by Patti Abbott
The next Tuesday, she was back at the spot, her lavender raincoat looking freshly pressed, the buttons stitched on tight for once.
“What happened last week?” he asked as soon as she climbed in the truck. He didn’t let on he had been out to her house a dozen times in the interim. “I almost called you to see if things were okay.”
Her eyes fluttered. “Good thing you didn’t do that, Jim. Better not to call me at home. Perry’s kind of funny….”
“Were you visiting family?” he pressed.
She shook her head. “We had to go into the City for a few days. Sierra fell down the cellar steps and broke her arm and a rib or two. Her doctor in Shelterville wanted an orthopedist in the City to set it right.”
“What?” His stomach twisted in ways he wouldn’t have thought possible.
She looked at him. “Oh, it wasn’t so bad. We stayed at the Red Roof Inn, ate out every night. Sierra got treated like a queen. Afterwards, he’s always so nice.” She stopped suddenly and looked out the window. “He just gets so mad sometimes. Anyway, we’re home now.”
“Is Perry the one who gets them off to school on Tuesdays?” Jim asked after a few minutes. He could almost picture Perry lolling in bed while the kids put on their old worn clothing and ate cold cereal in total silence so as not to wake the sleeping bear.
“No, I see them off before I leave the house. The school bus comes early—at 7:00 a.m.” She looked at him quizzically. “Perry doesn’t leave till nine or so. Says it doesn’t pay to show up at his delivery stops too early,” she explained. “He likes having the one day to sleep in a quiet house.” She sighed, shaking her head a little.
Jim nodded and dropped the subject. In a few minutes, Louise was prattling on about an upcoming bake sale and whether her lemon squares could measure up to Lila Mueller’s. He rarely listened to her conversation; he realized that again.
It was a week or two before he went out to her house. He didn’t act hastily, giving himself plenty of time to consider his moves, even thinking a good scare might be all it took to put things right. Although Jim’s father had never beat his wife or sons, he was a similar sort of man. A bully. Jim’s mother had never once missed having dinner on the table when he came in the door at six. Never once served him a dish he didn’t like or failed to have his shirts pressed, his shoes shined. And there were a million other things she did to avoid his wrath, his insults, his jibes.
All for naught, of course. His father got too much pleasure out of humiliating her to not find a reason.
Jim knew many such men. The town was filled with them: men who took their failures out on their wives; men jealous of their sons’ youth, berating them at every turn; men fearful of their daughters’ beauty, who demeaned their intelligence; men in bars looking for a fight if their opponent looked smaller or weaker; men who used the war or the government or religion as an excuse to yell, to pick up a rock or a gun.
He knew these men, but wasn’t one of them, would never be; he made sure of that when he left the force, reiterating it when he gave up the lease on the private office and threw the plaque in that ill-fitting desk drawer. A friend or two had expressed surprise at his decision.
“But you’re a natural at this work,” one or two had said.
And he did have the nose, the patience and even the intelligence or instinct for it. What he didn’t have was the gut, nor the ability to step away. He was inside of every case looking out. His reclamation began all those years ago when he asked Cindy for a divorce the morning after he had grabbed her hard enough to make her face go white with fear.
And here he was literally inside. The house was still when he entered it. He dropped Louise off, convinced she’d no idea of his plan despite his jittery feet, his sweaty palms, returning via the Interstate, parking his truck in some brush down the road and walking quickly across the field. He still remembered how to be invisible, how to slip into a situation without being detected. Those skills would always be part of him but better left alone,
Most people still left their doors unlocked in the daytime around here and Louise’s house was no exception. He stepped inside, easing the door closed behind him. The kitchen still smelled of cooked cereal, of eggs, of coffee. Perry’s place was set, the other spots cleared away. It was a neat kitchen but in ill repair. Plaster leaked from a spot on the ceiling, handles were missing from several cabinets, the windows rattled loosely in their frames. It was certainly Louise’s house. It even smelled like her. A dull burning filled his stomach—like when he’d drunk too much coffee before eating breakfast.
He climbed the stairs. Although the farmhouse probably dated from the late 1800s, the steps were thickly carpeted in some garish runner. Perhaps Perry didn’t relish bouncing his family members off the wooden steps so had this carpeting installed. As Jim neared the top, he heard the shower running. It didn’t make much difference where he confronted Perry: in the shower, in the bedroom, at breakfast, he would be equally surprised by a pistol in his face at eight o’clock in the morning. He edged nearer the bathroom door and pushed it further open with his foot. He could see the water running in an empty stall. No one at the sink either. He had begun to turn when he felt something at his back.
“Think there’d be anything worth taking in this old place. Or do you have other business here?” Before Jim could respond, the voice continued. “Now turn around real slow with your hands where I can see ‘em so my rifle don’t get any funny ideas and go off.”
Jim turned and saw his quarry at a barrel distance. Perry was a funhouse mirror image of his children: stout, square-headed and red in the face but of gargantuan proportions. He certainly weighed in at 275 lbs or more and was probably crowding 6’4.” His hair was so white he appeared to be bald at first. His skin was only a shade darker. Jim was face-to-face with a giant.
Jim’s situation was so ludicrous that he felt no surprise when inspiration suddenly seized him.
“I’m no burglar, Perry. Louise asked me to come out here for her. Left her key to the library on her bureau—or some such place.”
He plastered a smile on his face and looked up, up, up at his prey. The holes in this explanation were even larger than Louise’s husband.
But after a strained second, the expression on Perry’s face changed and the gun was lowered. “Hey, you must be Jim. Guy who runs her into town Tuesdays.” Perry smiled. “Bet she left her key on the kitchen table. Girl has no memory. Have to run after her ‘bout half the time with her keys or her purse.”
Surprisingly, Perry sounded fond of Louise. Jim’s father had never managed to sound fond of his mother. His voice had a curl to it whenever he said her name. He could remember it still – Ruth—the one syllable dragging out to three in his father’s mouth. This was a new idea; that a wife-beater could still love his wife. He realized Perry was still talking, thanking him for the weekly rides, offering him coffee and leftover eggs.
“Usually make breakfast myself,” Perry said. “That Louise can’t cook for beans.” He laughed.
“Hey, for beans. Get it?”
Jim nodded, smiling nervously. What was going on here? This guy didn’t seem capable of hurting anyone, wasn’t nearly angry enough, didn’t fit the profile. He wasn’t like Jim’s father or any of the men who broke into fights at the drop of a hat. Not like any of the men Jim had come across over the years. His mind tried to wrestle with this even as he stood there in Louise’s kitchen.
Though there was the rifle, Jim reminded himself. But what man living in the country didn’t have firearms, he thought fingering the pistol in his pocket.
“Sure,” he said finally. “I got time for a cup.” Instantly, he regretted it. The smart thing to do would have been to get out of here before circumstances changed. What if Louise called?
“Louise probably hooked up with the librarian by now and is inside cleaning her johns. Sit down.”
Perry poured him a cup of coffee and looked in the oven for the promised eggs. He slid them out of th
e iron skilled and onto a plate, pushed the ketchup across the table and sat down.
“Say, Sierra’s wounds are healing real good,” Perry said, after a minute, rounding up some loose sugar on the table with his finger. “Louise tell you that?”
“No, but that’s good news,” Jim said, barely able to hide his surprise. Did men like Perry discuss their bad deeds with strangers?
“She should of told you that. Hey, fellow, it’s not your fault, you know,” Perry told him, licking his sugary finger and dipping it into the pile of sugar again. “I can see you feel bad. Hope Louise didn’t let you think we blamed you for Sierra taking a tumble when you opened the truck door. Easy to forget how high trucks are these days.” He paused. “And what does a bachelor know about kids? Especially Sierra who’s as clumsy as her brother. That bone doctor says she’ll be good as new in a couple weeks.”
“And her mother too,” Jim said, trying to keep up with the direction Perry was headed in. “She’s clumsy too, I mean.”
“Louise ain’t clumsy,” Perry explained. “She just gets mad easy and flies into things.” He laughed but without much mirth. “Walls, the kids. But especially me. She’s taken that iron pan to my head more than once.” He nodded to the skillet, sitting in the sink with water in it. He paused. “Matter of fact, when I heard you in the kitchen I thought maybe she’d finally hired herself someone. A hit man maybe. She gets so mad—well, you never can tell.”
Jim laughed lightly to break the tension, but Perry didn’t seem to hear him. “Anyway, just wanted you to know we don’t blame you for Sierra’s injuries. Hell, you’re the guy who gives Louise a ride.” He stood up. “Can’t imagine where her key could be.” He started to look around.
“Like you said, she’s probably inside the library by now. Well, I’d better get to work.” Jim rose and headed for the door. Perry followed him.
“Listen, I wonder if you could tell Louise I won’t be able to give her rides anymore.” Jim asked, putting his hand on the knob. “Been putting off telling her ‘cause I know she counts on me, but I’m changing jobs next week. I’ll be taking the Interstate.”
“Well, sure,” Perry said. “I’ll tell her. She can just take the bus in like she used to. Or she’ll find someone else to drive her in. Louise’s real resourceful that way.” He smiled. “And thanks again. She’ll probably want to thank you herself…”
“No need for that,” Jim said quickly. “Your thanks is more than enough.” He stepped outside and the door closed behind him. He headed for the truck, taking the Interstate back to town.
GIRL OF MY DREAMS
For ten years, I drove sixty miles every day to work for a man I hated, traveling on a desolate highway through the mountains in western Pennsylvania with few diversions to pass the time. The mountains made radio transmission iffy, but I was never much for music anyway. I spent the time evaluating my life as it passed before my eyes in dull increments, wondering how I ended up working for Jack Sprague in Boswell at a poor paying job, considering why I hadn’t taken off for the city long ago like the rest of my friends.
But I stayed on because I never cared for what I saw of cities—not even the smaller ones like Harrisburg or Altoona. And I stayed on because I had a mother who needed some attention. But mostly, I stayed on because it was easier than the alternative: starting out fresh somewhere else.
And after a while, there was Nancy who kept me there.
New Holland was too small to provide me with a job and that’s how I ended up keeping the books for Jack Sprague over in Boswell, the nearest city larger than a crossroad. Keeping them, and sometimes fixing them. I didn’t like doing it—it gave me the occasional sleepless night but, in the scheme of things, what else could I do? Jack wasn’t particularly greedy, just interested in keeping his wife happy in her new house on the bluff, in driving a late model car, in taking a trip to Naples, Florida each February. So yes, keeping Jack satisfied entailed moving numbers around sometimes, but, in return, he gave me a small interest in the business and a better salary than I could make in New Holland. He seldom raised my pay, but my share in the business grew over time.
“I hired you for that fancy degree you got from—where was it?—Penn State,” he said with a smirk once when I questioned his practices.
Jack Sprague owned an auto repair shop, the only decent one for fifty miles. Long before my time, he negotiated a contract with Boswell for servicing their City fleet. We took care of every government vehicle, even the town’s buses. Sprague’s was the only shop with the necessary equipment to hoist ambulances, buses, and fire engines. I often wondered who’d footed the bill for the auto post lifts and the mobile column that lifted the heavier vehicles.
If you drove by our shop most days, you’d have thought something big was going on based on the number of police cars and such parked outside. If the local constabulary wasn’t out there to have their cars serviced, they dropped by to hang out and get treated to free coffee and donuts and some of Jack’s ribald stories.
Jack liked to handle certain jobs himself, though he wasn’t the great mechanic he believed himself to be. He lacked the curiosity and the follow-through necessary to excel. We also employed a second mechanic, Keith, who was more thorough than Jack if somewhat mentally-challenged; a teenager, Butch, who helped pump gas and took care of minor jobs like rotating tires or oil changes; and a secretary named Nancy Willis. And me, of course, on the books. Sometimes I longed to shake Jack and his shady operation off and head to Montana or Idaho. But knowing what I knew about myself, I figured I’d end up working for a Jack Sprague anywhere I went.
In any case, I couldn’t leave because I was in love with Nancy Willis. She came to work at Sprague’s after graduating from the local community college. In the two or so years since she was hired, I’d never gotten up the nerve to ask her out. At first, there was the occasional mention of a boyfriend. By the time that talk faded, it seemed too late to alter our relationship. Or maybe I didn’t want to take the chance of screwing it up, of sabotaging a friendship without coming away with anything more.
I knew I loved Nancy from the start.
“What training have you had?” I asked, looking blindly at the single-page resume she gave me on the day I hired her. The margins must have been three inches wide. She was replacing an elderly woman who could still type 80 words a minute and had not been late once in twenty years. Big shoes for dainty feet to fill.
Nancy was a Sunday School teacher kind of woman, the type you never meet in the city, the ones that always occupied my dreams. She was runner-up for the prom queen at Boswell High School. She didn’t tell me that, but Mr. Sprague took to calling her “Miss Runner-up”—the kind of slightly nasty thing he found funny.
“That was a long time ago,” Nancy said every time he used the term. It was the same thing as calling me Mr. College Man, but I don’t think she got it. Not right away.
Our days were spent fifteen feet apart; Nancy, typing and answering the phone; me, keeping the books, ordering supplies, running to the bank. I came to know everything about her: her scent, her tuneless humming of Broadway standards, her sparse and neatly repaired wardrobe, who she was talking to on the phone, what was in her lunch sack—all were as familiar to me as my own face in the mirror. Over time I’d taken on the role of her confidante—a fatal blow to any chance of a romance.
Daily, through the plate-glass window, we watched Jack Sprague laugh and back-slap the cops, the mayor—everyone who mattered in Boswell. On slow days, when there was no one important outside to flatter or amuse, Jack pushed Keith and Butch around, calling Keith, “Mr. Braniac,” asking Butch about his non-existent sex life. He especially liked to tongue-lash Nancy, telling her how she’d just made the same mistake for the umpteenth time, how she’d sent a service appointment reminder to the wrong address, forgotten to put an important pink slip on his desk.
We all put up with Sprague’s antics longer than we should have but he’d handpicked us for that trait. I knew it�
��d all come to a bad end eventually; the only uncertainty was the specifics. We survived his treatment because it was sporadic; most days we only saw his back— talking to the Boswell’s muckety-mucks on the macadam, heading out the driveway to God knows where once he’d given Keith his orders, calling in from unnamed destinations to fire off orders.
Nancy wasn’t cut out for secretarial work. She was a slow typist and too dreamy to take a good message. Her responsibilities at home often made her late. Despite her deficiencies and the bad job market in Boswell, I didn’t really understand why Nancy put up with Sprague’s treatment or why she let him brush up against her or put his hand on her upper arm. After a second or two, she’d shrug away, but that second made me wince. Jack always threw me a big grin then—like we were in cahoots over copping a feel off Nancy. Despite my unease, I certainly didn’t want to encourage Nancy to look for other work. When I thought about turning up at work to find her desk cleared off, her white sweater gone from the clothes tree, I started to sweat. So I said nothing. The lure of both my rising interest in the business and the girl across the room kept me glued to the spot.
Periodically, Nancy’s younger brother turned up and I’d overhear him mention their grandmother, saying things like the State wasn’t going to pay for her meds anymore.
“Ran out the allotment and it isn’t even June,” he said, thrusting a letter in Nancy’s face one day. I had a mother on expensive medicine too and I drove home each night, worried that I’d find Mom’d skipped a necessary medication in order to feed her cat.
Nancy came back inside a few minutes after watching her brother drive off. “Oh, I must have hit the delete key by mistake when I jumped up,” she said, almost to herself as she sat down. “I bet it’s all gone.” Her hands went to her cheeks, already turning pink.