"You couldn'ta missed him, not if you got your regular delivery."
"Oh, you mean the new man on the linen truck?" Sally shrugged. "He was just a man."
Sure, and she was so hungry for a man that a single touch of his fingers had galvanized her.
"Yeah, right. A tiger is just a pussy cat, too." Georgina leered. "He's a little loose around the edges, but I'll bet he cleans up real good."
"If you say so."
"I do. I do, and so would you, if you ever did anything but take care of your pa. Are you gonna waste away in that big old house, or are you gonna have a life?"
"At this point, I don't think I have much of a choice." Sally stepped around Georgina and walked briskly in the direction of the Post Office.
There was no one else to take care of Pop, no one at all. While there was money enough to put him into a nursing home, she couldn't do that. He'd been born in the big house on Fifth Avenue and he would die in it, if she had any say in the matter. When she was small she'd loved listening to him tell the stories he'd heard from his grandmother, how her great-great grandfather Abner Carruthers had come to Whiterock in 1878. He'd lived in his wagon while he built first a barn, and then a house. He'd opened a feed store a few years later, and the town had been born. His son, Sam, had built the big house she'd grown up in.
No, she had no choice. That she was gradually losing herself, little bit by little bit, didn't—couldn't—matter. Sally knew her duty to her ancestors, her responsibility to her father. Once he was gone he would never know how quickly she shook the chalky dust of Whiterock, Oregon, from her feet.
The postmistress, thankfully, was not at the counter when Sally entered. She pulled the National Geographic and two bills from the box and slammed it shut, jerking her key free.
"That you, Sally Carruthers?"
"Yes, Wilma, it's me." She made herself smile at the short, square woman whose shoulders scarcely showed above the counter. "How are you this morning?"
"So-so, just like always, till the weather warms up." Reaching under the counter, she brought forth a fancy tin and pushed it towards Sally. "Have a mint."
"No, thanks. I've really got to go—"
"Land sakes, child, you look like you haven't slept in a week!" Again, Wilma pushed the mints toward Sally. "Take one. You could use the sugar."
Obediently, Sally accepted one of the cellophane-wrapped, green-striped mints.
"Pop had a bad night," she admitted. "I didn't get much sleep."
"Oh, my. What'd he do this time?" Since Wilma had been through the same thing with her mother a few years back, Sally never felt shy about sharing her troubles. She had to talk to someone, and at least Wilma simply listened and never, never showed pity.
Sally couldn't handle pity. It ate at her already fragile emotional defenses.
"He got it into his head that the taxes were delinquent—you know he was never late paying his taxes in his life! If he didn't get over to the assessor's office in Vale right then, they'd take the ranch. He practically tore his room apart, looking for his car keys."
Wilma simply shook her head in understanding.
"So, I gave him an old set of keys, thinking that would satisfy him. It seemed to, because he quieted down."
"That's a blessing."
"Not really. As soon as I went back to my sewing machine, he snuck outside and tried to get into my car."
Not that a few more scratches in its paint mattered, she supposed. Not beside the dents where he'd taken a hammer to the trunk lid last month.
"I got him back inside and into bed, but I couldn't get to sleep for worrying he'd wake and start in again."
"Did he?"
"No, and this morning he's in one of his melancholy moods. I don't know which is worse."
The sight of tears running down her father's sunken cheeks almost broke her heart. In some ways, she preferred his manic periods.
She reached across the counter and squeezed Wilma's hand.
"Thanks," she said, knowing Wilma understood why she was grateful. "I've got to go." She'd stayed longer than she should.
Pop hadn't ever gotten into trouble when she'd left him, but she knew how easy it would be for him to do so. He still had his strength. What he was lacking was common sense and judgment. Like that time she'd caught him laying bacon slices on a red-hot stove burner. Or when he'd let the bathtub run over, or when...
Never mind. She hated to remember all the potentially disastrous things he'd done. What she had to do was think about the Pop she loved. The hearty man with a ready smile and broad shoulders, the generous man who shared his time and his energy with his neighbors. Not the shambling, testy, almost mindless hulk who hung onto a life without hope, without future.
Stop it! How do you know he's not in there somewhere, trying to get out? Isn't that why you chose to stay with him, instead of putting him into a nursing home?
Despite her worry, she never walked as fast, going home. It was too much like going back to prison.
INTERVAL
Unforeseen intrusion?
Reaction indicating potential.
Enhance?
TWO
The next time Gus topped the hill outside of Whiterock, he was surprised to see that the town didn't look quite so bleak as he remembered. A few days of warmer weather had brought out a little green in winter-brown lawns. The lack of paint on most of the buildings in town wasn't so obvious with the sun shining.
"Mornin'." The same stocky man was seated at the counter in the Bite-A-Wee.
Gus sat beside him, accepted the sports page from the old duffer on the other side. He grinned his thanks when a cup of coffee and the pottery cream pitcher appeared before him.
"Y' want the same thing?"
The waitress was just as extraordinary as he remembered, but her smile reached her eyes and told him he was welcome.
"Yeah, please."
"Comin' right up. Hey, Jack, fix me up a special," she called through the window to the kitchen.
Gus should have ordered oatmeal, or unbuttered whole-wheat toast and OJ. Only this morning he'd noticed he was developing the beginnings of a paunch. But he hadn't been able to forget the delicious honey-cured bacon, the perfectly cooked eggs and the fat, yeasty slices of toast slathered with strawberry jam tasting of sunlight and spring rains. Tomorrow, he resolved, tomorrow he would rise earlier and run. Then he'd eat yogurt and fruit to make up for his sins this morning.
He hadn't run in three years.
The waitress slapped his platter before him.
"You new to these parts?" She set ketchup, hot sauce and the crock of jam beside the platter.
"Yeah." He forked his eggs on top of the hashbrowns. "First time in Oregon." He took a bite of bacon—as good as he remembered.
"You married?"
"Nope." Go away, lady and let me eat my breakfast. He tilted the sports page up in front of his face, hoping she'd take the hint.
"Good." She topped off his coffee before walking away, filling cups as she went.
"Don't pay Georgina no never mind," his stocky neighbor said. "She's just bein' friendly."
Damn snoopy, that's what she was being. Next week Gus would drop off her roller towels and go his way. Another dose of this coffee and his stomach would be rotted through anyway. He poured in an extra dollop of cream.
Replete and satisfied, he returned to his truck. Today would be a short day, since he only went all the way to Juntura every other week. Perhaps he'd take time on the way back in to detour into the badlands area over towards Westfall. He'd heard it was worth seeing.
Frank didn't care what time he got in, or how much time he wasted, as long as he got his work done. The longer he delayed getting back to Ontario, the less time he'd spend in his room, staring at four stained walls and remembering.
This time he took a minute to appreciate the Carruthers house when he got to his last stop. Instead of the gingerbread so common on houses of its era, this house stood foursquare and solid, witho
ut decoration, without whimsy. It was a house built for the future, a house meant to impress and to protect.
It should be cared for, instead of neglected. It needed paint, its chimney repointed, a missing shutter replaced on a second-story window and the weeds cleared from around its stone foundation. If it were his...
He wasn't man enough anymore to own a house like this.
The door opened.
Her hair was down this morning. As she opened the screen and motioned him inside, he noticed a faint pink to her lips and cheeks, a better definition to her dark eyebrows. He hesitated, uncomfortable with his body's sudden warming, awakening.
"Are you in a hurry this morning?" Her hands were clasped at her waist, but not still. They twisted together, rubbing against one another.
"No, I... Why?" He didn't mind waiting if she didn't have the pick-up ready. Frank had explained that she did mending and alterations for most of the laundries and dry cleaners in Ontario and Vale.
"I bought some cookies." Her voice faltered on the last word. "Oreos. I thought, if you wouldn't mind waiting while I finish one last seam... There's fresh-made coffee, too."
He'd eaten a big breakfast less than an hour ago, so he shouldn't be interested in food. But somehow, nothing sounded better to Gus than Oreo cookies and coffee.
INTERVAL
Ephemeral humans. Inconvenient...
Variable as energy sources secondly. Undependable...
Susceptibility differs. Not all effortlessly influenced. Carruthers best...
Good source of energy. Love strong. Passion mighty...
Humans receptive to auspicious environment. Enhance. Beautify. Embellish...
Keep Carruthers. Encourage reproduction. Steady, dependable source of energy...
Provide favorable milieu, inhibit departure...
Mutual advantage...
THREE
Sally couldn't believe she'd just offered him cookies. All she knew about this man was his name—Gus—embroidered on his shirt, just above the pocket.
Why had she bought the cookies anyway? She didn't need the calories, and Pop certainly didn't. And hadn't she learned anything from her experience with Ed? He'd been certain he was God's gift to womankind and hadn't been shy about showing it. Sally had only invited him inside once, and then it had taken her half an hour to convince him she wasn't interested in a weekly tryst.
"I wouldn't mind a decent cup of coffee." His voice grated slightly on her ears. It sounded rusty from lack of use, and reassuringly impersonal.
She glanced up at him, uncertain. There was nothing in his eyes. No threat, no desire. Nothing at all.
Could it be that she'd found a kindred soul? Someone who had nothing more to live for than she did? And if you have, do you want to have anything to do with such a loser? a small voice way in the back of her mind wondered.
Go away, she told it.
"It's...they're in here." She gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. She led him along the dim hallway, hoping Pop would be content a while longer with the rolling TV screen. It often seemed to soothe him, as if there was something there his failing mind could latch on to.
For the first time in months—years?—she noticed how dim and sinister the long hall seemed. As a child, she'd feared its shadowy corners and high, unseen ceiling. Today it seemed to trap her within its murk, just as it had threatened her younger self. She pushed the library door open as she went by. It didn't help—the blinds in there were pulled tight against the morning light.
"Your coffee sure smells good." His voice startled her as it sounded from just behind her shoulder.
"I...ah, I had some fancy beans." Would he get the wrong idea from knowing she'd gone to extra effort for him. "Sumatra." I don't know anything about him. Nothing! He could be—No! Frank wouldn't have hired anyone dangerous.
"I had breakfast at the café," he said, as he followed her into the dark kitchen.
She pushed the old fashioned two-button light switch. "Oh, dear. Have your taste buds recovered yet?"
In the fluorescent light from the ceiling fixture, she saw shadows under his eyes, as if he slept poorly and too little.
"I was careful to use plenty of cream." It was only a hint of a smile but there, nonetheless.
"I wish I dared do that." She set the plate of cookies before him and gestured for him to be seated. "Georgina's cream is as rich and thick as it comes." Her mouth watered at the very thought.
"So's everything else I've eaten there. Rich, I mean." He hesitated before sitting in the chair she indicated. "It's a shame the coffee isn't as good as the rest of the food."
"Actually, that's a good thing. If it was, I'd be tempted to stop in every morning. In a month, I'd be as big as a house." You're babbling, Sally Carruthers. She felt about as sure of herself as a girl on her first date.
She poured his coffee, waited for him to taste it. When he didn't she said, "Is something wrong? Oh, you want cream." She started toward the refrigerator.
"I was waiting for you to join me." His voice, for all its harsh overtones, held a gentle invitation like a cool breeze on a summer's day.
"Oh!" Sally turned and looked at him, waiting politely, as Pop no longer did. When she set food before her father, he either stared at it stupidly or delved into it with both hands, shoving it into his mouth like an undisciplined child. Or a starving man. "Of course. Just let me get the cream."
He raised a staying hand. "I don't need cream, Ms. Carruthers. I only use it at the Bite-A-Wee."
The hint of a smile came again with his naming of the café. If he ever quit stifling his urge to smile she probably wouldn't be able to resist him.
She perched on the edge of her chair, wondering again how she could have been so foolish as to invite a total stranger in for coffee. If he were to attack her no one would even know. Pop was long past being her protector.
She set her cup down with a clatter and stood up. "I'll finish that seam. It won't take me a minute."
This was not one of his better ideas, Gus acknowledged as the fragrant steam tickled his nostrils. He still wasn't sure why he'd accepted her invitation. He finished the coffee, wondered if good manners would allow him to help himself to a second cup.
"All done," she said, as she came back into the kitchen. "I put everything on the bench by the front door, so you won't be delayed any longer."
"I'm in no hurry." He looked around the big, high-ceilinged room. "This reminds me of the kitchen I grew up with."
"It's the only one I've ever known." She pushed the plate of cookies closer to him. A shy and tentative smile lit her face.
Shy? Sure, she's shy. That's why she invited a perfect stranger in for a snack.
Curious, he looked straight at her. She lowered her eyes. No. She's more frightened than shy. Probably having second thoughts. As well she should.
Gus forced unaccustomed facial muscles to widen his lips in a smile. It felt strange to do more than raise the corners of his mouth in a perfunctory gesture.
Her eyes still avoided his, but her lips widened in answer.
She reached for a cookie.
Gus reached at the same time, and their hands collided. Again that galvanic shock, as if they were each connected to a low-voltage generator.
She dropped her cookie.
He crumbled his. As he jerked his hand back, his wrist hit his cup, slopping coffee over the table.
"Oh, dear!" She jumped to her feet. "Did you burn yourself? Are you all right?" She grabbed a dishtowel from the handle of a drawer by the sink and dropped it over the spreading puddle. "Let me see your hand." She caught his right hand, pulled it across the table.
The shock of her touch was not as great as before, but the effect was the same. His fingers burned with an intense fire, as if she were the conduit for a tremendous current. This time, he resisted the urge to pull his hand free. There was something strangely comforting about the electric warmth of her touch.
He looked into her eyes—blue-gray, with a ri
ng of dark, velvety black around the iris. Bottomless. He fought the sensation of sinking...sinking deep into a season of indescribable delight.
Forcing his eyelids closed, he fought his way free of her spell. She's a goddam witch, that's what she is!
"I'm fine," he assured her. "Really. It wasn't even very hot."
"You're sure?" She clutched the towel to her chest, a plain, somewhat frowsy woman of indeterminate age. There was nothing witchy or mysterious about her. Just a woman, Gus, and you've been a monk for too long.
"Let me see."
He held up both hands, showed her palms and backs.
"Not even pink." Again he forced a smile, and this time it felt almost natural. He stood abruptly and went after the coffeepot.
"Warm yours up?" He held it above her cup.
"Oh, dear!" Her hands fluttered like sparrows in winter, not quite touching anything but gesturing at the coffeepot, the plate of cookies, the discarded towel and the table. "I'm sorry. How could I... I mean, I'm the hostess...Let me..."
"I've got it." He poured their cups full, replaced the pot on its warmer. Back at the table, he slid the plate toward her. "Have a cookie?"
She took one and nibbled it. Her teeth were small and white, her lips soft and pink. He wondered if they would taste of chocolate if he were to lean across the table and sample them.
Before his body could react to that thought, he said, "Ms. Carruthers, if I frighten you, why did you invite me in?"
"You don't... I'm not... You seemed..." She licked her lips again.
His body tightened at the sight of her quick, pink tongue.
"I was lonely." The last two words were little more than a sigh as she met his eyes with naked longing.
Oh, God! Not again!
Shoving his chair back until it banged against the wall, he stood and leaned his fists on the table. "You picked the wrong guy, then." Angry, because she was just like Marilyn, he snarled like a cornered animal. "You want company, lady, go buy yourself a dog."
He stalked out, raging inwardly with the inequity of it all. Why did women look to him to fill their needs? Couldn't she see that there was nothing inside the empty shell he showed the world? No heart, no soul? Nothing!
Improbable Solution Page 2