Sintown Chronicles II: Through Bedroom Windows

by David O. Dyer, Sr.

  “Y'all oughtn't talk about Miss Debbie that-a-way,” a frail voice commented.

  All eyes jerked to the right to look at the old woman who slipped in unnoticed.

  “Hello, Mrs. Morgan. I didn't see you come in,” Maggie said. “What may I get for you?"

  Vera Morgan ignored Maggie's question. “I seen Miss Debbie early this mornin'. She brung me a big box of clothes Mr. Buzz didn't sell at his yard sale. She give me a bunch of money, too. Said she hadn't been payin’ me enough fer cleaning her house. She's a nice lady. If they like each other it ain't none of your business."

  Embarrassed, Susan said, “You're right, of course, Mrs. Morgan."

  “Miss Maggie, I come to see you if you have a minute."

  “Certainly, Mrs. Morgan. As you observed, we were just gossiping. Please have a cup of coffee with us."

  “This is your lucky day, Widow Morgan,” Borders said jovially. “I'm buying."

  “You better take him up on it while you can,” Leora joked. “The old goat usually pinches his pennies so tight you can hear them scream."

  “Maybe just one cup,” Vera said as she hoisted her small frame onto a counter stool. “Ain't got nothin’ else to do today."

  Sewana placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of the old lady.

  “What did you want to see me about?” Maggie asked.

  Vera looked at the long line of listeners straining to hear. “I reckon it don't matter none if they hear,” she said. “It's Mr. Bennett. Somebody ought to do somethin'."

  Maggie thought her heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean, Mrs. Morgan?"

  “Today's my day to clean his house. He told me to empty the trash, paid me fer a day's work and sent me home."

  “This really is your lucky day,” Borders laughed.

  “I'm surprised he was at home,” Maggie said. “I thought he was vacationing at Myrtle Beach."

  “He ain't at no beach and somethin’ just ain't right. He ain't shaved in days and he weren't wearin’ nothing but his underwear. That just ain't like Mr. Bennett."

  Maggie searched, but could not find her voice.

  “Mrs. Morgan is right,” Susan said. “I suppose it's okay to tell it now. George sold his interest in the service stations to a party who wishes to remain anonymous. He refused to come to my office. He paid extra for me to go to his home for the signing of the letter of intent. He was in bad need of a shave then, but at least he was wearing a bathrobe."

  “Miss Maggie,” Vera said, “I think you should ought-a go check on him. There ain't a damn thing in the ice box fer him to eat. He ain't even got no beer. I know you was in love with him once. I reckon you still are."

  “Mrs. Morgan! I assure you that..."

  “Don't bullshit an old lady. Maybe you wasn't fuckin’ him when you lived there, but I seen the way you two looked at one another."

  Conversation at the counter of the Korner Kafe came to an abrupt end.

  * * * *

  Maggie parked her Blazer in front of George Bennett's front door. She fingered her key ring, making sure the key to his house was still there. She wondered why she kept it—why he never asked her to return it. She opened the back of her vehicle and strained to remove a case of cold beer, which she lugged to the front porch. She returned to the Blazer, managed to loop the straps of three plastic bags of groceries in the fingers of her right hand and picked up the Styrofoam carton containing a fried chicken dinner with her left.

  She lowered the groceries to the floor of the porch and rang the bell. There was no response. She rang again and knocked. She could hear sounds coming from the television. She rang a third time, tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked.

  “George, it's Maggie,” she shouted. There was no response. She scooped up the grocery bags, deposited them and the Styrofoam carton on the kitchen table and made a second trip for the beer.

  “George. I know you are here,” she called out. “Your car is in the garage."

  She opened the refrigerator and began placing groceries in it.

  “What are you doing here?"

  The man standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing crumpled boxer shorts and a week's growth of gray beard, only resembled the George Bennett she knew.

  “What has happened to you, George?” she asked.

  He did not respond.

  “Your penis is an exemplary specimen,” she said, trying to grin, “but I wish you would stuff it back into your shorts.

  He looked down and complied with her request. “I'm sorry, Maggie. I wasn't expecting company."

  “Well, like it or not, you have company and I'm not leaving until you have showered, shaved, combed your hair, put on decent clothes and eaten this chicken dinner I brought you."

  He shook his head slowly. “I have no reason to bother with the routines of normal life,” he said sadly.

  “No reason?” she asked. “Hell, I'll give you a damn reason.” She rushed to him, clasped his face in her hands and pushed her tongue deep inside his mouth.

  “Ugh,” she said as she quickly pulled away. “While you're at it, brush your damn teeth."

  He just looked at her.

  “Now!” she demanded.

  As if he were a puppet and she pulled his strings, he headed for the staircase.

  Maggie finished putting away the groceries, roamed to the den and eyed the sofa where, she was certain, he first saw her naked. She fingered the shawl he placed over her that night after, exhausted, she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. She picked up newspapers from the floor and stacked them on a table.

  She moved to his study where they kissed for the first time. His desk was in shambles. She began putting away pens and pencils and stacking papers. Her eyes locked onto one document. So, she thought, Buzz's whore is Billy Frank's silent partner. I wonder where she got the money?

  She heard the well pump shut off and visualized his lean body, dripping wet, stepping from the shower. She picked up a file folder from the floor. Damn, she thought as she glanced at the document the folder contained. I can't afford to buy your restaurant, George.

  She returned to the kitchen and washed the few dirty dishes in the sink. When she heard him descending the steps she dried her hands, pulled a fork from a counter drawer and opened the Styrofoam carton.

  “Much better,” she beamed.

  He nodded. “I feel better, too. Maggie, I'm sorry you saw me like that."

  “When was the last time you ate a decent meal? Don't answer that. Just get your scrawny butt over here and chow down.” She opened the refrigerator and twisted off the cap of a beer.

  “I can't eat all this,” he said as he sat down. “Get a plate and share with me."

  “You're going to eat every bite, George Bennett."

  “Well, at least have a beer."

  She smiled and again opened the refrigerator.

  “Why did you come?"

  “Vera Morgan told me you were in trouble. Don't be angry with her, George. She cares about you in her own, weird way."

  He nodded and gnawed at a chicken leg.

  “George,” Maggie said as she sat opposite him, “I can't afford to buy the restaurant. You know that."

  “You've been snooping in my study?"

  She nodded. “Sorry. I was killing time."

  “It's okay. If you had read the entire proposal you would know you can afford it. I am offering it to you with no money down, six percent interest and monthly payments of three thousand. The restaurant makes four times that. You can afford it."

  “I don't want your restaurant, George."

  “I don't want it either, Maggie. I made a big mistake. The preacher meant well when he suggested I go back into business to get over the death of my wife, but I was a fool to follow his advice. Making money is not fun if there is no one with whom to share it. You walked out on me, Maggie. I don't blame you. I am far too old for you. Dottie walked out on me. I couldn't satisfy her in bed. I guess my dick is too small."

&nb
sp; Maggie ran her index finger around the neck of the beer bottle. “You have any money, George?"

  “Of course I have money."

  “I mean on you—here in the house."

  “Maybe a few dollars."

  She nodded. “Did you get any sleep last night?"

  “Not much."

  She stood and drained her beer. “Here's the plan. Are you listening, George?"

  He smiled. “Yes, ma'am."

  “There are a few things we should have done while I was rooming with you, but didn't. We are going to remedy that tonight. After you have eaten every bite of your lunch, go to town and get a haircut. Stop by the garden shop and sign a contract with Frank to look after your lawn. It's a mess. Go to the bank and cash a check—a large one. If you don't already have at least a dozen, go by the pharmacy and buy a box of condoms. Come home, take a nap and then put on your dancing shoes."

  “Maggie, I..."

  “Don't argue with me George Bennett, damn it. I'll pick you up at seven. We're going to the Savannah Club in Charlotte. You're going to buy me the most expensive meal on the menu and then we will dance until our legs collapse. I'm spending the night with you George and I think you can guess what we're going to do when we climb into your bed.” She headed for the door.

  “I don't like your plan, Maggie."

  She turned and glared at him. “No arguments, George Bennett. Today I'm the boss."

  He shook his head. “We're going to the club in my Cadillac—not your Blazer."

  She grinned and turned back to the door. The last thing George heard her say was, “It's not too small, George. I've seen it. Remember?"

  * * * *

  June hesitated in front of classroom 613. She checked her registration form to be certain she was in the right place. Three times she lost her way on the unfamiliar campus and once she tripped, dropping her textbook and notebook, but hanging onto the laptop computer.

  “It's about time for the class to start. We'd better find a seat."

  She turned and looked at the man who was smiling at her. He was tall, reasonably handsome and older than she, but then this class was for older students. She thought he would look better if he used less grease in his hair.

  “I understand the professor is a nice guy. You don't need to be afraid of him."

  She smiled and walked through the door he held open for her. She sat in a student chair at the back of the room and watched him walk to the front and pick up a piece of chalk.

  On the board he wrote, “Jay Foster is a nice guy."

  He turned and smiled at the twenty students. “My name is Jay Foster and I really am a nice guy. I know that most of you haven't been in a classroom in a long time and are a little skittish tonight."

  The class laughed their agreement.

  “I read your entrance data,” he continued. “Some of you are here just to kill time. You will drop out after a few nights. Sorry ‘bout that. Some of you are unemployed and some are underemployed. You hope that this class will lead to better things. I do too. One of you already has a job lined up as a bookkeeper. Congratulations!"

  He picked up a small, brown, record book. “As I look around, I see some of you have not yet bought your textbook. If you read your syllabus, you know that having the textbook with you tonight is a requirement. I see only one laptop computer in the class. Owning a laptop is not a requirement—you may use the computers in our labs—but it certainly will be helpful."

  He walked to the front of his desk and leaned against it. “Let's see how many of you read tonight's assignment. What is it, specifically, that we will be studying in this class?"

  He paused for raised hands. There were none.

  “No one read the assignment?"

  There were still no hands.

  “Miss Laptop Owner, did you read the assignment?"

  Even from the back of the room, June felt as if his gray eyes were burning into the depths of her soul.

  “Yes, sir,” she timidly replied.

  “Then what is the answer to my question?"

  “The introduction said we will learn single and double entry bookkeeping and how to use a software program that will handle all the mathematical formulas accurately."

  “Miss Computer Owner,” he said as he moved down the aisle towards her, “please stand."

  She slipped out of her seat, pressing her hands to her thighs so he would not see them trembling.

  “I cannot continue to call you Miss Computer Owner. Your name, please."

  “June, sir. June Dinkins."

  “Is it Miss or Mrs.?"

  “Miss, sir.” He was so close she could hear him breathing.

  He smiled. “Miss Dinkins,” he said as he opened the record book and searched for her name, “you have an A for this first class session."

  He put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder a little too tight. He pulled her next to him, a little too close. His cologne smelled so good. She wanted to buy Frank the same brand.

  With his arm still around her he said, “Class, be honest. Did anyone else know the answer to my question?"

  All eyes were on the two of them. No one responded.

  He smiled and locked his eyes on June's. She wished he were looking at her breasts. Why did I button the blouse all the way to my neck? she wondered.

  “Miss Dinkins is the one who already has a job lined up as a bookkeeper,” he said. “She is highly motivated."

  He released her and strolled back towards the front of the class. “Motivation,” he said, “is the key to success in this class—not IQ. If you are properly motivated, you will benefit from the class. If not, you are wasting your time and mine."

  He turned and smiled at June. “Your assignment for Wednesday is in your syllabus, but I am giving you an additional task. I want you to consider very carefully your motivation for taking this course. If you are here just to kill time, please drop the course before Wednesday night's session. You can get a full refund of your tuition."

  He tossed the record book on the desk and sat in the chair. “Since only Miss Dinkins read tonight's assignment, we must waste valuable class time. Read the assignment now. Those of you without a textbook, twiddle your thumbs or beg your neighbor to let you read over his shoulder."

  June caught the twinkle in his eye. He's pissed with everyone but me, she thought. Why is my heart beating so rapidly?

  After twenty minutes, Jay stood and began to lecture. June tried to write down every word.

  At the end of the first hour, he said, “Take ten, everybody. You cigarette addicts may feed your habit and those with small bladders will find restrooms at the end of the hall. Miss Dinkins, would you remain one minute, please?"

  As the class hurried to the door, Jay approached June and propped on the back of the chair in front of her. She fiddled nervously with the buttons on her blouse.

  “Miss Dinkins,” he began, “I have taught this class many times. I always try to pick out the best students during the first session. Sadly, you're it for this class. You will do well. I promise."

  “Thank you, sir."

  “Miss Dinkins, may I make a suggestion?"

  “Yes, sir, and I wish you would call me June."

  He smiled. “Please call me Jay. June, I noticed you trying to write down everything I say."

  She beamed and nodded.

  “Don't."

  “But you say so much and I..."

  He put his finger to his lips. “Listen, June, listen. Ask questions. If you don't understand something I've said, stop me. Jot down a word or phrase that will trigger your memory when you review your class notes."

  “Yes, sir."

  “Do you smoke, June?"

  “No, sir."

  “I thought you were going to call me Jay—I hate ‘sir.’”

  She smiled. “I'm sorry, Jay."

  “I don't smoke either,” he said, “but I am one of those people I spoke of who has a small bladder—among other things.” He winked and walked out
the door.

  When the second hour ended, Jay again asked June to remain behind. She joined him at his desk, standing in front of it. She felt as if she were merchandise on display, the way he looked at her. She liked it.

  He smiled up at her. “Did my method of note-taking work for you?” he asked.

  She laughed. “I'll let you know after I've reviewed them."

  “June,” he said as he leaned back in his chair, “I have taught this introductory bookkeeping class many times, but you are the first student who already has a job keeping books. Why are you not taking a more advanced course?"

  “Jay, I don't know anything about bookkeeping. Frank, my fiancé, recently opened a garden shop and lawn care business in Dot. I want to help him, but I want to keep my job as a waitress too."

  “You are a waitress and live in Dot?"

  She nodded.

  “It seems to be a nice little community. I paid your town a brief visit this past Saturday."

  “You were in Dot?"

  He smiled. “I spend my weekends going to yard sales. I am a collector of many things and sometimes I find real bargains at yard sales. I struck gold at the sale your neighbor, Buzz Adams, had. I bought too much and paid too much. There was a half-naked woman working with him. She absolutely refused to negotiate."

  He opened his briefcase and stuffed inside his lecture notes and record book. “How long has your friend been in business?"

  “Almost a month now, and ... and..."

  He smiled. “And?"

  “Billy Frank—he owns the gas station in Dot ... two of them now—he wants me to keep his books too."

  Jay shook his head and stood. “Sounds to me like you have a solid foundation for a lucrative business in Dot. Tell me, is there a tax consultant in your little community?"

  “You mean income taxes, like H & R Block?"

  He nodded.

  She shook her head. “There's a lawyer in Dot—Susan Kimel. She used to do tax returns for people, but when she did mine last year she said I'd have to find somebody else. She just doesn't have the time anymore."

  “Every December I teach a one month course on income tax preparation. Combine that with bookkeeping and I believe you have the foundation for a lucrative bookkeeping service, June. Your days as a waitress are numbered."