"Can't read it," she complained and handed him another copy. "Print."
Lance tried to control his anger as he carefully printed his information. She
was engrossed in a new game, so he tossed the completed form on top of her
keyboard.
She glanced at it and then stared at him.
"Is something wrong?"
"You're Lance Sayer, but I don't see no horns."
"Excuse me?"
"Folks talk about you like you was the devil."
He smiled and turned his back to her. "No tail, either."
"Fifty bucks deposit."
He pulled his billfold from his hip pocket and handed her his credit card.
She scowled. "Rather have cash."
"You don't accept credit cards?"
She opened a desk drawer, removed a knuckle buster, placed the card and a
two-part form in it and pulled the handle. She tossed the card in his direction
and slowly filled in the necessary information.
As Lance signed the document, he asked, "How long?"
"Two, three weeks."
"Any way to speed it up?"
"Guys are all busy. I hear tell you're gonna have a fishin' contest at your
lake."
He smiled faintly. "I'm thinking about it, but how did you know?"
"Ain't many secrets in Danbury. Reckon I'll see if I can't git some of your
money. I ain't no slouch when it comes to fishin'."
Lance noticed that she emphasized the word "money." He folded the receipt,
placed it in his wallet, removed a twenty-dollar bill and placed it on her desk.
"It's the carp I want to get rid of."
"That's what they say," she replied as she stuffed the bill into her bra cup.
"I'm good at catchin' them rascals."
"I need a telephone too. I forgot to bring mine from Charlotte."
"Hardware store."
He sighed. "Just my luck. I don't suppose there is any chance the line can be
installed tomorrow?"
She wagged her shoulders from left to right. "Left side seems heavier than the
right. Need somethin' to balance it out."
He grinned and placed another twenty on the desk.
Back in the hardware store, Lance said to the owner, "I want a red or blue
telephone. All you seem to have is black."
"I speck they got red uns in Winston."
"I'll take the black."
Lance left his Taurus in front of the hardware store, walked to the empty diner
and sat at the counter. "Where are all your customers?" he asked Skinny, who was
one of the fattest men Lance ever met.
"Ain't but eleven thirty. Folks don't start comin' in 'til noon."
"Well, I ate breakfast at five thirty and I'm starving. How about a couple
burgers and some fries?"
"It'll take a minute."
Lance watched Skinny throw two patties on the grill and lower a basket of
appropriately sliced potatoes into the fryer.
"Iced tea?" Skinny asked.
"A big Pepsi, please."
Lance was surprised to see Skinny pull a ten-ounce glass bottle from the cooler.
"I didn't know they still bottled them in glass," he said.
"All I stock. Cokes too. Folks around here don't cotton much to change."
"So I've noticed."
"You like it here?" Skinny asked as he flipped the patties.
"I love the farm, but I wish the people were more friendly."
"Folks are suspicious of outsiders." Skinny placed a plate with two burgers and
a generous serving of French fries on the counter.
"How does one become an insider?"
"Some folks never do. For me it was easy."
"You're an outsider?"
"Worse than that. I'm a Yankee."
"You don't sound like you're from the North."
"Thankee kindly. I worked hard on that."
"How did you get them to accept you?"
Skinny chuckled. "I bought the diner and lowered the prices."
"I don't suppose you're ready to sell?"
"You're okay, Mr. Sayer. Hang in there. Say, you want to get in the pool?"
"What pool?"
Skinny reached beneath the counter and produced a clipboard. "It'll cost you a
buck. Folks are bettin' on the day you'll leave town."
Lance read some of the entries and chuckled. "Some of these guys have already
lost their bets." He signed his name and wrote, "The day I die."
As he finished his meal the cabin crew entered. Toni took the stool beside him.
"Two dogs all the way," she called out to Skinny.
"If I'd known you were going to eat onions I'd have ordered some on my
hamburger."
"Where have you been?" she asked crossly.
"You know," he replied.
"You should have been back by ten."
"I had some errands to run. What's the problem?"
"I told Buddy you and I were going to start removing the chinking today. He
stopped what he was doing and put up a scaffold for us. Then you didn't show."
"Hold on a minute. I said I would help sand the logs on the upstairs walls."
"And I told you the chinking has to be replaced first."
"Are you going to stay angry with me all day?"
"Probably."
Lance slipped off the stool and shook his head. "I don?t know how to remove the
chinking, but I'll head on out that way right now."
"Tools are on the scaffold. You can look at what I've been doing. It's not
difficult."
He nodded and paid his bill.
"Lance," she said as he stuffed his wallet into his back pocket.
"What is it now?"
"Go to the hardware store and buy some work gloves. Those delicate hands of
yours will blister in minutes without them. It's hot as blue blazes on the
scaffold. You'll need to work in shorts only, so stop by the pharmacy for a tube
of sunscreen."
"Yes ma'am."
When Buddy called an end to the workday, Lance breathed a prayer of
thanksgiving. His hands ached but there were no blisters, thanks to Toni and the
gloves. In spite of the sunscreen, his skin tingled and his knees wobbled as he
descended the ladder from the scaffold.
"You done good," Buddy said, slapping Lance on the back.
Lance yelped with pain as Buddy looked at the white imprint of his hand on
Lance's glistening red skin.
"Sorry 'bout that, Lance. Didn't realize you were sunburned. Better start
wearing sunscreen."
"I am wearing sunscreen."
"Then tomorrow you'd better wear long pants and a long sleeved shirt. It'll be
hot as the dickens, but it's better'n blisterin'."
"He'll be okay," Toni said as she descended the ladder.
"Let's get a shower and head for the diner," Lance suggested. "My treat."
"Not tonight," she said and she walked away without explanation.
Lance screamed when the hot water from the shower hit his back. He quickly
adjusted the faucets until the temperature was on the cool side of lukewarm. He
bathed as quickly as his aching muscles would allow, but could not stand any
pressure on his back or the back of his legs. Toweling off was torture and
putting on a shirt or slacks was out of the question. He eased into a pair of
jockey underwear and stepped into clean tan shorts.
He lay uncomfortably on his bed, but refused to fall asleep, fearing he might
roll over onto his back. The air-conditioning seemed to ease the fire in his
skin. He wondered how h
e could possibly work tomorrow, and yet he could not ?
would not ? allow Toni to think he was a wimp. Maybe he should pray for rain.
There was a knock on the door followed by Toni's voice. "You decent?"
"Yeah, I'm in the bedroom."
"Oh, my God," she laughed when she saw his flaming back, "I think you're done."
"Very funny."
"Don't get up. I brought something that should help." She sat beside him and he
craned his neck to see what she was holding in her hand.
"Noxzema," she explained as she dipped her fingers into the creamy white paste.
"It'll feel cold at first, but it does wonders for sunburn."
He shivered at the first touch of the soothing ointment to his neck, but was
soon moaning with relief.
Using a light touch, she applied the cream heavily, working over his shoulders,
shoulder blades and back. "Scoot your shorts down a little," she said.
As he complied, he said, "As much as I would like to, I'm afraid I'm in no
condition to pleasure you tonight."
"Shut your face," she joked as she rubbed the soothing cream on the gentle rise
of his buttocks. "Oh, those poor, beautiful legs," she kidded as she moved below
his shorts.
"I forgot how much sunburn hurts," he said.
"Lance, I'm sorry. We should have kept moving with the shade."
"We will tomorrow."
"I will tomorrow. You won?t be able to move at all. Look, I am sorry about the
sunburn, but that's not what I was referring to. I have snapped at you all day."
"Don't worry about it."
"I am one of those women who cramp badly when the curse visits once a month and
I get real crabby. I took it out on you and I apologize."
"You too? Zelda was the world's worst."
"Forgive me?"
"I'll think about it."
"I brought a peace offering."
"I know and I appreciate it. I feel much better now."
Toni screwed the top back on the jar and went to the bathroom to wash her hands.
"If you think you can get out of bed, I brought some Toni Fried chicken. It's
better than the Colonel's any day."
"I'm famished," he replied as he inched off the bed.
She came through the bathroom door and began to laugh.
"Don't make fun of me," he said, pretending to be offended.
"Your front looks like pink lemonade. After we eat, I'll coat that side too."
Lance sat at the table, being careful not to lean against the back of the chair.
He immediately saw the yellow legal pad, but said nothing.
As they ate the chicken, potato salad and crisp snap beans, Lance entertained
with a recounting of his morning activity and his frustration with the
unfriendly reception the good people of Danbury were offering.
When they finished eating, Toni cleared the table and ordered Lance to stand at
attention. As she applied the soothing cream to his chest, her almost oriental
face and sparkling blue eyes captivated him. Her touch felt sensual and, when
she knelt before him to work on his legs, he realized he was becoming aroused.
Her face was so close; she could not help but notice. The tube top she wore was
a little too tight and the air-conditioning was forcing her nipples to punch
formfitting knobs into the thin cloth. He tried not to look.
"Toni," he said, trying to drive inappropriate thoughts from his brain, "I can
stand it no longer. You brought one of your pads with you but haven't said a
word about it."
"It's the one you were looking at this morning. You guessed correctly. It is a
short story I wrote. I've been amusing myself writing junk since I was a little
girl. I never meant for anyone to read it. To make up for being such a grouch
this morning, I decided you may read it if you like. Just promise you won't make
fun of my lack of writing talent."
"I would love to read your story," he said as he eased back into the kitchen
chair and reached for the pad. "Want me to read it out loud?"
"Heavens, no!" she cried.
She scrubbed her hands and began washing dishes as his eyes eagerly scanned the
yellow page.
Pearl-Handled Pistol
That hot, fateful, August evening Bertha sat at the blue metal kitchen
table, stringing and snapping the bucket of green beans she picked from
John's vegetable garden during the heat of the Friday afternoon sun.
"John," she said aloud. "You should be sitting across from me right now,
helping and talking to me."
Bertha reached for the envelope on the table corner. You could have at least
called and told me directly, she thought, but as she examined the envelope
addressed to her in his neat, accountant's handwriting, the purple
three-cent stamp caught her attention. She knew he wrote the letter to save
the cost of a long distance telephone call.
She wiped the moisture from her eyes with the back of her hand and focused
on the single handwritten page.
August 12, 1936
Dear Bertha,
I'm so sorry to have to tell you this. Mr. Mullins is having a fish fry
Saturday afternoon for all the farmers who sell their tobacco through
us. He insists that all his employees be present. I had so looked
forward to seeing you and our little ones this Friday night, but God has
blessed us in giving me this job on the South Carolina market and I must
not do anything that might cause me to lose it. I will be home for good
in late September, and if there is any way possible, I will see you next
weekend. Kiss the children for me.
Love,
John
Fish fry, indeed, she thought. More likely, the buxom widow Janson who runs
your rooming house is the real reason. Tears were now dropping into the
aluminum bowl filled with snapped beans and she wiped her eyes with her
apron.
She froze. This old house always creaks and groans, she told herself, but
the strange sound from below caused her to cautiously move to the basement
door, open it and carefully listen. Nothing.
She pleaded with the sink as she washed the beans. John, I need you. I don't
care about the sex. I need to hear your voice. I need to feel your arms
around me. I need the assurance of your love.
She stared out the kitchen window into the darkness of the humid night and
thought of how deeply she loved her John; her banker turned wealthy realtor
turned bankrupt unemployed. Thoughts of how she agonized over the
helplessness he experienced when everything was lost in the depression
flooded her memory. They survived by running a boarding house, tending a
large vegetable garden and selling the eggs twelve Rhode Island Red hens
faithfully laid every day.
He's right, of course, she reminded herself. God did lead John into a decent
paying job as the bookkeeper for a tobacco auction warehouse in our hometown
of Winston-Salem. This market is open only in the fall, but God provided a
similar job on the summer market in Pampl
ico, South Carolina. Oh, God. I am
grateful, but I miss him so. I counted the days until he would arrive, and
then the letter came.
As Bertha put the bowl of beans into the refrigerator, she thought of how
proud John had been when he was finally able to replace their icebox with
this wonderful electric marvel. He promised that next he would replace her
metal tub and washboard with one of the new washing machines, complete with
agitator and clothes wringer. That's John, she thought with a smile on her
face. Always spending our money before he earns it.
There was another sound. Was it footsteps upstairs? Maybe one of the
children got out of bed to use the bathroom. No. There was no sound of the
toilet flushing. She picked up Jack's baseball bat from where he abandoned
it beside the kitchen stove and softly crept up the stairs, thankful that
the hall light was still on.
There was no sign of an intruder. Remembering John's request, she slipped
into the girls' bedroom. Both were sound asleep. She kissed Doris, her
firstborn, gently on the forehead and then moved to the opposite side of the
double bed to kiss Ann, the baby. She eased across the hall and kissed Jack,
the only boy. She smiled at the thought of his reaction if she kissed him
while he was awake.
She glanced around the cluttered room. All boy, she thought. She remembered
a note she once found that Jack wrote to Doris. "Rubba-dub, dub. / The tub
is scrubbed. / Now you can't tell a d? thing." She wondered again what it
was that Doris had on Jack that would make him clean the ring from the
bathtub. She put the bat in Jack's closet and went to the master bedroom.
Bertha looked at the big poster bed and sighed. Another night of sleeping
alone, she thought and the tears returned. She longed to hear John's silly
little whistle.
She first heard the whistle while they were courting. He tried to impress
her with his Whippoorwill imitation. "Woo-a-woo-oh." It didn't sound
anything like a Whippoorwill. They both laughed heartily, and she heard that
sound so many times during their marriage. It was a happy whistle ? a sound
that said, "I love you ? all's right with the world," as only John could say
it. She expected to hear that sound tonight, but then the letter came.
There was another sound. Was it footsteps, downstairs this time? It's just
this creepy old house, she reassured herself, but did I lock all the doors?
Hesitantly Bertha slid open the drawer of the nightstand and carefully
removed the pearl-handled pistol. She didn't like guns. She was afraid of
guns. She fired it only once when John insisted that she learn how to use
it. He bought it for her last winter, right after the Nadings' house was
robbed, just four doors down the street. Bertha shuddered at the
recollection. Holding the pistol pointed at the floor as John taught her,
she went back downstairs and checked all the outside doors and windows.
Finally she brushed her teeth, put on a nightgown and went to bed, but she
could not sleep. She listened to the ghostly sounds of the house and the
chirping of the crickets in the garden. She counted to twelve as the
grandfather clock in the living room announced the hour.
She heard a car, moving slowly. It stopped. Oh God, she thought as her heart
began to pound. What is a car doing stopping in front of the house at this
hour? A car door opened; then closed. She sat up and reached for the pistol.
She listened. There were soft footsteps on the front porch. She was sure it
was not her imagination this time.
Bertha raced to the living room as fast as her fear would allow and stood
next to the front door, determined to do whatever was necessary to protect
her children. Someone was trying to put a key into the lock. Where would a
robber find a key to our house? she wondered as her heart pounded. The
tumbler in the Yale lock clicked. She raised the pistol and pointed it at
the door, holding it with both hands as John taught her. The doorknob slowly
began to turn. Her finger tightened on the trigger. The door eased open just
a couple of inches, then stopped. Pull the trigger now! she pleaded with