Winston saw a chair near the dresser and brought it over to sit nearer the bed. “Doris said you haven’t been feelin’ too good.”
“I’m just tired,” Everett said, seemingly enthralled with the television show, one of those fishing shows. Winston found them boring.
“I’ve missed you at flag raisin’ time.”
“I haven’t felt much like luggin’ it out there. My bursitis has been actin’ up.”
“You could get a flagpole. It would make it easier.”
“Foolin’ with it at all is a lot of trouble every mornin’ and evenin’.”
“Yes, but it gives you somethin’ to do, though. A good reason to get up in the mornin’ and start the day.”
“You got a flagpole,” Everett said flatly. “One fool in the neighborhood is enough.”
Winston thought for a second, then said, “Now you tell me what is more foolish—puttin’ a flag up a pole or vegetatin’ in bed,” and got up and left.
The City Hall thermometer read 82°
“Have a good time, honey.” Charlene waved Jojo off in Mary Lynn Macomb’s van. Mary Lynn was taking her Sara and Jojo to the library and shopping up in Lawton. Danny J. had gone off for the day with Curt Butler and Curt’s rodeo bronc-riding brother, and Larry Joe was working all day, as Charlene had expected.
With her children all securely placed, she raced back into the house to dress in a chambray blouse and skirt, do her hair and put on makeup, using a new lipstick Rainey had sent her. When Mason drove up, she walked out to meet him with her supplies fixed up in a carrying case.
His smile and thoroughly appreciative look sort of rattled her, and she quickly jutted the Suburban keys at him, saying, “You drive to the nursing home. I wouldn’t want to have a wreck on the way there and end up disappointing Ms. Porter and her sister.”
What she was mainly thinking about was getting stuck in the driveway ditch on the way out.
They left the windows down, and the air felt fresh and lively. Mason smiled at her, and she smiled at him, and noticed the wisps of short hair that fluttered over his forehead. Suddenly she was struck with the realization that she was on her own without her children for an entire afternoon. And here she was, she thought, leaving an attractive man to go spend her precious time at a nursing home.
Mason pulled into the parking lot and into a spot shaded by a tall cottonwood. He said he would wait in the Suburban and read. He held up an old battered book upon which Charlene read the title: Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.
Charlene looked from the book to him, wondering at the contrasts he presented.
She said, “I shouldn’t be but forty-five minutes to an hour.” She saw him opening his book and settling back in the seat before she even got out.
Inside at the nurses’ station she found a nurse who appeared in charge and explained to the woman what she was about for Ms. Porter’s sister.
“Oh, I’ll bet Sister will like that. Her room is number twenty, all the way down that corridor at the end on the right,” she said, pointing.
“Sister is her name?” Charlene asked.
“Uh-huh. That’s how she’s listed. She’s a doll. You’ll find out.”
Charlene went down the carpeted hallway. Pains had been taken with color coordination and soothing pictures on the wall, although there was the antiseptic smell above it all. Several patients in wheelchairs and walkers looked her over, and a couple of them greeted her politely. There were names beside the doors, Charlene saw. The name at number twenty was Sister Porter.
All the rooms she had passed coming down the hallway contained two beds, but this room had only one, and it seemed a very large bed, or else it was that the woman in the bed was so very small and frail looking. Her voice was that of a child when she said, “Hello. My Mimi said you were coming. Oh, this is exciting.”
Charlene could not imagine Ms. Muriel Porter being called “My Mimi.” Then she noted Sister’s hair. It was white, mostly, and sort of flying out, but with a second look she saw it was very long. It was caught at her neck with a tie and was long enough to disappear into the sheets. The next thing she realized was that Sister was watching Roller Derby on television and had, the greeting dispensed with, returned her attention to the screen.
“I love Roller Derby,” the tiny woman said. “I like to see the fights those girls get into.” The woman’s eyes sparkled. “Oooh…look at that number nine. Get her!” Her small, pale-as-milk bony fist jabbed the air. It was a startling sight.
Charlene brought the bed tray over and adjusted it low over Sister’s lap, settling herself on the side of the bed away from the television, so as not to block Sister’s viewing of Roller Derby, which Sister continued to watch avidly, while Charlene set up and went to work, one hand at a time, as Sister needed one free to jab imaginary punches.
The woman’s hands were so small and delicate that Charlene was a little worried. She pushed her glasses down the bridge of her nose and bent close, trying to see carefully. Sister had little to say for the following ten minutes, until Roller Derby went off, and then she watched Charlene’s ministrations and began talking.
“I wish I could have been in Roller Derby,” she said. “I did skate. And I did some of that marathon dancin’, too. I did a lot of things, but that was a long time ago. I’m thirty-one years older than Mimi. My mother was Daddy’s first wife, and Mimi was from his third. I got married, but my husband died in an oil well explosion. I never married again. Are you married?”
“Yes. Well, divorced.” She supposed that was close enough to be accurate.
“Daddy would have died if I had been divorced. It is a sin. Mimi never got married. Daddy didn’t want her to. I don’t think Mimi ever wanted to. There is just us now. Daddy and Mama are dead. I would like my fingernails painted. Mimi said you would pick a color for me. My favorite color is yellow. That’s why I love forsythias when they come out every spring. They are so yellow. Don’t you think they are lovely?”
“Yes, I do. Would this color be okay for your fingernails?”
“It isn’t yellow, but I imagine it will be pretty.” She gave a smile, and then she didn’t say another word.
Charlene thought of the fifty dollars Ms. Porter had given her and felt a little guilty. It had not taken long to give Sister a manicure, and the old woman was so sweet. “Would you like me to comb your hair and braid it?” she asked.
“That would be nice.” She fell asleep before Charlene finished the braiding.
As she quietly gathered up her things to go, a rather robust woman with bright blond hair and swinging earrings, and wearing a flowered kimono, came rolling into the room in an electric wheelchair. She stopped in front of the doorway, as if to block it.
“I’ve been watchin’ you do Sister’s fingernails. I would like you to do mine, too. I used to always have wonderful fingernails, kept them perfect. I was a dancer,” she said with pride, and then her expression dropped. “But now…” Her one arm lay limp in her lap, and seeing it, there was no way Charlene could refuse.
She followed the blond woman—Annabelle—to her room, and before she got out of there she had to quickly file Annabelle’s roommate’s fingernails. The woman wanted polish, too, but Charlene explained that she did not have time.
“I have someone waiting for me,” she said, feeling somewhat torn. She was eager to get back to Mason, yet she was happy to be with these women and to find she could be of use in lifting their spirits. Annabelle waved a bill at her, but Charlene said it was on the house, and it felt good to do that, too. She thought that Ms. Porter had paid for a lot more hands than she had imagined.
When she came out of the glass double doors, she saw Mason sitting on the passenger side, his head bent over the book, an expression of deep concentration on his face. She stopped there at the sight of him, gazing at him. She watched him turn a page and never take his eyes off the book. He was thinking so hard, she could feel the energy. She wondered what was on the page that could make him do
that.
A rolling swell of tenderness welled up in her at the look of him, which was warm and alive and very male.
As if sensing her attention, he lifted his head and saw her. “All done?” he called through the window, sitting himself up.
She walked over. “Yes. I’m sorry it took longer than I had anticipated. I ended up doing two other ladies, too.”
“No problem,” he said, giving a grin. And then he sat there, showing no sign of moving, other than to set his book aside. “I thought you could drive home,” he said. “You don’t need to race home to see to the kids, and I’m in no hurry. You can take your time.”
“Okay,” she said, because there didn’t seem any way to counter his reasoning.
She felt him watch her round the truck. She stuck her case in the back seat, got in behind the wheel and slipped on her sunglasses. He reminded her to buckle her seat belt. She started the engine, and then she sat back. She looked over at him, and then, her gaze focusing on his chest, she confessed her fear to him, something she had pushed into an inner pocket.
“It’s like a panic, really, more than a fear,” she said. “I feel it jump into my belly and then rise up my chest.” From the shelter of her dark glasses, she watched him for a reaction. He would probably think she was nutty. “I have a couple of times felt this when I haven’t been driving, too, but when I have been driving, it comes so strongly. The memory of the wreck sort of flickers, and then this panic comes over me. It’s as if I can’t control it.”
His answer was, “That’s very natural, and it’ll go away once you get to driving all the time,” and he motioned for her to get on.
She was a little annoyed that he did not seem to fully appreciated her plight. Taking a deep breath, she made her shoulders relax, put the Suburban in gear and headed for the road. Mason suggested she turn away from town. “Get out on the open road for a bit.”
The entry onto the highway was plenty wide, so she made the turn quite easily. Then she was heading away from town, no traffic at all. She pressed the accelerator, picking up speed. The smooth motion of the Suburban, the fresh breeze blowing in the windows, felt delicious. Her spirits rising, she flashed Mason a smile.
With a wink, he said, “You’re doin’ just fine, ma’am.”
The City Hall thermometer reads 58°
They drove in a wide circle to the edges of Lawton and then back to Valentine. It was lovely, the smooth rhythm of the tires speeding along the open road, the warm sunshine and the fresh wind. She had only two panics, one that seemed to have no reason at all, other than she suddenly thought, I’m driving sixty-five, and another when meeting two enormous trucks loaded with hay bales that appeared in danger of toppling over onto the Suburban. Mason seemed to sense these little panics and each time laid his hand on her shoulder.
When they came upon a small country store at a crossroads, Mason suggested she pull in, and Charlene did, quite expertly, she thought, enjoying the sound of the tires halting on gravel. They went inside and bought Drumstick ice-cream cones out of an ancient freezer and ate them while leaning side by side against the Suburban fender and talking about everything and nothing.
There in the sunlight, seeing the light shine on Mason’s blond-brown hair and reflect in his sparkling eyes, she thought, I am enjoying the company of a man, and I am driving.
Back in the truck once more, they headed for Valentine, coming into the town from the opposite end of Charlene’s home, passing the MacCoy Feed and Seed. Here there was traffic, and Charlene felt a little panic swirl in her stomach. She breathed deeply, telling herself she was calm. She had driven only a few days ago through town to her father’s house, and the only casualty had been a smashed lilac in the driveway.
Mason’s hand came upon her shoulder, and he smiled at her.
When they stopped at the Main Street light, Charlene noticed people staring at the City Hall digital sign.
“Looks like its gotten a little cooler than we’d all thought,” Mason said.
Charlene saw then the lights on the sign blinking 58°. She was staring at it when a horn honked behind her, making her jump. She let up off the brake and continued down the street, watching carefully, breathing quickly. With each block that she passed, confidence seeped back into her, however, and then she was going along quite well, and her own house and buildings came into view.
Her gaze fell on the mailbox and narrow driveway.
She slowed, and then she stopped right there in the road. “I have done wonderfully. I don’t want to ruin my confidence. You take it into the drive.”
He looked startled at her pronouncement, but she began scooting over, so there was nothing for him to do but get out and come around to get behind the wheel and drive the Suburban into the entry and down the drive the rest of the way.
For a number of seconds after Mason stopped the truck, they regarded each other. Then Charlene asked if he cared to come inside for a little while, and he said he did. She went up the walk toward the door and used the key to open it. She felt as if Mason were close enough to breathe on her neck. She wanted him close enough to breathe on her neck. That was the train of her thoughts.
The house was quiet. They were alone.
She hurried on through to the kitchen. “I always seem to be bringing you to the kitchen,” she said to him. “I do have a comfortable living room.”
“The kitchen is your place. I like it.”
She turned quickly from him and his warm eyes, and jerked open the refrigerator. “I don’t have any ice tea made…but I could easily brew some fresh.”
“Coke is fine,” he said, right at her ear, causing her to jump. “I’ll get the glasses, you get the ice.”
She thought that the very air seemed to whisper, You are alone here…you are alone here….
She brought the ice container and two cans of Coke to the counter, where he set the glasses. She dropped the cubes in the glasses, while he popped the tops on the cans. He poured the glasses full, as she returned the ice container to the freezer. He handed her a glass, and he said, “You’re welcome, ma’am,” in that tender fashion that melted her heart.
She looked into his eyes, and then set her glass on the counter, just before he grabbed her into his strong arms and went to kissing her in a most fiery manner, taking her breath and all of her senses.
He kissed her and kissed her again, and she welcomed him and tugged him back for yet another kiss when he would have pulled away. She put her hands into his hair and bared her neck to his lips, glorying in the wild and wonderful sensations pulsing through her body. His back, his shoulders, all of his muscles, were hard and hot beneath her palms. She whispered his name, and he whispered hers. She inhaled the musky, manly scent of him and found his pulse in his neck with her lips. He pressed her against the counter, lifting her up and holding her there so he could move against her, causing sexual desires of every exquisite nature to whip and pound from her head to her toes.
For the briefest few seconds they hovered there, just on the edge of sinking onto the floor, because they never would have made it to a bed, or even the couch. But then they both stopped. It was as if a calm voice of reason penetrated the passion.
Charlene opened her eyes, and her lashes fluttered against the hot, moist skin of his neck. His breathing came fast, as did her own. His hand was on her breast, and he moved it ever so slowly.
They parted and gazed at each other, each one asking if maybe they could possibly continue, finish it, and come to reason afterward.
Her hand lingered on his chest. The pressure of his wild kisses lingered on her lips.
“I can’t do this,” she said, dropping her hand. “I have my children to think of. And it’s too soon.”
“I know,” he said, seeming to search for his breath at the same time that he caressed her cheek.
Raking a hand through her hair, she moved away, averting her eyes. “I haven’t had sex in a very long time,” she said, forcing herself to speak her mind, a little e
mbarrassed at the rawness of her tone. “And maybe that’s all this is, and I don’t want that. I really just don’t know anything right now. I can’t trust my emotions.” Very near tears, and very near throwing herself upon him again, she dropped into a chair.
A minute later he plunked the moist glass of cold soda on the table at her elbow. She looked up to see him take a long drink out of his own glass, as if swigging back whiskey. She drank, too, relishing the cool liquid.
Then he said, “This isn’t just sex.”
“No,” she said, finally able to regard him levelly. “No, it isn’t, and I don’t want it to turn into that. I want it to be the result of knowing each other. I hardly knew my husband. Twenty-one years together, and we talked, but we could not truly speak to each other. I was always afraid of saying the wrong thing, and he was always afraid of saying anything. I don’t want that kind of relationship with a man again. If I ever get involved again, I want to share my heart with someone who can share his with me.”
He searched her eyes and nodded with what she thought was understanding. Then he gave a dry smile, saying, “I don’t think right now is a good time, though. I think I’d best go.”
He sat his half-empty glass on the table and hesitated. Then he bent and kissed her softly, tenderly, and moved to the door.
She jumped up and said, “I’ll walk you out,” which she thought was a very brave thing to do.
Thirty
It was well after dawn when Winston attached his new flag to the rope of his flagpole and hoisted up the Stars and Bars, with “Dixie” playing in the background, low because Mildred especially liked to sleep in on Sunday mornings. He didn’t feel nearly as much of a thrill as he had anticipated, because Everett Northrupt’s porch post remained empty of a flag and no “Star-Spangled Banner” rang out.
He got the Sunday paper from the yard and continued halfheartedly on with his morning routine. Passing the roses on his way to the back door, he cut two. Coming into the kitchen he tossed the newspaper on the table, jammed the roses into a jelly glass with water and then poured himself a cup of coffee.
Driving Lessons Page 30
