A House by the Side of the Road

by Jan Gleiter

  “Pardon me,” he said automatically and then, recognizing her, “Oh! Sorry Ms. Kessinger.”

  “Meg!” said Meg. “Unless I have to call you Mr. Eppler for the next twenty years.” She should just give up and accept the fact that the use of first names did not come easily to the man.

  Mike jogged across the street, coming onto the sidewalk behind John Eppler. “Meg,” he said. “Morning, Mr. Eppler.”

  John Eppler turned and regarded Mike, then turned back to Meg. “Be seeing you, young lady,” he said and walked away.

  “What was that?” asked Meg, looking curiously at Mike. “Hard feelings?”

  He grimaced. “Evidently.”

  Meg gazed at him, but he did not continue.

  * * *

  Fill-in-the-blank sentences, thought Meg. Just do some straightforward, fill-in-the-blank sentences. Easy, fast. No, not fun, but they get the job done. The light verse, the rhyming phrases, the word-play exercises were all more interesting, but they required so much thought. She didn’t have the mental stamina.

  She tapped out a sentence for appease. “A person who is afraid to ask questions cannot_______his curiosity.” No, that wouldn’t fly. In modern-day educational publishing, “a person” required “his or her.” Too clumsy, too bulky. Oh, well, it was a crummy sentence anyway.

  Mike would know, or ought to know, what kind of medicine Mrs. Ehrlich had taken, but Meg was afraid to ask him. A jumpy heart. What did a person take for a jumpy heart?

  The dog barked once from the front yard, an “Oh, hello” bark, and Meg turned her wrist to glance at her watch. Three-thirty already? She turned off the monitor and got up, yawning. Some physical activity would be good, and it was encouraging to see Jane’s determination and Harding’s steady progress.

  Jane was setting the porch chairs out onto the lawn and watching the smaller dog wriggle adroitly out from under Harding’s sprawled form. She called him when Meg emerged from the house, and he got up reluctantly and came to her. She snapped the leash onto his collar and began the exercise.

  “Watch,” she said. “I think he’s getting better.”

  Meg sat on the porch steps, watching the girl and the big sturdy dog. The child paced around the chairs as Harding struggled to understand that he was supposed to remain near her left leg regardless of which direction she turned. “Harding! Heel!” she said, attempting to complete a figure eight.

  “He is indeed getting better,” said Meg.

  “Well, not about everything,” said Jane ruefully. “He got the leftover meat loaf out of the fridge this morning while Mom was at the store. And a carton of sour cream. And we can’t find a package of bratwurst we know was in there last night or a huge bunch of grapes…”

  “Forgot the clamp, did she? Your mom?”

  Jane came to a stop and the dog looked up at her. She looked sternly back. “Harding! Sit!” He dutifully sat. “Uh-huh,” she said. “But she’s madder at him than she is at herself.”

  Something clicked in Meg’s mind. “Jane, when Harding ate Mrs. Ehrlich’s pills, did he have to go to the vet?”

  “No.” The child started pacing again, the dog at her side. “The vet just said to watch him. She said just one of each of the pills probably wouldn’t hurt him.”

  “Do you remember what he ate?”

  “I remember the aspirin. She always took a baby aspirin, the little tiny ones that taste like orange candy. That’s probably why he thought her pills would be good. And she took alfalfa—lots of it, but that doesn’t hurt dogs. She said it was for arthritis. Mom was worried about the big pill, the heart pill.”

  “What was that called, do you know?”

  Jane gave two quick tugs on the leash as she turned to the right; Harding adjusted his direction and went with her. “She called it ‘my heart pill.’”

  “Ah, yes. For her jumpy heart. What did it look like?”

  Jane stopped and thought. Harding looked around. “Sit!” said Jane. “Ugly. Brown and green, I think. Kind of big. Why?”

  “Oh,” said Meg, leaning back on her elbows, “I wondered if dogs will eat just any old pill. It sounds like they will. I guess I’d better keep my medicine up high.”

  “Your dog might not eat it,” said Jane. “Harding would, but a normal dog probably wouldn’t.”

  “You’re calling my dog normal?”

  “Just compared to Harding,” said Jane. “But she looks more normal with her new haircut.”

  She did. Grooming had emphasized the terrier strain in the dog and given her head a more attractive shape. More attractive, Meg had to admit, not actually attractive.

  “You know,” said Jane, “if you’re worried, you could use one of those reminder boxes, like Mrs. Ehrlich, with all the separate lids that snap shut. I don’t think your dog would figure out how to open them.” She giggled. “Though she could ask Harding to do it for her.”

  * * *

  Jack’s house was small and gray, its door a deep purple. Trim at the edge of the roof matched the door, and the path from the driveway was old bricks, laid in a careful pattern. His pickup was parked on the side of the house, but he didn’t answer Meg’s knock. She was a little early; maybe he was out back. She was turning to go down the porch steps when the door behind her opened.

  “Meg,” he said. “I was just getting out of the shower.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m early. I walked, so I wouldn’t have to pick up Mike’s car later, and it didn’t take as long as I expected. This is so nice of you—driving me all the way to Allentown.”

  He smiled. “No problem. If you’re not put off by being entertained by a man in a bathrobe, come on in.”

  He stepped back and she went past him, smelling something woodsy that she assumed was his shampoo. His damp hair stressed the clean lines of his face. The doorway was not quite wide enough for her to avoid brushing against the thick terry cloth of his navy-blue robe.

  “I like your door,” she said.

  “Artists can get away with purple,” he replied. “Sit down. I’ll just be a minute. Want something?”

  She thought it better not to answer that question honestly. She shook her head.

  He selected a compact disc and put it in the player, and The Goldberg Variations began softly as he disappeared into what Meg assumed was the bathroom. Most of the house was one large room, the slate floor near the door giving way to parquet in an intricate design of varying shades, partly covered by a beautiful old rug. A fireplace occupied the wall to her right, octagonal wooden columns framing it and supporting the mantel. The wall above was paneled in the same wood that surrounded the fireplace. One painting hung over the fireplace—dark trees against a golden sky.

  Meg sat gingerly on a pale gray leather couch that felt like butter beneath her hands and leafed through a copy of Gentlemen’s Quarterly she found on a small table. Jack returned in blue jeans and a work shirt, this one with regular buttons.

  “You find that outfit in here?” she asked, closing the magazine.

  “Yeah. I get all my style tips from the pros.” He winked at her.

  Meg got up. “I have to admit, GQ is not what I expected to find at your house. Road and Track, maybe. Or Handyman. Even Architectural Digest…”

  “The subscription was a gift,” he said. His mouth twisted disparagingly. “It usually goes from the mailbox to the trash.”

  Ah, thought Meg. Stephanie probably didn’t approve of work shirts with fanciful buttons. She looked at the painting over the fireplace. “That’s beautiful,” she said. “Did you paint it?”

  “I wish. No. Hannah Ehrlich left it to me. It puts my own work to shame.” He looked at the painting and smiled. “It amazes me to own something so beautiful.” He turned his eyes to Meg. “Ready?”

  Meg preceded him out of the house and got into the pickup. When they had turned out onto the road to town, she looked over at Jack. “Your house was a surprise.”

  “What did you expect?” He shifted into third ge
ar and glanced at her.

  “I don’t know. Something less elegant?”

  “A cabin maybe? With plank floors and pelts stretched on the wall?”

  Meg laughed. “Maybe.”

  He moved his shoulders, then sat back and spoke quietly. “I did most of the work on the place while I was … involved with a woman, a woman named Stephanie, who cared about, cared a lot about, elegant things. I’m just who I am. Can’t do much about it. But I thought we’d be sharing the house, so I made it the way she would like it.”

  “Did she?”

  He nodded. “It was me she didn’t like so much. Put a man who likes to work with his hands in a nice house, he’s still a man who likes to work with his hands.”

  He looked at Meg and smiled, his expression changing from somber to playful. “But I’ve talked about myself enough. Why don’t you talk about me for a while?”

  “Okay.” She glanced at the speedometer. “Do you always drive so slowly?”

  “No. On superhighways, I sometimes get up near fifty.” He rubbed his jaw. “Tell you the truth, I don’t know what everybody’s hurry is.”

  Meg quit trying to resist asking the question she wanted to ask. “Do you enjoy working with Dan?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. He hasn’t had a lot for me lately, but anybody’d enjoy working with Dan.”

  “You don’t have different ideas about how to do things?” Silently she added, Or what’s ethical and what’s not?

  He shrugged. “Sometimes. I’m a little fussier sometimes. Less efficient maybe than Dan. It’s not a problem. Why?”

  “Oh, I just wondered if two competent people doing the same job might not run into … I don’t know. Problems.”

  “He’s the boss,” said Jack. “And he knows his stuff.”

  Meg looked out the window at the tender green of the fields. “Do you have any idea what the deal is between John Eppler and Mike Mulcahy?”

  Jack grinned. “Already getting embroiled in our local intrigues?”

  “I guess it’s nosy of me,” she said, “but Mr. Eppler appears not to be on speaking terms with Mike, and it’s mysterious.”

  “Everything’s mysterious with Mike,” said Jack. “Like, just what is it everybody sees in him? Help me out here. You spend time with him. Would you trust him to represent you?”

  Meg was surprised. “I … I guess so,” she said.

  Jack made a small noise. “But you asked about Eppler and him. Who knows? Eppler’s been bitter toward Mike for months, and Mike seems to get some pleasure out of goading him. I don’t know what it is. Maybe Mike slapped a bee at a town picnic and Eppler saw him.”

  * * *

  The phone rang as Meg was eating dinner. She went into the living room and answered, trying to swallow silently. It was Sara.

  “How’s it going?” she asked. “Still wallowing in the slough of despond?”

  “I never was,” said Meg. “I was just a little lonely. It didn’t help to look forward to seeing you and then not. But I’ve got my car back. Jack took me to get it.”

  “Aha!” said Sara. “And?”

  “And nothing, unfortunately.” Meg sighed. “He is so … oh, I don’t know. Attractive. And helpful. And the question is, why?”

  Sara let out an exasperated groan. “Stop it! You can’t do this. Jim’s a jerk; he’s not typical. Let this guy like you, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Fine,” said Meg. “You come visit and meet him and then you tell me I’m his type. When are you coming?”

  “As soon as I’ve got the programming done for this stupid project, which better occur before I retire in thirty years.” She hesitated. “Meg?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got some creepy news.”

  “Which is?”

  “I just think it’s better to know these things.”

  “Sara, what is it?”

  “It was all over the office today. Jim’s getting married.”

  Meg leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Anybody I know?”

  “Teresa somebody,” said Sara. “Nobody at work has met her. Are you all right?”

  “Sure,” said Meg. “Why not?”

  It wasn’t him, then, after all. It was her.

  Twenty

  “Out?” yelled Meg, walking toward home plate from her position near third base. “He’s out? The rule is you have to slide to avoid contact! There wasn’t any contact; there wasn’t going to be any contact!”

  The umpire blinked at her. “In my judgment, ma’am,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “the ball was imminent, and your runner should have slid.”

  Meg glared at him. “The ball was imminent? Then why didn’t it ever get there?”

  “Sit down, Meg,” whispered Christine, tugging at her.

  Meg yanked her arm free and put her hands on her hips. “Maybe if you’d ever get out from behind the plate, you’d see what was happening in the field, where the plays are going on!”

  “This conversation is over,” said the umpire, turning his back and adjusting the plate with his foot.

  Meg steamed in silence, aware that every player on her bench was watching her, openmouthed. She turned and faced them, noticing that Dan kept his eyes on the score book he was holding.

  “Hustle out,” she said. “Same positions as last inning. Let’s hold ’em.”

  Nine children moved onto the field. One boy slapped another on the back with his mitt. “Only sissies don’t slide,” he said. “Sissy!”

  Meg reached out and grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt. “Sit, Brian,” she said. “Now! Tiffany, go in at second.”

  She sat down and crossed her arms, staring through the chain-link fence of the dugout toward the pitcher’s mound.

  Christine sat next to her, speaking quietly due to the nearby presence of the players who hadn’t taken the field. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right,” snapped Meg. “I’d be better if this league had some decent umpires.”

  “You’re not usually so … hot-tempered about a call,” said Christine, looking doubtful.

  Meg couldn’t argue the point. It was true. She glanced at the umpire, wondering if his dark hair and blunt, regular features were to blame, at least in part, for her fury at him.

  “It was a bad call,” she said, “which was the umpire’s fault. Patrick would have batted next and scored the runner, or it’s real likely, and that would have tied the game, so not being tied now is, in my opinion, his fault too. But maybe, just maybe, it isn’t his fault that he looks so much like Jim.”

  Christine turned on the bench, her eyebrows drawn together. “You didn’t hate this umpire last week.”

  “I didn’t hate Jim last week,” said Meg.

  * * *

  The dog jumped eagerly into the car and settled down on the backseat. Meg put an overnight bag on the passenger seat in the front.

  “Maybe I should call you Barkis,” she said, twisting around to look at the dog. “It fits you both in the obvious way and as a literary allusion.”

  The dog cocked her head, gazing at her owner out of the same eyes that had once seemed so mean.

  “Come on, you know. As in, ‘Barkis is willin’.” From David Copperfield? Heaven knows you’re willing. It’s one of my favorite things about you. None of that, ‘Oh, dear, I already made plans for the weekend.’”

  Meg turned the keys in the ignition. “Let’s go see what there is to see,” she said. “It’s Saturday. We’re footloose. Why not? There’s a whole state we know almost nothing about. Mountains, lakes, farms, Amish people in buggies. There isn’t another practice until Tuesday. If it weren’t for that, we could just keep going until our money ran out. That is, for five days instead of three.”

  She pulled out onto the road and turned toward town, driving faster than she should. She didn’t notice John Eppler wave cheerfully at her from his car as he passed on her left at a more sedate pace. She did notic
e Christine’s house, the driveway empty. She had called Christine and left a message saying she’d be away for a few days.

  When she passed Jack’s house, he was pulling out of his driveway. He sounded three short blasts on his horn and waved for her to stop. Meg pulled over and rolled down her window, and he left his truck and jogged up to her car.

  “Where are you off to?”

  Meg lifted her shoulders. “Someplace. I haven’t decided.”

  “I was hoping you’d feel like a movie tonight.”

  “No. I’ve got to drive for a while.”

  “So we’ll drive. We’ll drive for hours. And my truck, as opposed to this rattletrap, can go anywhere.”

  “Which means you’d be driving. No, thanks. I’m not criticizing; I wish everyone were as laid back as you, but I want to drive and I want to drive fast.”

  She put her foot on the clutch and shifted into first gear. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “A few days?” He put a hand over one of hers on the steering wheel.

  Meg nodded. “May I go now?”

  He stepped back from the car and held up his hands, palms out. There was surprise in his eyes and something else. Hurt?

  She drove away and glanced in the rearview mirror. Jack was standing next to his truck, looking after her. The dog moved on the backseat, catching her eye.

  “I can see you watching me,” she said, “through the magic of reflected light. Don’t you dare give me that reproachful look. I know I was rude, and I already regret it. He can’t help it that he’s male.”

  She had been right to question Jack’s interest in her. And it was ludicrous to think that Mike’s flirtations were anything but a way to pass the time. It didn’t matter whether all men were alike, which she wasn’t stupid enough to think, or not; she was who she was, and would remain so. She could move anywhere, do anything; what real difference would it make?

  She slammed her hand against the steering wheel. That Jim had done nothing she could identify as wrong made her furious.

  “See, he didn’t want to settle down when I was what he’d have to settle for,” she told the dog. “Now he’s found someone who makes it sound all wonderful and cozy. Why? What makes her so great? What was wrong with me?”