Crazy for You

  Across the lobby, Barbara—elegant in a powder-pink Chanel-style suit, pale stockings, pink heels, and new hair streaked light brown in a loose French twist—conversed with great adult seriousness with a chubby guy in a gray suit. Quinn tugged a little at her peacoat, uneasily conscious of her own jeans and canvas flats. She’d put on her good navy blouse to do business, even though that meant by the end of the school day she’d have destroyed it with clay and paint, but it didn’t seem enough now. She should have dressed better to go that deeply into debt.

  Barbara saw her and waved, and Quinn went over and said, “My mother called about a loan appointment,” which made her feel stupid in addition to guilty. She was thirty-five and her mother was calling about her loans?

  Barbara nodded. “You’re buying the old house out on Apple Street, right?” She didn’t seem particularly pleased about it.

  “Well, you know, it’s time I stopped renting,” Quinn said, wondering why it was time. The idea of owning her own place, of being free and adult and independent, had been heady, but being in the bank was reminding her that “owning a house” actually meant “owing a lot of money.” She smiled at Barbara, trying to calm her own nerves. “You like owning your house, don’t you?”

  “No,” Barbara said.

  “Oh.” Oh, hell.

  “I’ll get the paperwork.” Barbara pointed behind her. “Take a seat at the second desk.”

  Quinn nodded and went to sit on the edge of the massive green leather chair beside the massive mahogany desk. She felt like an obedient twelve-year-old and had to resist the urge to slump down and kick the legs of the chair. Why was buying a house making her regress?

  When Barbara sat down with a sheaf of forms, Quinn said, “Why don’t you like your house? Because maybe this isn’t something I should do.”

  Barbara put the papers down and said, “Owning a home is an excellent investment that will appreciate over time. Rent is an expense, but a mortgage payment is an investment in equity. And your interest is tax-deductible, so it’s a very sound financial move.”

  Quinn looked at her doubtfully. Bank Barbie. “Then why do you hate it?”

  Barbara shifted in her chair. “A house really needs a man,” she said finally. “Things go wrong, and then you have to hire people to help, and so many times they’re not competent, and it becomes difficult because you don’t know. Men know, the competent ones. So there really should be a man.”

  So much for Barbara, the feminist woman of finance.

  Barbara smiled at Quinn. “But that won’t be a problem for you, since you have Coach Hilliard. He looks very competent.”

  “I don’t have him anymore,” Quinn said. “I returned him. The house is just for me.”

  Barbara’s face relaxed into sympathy, Bank Barbie disappearing. “I’m so sorry, Quinn, that must be awful. I just hate it when they let you down like that.”

  Quinn wanted to say Like what? but that would result in talking men with Barbara, and all she really wanted was the loan. Sort of.

  “You think you can count on them,” Barbara went on, “and then something comes up and they don’t come through for you, and you think, ‘Why did I bother? I can be helpless without you easier than I can with you,’ and they just don’t get it.”

  I don’t get it, either, Quinn thought, but she nodded.

  “But then you’re good friends with Darla Ziegler, aren’t you?” Barbara smiled with her whole face this time. “Her husband is very competent.”

  “Yes, he is—” Quinn began, and then she thought, Oh, no.

  “I heard he even does the plumbing at their house.” Barbara’s face took on a faraway look. “The kind of man you can count on. She’s so lucky.” She pulled herself back. “So I’m sure you can call him. He’ll know everything.”

  “Barbara, if you hate owning a house that much, sell it,” Quinn said. And stop vamping married plumbers and electricians. And possibly mechanics.

  “I can’t,” Barbara said. “It was my parents’. And it’s a wonderful investment.”

  “Maybe you could take night courses in plumbing,” Quinn said.

  Barbara drew back, plastic again. “I take night courses in investing. Now you’ll need to fill out these forms and attach the proper documentation…”

  Quinn listened with only part of her mind, the rest of it trying to decide if Barbara’s interest in Max warranted saying something to Darla. Probably not, since there wasn’t anything to go on, it wasn’t as if she was dropping by the station or anything.

  Life had been so much simpler a week ago. Her teaching, her apartment, her friendship with Nick—she felt lost for a minute, missing him since he was avoiding her like commitment—but of course, a week ago there had also been Bill and no Katie.

  Barbara was pointing at a form with one perfectly shaped shell pink fingernail. “…Fill in this information and sign right here. Do you have any questions?”

  Any questions. If she signed right there, she’d be sixty-three thousand dollars in debt and much of her savings would be gone.

  But she’d also be free. An adult woman who owned her own house. And couch.

  “No questions,” Quinn said. “I’m sure I’m doing the right thing.”

  On her way back to school, she stopped at the only furniture store in Tibbett and bought a massive queen-size golden oak fourposter bed to celebrate. After her old twin beds at home and the double she’d shared with Bill, it looked like a golden oak football field, and twelve hundred dollars was a lot of money to impulse, but it felt so right she didn’t even hesitate.

  She had some plans for that bed.

  After school that afternoon, Bill sat on the edge of one of the weight benches while Bobby finished lifting and tried to deal with the thought he’d been fighting all day: Quinn was buying a house.

  He’d run into her—well, he’d been waiting for her by the art-room door—when she’d come back from wherever she’d gone on her planning period, and he’d said jovially—just like they were still together because they were, really, this was just a temporary thing—“Where have you been, young lady?” And she’d looked at him without smiling and said, “The bank. I’m buying a house.”

  A house. It made him ill to think of it. And then he’d found out it was that old derelict house on Apple Street of all places. An old house in an old neighborhood too far from school for their kids to walk. What was she thinking?

  “You don’t look happy, Big Guy.” The BP came over to stand beside him in hunter green designer sweats. Bill closed his eyes and thought, Go away, Bobby, before I step on you. That’s what Quinn always said, “He’s such a bug you want to step on him.” Once she’d said, “Don’t you just want to slap him when he calls you Big Guy?” and he’d said, “No, of course not, he’s smaller than I am.” Besides, poor old Bobby didn’t have much of a life. Bill had a sudden realization of what his own life would be like without Quinn—like Bobby’s—but he shoved it away immediately. Not a possibility.

  Bobby sat down beside him, a coordinating towel around his neck, his eyes at Bill’s shoulder level. “Still woman trouble, huh?” he said, and Bill thought about catching him across the nose with his elbow. Just a thought; he’d never do it. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.”

  What was that supposed to mean, anyway? He’d had no trouble living with Quinn. And he sure wasn’t going to live without her.

  “But you can’t let it affect the team,” Bobby went on. “You got to be up for the guys, you know?”

  Bill looked down at him. “Are you telling me there’s something wrong with my coaching?”

  “Whoa!” Bobby stood up. “Hey, no, you’re the best, we all know that.” He looked thoughtful. “Although we did lose tonight. Not that I’m complaining.”

  “What a twit,” Quinn used to say. She was right.

  “But, attitude is everything, right, Big Guy? And let’s face it, your attitude isn’t what it used to be.” Bobby settled in on the padded scarlet
bench, a weightlifting man of the world. “Now, I don’t want to put any more pressure on you, but the levy—”

  “I know about the levy,” Bill said. “The team will do fine. Everybody loses sometime.”

  “It’s not just the levy,” Bobby said, the bluster gone from his voice. “It’s my job.”

  He sounded so vulnerable, Bill actually paid attention. “What about your job?”

  “I’m only principal for the rest of this year,” Bobby said. “They just gave it to me because I was the assistant principal and they didn’t want to do a candidate search till spring. Hell, they don’t even have to do a search, Dennis Rule from over in Celina wants it bad, and he’s been a head principal for ten years there. Experience.” Bobby said the word as if it were something obscene.

  “Well,” Bill said mildly, “you’re doing a good job—”

  “It’s not enough.” Bobby’s voice was intense. “But if I pass the levy, they’ll have to give it to me. And then we’ll have the stadium and the fieldhouse started next year, and more championships—” His eyes stared into space, seeing a glowing future. Then he came back to earth. “But only with the championship this spring and the levy. I need you on this, Big Guy. So what can I do for you? You name it, you got it.”

  “You can’t do anything,” Bill said, thinking of Quinn in a house without him. If she stayed with her parents, she’d have to come back to him, but if she bought a house—

  “You’d be surprised what I can do,” Bobby said.

  “Okay.” Bill stood up. “Stop Quinn from buying a house in the wrong part of town. That would cheer me up.”

  “She’s buying a house?” Bobby frowned.

  “Never mind.” Bill began his final check of the weight room. No point in spending the rest of the night with Bobby. “What I meant was, there’s nothing else you can do.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Bobby got that intense look on his face that meant he was thinking. “Is she going through the First National?”

  “What?”

  “For her loan. Is she using the First?”

  Bill stopped. “I don’t know. That’s where we bank.”

  Bobby nodded, satisfied. “Then that’s where she’ll go. Not a problem.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Bobby folded his arms, cocky as hell. “Carl Brookner is a vice president there.”

  Big deal. The president of the Boosters was a bank vice president. “So?”

  “So I just mention that maybe Quinn isn’t the best loan risk since she’s been acting so strangely, like moving out on you, and he’ll review the loan and refuse it.”

  He wanted to say, No, that’s not fair, don’t do it. But he didn’t. Anything that kept Quinn from moving into that house was good for her in the long run. He couldn’t stand the thought of her staying there permanently, it wouldn’t be safe, it would be a lousy place for their kids, it wasn’t a place they’d bought together, she couldn’t stay there, she couldn’t, it would be bad for her.

  “What do you say?” Bobby said.

  “Do it,” Bill said.

  “Hey, I heard you went to the movies,” Darla said, when Lois came into the break room that afternoon.

  Lois shrugged. “I like Tom Cruise. Matthew was paying. It’s no big deal.”

  “Pretty big deal, dating your ex-husband,” Darla said, and watched Lois shrug. “Not to mention, making him pay. Literally.”

  “Not ex-husband exactly,” Lois said. “I haven’t signed the papers yet.”

  “Good,” Darla said. “I never sign papers. They only get you into trouble.”

  Lois’s lips tightened. “It’s Bank Sluts that get you into trouble.”

  “Right.” Darla considered telling Lois that no Bank Slut ever broke up a strong marriage and decided not to. Let Lois blame Barbara if that was what it took to get her marriage back.

  “She’s probably on the prowl for somebody else now,” Lois went on, her face darkening.

  “What’s her hair look like?” Darla said, remembering Debbie’s theory.

  Lois snorted. “How would I know? Like she’d come here to get it done.”

  Quinn breezed in then, glowing with excitement over her new house. “It’s so darling, Lois,” she said, dropping into one of the avocado armchairs. “And I just filled out the loan papers this morning, so it really is happening.”

  “I’ve been by this house,” Lois said. “Darling it’s not.”

  She left the room, and Quinn said, “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s dating her husband,” Darla said. “You’d think she’d be happy about that, but she’s still fixated on Barbara.”

  “Dating her husband?” Quinn frowned. “Why would she be happy about that?”

  “You know, something different.” Darla let her mind slide away from the something different she’d tried to put in her own marriage.

  “What’s different? Matthew was a loss even before Barbara got him. I can see why Lois is depressed at the thought of dating him again.”

  “He’s her husband,” Darla said with no enthusiasm.

  “Right,” Quinn said, obviously filling in the blanks. “So what are you going to do about Max?”

  “Something,” Darla said. “I’ll think of something. Just not now. Give me some gossip. Did you get the loan through Barbara? Tell me what her hair looks like.”

  “How’d you know about her hair?” Quinn said. “She’s changed the color. It’s pretty, sort of streaked brown, but it’s a shock. She’s always been blonde, but it’s definitely light brownish now.”

  Darla felt a twinge. Something not right there. If Barbara was going after Nick, she should have been deepening it to dark brown like Lisa’s. “Light brown?”

  Quinn nodded. “It’s up in a twist like yours, only not so tight. Sort of like a Gibson Girl. She looks really, really good.”

  Like yours.

  “Darla?”

  “Like mine?”

  “Looser than yours. Fluffier, sort of.” Quinn gestured with her hands. “Like yours but not. With tendrils of hair around her face. You know.”

  Except she had those wisps at the side that make it look so sexy, Debbie had said. Poor old Bea just looked like she had a bagel on her head, but Barbara looked great.

  Darla touched her own tight French twist, the same tight knot she’d worn since high school.

  Boring.

  Max.

  “Are you okay?” Quinn said.

  “I’m fine,” Darla said. “Just fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” Quinn said. “Talk.”

  “I’m going to.” Darla picked up her purse. “To Max.”

  Max was bent over a Sunbird when she came in, and Darla noticed with complete dispassion that he still had a great butt. That was one thing you had to give the Ziegler boys: they kept their bodies.

  And she’d gotten the good-looking one, too. Nick had been the wild one, the one whose face had been thin with too many bones in it so he’d looked older than he was in high school. Max had been the handsome one, the nice one with the cheerful face. His mother had said, “Well, you got the good one, he’ll never give you any trouble.” People had been a little nervous around Nick, but everybody loved Max.

  Still did, evidently.

  He raised his head and started when he saw her. “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in. What’s up?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me Barbara was after you instead of Nick?” Her voice was clear, but her words seemed very far away to her, as if somebody else was saying them.

  He put the hood on the Sunbird down, testing it more carefully than he had to in order to make sure it had caught. “No reason to.”

  “A known homewrecker is chasing my husband and you didn’t see any reason to tell me?” Really, it was amazing how calm her voice was.

  Max didn’t seem impressed. “Since I’m the husband, and I have no plans to cheat, no. I didn’t see any reason.” He folded his arms ac
ross his workshirt and leaned against the car, which for placid Max was attack position. Every fight they’d ever had, he’d stood just like that.

  “You let me think it was Nick,” Darla said.

  “It didn’t hurt anybody.”

  “It made me look like a fool.”

  Max shook his head, clearly disgusted. “No, it didn’t. The whole town knows I’d never cheat on you.”

  It struck Darla with sudden clarity that he never would. He’d fallen in love with her at eighteen, he’d married her, he had two sons with her, he’d built a house with her, and now he had every intention of dying with her, and he’d never do anything to upset that.

  “You have everything you’ve ever wanted, don’t you?” she said, appalled, and she was even more appalled to realize that she couldn’t think of anything else she wanted, either. Their lives were over. They were on the downhill slide. “That’s why you were so mad about the raincoat thing the other night. It screwed up your routine.”

  “I was surprised, not mad,” Max said, looking mad. “And I don’t want Barbara.”

  “I almost wish you did,” she said and he scowled at her.

  “Well, that’s a jackass thing to say.”

  Darla felt her anger like a hot flash. “Don’t call me a jackass—”

  “I didn’t call you a jackass.” Max folded his arms tighter. “I said what you said was a jackass thing to say, but if you keep on like this, I may—”

  “Hey, guys,” Nick said, coming in from the back lot. Then he got a good look at both of them and said, “Oh, hell,” and backed out the door again.

  “Fine,” Darla said. “But I would appreciate it if next time you did not lie to me.”

  “I did not lie,” Max said.

  “You didn’t tell me the truth,” Darla said.

  “That’s not necessarily lying.” Max unfolded his arms and walked over to the sink, where he began to wash his hands. “I’m not attracted to her. At all. And even if I was, I wouldn’t cheat on you. I have a family.”

  “Well, that’s real big of you, Max,” Darla said. “The family and I appreciate it.”