by Dana Taylor
She told Phil everything. Told him of her naiveté, her subjugation to a misogynist lover and the final public humiliation that drove her to Beaver Cove. She recalled her dark days after the newspaper story broke revealing Thomas' immoral behavior and total lack of remorse. And something in the telling freed her.
The baggage of betrayal and disgust slipped off her back for the first time in over three years. Every time she looked back into the strong brown gaze of Phil's eyes she felt him releasing her from the burden. The monolith Thomas represented in her mind began shrinking to the true proportions his petty personality deserved.
After she finished her recitation, they sat side by side in the round booth for a moment and then Phil said, "Well, that guy is yesterday's news. He was a liar and cheat and you're well rid of him. He doesn't sound like your type at all, a lightweight who goes to the ballet and drinks wine."
"Oh really? And what is my type?"
He pulled her so close to him their thighs touched and his voice seduced her with whiskey tones. "You go for more beefy guys nowadays. Someone who's been around the block a few times and knows a good thing when he sees it. Someone who won't lie, cheat or let you forget you've got eyes as pretty blue as an Ozark sky. Someone who will never call you Madeleine, only Maddie, honey, sweetheart or babe."
Maddie said softly, "Don't forget 'cupcake.'"
A grin tugged Phil's lips. "You like that?"
"I shouldn't. It's condescending and politically incorrect."
"Come here, cupcake." He drew her into his arms and kissed her in front of the Mama Corleone's wait staff and God. His touch was soft, tender and perfect. Giving, not taking. Healing, not hurting. Her mouth opened to capture all his flavor. A spectrum of light burst behind her closed eyes breaking into a rainbow of blue, red, and violet through the dark spaces in her heart. Yes, this is what I've needed. A small moan rose from her throat as her hands gripped the material of his shirt.
He lifted his mouth as one hand pressed the back of her head against his chest. His ragged breaths matched hers. The scent of him caused a trembling awakening deep in the core of her body and soul.
Phil muttered, "Jeez, I'm going to have to do ten laps and take a cold shower when I get back to school."
Maddie pushed away. "School! What time is it?"
He looked at his watch and winced. "Time to go and make up a good story about our car breaking down."
Dashing back to school, all was quiet in the halls when they arrived. Phil needed to retrieve something out of his mailbox before heading down to the gym. The two walked wordlessly on the shiny floor toward her office. The bond forged between them at lunch still held taut and strong, making Maddie want to jump into his arms and beg for one more kiss.
Instead she turned to him, plastered a Miss Harris prim expression on her face and said, "Thank you for lunch, Mr. Wilcox. It was most pleasant."
His eyes turned heavy-lidded and his head gave a small shake. "No more of this bullshit."
Pushing her two steps backward toward a closed door, she felt the door give way and found herself closed in a small janitor's closet with Beaver Cove High's burly football coach.
Phil's hands reached up to the sides of her head, sinking into her hair. "Don't ever call me 'Mr. Wilcox' again unless we're surrounded by students, do you understand? I won't let you put those prissy barriers up between us again. We've got something going here and I really want it. I really want you and you want me too, don't you? Say it."
Maddie felt the walls crumbling. "I…"
His hands moved to her upper arms. "Say it!"
Her voice came out in a breathy puff. "I want you too, Phil."
His lips crushed hers with the intensity of a man finding water after a desperate trek across a desert. He drank and drank, tapping the deep well of her swirling emotions, opening a river buried in the underground caverns of her heart, a gush of silvery passion shooting to the surface.
She never knew when her leg wrapped around his calf or when he backed her against the cool enamel sink, but reality struck in the form of a mop bopping her on the head.
"Ow!" She rubbed the spot as he caught tumbling janitorial equipment, noisy buckets and brooms bouncing off the wall.
It was so ridiculous, so juvenile, so delicious, they started laughing.
Phil put his arms loosely around her. "Go away with me somewhere next weekend. Let's take this the whole nine yards."
Held by the intensity of his possessive gaze, Maddie knew she would go wherever he wanted, give him everything he demanded.
Oh, Lord, he was going to score a touchdown right in her end zone.
Chapter Seven
Sex: the thing that takes up the least amount of time
and causes the most amount of trouble.
John Barrymore
At two o'clock Thursday morning Wade’s wife, Ginger, tossed in her crumpled bed, enduring a restless sleep alone on the undulating waterbed mattress. Exhausted after a full day in the company of her hooligan children, she'd fallen into musty sheets worried about Wade.
He'd hit the road early Sunday morning for a race in Little Rock, pulling his shiny red racer on a trailer behind the pickup truck. He usually called to brag or complain about the outcome of the day, but there'd been no phone calls. Fearsome visions flashed in her mind of his car rolling and bursting into flames.
Wade's hollering penetrated her dreams. "Ginger! Ginger, baby!"
She imagined he called from a fiery inferno.
"Ginger, get your ass down here!"
She sat up and brushed the hair from her eyes.
"Christ on a stick!" Wade's voice wafted from the front yard.
Thank God, he'd come back home.
Out on the stubby grass, Wade stacked boxes from the truck bed. A steel gray moon cast a harsh light over the cluttered yard. The door banged behind Ginger as she padded outside dressed in a flimsy robe over her thin nightgown.
"What's goin' on?" she asked, coming down the steps.
The dogs circled, sniffing and growling at the boxes Wade set on the dusty ground.
He kicked one mongrel. "Get the hell out of my way, Lucifer." The big black yelped and slunk off.
"I brung our future right here in these boxes," Wade said. "We're gonna be rich, baby."
Ginger tiptoed in bare feet to the stack of boxes and opened a lid, revealing a case of cough syrup.
Pulling out a bottle she said, "What are ya doin'? Opening up a drug store?"
Wade set down the last box, hooting with laughter. "Oh, yeah! That's it, baby! A drug store, a by God, drug store. But we're only selling one drug. And it's sweet, baby, it's really sweet."
Wade couldn't stand still. His feet fidgeted and his hand tapped continually against his thigh. "You're gonna cook it and I'm gonna sell it. We're not going to be a small time pot operation anymore, waiting for the damned DEA to screw us."
Wade pulled a baggie out of his pocket and dangled it in front of Ginger's face. Small crystals glinted through the plastic in the porch light.
"What's that?" she asked.
Wade's face drew close to hers, his grin wide, slightly demented. "Crystal meth, baby, speed, spoosh, zoom, whatever you want to call it. We're gonna be rich." He thumped his chest. "I feel great."
He yanked her into his arms; his hard pecker jabbed into her soft belly. "I'm so hot I'm ready to shoot off like a pistol."
Continuing to grind Ginger against him, he kneaded her bottom while whispering his plans into her ear. "I'm going to take over Beaver Cove and the whole county. We can make the stuff right in the kitchen with crap I can get at Wal-Mart. I met this guy at the meet and bought the recipe from him. And, baby, wait until you feel it. It's the best shit I ever had."
Ginger didn't understand everything Wade mumbled on about–red phosphorus, lithium, ammonia nitrate. She only knew he was home, happy and wanted her. Leading him into the house back to their room, she pulled him down onto the waterbed and pretended they were high school
sweethearts again. For a little while she could forget about the dirty laundry, the unpaid bills, the things she wanted and would never have. When Wade ran his hungry hands and lips over her body she was pretty Ginger again, Homecoming Queen, Beaver Cove High, Class of 1985.
* * *
Thursday evening Phil pulled in front of Pam's house and honked his horn. The front door popped open and Melissa hopped the porch steps quickly, heading for his car with obvious enthusiasm. Her ponytail swung behind her head as she approached him dressed in baggy jeans and a Beaver Cove t-shirt. Walking across the sparse grass, she yanked open the passenger door and bent over to talk to him.
"Turn off the engine, Coach. Mom and I have cooked dinner. She made meatloaf–your favorite."
Phil killed the engine and slowly got out of the car wondering what Pam was up to. A raise in child support? Walking toward the house, he noted the unkempt yard with its pale grass and overgrown bushes. Pam didn't like dirt under her fingernails.
Passing through the front door, the aroma of Pam's meatloaf engulfed him with waves of memories and sensations from a different time and place. A different Phil and Pam.
He stood stock still on the welcome mat gazing at the small living room crammed with possessions of a more luxurious past, a funhouse distorted trip down memory lane. The meatloaf signaled Pam's plan to make love after putting Melissa to bed. At least it used to. The image didn't bring forth any rise in his anatomy at all, just left a dull thud in the pit of his stomach.
Pam's favorite album by Willie Nelson played softly in the background. After all the years of anger and hostility, this sudden show of hospitality scared the hell out of him.
Melissa bopped out of the kitchen and handed him a frosty mug of root beer. "Here. Mom says to use a coaster. Dinner will be ready in a minute."
Pam peeked her head around the corner, her bleached hair big and puffy. "Hi, Phil. Figured you'd like a home cooked meal for once."
"Uh...Thanks."
She waved him toward the living area. "Make yourself comfortable. There's a bowl of beer nuts on the coffee table."
Phil looked warily at her. "Okay…"
The females disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Phil to settle into his old leather recliner. The remote to his once-prized big screen TV sat on the armrest and he mindlessly picked it up and hit the power button. The screen came alive with images grotesquely oversized in the small room. Sound roared from the speakers and he fumbled for the mute button. He gulped his root beer, half expecting an alcohol buzz that thankfully didn't come. Taking a deep breath, he got his bearings thinking, that was then and this is now.
Pam obviously held onto the glittering past, now sadly tarnished. On the wall surrounded by a variety of pictures taken of Melissa at different ages, hung the large Glamour Shots portrait taken of Pam during their first year of marriage. Hearing her high-pitched sing-song voice waft in from the kitchen, he remembered the bright-eyed cheerleader with guilt. Somehow his failure as an athlete, father, and man made him responsible for her arrested development. He took another slug of his root beer and sighed deeply.
Melissa came out of the kitchen carrying a steamy casserole dish. "Come and get it, Coach."
Phil turned off the TV and stood. "Sure."
He sat down at the round oak dining table, the back of his chair barely missing the nearby wall. Melissa set the meatloaf in the center of table.
Standing straight, she put her hands on jean-clad hips. "Coach, do you know how to make a Kleenex dance?"
His mouth quirked. "No, how do you make a Kleenex dance?"
"Give it a little boogie."
Phil laughed and decided to make the best of this weird situation. Whatever Pam's game, he'd play along if it meant a better relationship with Melissa.
* * *
Pam's green eyes glittered over her beer glass as she finished her meal. "Melissa, your Dad was one hottie. He cruised Main Street with the top down on the Skylark. A real chick magnet. Phil, did you know I locked my keys in my car on purpose when I saw you in the parking lot that first night?"
Actually, he hadn't. God, was I always such a dumb ass?
Phil scooped some gravy onto a hunk of bread. "No, I was too busy being the knight saving the damsel in distress."
"So, you tricked him into meeting you?" Melissa asked.
Pam lifted a fork full of peas and smiled smugly. "Pretty much. Of course I fell for the old 'we've run out of gas' bit on our second date."
Phil inwardly groaned, yeah, he had been a big time dumb ass.
Turning to Melissa, Phil sought to change the subject. "So, are you going to try out for the basketball team?"
"What?" Pam squealed. "I thought you were going to go out for cheerleader."
"I've told you I don't want to be a dorky cheerleader." Melissa lowered her face, looking from under knitted brows. "I watched the basketball players this week and I can't handle a ball like that."
"Sure you can," Phil said waving his fork. "You just need practice. You're a natural athlete like your old man. You need to get a basket up in your driveway."
"Like I have time to deal with that," Pam said.
Pushing back his empty plate, Phil said, "I can do it. If you'll let me."
Phil stared a challenge to Pam. Will you really let me into her life or is this just an act?
Pam smiled a cat grin. "Gee, Phil, that's real sweet of you. I guess if Melissa has her heart set on basketball, we should encourage her."
"Fine, I'll bring a pole and basket over on Saturday," he said, then remembered his date with Maddie. "No, it'll have to be Sunday afternoon."
The sudden thought of Maddie brought warmth to his gut. Looking at Pam in the harsh yellow light reflected off the old foil wallpaper, he compared her to Maddie. Like comparing a garish rhinestone necklace to a fine diamond pendant. One was cheap, the other classy. But which one did he deserve?
After dinner, Phil helped Melissa with homework while Pam cleaned up the kitchen. Then it was time for him to go back to his apartment.
Pam said, "Melissa, you get ready for bed. I'll walk Dad out to his car."
Melissa gathered up her schoolbooks and papers as Phil crossed to the door. "Thanks, Coach. Hey, do you know how long you would have to fart to equal the power of a nuclear blast?"
Putting his hands in his pockets, he said, "How long?"
"Six years."
"Mmm. I know some guys that could be secret weapons." He gave her a wink. "Good night, baby."
Melissa trotted into the hall, calling over her shoulder. "Good night, Daddy."
His hand froze on the doorknob. She hadn't called him Daddy in six years. Something in his chest contracted.
Pam sashayed out of the kitchen. "I've wrapped some meatloaf up for you to make sandwiches."
Phil snapped out of his reverie and opened the door. "Uh, great."
She slid her arm through his, walking with him. "I think it's wonderful that we've called this truce. I mean all the arguing really doesn't get us anywhere, does it? We both want what's best for Melissa, don't we?"
He stiffly trudged forward with Pam plastered to his side. "I know I do. I'm not sure what you want."
She turned to him as they got to the car, gripping his forearm with a desperate hold. "I know what I want, Phil. I want the life we could have had if you hadn't gotten injured. The life we had before things got ugly and mean. When I saw you the other night on the football field, I realized we had something awful good back then."
"There's a lot of water under that bridge. A lot of whiskey, bourbon and beer, too."
Sliding a hand around his waist, she said, "I'm willing to make a fresh start. We've got a kid between us. That counts for something."
Phil looked down at her, smelling the beer on her breath, feeling mildly repulsed. "It counts for a whole lot. So, let's keep our focus on Melissa. She's the best part of both of us."
"Yeah, sure," she said standing on her tiptoes and giving his cheek a kiss. "We'll ju
st be good friends and the best mom and dad Melissa could ever want."
The words sounded right, but the way she clung to him and gazed with her heavy mascara eyes sent warning bells jangling in his head. A sense of suffocation threatened to overtake him. He quickly turned and opened his car door and escaped inside.
"Thanks for dinner," he said, shutting the door.
"I'll make chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes next time," she said as he revved up the engine.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
Giving her a little wave, he shot forward, and left her standing in the middle of the street. Whatever new web Pam was spinning, he knew he didn't want to get caught.
* * *
Saturday Morning, Pre-Dawn
Warm, blue light filled with iridescent glitter swirled about them on the twisting magic carpet of Grammy's beach quilt. Maddie felt his arms around her, smelled his heady scent, the hair on his chest tickled her nose. Long and languid, her body undulated in primitive response to masterful caresses that knew every secret spot, every magic place of erotic connection. Where his limbs stopped and hers began, she had no idea. They moved as one creature– smooth and rough, soft and hard filling each other's empty spaces. Her lover's face rose above her, blurry, indistinct. She blinked, trying to see through the hazy light. Slowly, his features took form, the eyes focusing first into familiar bronze, next the strong brows and square chin. Recognizing Phil, she reached up and ran her fingers through his short, thick hair. As she smiled, he dissolved before her eyes, leaving her alone on the quilt staring into the night sky. Above the huge moon shone with blinding intensity and she heard laughter wafting across the moon beams, rolling deep like thunder. Then the noise turned shrill. A shrill annoying buzz like, like…
Maddie pounded the alarm clock, bringing blessed silence into her bedroom and sanity into her mind. Good grief, that dream. She'd gotten Phil mixed up with that insane episode of the summer. The clock glowed 5:10. Her pulse raced and she inhaled several deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. This was the day. She'd promised Phil she'd be at his apartment at 6:30. Was she out of her mind? Could she really go off for a clandestine weekend with the overpowering Coach? Would she trade her Bostonian propriety for hot hillbilly love?