“Labor Day is two weeks away” is all Polly says to Cath. “Maybe I’ll find something else in town.”

“Don’t count on it.” She seems to realize that she’s been a little too quick, too vicious in her triumph. “I mean—it’s a small town, quiet in the winters. Maybe you can find some work up at the chicken plants, but that’s a nasty business. Or the prison might be hiring. Good jobs, union jobs, but not my thing.”

Not mine either, Polly thinks.

At closing time, Polly tells Adam not to come by, that she’s got plans with Cath. He looks hurt, so she says: “I had to say yes or she’d get suspicious, ask me too many questions about why I never do anything with her. I can’t put her off forever.”

Cath lives in the trailer park. It’s a nice one, better than some of the houses around here, with flower beds and sweet little “patios” created by pull-out canopies. People are sitting out, enjoying the relatively cool night, having one last beer. She knocks on Cath’s door.

She doesn’t look happy to see her.

“Kinda late to be dropping by.”

“Well, I just got off.”

“There’s this thing called a phone?”

“I don’t have one.” Brandishing her paper bag. “I do have vodka.”

“There’s a pay phone at work.”

“I don’t know your number. Are you mad at me? You seemed a little mad at me today, when we talked.”

It’s hard, sounding sincere about her concern. She’s not used to this kind of girlish chitchat. The reason she doesn’t like women is because they’re exhausting. If this is how they treat men, no wonder they all have relationship problems. Do you like me? Are you mad at me? So much emotional folderol. Maybe she was like other women, once, but Ditmars changed her. He made her weak, he broke her down until she had no choice but to become strong. It was get strong or die. Because not dying, not giving up, required the greatest strength of all.

“No, I’m not mad,” Cath says.

Because women aren’t allowed to be mad, right?

“You seem awfully anxious for me to be out of town.”

“Not exactly. But we’re not really friends, are we? I thought we were going to be. You were so nice when Adam—well, you know.”

Polly walks past her and enters the little trailer without being asked, takes a seat on the plaid sofa. Cath’s not very neat. That’s kind, actually. Cath’s a slob. She follows Polly in, lights a cigarette from her stovetop burner. The woman cannot go much more than fifteen minutes without a cigarette. Her trailer reeks of tobacco, and there’s a film on everything. Even Cath.

“What do we really know about Adam?” Polly asks her.

“What’s there to know?”

“I mean, it’s so mysterious, isn’t it? He’s like—Clint Eastwood in those old westerns, a stranger who just shows up. A great cook, someone who’s traveled a lot. How was he supporting himself before he took the job cooking?”

“I don’t know.” Cath shrugs, but Polly can tell her incuriosity is feigned. She longs to talk about him. She’s been denied that basic female right, the relationship postmortem. Polly doesn’t usually indulge this kind of talk, either. But then—no man has ever left her. She leaves, one way or another.

“I think he has secrets,” she continues. “If I were you, I’d poke around.”

“What’s it to me?”

“Oh, come on. I know you still like him.”

Cath wants to deny it, but can’t. “Yeah, but, it’s like that song from a few years ago, right? I can’t make him love me.”

Polly has to be careful. She doesn’t want to point Cath in her own direction. “Well, I’d start with his license plates. Check to see if they lead to a different name, or an address. And you’re a local. I bet the motel people would tell you anything they know.”

“Mainly wetbacks over there these days, doing the cleaning.”

Ugh. She really is a terrible person. If she had ever said anything like that in front of Adam, he would have dumped her on his own. “What about the front desk? That nosy guy, Marvin, can’t help knowing some things. Like—I bet Adam pays his bills in cash.”

“So? From what I hear, you do, too.”

Oh, it is a gossipy little town. She’s been as careful as possible to keep the relationship with Adam a secret and, so far, so good. But it will get out if it keeps on. She’s going to have to break things off with him, leave town as she planned. The thought saddens her more than she thought possible.

Fuck it, she’s in love. She can’t afford love. No matter how much money she ends up with, it won’t be enough to have love, too.

“You’re right,” she says. “I’m just making trouble. Let it go. You’ve handled this whole thing with a lot of dignity. Do you have a mixer for the vodka?”

Cath rummages inside her little refrigerator. “Only Coke, and that’s gross.”

“I can drink it on ice if you can.”

They sit outside with sweating tumblers of vodka, swap stories. Polly’s are all made up. Maybe Cath’s are, too, although they’re certainly boring enough to be true. Younger sister was the pretty one, made the good marriage. I made some mistakes when I was a teen and my family never lets me forget it. Blah, blah, blah.