For Renata

by B Robert Sharry

He stepped into the driving rain and followed the sound to a hedgerow of forsythia. But the noise stopped as he approached. He stuck the poker into the bushes several times and hit nothing but branches. Then he made contact with something that wasn't a branch, and it moved.

  "Ahhhhh, please, no more."

  Peter shoved the greenery aside. Renata Raposo cowered in the bushes, drenched by the rain. Peter reached for her.

  "No, God, please, no more." she cried.

  "Renata, it's me—Peter. You're safe now. Nobody's going to hurt you."

  Placing his right arm beneath her knees and the remnant of his left arm at her back, Peter lifted her. He carried her into the house and climbed the narrow wooden staircase to his bedroom.

  Renata shook with cold and fear. She clung tightly to Peter's neck and became hysterical when he tried to loosen her grip. He sat on the edge of the mattress and held her in his lap while waves of convulsive sobs wracked her body. After a long time, Renata quieted but still trembled. Her head was buried in Peter's shoulder. He whispered into her ear. "Renata, you have to trust me. You can't stay like this. We need to get you warm." Peter reached up, grasped her wrist, and gently tugged her hand away from his neck.

  "No," she said.

  "Just for a few minutes. I'm going to make you some hot tea while you get out of these clothes. We need to get you warm and dry. I'll be just downstairs, and I won't let anything happen to you, okay?"

  Renata nodded and raised her head from Peter's shoulder. For the first time he could see how battered her face was and how it had begun to swell. Patches of crimson and purple puffed up around her eyes, and a path of dried blood stretched from her lower lip to the base of her chin. Peter seethed with shock and anger, but he was determined to act calm for her sake. He smiled reassuringly and gestured toward the adjacent bathroom.

  "I'll start a hot bath for you. There's a clean towel on the rack, and my bathrobe's hanging on the door."

  Peter plugged the claw foot tub's drain hole with its rubber stopper and adjusted the hot and cold spigots until the water temperature was just right. "I'm afraid I don't have anything in your size, but there are T-shirts and pajamas in the middle drawer of my dresser."

  He left the bedroom and descended the stairs to the kitchen. When he returned half an hour later, he carried a tray that held a cup of hot tea and a bowl of ice cubes. Renata lie on the bed with her back propped against the heavy brass headboard. She wore a tie-dyed T-shirt beneath Peter's plaid, flannel bathrobe.

  Peter placed the tray on top of the dresser, and then brought the tea to her. He placed some ice cubes on a dry washcloth and gathered the ends into a compress. "You should hold this against the bruising. It'll help keep the swelling down."

  "Peter, I don't know how to thank you."

  "No thanks are necessary. I'm just glad you're all right. You need rest more than anything.

  "I have to go out for a while. Will you be all right?"

  A look of panic crossed Renata's face. "No, Peter, no. Please don't do anything." She cast her eyes on her teacup. Then she raised her head, looked directly into his eye, and her words began to flow with her tears.

  Peter sat down on the bed and listened to her. When she was finished, he took her in his arms and held her. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed.

  They sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Peter said, "Rest, now. I'll be right downstairs if you need me."

  "Stay with me a little longer, Peter. Just until I fall asleep?"

  "Of course."

  Renata put her tea aside, got beneath the bedcovers and closed her eyes. Peter sat beside her and stroked her forehead and hair until her breathing turned slow and steady. When he was sure she was sleeping, he turned off the lamp and quietly walked downstairs.

  Peter slipped outside and retrieved the poker. Holding it, he paced the first floor of the house like a sentry, constantly peering through windows for any sign of trouble.

  He kept this vigil until the small hours of the morning, until he felt confident that the Portuguese fisherman would not come. At 3:00 a.m. he went back upstairs and lie on the bedcovers, next to Renata. He slid the poker under the bed. Out of habit, he started to remove his eye patch, but kept it on instead. He watched her sleep until he himself was overcome with fatigue.

  §

  Peter began to stir just before dawn. The window beside his bed was open just a little. Cool salt air flowed through the crack, carrying the familiar, faint sounds of waves breaking against the cliff and seagulls cawing.

  He felt her lips on his. Startled, he twitched slightly. He opened his eye and saw that hers were closed. Her left cheek was swollen and bruised. He raised his hand and gently touched her face. She opened her eyes and gazed at him. Peter took a breath to speak, but Renata brought her hand to his lips.

  "Shh, don't speak. And don't see me like this. We'll both keep our eyes closed."

  They kissed tenderly for a long time, and she whispered things to him that he did not understand. When she explained, he asked her to repeat them over and over again so that he would never forget.

  She undressed him, and then herself. She took his hand in hers, kissed it, and pressed it against her cheek. Peter traced her shape with the soft press of his fingertips, from the nape of her neck to her straight shoulders, down her side to the flair of her hip, then on to her thigh, calf, and foot.

  "You are the most beautiful woman in the world."

  She leaned in to kiss him. Her nipples brushed his chest, and he wondered if they were pink or dark. She sat astride him and took him inside her, moving on him slowly, almost imperceptibly. Peter placed his hand on the small of her back.

  She stopped moving, leaned in and whispered into his ear. They held each other like that for a long time—not moving, just kissing and whispering with eyes closed.

  Afterwards, they lie facing each other, kissing. In time they fell back to sleep, mid-kiss, in each other's arms.

  When Peter awoke again, she was gone.

  §

  It was midnight when Renata Raposo Bennett closed the Keeper's Log once more. "Well, your uncle has a vivid imagination, I'll give him that."

  "What do you mean?" Mark asked.

  "Don't get me wrong, Peter was very good-looking: Even that eye patch looked good on him. But it just wasn't that way between us. I'm sorry, but this never happened."

  Mark felt stunned. Was everything a lie? But then why had Renie gotten so upset before, when Mark had first approached her at her house?

  "Look," Renie said. "He had one arm, remember? Do you really think he could carry me upstairs to his bedroom? He probably saw this on an episode of Dark Shadows or something."

  "You're saying that he...he just..."

  "Look, I'm sorry. Your uncle is a nice man, but he was lonely. I think he was just fantasizing when he wrote this."

  Mark shook his head. "No, I'm the one who's sorry. I never should have bothered you with any of this."

  "How could you have known?" she said, handing the Keeper's Log back to him. She rose from the sofa, and Mark felt the same wrench of panic he'd experienced after their first meeting. He feared that he would never see her again.

  "But you haven't finished it," he said desperately.

  Renie had started for the door. She turned back to face Mark and said, "Thank you, Mark. I know you meant well."

  And a moment later she was gone.

  Chapter 49

  MARK WAS IRRITATED when he pulled into the parking lot of the Soldiers' Home. He had been upset since the previous night, when Renie had walked out of his life while he sat on the couch feeling like a fool. Over the course of a long, sleepless night on the sofa, his thoughts had naturally turned to the person who was responsible for making him look foolish to the only woman who had captured his interest in more than a decade. Tired and wrung out, he had loaded himself into his truck. He wore the same jeans and black, long-sleeve T-shirt he had put on after his shower the previous evening.

 
He grabbed the Keeper's Log from the passenger's seat, hurried up the building's marble steps, and made his way to his uncle's room.

  Uncle Pete sat in his chair, looking like he hadn't moved since Mark's last visit. His roommate Horace lie propped up in bed, and shakily dabbed at his chin with a paper napkin. He must have just finished his breakfast.

  Mark circled around to face Peter only to realize that his eye was closed. He was asleep.

  "Uncle Pete," Mark said. There was no response. "Uncle Pete," he repeated, this time giving Pete's good arm a gentle shake.

  Peter's eye fluttered open and Mark wasted no time in explaining why he was there. "Pete, I know you're not well—not yourself—but there are some things I need to know the truth about." Mark's tone was a mixture of compassion and frustration. He placed the Keeper's Log on Peter's lap.

  Peter stared at Mark, then down at the Keeper's Log, and then back at his nephew. He looked confused, and Mark felt sorry for the old man.

  "Renata?"

  "Yeah, Pete, I found her, and you know what? She told me you made all of this stuff up. She said you were lonely, and it was all a fantasy.

  "How do you think she felt, reading what you wrote about her? She was hurt and embarrassed."

  "Renata," said Peter.

  "Yeah, and she's a really nice woman, Pete. Thank God she didn't finish reading it. Or have you forgotten the little bombshell you saved for the end of your story?"

  When Peter opened the Keeper's Log, his eye latched onto the yellowed envelope that was still there, still sealed. "Renata, no."

  "Renata, yes, Renata. And if you really knew her, you'd know enough to call her Renie.

  "Pete, what were you thinking? You can't just..."

  "Mee nall may soo ah."

  "Oh, God, that's enough, Pete. I can't do this anymore." Mark shook his head and started for the door. He wasn't sure how he'd expected Peter to react—whether he had wanted to hear a denial or perhaps even a confession—but his inability to communicate with the older man was driving him around the bend.

  To Mark's surprise, Peter sprang from his chair with unexpected agility. He stood eye to eye with Mark, and slapped the Keeper's Log into his nephew's abdomen.

  "Renata," he repeated forcefully.

  Mark was so startled that he was almost frightened for a moment. The look of determination in his uncle's eye made the man look like a stranger. Left with little choice, Mark took the book and stormed out of the room.

  When he got home, Mark tossed the Keeper's Log into the trash bin, which he wheeled to the end of the driveway. He was done with this dance with the past. Done.

  §

  It was early the next morning, and a raw, grey fog sat atop Ipswich Bay. Sipping his coffee, Mark found himself pacing and pining once more, pacing the length of his back porch like a caged wildcat, and pining for a woman with whom he had spent a grand total of eleven hours.

  How is this possible? He asked himself. I'm forty-seven years old, not a schoolboy. Why am I thinking about her this much when we hardly know each other? She obviously doesn't feel the same way about me—not after so little time. And yet, the whole time I was with her my heart just soared. So, if that's possible...

  His thoughts were racing. Something started to nag at him. He couldn't quite figure out what it was, he felt as though he had walked into a room to get something, and, once there, had forgotten what it was he had come for.

  He shrugged, and his thoughts turned to Uncle Pete. He felt guilty for the way he had treated the older man. Sure, he was infuriating, and his stories had caused Mark a world of embarrassment. But if not for Peter and his Keeper's Log, Mark would never have met Renie at all. He shouldn't have tossed the Keeper's Log away, it obviously meant a great deal to the old man and...

  The Keeper's Log. Mark heard the rumbling of the trash truck and realized what had been niggling at the back of his mind.

  He plunked his coffee mug down on the porch railing, bolted down the stairs, and ran to the front of the house. The truck had already left his house and was now a quarter mile away and rounding the bend. Mark yelled and flailed his arms, but in seconds the truck was out of sight. The Keeper's Log was gone forever.

  Mark sighed. His shoulders slumped as he shuffled to the empty tote, and then rolled it back to the garage.

  He told himself: Well, I tried. But then he corrected himself: No, I didn't—not really. If I can save a baby whale, I can damn well get my own trash back.

  Mark raced into the house and grabbed his car keys. Seconds later, he was speeding to catch up with the garbage truck. Within a few minutes he spotted the truck, and beeped his horn.

  The huge truck, which was a familiar sight to everyone in the small town, came to an abrupt stop. The driver's door, with the words Another Man's Treasure hand-painted on it, opened. Dave Nelson climbed down onto the gravel road. He smiled as Mark jumped from his vehicle.

  "Hey, Mark, did you decide that your cottage cheese didn't expire after all?"

  "Very funny, Dave," he said, panting a little. "No, but I did throw something away I shouldn't have."

  "Don't tell me: Your trash is the one in the dark green plastic bag, right?"

  "Jeez, Dave, I don't know what you're doing driving this truck when there are so many comedy clubs around."

  "Naw, this is my calling, Mark," Dave said as he pulled a lever to hydraulically open the back of the truck.

  A few minutes later, Mark had found what he was looking for and jumped down to the ground. "By the way, your truck smells lovely."

  "It's called a garbage truck, Mark. And, hey, it could have been worse. You might have flushed by mistake. There's always a silver lining."

  Mark shook his head as he walked to his vehicle and tossed a wave back at Dave.

  While driving back to the house Mark realized that he hadn't just reclaimed the book for Peter. There were some things in the Keeper's Log—and something he had seen—that just didn't make sense when taken together with Renie's claims.

  Chapter 50

  MARK SAT AT THE BAR at Nellie's restaurant and moved food around on his dinner plate with a fork. Frosted glass light fixtures dangled from the ceiling, their dim bulbs reflecting blurrily on the rich dark mahogany paneling of the walls. Flickering tea lights, spaced at regular intervals along the bar, and a live pianist's soft renditions of Andrew Lloyd Webber love songs added to the warm ambiance.

  Bob Hascom, Mark's closest friend since grammar school, took the last bite of his New York strip steak, pushed his plate away, and wiped his face with a linen napkin. "How's your uncle doing?" he asked.

  "Well, he's there, he's just not all there," Mark said.

  "Do you have any idea where he's been all this time?"

  "Not a clue. One day some mysterious stranger just dropped him off at the Soldiers' Home. Their social services department tracked me down as his closest living relative. And, suddenly, he's my problem."

  "Is that why you're being such a dick?"

  Mark dropped his fork, and turned to look at his friend. "What, I'm a dick now?"

  "Yeah, is it because of this stuff with your uncle?"

  "No. What do you mean I'm being a dick?"

  "Okay, then who is she?"

  "Who's who?"

  "Don't give me that. Who is she?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The last time I saw you like this—I mean a mess—was after you and Jill broke up. That was over ten years ago, and I had to hold your hand for the next three years until you started to act normal again. I mean normal for you..."

  "Why? What am I doing differently?"

  "Well, first of all, although you've never exactly been Chatty Cathy, you haven't said two words all night. Second, you're not eating your scallops—which just so happens to be your favorite meal in the entire world—and third, and most importantly? There's a hot woman on the other side of the bar who's been sizing you up all throughout dinner, and you haven't even noticed her."

 
Mark looked over at the woman. "Wow, she is hot."

  "I rest my case. So, are you gonna tell me who she is?"

  "It's no one you know, and besides, it's not going anywhere. I promise I won't take three years to get over it this time." Mark smiled. "Buy you an after-dinner drink?"

  "No, thanks," Bob reached over and speared a scallop from Mark's plate. With a full mouth, he said, "I gotta go. I'm a married man. My real life is over, remember? All I have left is a vicarious existence, and you better not let me down. Promise me you'll follow up with that woman at the other end of the bar so that we'll have something to talk about next week?"

  "We'll see."

  "God, you're pathetic. Okay, buddy, catch you later," Bob said, slapping some bills down on the bar.

  "'Night, Bob, and say hi to Michelle for me."

  Mark asked the bartender for a Jack Daniels on the rocks and sipped it while he indulged himself with thoughts of Renie. It had been more than three weeks since she'd denied having an affair with Uncle Pete.

  He had seen her earlier tonight. She hadn't seen him, but he'd seen her. On his way to Nellie's he had parked his car on Elm Street. He'd forgotten that Renie had talked about finding the perfect space for her studio there—that is, until he saw her.

  As he walked down Elm toward the restaurant, he'd happened to glance across the street. There she was, visible through the window of her new dance studio. Dressed in a leotard, she was holding onto the ballet bar and demonstrating demi-pliés in first position to three young girls who sat cross-legged on the floor.

  Mark took a final swig of whisky, paid his bill, and walked from the air-conditioned restaurant into the humid night air. He walked along Main Street and stopped for a moment at the intersection of Main and Elm. He took a deep breath before he turned onto Elm Street's sidewalk.

  She won't still be there at this time of night, he thought. But as he walked up the slight incline toward his truck, he noticed that the light was still on in the studio.

  From the angle of his approach, he only saw the left profile of the back of her head and shoulders. His heart raced as he made his way along the sidewalk and more of her came into view.