She barely registers a shiver.
At two a.m. Beth is snuggled comfortably into me on the bed, spoon fashion. That glorious backside of hers is pressing up against my crotch, I've got a handful of warm breast, and I'm nuzzling the back of her neck, inhaling the sweet fragrance of her perfume. I can feel things getting stirred up again despite a hat trick performance already this evening. This, by the way, is a performance record for me ... Okay, actually, this triples the previous record.
But now, apparently aware of my reawakening desire, she has decided it’s time to put an end to the evening’s merriment. “I’ve gotta work early, sweets,” she says, “and I can see I’m going to get zero sleep if I stay here.” She pats my hand - the one feverishly clutching her breast - and rolls out of bed.
I moan pitifully, but within thirty seconds I’m fast asleep.
Morning finds me predictably contented. The night with Beth has done a lot to diminish the memory of Karen’s sweating body wreathing delightedly under Bernie Hagget. Even the vision of ghost girl has abated a little.
After a light breakfast I step outside to check on the weather. Big surprise: it’s hot and sunny. The only thing I’ve got lined up in the way of work today - so far at least - is a tune-up on Dory Butterfield’s ’75 Plymouth. Dory’s an eighty-four year old widow who has something of a crush on me I think.
As I turn to go back into the shop I nearly trip over an old black Lab, stretched out in the sun. He’s a mangy looking critter in dire need of a good brushing, and probably at least a dozen years old judging from the white whiskers surrounding his gnarled muzzle. He’s so overweight he looks wider than he is tall. I bend down to give him a pat and he looks up at me with such sad eyes I immediately fall in love with him. I’ve always been a sucker for a sad face and this guy knows how to press my buttons. “Hi there, big guy,” I say. “How about a snack?”
He grins at me and struggles to his feet.
“Come on,” I say.
He follows me into my room and I fill up a bowl with a mixture of Cocoa Puffs, Rice Crispies, and milk. It’s his favorite. I can tell by the way he laps up every morsel and then looks at me with adoring eyes.
I find an old soft bristle brush in the shop and spend a few minutes giving his coat a good workout. If I could knit I could put together a really spiffy sweater with the fur I remove from him. Afterwards, he shadows me all morning as I tinker with Dory’s Plymouth. When Sonny arrives on the scene around noon, he notices the dog. “I see you’ve met Victor, huh?”
“Victor?”
“Yup, that’s Victor,” Sonny confirms.
“Who’s he belong to?”
“He’s Harold Miller’s mutt. Harold and his sister, Deborah, they got a place just over behind the tack shop. Harold, he’s a bit of a simple-minded fella. He forgets to feed Victor half the time so Victor just wanders around town till somebody takes pity on him.”
“Judging by the size of him, there’s been no shortage of people willing to feed him,” I observe.
“Can’t argue with ya there,” Sonny says.
“How long is he going to hang around here?” I wonder.
“Oh, hard to say,” Sonny responds. “I reckon old Victor’s gettin’ a mite simple-minded himself. Forgets where home is most a the time."
Sonny moseys off to his office and, shortly after, Dory Butterfield comes waddling into the shop. She’s an adorable old gal, and she’s carrying what appears to be a paper plate full of homemade chocolate-chip cookies. “Hello, Mr. Tunney,” she says sweetly.
“Hi, Mrs. Butterfield. The Plymouth is all tuned up and ready to go.”
“Wonderful,” she says, batting her eyelashes. “And these are for you.”
I accept Dory’s gift with good grace. She pays her bill with cash and drives off, smiling and wiggling her fingers at me flirtatiously. Ah, if only I were half a century older.
And that puts an end to the work for today. Another tough day in the big city.
“Come on, Victor,” I say. “Let’s get you home.”
The Miller place is easy to find. It’s right where Sonny said it would be, behind the tack shop. There’s a short, paunchy guy I put in his late thirties parked in an old rocking chair on the porch when Victor and I show up. He’s wearing bib overalls, a long-sleeved undershirt, and an old-fashioned tartan-colored winter cap, complete with built in earmuffs that dangle out. When he sees me he jumps to his feet. “Who’re you?” he asks with some apparent apprehension. His voice has the timber and cadence of a nine or ten year old boy.
“I’m Lucas,” I tell him. “And I bet you’re Harold.”
He nods his head timidly. I notice Harold has one bad eye that quivers back and forth and points off at an odd angle.
“Victor stopped by for a visit,” I tell Harold, “but I figured maybe it was time for him to come on home.”
This elicits no response from Harold. I’m about to leave when a woman appears on the porch. “Hello,” she calls.
“Hello, ma’am.”
“Mr. Tunney, isn’t it?”
How can I tell I live in a small town? “Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“I’m Deborah Miller,” she says. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
She’s coming down the walk toward me and I wait to greet her. “I just returned old Victor,” I say by way of explanation for my presence.
“Oh, I’m so sorry if he’s been a bother to you. I’m always after Harold to take better care of him but---”
“It was no bother at all, ma’am, really.”
“Please, call me Deborah.”
“And I’m Lucas.”
She smiles prettily. Actually, she’s probably not a bad looking woman if she ever gets fixed up. Her face is attractive but devoid of all makeup and she’s wearing a ratty cardigan that is stretched so far out of shape it comes almost to where I assume her knees are under her drab, floor-length dress. It’s impossible to tell what kind of body exists under all that frumpiness. She’s probably a few years younger than her brother, which puts her at approximately the same age as me, but she seems a generation older somehow.
Suddenly, something very odd happens. As Deborah is looking at me her expression abruptly changes. It’s as though she has seen something in me that she finds utterly terrifying. I’m wondering ‘what the hell is this all about?’ when she turns quickly away.
“Excuse me, Mr. Tunney,” she says in a fearful voice, “I... I’m afraid I have something I have to do. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” I call to her rapidly retreating figure.
Her behavior mystifies me, but then I figure she and Harold must be a matched pair. I’m guessing they’re both a can or two shy of a six-pack.
Harold follows his sister into the house and, when I turn to head home, Victor starts to follow me. “Stay, Victor,” I order him. He stops obediently and watches me walk away. When I look back a few seconds later I see him heading around to the back of his house.
I arrive at the garage to find Victor waiting there for me. He’s sitting outside the shop door, panting heavily. His tail is sweeping the dirt behind him enthusiastically. He looks so glad to see me I don’t have the heart to send him away. “I suppose you want more cereal,” I say to him.
He snaps to attention, like I’ve said the right thing.
“Come on,” I say.
We’re walking through the office when the phone rings. I don’t have a phone in my room so this is the one I use as my personal line. I pick it up. “Sonny’s Garage,” I say.
“Mr. Tunney … Lucas … it’s Deborah. Deborah Miller. I’m sorry for being so rude to you when you were here. It’s just that … well, could we talk?”
I’m puzzled, of course, and maybe just a little nervous about what this woman - who has left me with a rather dim view of her so far - might have in mind. But I can’t very well refuse to speak with her. “Of course,” I say. “What’s the problem, Deborah?”
“Could I come over to see you?” she says
in a manner that makes me even more uneasy. “We need to speak in person.”
6
I don’t feel comfortable at the prospect of inviting Deborah into my room, or even into the shop for that matter. I await her arrival outside with Victor.
When she turns up she shows no surprise at all at Victor’s presence, so I offer no explanation.
She looks tense and edgy when I greet her. “Why don’t we sit out here?” I suggest. “There’s a picnic table around the side of the shop.”
“That would be fine,” she says.
“Can I get you anything? Lemonade, juice?”
“Whatever you’re having. Thank you.”
I get her settled at the table and then excuse myself. In a moment I’m back with a tray containing a plastic jug of lemonade and two matching glasses. The set is my prize possession. It’s the only set of anything I own.
I pour Deborah a glass of the lemonade - something I haven’t yet had the nerve to taste - and we touch glasses before taking a sip. Actually, I’m surprised to find it’s not half bad.
“So, you sounded kind of upset on the phone,” I say. “What seems to be the problem?” A better question might be, ‘why the hell are you bothering me with it,’ but I tactfully refrain from verbalizing this thought.
Deborah has the look of someone struggling mightily with inner turmoil. “I don’t know where to begin,” she says. “What I have to tell you will sound very strange, I can assure you.”
This I can believe. So far Deborah has pretty much impressed me as someone to whom strange behavior will be the norm. “Well, I’ll try to keep an open mind,” I say. “Why don’t you just spill it out and we’ll take it from there?”
“Okay.” She takes another sip of her drink and then barrels ahead. “Ever since I was a little girl I’ve had an ability to … tell certain things about people.” She stops and looks at me to gauge my reaction to her opening gambit.
I maintain what I hope appears to be an interested and non-judgmental expression. She obviously buys it because she continues. “I became aware of this when I was just three years old,” she says. “My brother Harold, who’ s three years older than me, was starting school at the time. Up to that point my parents had assumed Harold was a normal child. When he began having problems with school work right away it caused a great deal of anxiety in our home. My parents didn’t understand that Harold had a developmental problem. They assumed he was being lazy and defiant. My father was always yelling at him, punishing him for not working hard enough. One day, in the middle of one of my father’s tirades, I said, ‘Daddy, it’s not Harold’s fault. Can’t you see he’s not feeling well? That’s why he doesn’t do good in school.’ Of course, my father dismissed my words as nothing more than a worried little sister’s ramblings. But soon Harold’s problems were brought to light and my father asked why I had said what I had. I explained that the air around Harold was the wrong color, that’s how I could tell he didn’t feel good. Up to then I had assumed everyone saw what I saw when they looked at someone but, of course, it didn’t take long to realize that wasn’t the case. To me many people had, and still have, an aura about them. With most people the aura is light. Others, who are ill, possess a darker shade of aura. Those who are very ill, darker still. Eventually, I came to understand that I could tell something else, however. Not only could I tell from a person’s aura whether or not they were ill, I could also tell if … something dire was about to happen to them.”
Well, no craziness here. Right. The woman is a total flipping fruitcake. I’m thinking ‘how the hell do I get myself into these situations?’ I guess my attempt to maintain an interested and non-judgmental expression has slipped a snippet because Deborah is turning a vivid shade of red from embarrassment.
“I know how this must sound to you, Lucas. Believe me, I---”
“No, no,” I say, “it’s just a little hard to take in all at once. Please … continue.”
But it's no good. I’ve taken all the wind out of her sails. She stands and grimaces like she’s in pain. “Before I go,” she says, “just do me a small favor.”
“Of course.”
“Tell me if something unusually … well … threatening or menacing is going on in your life right now. I’m not trying to be nosy, please believe that. You don’t have to tell me what it is if you don’t want to. Just tell me if there’s something …”
Okay, bring on the men in white coats. Please. “No, Deborah. Really, there’s nothing like that. Why?”
“Your aura,” she says. “It’s very dark. I’m sorry, but … death is all around you!”
A vision of ghost girl comes at me with the force of a nuclear detonation.
Despite my attempt to maintain an outwardly calm demeanor, a shiver that would register on the Richter scale does the watusi from the nape of my neck to the base of my spine.
7
Deborah undoubtedly misconstrues the horrified look on my face as disbelief. There’s some of that, of course, but mostly it’s shock. Can it be a coincidence that this strange woman has hit so close to home with what happened to me in the desert?
I watch as Deborah makes ready to leave. Something tells me I should encourage her to stay, that I should pursue this discussion, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
She hesitates for a moment. “Please call on me if you want to talk,” she says. Then she scurries off like an abused pet.
I sit here replaying in my mind what she’s told me. The more I think about it the nuttier it sounds, yet there’s a part of me that can’t help but wonder if she’s not really a gifted psychic or, at least, something along those lines. I have no frame of reference for such occurrences. I’ve never believed in the occult or been particularly interested in otherworldly phenomena. The whole subject has always just been fodder for bad movies as far as I’m concerned.
But there’s no denying that I’ve been unable to shake the frightening image of the girl in the desert from my mind, even after several weeks now. It has definitely made an impression far and away beyond what one might expect from a nightmare, for example. Now with Deborah’s … what can I call them?… warnings? predictions?… I’m more confused than ever.
I’m roused from my reverie by Sonny. “You look like a man with somethin’ on his mind,” he says, walking toward me and then parking himself at the table opposite me.
“Me? Hell, no.”
“Was that Deborah Miller I seen leavin' just now?”
“Yeah, it was.”
“Nice lady,” Sonny muses.
“What can you tell me about her, Sonny?”
“Hmm? Oh, well, not much to tell. Her and Harold have lived in the old house their parents built - must be close to fifty years ago now - since they was born. The folks were killed in a car accident when Deborah was about eighteen or so. Hit head-on by an old couple drivin’ a motor home out on 58. They reckon the old fella had a heart attack and crossed the line, comin’ right at ’em. Real shame. Deborah was always a real bright young girl and she was all set to take off for the big city, get a college education, after she graduated from high school. But when the folks died she couldn’t leave Harold to fend for himself. She knew he’d end up in some kinda government run home if she did. So she stayed and took a job at the post office. Been there ever since.”
“Has she ever been known to uh … predict the future or anything?”
Sonny chortles so hard he starts to cough. “Predict the future? Well, not that I know of,” he says. “Why? Is she predictin’ you an’ her are gonna play a little slap n' tickle in Tunney Towers?” The chortling turns to what can only be described as raucous laughter.
I’m pleased that Sonny is so amused. Clearly, I should have known better than to ask such a question of him. He’s still chuckling away to himself as I gather up my prize set of plastic picnic ware and head for the shop.
Victor gets up and trails along behind me, head drooping sadly. Even he’s embarrassed for me.
****<
br />
I walk up to the diner just before closing time to see Beth. After her last customer leaves she pours us each a coffee and we sit at a booth, relaxing. “What’s on your mind, sweets?” she asks. “You don’t look like a very happy hiker tonight.”
Mindful of Sonny’s reaction to my question earlier today, I’m not about to humiliate myself by reiterating my conversation with Deborah. But the truth is it’s been on my mind ever since she left. What the hell did she mean by ‘death is all around you’? I’m surrounded by ghosts? I’m going to die? What, for Christ’s sake?
“Just awe-struck by your incredible beauty,” I manage.
“Aw, shucks,” she says, “you always know just what to say.” She leans over and plants a wet one on my lips. “Really, though, is something wrong?”
“Nothing a night in your loving arms won’t cure.”
She looks a little sheepish. “Sorry, sweetums, but it’s the wrong time of the month for making whoopee, I’m afraid.”
Oh, great. Shatter a guy’s plans all to rat shit, why don’t you, is what I think. “That’s all right,” is what I say.
“By the way, Herb told me to ask if you’d be interested in some poker tomorrow night.”
“Your boss, Herb?”
“Yeah. Him and Sonny and a few other guys around town get together every week or so to play. One of the regulars died a while back and they’re probably looking to rope in another sucker.”
“What're the stakes?”
“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “Nothing too big time I don’t imagine.
After a moment or two of quiet introspection I decide I can probably hold my own with a bunch of small town hicks. “Tell him sure,” I say.
“Tell him yourself,” Beth says, just as Herb comes out from the kitchen, taking off his cook’s apron.
I met Herb last week. He’s a short-tempered guy and no prize to look at. He’s got an enormous belly that balloons over his pants, he’s never without the stub of a cigar poking out of his blubbery lips, and he’s usually sporting at least a couple days worth of graying whiskers.
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