by J. L. Salter
Crushed. “Over forty? No way!” She examined the skin on her forearm. “Absolutely no way. Your hocus pocus guessing game is totally skewed.”
“Wasn’t trying to upset you, lady,” he said gently. “Just trying to help you figure things out. “Besides, what’s wrong with early forties?”
“Everything,” she moaned. “When you can’t remember your age, you’re positive it’s way less than forty.”
“And you know this in your gut, rather than specific memory.”
She nodded. Then she closed her eyes and considered the possibility of being forty-two to forty-four. “Does it bother you to have a female houseguest over ten years older than you?”
“Nope, not a bit. It’s not like we’re engaged. You?”
“Not sure,” she said, frowning, “but I think so.”
“I think that’s society’s influence talking. Not your gut,” he said pointing to her midsection.
“Maybe so. But it still bothers me...I think.”
“Well, no problem. We didn’t elope, you know.”
Her face flushed.
“I’ll be thirty-three before long, so it could be less than ten years difference. Not like you’re old enough to be my mom or anything.”
Chapter Eight
The nameless woman groaned as she sunk to the loveseat. Everything he said just made it worse. “That doesn’t help, Cody.”
“Sorry.” Wilder put the almanac back in its place on the shelf. “Besides, like I said, you look at least ten years younger than that...closer to my age.”
“I think your system is flawed. Besides, how could I remember those things about a football game and some particular school year when I don’t even know who I am?”
“It’s a weird associational memory trick. Your brain’s still able to retrieve data that’s next door to other data, which you can associate with something else. We approached that particular memory cell from the Super Bowl instead of trying to get you to remember what little Susie studied.”
“Susie?”
“Whoever. Did that name ring a bell?” Wilder came over and stood near his easy chair.
“No. Well, yeah...from a song I’ve heard.”
“Which song?”
“Wake Up Little Susie.”
“Ah, Everly Brothers. But way before your time. They were big in the late fifties. I know you’re not old enough to remember them when they were at the top of the charts, so maybe you like oldies.”
“Don’t think so. There must be some other connection to that song...or that group. How many Everlys were there?”
“Two. Don and Phil. They have roots in Kentucky, Iowa, and Tennessee.”
“Nope. Nothing.” She eyed him intently. “Well, anyway, I’m positive I’m not early forties.”
He shrugged. “You asked for my help.”
“I know, and I appreciate it, Cody. I just don’t like the number you came up with.”
He repositioned the easy chair where it more directly faced the loveseat and then sat heavily.
“What else can you help me retrieve with your associational parlor game?”
“Nothing, if you’re going to be defensive at the results.”
“I won’t. Sorry. That was just a trigger point, I guess.” She folded her hands on her lap. “I’ll be good. Fire away.”
“Okay, but don’t think. Just respond. What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“There.”
“How’d I do that?”
“You weren’t straining to remember. I jumped you with the question and your brain went straight to the answer.”
“What else can we figure out?”
“Uh, do you have any children?”
Hesitated. “I don’t know.” She felt her lower abdomen. “How would I know?”
“Hmm. Your brain insisted on thinking through that one. Let’s try something else.” He pointed to a small handmade desk near the northwest window and adjacent to the drafting table. “Have a seat over there.”
She crossed the small room and situated herself.
Wilder placed a blank sheet of paper into an old manual typewriter and then backed away. “Ready?”
“For what?”
“I’ll just shoot you some rapid fire questions and you type your first response, without thinking about it.” He closed his eyes a second. “Any you don’t know, just hit the carriage return and skip a line. Okay?”
She nodded.
He scribbled each prompt on a small note pad so he could line up the answers later. “Season?”
“Spring,” she said as she typed.
“Month?”
“April.” She had it typed nearly as fast as she spoke it.
“Date?”
She skipped a line and shook her head.
“Okay. Do you like tea?”
She typed and spoke, “Sweet.”
“Do you sleep alone?”
She blushed and couldn’t type.
“Sorry. Thought I could slip that past your brain’s resistance. Just hit the return.”
When she did, the bell rang especially loud and Beethoven crowed. “Does he always do that?”
Wilder shook his head. “Usually to wake me up and whenever I say his name. Back to the quiz. Do you drink alcohol?”
She skipped a line. “I don’t know, but I have a strong feeling I wouldn’t turn it down.”
“No matter, let’s continue. Favorite breakfast?”
“Eggs,” she spoke and typed.
“Are you married?”
Her fingers remained poised above the keys but did not strike any. Then she turned from the typewriter. “I don’t know.” She examined her left ring finger closely and then massaged it. “I think I’ve worn a ring there.”
Wilder came closer and inspected. “No tan line, but then you’re probably an inside lady. Except for your legs, you’re pale all over.”
All over. It still caused her to blush.
He grinned. “When I took those soaking clothes off you last night. I couldn’t keep my eyes closed the entire time.”
Her head fell so far forward that it nearly banged the keys.
“Sorry, I thought we’d more or less covered that.”
“I guess we did, but it’s still embarrassing.” She shook her head slowly.
“Anyway, moving on. Let’s see your test results.” He motioned toward the typewriter and she whipped the page out with ease.
“Uh huh.”
“What?”
“When you answered my questions, you were touch-typing, so your fingers remembered how to type even though you didn’t consciously know you did.” His hands were poised as though over a keyboard. “And the way you removed that page suggests you’ve been around real typewriters rather than merely electronic workstations with printers.”
“Does that additionally prove I’m ancient?”
“Not necessarily. But it could be a clue to your former surroundings. Maybe you live with a lot of old stuff.”
Maybe. “So how’d I do on your test?”
“You got the season and month right and seem to like sweet tea and eggs. The typewriter familiarity is very intriguing. Not sure about much else.”
“So why would I remember these few isolated things, but still have no idea of my name or address?”
He shrugged. “I’m no doctor. I read and observe a lot. From what I understand of memory loss, there are many kinds, and some last longer than others. Depends a great deal on the area of the brain that was, um, disturbed...and how much of an impact it had.”
“That makes sense, I guess.” Her fingers trailed over the old-fashioned typewriter keys.
“Well, think of it this way. With extensive brain injuries, the patient doesn’t know how to tie his own shoes or dress himself. Can’t use a phone, operate a keyboard, or thread a needle. But you’re fully functioning, alert, mobile, coordinated, et cetera. Plus a sense of humor…of sorts.” Wilder took a breath. “And you’ve
already established that you still possess a great deal of cultural memory and can retrieve certain isolated bits of information from particular brain storage areas.”
“Yet I don’t know who I am or where I’m from.”
“Or what you were doing halfway up Hardscrabble Mountain.”
When the rooster jumped up on the desk and pecked at the piece of notepaper, the woman who couldn’t recall her name jumped from the chair in alarm. She backed away and let Beethoven peck at the page. “Does he always go wherever he wants?”
Wilder nodded. “He lives here.”
“I meant to ask you this before.” She cleared her throat. “Not sure if this is a memory or just a sense, but I have a notion that chickens poop a lot.”
Wilder nodded.
“Is your rooster constipated?”
“Uh, no. He’s as regular as any other Buff Orpington.”
“So how come I haven’t stepped in any poop yet?”
Wilder laughed and pointed to the southwest corner. “He uses a litter box.”
“You’re kidding.”
He crossed his heart. “Seriously. You should watch him.”
She grimaced. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself. He even scratches to cover it up. Just like a tidy cat.”
She shivered and changed the subject. “I sure wish this weather would clear so we could get down to that town.”
He was slow to reply. “Does it bother you being here?”
“Good grief. I should say so. I’ve got things to do, places to be, people to meet.”
“What? Where? Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, they’ll have to wait unless they come up here searching.” He eyed her closely. “If anyone is looking for you, who might it be?”
Tears welled in her eyes as she shook her head.
“Sibling? Parent? Husband? Child?”
“I don’t know!” She wept.
“Sorry, Susie.”
“I don’t think I’m Susie. It’s just a song I remember.”
“Got any other suggestions for a name?”
Shook her head silently.
“Who’s your favorite male movie star?”
“Male?”
He nodded.
“George Clooney maybe. Why?”
“There. You remembered somebody else’s name. So who’s your favorite actress?”
“Not sure.” She sighed heavily.
“Tell me a movie she was in and let me guess.”
No hesitation. “Speed.”
“Sandra Bullock!” He answered so vigorously that Beethoven jumped and squawked.
Big smile. “Yes.”
“Okay. Shall I call you Sandra instead of Susie?”
“I think I’d rather be Scarlett.”
“As in Johansson?”
She considered it. “No, but she’s cute.”
“She’s a stone cold fox,” said Wilder with a decidedly warm smile.
“But I don’t think she’s why the name came to me.”
He rubbed his firm chin. “Hmm, maybe the lady from the board game.”
“Oh, Miss Scarlet, from Clue.”
He nodded excitedly.
“But that’s the wrong Scarlet, I think.”
“No matter.” He smiled as he jabbed the air with his strong thick forefinger. “See, you remembered movie star names and characters. I’ll bet your own name is just on the tip of your tongue.”
She extended it.
“Hmm. Maybe not.” He grinned.
“You know, Cody, just then you looked familiar again.”
“When?”
“Just now, when you smiled.”
“You mentioned that before, but didn’t explain.” He was already shaking his head. “Familiar, how?”
“Like we’ve met before, somewhere, sometime. And also on that occasion, you smiled.”
“I don’t encounter a lot of people,” he replied, “and don’t smile all that much anyhow.”
“How come?”
“Not sure, but maybe I’m preoccupied with something.”
She wondered what could preoccupy a lonely mountain man besides plans for his new cabin. “Well, anyhow, I think we’ve met. Just like I’m sure I’m fond of Clooney and Bullock.”
“I don’t usually spend much time on other folks, Scarlett, so if we did encounter each other, I hope I wasn’t too abrupt.”
“No, assuming we did meet, somehow I don’t think you were uncivil. It feels more like it was a comfort somehow.”
“Hmm,” he replied. “Maybe I tucked you in.”
Chapter Nine
Saturday evening
Time passed slowly for the woman who now knew herself as Scarlett, bored and restless and eager to get back home ...wherever that may be. She tried reading on the loveseat, but couldn’t concentrate. Every movement of her handsome, rugged host—or his erratic rooster—further distracted her.
Her fingers absent-mindedly touched her stringy, muddy hair. “Shower!”
Wilder jumped. “What?”
“That’s what I need. If I wash off the rest of this mud I’ll feel ten times better.”
“Why don’t you wait ‘til…?”
“For this whole day, you’ve been telling me to wait.”
“Aw, just let it ride this time.”
She could tell she was wearing him down. “I bathe every day...at least I think I do. Doesn’t feel right not to get wet.” Her eyes narrowed. “That shower of yours does work, doesn’t it?”
“Sure, it works, but I doubt you’ll be satisfied.” He shook his head, grinning. “I suspect my setup is a bit more rustic than you’re used to.”
“How bad could it be? It’s got water and a thing with tiny holes doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, there’s a traditional shower head, but the water pressure is just gravity fed.”
“It has flowing water and I recall you mentioning a water heater. So it seems like you’re arbitrarily boycotting my personal hygiene. What’s the problem?”
“When I take a shower, it’s usually in the daytime.”
“Well, my biorhythms might be different. Maybe I’m a night shower person.”
“Let me explain something.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I have a fifty gallon fiberglass insulated tank with a float to turn off the feed when it’s full. It uses a standard 12-volt RV water pump which runs from the solar array on my roof to provide nice, hot pressurized water for my sink and shower.”
“Cool. Let’s try out this baby.” She started toward the tiny stall but then looked back toward his open closet. “Of course, I’ll need something to change into because I really should wash these clothes more thoroughly while I’m in there.”
“Slow down. I wasn’t finished explaining. I have a five hundred foot coil of drip line up there,” he said pointing through his ceiling to the roof, “of half-inch hose. It’s in a box with a clear plastic cover. During the day, water routes through it, heats up, and then stores in a separate tank.”
“Sounds lovely.” She stood and stretched. “What kind of shampoo do you have? It’s not lye soap, is it?”
“No, it’s a standard brand I get from the drug store. But it’s cheap.”
“I’m not finicky. At least not after that mud bath last evening.” She waited for him to rise and show her the bath towels. “Uh, you are going to let me use that shower, aren’t you?”
“Scarlett, you need to understand this is not a luxurious hotel.”
“What is it with you? Just because you’ve become accustomed to life without frequent bathing, that’s no reason to discourage those of us who aren’t afraid of soap and water.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“About what?”
“You haven’t been listening to anything I’ve said.” He shook his head. “It’s a solar system heating the water.”
“And?”
“Never mind. You’ll figure it
out.”
****
Cody pointed to the short cabinet adjacent the shower stall. “Towels in there.”
“Where do I undress?”
He groaned. “I’m not standing out in that storm just because a very stubborn socialite insists on a nighttime shower.”
“I assumed you were a gentleman,” she said huffily.
“Well, whatever I am, I’ll be waiting in that corner I call my study, facing away. And you have exactly seven minutes to deal with this hygienic obsession.”
“Obsession?” She grabbed two towels from the cabinet and began unbuttoning her blouse before she stopped and faced him. “With no clocks in evidence, how will we know when seven minutes is up?”
“Normally I could tell by the sound of the water draining from that tank, but the storm has drowned it out. So I’ll just recite three of my favorite songs…”
“While I shower, you’re going to sing?”
“…to myself. It’ll take about seven-and-a-half minutes for these three songs, so you’ll get a thirty second bonus.”
“Thanks a bunch.” She turned again and resumed her unbuttoning. Over her shoulder, she said, “You can turn around and start your songs now.”
So Cody faced his desk and drafting table and began his mental songs. He heard her clothes coming off and knew exactly what had been uncovered. And despite his intended chivalry the previous night, he’d seen all the areas now being revealed. Have to get that out of my head. Then the water came on.
“Cody, there’s only one faucet.”
“That’s all you need. It’s for the hot water tank.”
“Oh, okay. Hope it doesn’t scald me.”
He was half way through his first song. “You’d better get the washing part started...this record’s spinning.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t rush me.”
Cody was just beginning the final chorus of his first song when Scarlett shrieked.
Startled, Beethoven flapped his wings and crowed.
Without turning around, Cody yelled over his shoulder. “What’s the problem now?”
“It’s fr-freezing c-cold!” she screamed and shut off the flow.
He called out over his shoulder, “During the hottest part of a sunny day, it’s supposed to reach above 100 degrees, since the collector is pointed due south. That’s pretty close to what you’d find in an average home system, assuming you mix a little cold water with the 120-degree hot.”
