Chapter 18: Served

"I'll take that," I said, and took the envelope out of the process server's hand.

"Ma'am, it's addressed to Mr. Brannigan."

"I'm the other party."

"I'm required to hand it to him."

"You handed it to the air in front of him. I caught it. That's service."

The man in the clip-on tie opened his mouth. He closed it again and wrote something on his clipboard.

I wrote in my notebook: Process server, 1 envelope (not a favor).

Eleven customers watched me do it.

"Hatt," Gus said quietly. "He's allowed to hand it to me."

"He's not allowed to hand you anything in front of the paint."

I opened the envelope and pulled out the pages.

PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

On the last page, above the word Petitioner, was my name, flat and loopless and perfect.

I tore it in half.

A woman by the garden hoses gasped. The man in the John Deere cap said, "Good."

I tore the halves in half.

"That's a legal document," the process server said.

"It's a copy," I said, and tore the quarters into strips.

Dot came around the register with an electric shredder under one arm. It was the floor model from the front window.

She plugged it into the wall by the lottery machine and held out her hand for the pages.

"Thirty-nine ninety-nine, if you want one," she told the line. "Twenty percent off today."

I fed the strips into it one at a time. The shredder chewed each one up with a loud, flat whine.

Somebody in the line clapped. Then two people did.

Milo was sitting on an upturned paint bucket by the key machine with his tally pad.

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