Smitten

  Eight hours later, Lizabeth admitted she’d been wrong about the flasher. There seemed to be no limit to his stupidity. Rain softly pattered on the windowpane and ran in narrow rivulets down the screen while Lizabeth and Elsie peered out at the bedraggled exhibitionist. His paper-bag mask sat limp and wet on his head, his tie was plastered to his chest, and his Docksiders were sunk a good inch and a half in mud.

  Elsie slowly shook her head. “That’s pathetic.”

  “He seems a little compulsive about this flashing stuff,” Lizabeth said. “I really didn’t think he’d show.”

  “Yeah, you gotta give him something for hanging in there. The man’s no quitter.”

  Lizabeth gnawed on her lower lip. “You think we should throw an umbrella out to him?”

  “No,” Elsie said, “I kinda like watching him drip. Let’s see what he looks like with the floods on him.” She reached over and flipped the switch, and the yard was bathed in an eerie wash of white light.

  For the first time, the man’s arms and legs and shoulders were clearly revealed. Lizabeth thought he seemed much more naked and sadly vulnerable. He took a step backward, then turned and ran around the far side of the house.

  “This was mean,” Lizabeth said. “I think we scared him.”

  Elsie closed the curtains and stepped back from the window. “You know, as far as perverts go, he isn’t much.”

  Lizabeth smeared joint compound over the last nail in the drywall and stuffed the wooden handle of her six-inch taping knife into her back pocket. Rain thrummed on the roof of the half-finished house and beat against the newly installed Thermopanes, and the cloying smell of wet wood and joint compound mingled with the pungent aroma of freshly turned earth. It was three o’clock, and the light filtering into the upstairs bedroom was weak. It would have been a dismal day, Lizabeth thought, if she hadn’t been working side by side with Matt. He had a way of filling a room so that even the most barren space seemed snug and inviting.

  “So what do you think about drywall?” Matt asked. “Is this intellectually stimulating, or what?”

  Lizabeth smiled. Four hours of slathering white goop over nails was not intellectually stimulating, but it was just fine for her purposes. It gave her a lot of time to think about other things. Not the least of which was the flasher.

  Ridiculous as it seemed, she felt sorry for him. Undoubtedly, flashing was some form of aggression, just as rape was, and she had to always keep that in mind, she told herself. And this wasn’t a random flashing. That made it all the more frightening. So why wasn’t she afraid? Why did she feel like a crumb for turning the lights on him?

  And then there was Matt. Thinking about Matt had become a full-time job. She thought about him at night when she was alone in bed, and she thought about him first thing in the morning when she brushed her teeth. Lizabeth burst out laughing, because in a moment of insight she realized she was much more frightened of Matt than she was of the flasher.

  Matt raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “I was thinking of the flasher,” Lizabeth said. “And it occurred to me that I’m much more frightened of you than I am of him.”

  Matt stomped the lid down on the can of joint compound. “There’s all kinds of fear,” he said. “Some kinds of fear are much more fun than others.”

  It was true, Lizabeth thought. Matt was a ride down a white-water canyon. Danger had its upside, she decided. There was nothing like an occasional shot of adrenaline to spice up your life.

  Lizabeth, Lizabeth, Lizabeth, a small voice whispered, those are fairy thoughts. Better watch out, the voice continued; before you know it you’ll be eating Swiss chocolates for breakfast and wearing silk underpants.

  Hah! Lizabeth answered. Fat chance, on my salary.

  Matt reached out for her, but she slipped away. “So, why are you afraid of me?”

  “First of all, there’s sex. It makes me nervous.”

  “Everyone’s a little nervous in the beginning.” He grinned.

  “No,” Lizabeth said, “you don’t understand. I mean really nervous. The truth is, I’m not especially good at it past a certain point.”

  The grin widened. “Bet I could fix that.”

  Lizabeth didn’t doubt it for a second. “Maybe we should continue this conversation some other time.”

  Matt looped an arm around her. “How about I take you home and check on the roof to make sure there are no leaks. Then I can say hello to the kids and investigate the contents of the oven to see if I want to stay for supper.”

  “You think you can get an invitation?”

  “Elsie likes me. She growls a lot, but she’s a sweet old broad.”

  Lizabeth giggled. “I’m going to tell her you said that.”

  “You wouldn’t dare! I’ll give you five dollars not to tell her.”

  They both stopped at the door and looked out at the rain. Boards had been laid, from the small cement front porch, across the quagmire that would one day be a lawn, to the curb where Matt’s truck was parked. Matt walked across without thinking, as surefooted as a mountain goat, and Lizabeth tiptoed behind him, using her arms for balance, feeling like a high-wire act, wondering at what point in her life she’d lost her sense of daring and balance. When she got to the end of the board Matt was waiting for her with his hands on his hips.

  “Lizzy,” he said, “you walk like a sissy.”

  “I know,” Lizabeth wailed. “I’m not good at this.”

  “You lack confidence. You have to grab life by the throat. Be a fairy! Besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen? You could fall off into the mud. It’s not like it’s life-threatening.”

  Rain was beginning to soak into the back of her shirt. “I’m getting wet!”

  “Ignore it. Go back and walk on the board like a fairy.”

  Lizabeth swiped at the water that was dripping from her nose. “A fairy wouldn’t walk. A fairy would fly.”

  “Fairies can’t fly in the rain. It’s not good for their wings.”

  “Get out of my way,” Lizabeth said. “You don’t know squat about fairies, and I don’t want to walk on this dumb board anymore.”

  Matt flapped his arms and made chicken sounds.

  Lizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. “Uh! Okay, okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Now skip,” Matt yelled, when she was halfway back to the house. “Jump up and down. Let’s see you run!”

  Lizabeth giggled and jumped up and down. She was soaked through, and she felt ridiculous. “There,” she said, “but I’m not going to run. The board is too slippery. I’ll fall.”

  “I’ll catch you.”

  He was crazy, she thought. And he was right. All she needed was confidence. “This is kinda fun,” she yelled to him. “You look awful. You’re all wet.”

  “I know,” he yelled back. “You look great.”

  Lizabeth jumped onto the board with both feet and ran flat out into his arms. The momentum knocked them back into the truck, where they clung together, laughing.

  “You were wonderful,” Matt said. “You had real style out there.”

  Lizabeth wriggled against him. “I know. I’m a class act.”

  Their eyes held, and his mouth very deliberately settled on hers. It was warm and wet with the rain, and his hands possessively moved across her water-slicked back. In all her years of marriage to Paul, nothing had ever felt this intimate, this loving. If nothing more came of this relationship, Lizabeth thought, at least she’d have had this afternoon. She couldn’t imagine it getting any better. It was already perfect.

  “I hate to put a damper on things,” Matt said, “but you’re breaking out in goose bumps. I think I should get you into some dry clothes.”

  Lizabeth swung into the truck cab and shook the rain from her hair. She waited until Matt settled behind the wheel before talking. “I suppose, since you’re going home with me, and you’re going to find out anyway…I suppose I should tell you the flasher stopped by last night.”

  Matt tur
ned in her direction, his arm stretched out, his hand settling on the back of her seat. “He stopped by?”

  “Yeah, you know, out in the yard, just like always.”

  “In the rain?” There was a note of disbelief in his voice.

  “It was kind of sad. He was all wet. His tie was soaked, and his bag got soggy.”

  Matt pressed his lips together. “What about the lights?”

  “We turned them on, and he ran away.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  She shook her head. “No. But I have a much better idea what he looks like. I got to see a lot more of him.”

  “Wonderful.” He put the truck in gear, turned the heater on full blast to warm Lizabeth, and pulled out of the cul-de-sac. “The man is a fruitcake, Lizabeth. Normal people do not go flashing in the rain.”

  “Yes, but I think he’s a harmless fruitcake. Where are we going? My house is in the opposite direction.”

  “We’re going to my town house. We’re going to get some of my clothes, and then we’re going back to your place. This guy’s flashing career is coming to an end.”

  “Just exactly what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to spend the night with you. I’m going to wait for the flasher to appear. Then I’m going to break every bone in his body.”

  “No! You can’t do that. He’s not a violent person. He’s just a little misguided. I think you should talk to him.”

  “Talk to him?” Was she kidding? “Fine, if that’s what you want, I’ll talk to him. First I’ll rip the bag off his head, then I’ll grab him by his lousy tie, and then I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him if he ever comes within a quarter of a mile of you, I’ll break every bone in his body.”

  Lizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and slunk down in the seat. She made a disgusted sound with her tongue and stonily stared out the truck window.

  “Now what?” Matt asked. “I agreed to talk to him. Now what’s wrong?”

  “Threatening to break every bone in his body isn’t talking to him. It’s macho garbage.”

  “Macho garbage?” His mouth turned up in a broad grin.

  “Unh!” Lizabeth rolled her eyes. “You know what you are? You’re a…a carpenter!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Big shoulders, nifty butt, no brains. It means you have to prove your manhood with a display of muscle.”

  “You think I have a nifty butt?” He sounded pleased.

  “Have you been listening?” Lizabeth shouted.

  “Yup. The part about the no brains isn’t true. I may not have a fancy education, but I’m not stupid. The rest of it I suppose is okay.”

  He parked in a numbered space and pointed to a brick-front town house. “That’s mine. Number twenty-two.”

  The rain had slackened off to a fine drizzle. Matt went around the truck and opened the door for Lizabeth. “Come on. This is your big opportunity to see what sort of house a macho garbage-man lives in.”

  “I’m sorry about the macho-garbage part. I got carried away. Are you insulted?”

  “No. You’re probably right. Sometimes I definitely have macho-garbage tendencies.” He unlocked the front door and followed Lizabeth into the small foyer.

  Lizabeth looked into an empty living room. There was no furniture, no rug, no curtains. Just a motorcycle. “There’s a motorcycle in your living room.”

  “I don’t have a garage.”

  “Ah-hah,” she said, trying to sound as if his explanation was perfectly ordinary and logical.

  My Lord, she thought, he owns a motorcycle. A big, black, shiny motorcycle. She’d never actually known anyone who owned a motorcycle, and she equated this sort of motorcycle with men who drank motor oil and robbed convenience stores. She was falling for a man who had a tattoo and owned a motorcycle! A man who wanted to beat up on an innocent flasher.

  Of course, he was also the man who set her on fire with his kisses and encouraged her to run and jump in the rain. A man who bought sticky buns for her dog and played soccer with her kids. She stared at him.

  “Do you belong to one of those gangs?”

  “A bikers’ club?” He grinned. “No. That’s not my style.” He took her hand and led her upstairs. “Mostly I live up here. I don’t do much entertaining, so it might be a little messy.” He stopped at the head of the stairs and looked around. “Actually, it’s messier than I thought. Maybe you don’t want to see this.”

  The upstairs consisted of two bedrooms and a bath, and laundry was everywhere. It littered the hall, rolled from under furniture like giant dust bunnies, and gathered big-time in corners. It spilled out of open closet doors and open drawers and hung from bedposts, doorknobs, and chair backs.

  One bedroom housed a desk and an upholstered executive swivel chair. The remainder of the room held stacked boxes of floor tile, cans of house paint, heavy-duty extension cords, an assortment of power tools, rolls of duct tape, and three stacks of old copies of National Geographic. The other room had a dresser, double bed with night table, and an overstuffed easy chair. A television and DVD player had been placed on the dresser, along with a hot plate and hot-air popcorn maker. An assortment of crushed beer cans, crumpled styrofoam burger boxes, and balled-up bakery bags mixed with the mounds of clothes on the floor, on the bed, on the dresser, in the chair.

  “It sort of got away from me,” Matt said.

  Lizabeth shook her head. “Oinkus Americanus. I’ve seen this phenomenon before.” She unconsciously picked up a T-shirt and folded it.

  “This is probably the real reason you want to move into my house for the night. You’ve lost your bed.” She folded another T-shirt and stacked it neatly on the first one.

  Matt rooted through a closet and came up with a maroon gym bag. He kicked at the clothes on the floor and found a pair of jeans and a yellow shirt. He put them in the bag with underwear and socks, then headed for the bathroom.

  “It isn’t usually this bad. I’ve been busy. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “Like what?”

  He reappeared with the bag. “You. Me. Other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “For starters, my partner is still in the hospital. He’ll be in traction another week, and when he gets out it’ll be at least a month before he’s back on the job. He did all the paperwork. He did the buying and selling. I did the building. Now I’m stuck with everything. You think this room is a mess, you should take a look at my desk drawers.”

  “That bad?”

  “I should hire a secretary, but Frank will be back in six weeks, and it would take me longer than that to bring someone new up to speed.”

  Lizabeth finished folding and arranging into neat piles the clothes on the bed. Without thinking, she moved on to the debris on the floor, grouping it into washing categories—darks, whites, hopeless. He was overworked, and some of it was her fault. He’d been spending every minute of his spare time fixing her dilapidated house.

  She found a wastebasket and began collecting beer cans, deciding some of them had been there a long time. While she might be partially to blame for the condition of his bedroom, she thought to herself, there were also other forces at work here. Matthew Hallahan was a domestic slob.

  “Gee, you’re really good at this,” Matt said. “I guess you do this folding stuff all the time, huh?”

  “When I got married I promised to love, honor, and fold. Folding was the only part that survived.”

  Lizabeth stopped for a moment and looked around. The room was neater now. She was able to see parts of the floor and almost all of the dresser. There was a sense of order to the room, but there was also the feeling that no one lived there. There were no pictures on the walls. No photographs of Matt with a kid brother, no trophies from Little League, no souvenirs from his hitch in the navy. “Have you lived here very long?” she asked.

  “Four or five years.” He thought about it for a minute. “No, that’s not right. I got out of the navy and
roomed with Frank for two years. Then Frank got married, and I moved in here. I guess I’ve lived here for…ten years.” He shook his head in amazement and zipped the gym bag closed.

  “This was supposed to be temporary. I always intended to build a house for myself, but I just never got around to it. I was always too busy building houses for other people.”

  “Would you still like to build a house for yourself?”

  “I’d like to have a home. A real home. But it’s not so important that I build it myself.”

  The people were the important part, Matt thought. He could live in a tent, a tin shack, or the backseat of Elsie’s Cadillac, and if Lizabeth was beside him, it would be home.

  He watched her give an involuntary shiver and noticed her lips had turned purple. “Cold?”

  “I’m freezing. I’ve got to get out of these wet clothes.”

  Matt found a set of clean gray sweats on the bed. “Go take a hot shower. Steam yourself until you’re as red as a lobster, and then you can wear my sweats home.”

  Lizabeth hesitated. “It’s only a fifteen-minute drive to my house. I can take a shower there.”

  “No way. If I take you home like this, Elsie’ll yell at me.”

  He had a point. She clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering and headed for the bathroom. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  Twenty minutes later Matt listened to the whir of his hair drier, and decided he liked the sound of Lizabeth sharing his bathroom. And he liked the way his bedroom looked without three months’ worth of clothes and garbage on the floor.

  He’d put the dirty laundry into a laundry basket and filed the folded clean clothes away in his bureau. He’d taken Lizabeth’s wet clothes to the basement and stuffed them into his clothes drier, then he’d dragged the vacuum up from the cellar and sucked up clots of dust, crushed corn chips, petrified popcorn, and three spiders that had set up housekeeping. He’d put clean sheets on his bed and was fluffing a red-plaid comforter when Lizabeth sauntered out of the bathroom.

  “That was an all-time great shower,” she said lazily. “I never have enough hot water at home, and there’s always a little person waiting for me on the other side of the door, and you have one of those fancy shower-massage things. It was wonderful.”