Flam Grub. Dan Dowhal

of being in any way interested. “I’ll bet our table’s just sitting there waiting for us. I have a good mind to go and complain to the manager, not that it would do any good. But you’re not to order anything but water, do you hear? Two can play this game!”

      By the time the trio had been seated, the atmosphere at the table was palpably tense. Even Flam, who was a lifelong habitué of solitude and quiet (and was profoundly grateful they weren’t yet discussing him taking on the Strait surname), ultimately found the awkward silence disconcerting, and tried to initiate some small talk. He eventually had success when he steered Gerald onto the subject of work. The pharmacist loved to talk about himself, and was soon bragging about his store’s prosperity, despite fierce competition from the large drugstore chains.

      “Their volumes mean they’re always able to undercut my prices on the everyday over-the-counter stuff,” Gerald groused. “But I bring something to the table they’ll never be able to give their customers, and that’s old-fashioned service and experience. My regulars love me, and they wouldn’t think of going anywhere else for their drugs.”

      Unpredictably, this last comment brought a strange gush of air from Mary, something between a sob and a snort, catching both men off guard. Mary dropped her fork onto her plate of lasagna, which she had barely touched, quickly excused herself, and headed off to the ladies’ room. Confused, Flam was sure he had detected the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

      Now alone with Gerald, he felt certain the dreaded name-changing lobbying would begin in earnest, but after blushing slightly and issuing the singular exclamation, “Women!” which was obviously meant to sum up the entire situation, Gerald grew strangely reticent once again. By the time Mary returned, sporting freshly applied make-up, which nevertheless could not conceal a telltale redness in her eyes, the conversation had again ground to a complete halt. This time Flam was content to let it rest in peace.

      All parties declined dessert and coffee, as if they had all silently agreed that they wanted to get the uncomfortable dinner over with as quickly as possible. To Flam’s surprise, and Gerald’s obvious consternation, Mary, instead of going off with her beau, asked Flam to drive her home, even though she obviously realized it meant him going significantly out of his way.

      Flam extended a sheepish farewell to Gerald, but noticed that Mary, in turn, whipped her face to the side, almost in recoil, when Gerald proffered a goodnight kiss. Now Flam was positive something was seriously amiss between the lovers, and was determined to pry it out of his mother when they were alone in the car.

      There was no need to initiate an interrogation. They had barely cleared Eddie Spaghetti’s parking lot when Mary started to bawl uncontrollably. “Oh, Flam! Flam! Why is God punishing me so?” she sobbed, burying her face into her son’s shoulder and causing the car to momentarily swerve.

      “Mother . . . what’s wrong?” he demanded, shaken by the outburst of tears.

      “It’s Gerald . . . I can’t . . . I won’t marry him! Saints preserve us, my good name, my good name!”

      At first Flam thought they were back on the subject of adopting the Strait surname, but in between crying fits, the story emerged, albeit in a somewhat rambling and hysterical fashion. The straight-laced and oh-so-respectable Gerald, as it turned out, was under investigation for illegal distribution of narcotics and other prescription drugs. The beleaguered druggist was vehemently pleading his innocence, claiming he had had no knowledge or suspicion that thousands of prescriptions he had filled, all paid for via untraceable cash transactions, had in fact been forgeries.