by Jenny Jacobs
It was true that every third female wanted a man in uniform. Not Rilka; she had a firm aversion to authority figures inherited from Gran, but it was the most popular fantasy going. Among women, anyway. Men wanted strippers who were faithful.
“Okay,” Rilka said. She tried to imagine getting it on with an authority figure. Other women, apparently, liked the idea of getting caught. She shivered.
“It’s … exciting to think about a man in uniform.”
Okay, Rilka didn’t want to hear anything else about Hilda’s sexual fantasies. She spoke quickly to squelch the sharing. “I just happen to have a deputy looking for a match,” she said, remembering Deputy Deane. Was it possible for him to be charming and gentlemanly? Would Hilda’s cop fantasy trump her desire for charming and gentlemanly? Only one way to find out. “Shall we give it a try?”
• • •
“I can’t help it, Reston,” Rilka said. She paced restlessly across the kitchen floor. She needed a new environment. Three months until she could go on her sabbatical. Maybe she should move to Reno. Or Tibet. “Natalia doesn’t want to go out with you again.”
“But I did everything you instructed me to,” Reston said. He sounded shocked and his voice quavered slightly. He was a disgusting old man looking for a trophy wife and he got what he deserved, and yet Rilka couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. Rejection was hard to take no matter how deeply you deserved it.
She decided to give it to him straight. “Natalia thinks you’re too young.”
“If that don’t beat all,” he said. “I don’t — wait a minute. She’s waiting for me to die?” His voice sounded incredulous.
“You’re the one who wants the trophy wife,” Rilka reminded him. “What did you think she was looking for?”
“Huh,” he said, and hung up the phone.
Another satisfied customer.
• • •
“You want some dinner?” Rilka asked. She gripped the receiver tighter. If Jeremy turned her down, she was going to — she was going to — well, it would be something desperate.
“Who is this? Rilka?”
“Yeah. I’d call my buddy Marilyn but she has to work tonight. I need to spend time with a normal person.”
“And I’m your idea of a normal person?” Jeremy asked.
“So you see how desperate I am.”
A pause and then, “Okay. When should I be there?”
“Does seven work?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Thanks for the invite. I’m taking you at your word. You say you know how to cook and I’m trusting you.”
“I know how to cook,” Rilka said.
“See you at seven then.”
• • •
“You gonna hit Henry’s tonight?” Nate asked, handing Jeremy the torque wrench he’d just requested.
“Nope,” Jeremy said, tightening the lug nuts.
“Me and Elaine and the kids are gonna get a pizza if you want to come.”
“Got plans,” he said, rolling over to the next tire.
“Hot date?” Nate asked, popping the hood on a 69 Chevy Malibu that had seen better days. Well, hadn’t everything.
“Not a date,” Jeremy said.
“Then why have you got that goofy smile on your face?”
• • •
When the doorbell rang, Rilka was just pulling the breadsticks out of the oven. She grinned and wiped her hands on the dishcloth. Everything smelled good but what struck her most forcefully was how much she was looking forward to the evening, not just the food. Eating with someone — anyone — made a nice change of pace. And as much as she was unwilling to admit it, she liked Jeremy. What did that say about her taste in men? No wonder she was such a terrible matchmaker. She went to do the door, reminding herself she didn’t need to hurry.
“Hey, there,” she said, and he said, “Hi,” and rolled into the hallway. She could tell right away that something was bothering him, but she couldn’t tell what. She shut the door and showed him into the kitchen. If she asked how his day was and he pretended nothing was wrong, that would suck because something was wrong. But she didn’t really know him well enough to be all, “Tell me what’s wrong,” especially if it was something personal, so that sucked. Maybe she should have stuck with On Demand movies and a little time to herself.
She put the breadsticks into a basket, folded a napkin over them to keep the heat in, and set the basket on the table. She got a bottle of white wine out of the fridge, then stopped, wondering if that was too much like a date. Well, if one of them got confused, the other could set him or her straight. She brought the wine over to the counter and rummaged in drawers until she found the corkscrew.
“So, tell me what’s going on,” she finally said, like she had said to every client who had come into her kitchen for the last several years.
He shoved his chair forward with short angry movements, going to the window on the far wall and staring outside, his back to her. She set the bottle down at the counter.
“Was it something I said?”
If she’d been hoping that would smooth over the emotion and get them back on their normal footing, she was disappointed.
“It’s not you. I just — ”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said hopefully. “We can — ”
“My sister-in-law brought the kids to the shop this afternoon. Stopped by after school. My nephew had been working on project for school, a family tree, that he wanted to show his dad — you know, Nate.”
“Okay,” Rilka said, having no idea where the land mines were but knowing they existed.
“With pictures.”
Rilka imagined a construction paper tree with pictures stapled to it, then remembered what century she was living in and revised that to be a Photoshopped digital collage. “Okay,” she said again.
“The picture of me was from before.”
He had his back to her and she had no idea what exactly was happening or what she should say.
“It must be frustrating,” she said, groping her way. You could treat him like everyone else but he wasn’t like everyone else. So she had to treat him like Jeremy, who was not everyone else, just as she wanted him to treat her like Rilka, who was also not everyone else. But she didn’t know him very well. Who was Jeremy, and how did you treat him?
“Is this about the injury?” she asked. She came up behind him to see what he was staring at. The brick wall of the building opposite.
“Look, I’ve accepted what happened,” he said, sounding restless and not very accepting. “I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it. And I’ve got a job I like, and people who care about me.”
Rilka thought back to what Marilyn had said: when you had to start counting your blessings, it meant your life sucked. “But?” she asked.
“But that doesn’t mean I love every minute of it. I just — it wasn’t supposed to be like this.” His voice trailed off. She saw his hands clenched into fists on his lap.
She didn’t know what to say.
“No,” she said. “I don’t suppose it was.”
That didn’t do anything for him. He kept his back to her, his fists still clenched in his lap.
“So maybe you need to give your nephew some photos of you from now.”
There was a long moment and then he said, “He has photos of me now. He has photos of me and him from now. He has all the fucking now photos he wants.”
And then it hit her. “So he picked the before photo.”
He didn’t say anything. She understood: it was trivial and it was enormous. She still didn’t know what the fuck to say. “It probably doesn’t mean he liked you better that way. It probably means he just wishes — ” Okay, that
wasn’t helping. She regrouped. “See that purple vase over there? You can throw it if you want. I think it’s hideous but a client gave it to me and I feel obligated. You’d be doing me a favor.”
Jeremy gave a snort. “Throwing things is the last habit I want to acquire. Nothing would be safe.”
“You sure? It really is hideous.”
“I’m sure.”
Rilka put a tentative hand on his shoulder. After his first flinch, he accepted the touch, then covered her hand with his.
“Just tell me what you need me to do,” she said. “I’ll try not to be stupid but I make no guarantees.”
He looked over at her. “You want to open the wine or should I?”
“If you can get the cork out rather than in, which is what I usually manage, it’s all yours.”
“I can get the cork out,” he said.
She handed the bottle over and turned toward the red sauce simmering on the stove. She gave it a stir, saw the pasta water had started to boil, and dumped the gnocchi in. She heard the pop of a cork that meant Jeremy had successfully opened the bottle. She’d already set the wine glasses on the table, which was good because he wouldn’t have been able to reach them from the top shelf and that would have made her feel like a jerk, even though it really shouldn’t; she was able-boded and lived here, so why shouldn’t the wine glasses be on the top shelf? But life was weird.
“This wine is delicious,” he said.
She opened her mouth to make a sarcastic remark: Oh, I must have accidentally gotten the good bottle out, and then shut her mouth. It was easy to get into that bantering with Jeremy, and it kept him at arms’-length, which meant there was a reason she was keeping him at arms’-length. Which was what? He was a client, so, yeah, she wasn’t going to stick her tongue down his throat. But why was she so wary of letting him be a friend?
She drained the gnocchi, brought it and the sauce over to the table, and sat down. She took a sip of wine.
“It is good,” she said, and refrained from saying I have excellent taste and let him say it instead.
“You’ve got a good wine buyer at the liquor store,” he said.
“Maybe I picked it out on my own.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
He nodded and took a breadstick from the basket. “Leave it to the experts.”
What happens when the expert doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing? That seemed dispiriting, so she said, “Tell me about your brother.”
“Nate?”
“Sure,” she said. “I saw him at the shop when I brought my car in. I assume that’s your brother.”
“Yes,” he said and sounded cautious. “Why are you asking?”
She couldn’t help herself. “Not because I noticed he has such a nice ass,” she said. “Though he does. I also noticed he has a wedding ring. So I must be asking because I’m curious about you.”
Jeremy blinked. “Yeah, okay, get exasperated because I can’t read your mind.”
She bit into a breadstick. Delicious, even if she did say so herself. “I didn’t expect you to read my mind.”
“Yeah, I think you did.”
“I asked you a totally innocuous question.”
“How was I to know it was totally innocuous? Maybe you were going to ask for his phone number. And that would have been awkward.”
“Whereas this is not.”
“No, this is us being normal,” he said.
“You forget that I’m not in the market,” she said. “So I wouldn’t be asking for men’s phone numbers from you.”
He heaped some gnocchi on his plate. “I think you’re in the market,” he said. “You’re just put off because you’re too close to the inner workings of love relationships.”
“What?”
“It’s like being a sausage maker. You wouldn’t eat sausage if you knew how it’s made.”
“Uh huh.”
“But eventually it stops bothering you and then you don’t mind a nice sausage fry up on a Sunday.”
“I’m sort of grossed out,” Rilka said, “and weirdly intrigued.”
“I’m just saying you’re disillusioned. Everyone gets disillusioned. Then they either sink into bitter misery or they get over it.”
“Good to know there are options,” Rilka said, and poured another glass of wine.
• • •
Rilka had just said goodnight to Jeremy and it was quite late, so she was surprised to hear her doorbell ring. She pulled open the door and Jeremy was there again.
“What’s up?”
He had Mrs. Olsen’s peekapoo in his lap. “I think something’s wrong,” he said, worry creasing his face. “I don’t see the old lady. Just the dog. And it’s really late.”
She nodded. Mrs. Olsen and the dog ought to both be in bed by now. “I’ll call 911.”
“I already did,” he said, holding up his cell phone. “I just wanted to wait here until they arrive. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
She went out on the front porch with him to wait. A few minutes later, a patrol car pulled up to the curb across the street. Rilka scooped the dog from Jeremy’s lap and followed him over as he went to explain the situation.
As they approached, a slender blonde officer got out of the car and eyed Mrs. Olsen’s house, then gave them a glance. “You the one who called it in?” the cop said to Rilka. She wondered how many times a day Jeremy got that — people not even acknowledging him.
“I’m the one who called 911,” Jeremy said.
The officer glanced down at him, then listened as he explained, then nodded once, unhooked his flashlight from his belt, went up the walk, and started looking in windows.
A moment later, he was back at his car, radioing a message in. When he was finished, he came back to where Rilka and Jeremy waited. “I see a body on the floor,” he said briefly.
Rilka sucked a sharp breath in. She wasn’t close friends with Mrs. Olsen but she hated the thought of the old lady being hurt, with no one to notice.
“Can we help?” Rilka asked.
The officer shook his head before turning to go back up the walk. “No. Please stay back.”
Rilka watched anxiously as he forced the door open and went inside, cautiously, hand on his weapon, as if he might encounter criminals. Jeremy reached over and took her free hand. She twined her fingers with his gratefully. The dog in her other arm whined pitifully but didn’t try to break free.
“I think she had a heart attack,” Jeremy said. “I’m pretty sure there aren’t any desperadoes inside about to start shooting.”
A little tension left her shoulders. She nudged the arm of his chair. “If there are any desperadoes, think I can outrun you?”
She heard his short laugh. “You mean like the bear? You don’t have to outrun the bear, you just have to outrun me?”
“Exactly like the bear.”
“I’m too much of a gentleman to outrun you.”
“Such a thoughtful guy,” she said. Then the smile left her face as an ambulance pulled to the curb. The officer came to the front door of Mrs. Olsen’s house and called something to them. A few minutes later the old lady was loaded into the back of the ambulance, the EMTs working over her. The police officer said something to the driver and then the doors shut and the ambulance drove off.
“I hope she’ll be all right,” Rilka said, reminded too forcefully of Gran, wax-pale and still on the last night of her life, leaving too soon, leaving before she had taught Rilka everything she needed to know. Although maybe that was selfish. Oh, Gran. How I miss you.
“Does Mrs. Olsen have relatives?” Jeremy asked.
“Not that I know of. I’ll stop by the hospital in the morning, see how she’s doing.”
/> “I was thinking of the dog,” Jeremy said. “Who’s going to take care of it?”
Rilka was suddenly aware that she had the peekapoo cradled in her elbow. “Hey, you’re the one who picked it up,” she said, thrusting the dog back at him.
He held his palms up, disclaiming possession. “You’re the one who needs a dog.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t like animals.”
“How can you turn down that sweet face?” he asked. “You need a puppy to love.”
“You’re just as alone as I am.”
“No,” Jeremy said. “I’ve got my brother and his wife. And my dad. And a couple of buddies. And you have — Marilyn is her name?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Shut up.”
“The dog’s name is Sugar,” Jeremy said helpfully, patting the dog on the head. “Mrs. Olsen told me that the day I had to go chasing after her.”
Rilka rolled her eyes. “That’s an inventive name.”
“What would you have called her?” Jeremy challenged. “Cupid?”
“Cupid is a male name,” Rilka said.
“Would the dog know the difference?”
“Weren’t you supposed to have gone away by now?”
• • •
Jeremy watched Rilka close the door behind her. Her and Sugar, whom she was already cuddling and saying cooing words to, though he was pretty sure she’d deny cooing to her last breath.
He wondered if Mrs. Olsen would be all right. She’d seemed elderly when he’d met her, but not old old, not frail old. A good spirit, and a nice heart. He hoped she’d be okay. He liked that Rilka was going to look out for her. Rilka liked to pretend she didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but she did. She just didn’t like anyone to know about it.
If he and Rilka had actually been friends, when the drama had ended she would have invited him in for coffee or a drink, or he would have been able to suggest it. But he guessed they weren’t friends because she hadn’t offered and he hadn’t asked. He slipped the truck into gear.
They weren’t friends, not really. He wasn’t sure what the hell they were. Oh, she was friendly enough, and she bantered fine. Yes, he was pretty sure she liked him, was attracted to him, but she totally shut down when it came to the man-woman thing. Every time they skated anywhere near personal intimacy, she skittered back to treating him like a client. Which, okay, he was. Although she had invited him to dinner, so that had to mean something. He just wasn’t sure what. Maybe she did want a relationship, just not with him. There was an encouraging thought. What was wrong with him?
