“I hadn’t made love since Sheffie died, Mike. I think I might have been vulnerable, easy to manipulate. I’m not saying I was manipulated; I’m still not sure. It was the first time I had considered sex and it was like I was almost alone; I wasn’t thinking of anything except that my body was alive after all. Tom happened to be in my path when I became a runaway.”
He listened patiently; he watched my face, my eyes, and didn’t snigger or make a joke. “Back when Sheffie died, there was a guy...”
“Yeah, Bruce. Remember? What a good guy, too. I think he hung in there about six months... and it was a long, dirty six months. No, I shut down, body and soul. I —”
I stopped because the doorbell rang. Mike jumped up and skipped toward the door. “Michael!” I protested. “This is my house.”
“That’s okay, Jack. I’ll get it. No problem.” He could be so oblivious, yet he made a good detective from what I heard. “Yes?” I heard him ask.
“Where’s Miss Sheppard?” Sweeny’s voice, sounding unpleasant.
“It’s okay, Sweeny.” I laughed. “This unexpected visitor is my —”
“Friend,” he said, glancing with his devilish smile over his shoulder at me.
I reached past Mike and opened the screen door for Sweeny. “He is not my friend. Sweeny. He’s Michael Alexander and he’s my ex-husband. He’s been my ex-husband for so long that we not only get along, his wife is my best friend.” Sweeny looked blank. He probably had not heard about what these wild and crazy California couples were into. “We were married for a year in 1975; we parted so amicably that Mike feels safe dropping in on me. Okay?”
Sweeny stared at Mike; he wasn’t really following this. I decided that that wasn’t because he was Sweeny — this scenario would be tough on anyone.
“I wondered if you heard about this, Miss Sheppard,” he finally said. “Bodge and me, we just pulled this together yesterday afternoon and I didn’t want to say anything until we knew more. It looks like you’re not the only one.” He handed me a newspaper, the Coleman Courier. There were a few paragraphs on page A-8. It seemed that a number of households in Coleman had reported an invasion of sorts; household items were rearranged, beds were mussed, one kitchen table was laid for dinner, a dishwasher cycle was interrupted. The reporter considered that there might have been more incidents, but that in households in which there were many family members coming and going these antics went unnoticed.
If I had one child living with me, of whatever age, I would not have thought twice about a lifted toilet seat, an imprint on the bed, a spilled glass of juice... even had my child denied it.
“How did you come upon this?” I asked Sweeny.
“Seems like Bodge got a couple a calls on Tuesday; both women were sure someone had been in their houses while they were out. One said her baked beans in the crockpot had been unplugged and her underwear drawer turned upside down. The other one said that her garage door was put up when she knew she had put it down, and her trash cans were pulled in off the street.
“That made Bodge think this had been going on a while and no one noticed.... Then he got a couple more calls, and then today he made the police report and the reporter got it. I was going to tell you tonight, anyway. I don’t guess you need me now.” He looked at Mike, and if I’m not mistaken, he scowled. “If you’re still scared, I’ll come. I gotta work the fair first.”
“No, Sweeny, I’ll be fine. Besides, Mike’s going to need your bed since there’s no way he’d get a room in a bed-and-breakfast during the festival.” I sighed. “Polite people call ahead and make sure you don’t have plans.”
“Hey, Jack! I wanted to be a surprise.”
“Go ahead and keep the paper, Miss Sheppard. See you in town.”
“Yeah, probably. Try and have a good time, Sweeny. And listen, thanks an awful lot. You were a great comfort to have around. I can’t tell you how much —”
But he had said “Awwww” and lowered his gaze, like a big shy boy, and wandered down the walk.
“Jackieeee, he’s smitten with youuuu. Yes he isssss.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I said, turning away from the door. “You are the biggest pain in the ass I have ever —”
“Now we can have some fun, yessir. We’ll have another beer and we’ll go down to town and drown our sorrows in chili dogs and barbecue chicken and pies. Oooooh, I bet a town like this has pies and cakes and ice cream and...” He was dancing around again; I’ve never known another person in my life who could have such a good time with himself. That was another thing that had attracted me to him — Mike could have fun anywhere, with anyone, doing anything. He could have fun at a car wreck.
He was taking off his nylon jacket and hanging it over the kitchen chair. He wore a shoulder holster with a .38. “Will you put that thing away, please?”
“Why?”
“In case someone comes to the door, like my neighbor, or someone.”
“I’m registered to carry it.”
“I don’t want the whole town to know I used to be married to a cop.”
“You weren’t. I wasn’t a cop then. I’m a cop now. I wouldn’t have thought of it if I’d stayed married to you. You wanted something like an advertising executive or insurance agent, right? A CPA.”
“I wanted a civilized man,” I countered.
“Look at us,” he said, grinning. “Just like old times. Ain’t this great, Jack? I gotta call Chels.”
I went into the kitchen to refill my wineglass and listened to his side of the conversation with his wife. It was the kind of talk that if I could delude myself for one second that I had anything that resembled the matrimonial gifts Chelsea had, I would feel a twinge of regret. She had somehow made this irreverent jerk into a devoted and dedicated husband without crushing his spirit.
“Hey, Chels, how you doin’, babe? Oh, she’s fine, fine. In fact her bogeyman sort of went away. Anyway, five minutes ago she found out that all kinds of people all over town have been visited by this phantom. Yeah... yeah... yeah, she says you’re demented.” Long pause. “I know, Chels... Yeah, Chelsea, I know. I will, I will. How’re the girls?” Long pause. “Really!? You tell her that Daddy says that’s wonderful. And Tiff? Oh, that’s okay. I didn’t need it. Yeah, Chels. Yeah, Chels. Oh, Chels, come on... I know. No, we’re not staying home... We’re going to do the town, there’s a big fair here that goes all weekend. No, Chels, I won’t have fat or cholesterol... I know, me too. Monday afternoon. Okay. Me, too. ‘Bye.”
I handed him another beer. “There any fat or cholesterol in this?” he asked.
“She’s good for you,” I said. “Sounded like you were taking orders.”
“Oh yeah, Chels has to tell me how to act and what to say.”
“Well, someone should, I guess. Want to shower or something?”
He sniffed his armpit. What class. “Yeah, I guess so. You mind?”
I shook my head in exasperation. “Be my guest,” I said. “And if you feel like it, we can wander downtown.”
“Yeah! Fats and cholesterols!”
“You have some kind of a problem, like high blood pressure or something?”
“‘Course not,” he said, going to the hall, beer in hand, to get his suitcase and take it upstairs to my room for his shower. “Chelsea is so nuts about me, she’s trying to make me last.”
11
Fairs and town parties have a tendency to give everyone present the feeling of being old friends. Friday night featured bountiful food, keg beer, jug wine, and a country-western band. Mike and I sampled all the edibles and danced till we wheezed. I could have predicted his behavior had I thought about it; Mike Alexander has never met a stranger. He circulated, introducing himself, shaking hands, making friends, and dragging me along as though I was in town for a visit.
It was Mike who happened upon Bodge; he ran down almost his whole life story so that by the time I caught up with him, Bodge wanted to know why I had never told him my ex-husband was an L. A. police detective.
r />
“Bodge, Mike is such an ex I forgot about him. We were only married a year and have been divorced for twelve. Having him show up on my doorstep was the biggest fright I’ve had since.”
“Aw, hell, she’s thrilled to see me,” Mike said, unabashed. “I’d love to see your shop, Bodge. Any chance you’d have time for a tour while I’m here?”
Bodge told him he couldn’t during the party; if there was time Monday morning, he’d give Mike a tour.
I found Roberta and Harry by myself and for a change got to do the introductions. Mike found Wharton, Lip and Nicole, my neighbors, and others. During a break, he met the entire band and invited them to Los Angeles.
“Jack, you don’t know anything about this place! You know you have a Pulitzer Prize-winning author who lives here? And Blake Sillingston? He’s a world-class biker — came here to train for a big international bike race that happened in Durango last summer and moved here for good. And you’ve got a retired attorney general from California, a retired brain surgeon, not to mention —”
“I know, I know.” In truth, I hadn’t known that much. I knew that many skilled young professionals had chosen the valley in the way our parents’ generation could not. Modern young men and women followed jobs less, created jobs more. The valley was large and spotted with small towns; newcomers picked up expansive acreage for a song. I’d been isolated, trying to get to know the town slowly, taking my time in doing that.
Mike stumbled on Billy and his dog, Lucy. He shook Billy’s hand and gave Lucy a nice pat on the head. “I take care of Miss Sheppard’s yard,” Billy said.
“Do you?” Mike replied. “I bet she’s glad you do.”
“Did she tell you I do a good job? Did you tell him I did a good job, Miss Sheppard?”
“I did, Billy. He does a beautiful job, Mike.”
“I do a good job on Miss Sheppard’s yard. Don’t I, Miss Sheppard?”
This could have gone on all night with Billy. One has to be firm and change the subject. “Yes, Billy. Now take Lucy to see some of the booths and we’ll see you later. ‘Bye, Billy.”
And Mike said, “Whew. I guess he’s not the phantom; he wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut long enough to phantomize people.”
“Plus, he’s clumsy,” I replied. “And he has no cunning whatsoever. Billy’s definitely not our man.”
While Mike was busy taking it all in, making all these acquaintances, I sat at a picnic table on the edge of the dance floor with Roberta and Harry.
“He’s somethin’, ain’t he?” Harry asked.
“Something else,” I said in good humor. I hadn’t had fun like this in a long time. Mike spotted me over his shoulder, kept tabs on where I was, and sauntered back to us now and then to give us an update about people.
He danced Sue Scully around the dance floor for about three in a row and wore her out; she escaped to sit with us. “Jackie, that husband of yours...”
“Ex,” I corrected.
Laughing, she exclaimed, “You have to sometimes miss him; he’s a kick in the pants.”
I thought about trying to explain; our ages at the time of our marriage, Mike’s lack of sensitivity then, the fact that he’d become fun yet responsible when before he could be fun, but was cruelly negligent. I rejected all this. He was a friend now; I counted myself lucky and said, “He’s busy wearing out his second wife.”
“And she let him come out here to see you?” Sue asked, astonished.
“She insisted on it.” Sue looked amazed. “Oh, it’s a long story, Sue. I promise I’ll tell you all about it soon. The bottom line is, Mike and Chelsea — his wife — and I are special friends now. Mike and I haven’t been married in over twelve years. I’m more like a sister or cousin to him.”
And suddenly, there was Tom at our table. He seemed to ignore Roberta, Harry, and Sue and focused on me. “How about a dance, Jackie?” he asked in a quiet, unpleasant voice.
I knew instantly that I’d done something wrong. I knew what he was thinking and feeling; his expression and rigid posture smacked of hurt. Possessiveness and jealousy. I consented to the dance, which was a country two-step, to get it out of the way.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had other plans? Why’d you string me along like this?”
“Listen to me, Tom. I want you to hear this. I didn’t have any plans when I talked to you. Mike is my ex-husband. His second wife — whom he’s been with almost ten years now — is my best friend. That makes Mike and me better friends now than we were when we were married. He showed up. That’s it.”
“Why would he show up unless you asked him to? Or why would he show up at all unless he does that regularly?”
“He showed up because his wife, Chelsea, was worried about me. She knew I’d been having a problem; somebody was getting in my house while I was out or asleep. I talked only to Bodge about it and not to you and not to Roberta because the best way to handle stuff like that is quietly. And Chelsea wanted Mike to come out and make sure I was okay. They worry about me, Mike and Chelsea. They were with me when I lost my son.”
“You had more of that stuff with someone in your house? And you didn’t think you could tell me?”
“That’s right. I was spooked and I didn’t want to tell you. I don’t want you to get the idea that you’re going to take care of me, which you seem all too willing to do. Although I enjoyed our couple of dinners together and am grateful for your help on the house, this relationship of ours is not working out. A couple of dates and you already feel you have priority on my time. I want to make friends; I don’t want a boyfriend.”
“What did I do wrong?” he asked, sulking.
“Nothing at all. I don’t want to pursue this. I like you fine; I hope we’ll get along for years to come, but that’s it. It’s no deeper.”
“You’re telling me you’re breaking it off.”
“I’m telling you it didn’t get started.”
“I thought it got started and got serious.”
“It didn’t.”
“Do you frequently have situations like this, where you spend the night in bed with someone you’re not sure you want to see again?”
I wanted to slap his face. My instincts told me I didn’t have to justify myself to him; I could walk away without offering an explanation. I tried, one more time, to draw a reasonable response from him. I preferred to exit this situation with a certain amount of grace, if possible. “I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “Since that’s not my usual behavior, I believe there’s a logical reason. You offered a very nurturing and supportive atmosphere; we shared some intensely personal information. We were both made vulnerable by the evening, the conversation. I think we reached out to each other. That’s all. It wasn’t wrong or bad, but it isn’t what you think it is. We’re not in love. We can be casual friends or not; it’s up to you.”
“Just tell me why.”
“No chemistry. No other reason.”
“Jackie, we started something special...”
“This is utterly childish! People our age, having been alone and single for as long as we have, try sometimes to start something special. We aren’t teenagers who are committed just because we went to the prom together. We’re adults. If it doesn’t work, we move on.”
“Sometimes only one person moves on,” he said in irritation.
“Look, I came here thinking I didn’t want to date or get serious; I briefly considered changing my mind, and I was wrong. I knew what I wanted in the first place, and that’s where it stays. I don’t want to hurt you, Tom... There just isn’t any chemistry. Sorry.”
“Sorry,” he repeated. “You should be more careful of people’s feelings, Jackie. You can hurt people this way.”
“Don’t make this hard on us both, please.”
“It’s because of all the trouble I’ve had, isn’t it?”
“No,” I lied. “We both have complicated lives; we both have had our sorrows. Let’s not blame or accuse. Let’s be friends and
keep it simple.”
“Hey, Jack!” Mike called. I looked over at him and saw that he was talking to a couple on the other side of the dance floor. He motioned me to come over and I smiled, waved a hand to indicate I’d go in a minute, and looked back at Tom.
“You don’t want a boyfriend,” he chided. “You’re not so all alone. It’s me. I think you don’t trust me.”
God, how I hate when someone lays that on me... as if I’m supposed to trust him. How and why? I don’t know him, don’t know what he’s guilty of, innocent of. It’s like an accusation of cruelty. Trust him? Hell, no, I didn’t trust him! At that moment I felt like I was being the most generous person on the planet by not going straight to Bodge with the file that Mike had brought me. This man with whom I was doing the two-step might have killed his own family. He would have me feel cheap and superficial for not trusting him.
“This is strange behavior for a man who didn’t want to apply pressure or be pressured. This is an unusual way for you to act if everything you told me is true, that you liked me and wanted to be my friend. It appears, Tom, that during the process of getting to know each other you made up your mind about what you wanted and left no room for me to make an independent decision. This is too possessive and too rigid for me. I had an indication of this in the week after I’d been at your house; you’re too involved and your expectations of me are unreasonable. This is why I won’t pursue a relationship with you. The end. Don’t call.”
I shed him; I withdrew from his grip without any resistance from him and went over to where Mike was talking to another couple. “Jack,” he said excitedly, either not noticing or not commenting on my agitation, “this is Brad. Jack Sheppard, my ex-wife, meet Brad Krump, like Secretary of HUD. I used to work with Brad at LAPD and he left to go to the big time in D.C.”
“It’s Kemp,” I said, beginning to laugh.
“No, Jack, it’s Krump.”
“The HUD head, dearest, is Kemp. Hi, I’m Jackie,” I said, correcting Mike, who was the only person in the world who talked to me and of me as if I was one of the boys.