Joy.

Here, Francine was safe, could sip her Diet Cokes and eat fries all afternoon. Why would anyone she knew drive south on Highway 71 to this McDonald's in a small town halfway between Kansas City and the Arkansas border?

She could not decide which was worse, the blame or the pity. In the last several months, had anyone shared a joke? No. Did everyone believe she'd forgotten how to laugh? All anyone offered was blame and pity. At work. At home. Everywhere.

At 2:20 on a Wednesday, McDonald's was nearly empty. Two matrons, finishing fish sandwiches, reminded Francine of her mother's friends with their ready advice and sympathetic glances. A thin man, a ring of gray circling an otherwise bald head, sat in the booth adjacent to hers. His overalls, at least two sizes too large, floated about his bird-like figure. Old McDonald picked at a salad, no dressing, and broke off pieces of a chicken patty he'd freed from the bun. Between bites, he read a newspaper. Francine couldn't see which article interested him, but watched as his finger moved across the paper, guiding his eyes to the next word. He chewed slowly, deliberately, paid attention to each bite, to each word.

He looked up suddenly, an abrupt move that so startled Francine, she didn't immediately look away as she would have if she'd had any warning.

He stared at her for a few seconds, then stabbed a tomato from his salad and lowered his gaze to the paper.

Francine flipped through an advertising brochure she'd found on the floor of her car. Was he aggravated? So? She didn't have to worry about his feelings. He was a stranger, nothing more.

Mother and friends would say that was one key to Francine's problems. She was unwilling to assume a proper share of worry for other people. She should've been more sympathetic towards Albert, they told each other.

"If she'd been a little more supportive, this wouldn't have happened." Even from her bedroom Francine had heard as clearly as if she'd been sitting next to Mother on the sofa. Telephones always raised her mother's voice several decibels. Maybe she should go to the living room, try to defend herself. But just sitting up in bed was as much as she managed.

"I'm not saying Albert isn't to blame. That's not what I'm saying."

"Good, Mother," Francine said softly from her room. "At least we're not letting Albert off the hook completely. Not yet."

"But he was under a lot of pressure. Anyone could see that." She was quiet, no doubt listening to a familiar review of the pressures dear Albert faced. "I've known him long enough to know this is totally out of character." Pause. "The man was pushed too far. That's all. Pushed too far." For a woman widowed since Francine was 4, her mother was all too sure of what men needed, wanted. "Still, I feel so sorry for my poor girl." A brief pause. "She'll be 38 on her next birthday, you know."

Francine closed her door to avoid hearing her life set out yet again, a future forever dependent on her mother, permanent status as the child who wasn't quite doting enough. But even with the door dosed, Mother's mutterings of pity and blame, then pity again, crept into the room, curdled the air as Francine huddled at the edge of her bed.

The matrons left, but Old McDonald continued his methodical eating and reading, the single finger guiding his way. He ignored Francine, but she was curious, always too curious, Mother would say. Francine did not feel guilty for that. She was a reference librarian, wasn't she? All day, she answered questions, some inane, others interesting. Questions were the warp and woof of her life. Did Mr. McDonald have a job? Was he retired or was this his day off?

Isn't sympathy always preceded by curiosity? Francine had thought she was being sympathetic when Albert announced his news. But maybe she had been too matter-of-fact. Maybe that was her mistake.

He'd arrived for Friday dinner with her and Mother at 6 o'clock, just as he had every Friday evening for nearly seven years. He asked about her week and she shared a few of the multitude of odd facts her patrons had wanted. A high school student, she remembered, wanted to know the average speed of funeral trains--the kind dead presidents rode--versus the average speed of a vacation train through Copper Canyon. That had been a tough one. It was a bet with her boyfriend, the girl had said, giggling.

Until she brought out dessert, creme brulee, her specialty, there had been no reason for suspicion.

"I'm afraid I got bad news this week," he said after several bites of the brulee, its crust sweet and stiff, its custard perfectly set.

That was the first hint. He hadn't rushed to tell her the news immediately. Lay-off notices were distributed on Monday, yet he hadn't called her. He'd let the entire week go by without telling her he'd lost his job.

"So why were you one of the ones laid off?"

He shrugged, lost in his brulee, and did not see Mother's reprimanding glance at Francine.

"Companies have no concern for their workers these days," Mother said.

"You'll find something else," Francine said.

"Might take awhile," he said.

"Not if you start right away." She cracked the corner of her brulee with the tip of her spoon. "Just start looking tomorrow. I can mark the want ads, if you like."

"I'm sure Albert will find a job as quickly as possible." Mother smiled at him, a mother-in-law smile she'd perfected over the years. Then she stood, her bruise less than half eaten. "You young people have things to discuss privately."

Albert stood. "I should have waited until we were done." The taste of burnt sugar had loosened his tongue unexpectedly. "We can talk later," he said apologetically.

"I'll be in the parlor." Mother gave him that smile again, ignoring the apology.

Once she shut the door, Albert slowly lowered himself to his chair.

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" Francine asked. "We talked Wednesday. You didn't say a word)'

"I knew you'd be disappointed."

"This makes me any less disappointed? Waiting five days to tell me you've been fired?"

"Laid off. Not fired."

"Same result." She pressed the back of her spoon against the brulee. Most people were impressed when she served the dish, they did not know how easy it was to make.

He took another bite, unemployment not affecting his appetite. "We'll postpone the wedding," he said, calmly carrying the last of the brulee to his mouth.

"Why?" She pushed her uneaten dessert toward him, a silent offering.

"I know you're disappointed," he said again before starting on her brulee, which she had not touched.

"There's no reason to postpone anything." She tried to keep her voice steady, to hide all suggestions of how much she wanted to be out of this house, away from Mother who knew everything about her, more than Francine could ever know. "I have my job."

"And a fine job it is." He smiled pleasantly at her. "I couldn't depend on your paycheck, though. You know that."

"Don't be old-fashioned."

"I can't marry without a job." Maybe he actually meant those words as he said them. Later, she would wonder.

When only a few lonely lettuce leaves clung to the bottom of his bowl, Old McDonald folded his paper into a neat rectangle. She expected him to leave, but instead, he went to the counter for coffee, then settled back in the booth. He smoothed his paper open again, ignoring Francine who could see his coffee pale as he stirred powdered cream.

"They always make it too strong," he said, face still bent to the cup.

"Pardon?"

"The coffee. Always too strong. Irene likes it that way. Not me." He sipped, watched Francine. "Least you always know what you're getting when you walk through those doors."

"Something to be said for dependability." She dunked a single fry in mustard.

A thin white scar stretched from his left temple to just below his earlobe. The segment near his temple twitched erratically when he spoke. "Not enough dependable things in this world," he said.

"I agree."

"Anybody with sense would agree, and you strike me as a lady with plenty of sense."

"I do?"

"Yes, ma'am. You do." He drank more coffee, still watching her. "Sensible and responsible."

Francine shifted in her seat, not sure she should be conversing with this total stranger. Albert would certainly not approve, though his approval no longer mattered. Sometimes, she still forgot that.

"You sound like a people expert," she said.

"No, ma'am. I'm not one of those experts. But I know what I know."

Francine dabbed a finger in the circle of condensation her soda had made. "How can you know anything about me? You don't even know my name."

"Name isn't so important."

"I suppose not."

"That's your shiny Honda out there, right?"

She nodded and tried to imagine what her car had to do with this conversation.

"Only responsible people have clean cars in all this slush."

"Who are you? The Sherlock Holmes of Buffer, Missouri?"

His grin wrinkled the scar. "That's a good one. I'll have to remember to tell Irene that one."

"Irene's your wife?"

"For more years than either of us will own up to."

"Must be nice to know someone that well."

"I could live with Irene another hundred years and still not know everything about her." He refolded his newspaper. "You ladies are mostly too complicated for me."

"You're just being modest, Mr. Sherlock. You had me figured in a few minutes."

"Not even close." He did not grin this time. "What's the most important thing about you?" He pointed a thin finger at her.

Francine should not have answered. She knew that, even without Albert or Mother hovering. But something about his finger pointing, about his straight nose reflecting the sharp angles of his jaw line, about the jagged scar hinting of mystery and tragedy, something about all of that forced her words out. "I dated a man seven years. For five years, we'd been planning to marry. He lost his job. The next week, he eloped with someone from another department who lost her job, too. Her name was Veronica, Veronica something. I'd met her a couple of times at company picnics, but can't even remember what she looks like."

She should've stopped, had already talked too much. She would've stopped, if she'd seen any glimmer of pity or blame. But his eyes, black as a crow's feather, reflected only interest, nothing more.

"He sent a certified letter from Denver where they spent their honeymoon visiting his sister. Can you imagine spending your honeymoon in your sister's bedroom?"

"Irene wouldn't approve," he said.

"And I bet Irene wouldn't have wasted seven years of her life waiting for a man to be ready to marry her only to discover she didn't know him at all, that all the words he'd said to her all those years were lies to cover the secret of who he really was."

"Who was that?"

"A man without courage. Not even a phone call? A certified letter."

"Good riddance."

"Maybe. But he was my next step, what was supposed to happen next in my life. Marry. Find a place of our own. Maybe children." She raised her hands in supplication. "You see that, don't you?"

"I see you're better off rid of the jackass." His scar gave an emphatic twitch on the last word.

"Jackass?" She relaxed against the back of her booth. "Jackass," she repeated, testing the word on her tongue, surprised she liked it so much.

"Bet you can't name three things about him you miss every minute of your waking hours." He raised his cup to his mouth, lowered it. "Three," he said again before actually drinking.

She paused for a moment, considered. "He was always on time."

"Trains are mostly on time. So are buses. You can live without trains or buses."

She dipped a fry into mustard, studied it. "He was always there and he was never offensive. He was reliable that way." She folded the fry into her mouth, chewed.

"So is McDonald's. Always there. Never offensive. Reliable. I could still live without McDonald's." He folded his paper into a smaller square, swallowed the last of his coffee, watching her the whole time, waiting.

"But I guess he wasn't really reliable at all, not like a train or even McDonald's. That's what he showed in the end, wasn't it?"

"That's it." He stood, overalls flaring then settling against his body. "No one can build a life around someone like that." He squeezed his empty cup. "Good riddance is what it looks like to me. Yes, ma'am. Good riddance."

"Maybe," she said.

"The lady I'd feel bad for is the one he married. How long before something else scares him and he's off again? Maybe with her. Maybe not. That's what I'd wonder, if I were her?'

"So I'm the lucky one? Is that what you're saying?"

"That's it." His scar twitched, underlined his words.

"She's the one people should pity? Not me?"

"You still have choices. She's dosed hers off with someone she'll regret." He nodded once, then carried his nearly folded paper out the door.

Francine inhaled deeply, steadied herself for the drive home and all that would follow: Mother's protests when she announced she was moving out of the house; Mother's confusion when Francine explained Albert's wife was the one to pity, Albert the one to blame. She would be charitable towards Veronica, even mask her pity with a smile, if they ever met again. If Albert walked into her library branch, she would treat him the same.

The return to the city seemed much shorter than the drive out. Francine was surprised, but only for a moment. Then she remembered Copper Canyon and remembered joy always travels faster than sorrow.

JACQUELINE GUIDRY is a novelist and the author of The Year the Colored Sisters Came to Town (Welcome Rain, 2002).