Cold Tea on a Hot Day

by Matlock, Curtiss Ann

  “I might prefer being left behind.”

  Feeling a little desperate, he held out the glass and cookie, and she took them very slowly.

  He watched her bite into the cookie and then look up at him, her eyes deep blue, and chocolate smearing her moist lips. An immediate full-blown fantasy filled his mind of kissing her until she moaned and writhed like a wild woman in his arms.

  “You have a cookie crumb on your chin…let me just…there. Now, let’s see how I can help you with this computer.”

  He pulled a chair over and sat on it backward, right next to her, continuing to look at her lips with anticipation. He knew quite suddenly that he was right where he wanted to be.

  The sun was far to the west and the breeze dying down. In the process of deadheading her roses, Vella paused and ran a gardener’s appreciative gaze over the spring greenery of her rosebushes and upward into the elm trees. “Thank you, God,” she whispered, as she almost invariably did at such a sight.

  Then she caught sight of Perry’s big black car arriving. Anticipation and an ache slipped across her heart at the same moment.

  She hurried up the steps and in the back door and straight to the oven, where she checked the meat loaf. It was good and dark, crusty as she liked it to be. She made a superb meat loaf; Winston always praised it all over when she brought it to the church fellowship supper.

  “Got the Wednesday afternoon edition of the paper,” Perry said as he came into the kitchen. He was a big chunk of a man and seemed to fill the kitchen. Just like every other day of the week, on his way to the sink, rolling up his sleeves, he turned on the little television.

  Vella looked over her shoulder at the set that sat on the counter. She had a sudden and disturbing fantasy of herself with a shotgun, blasting out the screen.

  “I made meat loaf,” she said, showing it proudly as her husband sat at the table.

  “Hmmm.” He glanced at it, then looked at the newspaper. “That Juice Tinsley’s goin’ all out with advertisin’ for the city council seat. Don’t know why anyone in their right mind would want the job.”

  Vella focused on setting the food on the table. She liked the supper table to be colorful, like a bouquet of roses. There was the browned meat loaf with red tomato sauce on top, light-green-and-gold succotash, steamy ivory potatoes, golden butter and tan-kissed rolls.

  Perry, who had been using the remote control to flip channels on the television until he got to his favorite news program, said, “Looks like we’re gonna get in another mess over there with them I-rackees.” With one eye on the television, he served himself a slice of meat loaf.

  Vella wondered, as she had for years now, how a man as educated as Perry—he had big university education from University of Oklahoma and the pharmacist degree, plus lots of courses every year to keep up-to-date—could have slipped back into such poor grammar.

  She looked at her gleaming china plate and then at the array of food. She watched her husband fold open the newspaper and hold it with one hand, while eating with the other, and dividing his attention between the newspaper and the television.

  “Perry, how is the meat loaf?” She still had not served herself.

  “Hmmm…oh, pretty good,” he said, his eyes on the newspaper.

  “Perry.” Vella, who had not yet served her plate, began unbuttoning the front buttons of her shirtwaist. Her heart began a rapid pumping. It was as if her hand was working all by itself.

  Perry was now looking at the television. Vella noted the paleness of his complexion, the blue veins over his nose and at his neck. Yet he still had that little cowlick at the top of his head that she had loved from the very first.

  “Perry.” She now had the top of her shirtwaist fully unbuttoned.

  “Huh?” He did not turn his head from the television.

  “Perry!”

  In an instant she had pushed to her feet so hard that the chair scooted back and bumped the counter. Then she yanked her shirtwaist wide open to reveal her voluptuous breasts, full and heavy in their support bra.

  “Look at me!”

  Perry was looking. He gazed straight at her breasts, with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide as saucers so that she saw the blue irises, which she had not seen in years.

  Vella felt triumphant. She had, at long last, succeeded in getting his attention. She felt, too, that she had gone completely mad, but she could not grab hold of caring.

  “I’m alive, Perry! I’m alive and sittin’ here with you every night!”

  “Well, my god,” he said.

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  He closed his mouth and swallowed.

  Letting go of her dress, she swept an arm at the table, sending half the dishes and food crashing onto the floor. Her pendulous bosom heaved and swayed.

  “I am sick to death of you actin’ like I am dead. Like I don’t exist, when day after day I work in your store, wash your clothes, cook your supper and clean your pee drips off the toilet. I am a flesh-and-blood woman who goes to bed with you night after night. I have worn perfume and new rayon gowns and put myself in front of you, and you don’t even see.” She had begun sobbing. “Look at me! I may be old, but I am not dead. You are not dead.”

  Just then some bit of reasoning sliced into her brain, and she saw herself mirrored in his shocked expression. Covering her face with her hands, she fled the kitchen.

  Perry, stunned so exceedingly that he could for some seconds only manage to move his head and watch his wife running away, thought, She’s gone crazy.

  Then fear pierced his brain enough to propel him into action. He struggled to get out of his chair, but his brain was a little ahead of his body in coming awake, so he had a bit of a time getting going and ended up knocking his chair over.

  “Vella?” he said hoarsely, and found the name was not familiar on his tongue.

  He went upstairs to find her in their bedroom, grabbing clothes out of her dresser drawers and throwing them into two suitcases that lay wide-open on the bed—the suitcases she had bought when she made that trip to New Orleans to look at roses a couple of years ago and that he thought were way too high priced.

  “I am leavin’ you, Perry. I can’t go on like this another minute.”

  Perry didn’t know what to say. He tried to think of something, but nothing would come. He had a sense of being in the Twilight Zone television show.

  She wouldn’t leave. She was a sixty-four-year-old woman. Or maybe she was sixty-five, he wasn’t certain.

  The next minute she fastened the bulging suitcases, grabbed each handle with her blue-veined hands, dragged the cases off the bed and past him, and threw them down the stairs, denting and scratching the wall they’d paid big bucks to have painted six months ago, and the banister and the floor at the bottom. One by one she hauled the cases out of the house and threw them into her car and drove off into the hot ball of a western sun.

  Perry blinked against the glare. The picture left in his mind was of her enormous breasts in white cotton swaying as she slipped behind the steering wheel.

  When Vella flew past in her car and saw Winston in his yard taking in his flags, which he could finally do alone these days, she pressed the accelerator harder to keep from stopping and flinging herself into his arms.

  It wasn’t until she got to Main Street and passed the drugstore, where her daughter Belinda would be working the counter, that she realized she had no place to go. She could not go in and talk about this to Belinda, for heavensake. Belinda was no more a conversationalist than her father, except with Deputy Midgett, with whom she now lived in sin; thank God she had moved out at last, even if it was to the apartment over the drugstore.

  There was Minnie Oakes, but generally Vella found Minnie’s brain stuffed with straw. Minnie rarely had an original thought, and their friendship was one of sharing stain removal tips and ice-cream cones, not confidences.

  Outside of Minnie, Vella could not name a close friend. At least, not a woman friend. There w
as Winston, but she could not go to him. She certainly didn’t want to be included in his “old lady collection.”

  She drove on along the highway. Maybe she would just keep on driving clear to California and the ocean, take off all her clothes on the beach and walk right into the water naked.

  That she was repeatedly coming back to sensuous thoughts became clear to her. She had been battling them for months, and yet they kept getting stronger and stronger.

  Tears streamed down her face. Oh, Lord, what has happened to me? What have I done?

  About five more miles and the cool air blowing on her breasts brought it to her attention that she needed to pull over and fasten up her blouse.

  Tate Holloway was flirting with her.

  Marilee could no longer dismiss the fact of his flirting, as she had tried to do ever since her very first meeting with the man. Trying, and mostly succeeding, to not let Tate’s attention be unduly flattering, she nevertheless admitted to herself that she would have to be dead not to find it quite nice.

  And she kept recalling how he had told her, in her own kitchen that Lindsey was not a man up to “a woman like her.” She wanted very much to question him about that provocative statement, however, she did not think she would like his opinion. She told herself to focus on his instructions for the use of the new whiz-bang computer.

  She knew instantly that she had a fine mind to be able to handle so many conflicting thoughts coming into it at one time, yet she did not overly congratulate herself on such a trait, because science had shown that the ability was present in all women. She thought maybe God had sensibly installed it into the female species as a strategy for survival in a man’s world.

  “Now, Miss Marilee…you don’t have to hit that button. You can just tap this little mouse window you’re usin’ with your finger.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She liked that.

  “Are you havin’ trouble seein’? Maybe the screen isn’t bright enough. All you have to do is use this button. See?”

  “Oh, that is better!”

  “Who is that in the picture?”

  “What? Oh, that’s my ex-husband, Stuart.” It was silly to feel uncomfortable about being asked about Stuart. She noticed that Tate had blue eyes, like Stuart.

  “Devil-may-care fellow.”

  “Yes…he was, pretty much.”

  “He looks familiar to me.” But his blue eyes were on Marilee’s, as if he were trying to see into her mind.

  She averted her eyes. “You might have seen his work, or even met him. He was quite a well-known photographer. Lots of his stuff in National Geographic, Life, a few in Time.” And he had been a flirt, too.

  Tate frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe I have…but I think he more reminds me of Parker Lindsey.”

  Gazing at the screen, Marilee typed. The letters came out crazy.

  “Your left hand needs to move over a key,” Tate pointed out.

  “This keyboard is awkward.”

  “You can plug in your big one. I’ve got the ergonomic ones on order.”

  “Oh.”

  “Want me to plug your big one in now?”

  “Yes, that might be a good idea.”

  He did all he was supposed to, quite efficiently; he apparently knew electronic gadgets. She tried the bigger keyboard and found it worked well.

  “Does this little thing do the same as a mouse?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s annoying.”

  “Your choice.”

  When they finally closed the computer, Marilee was so relieved and delighted to be able to work it that she not only felt compelled to apologize for her sharp behavior but was actually able to do so.

  “I’m sorry for being so snippy earlier,” she said, almost choking on the words. She thought of how she had been sharp with Parker and knew that she would probably never master the art of apology.

  “Ah, Miss Marilee, I don’t think I’d give a penny for a woman without some spunk.”

  He was looking at her in that way of his, as if thoroughly pleased with every bit of her that he saw. A warm flush fell over her and gathered between her legs.

  Averting her eyes, she rose and headed for the kitchen. Willie Lee and Munro had fallen asleep together on the couch, and Corrine was sitting in the big chair, reading an American Girls book. Marilee didn’t think Corrine should see her in that moment. Corrine was too observant by far; she would understand immediately that Marilee felt an attraction for this man. Good Lord, Marilee didn’t want anyone to see her being such a fool.

  She poured two glasses of iced tea and turned, intent on taking his into the living room, but there he was draped in the doorway.

  “Thank you for bringing the iced tea.” She held out the glass, and he came over to take it from her.

  Drinking deeply from her own, she thought the best course was to drink the tea quickly down and then tell him good-night. She would not ask him about his comment the previous evening. She was going to ignore it.

  “You’re welcome,” he returned quite happily. “It is my way of returning what I borrowed.”

  “You borrowed an entire box.”

  “I know. I’ll return it a little at a time, all made up.”

  Then, without benefit of invitation, just as he had done the previous evening, he pulled out a chair and sat himself at the table, saying, “The important thing to know about brewing good iced tea is to use distilled water. And tea bags are okay, but I prefer to use loose tea—black-and-orange pekoe—and pour the hot water over it. You can’t go off and let the tea sit there longer than eight minutes, either, because then you get the tannic acid comin’ out, and that makes the brew bitter. ‘Course, tea made in the sun can sit longer.”

  “You are a quite a connoisseur of cold tea,” Marilee said, both impressed with a man who would take care with such a small thing and wondering how in the devil she would tell him goodbye now with him sitting himself down.

  “Good cold tea on a hot day is the secret of life,” he replied.

  She gazed at him. “I think I’ve heard you pronounce about three different things as being the secret to life.”

  “Well, you know, Miss Marilee…”

  Tate pulled on his ear and grinned that grin, charming enough to coax bees from their hive, “…I’m still searchin’ for that one major secret to life.”

  Marilee wrapped an arm around her middle and held on to herself, quite possibly to keep from going straight to him, throwing herself on his lap and seeing what the kiss in his eyes would feel like on her lips.

  The idea was preposterous. The idea of kissing him scared her pants off.

  Thankfully, he quite suddenly quit flirting and led the way into discussing the needs down at the newspaper. He said he had that afternoon hired a new layout man, a young guy fresh from college with a graphic art degree. “With the salary I can pay, my choices of experienced people are limited,” he said. “He’ll be here the end of next month.”

  Marilee asked him forthrightly if he intended to let any of them go.

  “No,” he replied instantly. “I may need to switch people around to different jobs, but I’ll find a place for everyone.”

  “You won’t be able to switch Zona to another job,” Marilee said and moved to sit opposite him at the table. She had to find a way to make certain Zona remained protected.

  But Tate said in an understanding manner, “No, I won’t be switchin’ Zona,” and gave a wry smile. “I’ve begun to wonder if she sleeps in that office. I don’t ever see her come or go.”

  “She does not intend anyone—especially you—to see her. Give her time, though. She’ll thaw a little when she gets to know you. It’s just that she has a very hard time with change. And with men.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” he asked bluntly.

  “The gossip is her overbearing father. What is known, however, is that she suffered severe schizophrenia in her twenties. Treatment has helped her, allows her to operate outside a hospital, anyway. Aft
er her parents died, she was destitute. Then one day Ms. Porter brought her in and made her the bookkeeper. It turned out Zona is a genius with numbers, and somehow Ms. Porter had discovered this. I think Ms. Porter had been trying to help Zona all along.”

  “Muriel was always like that,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “She doesn’t look like an altruistic pudding heart, but she is.”

  Marilee watched his eyes drift down to the table and saw emotions flow across his face. She looked at the tender spot where his hair curled behind his ear. It was white hair there, mingling in with the sun-streaked blond.

  Then he was looking back at her, cocking his head. “How many know that Charlotte is in love with Leo?”

  Marilee, quite struck by this further proof of his powers of observation, said, “Well, I know, and now you know. I’m not certain Leo knows. He is so used to women doing for him that Charlotte getting coffee for him each morning isn’t going to mean much. And Charlotte may be denying it to herself. She’s so hungry for a romantic relationship and scared to death of it at the same time.”

  “That’s a common place to be,” he said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  She thought his eyes most remarkable, and then she realized he was gazing at her in that way that was sizing her up.

  “I read your piece on the detention center,” he said. “You did a very good job of keeping to the middle ground.”

  “I can take that as approval?” She decided to size him up in return.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am…I think your ability to present a story without biasing it with your opinions is very good. I think, too, that when you decide to move people with a feature, like the piece I read in the files that you did about the retirement community the MacCoys are building, or the one you did about the young man getting crazed on drugs and threatening people with an unloaded gun, you’re even better. You are good at putting your heart in your work. You should do more of it.”

  Marilee had not before heard much analytical praise for her writing; Ms. Porter had never been one for even the mildest praise of one of her writers. Either what you had written was adequate or it was not, that was all there was to it. Now Marilee wasn’t certain how to respond. She felt decidedly uncomfortable.