by Sean Platt
Then I get a flash of his wife, Colleen, who has always seemed a bit standoffish — cold whenever Ruby’s been around her. Maybe they had a fight.
Craig, not seeing me, gets in his car, slams the door, backs out, then screeches away.
I look over and see that Wilbur is sitting up, alert like a prairie dog, watching everything.
I roll my eyes and keep walking.
Right in front of Frank’s house, I kneel down and re-tie the laces on my tennis shoes, stalling for time.
The front door opens, and Stacy and Tommy come outside.
I stand back up, wipe the dirt from my jeans, and offer my widest smile. “Good morning!”
“Good morning,” Stacy says, smiling, her spirits looking good.
Tommy, on the other hand, looks either tired or sad. He gives a sullen wave and climbs into the passenger’s side of Stacy’s car.
She looks at me, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. He’s in one of those moods.”
“Is Tommy okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, just the usual moody preteen stuff.”
“From Tommy? He’s always so nice.”
“Yes, but he’s still twelve.”
I nod. “Ah, yes, I remember.”
Flashes of Ruby’s own kids, she has three, now all grown and with families of their own, run through my head. They seem like good kids, but there were battles in the house growing up.
“Have a good day, Mrs. Simmons.”
“You too,” I say.
I notice Frank standing in the living room window, watching.
I wave at him, wanting to acknowledge that I see him and won’t be cowed into pretending otherwise.
He lets the curtain fall closed.
Maybe today will be the day he gets his, I hope, walking back toward my house.
As I’m nearing Wilbur’s place, he’s up and off his porch, lingering near the end of the sidewalk waiting to intercept me. Ruby hates gossips, and I can feel her distaste in my mouth as I draw closer.
“Hey, Ruby, how’s it going?” He steps into the street, newspaper folded under his arm.
He’s shorter than Ruby by a few inches. Even though they might be around the same age, mid-sixties, he’s out of shape, sickly, and looks to be at least ten years her senior. He also has beady eyes, which make me feel dirty when they’re on me.
“Wow, that was something, eh?” he says, probably referring to Craig storming out of the house.
“What’s that?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Craig and Colleen,” he says in a conspiratorial whisper, “though can’t say I’m surprised, what with the way he’s been sniffin’ around Stacy.”
I want nothing to do with this gossip, but I’m too curious not to find out what he’s talking about.
“Stacy? What do you mean?”
He looks back and forth then draws closer, still whispering, “Oh, you don’t know?”
“Know what?” I ask, losing patience as he is obviously deriving a lot of pleasure from airing the neighborhood’s dirty laundry.
“Well, just between you and me,” he says, with a sinister grin, “I think they’re sneaking around.”
“Sneaking around? Stacy and Craig?”
He nods.
“As in sleeping together?”
He nods again then shakes his head like he’s disappointed in them, and not reveling in their supposed sinful relationship. “Such a shame.”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I can’t imagine that.”
“Oh, you don’t see the things I see. I’ve seen them going to one another’s houses quite a few times when Frank and Colleen are at work.”
“So, they’re neighbors, that doesn’t mean they’re cheating.”
Wilbur looks at me, nose twisted, probably repulsed that I’m not buying into his salacious rumor mongering.
“I hope you wouldn’t think I’m cheating when I go to visit any of the gentlemen on this block. Who knows, maybe someone is watching us right now and thinking we’re cheating.”
I wink, but he doesn’t laugh. Maybe he realizes I’m making fun of him, though he doesn’t seem that perceptive when the joke’s on him.
“No, people wouldn’t think that of you. You’re not a whore.”
I’m barely able to hide my shock at the word. Whore? Where is he getting this from?
“Whore?”
“I’ve said too much.”
It’s obvious he wants me to ask for more, but I’m disgusted and don’t want to offer the pleasure.
“Never mind,” I say, and start to walk away.
He calls out, “She slept around … a lot.”
He got my attention. I turn back around. “Stacy?”
“Yeah, a lot.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Frank told me one night when he was drunk. Said that after she lost her first husband, who died in prison,” he whispers, “that she really got around. Slept with more than fifteen people, he says.”
“No way,” I say. “Not Stacy.”
Wilbur nods, “Oh, yes, Stacy.”
“Did you ever consider the source?”
“Frank?”
“Yeah, he was drunk, probably in another one of his moods, and decided to spread a vicious rumor.”
“I dunno. Seemed pretty convincing to me. Besides, why would a man ever tell another man that his woman is a whore unless it’s true? No man wants to be known for settling down with a tramp.”
I really, really want to hurt this troglodyte. But I bite my tongue, so as not to do anything that might come back to bite Ruby in the ass once I’m gone. Sure, Wilbur is all buddy-buddy-nice with me now, but I know that if he had some dirt on me, the jerk would be sidling up to another of the neighbors, trashing me just the same. He’s a sad little man, and the world won’t miss him when he’s dead.
I decide to defend Stacy, even though it’s a lost cause with such a small-minded man. “First, I’m not sure I trust Frank’s power of recall when he’s wasted. I’ve heard him say some outlandish stuff. Second, whatever she did after her husband died, who are we to judge? It had to be tough on her, especially being a single mother and all.”
His eyes look to the ground, and he lets out a “Maybe.” I’m not sure if I got through to him or if he’s trying to avoid an argument. Guys like this aren’t the quarreling kind. They’re spineless when it comes to face-to-face altercations, preferring to sow seeds of dissent in the darkness like the spiteful cowards they are.
I throw him a rope to avoid burning bridges. “Besides, I’m sure you were quite the ladies’ man when you were younger, right? That didn’t make you a whore.”
He laughs, purses his lips like he’s about to say something, but then thinks better of it. “All right, well, I better get back inside. Got a doctor’s appointment to get ready for.”
I feign to care. “Oh, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, just a routine checkup, knock on wood.”
I make a knocking motion, smile, and say, “Good luck, Wilbur.”
I head back to the house, unable to think about anything but this new information. Did Stacy really sleep with a bunch of men after her husband died? If so, is this something that Frank is still seething about? Something that will present a danger to her and Tommy? I can’t imagine that it’s true — I didn’t get that vibe from Stacy, nor did I have any flashes about that while in Frank. But maybe she was on a self-destructive bender, fueled by sadness and anger over her husband dying in jail. Maybe fueled by guilt?
But why would Stacy be feeling guilty?
I’d like to write off her history as behind her, but the past has a way of stretching into the present. Maybe sleeping with Craig is another self-destructive path.
Frank being home alone with nothing but time to stew in his anger and grow more suspicious, maybe dig up some evidence of Stacy’s infidelity — it’s a recipe for disaster.
Before heading back into Ruby’s house, I look around for any sign of the assassin.
But the street is still empty.
I spend much of my morning trying to preoccupy myself with busy work around Ruby’s house, specifically outside, in hopes of seeing the assassin. I do some weeding in the yard, water her garden, and talk to a few neighborhood joggers as they’re passing, including a woman pushing an adorable baby in a jogging stroller.
After lunch, and sitting for a bit, it hurts to stand. Maybe I pushed this old body too hard. I hope Ruby doesn’t pay the price tomorrow for my activities today.
“Sorry, Ruby,” I say looking at my reflection in the kitchen window.
I spend some time petting the cats, giving them treats while stopping by the window every now and again to look outside at Frank’s.
His car hasn’t budged.
If he had plans to look for a job, he must be doing it online.
Yeah, right. He’s more likely getting drunk.
Soon enough, I realize it’s almost time for Tommy’s bus to arrive. I decide to take another walk, maybe swing by his stop to make sure Evan and the bullies don’t get off with Tommy to make good on Evan’s threat.
I round the block and see the bus coming. There are about fifteen houses along the right side of the road before Tommy’s stop.
I pick up my pace but am instantly punished with pain in my feet. I slow my gait but am still probably walking faster than Ruby typically does.
The bus stops, and kids pour out. A lot more kids than normally get off at Tommy’s stop.
I’m still six houses away.
I see Tommy disembark, with Evan and his goons right behind him.
Kids are crowding around, waiting for the inevitable fight.
The bus doors close, and the bus pulls away.
Why is the bus driver leaving? Can’t she see a kid is about to get his ass kicked?
Three houses away.
I walk faster.
Tommy is approaching, though I’m not sure if he sees me, or would even recognize his neighbor when all he probably wants to do is get home.
“Hey, faggot!” Evan yells then runs up behind Tommy and punches him right in the back of the head.
Two houses away.
Evan and three of his friends circle Tommy on the ground. Other kids crowd around them, and I lose sight of Tommy.
My heart is racing with the loud chanting: Fight, fight, fight!
One house away.
Tommy cries out. Someone hit or kicked him.
I’m pushing my way through the crowd. Kids eye me like I’m crazy. I don’t care.
“Get the hell out of my way!” I yell at the kids still blocking my path.
They turn, startled, and part.
Now it’s just Evan and two of his goons surrounding Tommy.
Evan is kicking Tommy in the ribs and back, eyes wild, his face redder than his hair.
“Hey!” I run up and shove him.
Evan takes a step back, eyes wide, surprised, “Who the fuck are you?”
His friends look too shocked to say a word.
“I’m the bitch that’s gonna kick your ass if you don’t back the fuck off!”
Wide eyes from Evan and friends.
Laughter from the kids around me.
I turn and glare at them, let them know I mean business.
Evan steps toward me, and I wonder if he’d really hit an old lady.
Is he that crazy?
I meet his gaze.
Even though I’m sure he could do some real harm, and it’s not my body I’m risking, I stand my ground, refusing to let this punk-ass kid scare me. While Ruby’s body is old and achy, she’s not frail. She gets regular exercise. And Vinnie’s fighting instincts are still coursing through my mind. I can feel it like a hot pan begging for butter.
“Come on,” I say, raising my fists.
Evan breaks out into laughter, pointing at me, “Oh, look at this shit. This old bitch thinks she can take me!”
He’s laughing, but there’s no mistaking the fear in Evan’s eyes. Or his friends’. Yeah, he’d probably win in a fight, but how many good licks would I get in? How embarrassed would he be?
Evan and his friends are slowly backing away. “Some pussy you are, Tommy,” Evan says. “Having your grandma come and fight your battles for you.”
“Grandma that’s gonna kick your ass if you don’t get to steppin’,” I say, pulling out a phrase Ruby’s husband had once yelled at a couple of thugs trying to mug them one night while they were walking home from the movies. Keith was a big, intimidating man, so the phrase was a bit more menacing from the mouth of someone his size. Still, it felt good to use one of Ruby’s memories against these punks.
Evan says, “Fuck this shit. You go ahead and run home with grandma, Tammy. We’ll finish this another time.”
“The hell you will,” I say. “You mess with Tommy again, I’ll find you.”
I want to add something more threatening, but don’t want to get Ruby in trouble with the police, or put her on Evan and his thugs’ radar, if they were bold enough to start messing with her. I have to remember that while I have the skills to defend her now, her experience is different without me in her body.
Evan turns around and leaves with his friends.
The remaining kids disperse.
Tommy looks up at me, eyes wide, bloodied lip trembling, “Th-thank you, Mrs. Simmons.”
In addition to his bloody lip, Tommy has fresh bruises on his left cheek, and probably welts along his back and ribs. Hell, he’s lucky if his ribs aren’t broken, the way Evan was going to town.
He must see my concern because now he’s on the verge of tears and looking himself up and down. “I can’t go home like this.”
“Why not?”
“Frank will be piss … mad if he knows I got beat up. He’s been trying to teach me to fight for the past year, and—”
Tommy breaks off into a coughing fit then winces, gingerly touching his right rib cage.
“Here,” I say, offering my hand to help him up, “come to my house, and I’ll fix you up.”
I’m not sure if I can get rid of the evidence. His lips and bruised face will look worse before they look better. But maybe I can calm his nerves and figure out what to tell Frank, or maybe call his mom to come home early and serve as a buffer.
He takes my hand.
The slightest spark of static electricity shocks us both.
We laugh, but as we start to walk back to my house, I wonder if that shock is indicative of something else.
I’d had a similar sensation when touching people who were housing another Jumper. But judging from Tommy’s response, and the lack of any weird momentary light in his eyes, I don’t think there’s a Jumper inside him.
So, what was the shock? Is it something I get when making physical contact with a body I’ve been in before? Or something more ominous?
Tommy is sitting in Ruby’s living room, giving three of the cats — the fourth is off hiding — all the attention they can take.
I let him use Ruby’s bathroom to take a shower, while I scrub some of the grime from his pants and shirt. I can’t get all the stains out, at least not without doing a load of laundry, which we don’t have time for, but I clean the clothes as much as I can. Once dressed, I tend to a few of Tommy’s wounds, just to make sure nothing was broken, and give him some bandages. He’ll probably be in a lot of pain tomorrow.
Despite my best efforts to get him fixed up, I don’t think he’ll be able to hide the fight.
I bring a pitcher of tea into the living room, set it on the glass coffee table in between my chair and his couch, then return with two glasses and pour us each a drink.
“Thank you,” he says, sipping.
“You’re welcome. I was going to bring lemonade, but then figured it might sting your lip. I hope you like tea. Let me know if it’s sweet enough.”
“It’s good,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and putting the makeshift cold pack — a bag of ice wrapped in paper towels �
� back to his lip.
I take a drink of tea. It’s good, though maybe not as sweet as I generally drink it.
While two of the cats continue to walk back and forth rubbing against Tommy’s pants, Oreo has hopped up onto the couch to snuggle beside him.
“Ah, she likes you.”
He smiles. “We used to have a cat named Snickerdoodle, but she ran away a week after we moved in with Frank.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You all didn’t get another cat?”
“No, Frank doesn’t seem to like them very much.”
When Tommy says that, I get a picture of Frank secretly taking the cat into the woods and letting it go. Or hell, maybe killing it. It’s not one of his memories, I don’t think, but I wouldn’t put anything past him.
Asshole.
“Well, you can come here and visit my cats and me anytime.”
“Thanks.”
“I get the feeling he doesn’t like very many things,” I say, moving the conversation to Frank.
Tommy looks up at me, and I’m worried that I crossed the line.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, just a vibe I get from him. Not like your mom, she’s the sweetest person on the block. But Frank? Not so much.”
Tommy laughs. “Yeah, he’s a dick.”
His blunt word choice makes me choke on my tea. He looks up at me, eyes nervous like he might have offended me. I can’t help but laugh.
Soon, we’re both laughing.
“Sorry. Just figured with the way you were talking to Evan and them at the bus stop, you were a lot cooler than a lot of old, er, older people.”
The way he fumbles over his words is charming, though I feel bad knowing how he also suffers from a constant fear of saying something that might upset Frank.
“It’s okay; I am old. And you’re 100 percent correct. Frank is a dick.”
Tommy laughs again.
“So, you said he tried teaching you to fight?”
“Yeah, I got into it with some kid last year, and he destroyed me. Frank was mad. At first, it felt good that he was so upset that someone had hurt me. It meant that he did care about me. He offered to teach me to fight, three times a week in the garage. But then I realized he was only doing it to torment me. He’d call me names: wimp, faggot, wussy, all the things other kids were already calling me. He said he was doing it to toughen me up, but I dunno, seemed like he enjoyed it as much as the bullies.”
