Talk of the Town (22 page)

He was climbing back on the truck and it was starting to roll away when he looked down at her and said, "I'm listening."

She hustled along to keep up.

"Well, like I said, I have no excuse, but I did think it was important to impress those people that night. I'm ashamed to say it, but it's true. And you were right about me pretending to be someone I wasn't. At least you're honest. With the people you meet. And with yourself." He was already dumping newspapers. She'd have to talk faster, or she'd be miles away from her truck by the time he told her to get lost. "I used to be that way. Honest. I knew who I was and what I was and where ... I came . . . from.

Next stop.

"I . . . I've always been affected by what I thought other people were thinking," she said, rushing on, a bit winded. "I hated it when people pitied me after my mother died. I hated that the whole town knew my dad was a drunk. I hated getting hand-me-down dresses because he couldn't hold a job and everyone knew we were living off Earl's pension. I hated going to school with bruises because everyone knew how I got them. I hated coming home a failure that first time I ran away because everyone knew I couldn't make it on my own. I hated coming home pregnant the second time because then they knew I wasn't any better than he was."

The truck was pulling away again. Gary, though he wasn't saying a word, was watching her with a grave expression. He still cared. He was listening.

He was also going around the block to the next alley.

Unpredictably, the tailgate of the trailer seemed to catch in her hands and she glommed on, leaping to secure the fender under her feet, her own tailgate jutting out over the road.

When they pulled out into the street, she looked around to determine the amount of traffic happening by to see her spectacular spectacle. . . . And there she was again, worrying what people would think of her. Strangers, in fact.

She didn't care.

Truthfully, it was fun, riding on the back of the trash truck. They weren't going very fast, because it was a residential area and they were about to turn again. So it wasn't frightening at all. Of course, if she ever caught Harley doing it, she'd break both his legs for him. But . . .

She jumped off the trailer, smiling, when it came to a complete stop. For half an instant she thought she saw a spark of amusement in Gary's eyes. But it sure wasn't there when he came back to the truck with the cans.

"Where was I? Oh, yeah. Harley," she said, following him this time because she noticed three recycling bins at this stop—sometimes there was only one or two. When he picked up the glass and newspapers, she bent and snatched up the aluminum cans. "I hated raising Harley in a town where everyone knew about him. I didn't want to have to put him through all that. But it was a hell we knew, you know? I thought it could be a lot worse somewhere else. And I wouldn't have my dad or Earl around for whatever help they were. So I stayed. And I hated it. But I never had to pretend to be anything I wasn't. I'm not sure when all that changed."

Next stop. She power-walked it.

"I think it was a progressive thing," she said, approaching the recycling bins thoughtfully. "Like walking that tightrope all those years. I never dated. I never yelled at Harley when the windows were open. I didn't drink or smoke or swear. I avoided people so I wouldn't have to make small talk about my life. I was eighteen, nineteen, twenty, thirty years old. I was young and I wanted to play and dance and date and have . . . well, all the things other women have but ... I was just too afraid and too tired of giving everyone something to talk about. I was sick of living in a fishbowl. I thought if I made myself as dull as dirt,  pretended to be someone I

wasn't, and watched my p's and q's, they'd forget about me.

From someplace woefully nearby, thunder rumbled and the sky grew darker by the second. Rose looked up to estimate the time of the next deluge and saw that Gary was looking skyward as well. When his gaze lowered, it met hers instantly. Holding on with one gloved hand, he stooped low on his spot and extended his other hand to her. She took it, and he towed her off the ground until she could reach the rider's platform with her feet.

It was a short ride to the next stop. Way too short. Standing close to each other, being careful not to touch each other yet intensely aware of the intimate size and shape of the other's body, of the heat and the smell and the taste of it, was exquisitely nerve-racking. The truck stopped, and he stepped backward off the platform and jumped down. Then he reached up for her.

Touching was a mistake. Even through his heavy canvas gloves and her jeans and jacket, they made contact. Deep in their souls. She came willingly, trusting him, and he caught her, sure and safe.

He hesitated briefly before he released her, then paused before he said, "Look. You don't have to say any more. I know how it was for you. And ... I asked for it. I thought you and I had something special, and that if you didn't already think so, too, you would, in time. I was a fool."

"No," she said, sensing a change in him. Capitulation.

Lightning split the sky above them.

"I went romping into your life with my heart on my sleeve. I was reckless. I was so in love that I wouldn't listen when you told me you didn't want a relationship. I was a blind, drooling idiot who couldn't see that I wasn't the best you could do."

"No. Stop," she said, grabbing the front of his overalls. Several big fat raindrops fell on her face. "You're wrong. Don't you see? You
are
the best thing that's
ever
happened to me."

"Not if you're embarrassed to be seen with me," he said, gently removing her hands from his chest and reaching for the big trash cans.

"I'm not," she said, watching him for a second, then hurrying over to fetch the trash set aside for recycling, which in her frenzied mind had become
her job
. "Don't you see? You don't embarrass me, you scare me. Every time I'd try to run and hide from you, to protect myself from you, you'd find me and make me laugh. You made me happy and I started to like it. I started to care, and I was afraid of being hurt again. I've loved people before, you know. They hurt me and ignored me and left me all alone. I made up my mind years ago that I wouldn't need anyone in that way again. I wasted most my life thinking that."

The truck was ready to pull away again. She caught the driver's eye in the rider's side rearview mirror and used the hand signal she'd seen the men use to motion him on. She jogged ahead as the blackened sky opened and dumped its load.

The trash at the next stop wasn't in cans but tied up in large green plastic bags. She grabbed them both before Gary was off the truck, lugged them over to the loader, and threw them in. She was exceptionally strong for a girl.

Gary was practically standing still at the recycling bins when she spoke again.

"I know it's too late to change what I've done," she said, standing beside him, craning her neck to see his face. "And I know I don't deserve it, but I want a second chance."

She could have a million chances if she wanted them. He studied her over the blue and white bin and wondered at the cost of her being there. She was probably terrified, he thought, seeing only the sorrow in her eyes.

"I don't care what you do for a living," she said, raising her voice a little in the storm, and because his silence was peeling her nerves raw. The rain beat down on her head and dripped into her eyes. "I don't. All I care about is you. You could be a ditchdigger . . . No." There was probably some sweet, kind, loving, and truly terrific ditchdigger around somewhere too. "You could be a serial killer, and I'd probably still love you. I was scared. I was afraid of loving you too much, afraid you'd leave me. So I hurt you first. I didn't mean to. I didn't plan it. But I think all along some part of me was waiting . . . waiting for you to give me anything I could use to push you away."

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to hold her in his arms and smooth the rain from her face. He wanted to stroke her stringy wet hair and tell her she was forgiven.

But first he was going to have to catch her.

She'd taken over the operation. She motioned the driver forward, walking alongside the truck, and left him holding two empty recycling bins. He tossed them in the correct general direction and started after her.

As it happened, the next house had only one trash bag and no recycling set out. She grinned at the regulars as they finished their side,
after her,
suddenly realizing that she didn't know who they were.

"I'm Rosemary Wickum," she said, and smiled at Felix and Germaine as they introduced themselves. She hurried forward to hang on the door and meet the driver. Gary had only a couple of seconds to shake off his bewilderment before the truck started to roll again.

They were back to cans and bins at the next place. Rose chose the can, despite its extra weight, because she found she preferred dumping to sorting.

Curious to see how far she'd go, Gary tended the bins and watched surreptitiously as she dragged the heavy can to the truck, grunting and groaning. Twice during her struggle to get the can into the air, he was tempted to help her. But he didn't. She was like a pressure cooker letting off steam. She was giving him time to think and consider his feelings toward her, getting down and dirty and burning off anxious energy while she awaited his decision.

He was vastly amused. And more in love with her than he ever imagined he might be. She was an odd woman, his Rose. When she appeared to be an impregnable fortress, she was most vulnerable. She thought loving was a weakness, and yet it was what she craved the most. She could bear the weight of shame for other people's actions, but her own mistakes were unbearable and unforgivable. She was bright and imaginative, and yet the simplest thing in the world, accepting love, seemed beyond her.

He endured the next two sets of cans because she seemed so determined to prove something to him. She kept looking his way, but didn't speak, and wasn't looking to be spoken to. It was almost as if she were challenging him in some way, as if she were trying to make a point.

Finally, when she was soaked with rain and her teeth were chattering from the chill, she staggered under the weight and lost her grip on the can. It made a terrible sound above the noise of the truck and the rain as it crashed to the ground. Her cry of defeat twisted his heart.

"Dammit, Rose, you don't need to be doing this," he said, angry that he hadn't stopped her earlier. "Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself? Your back?"

She'd bent down to pick up the mess of loose trash, and he went down to help her, trying to push her away at the same time.

"Stop it now," he said. "You're soaking wet and cold. Go sit up front with Harry."

"No." She was picking the trash up with her bare hands.

"Don't touch this, any of it. You don't know what's in it. Needles. Razors. Get back now. I'll do it."

"No."

"Dammit, Rose!" He stood up straight and tall to show her how big and strong he was, to let her know that if he had to, he'd use brute force to get her out of the garbage. "Get out of it."

"No," she said, standing up to show him she was only average height, to let him know that if she had to, she'd use her feminine limbs to pulverize his family jewels. "I want to help. I need to do this."

"It isn't necessary."

"It is necessary. It's important that I do this." He could see it was.

"Why? You don't have to haul garbage to prove you love me."

Watching from the other side of the trailer, Felix and Germain sighed with relief. They missed the good ol' days when garbage was garbage and they were garbagemen. Now it was all trash and recycling materials and sanitation workers. They had been very worried that Rose might be another new trend. A garbagewoman wannabe.

"I know that," they heard her say. She was looking like an indignant, half-drowned cat. "I don't have to prove anything to you, or anyone else. Certainly not my love. I wouldn't even be here if I didn't love you."

"I know," he said, standing perfectly still as he realized all his hurt and anger were gone, and that she'd just said she loved him, out loud, for the first tune.

"All right then," she said, and, seeing that he no longer cared to fight with her, she went back to cleaning up the spilled trash.

"Rose. Honey," he said, taking her hands in his. "Please don't do this. There are shovels if you're going to insist on it, but I really wish you'd stop."

"Please," she said, looking up at him, her eyelashes wet with rain—no, with tears. "Let me do it."

"Why? Why is it so important that
you
do it?"

"Because . . ." She made a vague gesture with her hands, which were still wrapped in his, and looked at him as if he should understand the significance, as if it were some common custom he should know about. When it was clear that he didn't, she was forced to explain. ". . . it's the only way I know to say I'm sorry."

His smile was slow and sweet and the chuckle that rose in his chest was light and happy. He scooped her into his arms and held her close as the rain washed away the residue of her fear, his qualms, their queries into the future.

In that moment they knew the truth. They were going to build a life together. And in that life they were going to fight again and hurt again; they were going to face sorrow together and worry together and be disappointed together. Together they would love and laugh and cry; they would deal with the world and overcome any obstacle put in their paths. You see, they were in love, and for very different reasons they knew what a precious, fragile thing it was; that it needed to be cherished and nurtured and cared for . . . and never taken for granted.

"I love you," he said, his exultant words muffled in her hair.

"I know."

He laughed at her airy confidence.

"You think you're so smart." He whacked her wet backside, then fondled it as long as his hand was there . . . "Two minutes ago you weren't so sure I was ever going to forgive you."

"Of course I was." She pulled away to look at him. "I wasn't sure you'd listen to my apology, but I knew you'd forgive;"