The Damn Fool

"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