Time and Chance (26 page)

Moving into the larger
bedroom, she flipped on a table lamp beside the bed and said, “Get comfortable,
I want to freshen up. Be right back.”

I'm not floored easily
but the way she looked at me when she told me that floored me. “I, I, I….”

“Be right back.” She
flipped off the lamp and in a moment a light from the bathroom revealed a
partially closed door and the shower ran. Amazing.

I sat on the bed, took
a look around. Except for the light coming from the bathroom, I could make out
a few familiar shapes—four poster double bed on which I sat; a small nightstand
with a lamp; antique chest of drawers with some kind of insignia decal in the
lower right corner of the mirror; hardwood floor; shallow door-less closet;
wooden screen in the open window next to the bed. The fresh country air coming
from outside, mixed with her peppery incense, filling the room, smelled pretty
good.

After a couple
minutes, a white towel around her, she left the bathroom light on and walked to
me. I reached to touch her. A tiny electric spark. I kissed her hand and the smell
of fresh soap mixing with her knockout perfume melted me. She dropped the
towel. I tasted her silky skin.

She ran her fingers
through my hair and said, “Did you want me to help you with your clothes?”

“I, I, I….”

She pulled my shirt
over my head and I took it from there.

* * *

Somewhere around 1000
B.C., she whispered, “I knew it, when I saw you, we would be different.” She
welded her mouth to mine.

I was thinking, me
too, but not like this, and it's okay.

* * *

We moved up through
around 1 A.D. and, in the dim light, I couldn't get away from her eyes. We
shared air. She whispered “John” in my ear. No one ever called me John, except
Aunt Jane. We agreed we should allow some time to get to know one another. In a
cradle of getting-to-know-each-other movement, the first impression of daylight
cast dull shadows across the room. She nuzzled her face under my chin; not
believing any of this, I slept with one eye open.

* * *

I awoke to the smell
of coffee brewing and sunlight streaking across my face. Gillian absent, I sat
up and glanced through the open window. Green grassy fields rolled off to
distant tree covered hills. I had never anywhere seen so much green,
everywhere.

Listening to birds
chattering outside the window, my watch on the nightstand, I checked the time,
little after 8:45, Saturday, May 5.

I took a deep breath.
The fresh air brought on a cigarette cough.

From outside, Gillian
called: “John, out here, on the front porch.”

I stood and glanced
around, basked by the morning light, the small bedroom—flowery rose wallpaper,
white plaster ceiling, wood four post double bed, patchwork quilt, rose-colored
sheets, small nightstand, powder blue lamp, white shade, antique chest of drawers
with a mirror set in scrolled woodwork, hardwood floor, door-less closet,
painted white door to the bathroom, another antique wooden chair painted the
same white, my clothes dangled over the back.

I walked over to the
chest of drawers and that decal on the mirror, I had seen in the outline of
night that it was a Tennessee Bureau of Investigation insignia. I looked in the
closet. Neat, nice assortment of clothes, jeans hanging over hangers, selection
of shoes, mostly pumps, loafers, pair of sparkling white Adidas sat on the
floor beside a couple pair of biker boots, and … leaning against the wall, in a
corner, a rifle, looked like some sort of mean short barrel assault weapon I
had seen on news footage … hmm.

 
Fresh coffee aroma mixing with the sweet fresh
smells of the countryside air, I looked again through the bedroom window
screen.

I knew generally the
geography, northwest, but wondered, where exactly am I? I pulled my jeans on.

“John.” Gillian called
again, “outside, porch.”

“Coming.”

I stepped into the
tiny bathroom, splashed water on my face, dried on a white bath towel, went
back to the bedroom, grabbed my pack of Salem and Zippo from the nightstand,
tiptoed across cool wood floor to the peach-colored linoleum of the kitchen,
and glanced through the wooden framed screen door. There she sat on the porch
swing, white terry cloth robe stopped at her knees, beautiful knees. Hair
pulled to the top of her head, basking her bare feet in the angled morning
sunlight, a picture postcard. She sipped from a stout white coffee mug.

More than I remember,
even younger, I thought.

She looked at me
looking at her through the screen door. “Coffee’s by the stove, cups above the
sink.”

I stepped back,
retrieved a cup, poured it full, and noticed her purse on the table where she
had dropped it last night, slightly open, something shiny in there. Nosey news
person that I am, I looked closer and the silver barrel of a snub-nosed
revolver peeked back. Looked lethal. A further peek revealed a cell phone and …
nestled in there with things, a pearl handle straight razor.

Wondering why Gillian
had all the slash and shoot 'em up hardware, she called, “Are you coming out,
or what?”

I went to the door and
studied her through the screen. Couldn't be.

She said, “What's a
matter?”

I pushed the screen
door open and it did a little screech. I took a step, the door slapped shut,
and I sat on the swing beside her.

I said, “Where did all
this green come from?”

“Peaceful, no?”

I inhaled. “And this
air, you could eat it.” I coughed.

“You smoke too much.”

“You always get up so
early?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Did you and Angel
ever get your phone calls straightened out?”

“My what?”

“Your phone calls,
last night.”

“Oh, that was nothing,
some guy wanted to go duck hunting.”

“John, she must have
called ten times.”

“Who?”

“John, Angel told me.”

“Angel should have
been a television news reporter.”

“She showed up.”

“Who?”

“Who … were you
supposed to go to a premiere party?”

“Me? No.”

“I don't think so.”

“Who uses the straight
razor?” I said.

Distant, she paused
like she was about to say something but didn't say it. She drank some coffee,
then said, “My dad’s, I use it to shave my legs.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Ever nick ‘em?”

She gave me a long
gaze.

“I meant your legs.”

“You are nosey, aren’t
you?”

“News business.”

More gaze, then she
pushed her toes against the floor, set the swing in motion, and held her feet
out, wiggling her bronzed toes with, same as her fingernails, no polish.

I looked at her legs.
Not a nick. I looked at her feet. Beautiful feet.

I said, “You a cop?”

She stopped wiggling
her toes for a second. “Why would you ask that?”

“The Tennessee Bureau
of Investigation decal, bedroom mirror.”

She began wiggling her
toes again, “Oh, that, I donated to some fund once.”

“Me too … who's Smith
and Wesson?”

“You are nosey.”

I felt dumb.

She looked into her
coffee like she was reading tea leaves then tugged one of my ten chest hairs,
“Later, long story, enjoy the sunrise.” She drank some coffee.

That was twice or was
it three times she told me later, long story stuff. Once last night, about this
house in the boondocks, and now. I hate long stories but I sensed she didn't
want to talk about it so I looked to enjoy the sunrise and noticed Winston,
parked off the road, askew on the grass. I said, “Must have been in a hurry
last night.”

“So, what is it with
Moore and you?”

That stopped me. Berry
and Joe just skipped around paragraphs. She left out whole chapters. And
another thing, some of the Kitten twang was gone.

I said, “Nothing.”

“Try again.”

“Long story.”

“That's my line.” She
gigged me in the ribs. “What?”

“And somebody said
I'm
nosey.”

“So you stood her up?”

“I didn't stand her
up.”

“You lie pretty good.”

“So how do you like
Snakebite?”

She avoiding that and
I detected some cheap phoniness creep between us. Blancpain left on the
nightstand, I said, “What time is it?”

“Going somewhere?”

“I have a dinner
date.”

She rubbed my back.
“Mad?”

“No.”

“Loud.”

“So what time is it?”

“There's something not
to like,” she said.

“What?”

“Adolescent Johnny.”

“What time is it?”

“I don't know.” She
pulled her legs up with her arms and propped her chin on her knees, showing
angry, because I think, she was. She said, “Go look for yourself.”

I didn’t and after a
minute of silence, she put her feet on the porch and pushed the swing. “Look at
Saturday coming over that hill.”

I looked at the small
front yard then the rolling hills emerging in the mist. Could stay here
forever. I rubbed the stubble on my chin and wondered about a shot of something
to go in my coffee.

“What are you thinking
about now?” She said.

“How nice a shot of Jack
Daniels would be in this coffee.”

“You drink too much.”

I set my cup on the
floor and lit a Salem. “I don't get it.”

“What?”

“You, living out here …
in the boondocks.”

“Later.”

“That's four or was it
five.”

“What?”

“You told me ‘later’.”

She pushed closer.
“One thing you have to promise.”

Ah oh, here it comes,
I thought.

“This place is our
secret, okay?”

Wonderful, just what I
needed, another puzzle. “Why?”

“It's my hideaway, to
get away from it all.”

“Tell me more.”

“Not even Angelo.”

“I don't think I'll be
seeing him soon.”

“I'm serious, okay,
all of this, our secret, okay?”

“Okay, but who are
you?”

“You go first.” She
said.

“Are you seeing a
psychiatrist?”

“No … okay, I'm
younger, I'll go first.”

“I gotta go.”

“Sit down … Libra,
born September 23, twenty-six years ago….”

“I really gotta go.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“How old are you?” she
said.

“Guess.”

“Ah, eighty-two.”

“Close enough.”

“And I'd say … born in
February.”

“How'd you know?”

“Aquarius, nosey and
full of it.” She did that smile that killed me, stretched her legs out and
said, “See that skin color, they said they think one of my parents was black.”
She looked at me for a moment. “Lioness of Judah? What do you think?”

“I'm Scottish.” I
studied her face, “What do you mean, they said they think?”

“Long story.”

There is was again,
more of that later long story Crayola crapola.

“I was adopted.”

It was then it
clicked: she omitted things, skipping ahead, back, like whole chapters she
didn't like, ripped out of her life, on purpose or for a reason.

I said, “How you get
from there to here?”

She looked at me, read
my mind, weighed something, then began, “I ran away when I was eighteen, had to
get away, left Tennessee, Los Angeles escape, waitress in a night clubs, I came
back to Nashville a month ago, started working at Felix The Cat few days ago.”

My jerk alarm started
ringing. Something wasn't jiving. Dime novel, pages missing, fiction as in
nothing seemed to be clicking and, in my refined skepticism, I was thinking
maybe I should get out of here. I thought about that a second and decided to
give it some time. I said, “So, you live here?”

“I have an apartment,
in the city, I just come here for special occasions, like I said, to get away,
weekends, my secret hideaway … ours … rent it.” She looked at me.

Talk about facts,
life, and fiction. “Where is your apart—”