Red Taylor had been most everywhere a body could go to in one life, six continents in all, Australia the only one left. He'd seen action in four of them, as a soldier or mercenary, and he preferred the latter, if only for the pay. He had a Purple Heart from the conflict in Korea and another to show for a wound in Nam. Both velvet-lined boxes lay in a drawer by the side of his bed along with a Magnum .45, to keep away the bed-bugs, he'd say. Lot of good it did.

 

He lived in his trailer alongside the Kankakee River. Friends, bikers mostly, had units nearby and that was good because, since Janette had left him, things had gotten pretty bad, drinking-wise, especially. He felt too burnt to look at the women he'd meet. Big Fritz, who had the trailer next to him, tried to fix him up. He went out a couple of times but Fritz and them wanted to get high and party. Let's get naked and do it. Red was ashamed to admit it but he didn't like that kind of stuff. He was more old-fashioned.

 

His wife, Janette, had run off with some guy, a shoe salesman, from Bourbonnais two years ago. Now he was glad she was gone. Back then, it was misery. One night a few weeks before she left, he had heard her voice outside the trailer and saw her making out with this guy right outside the front door. He had stood there, in a cold sweat, the barrel of his gun not two inches away from their heads. Plywood kept me out of prison, he said later. He went back to bed. Even let her crawl in with him, stinking of sloe gin and still horny. He never said a word to her. Pretended it wasn't real for a while. Now he couldn't believe he'd put up with it all.

 

He should have seen the signs. Just that horrible doll she propped on the pillows of the bed was clue enough. He won a prize for her at the shooting gallery at the Waukesha carnival when they went up to Milwaukee to see his folks. She picked out this big doll in a fancy dress that had the face of the biggest bitch, with slanted, black eyes and a mouth turned downward, mean, real mean. Funny how the doll spooked him so bad, him being a soldier and all. But it did.

 

Janette was a manicurist, said she could make her living anywhere, not like him, stuck near the tool and die factory, where he ruined what was left of his hands. She always let him know they were ugly and dirty. Her nails were long and painted as bright red as glossy apples. They turned under on the ends and sometimes she'd glue diamond things and moons and stars on them. She'd always try to do all his niece's nails when there was a family dinner or get-together. That's the only time she was nice to him, in front of his family. She'd try to pose kissing him in all the pictures, like the perfect wife.

 

He was ready now to give it up, all the anger and hate. It wasn't like it got him anywhere. If he had his druthers, he'd find an honest lady, with kids or without, whom he could talk with, a friend. Looks don't count much no more. Listen to me, he thought as he closed the fridge. Standing there, blushing, he added one more wish. Hope she likes to fish.