“Yeah,” he said, relieved that a little old lady creeping up on him like that hadn’t made him jump.
“It’s none of our business if she wants to sit in the rain,” Mrs. Bee said, peering past his elbow.
“Right,” he agreed without hesitation. His opinion exactly.
“But…”
He could feel Mrs. Bee looking at him, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t dare. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might have been watching out the window, too, and no way in hell was he going to walk into a loaded opening like that.
“Calvin?” Mrs. Bee said after a moment. She sounded every bit the schoolteacher she used to be. Class was in session, and he had just been called on.
“No way, Mrs. Bee,” he said, trying to stay ahead of her.
“Somebody really ought to do something.”
“You don’t mean ‘somebody,’ Mrs. Bee. You mean me.”
“Yes, Calvin, I do. I can’t go. It will look as if I’m meddling. If you go, it’ll just look as if you don’t know any better.”
He glanced at her.
“Well, it will,” she said. “Men don’t know about these things—especially soldiers. It’s all that hunt the hill, get the hill, way of doing things. She knows you, Calvin. She likes you. She’s not going to be offended if you go.”
He didn’t know about any of that. All he knew was that he’d had more than one occasion to see Meehan when she was “offended,” and it wasn’t something he cared to repeat.
“Mrs.
Bee—”
“It’s just so…worrisome,” she interrupted. “Katie sitting out there in the rain like that. She had that bad spell of pneumonia last winter. She ought not be out there in the wet.”
“It’s July, Mrs. Bee. I think she’ll be all right.”
“Maybe,” Mrs. Bee said. “Maybe not. Couldn’t you go and shoo her back inside or something? It might be, if she saw you coming, she’d just get up and go in by herself, anyway—and you wouldn’t have to do anything. It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”
No, he didn’t think, but he didn’t say so. His legs hurt. He was tired. And pineapple-coconut-cream-cake hungry. He looked out the window. It was raining as hard as ever, and Meehan was still sitting there. He drew a quiet breath and glanced at Mrs. Bee. Her whole frail little body was saying one thing and one thing only— Please!
Ah, damn it.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go shoo her. She’s not going to like it—I’m going to catch hell for it. But I’ll go.”
“I’ll get the umbrella,” Mrs. Bee said, scurrying away.
He peered through the window again, hoping that Meehan would be gone. She wasn’t.
Mrs. Bee came back with a big multicolored golf umbrella. He took it and hobbled toward the back door.
“You’re a good boy, Calvin,” she said as he stepped out into the rain.
Doyle opened the umbrella. He could feel Mrs. Bee’s eyes on him all the way across the backyard. Which was just as well, because he probably wouldn’t have gone otherwise.
It was hard walking on the rough, wet ground, but he didn’t have a choice if he wanted to get this over with. Which he did. It would take him too long to hobble down Mrs. Bee’s driveway to the sidewalk and then around the hedge and back up Meehan’s drive to where she was still sitting on the bench—the key word here being “still.”
Oh, he had the “hunt the hill, get the hill” mind-set, all right.
And what the hell was wrong with Meehan that she would be sitting out in the rain like this?
He’d find out soon enough, he guessed, if he kept going. He could see her plainly through the hedge. She seemed to be completely lost in thought. He could have yelled at her at any point, but he didn’t. He just kept slogging along, pulling the cane out of the mud with every step. She didn’t even notice him until he was right on her and held the umbrella over her head. Nice touch, the umbrella, he thought. Gave the trip—ill-advised though it may be—a purpose.
Meehan looked up at him. She didn’t say anything; neither did he. And she wasn’t bawling. That was a plus.
With some effort, he continued to stand and hold the umbrella over them both—a futile gesture at this point in her case. She was wet to the skin.
She frowned. Just enough of one to let him know he was on dangerous ground here. Not exactly news.
Hunt the hill, get the hill.
“So,” he said pleasantly. “What’s new?”
She gave a sharp sigh. “Bugs, what are you doing here?”
“Holding the umbrella,” he said reasonably.
“What do you want?”
“What do I want? Well, let’s see. I want a cold beer, for one thing. And I want somebody to drive me to some loud, smoky, possibly sleazy place where I can get one. Maybe a big thick steak with a pile of fried onions, too, while I’m at it. Since that’s not going to happen, I guess I want to stand right here—until I can shoo you back into the house.”
“I don’t want to be ‘shooed,”’ she assured him. “And you can mind your own damn business.”
“Oh, I know that. I tried to mind it, believe me. It didn’t work, though. See, you’re not exactly what I would call behaving here—or does the ‘behave and don’t upset Mrs. Bee’ thing just go for me?”
“What are you talking about!”
“Mrs. Bee! She’s all worried about you sitting out here in the rain like this.”
“She doesn’t have to worry.”
“Yeah, well, maybe so. But you know how she is. And I hate to say it, but I was getting a little uneasy about you myself. This is not like you.”
“What did you and Mrs. Bee do, watch everything out the window?”
“Pretty much,” he said. Personally, he’d always found it a lot easier to just tell the truth in most situations—unless it involved some gung-ho officer. It was too much trouble keeping stories straight. He suspected that Meehan was the same way, especially when she was working. He had always believed whatever she said, anyway. The whole time he was in the hospital, whenever he needed to know what was what with the pain in his legs or the burns on his hands or why he was running yet another fever, she was the one he always wanted to ask, because he knew she’d tell him straight.
He kept looking at her. She was upset, all right, and once again he was glad she wasn’t bawling. He didn’t know what to do when women cried—strong women, that is. Women like Rita. Or Specialist 4 Santos. Santos was a damned good soldier, but she always bawled when she had to make a jump. He didn’t know why, and he wasn’t sure she did, either. She would cry like she wasn’t crying, and nobody knew what was up with that. The jumpmasters certainly weren’t crazy about it. But, she always lined up like everybody else and hopped right out the door when she was supposed to. It was just…damned unsettling.
Tears weren’t a big deal with most women. But Rita and Santos—and Meehan, if she happened to break down—were an altogether different situation.
He kept checking Meehan out, just in case. She caught him at it, and she started to say something but didn’t. She looked away, down the driveway in the direction lover boy had gone.
He
waited.
And
waited.
The rain beat down on the umbrella. A car went down the street, its heavy bass speakers pounding. Somebody somewhere threw something heavy into a metal trash can.
“So did you get dumped or what?” he asked finally—and that got her attention.
She stared at him a long time before she answered. “Yes,” she said finally.
“Yeah, well, it’s been that kind of a day,” he said with the assurance of a man who’d been there.
He maneuvered the cane so that he could press one hand into his thigh. Both legs were beginning to hurt like hell. He tried to shift his weight a little. It didn’t help a bit. When he looked up again, Meehan wasn’t frowning anymore. It occurred to him that she was a lot nicer looking when she didn’t fro
wn.
“Did you go to the wedding?” she asked.
“I went,” he admitted.
“Everybody was all dressed up, I guess.”
“Oh,
yeah.”
“Even
you?”
“Especially me. I looked so good it’s a wonder the ceremony even took place.”
She gave a slight smile. It faded almost immediately.
“So how was it?” she asked a little too gently for him to maintain his bravado.
“It was—” he stopped and took a breath “—it was hell. Mostly.”
“Poor old Bugs,” she said.
He grinned. “At least I ain’t sitting out in the rain over it.”
To his surprise she laughed. She had a nice laugh. Definitely she should laugh a lot more than she did.
“I allow myself to do one really stupid thing at least once a year,” she said after a moment.
“And this is it, huh?”
“This is it. I wish I could think of some really cool way to get out of it.” She was still smiling a little, and she made an attempt to stand up. He tried to move out of her way. The pain in his legs intensified, and he couldn’t keep from bending forward.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, dodging the umbrella before he clunked her in the head with it.
“Hurts,” was all he could manage.
“Well, no wonder. Coming out in the rain like this.”
“Yeah, and who’s fault…would that be? If you don’t mind me…pointing that…out.”
“Okay, okay. Do you want me to help you?” she asked, he guessed because she’d been around enough banged-up soldiers to know that assistance wasn’t always welcome.
“No.”
“How long has it been since you took something for pain?”
“About three…weeks…” he said through gritted teeth.
“You’re not taking the prescription the doctor ordered for you?”
“Can’t stay awake. You know…me. Don’t want to…miss anything.”
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“I’m hurting…not…hungry,” he said. Which wasn’t precisely the truth. Not a lie exactly, more a matter of priorities. He’d planned on eating. He’d been about to zero in on Mrs. Bee’s cake with the pineapple-and-coconut-cream icing—but he got sucked into coming over here. And that fact just added to his current aggravation.
“You’re exhausted, is what you are. You’ve done too much today, and you’ve probably been feeling too sorry for yourself to eat—”
“I ate, I ate!”
He tried to take a step or two and was pitiful at it. “Okay,” she said. “That’s enough. You’re getting the shakes. Just stand here a second and then we’ll hobble that way.” She pointed toward her back door.
“No…thanks,” he managed to say.
“You should have taken a pain pill—especially today.”
“I don’t take them, Meehan, unless I have to. Just special occasions. When it hurts…really bad.”
“Well, what do you call this?”
“A
minor
setback…brought
on by people not…behaving.”
“Very funny. Now go that way.”
“I’ll be okay in a…minute.”
“I
said go. It’s closer than trying to get back to Mrs. Bee’s. You’re going to fall on your face. You’ve let the muscles in your legs go into spasm—”
“Right,” he said. “I… let them. Just for the…hell of it.”
“Oh, quit whining and let’s go. You can get off your feet for a little while and then you can run along home and give Mrs. Bee your report.”
She wouldn’t take no for an answer. He hobbled in the direction she was pushing him—but he didn’t like it.
“Take the…umbrella,” he said at one point.
She took it, but his not carrying the umbrella didn’t help him walk much better. She had to hold it way up in the air to keep him covered.
“Try putting your hand on my shoulder,” she said.
“It
won’t…help.”
“Do
it.”
He did as she ordered, bearing down hard with his next step. “This is all your—”
“Fault,” she finished with him. “I got that part.”
“So how come he…dumped you?” Doyle asked bluntly. The question was entirely inappropriate, but pain apparently made him reckless. Besides that, he actually wanted to know, and this seemed like as good a time as any to ask.
“It’s none of your damned business,” she said for the second time.
“Right. But since I’ve gone to all this trouble, I ought to at least be able to…give Mrs. Bee the details. We live for drama and pathos.”
“You and Mrs. Bee need to get out more.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he said, glancing at her. He’d made her smile again. Maybe the bust-up with the boyfriend wasn’t as serious as it looked out the window.
Still, she’d been sitting out in the rain all that time.
“Maybe you can work it out,” he said.
“Work what out?”
“The thing with the boyfriend.”
“Don’t think so,” she said, catching the back of his shirt when he began to list.
They finally reached the patio. She managed to open her back door and hold it with one foot while she closed the umbrella. He shuffled dutifully inside. The house obviously had central air, because the room was cool and quiet. There was a television, an easy chair, a whole row of plants under a big window, and a couch with a startled white cat on it. He didn’t like cats, or so he assumed. He’d never been around any, except the wild “barn” cats that used to live on his grandfather’s farm when he was a little boy. That relationship had been very one-sided. Every day, he’d toss them the table scraps his grandmother allotted them, and every day they hissed and spat and ran like hell.
The cat jumped down from the couch and disappeared.
“Sit down,” Meehan said unnecessarily. He couldn’t have made it any farther if he’d wanted to. He plopped down heavily on the couch where the cat had been.
The pain was less now that he was off his feet, but not much. He leaned back and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Meehan had gone someplace, and the cat was sitting on the couch arm.
“Take a hike,” he said to it.
It continued to sit there, giving him its rapt attention. It was kind of unnerving. He’d never had an animal stare at him like that—or at least not one that was up to any good.
Meehan came back with a towel around her neck and one of those small electric blankets for couch potatoes in her hands. He sat there awkwardly, because he wasn’t sure what she planned to do with it and because he was in her house more or less against his will.
“I didn’t know you had a cat,” he said in an inane attempt at making conversation. She bent down, plugged the blanket into a nearby outlet. She was wearing shorts, and he appreciated it.
The cat gave an inquisitive, rolling chirp and looked at Meehan expectantly.
“No, he doesn’t,” Meehan said to the cat. “But he would, if he had to.”
She was smiling slightly. He got it right off the bat. She was giving him the business here, and enjoying it. The big tough soldier wasn’t sure what to do about the cat, much less her talking to it.
But she had no idea she was dealing with Doyle, the Supercool. Two could play this game.
“Doesn’t what?” he asked to put her on the spot.
She dropped the blanket over his bare legs.
“Barbecue cats,” she said without missing a beat. “She’s the only survivor of a coyote attack on her and her litter mates. She’s very concerned about whether or not she’s in someone’s food chain.”
“Don’t blame her. Where did she run into a coyote?”
“A friend’s place in the mountains. She was just a kitten, and
she took up residence in my shirt pocket while I was there—so I brought her home. She doesn’t get out much, either. Of course, in her case, it’s by choice—I couldn’t get her out the door with a crowbar. I don’t know about you and Mrs. Bee.”
“Well, it’s not by choice with me,” he said. But the real truth was that the two guys he had called friends had been killed in the same helicopter crash. He missed the sorry sons-of-bitches more than he cared to admit, and thus far he hadn’t gone looking for replacements.
Meehan was busy drying her hair with the towel.
The Older Woman Page 2