It's an important moment for us, and I turn to look at the window and show his Mommy what he's doing, but to my surprise she's not watching.
*
I show Tony the basket, pointing out to him that it's slightly oval shaped. Sort of a Presidential Oval Office thing.
"Cute," Tony says.
I show him the presidential-blue blankets, explaining that Grover's Mommy just had him sleeping on a ratty old towel in the kitchen.
"It's obvious you put a lot of thought into this, Mitch," Tony says. "So, just curious: What are you giving her for Christmas?"
I ask him for ideas.
*
Two weeks into the new year, the company Grover's Mommy works for sends her to New York for five days.
I assure her it's no problem, my building allows pets. We put Grover's new basket on the front seat of my car and he sits in it and looks bright-eyed out the windows as I drive him into town. On entering my apartment he patrols every room, sniffing the whole place at length before finding it to his satisfaction. I follow his feeding regimen to the letter, maybe with a few extra treats now and then, walk him every morning and evening, hold the grip of the red rubber pull-toy I bought him every night. Friday, the day before his Mommy gets home, I take the day off and we lie on the floor in front of the TV, snacking on Fritos and Milk Bones. I laugh when he barks at the German Shepherds on “Cops.”
"Good dog," I tell him, and he wags his tail and looks over his shoulder back at me.
You're actually okay yourself, monkey-boy.
Saturday night, his Mommy calls from New York.
*
"Transferred?" Tony asks me on Monday. "What do you mean transferred?"
"Her company is moving her to the main office," I explain. "She's only coming back next week to clean-out her house."
"Damn, that's short notice. What are you two going to do?"
I drum my fingers on my desk. "I'm not real sure, she was a bit evasive."
Tony shakes his head, "Beautiful. Jeeze, and after you were finally getting along with the dog, too."
I nod. Tony gives me a consoling pat on the shoulder and goes back to his own cubical. I swivel my chair towards the computer, but look at the photograph standing beside it. It is the only thing on the desk that wasn't here when I was assigned this space.
*
"Here we go," the store owner cups a hand under the biggest puppy and lifts it carefully out of the bin. He holds it up in front of me. "Here's a frisky little fellow. Whaddya think?"
It's a portly Pekingese puppy, with a mane of gray hair and a flat little face with bright eyes. He looks at me curiously.
"I think he looks a little like William Howard Taft," I say, and the store owner raises an eyebrow. But William wags his tail.
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
The trip went pretty good, at first. We got out of Michigan clean and stopped to pick up a new car in Chicago. Lindsey had her eye on a Caddy with handicapped plates and stickers we saw outside an office building, but I couldn't bring myself to nab it. Lindsey liked the idea of being able to park in the good spaces, but - I mean - it was a handicapped person's car! It seemed sort of...well, rude. Look, I know I'm not exactly a saint here, but I'm not a complete jerk either. Despite what you may have heard.
Instead, we strolled around a couple other parking lots like we were shopping for a used car; kicking tires, peering at odometers through windows. We finally took a gray Caprice, just nondescript enough, and as a bonus it had a decent Bose stereo with a CD player. It's always a nice surprise when you boost an old car and find something like that in it, better because it's so unexpected. We tossed our couple of bags in the back and took off.
Sad thing was, the owner's taste in music didn't quite jive with me and Lindsey's. Or Lindsey's, anyway. While I was driving us out of town, Lindsey rode shotgun with the stack of Mudhoney and Crash Test Dummies CD's on her lap, looking at each, saying, "Shit. Garbage. Crap. Trash," and flipping each one out her window like she was dealing cards. Luckily I was doing my typical "stick-to-the-back-roads" thing right after getting the car, because most of those disks just whipped into the car's slipstream and went spinning off right behind us, hitting the road and shattering all over in shiny chips. Lindsey only kept The Beatles Sgt. Pepper's album, and she sang along with that the rest of the way through Illinois.
I had too much other garbage on my mind to feel much like singing.
We got into Davenport pretty late and checked into a Holiday Inn near I-80. I registered us as Mr. and Mrs. C. Barrow, and we paid in cash. Well before dawn I went down to the parking lot and switched around a bunch of license plates while quietly humming the "Mission Impossible" theme (I don't know why, but that always sort of steadies my nerves), so as we headed out across Iowa, we were carrying state plates. I've noticed highway cops hassle the locals less than out-of-staters, especially in the Midwest.
I'd driven across Iowa once before, fleeing south out of Minnesota with a few grand worth of sound equipment in the back of a Roto-Rooter van (it's a really long story). I remembered Iowa basically as a long, flat road with nothing but corn to look at, but this current trip went a little different. We could barely see the road, let alone the corn, because ten miles over the border it started to rain buckets, and it didn't let up the whole way across the state. We ended up just crawling along I-80 through sheets and sheets of rain that seemed like they were blowing in from all directions at once. It was damn near biblical.
Everybody with half a brain must have stayed home, because the only other vehicles we saw all day were big rigs heading west. They'd come out of the soup behind us, thundering by and blaring horns, which was bad enough. What made it worse was that every time one went whipping by us Lindsey would start shouting something like, "Get in your own lane, ya damn diesel-head sum'bitch!" at the top of her lungs. I've known people with short fuses, but Lindsey's more like loose powder lying around, and lately bad weather had been enough to set her off. Through the windows and the rain I knew not one of the truckers could see, much less hear her yelling like that, but sitting right next to her, I could hear fine. It's a pain keeping a roomy Caprice with bald tires steady on a rainy road anyway, and Lindsey's bawling in my ear sure didn't make it any easier. Not that I suggested she cut it out. I figured it was better to let her blow-off steam before we got to Colorado, where I was still planning on saying my piece.
Seemed like it took forever to get through Iowa, though actually it wasn't all that long after noon we crossed the river and got into Omaha. We filled up the car in town, and ate at a burger joint. While we were eating I made a bunch of dumb jokes and tried to keep everything real light. Lindsey sort of just smiled polite-like, but I kind of got the idea I was being an ass. I shut up, and we finished our fries in silence. When we left, we stole all the complimentary newspapers, pretty much from force of habit. Some would say “took” instead of “stole,” but both me and Linds were pretty far past that particular delusion by then. Still are, mind you.
By the time we came out most of the rain had blown-off back to the east. The streets were still all wet, but the sun was starting to poke shafts through the clouds, and as we were getting back on the interstate, Lindsey spotted a rainbow over the road west. She perked up right away. I'm always a bit weirded-out the first couple of days after a job, turn-down-the-radio, listen-for-helicopters sort of weirded-out, but by then it had been almost seventy-two hours and Detroit was a long ways behind us. I was feeling relief from that, if not from what I still had to tell Lindsey at the end of this trip. Still, we both sang along with Sgt. Pepper for a bit as we headed on.
"We hope you have enjoyed the show..."
About an hour down the road we passed a pulled-over highway cop that was writing a Dodge with Kansas plates a ticket. That reminded me that we were still carrying the Iowa plates, which I'd meant to change in Omaha. I usually don't forget stuff like that.
I told Lindsey and pulled over at a rest stop with a kin
d of half-assed idea about snagging some plates there. That hardly ever works, because at those highway stops people are just in and out too quick, and besides that, most of the people that stop aren't locals anyway. Still, I pulled in.
The rest stop was the same as you can find anywhere, which isn't so bad, from the outside. The building was set off a parking lot a ways from the road, with ramps going in and out. There was a little grassy hill thrown up between the far end of the lot and the highway, which kept the road noise tolerable. The sun was shining good by then, and a bunch of people were standing around in front of the stop's red brick building, looking out over the surroundings, which were pretty much just road and wheat as far as I could see. I almost just kept driving, but Lindsey said she needed a stretch, so I parked way down towards the end of the lot so nobody would see me wiring the car when we left. Lindsey made a crack about locking the doors, no telling what kind of rough element might be hanging around. I was glad to see she was a bit sunnier along with the weather, and I hoped for clear skies over Colorado.
Soon as I got out and stood up, I realized I had to off-load the couple cups of coffee from Omaha. I went on over to the rest stop building, where a big heavyset lady wearing a Worlds of Fun T-shirt bunched up in the rolls across her belly gave me a friendly smile. I wasn't too used to that, seeing as how right up until the Detroit job I'd had this long, shaggy brown head of hair and a ratty beard Lindsey had given me shit about continuously. That look didn't get me a lot of friendly smiles from anybody, but I was now clean shaven, and had a real conservative haircut, dyed jet black. Just your typical upstanding citizen. Still, the lady's smile caught me off guard, and I just blinked at her a couple of seconds before smiling back and going on in.
I took care of business (the bathroom floor had a map of Nebraska painted on it, what the hell ever happened to state pride?) and stopped at the soda machine on the way back out. Damn thing wanted a buck a can (and people call me a thief), but it was the only show in town, so I fed in a couple and got sodas for me and Lindsey.
I couldn't find Lindsey right away outside. My first thought was that she took-off with our share of the Detroit money, seeing as how she could get the car started as easy as I could. For a second, I felt a spike of something like relief, but looking down the lot, the Caprice was still there. My next thought was to scoot myself, but I really couldn't do that. I owed Lindsey better, and besides - she would've come after me.
I didn't want her feeling too bad, but I wanted her pissed at me a whole lot less.
So I looked around some more, and finally checked behind the building. She was back there, sitting sideways and cross-legged in an old rusty chain swing, looking out at a few cows that were grazing a pasture on the other side of a barbwire fence. I was gonna call out to her, but I didn't. I just stopped and looked for a while.
Lindsey's really something to see. While she's got as much talent as anybody I've ever worked a job with, her typical role in most is as the distraction. She can gussy herself up and go sashaying into anywhere, throw out a hip, toss the hair, give a little glassy-eyed giggle, and every clerk, teller, guard or whatever in the place will just stare dumbly right at her. You can practically clean out a register before anybody notices. Lindsey is just slam-bang gorgeous when she's working that angle, and typically, that's how even the people we work a job with remember her. They don't know the half of it though. They've never seen her when she's not working that angle, or else freaking-out on somebody. They've never seen her relaxed, sitting cross-legged in a swing, looking at a herd of cows with that kind of half smile at the corner of her mouth, thinking of something funny. When she's doing her strut routine, Lindsey's an absolute tidal wave. But at peace...she's more like that rainbow over Omaha.
So I just looked for a while, standing back and to the side, and feeling like a complete asshole for even thinking of taking-off on her. I must have been thinking too loud, because all of a sudden Lindsey turned back, saw me, and grinned. She waved me over and I walked to the swings trying hard to smile and swallow what felt like a whole apple in my neck.
"You ever do any rustling, Craig?" Lindsey asked as I handed her a can.
"Do any what?" I asked, surprised that I didn't sound more thick and sloppy.
"Cattle rustling." Lindsey popped her can open and nodded towards the cows.
I had to snort as I opened my own soda. "You want to steal those cows?"
"I've never stolen a cow before," Lindsey admitted. "I'm thinking just one though, probably couldn't get more than that in the car."
I sat down in the swing next to Lindsey's, just in the regular way as I couldn't physically get my legs folded up like she had hers to sit sideways. For the first time I noticed the green duffel bag that was sitting on the ground under her, and I realized just how distracted I'd been for the last couple of days. I usually pay real close attention to where the money and the guns are.
"Sure is pretty," Lindsey said with a little sigh, and I guess it was. The cows were those sort of spotted kind, almost a chocolate brown with some white parts. The grassy field they were in was narrow, and past another fence was a field of wheat going up a slight hill, shining like gold in the sun and waving real slow in the breeze. On top of the hill was a faded old barn, sagging in the middle though there wasn't anything heavier on it than clean blue sky and passing shadows of big fluffy clouds. It was pretty, but looking out over it, with her new short haircut and those green eyes looking warm, Lindsey was a whole lot prettier.
I started feeling a little choked-up again, and when Lindsey asked, "So how far is it to Colorado?" I couldn't answer right away. I took a long swig of soda and managed, "Couple hundred miles."
She just kept looking at me real close. Lindsey's always been sharp. She can walk through a bank lobby in two minutes and come out with the floor plan and camera placements accurate to the foot. She was turning that high-powered examiner on me now, and I knew I wasn't up to it.
"Are you all right?" she said, "You've been acting kind of flaky, even more than usual, for the last few days."
"I'm all right," I said shortly. I stood up out of the swing and walked a little bit forward, poking at a rock in the ground with the toe of a shoe. I could still feel her eyes on the back of my neck.
The chain of her swing squeaked a bit as Lindsey maneuvered so she was sitting regular and facing me. She said my name real low and gentle, and I got an itch between my shoulders. I turned back to her and she met my eyes with a look I glanced away from.
"Look, we better get on the road," I said, raising my wrist before I remembered I left my watch somewhere in Detroit. I made a mental note to snag another one soon as opportunity provided.
She stood up with her feet on either side of the duffel bag. "If there's something on your mind..."
"We can talk about it in Denver," I said. I really didn't want to get into this now. It would make the rest of the trip absolute hell.
"No," she said real serious, "if something's bothering you, let's get it out now."
She folded her arms and looked ready to stand there until we were both just bones. Longer even. When I was busted down in Texas, before my three-year stretch on auto theft (I was framed), the cops got me coming unaware out of a garage. I walked outside into daylight and a whole wall of leveled guns. I felt now just like I'd felt then: Guilty and trapped, but more just sweaty and squirmy, staring into those barrels, all helpless and twitchy. I'd been almost sure one of those Tey-has Wyatt-Earp-wannabes was going to crack off a round accidentally-on-purpose and put me down, saving the taxpayers a few bucks in court costs. Lindsey could do a lot more damage with a sharp look than a police-issue .45.
"I don't..." I started, then took another long drink that killed the can. When I lowered it, Lindsey was still giving me that dead-on stare. "Linds..." I tried, then I just gave up and hung my head, looking at the ground.
"I don't think I'm going to stick around in Denver," I said.
There wasn't an answer right away,
and I peeked back up. Lindsey's eyes were darker; the green more like seaweed than grass, and her jaw and whole body was stiffer.
"What the hell are you talking about?" she said in an almost-whisper that was worse than a shout. "We've got a job in Denver with Jimmy Fitz."
"Fitz doesn't need another outside guy for that," I said.
"That's not the point," Linds said. "He'll damn well take you on if I tell him to."
"You don't have to do that," I said, "I don't...I don't want to stick around in Denver."
There was another pause, then Lindsey said, "So we'll go somewhere else."
I couldn't answer right away. I shook the can but it was still empty. I was looking at the ground again.
"Linds, what I'm saying is..." What the hell was I saying? "I'm saying that I don't think we should keep working together."
After another silent couple of seconds, Lindsey said, "Just working?"
I kept looking at the ground, "No. Not just working, I guess."
Lindsey made a little sound that I couldn't quite hear. I looked up again, and her arms were starting to shake a little bit at the shoulders. There was a line of wetness starting to stand out under her eyes, and when I looked at her she turned around and took a couple steps away, arms still folded.
"Lindsey," I tried to say, though it didn't sound much like her name when it came out. I stepped around the swing and walked after her, which turned out to be a real dumb move on my part. I can get into a car and get it running with minimal tools in less than a minute, I can use a normal belt to hang a shotgun under an overcoat so nobody can see it till you swing it out, but even after more than two years I didn't know how to read Lindsey with real precision.
I thought she was trying not to cry, but I think now that she was making an effort not to kill me. When I put my arm on her shoulder and said, "I'm real sorry," though, that pretty much tore it.
Eddie's Shorts - Volume 3 Page 2
