Time Off for Good Behavior (9 page)

***

There was a poundi
ng on my door on Saturday morning. Early Saturday morning.

Eight
A.M.
, in fact.

“
Wanda!
”
The voice was muted through the front door, but I could still hear it, because I had fallen asleep on the doormat.

“
Wanda!
”
Ring. Ring. Knock-knock-knock.

“
Go
awaaaayy
yy
,
”
I mumbled into the doormat, but the door pounding continued, in perfect time with the hammering in my head. I grabbed the doorknob, pulled myself up, and put my eye to the peephole.

Walter. Good friggin
’
God.

I opened the door, leaving the chain on an
d wedging my face into the four inches of open space.
“
Whaaaaaat!?
”
I groaned.

“
You haven
’
t been answering your phone,
”
he said. He sounded worried. I couldn
’
t tell how he looked because my eyes wouldn
’
t open.

“
I
’
m fine.
”

There was a pause, then a firm,
“
O
pen the goddamn door.
”
One of the bonuses of having a calm personality is that you can pull out the occasional
“
goddamn
”
and get instant results. Not the case with hotheads like myself. I stepped back, forced my eyes open, and released the chain. Walter wa
s inside in a flash, with his hands on my shoulders, looking at my face.
“
You
’
re sure you
’
re okay? You look like hell.
”

“
Thanks a lot,
”
I said, stepping away from him and heading over to the kitchen counter, where I sat on a barstool and rested my head aga
inst the cool Formica.
“
What are you doing here?
”

“
You haven
’
t been answering your phone.
”

“
Why were you calling me?
”
I asked. My voice was hoarse, and my throat hurt. Friggin
’
Albert. I knew he
’
d turn on me.

Walter opened the living room window and flicke
d on the kitchen light. Ouch.
“
This place smells funny.
”

“
Probably because I haven
’
t left it for five days.
”

There was a moment of silence, then his hands hooked under my armpits and lifted me off the stool. By the time I opened my eyes, I was in my shower
, still in my pajamas, with cold water beating down on my back.

“
Clean up. I
’
ll be in the living room when you
’
re done.
”

I cursed him out from the shower, but by the time I stumbled back into my living room, I was appreciating clean clothes and a freshly w
ashed body like a born-again Christian appreciates Jesus. My living room was cleaner than it was when I
’
d left it, and I inhaled the resuscitating scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Walter was putting the last dish into the dishwasher and wiping down the kitch
e
n sink when I settled onto one of my barstools.

“
Thank you,
”
I said. I wasn
’
t sure he had heard it, but I caught a slight nod as he wiped my kitchen counter and threw the sponge into the sink. He poured two mugs of black coffee and pushed one toward me. Th
ere was silence for a long time, and just when I was about to pipe in with a wiseass comment, he spoke.

“
My wife died.
”

I looked up at him, but he was staring into his mug.

“
Excuse me?
”
I said, working a decent amount of indignation into my voice. Internal
ly, I was recoiling at the idea that Id grabbed the business end of a married man. I did have my limits, and breaking up marriages was one of them. I opened my mouth to hurl the appropriate invective at him when he spoke again.

“
Six years ago. She was hit
by a car, crossing the street to get the mail.
”
His voice cracked a bit. I was starting to understand. My heart sank. The indignation disappeared.
“
She was in a coma for eight weeks.
”

He looked up. His eyes were dry, steely.
“
I sat by her bedside every day
. The doctors asked me to make a decision. They told me there was no hope. It took me eight weeks to believe them, and a day hasn
’
t gone by when I haven
’
t regretted it.
”

I could feel heat in my throat, but I said nothing. What could I say?
Gee, I
’
m sorry
?
Boy, that sucks
? The last thing a guy like that needed was my sympathy. Or me, for that matter.

“
I was on my way out from visiting a client when I walked by your room at Hastings General.
”
Walter took one sip of his coffee, then put the mug down so careful
ly that it didn
’
t make a sound.
“
You were alone.
”

I remained silent. If I spoke, I
’
d cry. How pathetic I must have seemed in that hospital all by myself. The idea that Walter was some creep hoping to cop a feel off a comatose chick was far less painful tha
n the reality that he was a good guy who had taken pity on me.

“
Her name was Maggie.
”
I could tell he was looking at me, waiting for me to make eye contact, but I just stared into my coffee mug, wishing it were big enough for me to dive into and drown myse
lf.
“
I just wanted you to know that I
’
m not a psycho or a creep. I
’
m not a freak who can
’
t get over his wife
’
s death. I
’
m just a regular guy who probably made a mistake.
”

What mistake?
I wanted to ask.
Sitting by my side? Going to lunch with me? Kissing me
? All of the above?

“
This isn
’
t the way my life is supposed to be,
”
I said, my head jolting up in a
“
Who said that? Did I say that?
”
motion.

Walter shrugged and smiled. Kindly. Pitying me. Again. He reached over and put his hand gently on my cheek. It was
warm and soft, and the energy from his palm made my face tingle.
“
Then change it.
”

And he left.

Twenty minutes later I left to hit the 7-Eleven, get a cherry Slurpee, and check out the want ads.

***

I grabbed a red pen from the mug on the counter and sat
down at the kitchen table with my Slurpee. I circled an ad for a parts supervisor at a local Mazda dealership. I circled another one for a dental hygienist. I even circled an ad trying to sell a 1973 Nova before I realized I wasn
’
t really paying attentio
n.

I was thinking about Walter. I was seeing the look on his face when he talked about his wife. I was seeing him sitting by her bed in the hospital. I was imagining how happy they were when they first got married. Like every story with a tragic ending, the
beginning and middle become flawless by comparison. In my mind, no two people had ever been happier and no two people had ever suffered a greater tragedy, although I knew that in reality she probably got pissed off at him every Friday when he forgot to t
a
ke the garbage out, and he probably hated the way she picked her teeth after eating movie popcorn.

I shook my head and tried to concentrate on the want ads, flipping back to the beginning. My red pen was hovering over the paper, ready to strike at the perf
ect job, when I saw it.

Do something meaningful.

That was it. The entire ad.
“
Do something meaningful.
”

I sat with my mouth agape. Do something
meaningful
?

I felt the anger flame out from my gut. Who the hell did this guy think he was?
Do something meaning
ful
? What, like people who are unemployed are all losers? Their lives have no meaning? They have no purpose in the world? That
’
s exactly what the unemployed need
—
some friggin
’
self-righteous bastard putting something like that in the friggin
’
want ads.

“
Do
something meaningful,
”
I muttered to myself as I dialed the sales line for the classified ad department.
“
I
’
ll give you meaningful. Bite me. How
’
s that? Meaningful enough for you?
”

“
Hastings Daily Reporter
, this is Jennifer. Can I interest you in a person
als ad, four lines for four dollars for the first week?
”

“
No. But thanks. Hey, look, there
’
s an ad in this week
’
s employment pages, and I want to know who placed it.
”
The red pen cap clenched in my teeth marred my speech. I spit it out. It bounced across t
he kitchen counter and landed in the sink.

“
It doesn
’
t say in the ad? Usually, the business will put their number in the ad?
”
Jennifer was one of those southern belles who pronounced her sentences like they were questions. I imagined her with curly red hai
r all pulled back in an adorable little ponytail that looked good no matter how quickly she had to jump up out of bed in the morning, and decided to hate her on principle.

“
Yeah. I know. But this doesn
’
t have a number. It just says,
‘
Do something meaningfu
l.
’
”
I sipped loudly on my Slurpee.
“
That
’
s in the employment pages?
”

“
Yes, it is, and I
’
d like to lodge a complaint.
”

“
A complaint? Why? It sounds kind of nice to me.
”

“
Well, you have a job, don
’
t you, Jennifer?
”
She paused. Point taken.
“
Is there anyone
there I can complain to? Do you have a supervisor or something? Can you track down the sorry bastard who placed that ad and beat him senseless for me?
”

“
Well... no. Yes. And no. But I don
’
t think complaining to my supervisor would help much? There
’
s really
not much we can do; once an ad is placed, it
’
s placed? If it helps, I think that ad was meant for the personals? There
’
s a person who does that every now and again, places a nice message in the personals, you know, just to be inspirational? I think it
’
s
k
ind of nice?
”

I could feel my teeth grinding with every lilt at the end of her sentences. I tapped my red pen against the counter.
“
Fine. Then, can I place an ad?
”

“
Personals. Four lines for four dollars for the first week.
”

“
Okay. Do this for me.
‘
Dear Me
aningful: Who the hell do you think you are? Wanda wants to know. 555-8936.
’
”