by Lisa Cach
“Early Sunday, probably. I want to work in the flower beds, so Mom doesn’t have to worry about her roses. I’ll probably cook dinner, too. Maybe make a run to the grocery store.”
“Would you like help?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Help. You know. Help pulling weeds, mowing the lawn, et cetera. I don’t have anything planned for Sunday.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I protested.
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. I’ve liked your parents, the few times I’ve met them. You don’t think they’d mind, do you, if I helped? I mean, would it be awkward?”
I gave a gurgling laugh. “Awkward? Only for me! Dad has spent his entire life trying to get someone else to mow the lawn for him. He’d probably try to make you chop wood or wash his car, maybe reshingle the roof. He wouldn’t care why you’re there, only that you were free labor.”
“Then why awkward?” he asked.
“Mom will think you’re my boyfriend. Or she’ll think you should be. I wouldn’t hear the end of what a nice boy Scott is.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“That would amuse you, wouldn’t it?” I said. “I wonder what your lawyer friend would think.”
“Oh. Well. I’m not seeing her anymore.”
“What?”
“We broke up—if you could call it that—a week and a half ago.”
“Why?” I asked. And I wondered if his being at loose ends had anything to do with the desire to come spend Sunday with me and my parents.
That wasn’t a fair thought, though. Throughout these past weeks Scott, even more than Louise and Cassie, had been attentive, always checking in and offering his assistance, asking if there was anything I needed done, or if I just wanted company.
I assumed he was more forward in his offers of company or help than Louise or Cassie because, having been there himself, he was not so afraid of not knowing what to say. His dad dying had been a hundred times worse than Mom’s stroke, but still I felt there was an understanding between us that I didn’t have with my other friends.
“She said my heart wasn’t in it,” Scott said. “She said she didn’t have the time to waste, waiting for me to figure out how I felt about her.”
“Ow.”
“Not really. She was right, my heart wasn’t in it, and it was relief I felt more than anything else when she ended it. I could never relax around her.”
“So are you going back to the Internet?” I asked, hoping he’d say no. Not that I had any reason to have such a wish. Or was I becoming just a little possessive of Scott’s time and attention?
I’d better watch myself. If I weren’t careful, I could thoroughly screw up our comfortable foursome of friends.
“I don’t think so. Not for a while, anyway. Summer’s here. There are better things to do with my time.”
“Like pull weeds at someone else’s house?”
“Hey, you don’t want my help, you don’t have to take it,” he said, and I couldn’t quite tell if he was offended or joking.
“I just feel a little strange about it. You’ve been so thoughtful, I don’t like to continue to impose.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Hannah, you are so busy being independent all the time and taking matters into your own hands, you forget to let people help you.”
“I don’t want to be dependent on anyone,” I said.
“It’s not dependency! It’s strength, to let someone help you.”
“I don’t see it,” I grumbled.
“It’s… Hell, I don’t know how to explain it. I only understood it myself recently.”
“I thought guys didn’t like being helped. I thought they found it bossy.”
“Yes! That’s exactly it! And why don’t guys like being helped? Because they think it means you think they aren’t strong or smart enough to do it on their own. But when you’re truly strong, you can admit ignorance or errors without it being a threat. You can admit you need help with something.”
“Have you been talking to Louise? This sounds like something she would say,” I said. It wasn’t Scott’s habit to ponder the workings of the mind and emotions, unless prodded to by one of us.
“Uh, maybe.”
“What were you two talking about? Was she chastising you for something?” I was curious what could have driven him to such a conversation.
“Er. It’s not important.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“Never mind! The pillows look nice on the couch. Did I tell you that?”
“Changing the subject?” I asked.
Had they been talking about me? It was paranoid to think so. And what would there have been to discuss, anyway?
“Yes, I’m changing the subject.”
“Fine,” I said. A little silence stretched between us, and I heard him shift positions. I wondered if he was sprawled on his leather couch, and was almost tempted to ask what he was wearing. I giggled. We could have phone sex.
“What?”
“Nothing.” As if I could admit such a thing had crossed my mind!
I thought then about Cassie and Jack, and somehow it felt all right to tell Scott, in a way it wasn’t all right to tell Louise. “I have a bit of a problem I could use some perspective on. Do you want to hear it?”
Of course he did. I outlined the situation to him.
“Asshole!” he said when I had finished.
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
“The guy has no sense of honor. Fucking asshole!”
“You know, you’re the first guy I’ve talked to who thought so. The rest all said, ‘It happens,’ like it was no big deal.”
“They have no honor. I would never do that. Shit! What a jerk! She’s better off without him, you know.”
“I know, but how do I tell her?” I asked.
“Christ. I can’t believe someone would do that to Cass.”
I let him rant a little longer, strangely comforted by his response. Despite the profanity, it was chivalrous in comparison to what I’d heard from Robert and the goat-judge. They hadn’t mentioned honor. They hadn’t acknowledged that even in the twenty-first century there were standards of conduct to which a man should adhere.
Honor. I liked the sounds of that. It was the first time I had heard the word coming from the lips of a man in real life.
It was surprisingly touching.
“You’re going to have to tell her, you know,” he said. “I wouldn’t trust him to break up with her on his own.”
I sighed. “I know.”
A few moments passed, and then, “So, am I coming with you on Sunday?”
“Let me think about it,” I hedged.
“You’re impossible.”
“That’s why you adore me.”
He made a noise of disgust. “Good night, Hannah.”
“Good night.” I hung up, and smiled at the phone.
Twenty-Five
Percale Sheets
It was past midnight, and I was up sewing, waiting for Cassie to come home. I’d had a couple cups of instant cappuccino, which had only encouraged my mind to fret and fidget, thoughts leaping neurons in a frantic jig that was almost as unpleasant as the squishy, sour state of my stomach.
My half-finished wedding dress hung on the rack with the other clothes waiting to be altered. There was the usual backlog of men’s pants, in shades of brown, green and gray that belonged on a mouldy forest floor; Bethany’s evening gown, which after much embarrassed pouting on the beauty queen’s part it had been decided needed bigger falsies and a tighter built-in corset; two mother-of-the-bride dresses needing shortening; three wool women’s business jackets to be taken in; and a mish-mash of skirts and dresses needing darts put in or taken out, hems adjusted, necklines changed, bodices shortened, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
It was no wonder I was working on another wrestling costume instead.
Elroy had paid me up front this time—no more pseudo-psychic sessions in payment, th
ank you not so much! And a good thing, as I couldn’t imagine his meager career continuing much longer after he wore this costume into the ring.
The bulldog costume had proved less than exciting to the wrestling audience, and the fur pants had lacked stretch and were too hot. I’d warned him of both those facts before making them, but he’d paid as much attention to my advice then as he had to the advice I’d given him yesterday, on this new costume: you’re going to look ridiculous.
He wanted to be Sasquatch. The man was strong, but short. Who ever heard of a five-six Sasquatch?
And what was worse even than the height issue, he was having me make him a hairy, domed cap that would give him the supposed sloping, pointed cranium of a Big Foot.
Maybe he could hire himself out to kid’s parties.
The pants were all right this time, though. They were a stretchy lycra knit, and I was attaching long tufts of brown wool to them with a glue gun. Elroy would have had to have been CEO of a psychic line to afford to pay me to sew the stuff on by hand.
Short hairy legs, bare chest, pointed head. He either had nerve, or pink pudding for brains.
I listened to the radio, attached hair, and strained my ears for the sound of Cassie’s car. It was past 1:00 a.m. when I finally heard it, and set down my glue gun.
“Hey, workaholic,” she said a couple minutes later, poking her head into my sewing room.
“Hey, tavern wench.”
“I’m beat. And I reek. I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. You okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just checking,” she said, and headed toward her room.
I got up and followed her, and stood in her doorway as she unbuttoned her white shirt. “I met someone today who knows Jack,” I said. I might as well get it over with.
“Oh? A friend?” she asked, pausing in her undressing. She was smiling, the way one smiles when there is a surprise chance to talk about the guy you like.
“Classmate, at P.S.U.”
“What’d he say about him?”
She was expecting something nice, or at the worst something harmless along the lines of, “He doesn’t know him well, but says he seems like an okay guy.”
“He says Jack is dating one of the other students, a girl named Cynthia,” I said, and grimaced as if doing so would keep the words from hurting her.
“What?” she said, her face going blank at the shock. And then she relaxed, and smiled. “Cynthia? Oh, he’s misinterpreting. They had to do a project together, is all. They’re just friends. I know all about her.”
“Really?” All that angst had been for nothing? “Thank God. He seemed so sure that Jack was Cynthia’s boyfriend—he said everyone in the program knew they were seeing each other,” I babbled, relieved. All that worry! All that fuss! Over nothing! “I should have known it was just gossip. A man and woman can never be friends without people speculating.”
“He said everyone knew?” she said slowly, sounding uncertain now.
“He was probably exaggerating. Hey, I didn’t mean to make you doubt Jack, if there’s no reason,” I said, backpedaling.
She picked up the phone by the bed.
“You’re not going to call him, are you?” I squeaked, suddenly seeing myself in the center of a messy emotional scene, getting blamed for all the trouble. Jack would hate me.
“He called in sick, he’d better be at home,” she said, dialing. She waited as the connection was made, and as the phone rang. And rang. And finally was answered. I could only hear Cassie’s side of the conversation.
“Russ? It’s Cassie. Can I talk to Jack? …Could you wake him up for me?
I don’t care, this is really important. It’s an emergency.”
Accusingly, “He’s not home, is he? Russ, come on. Don’t lie for him. I know he’s not home. I know about Cynthia.”
A long silence on Cassie’s end. She wasn’t facing me, but I could see her head tilting forward, her shoulders hunching in, a quiver starting across her back as she listened to whatever Russ, Jack’s roommate, was saying.
“No, don’t leave a message. Thanks for leveling with me.”
“Yeah, well, thanks. ’Bye.”
She turned around and there were tears in her eyes. She blinked, and they spilled down her cheeks.
“The snake,” she said softly.
I came toward her, then stopped as she suddenly shrieked, grabbed the covers to her bed, and ripped them off. She tore at the sheets until they, too, came loose, and threw them on the floor, the mattress pad following.
“Cunt-licking liar! Sheep fucker!”
Sheep fucker?
“Ass-tonguing pecker head!” She scooped up the bedding and I backed out of the way as she went to the door and tossed it into the hallway, another screech ripping from her throat.
“Cass?” I asked softly, scared. I’d never seen her like this. Not serene Cassie, for whom every event had a purpose and harmony was the key to life.
“I have to bleach the sheets,” she said, her voice cold. She stood motionless, staring at the pile of linens in the hall, her arms hanging by her sides. “I can’t sleep in them until I wash out his smell.”
She turned and looked at me, and the corners of her mouth twisted down, her head tilting to the side, her beautiful green eyes full of pain. “Why does this keep happening to me?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I almost said that it wasn’t her fault, men were jerks, Jack was an asshole, she deserved better—but none of it would answer the question. None of it could explain why she had to be hurt again.
“Was I not smart enough for him? Or too poorly educated? I almost got my B.A., I was just a few credits short, but maybe that doesn’t compare to someone getting a master’s.” She looked at me for confirmation.
I didn’t know what to say.
“I mean, it doesn’t make me a loser, that I didn’t finish, does it?”
“You’re a hundred times wiser than he is. You’re not the one who hurts people,” I said.
“Am I too old? Maybe my butt sags too much. She’s younger than he is—she’s probably got perky breasts.”
“I don’t think it’s about you,” I said. “It’s him. He’s messed up. He has to be, to do this to both you and that Cynthia. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why wasn’t I good enough?” she asked, plaintive. And then the tears came.
I closed the distance between us and held her.
Cassie came up the basement stairs and into the kitchen, the sound of the dryer rumbling softly behind her. It was 3:00 a.m., and we had polished off the ice cream in the freezer and moved on to the bottle of red wine a client had given me at Christmas.
Cassie rejoined me at the small nook table in the corner of the kitchen, both of us in our bathrobes now, but unwilling to give up the night. Without Jack to confront, there was no resolution for her, only a wounded heart.
“Do I get a Voodoo Jack doll?” she asked, pulling her feet up onto the chair, her knees reaching nearly to her chin. Her hair was still wet from her shower, her pale face touched with color only where the wine had stained her lips.
“Of course. What do you think, give him two faces?”
“And two dicks, neither of which will stay in his pants,” she said. “Everyone thinks he’s such a nice guy.”
“I might not have liked the age difference between you, but I thought he was a decent guy. I would never have guessed he would do such a thing.”
“No one would have. I’m not a vengeful person, but I feel like everyone should know what he did. I almost feel like everyone has to know, for Jack’s own good,” she said.
“That is an interesting way to look at it. Public humiliation for his good.”
“No, really,” Cassie said, perking up. “In some part of himself, he knows that what he did is wrong. He has to be ashamed, deep down. It’s like a murderer who wants to confess and be punished. He’s not going to be able to live with himself un
til he gives penance.”
“And you’re the one to force him to it? It sounds more like revenge than maintaining the natural order, O Mother Goddess.”
“He has to be expecting this to come,” she said. “He must know it couldn’t go on forever.”
“I think you’re giving him more credit than he deserves,” I said. “He never struck me as being particularly perceptive or introspective.”
“Yes, and that’s why he needs to be shunned. He might not have the courage to face his own guilt, so others need to help him. It’s the only way he’ll become a better person. It will help him to grow.”
“That is an interesting theory,” I said carefully, a little unnerved by the intensity of her expression. Cassie was the only person I knew who could possibly turn vengeance into a growth experience for the victim. She was either unwilling to admit her own desire to take a Garden Weasel to Jack’s privates, or she was truly more evolved than I could ever hope to be.
“I’ll tell everyone at the pub what he did—co-workers, supervisors, customers. You tell that clerk at the clothing store to tell everyone in the teaching program. Everyone has to know.”
“Won’t that be humiliating, for you?”
She blinked in surprise. “Why? I did nothing wrong.”
I shrugged. We sipped wine, and listened to the tossing of the dryer in the basement. I yawned, and thought about going to bed, but then Cassie spoke again.
“I thought I’d be able to tell by now, you know?” She sounded depressed again, the fire of retribution dampened. “I thought I had enough experience, I would know a jerk when I met one. Have I learned nothing?”
“Have any of us learned? Look at Louise, with that Derek. Look at me, still single despite my one-in-a-million campaign.”
Cassie made a derisive sound.
“What?”
“You, still single. Only because you want to be. You know your Mr. Right is sitting right in front of you.”
“Who?”
“Oh, come on, Hannah. Scott! Who else!”
I felt my cheeks heat, and perspiration break out under my arms. “We’re just friends. Like all of us are.”
“Not like all of us. He’s half in love with you, and you’d see it if you wanted to look.”
