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On the Rim

Page 17

by Florida Ann Town


  Al greets her with an appreciative whistle and, despite herself, she starts to laugh. In the early days of their marriage, when watching late night movies on TV was their only affordable entertainment, the wolf whistle turned up in shows from the forties. Probably no one under fifty has ever heard an actual wolf whistle today.

  “I’d forgotten what a trim figure you used to have,” he says. “Still do,” he adds, rolling his eyes like Groucho Marx and flicking an imaginary cigar. “Let’s strike a medal for the man who invented Spandex.”

  “Oh, hush,” she says, praying that the warmth that floods her cheeks won’t turn into a full-scale blush. She’s too old for that. She casts about for a way to change the subject.

  From somewhere, he’s gotten a helmet. It might even be an old one of Rob’s. The tires on his bike have the deep, rich, black rubber look that says they’re brand new. The tread isn’t scuffed yet and the sidewalls still prickle with little stubs of rubber from the mould. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt. No jacket in sight. There’s a bag laced onto the rat-trap carrier on the back that looks like it holds enough groceries for a Scout troop picnic. He doesn’t have a water bottle. That concerns her.

  “Can I loan you a water bottle?” she asks.

  His look is pure derision. “Nah, I won’t need it. I’ve got a couple of cans of pop in my lunch.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  Confidently, she straddles her bike and pushes off. With a rush, Al pulls ahead of her and turns left out of the driveway.

  “Hey, where are you going? I thought we’d agreed to head up the river? We need to go the other way for that.”

  He swings around in a slow circle.

  “It’s too far. I thought we’d just go for a short ride. Maybe go along the bike trail to the bridge and cut over.”

  She stops, dismounts, and resets the bike on its kickstand.

  “Wait a minute. We agreed on this. You never mentioned that route.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been thinking about it. The river is too far. And there’s some nice places near the bridge for a picnic.”

  She chokes back a rude retort.

  “Al, if you want to go on a picnic, I’ll go on a picnic with you. But not today. Today I’m going to ride. If you want to come with me, that’s great. But I’m not changing my plans.”

  “Okay. We’ll picnic another day. The river it is.”

  Her knees go weak but her hands relax. A deep breath helps control the buzzing in her head and the tightness in her chest. Something has happened. Something strange. She’s not sure if she’s ready for it.

  “You’re sure you can make it?” she asks.

  “No problem. If you can do it, I can do it.”

  “Look, you don’t have to be a hero. If you get tired, sing out and we can take a break, okay?”

  He grins in response.

  She has a choice. She can either ride him into the ground — and she knows she can do that — or call the stops herself. She knows how stubborn he is. And how intensely competitive in everything he does. He has to hike farther, walk faster, carry a bigger load, and work longer hours than anyone else. His theme song should be that old chestnut from Annie Get Your Gun — “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.” She pushes off, keeping an eye on him in her rear-view mirror.

  Labour Day weekend is over, but cars and vans with families head out for a last weekend at the cottage, last trip to the beach, last run with the boat. Shopping mall parking lots are crowded with kids buying school supplies and back-to-school wear.

  When Ellen’s kids were in school, they, like everyone else, went to school on the first day to register, then rushed home at noon with a supply list. Ellen would join the afternoon stampede through the mall stores as everyone tried to get everything on the same day. Long lines of frantic parents, small kids screaming from fatigue, cranky clerks trying to cope with the surging tide of shoppers. It was worse than Christmas shopping. There is no goodwill or friendly trappings of the season, just grim adults and sullen children trying to get through a ritual that stressed both patience and budgets.

  Minor arguments rumbled along like movie soundtracks.

  “You don’t need a new (loose leaf binder, box of crayons, gym shorts, etc.) Last year’s is still good.”

  “These are different. Miss (Whoever) says we have to get this kind.”

  “Well, I don‘t see why. The others are perfectly good.”

  “Everyone else will have the right ones and I’ll have the wrong kind.”

  Abruptly, Ellen swings back to the present and realizes she’s ignoring Al. Quickly, she checks her rear-view mirror. He’s plugging along, but dropping behind. She slows her pace and waits

  for him to catch up. Reluctantly, she slows even more and watches him edge closer. No matter what she said earlier, she knows now the ride will be much shorter and much easier than what she had planned — the ride Al had agreed to when they talked about

  it earlier.

  Eventually he pulls up even with her.

  “What’s up? Got a problem?”

  “Nope. Just decided to wait for you. The road’s wide enough to ride beside each other here. Unless you’d rather ride by yourself.”

  He shakes his head. The helmet wobbles. It needs adjusting. She wonders how to suggest it without stirring his anger.

  “Don’t matter to me. There’s a pretty good view from back here.” He grins, wickedly. It takes her back to a hundred tender moments. Moments when they were much gentler with each other. Moments when their lives focused on each other.

  “I’ll ignore that,” she tells him. “If you behave yourself, you can ride beside me. If you don’t, I might even make you ride in front. Then we’ll see about the view.”

  “You might even enjoy it,” he quips.

  “Oh, please! Let’s not shovel all that modesty around. It clogs the treads on my tires.”

  They laugh. It’s repartee the likes of which they’ve shared countless times, a bridge to a familiar past. The road whirrs by under their tires. A bypass looms ahead.

  “The road narrows here. Want me to go ahead?”

  He nods, head down and breathing a little harder. They turn off to the right, fly down the bypass, across a level stretch, and rejoin the highway. Just ahead is Samson’s, a store that’s grown from a ramshackle fish and bait shop to a good-sized store with groceries, delicatessen, arts, crafts, giftware, and an extensive seafood counter. They pull in and dismount. Ellen makes a show of checking her tires. No surprises. They’re fine, just as she knew they would be.

  “Want me to throw the gauge on yours?” she asks. The silver stick reflects the sun.

  “Nah. They’re okay,” he says, shoving his thumb against a sidewall.

  “Feel like a bit of a break?”

  “Only if you do.”

  That means yes, but he doesn’t want to say so.

  “I usually stop here for a cold drink,” she tells him. She doesn’t add that she usually stops for the cold drink on the way home at the end of a long ride. “They’ve got some great juices. Why don’t you watch the bikes and I’ll get something for both of us?”

  He lowers himself to the curb.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Ellen chooses a bottle of apple juice, picks up a paper cup from the deli, and pays for her purchase. Through the window, she sees him relaxing in the sunshine.

  She walks outside, pours a mouthful of juice into the cup, then passes the bottle to him. They sit in silence, sipping their drinks, watching the traffic drone by.

  “You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this,” he says, at last.

  “If you’re tired, we can go back.”

  “No, I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything this much fun. Makes me feel like a kid again. No appointments, no hassles. It’s great.”

  His hand engulfs hers.

  “
I can see why you like it. We should have done this years ago.”

  Ellen says nothing. After a moment, he gives her hand another squeeze, then releases it.

  “Well, I guess we better get going before I stiffen up.”

  She picks up the litter, deposits the bottle in a recycling rack and the cup in a trash barrel, then they straddle their bikes again and push off.

  The ride lasts much longer than she had expected, even allowing for Al’s inexperience. They make many stops. Still, she has to give him A for effort. As long as she remembers to slow her pace, he tries hard to keep up. There’s no point in running him ragged. They have to complete the circuit to get back home. She keeps a careful eye on him and enjoys a nice, easy ride.

  During the early part of the ride, they exchange trivial comments, but by the end of the day they’re actually exchanging ideas and discussing things. She disagrees with him on some things and explains why. He listens and considers what she’s said, instead of rejecting it out of hand.

  “You know, you might be right. I’ve never thought about it that way.”

  It’s a wide divergence from what their conversations had become toward the end of their marriage — or their non-

  conversations, that is, when it didn’t seem worthwhile to even try discussing anything.

  At last the ride ends and they pull into the parking area at Ellen’s apartment block. There’s a long pause. His body language is loud and clear. He doesn’t want to leave yet. She asks him up.

  “Come on. I’ll make us something to eat and you can have a bit of a rest before you head home.”

  “Sounds good to me, Babe.”

  She opens the door and he wheels his bike in.

  “You can leave yours in the lobby,” she says, as the elevator door opens and she walks her bike in, tipping it upright.

  “I hadn’t planned on dinner,” she tells him, as they rumble upward, “but I’ve got the makings for some spaghetti, if that’s okay.”

  “At this moment, anything would be okay.”

  As they enter the apartment, she heads for the bedroom. “I’m just going to skin out of these clothes. I’ll only be a minute. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

  He waves his hand. “Hey, take your time. Take a shower if you want. I’ll be quite happy to sit here for a bit without having to pedal.”

  “Okay. I’ll take you up on that.”

  She sets some kind of record for quick showering, dries off, slips into baggy sweats and a loose shirt, and towels her hair dry as she comes back into the living room.

  “Listen, I don’t have anything for you to change into, but if you want to have a bit of a wash, there’s lots of time before we eat.”

  He starts to reject the suggestion, then reconsiders.

  “You know, that would feel great.”

  She hands him a clean towel and he heads into the bathroom while she scurries around the tiny kitchen, organizing ingredients for dinner. There’s no wine, but there is juice. For a potluck supper, it’ll have to do.

  Minutes later, Al steps out of the bathroom, bare-chested, with the towel wrapped around his waist. He holds a soggy pile of clothing in one hand.

  “Babe, I’m sorry about this. I was just going to wash in the basin but the shower looked so inviting I thought I’d have a quick one and hop back into my clothes, but when I went to put them on I discovered I hadn’t pulled the curtain all the way closed and my clothes are soaked. Do you have a dryer I could throw them in?”

  He reminds her of Robby and Geoff as little kids, when they were stuck with some kind of mess to clean up. His eyes are their eyes, his expression their expressions.

  “No problem.” She takes the clothing from his hands. “I’ll just toss these into the washer before I dry them — then you’ll have something clean to wear home. That is, if you don’t mind dining like that?”

  “Actually, this towel is wet too. Do you have a dry one?”

  Ellen giggles. “You’re in luck. I do have another dry towel — a large, dry towel.”

  His expression of relief provokes another ripple of laughter.

  “Thanks, Babe.”

  Moments later, his clothing is churning around in the washer along with a wet towel and he’s kilted in a dry towel topped by an outsized sweatshirt she sometimes wears as a nightshirt. The effect is raffish, but at least he’s clean and dry. And in a good mood.

  They share laughter with their dinner, toasting the ride with twin cans of root beer.

  “That was great,” Al says, helping to clear the dishes from the table. “Actually, the whole day was wonderful. Not what I expected. You surprised me. I didn’t think you’d be able to ride that far. You did great. You really did.”

  “So did you. Maybe we shouldn’t have gone quite that far, but you were a good sport. I enjoyed it too.”

  Abruptly, the washer stops and she jumps up.

  “Your clothes. I’ll toss them in the dryer. They won’t take long.”

  “Actually, they should take about forty minutes,” he says. “Jeans are harder to dry, but the shirt will dry quickly.”

  Ellen looks at him blankly.

  “Who do you think does my laundry?” he asks. “I’ve learned a whole lot about it lately. I know exactly how long it takes to dry a load, so I know we have about forty minutes to get the kitchen cleaned up. I’ll help with the dishes. You might not believe it, but these days I’m a pretty good hand with a dishwasher, dishcloth, or a dish towel.”

  Once the kitchen is tidy, they sit enveloped in an easy companionship. Talk flows seamlessly. Too soon, the timer rings, announcing the end of the dryer cycle. There is a strange sense of déjà vu in taking his clothing from the dryer. Ellen folds it neatly, as she did a thousand times over the years, pressing the clothing against her body, feeling its warmth as she folds the jeans neatly, pairs his socks and cuffs them together, even though they are the only pair of socks in the load and he’ll be putting them on in a few minutes.

  She hands the stack of folded laundry to him, laughing at the sight of his toga-sarong. “You can change in the bedroom,” she suggests, leading the way and opening the door.

  He follows close behind. “Thanks, Babe. That was thoughtful. I guess you think I’m pretty dumb getting my stuff soaked like that.”

  “No, it was an accident. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “You know, that’s one of the things I’ve missed since you’ve been gone. You’re a nice person. Just genuinely nice.” Awkwardly, he reaches out and grabs her hand.

  “Oh, hell. I can’t just keep holding your hand. Am I allowed to give you a hug? Just to say thank you?”

  He moves closer, encompassing her in his arms. “Ah, Babe. I really have missed you. Today was wonderful. I hope we can do it again sometime.”

  Ellen snuggles into his shoulder and lets her arms slide across his back, enjoying the well-remembered feeling of his body against hers.

  Slowly and gently, as though it was their first kiss, he slides one hand up over her shoulder, cupping his palm below her chin, tipping her face up to his. Sweetly and softly, his lips find hers. Without thinking, she finds herself responding. Then suddenly she feels a surge of heat as he pulls her closer, against the hard-muscled body she remembers so well.

  A pulse, deep inside, begins to beat. Ellen moves her hand slowly over his back, drawing him closer. She feels something move and pulls back, startled.

  “I think you dislodged my towel,” he laughs. “My turn to dislodge something?”

  He reaches toward her, slowly sliding the band of her sweatpants past her hips. His hands are warm and compelling against her skin. The surge of passion that grips them both is so natural and so familiar. Ellen closes her eyes, ready to abandon herself to the lazy, languorous feeling that creeps through her body. It takes a minute to realize that the sudden interruption is her own voice calling out.

  “Wait! Wait a minute!”

  Shocked, he pulls back.

  �
��What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. But I think it would be a good idea if you used this.”

  She reaches across to the top of the dresser, picking up a little square packet lying on a doily.

  His eyes drop to her hand, then flick back to her face.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am.”

  “Come on, Ellie. You won’t get pregnant.”

  “Probably not, but there are other things I can get.”

  “From me? Come off it. You know me better than that.”

  “Not necessarily from you, but from your girlfriend. Things aren’t the same any more, Al. You’ve had at least one partner, and I’ll bet any amount you want to name that she’s had other partners as well. Probably quite a few. So, there’s a lot more involved now than just you and me.”

  Silently he turns and begins putting on his clothes.

  “Forget it. Just forget it. It was a lousy idea on my part.”

  Ellen shrugs. “Have it your own way. But if we’re going to be involved with each other again — that way — then I have to think of myself. That means AIDS testing and condoms.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Trying to control her shaking knees, she nods.

  “Yes, Al, I am serious.”

  “I’ve never heard you talk like this. What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “Yeah. Right,” he echoes. A grin flicks the corner of his mouth. “Sorry, that wasn’t a good phrase to use, given the circumstances.”

  “Al, things have changed. I’ve learned to learn to look after myself. And I’ve learned to think for myself, as well.”

  Silence stretches between them, like a rubber band waiting to break. She tries hard to probe the currents he’s sending out. Is he angry? Disgusted? She isn’t sure where those unbidden words came from, or even where the idea came from. She’d never intended to use the condoms, never even thought of them. But suddenly she was grateful they were there.

 

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