The Older Woman

by Cheryl Reavis

  “So tell me,” she said out from under it. “Why do they call you ‘Bugs’?”

  He glanced at the cat. “I went outside my food chain,” he said. “The survivaltraining thing.”

  “You weren’t the only one to do that, were you?”

  “I was the only one to throw up,” he said, and she laughed again. Easily. Pleasantly. He hadn’t been trying to be cute. He’d been telling the truth again—but he was beginning to feel pretty damned witty here.

  He stretched his legs out in front of him. He wouldn’t have thought the blanket would help, especially in July, but the pain was already beginning to lessen. “I’m going to have to get me one of these,” he said.

  “You can have that one,” she said.

  “No, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t. I have another. Actually, I have two others. My sisters seem to think I have no other way to keep warm. Take it.”

  He looked at her. She meant it.

  “Well, okay. Thanks.”

  “You’re

  welcome.”

  She disappeared again, and when she came back she had an apple in her hand.

  “Eat that,” she said, throwing it to him. “Put your feet up.”

  She left him sitting there—with the cat. After a moment he maneuvered both legs onto a nearby ottoman. Then, he occupied himself eating the apple and looking around the room. Nice place. Neat. Clean. He could see several framed photographs on a table—

  little kids mostly. Or maybe the same two kids—a boy and a girl—at different ages. Hers?

  He didn’t think so. At least, he’d never heard anyone mention that she had kids.

  The cat finally made her move, stepping carefully onto the blanket on his lap and then standing a moment before cautiously lying down. He sat there stiffly, trying to decide how badly he minded. The cat wasn’t hurting anything, he supposed, not even his bare legs under the blanket. After a moment he tentatively let his hand rest on its fur. It began to purr immediately. He couldn’t hear it, though. He could feel it with his fingertips.

  “Just as long as nobody sees me,” he told the little beast before it got too comfortable.

  He took a quiet breath. He was so tired. After a while, the cat stretched out across his knees. The added warmth was not…unpleasant.

  He closed his eyes. He heard a telephone ringing somewhere and Meehan answer it. The conversation was brief, and, as far as he could tell, nonhostile.

  Must not be the boyfriend.

  He heard the rain, and a strong gust of wind against the house. And then he heard nothing.

  Chapter Two

  Something’s wrong with my hand.

  The realization penetrated his sleep and wouldn’t leave. His hand was tingling. No…not tingling. Vibrating.

  He opened his eyes.

  The

  cat.

  It was purring. It had moved off his legs and was sharing half—more than half—

  of the heated throw. His hand rested heavily on its back.

  “What time is it?” Doyle said out loud, in spite of the fact that he didn’t hear Meehan anywhere.

  The cat rolled into a ball and hid its face in its paws. He looked around the room. It was still daylight.

  Wrong, he thought immediately. It wasn’t “still” anything. The sun was shining, and it was on the morning side of the house. He attempted to move his legs off the ottoman—and regretted it immediately. He rarely slept the whole night through, but apparently he’d done just that, and he was paying dearly for the inactivity.

  His cane was propped against the couch. It had a note taped to the handle, one direct and to the point: “Latrine—doorway straight ahead. Kitchen—doorway to left. Coffeepot comes on at five-thirty.”

  He could smell coffee, come to think of it, but first things first. With considerable effort he managed to get to his feet and then make it to the latrine and back, closely supervised by a meowing cat all the way. It ran along in front of him into the kitchen and pointedly sat down facing a base cabinet door.

  “What?” Doyle said in response to yet another of its inquisitive chirps and in spite of his determination not to talk to it. The cat immediately stood, did a kind of fourpawed, feline ballet pivot and sat down again. And stared at him.

  “Can’t help you,” he said. “Just passing through.”

  And he intended to do just that, but the coffeemaker gurgled. He looked in that direction. There was another note taped to it. He hobbled over to read it:

  “Cups in cabinet in front of you. Unplug pot when you leave.”

  The coffee smelled great, and he was never one to pass up an invitation. He reached up and opened the cabinet door and took out a shiny black coffee mug. He poured some coffee into it while the cat did figure eights at his feet.

  “Nine point six,” he said, looking down. “Maybe seven.”

  The cat ran to the base cabinet door again and meowed loudly.

  “Okay, okay. I get it. That’s the chow door and the MRE’s are in there, right?”

  He hobbled over and opened the door. A small box full of pouches of cat food sat on the bottom shelf—the feline version of Meals Ready to Eat. With some difficulty, he got one of them out.

  “See?” he said to the cat. “I’m not as dumb as I look.” He might not speak the language, but he’d had plenty of practice muddling through, anyway, in his time. In the Balkans. In Haiti. In Korea.

  He shook off the feeling of loss the memory of a healthier and more useful time gave him and glanced around for something to commandeer for a cat food dish. He saw nothing particularly appropriate, so he tore the pouch open and down one side and placed—dropped—it on a paper towel on the floor. The cat didn’t mind roughing it in the least.

  He walked painfully back to his coffee. It was really good, and he took the cup to the table and eventually maneuvered himself into a chair. He stretched both arms over his head and yawned noisily, wondering idly where his hostess had gotten to. Maybe the boyfriend had had second thoughts about the situation. Maybe he’d regrouped and come back here last night with his hat in his hand—or his bag of bagels—and Meehan, overwhelmed by his generosity and not wanting to explain what the gimp was doing snoozing on her couch, had trotted off with him to his place.

  Doyle picked up the coffee cup and immediately put it down again. He didn’t much care for that scenario. It didn’t fit his idea of what Kate Meehan was like, for one thing. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would let a man jerk her around, especially one who had done his dead level best to make her cry. She was the kind who would—

  He gave a sharp exhalation of breath and repositioned his aching legs. What the hell did he know about Meehan and her situation?

  Nothing.

  Still, he was kind of surprised that she would go off and just leave him alone in her house. On the other hand, she’d trusted him enough to inflict him on Mrs. Bee. It looked as if she trusted him enough to leave him all alone with the Meehan family silver, too.

  The doorbell abruptly rang—way too early for callers in Doyle’s opinion. He toyed with the idea of ignoring it, then decided that it might be Meehan with her arms full, and the least he could do was let her into her own house.

  He struggled to his feet and then to the door—the wrong door. The doorbell rang again, and he hobbled in the opposite direction, this time with a cat escort.

  The boyfriend stood on the patio with his little white bag and a cardboard coffee cup holder holding two cups.

  “This ought to be good,” Doyle said to the cat. He opened the door wide and stood waiting, enjoying the man’s startled look much more than he should have. But—as he’d told Meehan—he didn’t get out much. He had to find his entertainments where and when he could.

  “I’m…looking for Katherine,” the boyfriend said warily.

  “Katie’s not here,” Doyle said, using Mrs. Bee’s version of Meehan’s given name for no other purpose than to annoy the man who had taken off
and left her standing in the rain.

  If at all possible.

  The

  man

  frowned.

  Definitely possible, Doyle decided.

  “Where is she?” the boyfriend asked pointedly. He was not happy about this situation at all. Meehan was supposed to be exactly where he’d left her, no doubt. And she certainly wasn’t supposed to be entertaining another man.

  “Don’t know,” Doyle said.

  “When will she be back?”

  “Don’t know,” Doyle said, continuing his effort to be helpful.

  “What

  are

  you doing in her house?” the man asked next, his Mr. Rich and Cool image getting away from him.

  “Not much. Sleeping. Drinking coffee. Feeding the cat. You want me to take that?” Doyle asked of the little white bag and the plastic cups in the cardboard holder.

  “No, I don’t,” the man snapped. He stalked away and dumped the white bag and the coffee in the rollout trash can as he passed it.

  “Want me to tell her you came by?” Doyle called. And made a fool of yourself?

  The boyfriend didn’t answer. He hopped into his very nice silver car and backed noisily out the drive.

  The cat chirped at Doyle’s feet. “Why didn’t you stop me?” he asked it. “Now he’s really vexed.”

  The cat made a different kind of noise and executed another one of its four-pawed dance turns.

  “Nice dresser, though,” Doyle said. He closed the door and hobbled back into the kitchen.

  He finished the rest of his coffee standing up and put the empty cup on the top rack of the dishwasher. It was a lot harder to get the make-do cat food dish off the floor than to put it down there, but he eventually managed. There was nothing to do now but attempt the long walk across the yard to Mrs. Bee’s. He was halfway to the back door when he remembered that he was supposed to unplug the coffeemaker.

  As was its custom, the cat accompanied him in both directions, and when he opened the back door again, it sniffed the air but made no attempt to go outside.

  “Stay alert,” he said as he hobbled through. “Coyotes are sneaky bastards.”

  Doyle pulled the door closed after him and paused for a moment on the patio. The morning was cool, washed clean by yesterday’s rain. Meehan’s array of wind chimes tinkled softly in the breeze—glass, melodic chrome tubes and tiny brass bells, and, every now and then, a dull and hollow clunk of bamboo. Flowers grew in numerous pots and hanging baskets, most of which he couldn’t identify. He recognized the red and purple petunias, but he had no idea whatsoever about the green thing that smelled like lemons. His knowledge of plants was limited to farm crops and survival-training edibles. His knowledge of Kate Meehan was limited, as well. Who would have thought she liked these kinds of things?

  An assortment of birds flew back and forth to the fancy blue-and-gray ceramic bird feeder, all of them vying for a perch. He stood and watched the no-guts-no-glory chickadees out maneuver the larger birds for more than their fair share of the sunflower seeds. What they lacked in size they made up for in speed and audacity. There was a lot to be said for both qualities, and he longed for the time when he might regain at least one of them.

  Look and learn, he thought, his mind immediately going to his grandfather. The old man used to say that all the time.

  Look and learn.

  Listen

  and

  learn.

  Live and learn.

  Pop Doyle had believed that life’s lessons were everywhere if a man had enough sense to stop and pay attention—which had amused his grandson in a way that only a smartass punk kid could be amused. Doyle knew the truth of it now, though. Now when the old man was long gone, and he couldn’t tell him so.

  Doyle had stood in one place too long, and he maneuvered himself slowly down the brick patio steps. He definitely could have used Meehan’s shoulder to hold on to.

  In spite of the pain, he opted for the long way around the hedge and headed down Meehan’s driveway to the street. It was slow going, his progress accomplished in fits and starts and nothing like the days when he went running at six-thirty in the morning no matter what.

  He missed it, damn it! He once had a sense of accomplishment, and he had taken such pride in being one of the best. It was so hard to give it all up.

  No. It was so hard to have it all taken away.

  A passing car honked, and he caught a glimpse of a rolled-up, OD camouflage sleeve waving out the open window as it disappeared around the corner. Somebody who knew him, Doyle guessed. Or knew of him. Somebody who still had legs that worked like they were supposed to and who was lucky enough to have somewhere to go and something to do.

  He took a deep breath and fought down the self-pity that threatened to overwhelm him. One foot in front of the other, that’s all it took. Pop Doyle and his drill sergeant said so.

  Doyle had worked up a sweat by the time he reached Mrs. Bee’s back door. He expected it to be locked, but it wasn’t. Mrs. Bee was awake and busily ironing pillowcases in the still-cool, wide central hallway. He expected the third degree, too, but she only smiled and kept ironing.

  “You’re a good boy, Calvin,” she said when he was halfway up the stairs.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said dutifully. “That would be me.”

  Mrs. Bee still didn’t ask him anything about his mission of mercy, so he kept going. Not that he had much to report. Meehan had been dumped—which Mrs. Bee likely already realized if she’d witnessed even half as much of the scene next door as he had. He’d have to hand it to his landlady, though. She said she only wanted Meehan in out of the rain, and that accomplished, she apparently didn’t need to know whatever sordid details he might have uncovered or why he was just now reporting in.

  He made it to his quarters eventually. Unlike the downstairs hall, the apartment was hot and stuffy. He switched the air conditioner to high and stood in front of the cold blast of air, staring at nothing. The morning stretched endlessly before him, as did the afternoon, the week, the rest of his life.

  He fried some bacon, then didn’t eat it. He maneuvered painfully to the floor instead and did an altogether impressive number of stretches and “ab crunches” just to keep the physical therapist happy. Then he showered and dressed in the uniform of the day—PT-gray running shorts and T-shirt—and running shoes that were hell to get tied.

  As a reward he picked up his guitar and managed to strum what might pass for an actual melody. Then he refined it. Embellished it. Sang along.

  And didn’t let his mind go anywhere near Rita Warren.

  He was getting better at playing the guitar, helicopter crash or no helicopter crash. He had never had much of a singing voice, but he didn’t let that stop him. If he felt like singing, he sang. The residual huskiness from the fire and who knew how many hospital breathing tubes didn’t particularly concern him. The good news was that his fingers were much more inclined to do what he wanted them to do of late. They still hurt, of course, but what else was new?

  Just to break the monotony, he hobbled to the window a couple of times to look out at Meehan’s house. Absolutely nothing was going on there. She hadn’t come home yet, and the boyfriend hadn’t returned with another little white bagel bag.

  It took considerable willpower on his part not to make a third trip to the window.

  “I

  have

  got to get out of here,” he said to no one in particular. He was becoming way too interested in the neighbors—sort of like the guy with the broken leg in the Hitchcock movie he’d stayed up late watching the other night. Of course, that guy had had all kinds of people to spy on. Doyle only had Meehan and the boyfriend—and it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t all that interested in the boyfriend. He was interested in Meehan, and he was letting himself get all concerned about her just like he did with Rita. He needed to go somewhere, do something, anything to take his mind off his troubles—and hers.

  He looked
at the noisy, battery-operated clock on the wall and sighed. Oh-nine-thirty.

  He could call Sergeant Beltran. Beltran would have transportation here in a heartbeat. Doyle could go to the grocery store—except that he didn’t need groceries. Or to the barber shop—except that he didn’t need a haircut, either. And he had way too much pride to let it be known that he just needed company—somebody to baby-sit.

  He ate the bacon after all and read yesterday’s newspaper. His dress uniform hung on a hanger on the half-open closet door, and he hobbled over to put it away. He smiled slightly to himself as he hung it in the closet. He hadn’t exaggerated too much when he’d told Meehan he had looked good at Rita’s wedding. At least he’d regained enough weight so that he wore the uniform instead of the other way around. Except for the fact that he couldn’t half walk, he was a lean, mean fighting machine.