Skinny Dipping

by Connie Brockway

  “He said you were so mentally lazy you might as well be asleep,” Prescott said, his voice rising.

  Mimi, halfway to the kitchen, stopped. “Now, that stings,” she admitted. “And it’s unfair. I do the hardest Sudokus in Sudoku Master Magazine without penciling in any numbers.”

  “Wow. Notify the Nobel Prize committee,” Joe said.

  “I think it’s great,” Prescott said. “Really great.”

  She shot Prescott a look. She knew when she was being patronized. “I do other stuff, too,” she said primly. “I set up the interface for my plasma television, DVD recorder, and cable system myself.”

  Prescott attempted to look impressed. Joe made a point of studying the buff on his manicured nails.

  She’d never had to convince anyone of her intelligence before. It felt very weird. “Look. I’m not going to argue about this. I’ll get you guys some pop; then I’m going back to Chez Ducky to sit in my usual blissful stupor.”

  “Wait,” Prescott said. “You mean you don’t stay here?”

  “Nope. No reason to.” She didn’t add that there were also some very good reasons not to, primary of those being that as Joe grew more physically comfortable, she grew more physically uncomfortable.

  She’d never been so tempted to fall into bed with a guy, and never had her self-preservation warning signals been flashing so brightly. She didn’t know why this should be. She’d had wonderful short-term affairs before and no one had gotten hurt. (Correction. No one that she knew of. As a rule, she didn’t make follow-up calls.)

  “But what about the dogs?” Prescott asked lamely.

  “I come over in the morning, take care of the dogs, and at dinnertime I make sure everyone gets something to eat. Including Joe. An admittedly mindless way of spending the day, but the dogs seem to appreciate it.”

  “You’re not really going to leave me here with him?” Prescott asked, giving her a gooey look of adulation.

  Joe straightened up at this. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “What’s right with you?” Prescott snapped back. “You’re ruining everything by being here. Go away.”

  The hurt occasioning his words caused an unpleasant sensation to burrow toward Mimi’s heart. She disliked this treacherous feeling. Prescott and his ilk were in large part responsible for Chez Ducky’s looming end. If people like him didn’t build monsters like this place on every splotch of land with water near it, the Chez Ducky property wouldn’t be worth a fortune and the idea of selling it would never even have arisen. Things could go on forever just as they had.

  On the other hand, he sounded so damn young.

  Joe must have thought so, too, because he didn’t take offense. “I was just trying to help.”

  The unpleasant sensation by her heart blossomed into an all-out ache. Joe sounded so damn sad.

  “Stop trying. It’s too late,” Prescott declared and with a jerk of his hand twirled his wheelchair dramatically away from his father. Unfortunately he overshot the mark, sending the wheelchair into a spin that ended with him crashing into the wall.

  “Are you okay?” Joe asked worriedly, wheeling closer.

  “Screw you!” Prescott yelled, red faced with embarrassment.

  More emotions spilled like some corrosive acid onto Mimi’s Teflon-coated heart. She could damn near smell the thing smoking.

  Mimi stared horrified, not at the yelling going on but at herself and what she realized she was going to do. She was going to insert herself square into the middle of this family drama, and she wasn’t exactly sure why or how to keep herself from doing so. But she could not stand to see these two hurting each other so unnecessarily.

  “Fine, Prescott,” Joe said tightly. “I’ll—”

  “Both of you, shut up!” And there it was. She was in. As in “involved.” Both men looked at her dumbly. The jerks had forgotten she was there.

  “Shut up and stay shut up until I get back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “First, to let the dogs in. Second, to the kitchen to get some wine. Then you two are going to sit on opposite sides of this room and talk or I am leaving you here alone, at the mercy of the dogs. And Bill’s lower gastrointestinal system.”

  They shut up.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  As Mimi rummaged in the cupboards for something that went with wine, her cell phone rang, startling her into spilling a glass of the sublime Whitehall Lane cabernet sauvignon on the granite island. It dripped over the edge and onto the tiled floor. She swore. Whitehall Lane’s 2002 was simply too good to spill, not to mention too good to be lapped up by the likes of Bill. She snatched up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Mimi? Is that you?”

  “Well, it isn’t your aunt Irene, Ozzie,” Mimi said, kneeling down with a towel to wipe up the wine. Bill spied her and propelled himself across the living room at the towel, grabbing the end and jerking, growling deep in his throat. He was not playing. Bill did not play. For days, Bill had laid in wait for something to savage. Since Joe’s arrival, towels, shoes, and other loose articles of clothing were in short supply. “Hold on a sec.”

  Mimi wrenched at the towel in Bill’s mouth. Bill did not let go. The towel—another towel—ripped in half. She released her half and Bill shot away snarling in victory. No sense fighting over a torn rag. She got to her feet.

  “You’re not going to let him run around the house with that wine-soaked rag, are you?” Prescott asked in shock.

  “She is,” Joe answered with weary resignation.

  “Do you mind? I am on the phone!” she said, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. She lifted the cell to her ear. “What’s up, Ozzie?”

  “Who’s that?” Ozzie asked curiously.

  “My neighbors.”

  “Neighbors? I thought you were going to Chez Ducky to commiserate with the spirits of your ancestors.”

  Actually she’d said, “to blow the stink off the place,” but Ozzie, who staunchly believed in dressing things up, had edited. “Yes. I thought so, too. Plans changed.”

  “Since when do you plan anything?” he asked.

  Ozzie was obviously stalling, and Mimi had to get back to Prescott and Joe, who, along with Bill, were doing a fair reenactment of the Pamplona Running of the Bulls. Prescott and Joe had taken on the roles of the bulls and were skittering around the hardwood floors in their wheelchairs pursuing Bill as the Intrepid Runner, whose rag seemed to be acting as a cape.

  “True, Ozzie, but lately the small tributary that is my life has wandered into a little backwater. Until the tide comes up again, I’m stranded here. Now, again. What’s up?”

  He took a deep breath. “I know this is way out of line and that you are on vacation, but I figured since you were due back soon anyway—” Crap. She’d forgotten she’d told Oz she wouldn’t be gone more than two weeks and she’d been up here—she did a quick mental count—eleven days.

  “It’s going to be a while longer, I’m afraid.”

  “What?” Ozzie exclaimed.

  “Look, I’ve got things I have to stick around up here for.”

  “Like watching snow fall?” Ozzie asked sarcastically, clearly not believing her. “That’s not why I called, but how long? Another week? Look, Mimi, I need to be able to count on you because of things like—”

  A clattering sound drew her attention. She spun around. Prescott had nearly upended himself down the stairwell. She clamped the cell phone to her chest. “Watch it, you idiot! Do you want to break the other leg?”

  She couldn’t leave the two of them alone like this. Her gaze slew to Bill, hunkered down under the red sofa, his eyes alight with a feral gleam as he growled at Joe, who was attempting to get the rag from him. Crap. She returned the cell phone to her ear. “Yeah, Ozzie about that—”

  But Ozzie had gone on. “—told her that we run a legitimate business and that you only work out of the office to ensure that every call is properly documented and billed. She doesn’t buy it. So, I was wonderi
ng if you could just tell her when you’ll be back and reassure her that Brooke or I are eminently capable of contacting her mother in your place.”

  Ozzie was talking about Jess. Mimi stilled. She’d forgotten about Jess, whom she’d also told she was going to be on vacation but not for how long. Jess was expecting her, and her mother, back.

  “Okay, Ozzie,” she said. “Give me her number and I’ll call her.”

  “Weren’t you listening? I’ve got her on hold. I can transfer her to you right now. I’d really appreciate it. She is a major pain in the ass.”

  Jess was, indeed. She was also scared. “Put her on.”

  She heard Ozzie’s sigh of relief. “Thanks, Mimi. You’re the best.”

  “I know. Bye, Ozzie.”

  There was a series of clicks and then Jess’s voice, angry and sarcastic. “What? Speaking to spooks is so exhausting you have to take time off from it?”

  “Actually it’s not the spooks who are exhausting.” Mimi let the inference hang a second, then said, “Hi, Jess. How are you doing?”

  “Not that great,” Jess bit out. “Neil’s having second thoughts about moving in, and I am sure it’s because of Mother.”

  “Your mother’s haunting him?” Mimi asked, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice. “Did he tell you this?”

  “No, but what other reason could there be? I mean, he tells me all the time that he couldn’t live without me, so why would he want to? Live without me, that is.”

  Warning bells went off in Mimi’s head. With all the neediness going on, someone was going to have to do the giving, and Mimi greatly feared old Neil had decided it would be Jess. Mimi saw a manipulation in the works.

  “He says he has a bad vibe about moving in. He needs reassurance. So, there you go. It has to be Mom.”

  “What does your therapist think?”

  “Oh, some bullshit about learning to be independent.”

  Mimi looked over her shoulder. Someone had finally gotten the wine-soaked rag from Bill. It hung from the fireplace mantel like a flag of victory, secured by a heavy book. Prescott was tipped halfway over the side of his chair scrubbing at some red drops on the floor. Joe was watching her. She tucked the cell phone under her chin and wandered toward the hallway.

  “You think that’s bullshit?” she asked Jess. “I mean, you lived with your mother until she died, right?”

  “Did she tell you that?” Jess asked, “she” being Jess’s mom. “Well, she forgot about the entire semester I spent living in the St. Cloud dorm my sophomore year.”

  In the living room Mimi heard Prescott shouting at Bill and then the crash of something heavy, like a book. Bill had gone for bonus points.

  “Jess, living by yourself is great.” Really great, she thought, imagining herself on her knees scrubbing up after Bill. “You get to do what you want, when you want it, without having to ask permission or jibe someone else’s schedule with yours. You get to immerse yourself in whatever interests you.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine if that’s the sort of person you are and you like that being-alone shit.” Jess bit the words out as if she had trouble saying them, as if she understood how revealing they were and did not want to sound pathetic. “Look. I don’t want to be alone. There’s all this…space around me. I just want it filled up.”

  “I understand, Jess,” Mimi said. “But maybe you should take your time, fill in those empty places slowly. There’s no hurry.”

  “You don’t understand,” Jess snapped back. “You have people. I can hear them in the background.”

  Mimi almost snorted. She had people? She would love to tell Jess that she didn’t want to have people. Oh, sure, she was used to being around people; she was around dozens of people every summer she’d spent at Chez Ducky. But then she was more like one of the benevolent spirits that hovered around the living, there but not affecting much, not really necessary. But even if she told Jess this, she wouldn’t believe her. In fact, Mimi wasn’t altogether sure she’d believe herself.

  She was definitely having an effect here, she realized, and she was definitely necessary. And…having fun. More than just being content and satisfied, her usual condition, she was actually having a rousing good time torturing Joe (and herself) and messing around with the dogs. Which was only a testament to how flexible she was, she assured herself, not an indication of any late-life change of character.

  “Ms. Olson!” Prescott hollered from the living room. “Bill has that soggy towel again and it’s dripping on the rug this time! Can you please get it away from him?”

  Blondie appeared in the hall and trotted by Mimi. She sat down in front of the door and looked over her shoulder. She wanted to go out. Blondie was the only polite one in the bunch.

  “Mimi! Prescott is going to crawl out of his chair if you don’t hurry up,” Joe called.

  No doubt about it, there was a lot of needing Mimi going around.

  “I don’t want to be alone,” Jess repeated. Her voice had lost all trace of aggression.

  “You’re not,” Mimi said. “You have me.”

  Jess made an unladylike sound. “Yeah. Right. But I pay you.”

  Mimi took a deep breath. What difference did one more person make? It was only for a short while.

  “Not anymore, Jess. Let me give you my cell phone number so you can call me direct.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “Nothing I have ever done has ever impressed him,” Prescott said an hour later, stabbing a finger in Joe’s direction. He then held out his empty wineglass, and Joe, ever the attentive host—even when it wasn’t his damn house, thought Prescott—leaned forward and refilled it. Didn’t the guy realize he’d just denounced him as a father? Didn’t he care?

  “He should care,” Prescott muttered. “I’m a bona fide genius. I am the youngest professor ever to get tenured at MIT. I invented a—”

  “I used to be a genius,” Mimi interjected cheerfully.

  Prescott, stymied midrant, raised his eyebrows. Mimi was lolling on the couch with Wiley while she fiddled with Blondie’s ears. Bill, deprived of his rag, sat on the edge of the carpet and sulked.

  “I was,” she insisted.

  “How’dya know?” Prescott asked suspiciously.

  “My mom had me tested when I went into kindergarten.”

  “My mom had me tested when I was two and a half,” Prescott said smugly. “She was very perceptive.”

  “Couldn’t be more perceptive than Solange,” Mimi disagreed equitably. “Solange has a radar for untapped potential that is frightening.”

  “So, what happened to you?” Prescott asked.

  “Whatddya mean?” Mimi said.

  “You said you used to be a genius.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I gave it up.”

  “You can’t give up being a genius.” He looked at Joe, sunk comfortably on the other end of the couch, his wineglass balanced on his stomach, a content smile on his face, though what he had to be content about was beyond Prescott.

  Joe opened his mouth as if to say something. Great, thought Prescott, now he would take over the conversation because people lu-vved listening to Joe’s Velvet Voice. He wondered if they’d love listening to him so much if they knew “the velvet” was a result of having smoked in college. His mom had confided that little bit of info. Prescott prepared to watch Mimi be charmed right out of her shoes. Except she wasn’t wearing any.

  “You know how many kinds of germs the dogs have undoubtedly carried in on their paws?” he asked, nodding toward her bare feet. He vaguely noted that Joe wasn’t talking; he was yawning. “There’s probably all sorts of snow-borne parasites and bacteria and God knows what all on this floor.”

  “I think they’d be frozen solid, Pres,” Mimi said, unconcerned.

  “No. They are not. Why, do you realize that scientists have found viable bacteria in bore samples taken from Paleozoic ice pack—What are you doing?”

  Mimi’s smile had broadened into a Cheshire cat grin as she leaned
over the coffee table, reached out to where Prescott’s foot was propped up on the wheelchair footrest, and flicked his big toe with her finger. “Touch.”

  “What’s she doing?” he squealed, recoiling in alarm as she proceeded to flick each of his toes in turn, chanting, “Touch, touch, touch, touch.”

  “Desensitizing you,” Joe said calmly.

  “Tell her to stop!” Prescott recoiled.

  “She doesn’t listen to me. You tell her. She might listen to you.”

  With a cackle of glee, Mimi went back to Prescott’s big toe and gave it a final yank.

  “Ow!”

  She flopped back in her seat. “And touch again!”

  “She’s drunk,” Prescott said.

  Joe studied Mimi a second. “I think so.”

  His father had been right about Mimi, Prescott thought morosely. She was not the woman he’d thought she was. The woman he had idolized had been a font of Zen-like serenity, an Earth Mother, a Madonna of the snows, a Mignonette—not a Mimi. Someone who encouraged and supported you, someone diligent on your behalf, who had only your welfare in mind. Someone like his mom.

  “You’re nothing like my mom,” he muttered disconsolately.

  “He’s drunk,” Mimi informed Joe.

  Joe looked at him. “I think so.”

  Mimi, her suspicion supported, turned back to Prescott. “I don’t want to be like your mother.”

  Both Joe and him gaped.

  Mimi whooped. “You should see yourselves! Both staring at me with the same poleaxed expression.” She whooped again. “What? No one ever told you how much alike you two are?”

  No. Never. In fact, his mother had always said it was amazing Joe had produced a son so dissimilar from himself. Prescott whipped his head around to see whether Joe took this as an insult. He didn’t look insulted. And he hadn’t even been drinking that much.

  Since it appeared Joe wasn’t going to say anything, he would. Before his father started laughing. “That’s ridiculous. We don’t look anything alike.”