Reason for Leaving

by John Manderino

  “Please don’t laugh in front of me like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, then burst out laughing again. I needed to sit down. I found a stool.

  “Mind telling me what’s so damn funny?”

  I wiped my eyes. “Nothing. It’s just … I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Comfortable?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Is that stool comfortable?”

  “How much.”

  “Fifteen.”

  I got off it. “I should be going,” I told her. “So could you tell me how to get to the nearest—”

  “At least buy the typewriter, for God sakes. You have a gift. Don’t waste it.” She again read out loud, this time with feeling: “‘The quick … brown fox … jumps over … the lazy … dog.’ I can see that so clearly,” she said, closing her eyes. “See that quick little fox. See that lazy, lazy dog.”

  “Ten, you said?”

  “Fifteen, with the stool.”

  “I don’t need a stool.”

  “All right, fifteen without the stool.”

  “Deal.” I gave her a ten and a five. “That’s all I can spend,” I told her. “I need the rest to get home.”

  “Dear old Illinois. Is it nice there? People say how pretty it is out here in the mountains, but how would I know? I’ve never been anywhere else. And now all my friends are coming over and I have nothing to wear. If I just had two more dollars …”

  “Here. Buy a nice dress.”

  “What for?” she said, pocketing the bills. “So I can sit there looking beautiful all by myself?”

  “What about—”

  “My friends? What friends? I haven’t got any friends. Are you kidding? You think if I had any friends I’d be out here talking to you? Try to be serious. No offense but I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on the planet.” She shook her head. “Stick to nature writing, fella. Because I’ll tell you something. Just between you and me? You don’t know much about the real world. And you sure don’t know much about women.”

  I nodded, agreeing.

  “I have to be going now,” I told her, and once again asked directions to the nearest town.

  She said there was one about a mile and a half up the road.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I think I should know.”

  I lifted the typewriter. “Well, Dolores …”

  “Take me with you, take me with you,” she said in a tiny voice, holding out the plastic Mary. She put it in my coat pocket and patted the place.

  We walked together out to my car.

  “Would you do something for me?” she asked.

  “If it’s money, I’m sorry but I really—”

  “In one of the books you write? Even if it’s only about animals? Would you mention me? Just … say that I was here. That Dolores Van Buren was here. That you met me and … say that she had a lovely smile. ‘Dolores had a lovely smile.’ Would you say that in your book?”

  I promised her I would.

  We were at the car. She looked around at the sky, her arms folded closely. “Getting dark earlier and earlier,” she said quietly, and sighed. “How I hate that.”

  I told her I understood.

  She stepped closer. “You can kiss me, if you like, just here,” offering her cheek. “That’s it. Thank you. Whoops, now you’ve got powder on your mouth. Something to remember me by.”

  I didn’t wipe it off. “Goodbye,” I said to her.

  “Goodbye,” she said, and smiled.

  Dolores had a lovely smile.