Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift (29 page)

Sheila Renfro takes her hands from her pockets and steps toward me, closing the distance between us and pressing against me gently. She is being mindful of my ribs. I close my arms around her back. I smell Irish Spring. I miss my father. I miss certainty. I’ve begun to wonder if I ever had it. If I didn’t, I miss the illusion of certainty.

I could stand here with her forever. That’s intentional overstatement. Obviously, I can’t stand here forever. Eventually, we’ll have to eat. Our muscles will get tired. The weather will turn poor sometime.

A pickup headed toward Kit Carson passes, and the stirred-up wind stings us. I hug Sheila Renfro again. It won’t be forever, but I’ll hang on for as long as I can.

TECHNICALLY MONDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2011

My father came back.

It’s 2:11 a.m., and I’m breathing heavily again. The dream that knocked me out of sleep was a strange one. I was viewing my father’s body in the hospital, only it didn’t look like the antiseptic room where I saw him at St. Vincent Healthcare. This looked more like a church, with wooden seats and dark-colored carpeting. Carpeting, of course, would be totally impractical for a hospital.

The scene was different from what happened in the conscious world in other ways, too. My mother was there, and she was crying, and that was the same. But Jay L. Lamb wasn’t there, like he was the day my father died. Sheila Renfro was there in my dream. She said, “He’s going into the ground now, Edward.”

That’s when I woke up.

I lean to my left and flip on the light in my room. I’m back in room number four. Sheila Renfro told me I could stay in her little cottage, but I declined. I told her that if I stayed there, she wouldn’t have anywhere to sleep. She said we could share her bed—not that we’d do anything, she said, just that we could share
it. I didn’t feel comfortable with that. I also told her that I would just as soon pay her for the time I spend here, and she got angry about that, which flummoxed me. She said I was her guest. I said that she had already lost a lot of money by closing down while I was in the hospital. She said she would think about it. So that’s where we are now. She’s in her cottage, I’m in room number four, and she’s thinking about it.

Sheila Renfro wrote down her direct home number on a piece of paper. If I have any distress at all, I’m to pick up the in-room phone, dial nine, and then dial that number. So far, there has been no distress, only a perplexing dream.

Slowly, I rotate my legs to the side of the bed and sit up. The pain is considerable, much worse than it was just a few hours ago. According to the clock, I can have another pain pill, and I think it’s wise that I take advantage.

The pain hits me again as I stand. I walk, blinking, to the bathroom and get a Percocet and fill a cup with water, and then I wash the pill down. With that done, I head back to bed and turn on the TV. Given the limited selection of channels, there’s not much on, just a late-night movie on one of the Denver stations. Jim Carrey, who used to be funny, is in it. I decide I’m not interested and turn it off.

When Sheila Renfro was driving me back here from Denver, I tried once to ask her about what my mother said to her the night before, but all that business with nicknames made me forget the question. At dinner, I remembered.

“What did my mother say to you?” I asked.

“She asked what my intentions are.”

“About what?”

“You, I guess.”

“You have intentions?”

“Yes. I intend for you to eat that dinner I put in front of you. It’s getting cold.”

I laughed, but Sheila Renfro didn’t laugh in return. She was serious.

“What did you say?”

“You know what I said. You were there. I told her it was none of her business.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked to talk to you again. Look, Edward—”

“Call me E-Dog.”

Sheila Renfro did not smile.

“Look, I get it. She cares about you and she doesn’t know me. I’m a grown woman. I don’t care to be talked to like that by anyone.”

“She hasn’t had a chance to know you.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if she knew anything about me, she’d know that you and I are more alike than we are different.”

“What do you mean?”

Sheila Renfro stood up and collected the dishes, hers and mine. “I wish you’d eat more,” she said. She carried the dishes into the kitchen.

“What do you mean?” I asked again.

“I’m too tired tonight, Edward. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

After dinner, I stepped outside to call my mother in private, because my questions for her were similar to the ones I asked Sheila Renfro. I didn’t get any better answers.

“I’ll just be glad when you’re home, where you belong,” my mother said. After that, there wasn’t much left to talk about, so we said our good-byes and I went back inside.

I didn’t see Sheila Renfro for very long after that. She suggested that we both turn in early and get some rest after the stress of the past few days, and that seemed logical to me.

She walked me to room number four and let me in, and she reiterated (I love the word “reiterated”) that I was to call her if I had any trouble at all.

“I will, Sheila Renfro.”

Next, something extraordinary happened. She took one step toward me and stood on her tiptoes and she kissed me on the mouth. It was quick—she kissed like a bird pecks—but it was a real kiss-on-the-lips kiss, my first real one. A girl in high school let me kiss her once, but that was just so she could embarrass me in front of her friends.

This was the real thing.

It made me feel warm and happy and flummoxed, flummoxed, flummoxed.

OFFICIALLY MONDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2011

From the logbook of Edward Stanton, as recorded by Edward Stanton again:

Time I woke up today: 2:11 a.m. and then again at 7:13 a.m. Sheila Renfro and I had continental breakfast together, since there’s no one else in the motel. She said she’d been up at 4:37 a.m. She said she always sets her alarm for 4:37 a.m. so she can prepare breakfast and attend to the motel. I think that is neat.

High temperature for Sunday, December 18, 2011, Day 352: 50 in Billings. (Holy shit!) That’s six degrees warmer than the day before.

Low temperature for Sunday, December 18, 2011: 35. That’s also six degrees warmer than the low from the day before.

Precipitation for Sunday, December 18, 2011: 0.00 inches. Same as the previous three days.

Precipitation for 2011: 19.41 inches

New entries:

Exercise for Sunday, December 18, 2011: Not much, since we were traveling part of the day. However, I am getting up and sitting down much more easily, except when I haven’t had my pain pill and it hurts. Sheila Renfro says we’re going to take a long walk today. I’m looking forward to that.

Miles driven Sunday, December 18, 2011: Sheila Renfro threw a kink into my program by taking an alternate route out of Denver (and she seems gleeful about having done so, which is damned dirty pool). So I’ve decided that the only miles that count on this trip are the ones driven by me. Sheila Renfro thinks she outsmarted me, but she didn’t.

Total miles driven: Given my decision, I’m holding steady at 1,844.9, now that I’ve determined how far from Limon I drove before hitting the snowplow.

Gas usage Sunday, December 18, 2011: None by me.

Addendum: I just now read what Sheila Renfro wrote in this space yesterday. I think it’s pretty funny how she was yelling at me in writing for trying to see her words. I guess she doesn’t understand that this is my logbook and my data, so of course I would be proprietary (I love the word “proprietary”) about it.

I should also say one other thing. She wrote that I need to get over the fact that I peed the bed. I could get past that. But I also peed in the overnight nurse’s shoes. It’s much worse than Sheila Renfro made it out to be. But I’m trying to get past that, too. In general, Sheila Renfro makes a good point. She just didn’t make it with the level of precision I would prefer.

At 10:24 a.m., after Sheila Renfro has put away the breakfast food, collected the mail, and done a sweep of the rooms, she tells me that she would like to take me on a walk through Cheyenne Wells. Snow still sits deep on the ground, but the sun is out and there is little wind.

“How far do you think you can go?” she asks. “A couple of blocks?”

“I think so,” I say.

I’m walking all right, but I do get short of breath. One of my lungs collapsed in the accident, and while the doctors did manage to repair it, I’ll have to keep exercising to get my wind back.

Sheila Renfro leaves a note on the door to tell prospective lodgers that she will be back in an hour. We set out across the highway into the middle of the small town. At South First Street, we turn left, and Sheila points to a large redbrick building in front of us.

“That’s the county courthouse,” she says. “Let’s go over there.”

Cheyenne Wells seems like a pleasant town, and Sheila Renfro seems like a well-regarded resident. She is greeted by name at the lumberyard and outside a bar. Three cars honk at her, and she waves to all of them.

“You know everybody,” I say.

“I should. I’ve lived here all my life. There’s only a little more than a thousand people here. It’s not hard to know them.”

“There are more than a hundred thousand people in Billings,” I say.

“Too many.”

“I don’t know them all.”

“I should think not.”

“My father might have, though. He was very popular.”

“Really? You made him sound kind of mean.”

“He was sometimes.” I feel defensive about my father, even though Sheila Renfro is only reacting to what I’ve told her. “He was a complicated person. But people loved him.”

“Edward, let’s sit down,” Sheila Renfro says. She guides us to a bench outside the courthouse. “I’d like to talk to you.”

I ease myself onto the wooden bench. It has a sturdy back, which is good, as that allows me to keep from putting too much stress on my ribs.

“Do you like me?” Sheila Renfro asks me.

“Of course I do.”

“Why do you like me?”

This question flummoxes me. Where do I start? “You’re nice, and you’ve been friendly to me.”

“That’s true.”

“You’ve been very helpful since I got hurt.”

“That’s also true. Do you like anything else?”

“You’re pretty.” My cheeks flush with warmth, and I’m embarrassed.

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“You smell good.”

“Thank you again.”

“That’s about it,” I say. That’s not even close to it. I don’t like to lie, but I’m too embarrassed to say anything more.

Sheila Renfro takes my left hand in her right hand. She is wearing gloves. I am not.

“I want to tell you something,” she says.

“OK.”

“Do you remember last night when I said that you and I are more alike than your mother knows?”

“Yes.”

“I want to tell you what I meant.”

“OK.”

“When I was in school, a lot of the other kids didn’t like me. They called me names like ‘tard.’ Do you know what that means?”

“Retard.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not a retard, Sheila Renfro.”

“No, I’m not. And neither are you.”

“No one has ever called me a tard. I got called a spaz a lot.”

“Well,” she says, “you’re not one of those, either. What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t have any friends, and that was hard when I was a kid. My daddy used to tell me all the time that I was a special girl, and it would take a special person to see me for who I am.”

I like Sheila Renfro’s daddy, even if he is in the ground. “That’s nice,” I say.

“Yes. But I’ve been waiting a long time, and I haven’t found that person. I don’t like to think that my daddy was wrong about something, but so far, he is.”

“Yes. I understand.” I keep looking down at my hand in Sheila Renfro’s. She notices this.

“Does this bother you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

I have an answer that flummoxes us both. “No.”

I don’t make sense anymore.

“I’m sorry about fighting with your mother,” Sheila Renfro says, and she grips my hand tight. “I know she loves you, like my daddy loved me. I know she’s worried about my intentions. I like you, Edward. I want to learn more about you. I want to see where this goes.”

My mind is scattered. I put my other hand over the top of hers and squeeze, and when she looks at me, I smile and look away.

“Why do you like me?” I ask.

“Because you have good taste in football teams.” She laughs, but when I don’t, she stops.

“You’re kind,” she says. “You give to other people. You were so good with Kyle, and he worships you. I think you can tell a lot about a person from how he treats children. You’re a special man, Edward. That’s why I like you.”

I like her, too, and it makes me feel warm inside to hear her say these things. But I’m flummoxed by the idea of this going somewhere. In a few days, I will have to go back to Billings, where my life is. This isn’t going somewhere. I’m going somewhere.

And I’m not ready to do that yet.