Coe Review

The dream was good for a laugh—guns blazing, bags full of loot, then
his car screeching away. Norma would be reckless at the wheel, her head
thrown back, hollering into the wind. Out the window Eugene would be
trailing bullets behind them as thick as a swarm of bees, at anyone who tried
to follow. But he needed someone to share the dream with—he longed to
tell her. And to ask if she ever had thoughts like those, too.
Every morning Eugene worked up his nerve to talk to her, to say
something besides "I'd like to cash this check, please," or "Here's another
deposit—I must be your most faithful customer." He swore to himself he
would follow her to lunch, or skip out early on his job and wait in the parking
lot for her to leave.
I'm too old for these fantasies, he also thought, too old for these dreams.
Nearing fifty—the idea subdued him. That was the age when blood slowed
down. Twenty-eight of those years with Sharon, more than half his life,
their three kids, all now done with college and moved away. Lily was going
to be married in four months, the first to do that. They were waiting to
become grandparents, that's the phase they were in. Beginning to talk about
retirement. Growing old together, not dying yet but fading away. He was
growing lighter in both color and weight, he thought, turning to a wisp,
slipping back into the air that surrounded him.
He looked at the checks. There were three, all made out to Sharon. For
perfume, skin cream, lipstick. Together, they came to twenty-two dollars.
Sharon gave them to Eugene and he brought them to the bank. He told her
he didn't mind. And tomorrow, he knew, there would be more.
Sunday morning he padded about the house, not able to make himself
focus. Something had awakened him early, before four—he thought he heard
the doorbell ring, the sound jarring him from sleep, though when he went to
check there was no sign of a visitor. Of course, it took him a while to get to
the door after he realized he was awake and made the association with the
bell—he had to roll put of bed, find the floor with his feet, steady himself
against the bureau, put on his robe and slippers, and shamble downstairs,
still half asleep. And who would ring the doorbell at that hour anyway?
Eugene opened the door cautiously to darkness and a wall of cool, dewy air.
His eyes peered into emptiness. It must have been a dream, he concluded,
but if it was, he couldn't remember the rest of it.
Afterwards he had not been able to get back to sleep. He didn't want to
wake Sharon, so he rolled out of bed again and went to the kitchen and this
time brewed coffee. That's where he sat, eyes sore, sipping from a mug, until
the sun filled the room with light.
"You're making me nervous," Sharon said. She rattled the newspaper
8 Roman Norma of the Manor