Excerpt: Jack & Dianne

CherylAnn's car was in the driveway, and Jack pulled in next to it. They hadn't been able to park in the garage for years, because they needed it for storage. Next year, their son Nick would be sixteen and driving, so Jack figured he might need to start parking his truck on the street. He hopped out of the truck's cab, leaving his materials in the back, and walked in.

CherylAnn was dressed for work, with keys in hand, waiting for him. "Dianne Bevilacqua called for you earlier. Why is Dianne Bevilacqua calling here?" she huffed.

Jack was barely in the door before the name hit him. "I have no idea. I haven't spoken to Dianne in years. Probably since the reunion. What did she want?"

"I don't know. She left a message. You can listen it. I tried calling you on your cell, but, you know, you don't have one"

"You could have called me at Mattie's. You knew I was there. I don't need a cell phone. You always know where I am, anyway. I'm not hard to find." he reminded her, even though he was getting quite tired of this conversation."You going somewhere?"

"I have to go to work. Helen called in sick again. I don't know why she doesn't just say she's calling in drunk," said CherylAnn. "There's some sloppy joe meat in the fridge you can heat up. Make sure Nick eats."

"I can't make sure Nick does anything," he joked, but it was clear that CherylAnn didn't think it was funny. "Drive safe," he told her. She pecked him on the cheek and left.

Jack poked around the house, wondering if Nick was even there. His bedroom door was closed, which was typical. The television was left on in the front room, even though no one was watching it, which was also typical.

After changing out of his filthy work clothes, he made sure they were in his own hamper without tracking any mud or leaves on the bedroom. He wanted a shower, but was too hungry to wait any longer for dinner. He grabbed the tupperware container of sloppy joe meat out of the fridge, but couldn't decide whether to heat it up on the stove top or in the microwave. As he stood there in the kitchen alone, trying to make up his mind, he saw the blinking red light on the answering machine. All he wanted to do was to go relax, but he had to eat and shower and now he had to call Dianne Bevilacqua.

He plopped the sloppy joe meat into the pan on the stovetop, adding an extra squirt of ketchup, and set the burner on low. While the meat simmered, he got Dianne's number off the message. Her message was short but urgent. The area code was 619, which Jack thought was San Diego. Last he heard, Dianne was living in Berkeley.

He punched the number onto the keypad and listened to it ring three times on her end. She answered, but the connection was bad. Another reason Jack hated cell phones.

"Hey Dianne. Its Jack. How the hell are you?"

"Jack, I need to talk to you about Trevor."

"Trevor? Who's Trevor?"

"His name is Trevor, Jack."

"Oh. Trevor," said Jack, sitting on the barstool next to the phone, as the meat bubbled in its sauce next to him.