Improbable Solution

by Judith B. Glad

  "Of course," she said, relieved. Now she wouldn't have to cook. "Tomorrow, maybe?"

  "Can we make it Friday?"

  "Sure. Anytime."

  "Great. See you then."

  Another yawn interfered with her answer. It didn't matter, because he'd hung up.

  Well, since she was going to be alone tonight, maybe she'd just take a little nap before she scrounged up some supper.

  * * * *

  Being your own boss meant you sometimes worked for a real slave driver, Gus thought as he opened the door at the Bite-A-Wee Cafe on Friday. The problem with Zigler's baler had required taking a part in to Vale to be welded. Damn, I wish Pete knew how to weld.

  This morning he'd gotten a call to go out to Westfall to look at a stubborn pump. He'd thought he'd bought an automotive repair shop. Now he was learning that one of the reasons Bernie had kept the business profitable was that he'd been an all-round handyman, willing to tackle—and fix just—about anything.

  A degree in mechanical engineering hadn't trained Gus to be a mechanic, not by a long shot. Thank God for all those years tinkering with hotrods.

  His usual seat was waiting, between Arne Lundquist and Roy Gilbert. He greeted both men as he sat down, accepted the sports page from Arne.

  After agreeing with Georgina that he wanted the special—Hangtown Fry with garlic toast—he checked the baseball scores.

  Somebody ought to teach those boys how to play ball.

  Closing the paper in disgust, he asked Roy how his grandson's Little League team was doing.

  "Pretty good." Roy smiled widely. "They've got a good shot at the state playoffs."

  "Maybe I should follow them instead of the Red Sox," Gus grumbled. He folded the paper and set it aside as his lunch appeared. "Thanks, Georgina. Looks good, as usual."

  He reached for the ketchup.

  "Seen Sally the last few days?" Georgina was leaning close so that only he, Roy and Arne could hear her question.

  "Yeah... Well, not since Tuesday night." A frisson of alarm went down his spine. "Hasn't she been in?"

  "Nope, and Wilma hasn't seen hide nor hair of her, either."

  "I'll check on her," he promised.

  "You do that." Georgina poured more vitriol into his almost empty cup.

  God help him, was he actually learning to like the bitter brew?

  * * * *

  The house looked abandoned.

  Gus paused at the front gate, noting the lowered shades, the pulled drapes. Thus had it appeared to him the first time he'd been here—a neglected old house, its paint peeling where the merciless sun scorched it all day, the yard unkempt and going to weeds. He pushed through the gate, which squealed at him like a soul in torment.

  The doorbell echoed in the house, but he heard no answering footsteps. Trying the door, he found it, as usual, unlocked. Now, that was a habit he'd never get into.

  "Sally?" He stuck his head inside. "Are you here?"

  There was no answer beyond a slight echo. He entered.

  The house still smelled of sickness, of old age, of dying. He'd just check, to make sure she really wasn't here.

  The ground floor rooms were empty, dust motes disturbed by his passage dancing in narrow rays of a westering sun that managed to shine between the almost-closed drapes. There was no sign Sally had intended to feed a guest this evening.

  Checking out in back, he saw her car parked in its usual place, so she hadn't gone to Vale or Ontario. He knew a momentary, surprisingly strong relief. She hadn't gone away.

  Where the hell was she? He had walked along Main Street on his way here, so he knew she wasn't uptown.

  "Sally?" he called again.

  "Sally!" This time he shouted.

  Silence.

  He returned to the front hall. Indecisive, he put his hand on the front doorknob.

  No. He had to search the entire house before giving up.

  He had never been up the stairs. They squeaked. No wonder she hadn't really wanted to bring him here while Juana was in the house. He wouldn't have been comfortable, either.

  The first room he poked his head into had to be the master bedroom. It still held a high, old-fashioned, brass bed and an oak dresser an antique dealer would sell her soul for. And a faint scent of lilacs, reminding him of a magic day in May.

  The next room was empty, looked as if it had been for many years with its faded posters of World War II-vintage airplanes.

  The end room on the other side of the hall was Sally's. Opera and play posters, a drafting table and a tall stool looked incongruously modern and workaday in company with the canopy bed and French provincial dresser.

  Then he saw her, sprawled facedown across the bed. The T-shirt she wore was hiked up, exposing pink nylon panties. Her hair, tangled and dull, hid her face.

  "Sally!" He reached out, but then hesitated, almost afraid to touch her. When he saw the shallow movement of her chest, he completed the gesture, laying his hand on her shoulder. "Sally! Wake up!"

  No response. He shook her and she moaned.

  Her eyelids fluttered. Scrunched shut. "Go 'way," she whined. "'M sleepin'."

  Laying the back of his hand against her cheek, he eliminated the possibility of fever. "Wake up, damn it! You owe me supper!"

  Slowly, laboriously, she rolled to her back. Her eyes opened.

  "Wh' timezit?" She lifted her arm as if to check her watch, but she wasn't wearing it.

  Gus saw a digital clock on the dresser. "Six-fifteen."

  "Oh, God. Too early," she said, her voice still querulous. "'M gonna sleep till noon." She turned to her side and pulled her knees up. Her arms circled the pillow and her eyes closed again.

  "Six-fifteen p.m." He picked her up. "Time for supper."

  Ordinarily, he liked the feel of her in his arms but not now. There was a faint sour smell about her, a combination of perspiration—it must have been ninety in her room—and something else. Did despair have an odor?

  He carried her downstairs. This time, before he took an unwilling Carruthers into the shower, he was damn well going to undress.

  INTERVAL

  Weakness.

  Control over light and shadow depleted. Maintenance of glamour sporadic.

  Carruthers? Contact tenuous.

  Alarm!

  NINETEEN

  Gus had to grin. A more likely candidate for drowned cat of the year he had never seen. Sally's hair hung in dripping strands around her face. The thin towel he'd wrapped haphazardly around her covered—barely—the most interesting parts of her, but its frayed ends only added to the pathetic picture. She sat in one of the kitchen chairs, glaring at him and sipping on the tea he'd made.

  "You are despicable!"

  "And you're awake," he countered.

  "I would have been just as awake if you'd been nicer." Her lower lip threatened to pout.

  He wanted to kiss it.

  "All you had to do was call me."

  "Sally, my dear, I did call you. I yelled my fool head off, and you didn't even twitch. I shook you. I picked you up and carried you, undressed you, manhandled you into a warm shower. And all you could say was 'Go 'way. Lemme 'lone.'" He imitated her querulous pleas, complete to whiny voice. "You didn't come alive until I turned off the hot water."

  He couldn't help smiling as he recalled how she'd yelled. One second his arms had been full of a limp body, the next she was squealing and fighting to get out from under the icy spray.

  "Call it a last resort."

  "Hmph." Her glare could have left scorch marks.

  Gus ignored her and went to prowl the refrigerator, found nothing but condiments and an almost-empty pitcher of what looked like lemonade. He opened the top door. A tray of ice, some freezer-burned hotdog buns.

  "Isn't there any food in the house?"

  "In the freezer. Downstairs." She shivered, and her teeth chattered, despite the residual heat in the kitchen.

  He took the cup from her shaking hands. "Can you walk?"


  "Of course, I can." She stood, clinging to the back of her chair.

  Gus again noticed, before he picked her up, how much slimmer she was—almost gaunt. Hadn't she eaten these last few weeks? "The hell you can," he muttered.

  "You know, I get really tired of the way you just pick me up and carry me off, whether I want to go or not," she said, as he climbed the stairs to her room.

  Marilyn had liked being carried, had enjoyed his—as she put it—masterful ways. He set Sally down as soon as he topped the stairs.

  "Suit yourself, but get some clothes on. We're going to Vale for dinner."

  "What if I don't want to?"

  "Then I'll dress you myself and carry you to my truck. You need something more substantial than lemonade and potato chips."

  She turned and stalked away, clothed in a meager towel and immense dignity.

  Gus thought she said something about a pig's eye before she went into her bedroom. He only just managed to catch the door before she slammed it. From the gleam in her eyes, she'd planned on locking him out.

  "Dress!" he ordered, and folded his arms across his chest. "Or I'll do it for you."

  She stuck her tongue out at him but went to her dresser and pulled out underwear. After giving him one more scathing glare, she turned her back on him. Somehow, she managed to make the act of clothing herself seem all her idea.

  Sally wouldn't admit it for the world, but she appreciated Gus's concern. She didn't know what had gotten into her, but she simply had not been able to stay awake.

  Two days! She had actually slept the better part of two days, rousing only for infrequent trips to the bathroom. How much longer would she have slept if he hadn't come?

  "Okay, let's go." She slipped her feet into espadrilles. "Or are you going to make me wait all night for my supper?"

  His lips twitched, but he didn't respond.

  Once they were on the road, he said, "When are you leaving town?" His tone was no longer half-teasing.

  "Are you in a hurry to say goodbye?"

  "No. But if I'm going to have to, I'd sort of like some warning."

  She turned her head and looked out. The sagebrush-covered hills seemed to hide secrets in their folds, but there were no answers among them. "I don't know," she admitted

  Several miles later, when they had reached the outskirts of Vale, he shook her. "Wake up!"

  "I am awake." What was making her drift off this way? She couldn't seem to complete a coherent thought for the life of her.

  "You couldn't prove it by me," Gus growled. He turned the pickup into the parking lot of a café. "This okay with you?"

  Sally shrugged. "Anywhere. I'm not really hungry."

  He slammed his door and came around to open hers. "You should be," he said as she slid from the high seat. "You don't look as if you've eaten for a week."

  Sally wasn't sure she had, not really. Oh, she'd nibbled at the food her neighbors had brought over, but mostly she'd wasted more than she'd eaten.

  Gus changed her order from soup and sandwich to steak, baked potato and salad. It was easier to go along with him than to argue. He said little during the meal, just watched her, made sure she kept eating. It gave her time to think.

  Although she felt like a naughty little girl, Sally had to admit—to herself, never to him—that the food tasted wonderful.

  "How about a piece of pie?" he said, when she'd finally cleaned up her plate to his satisfaction.

  Sally refused the pie, but took a couple of bites of his. It wasn't as good as Georgina's coconut cream. None of her food had tasted as good as what she was used to, yet she knew this restaurant had a good reputation. Gus seemed to enjoy his dinner, though, so perhaps her taste buds were as numb as the rest of her.

  Once they were on the highway, going home, he said, "Cat got your tongue?"

  "Hmmm?" She had her cheek against the window, watching as the lights of civilization grew fewer and farther between.

  "So, when do we say goodbye?" he said into the silence.

  "I don't know. I haven't...I can't seem to decide anything."

  "When Marilyn... A very wise friend once told me that after someone you love dies you shouldn't do anything for at least a year."

  "I've already been here far too long. Right now I don't know if I have a career to go back to. In another year... Well, if I wait that long, I might as well just stay in Whiterock and forget about fame and fortune." She did her best to speak lightly, but knew he couldn't have missed the little quaver in the last few words.

  "You know, you have a nasty little tendency to self-pity."

  "I don't!"

  "Yeah, you do. What's the matter? Can't you find anybody else to feel sorry for you? Poor, noble little Sally, sacrificing her life for her parents and never a word of thanks. So she's got to play the martyr so everyone will notice what a loving, conscientious daughter she is."

  "You...you... You bastard!" She grabbed the door handle, wanting nothing so much at to get as far away from him as she could. "Stop the car!"

  Only Gus's hand, jerking her away from the passenger door, pulling her to the limit of her seatbelt, kept her from trying to jump from the moving pickup.

  "Suicide wish, Sally?" he said, once he'd pulled to a stop.

  She'd given up struggling, but not wanting to get away from him. "Let me go. I can walk from here." She tried to free her hands, but they were both held as securely as if in manacles within the tight grip of his fingers.

  "We're nearly six miles from Whiterock," he said, "and it's black as pitch out there."

  "I don't care!"

  "I do. Now, are you going to behave, or do we sit here until morning?" He settled back in his seat, apparently relaxed except for the hand that held hers. He looked good for all night.

  As far as that went, so was she. Sally clamped her lips together and looked out the window. It was, indeed, an extremely dark night. The forecast clouds must be moving in.

  The cooling engine ticked, an alien sound in the desert night. A cicada sang, and far away, a coyote called to his love. Once a car whooshed by, its headlights momentarily illuminating Gus's face. It looked carved from stone.

  Another car, its tires singing on the pavement, came up on them from behind. It slowed and pulled in behind them. Footsteps crunched on gravel, and then a flashlight shone through the window. It played on Gus, on her, moved to where his hand still held hers.

  Gus lowered the window. "Evenin', officer. What can we do for you?"

  "You might want to move up the road to where there's a decent shoulder," the state policeman said. "It'd be a pity for somebody to come along and rear-end you."

  Sally opened her mouth to ask for help, but closed it again. No sense in bringing a stranger into a private fight. She sat quietly while Gus and the cop exchanged pleasantries. When he'd left, she said, "You can let me go now."

  "You given up on walking home?"

  "Yes. Please, can we just go?"

  She felt Gus's gaze on her for a long moment. Finally, he released her, and she folded her hands together in her lap.

  Neither of them spoke the rest of the way home. When he pulled up in front of her house, she had the door open almost as soon as he stopped.

  "Thank you for supper. I'm really tired. Goodnight."

  He caught up with her at the foot of the front steps, catching her wrist in a light hold she could easily have escaped.

  "What?"

  "Will you do me a favor?"

  Her nod was automatic, but she bit back the yes before it could escape. "That depends."

  "Say goodbye before you run away." Without waiting for her reply, he turned around and strode rapidly to his pickup.

  Sally doubted he heard her say, "Yes, of course. Of course, I will."

  All evening, Gus had resisted the dull ache of desire he'd felt ever since holding her, wet and slippery, in his arms in the shower. She would probably have punched him out if he'd laid a hand on her.

  "She's right," he muttered as he wa
lked back to his pickup. "I'm a total bastard."

  He could not believe he'd said those things to her. ...nasty little tendency to self-pity...play the martyr...nobody to feel sorry for you...

  Hell! In her place, he'd have bloodied his nose, at the very least.

  Tomorrow he'd apologize. If he went back tonight, he might be taking his life in his hand—or at least be risking bodily harm.

  He drove slowly back to his apartment, parked in his usual spot but didn't open the door. Instead, he sat there, window down, listening to the night sounds.

  The only indication there were human beings within a hundred miles was the muted hum of the refrigeration units at Lundquist's Market. A light breeze whispered among the silver maples surrounding Nagy's Cabins, and somewhere off in the distance a coyote sang to the sky.

  Slowly, the silence soothed him, muting the persisting guilt, soothing the residual desire, leaving him content and at peace.

  He rolled up the windows and got out, breathing deeply of the clean, sagebrush-scented air. At this moment, he was as content as he had ever been in his life.

  * * * *

  Sally leaned against the door after she'd closed it. "I hate him," she whispered. "He's mean. Spiteful. How could he say..."

  Her words echoed in her head. ...can't seem to decide...forget about fame and fortune...

  Worse, the nasal whine in her voice sounded loud and clear in her mental ear. She winced. "What a crybaby."

  Somehow, the days since Pop died seemed unreal, as if she'd been trapped in thick, clinging fog, both mentally and physically. Her mind had refused to work; her body had lacked energy; and she had been so sunk in despair, in self-pity, in apathy, that she hadn't even seen how bad she'd been.

  "Thank heavens for Gus." She turned out the light he'd left on in the front room, picked up the sweater she'd left on the newel post, and went upstairs. She wasn't sleepy, so maybe she'd dig out her portfolio, see what it would take to update it.

  Sally woke early, plans and schemes whirling inside her head. She took her address book down with her, set it on the table while she made coffee.

  She'd looked through her portfolio, decided all it needed was an updated resume. All her designs were as good as—or better than—she remembered. She'd gone to bed certain she wouldn't sleep a wink, but she had. Long and restfully.