Fiction
Bingo Money & the Luck of the Irish
Every other Wednesday night at the VFW
“Kennedy,” Tooie Murphy yelled from her sun porch.
She had started, lately, using the room to change her clothes. The fainting couch she’d moved in so she could recline and watch her hummingbird feeder was just the right height for her to be able to reach her feet when she sat to lace up her shoes.
“Kennedy!” she yelled again. Her youngest son promised to drive her to Bingo at the VFW. The ride was a standing date every other Wednesday. She could still drive herself but coming home would mean driving in the dark and the last time Tooie drove after sunset she’d hit a deer.
Tooie had been letting Kennedy live in her guest room since he got out of prison. There wasn’t much she trusted him to do for her, despite his indebtedness. A short drive when she knew he was sober was the perfect way for her to give him a little boost of love without going too far in the other direction. She was done going in the other direction. She’d learn you could actually kill someone with kindness. At the Al-Anon meeting she went to they called this enabling.
Tooie’s feet were swollen to the point where she couldn’t jam them into her favorite SAS® without her instep uncomfortably rubbing against the…
