manner, though the

births of Jeffrey and Jack changed that, by planting in Randy a love

that stunned him with its ardor, not just for his twin sons but for

their mother, Meredith, who’d made it all possible, and beyond

that, in diminishing degrees, to his few friends, his family (even

Harry), his coworkers, the postman, the pizza guy, pretty much all

mankind. It hade been an idyllic time, too good to last, but a gift

during the years that it did.

Deirdre was in charge of promotions for the Wisconsin

Timber Rattlers, the Class A affiliate of the Seattle Mariners. It was

her task to fill the stands with fans when the Peoria Chiefs, Beloit

Snappers, and Quad City River Bandits came to Appleton to take on

the Rattlers. Her background was advertising—she’d worked for a

large firm back in New York—but the real reason she landed the job

was that her uncle owned the team.

Every morning, after dropping Harvey at her cousin

Bridget’s, she would closet herself in her aluminum trailer of an

office abutting the ballpark and get down to business. For an

upcoming visit by the River Bandits, she was putting the finishing

touches on Crime & Punishment Night. Anyone who came to the

game dressed as a criminal or law enforcement official would get in

for half price—“A steal!” the radio ad proclaimed. Every time

someone swiped a base, a free drink could be had with the purchase

of a bratwurst. If anyone stole home, ticket holders were entitled to

a free pitcher of Dad’s Old Fashioned Root Beer at Corleone Family

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6

Pizza (limit one per family). A big recent success had been It’s

Your Funeral Night. Deirdre rounded up the local funeral directors

and persuaded them to lop thirty per cent off the price of a casket

and burial, when the time came, for anyone attending the game.

For next season she was already planning Death & Taxes Night, a

joint venture between the morticians and tax consultants.

Since meeting him in early May, she spent most of her lunch

hours with Randy. They’d go to one of the fish-and-chips bars in

Appleton or out to Floyd’s By The Lake, a knotty-pine roadhouse

with big greasy burgers that Randy adored, and rocket-fuel

martinis. They’d sit and watch the water skiers on the lake and talk

about things that had wiggled into their lives—incidents at work,

with Harvey, twists in the recent news, books, movies, the behavior

of amusing locals. However there was one subject that remained

strictly off limits—the past. No one ever said, “Don’t ask” or “It’s

none of your business,” it just never came up. She had her secrets

and was content to let him have his. It was her belief that a little

mystery never hurt—to the contrary it added a sprinkle of spice,

kept things from getting too comfortable.

What evolved as a result was the most agreeable relationship

she’d ever had. Randy was kind, considerate, acceptably worldly

and literate, and had a wicked sense of humor when he chose to let

it out for a romp. Even the sex was decent. While you wouldn’t call

him buff, Randy was in fairly decent shape, easy on the eyes, and

went to great lengths to make sure she had an orgasm, even if she

did fake it half the time.

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7

But Deirdre’s fascination with Randy was nothing compared

to Harvey’s total absorption. To Harvey, Randy was the dad he

never had. Watching them together, Deirdre got a sense of family,

not in any major, capital-letter way, but briefly glimpsed during the

moments that Randy’s whole body seemed to bend toward her son

like a sunflower stalk when the boy had something to say, or the

way Harvey’s face lit up like tungsten when he caught one of

Randy’s tosses and fired back a strike. If she could just be content

with these little gratifications, she thought, life would be fine.

Their weekends always included Harvey. They’d plan a

picnic on Lake Winnebago or go to the Harry Houdini Museum or

the Paper Industry Hall of Fame. (She had, however, quashed

Randy’s suggestion of visiting the Joe McCarthy Museum and John

Birch Society World Headquarters in the same afternoon—to give

Harvey an idea of what makes this state great, he said. “A joke,” he

later insisted. “Only kidding!”)

Sunday afternoons were reserved for the ballpark. Their

favorite seats were behind the Timber Rattlers’ first base dugout,

where they’d settle in with the Sunday paper and a bag of ham

sandwiches, grease up with sunscreen, and watch the major league

wannabes putting in time in the Midwest League. Occasionally

Uncle Alva, who owned the Rattlers, would sit with them and want

to discuss business.

“So Deirdre, what are you cooking up to entice baseball-

hungry Appletonians?”

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8

He never knew when she might be putting him on, which

often she was. “Well Alva, I’ve been talking to the paper companies

and the first week in August we’re having Toilet Paper Tuesday.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“Nope. Four free rolls of one-ply with every ticket. Or two

rolls of two-ply.”

One Sunday evening after a game, Deirdre and Harvey were

on their back patio watching the lowering sun fuzz the lake with the

hazy hues of a Monet water painting. At least Deirdre was. Harvey

was bouncing a rubber ball off the side of the house and diving to

his left or right to try and catch it, providing his own play-by-play, a

la Rex Snodgrass, the Timber Rattlers’ announcer. Randy had had

to work. The ball spanked against the plaster wall, skittered over

the patio stones and raised wisps of dust with each hop over the dry

ground, followed by a mushroom cloud when Harvey went

sprawling to the ground trying to grab it.

“Harvey, stop that. You’re making dust.”

“I have to practice.”

SPLAT!

“Harvey—”

“Randy said I have to practice.”

SPLAT!

“Harvey!”

SPLAT!

“Okay, Mom!”

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9

The boy picked himself up and came over to the picnic table

where Deirdre sat. As he walked he bounced the ball on the ground,

raising further dust.

“Mom?”

“Harvey, stop bouncing.”

The bouncing stopped. Deirdre looked at her son. His thick

black hair was chopped off roughly at the same level all around his

head so he looked like Moe of the Three Stooges. She’d have to start

taking him to the barber. His skin was burnished, baked by the sun,

brown as a butternut.

“Is Randy like my real dad was?” Harvey asked.

The question surprised her. She had to hastily reform her

conception of Hideki.

“He is, Harvey. Now that you mention it, he kind of is.”

Over the years, Deirdre had concocted for her son’s benefit

the ideal Japanese father. She only hoped she hadn’t laid it on too

thick, to the point where other men couldn’t measure up.

“Did he like baseball?” Harvey asked.

“He did. Hideki liked baseball a lot. He loved to play

baseball.”

“What position?”

“Hideki was an outfielder.”

“Ichiro!”

“Yes, like Ichiro, only not as good.”

“Ichiro!” Harvey yelled again.

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10

He threw the ball high in the air and started pounding his

glove, getting ready to make the catch. But the ball landed well

behind him, whacking down in an evergreen thicket. Harvey ran to

retrieve it. Deirdre didn’t like lying to him, heaven knew, but it was

for his own good. She’d even had pictures taken with her friend

Kaz, who played the part of Hideki. Thinking about it now though,

she felt dirty with a tarnish deeper than soot. If only there were a

pool nearby, a miraculous pond in the woods that could wash away

past mistakes. She could use a good long soak.

Disaster was Randy’s first thought when he felt the mattress

quivering—something seismic, the world cracking apart—but it was

only Deirdre jostling him awake.

“Time to go, Randy boy.”

It was 5 a.m. This was their routine. On certain agreed-upon

nights, he’d show up after his shift at the radio station and spend

the night at Deirdre’s. By the time he arrived, Harvey was sleeping

the sleep of the innocents, hands curled as if still in the womb,

knees tucked up near his chin. Randy would open a bottle of wine

while Deirdre talked quietly about her day until, eventually, the lure

of their bodies and the sway of the alcohol led them to Deirdre’s

bed. Randy would be gone by the time Harvey awoke. They both

felt this was best.

Randy padded into the bathroom and trickled water over his

face. It smelled coppery, as if the ore deposits further north had

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11

leeched into the water supply. Brushing his teeth, he recalled

remnants of the previous night’s conversation. A friend of Deirdre’s

was coming in from New York. But in what context was she a

friend? Had Deirdre said? Randy couldn’t remember. Before he

left, he sat down on the bed and stroked Deirdre’s hair. The sun

had lightened it, not as red as last spring. A smile rippled Deirdre’s

lips. She hadn’t gone entirely back to sleep. He leaned over, kissed

her forehead, kissed her cheek, kissed the tip of her nose.

“I love you,” he said and realized he meant it. No longer

were these just words people said after a few months sharing the

same bed.

Without opening her eyes, she puckered her lips and kissed

the air.

“So your friend will be here this weekend?” Randy said.

“Friday,” she murmured. “When you come Sunday you’ll

meet her.”

“’Til Sunday,” he said. He kissed her again and left.

The sun had just come up, a sultry portent low on the

horizon, when he drove up to his cabin. Instead of burrowing under

the comforter as was his custom after a night at Deirdre’s, he

decided to put on his running things and go for a jog. It was already

getting warm. He followed the usual route—a hard-packed trail

through the woods that eventually connected with the state park

down by the lake. The day’s first birds, the ones that supposedly got

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12

the worms, were out and a-twitter, darting in and out of his path

like they couldn’t make up their minds where they wanted to be.

The forest smelled fresh and expectant, the sumpy scent of soil still

damp with dew mingling with grass chaff and flower pollen, the

sweet rot of tree bark, the fecund aroma of mushrooms and moss.

It was his favorite time, when the brunt of the day still stretched

before him, unmarked and rife with possibility. Again it came to

him that he was close to being happy, perhaps was already happy,

and that the full measure of happiness might be just up ahead,

around the next bend, waiting for him to jog into its airspace. This

feeling, he knew, was attributable to Deirdre, but also to Harvey—

maybe something could work out for the three of them.

He imagined introducing them to Meredith and Jack.

Harvey was a few years younger than Jack. Would they get along?

What would Deirdre think of Meredith? He’d told Deirdre he was

divorced and that he had a child. But he hadn’t supplied the details,

such as how he and Meredith had shut down emotionally after Jeff’s

death, felt nothing for each other except for occasional pity, how he

sometimes silently blamed Meredith—there’d been more cancer in

her family after all, in his own only a dusting—how he couldn’t relax

around Jack because Jack reminded him of Jeff. He could still see

the two

of them, identical twins in every respect, telling him about the

science project. The teacher had had them prick their fingers for

drops of their own blood, which they examined under microscopes.

Jeff noticed that his blood looked different than the picture in the

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13

book, the one with the healthy cells. His own cells drooped and had

cloudy spots. He showed the teacher. It was suggested that Jeff be

sent to a specialist to determine the reason for the discrepancy. As

it turned out, Jeff had identified his own leukemia.

Felicia stood out like a speckled jellybean in a tin of snow-

white breath mints—black T-shirt, skin-tight lemon Capri pants,

purple checked tennis shoes, bubblegum-pink hair clipped in a

pixie cut. Deirdre watched her approach, and the heads of airport

visitors turn as if to reconfirm what the friendly skies had dropped

into their midst.

“Hi, Deirie.”

Before Deirdre could protest, Felicia wrapped a thin, fish-

white arm around Deirdre’s neck and kissed her on the lips. Felicia

smelled of recent coffee.

“Jesus, Felicia, back off! This is frigging Wisconsin!”

Felicia moved away and unleashed her gap-toothed smile.

Deirdre felt her resolve melt like a creamsicle on the Fourth of July.

“Good to see you too, Deirie,” Felicia sang. “How’s life among

the moral majority?”

They started for the car. Felicia hadn’t aged at all. If

anything, she looked younger, while Deirdre—as she’d realized

peering into the mirror that morning, modeling her new business

suit for the lunch with the Rotarians—looked a good decade older.

“Life’s okay, Felicia. Actually, life’s pretty good.”

“How’s our little boy?”

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14

“Harvey’s—”

Deirdre turned to take in Felicia. She needed to gauge

Felicia’s sincerity. This was, after all, the same woman who’d

skedaddled to Prague when Harvey hadn’t turned out exactly as

planned.

“Harvey’s just great,” Deirdre said. “He’s the joy of my life.”

“My God, you sound like Celine Dion.”

Deirdre stopped walking. That’s all it took from Felicia to

make Deirdre want to grab two fistfuls of her former friend’s pink

hair, previously lavender, and yank it out by its mousy brown roots.

“Look, you bitch, I don’t know why you’re here but I’m still

angry as hell. You have never lifted one fucking finger to help with

Harvey—with our little boy. So spare me the displeasure of your

snide fucking commentary.”

Felicia’s full lips formed a perfect purple O. Slowly her hand

rose to cover first the O then her nose and the rest of her face.

When the hand descended, there were tears in Felicia’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Deirie,” Felicia said. “I know I’ve been the

world’s biggest shit heel. That’s why I’m here. I’m here to make

things right.”

That Sunday the Timber Rattlers made short work of the

Beloit Snappers, jumping to an early lead and coasting to a lopsided

victory. It was the day before Labor Day, a perfect summer

afternoon. A sweet breeze had kicked up early in the morning and

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15

absconded with the heat and humidity of the previous week,

imbuing the day with a depth and clarity more akin to spring or

early fall. Deirdre’s ticket promotion, “The Farm Team Salutes the

Farm”, was a big hit too. Before the game, there’d been a farmer’s

market in the parking lot. The local farm radio station, WEIO, did

farm reports from the press box. Country bands sang about busted

dreams and slippery hearts from the bleachers in centerfield.

Afterwards, Randy took Harvey for a ride on one of the hay wagons

that the farmers towed behind their tractors through the

surrounding environs.

“So what do you think of Felicia?” he asked the boy.

“She’s cool.” A stalk of straw waggled between Harvey’s lips

as he spoke—the Asian Huck Finn. “She gave me an iPod.”

“Is this the first time you’ve met her?”

“Uh huh.”

Randy thought Felicia was pretty cool too. It was apparent

she was making a real effort to be friendly. But something about

her had him flummoxed. When they talked, her eyes lingered on

his a moment too long. It was always he who had to do the looking

away. Her smile also felt excessive. It started out genuine enough

but when whatever they were talking about lost interest for him,

Felicia would still be grinning away, seemingly still amused. It was

like she was interviewing him for a job and had some preconceived

model she was measuring him against, paying close attention to see

if he conformed to a set of standards he had no idea about. It put

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16

him on edge. He was glad when her attentions shifted to Harvey, or

back to Deirdre, where they seemed to reside most of the time.

Another thing Randy noticed—Felicia and Deirdre floated

around each other like mating butterflies, each word or gesture on

the part of one compelling a corresponding reaction, fluid, almost

unconscious, on the part of the other. A raised lip or skewed

eyebrow might convey whole paragraphs of underlying subtext,

discernible only to the two of them. In the evenings, as they stood

talking near the barbecue grille, wreathed in the smoke of bratwurst

or salmon steaks, their very bodies appeared to bevel together,

like opposing shoots of the same plant arching for the last rays of

the sun.

Later that night, the three of them took Felicia to the airport.

After they parked Deirdre’s car and were walking Felicia to the

security line, nearly deserted on a Sunday night, Harvey tugged on

Randy’s sleeve.

“I gotta go pee-pee.”

“That’s funny, me too.”

When they finished in the rest room and walked back into

the terminal proper, Randy spied Deirdre and Felicia about forty

yards ahead. They were standing together, talking. Then they were

embracing. Then Felicia was kissing Deirdre on the lips. She began

stroking Deirdre’s back and hair with her ring-heavy hand. It

seemed to go on forever. Randy held up.

“How come we’re stopping?”

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17

“I’m a little thirsty, cowboy,” Randy said. “How about a

Coke?

The ride home was composed of miles of silence punctuated

by the minor tumult of approaching vehicles: headlights, engine

rumble, tire thrum that extinguished behind them in the traversed

distance like fragments of a dream. Deirdre seemed struck dumb

by her thoughts. Randy, for his part, didn’t know where to begin.

Only Harvey appeared to be comfortable with the situation, asleep

in the back seat, snoring occasionally, which for some reason filled

Randy with hope.

“You’re not listening, Randy.”

“You’re not saying anything.”

“To the radio.”

“Oh.”

“You always listen to WAPB.”

Which was true. He felt her eyes on him as he reached to

tune in the station. It was after ten and Lorelei had ransacked the

vaults to resurrect “Wind”, by Circus Maximus. He set the volume

low so the piano swayed along with the breeze drifting in his

window, the voice a whisper, an intimation. Deirdre was still

watching him. He smiled and glanced her way, but it felt false, and

it prompted a sigh on her part that hung in the air after she turned

away, like a scent. He wanted an explanation but he also didn’t

want to bring it up, as if bringing it up would lend it credence,

whereas if he ignored it, he might in time forget it ever happened

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18

and they could continue on like they had been up to that point. So

he said nothing.

“Randy, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“This wouldn’t have something to do with Felicia?”

“Felicia and I were lovers. I need to say this straight through

or I won’t be able to say it at all, so please don’t say anything until

I’m through. Please?”

For a moment, Deirdre was silent. She looked out the

window where the white lines of the highway flashed by, markers of

time that, once passed, could never be retrieved.

“We lived together in New York. We loved each other and

thought we’d be together forever. So we decided we wanted a child.

Our friend Scott agreed to donate his sperm. It was artificial

insemination.”

She looked at Randy but he kept his eyes on the road. His

mind was suddenly purged of thought, as if he’d hit the empty trash

icon on his computer.

“I carried the baby. I felt golden, like I’d been chosen by

whatever spirit is out there to pass along the privilege of being a

human being to another generation. I’d never been so happy.”

Randy concentrated hard on the lyrics of the song. He

needed to hear what the singer was saying because it was something

other than what Deirdre was saying.

“We decided to name him Harvey, after Harvey Milk, the gay

politician. But there was a mistake. Harvey wasn’t supposed to be

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19

Asian—he was supposed to be Caucasian, like Scott. Someone at

the clinic fucked up.”

She stopped and took a breath. Randy said nothing for the

simple reason he could think of nothing to say.

“Felicia wanted to give him up but there was no way. He was

my child! I loved him the moment I saw him, even before I saw

him. After that, I couldn’t look at Felicia without getting pissed.

She kept saying we should get rid of Harvey. She was drinking a

lot then, taking pills, and eventually she found an excuse to move to

Prague. I think she would have gone even if Harvey had turned out

as planned. Seeing me pregnant scared her. She wasn’t as

committed as she thought. Or as I thought.”

Deirdre turned to check on Harvey in the back seat. The

intermittent snoring had stopped but he was still asleep.

“That’s it in a nutshell, Randy. I came out here three years

after Felicia split and everything else you pretty much know. You’re

the first person I’ve told this to. With everyone else I’m always

bullshitting—even with Harvey. Especially with Harvey. I even

gave him a fake dad.”

By now, Randy had left the main highway and was on the

dirt road leading to Deirdre’s. Dust lifted around the car like a

cloud of fuzzy thinking, sifting into the open windows until Deirdre

decided to close hers. Part of Randy wanted nothing more than to

be out of Deirdre’s car and in his own truck, headed safely home.

He was angry and confused. The anger had more to do with her

deception than the fact she’d been in love with Felicia, which was

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biological, wasn’t it? Something you couldn’t help? The fact was

he’d invested a significant portion of the past months to loving this

strange, caring woman.

“You can talk now, Randy. I’m done.”

But he couldn’t. Deirdre moved closer and put her head on

his shoulder.

“Are you angry?” she asked.

“Mmblubublub,” Randy mumbled, noncommittally.

“I hope you know I love you.”

At one time it was what he had hoped to hear. But she just

said she’d planned on spending her life with another woman. He

needed to be certain which way the wind currently blew.

“So Deirdre, when we make love do you fake the orgasms?”

Deirdre put her hand in her hair and scratched vigorously,

for what seemed like a while. Then she brushed back the strands

that had fallen over her forehead.

“Sometimes,” she said.

Randy laughed, once, in spite of himself; nothing was all that

funny.

“I faked them with Felicia too. You’re a good lover, Randy.”

“As good as Felicia?”

No answer. Deirdre leaned back against the passenger door

and looked at Randy.

It felt like the few feet between them might at any moment

become a great expanse.

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21

“Look, I’m not going to lie, okay?” Deirdre said. “I’m done

lying, Randy. I’m bisexual, okay? I’ve had relationships with men.

In fact I prefer men. You’ve made me appreciate that. Felicia and I

were lovers. Now I love you. I’m learning how to do that. I think

I’m getting pretty good at it. What do you think?”

All at once the lake came into view. They rounded a curve

and the trees gave way to a rocky embankment that edged down to

the shore. The moon was a sliver shy of full and its pale light

perched above the dark water like lotion.

“So what do you think, Randy?”

What he thought, among other things, was that things never

turned out the way you might suppose. Just imagining a

conceivable outcome pretty much guaranteed it wouldn’t happen.

He’d been in love with Deirdre. He’d wanted to spend the

foreseeable future with her and Harvey—instant family, just add

father. Deirdre seemed to be saying that this was all still possible,

despite what she’d just revealed. Okay, so maybe their relationship

held more challenges than some. Nothing was ever perfect. And

nobody was getting any younger. So what was it going to be, Randy?

He took one hand from the wheel and reached across to grab

her hand.

“You’re extremely good at it,” he said. “You’re the Babe Ruth

of loving me. Or the Ruth—” He looked at her uncertainly. She

smiled.

“Are you saying I’m a babe?” She squeezed his hand. The

slight pressure made him jump. “I’ve wanted to tell you that for so

Don’t Ask

22

long. It’s not something that just comes tumbling out during a

baseball game.”

He turned and glanced back at Harvey. It had been a long

day—the boy was still lost in the land of prepubescent dreams. And

they were still a good ten minutes from Deirdre’s house. So, it

seemed to Randy, the next thing to do was return Deirdre’s squeeze

of the hand, gather his thoughts, and begin telling her about Jeff.

Which is what he did.

Bernie Hafeli

23

Bernie Hafeli started working for major ad agencies as a writer

and Creative Director in 1973, so you might say he's been writing

fiction all his life. He graduated from the University of Michigan in

1972 and has published three short stories: “Big Jim” in The

Rejected Quarterly, “Guerrilla Marketing” in The Berkeley Fiction

Review, and “Down the Road a Piece” in 34th Parallel. He's also

published one poem: "Snow Covers the Dead" in The Hiram Poetry

Review. In 2006, he received his MFA in Writing from the

University of San Francisco. Since then, he's completed two novels,

Grace and Scavenging and is currently working on a third novel,

tentatively called The Opposite of Oz, which includes four novellas

set in and around Detroit. He also has a short story collection, titled

Trail Etiquette.