"Bullshit! The fucker was being disrespectful! Only one thing on a man's mind when he grabs a woman the way he grabbed you."
"What?" Vivian just had to ask.
"Think about it! His hands on your waist from behind? What image does that bring to mind?"
"Jake! I doubt if that was on his mind."
"That's exactly what was on his mind! I wanted to break his goddamn jaw!"
"Okay, okay, okay, well calm down, it's over. Don't want you getting all mad again." She soothed, laying her head back on his shoulder. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure, fire away." He invited.
"Would you consider going back to school?"
"School? Me? Hell, no!"
"Jake!?"
"No! Do you know how old I am?"
"YES! Jeez-louise, I know how old you are! And there are a lot of people your age, in school, earning a degree."
"No."
"Just like that—no?"
"No."
Vivian sat up in bed looking at him, "How do you know—no? Unless you look into it."
"No. You're making me miss the movie."
"You ain't thinkin'bout that movie! I wanna talk about you going to school."
"Well, talk about it to yourself, this is gettin' good. So, what's the beasts name?"
Vivian squatted back on her heels and crossed her arms over her breasts. "I want to talk about you possibly going to school, Jake."
"Well, I don't. Now, what's the beast's name?"
"Beast!"
"Beast? What you mean, Beast? That's the beast's name?"
"Yes, the beast's name, is Beast."
"Well, that's just bullshit! The beast name is Beast! How lazy is that!? Is he the star of the movie?"
"Yes. But we can talk about that later."
"I don't wanna talk it about it later, I wanna talk about it now. Who is beauty?"
"Belle—is beauty, Jake."
"Belle is beauty? Why isn't her name Beauty?"
"Because her name is Belle! Jake, cut it out! Now, get serious!"
"I am serious! What kind of bullshit is this? Since when don't you name all the characters!? The bad guy's got a name, Gaston. Beauty got a name, Belle! But the beast is called Beast! That's bullshit! I don't even wanna watch it no more, turn that shit off! Beast!"
"Jake! It doesn't matter what the beast's name is, that's not the point of the movie! The point is, not to judge people by their appearances! Beauty is defined in many ways! You should love a person because of what they are on the inside, not because of what you see, or other people see!"
"I see. So, when you look at me, what do you see?"
"Huh? I see you." She replied, confused by the question.
"You see me? What is it that you see about me?"
"Huh? I don't understand?"
"Sure you do, Vivian, you're a bright young woman! What you see, is what you get! A red-neck country boy from the sticks! I am, what I am. There are no magic spells, darlin'! I'm not going to suddenly change into something more presentable for you. Something that won't make you ashamed when you bring me before your friends."
"Where in the world is this coming from?" Vivian asked, stunned.
"Hey! I may not be up to your speed, smart as you, refined and cultured, but I know when I'm being groomed for improvement."
"Groomed for improvement? Are you insane?!" Vivian sat in the middle of the bed looking at him like he was crazy.
"That's right! You see, I'm the beast—the one unworthy of even giving a name! Because I'm gruff, uncultured, unrefined—with dress and manners of a—beast! You on the other hand, are Belle. Beautiful, educated, adventurous, refined, lady-like, sweet. You get a name. Even the jerk! The bad guy, gets a name! Why? Because he looks the part! He's got it made, everything is just the way he wants it...his name, is Gaston. The message here is, if you wanna be somebody worthy of a name, then you gotta change! 'Cause nobody loves a beast! But then, alas, she falls in love with him, and because she loves him, he changes, and becomes this fairytale perfect prince! Bullshit! It doesn't work that way!"
Vivian sat stunned, staring at him. "I thought you didn't know what happened?"
"I have nieces and nephews, I've sat through this a thousand times." He announced, sitting up and lighting up another cigarette.
Vivian sat in the center of the bed quietly watching him. A bit hurt. Because, inadvertently, perhaps that is what her plan was. To love him, make him love her, and then, he would slowly change, grow, become the man she knew he could be. As she sat, she realized something, the point he was trying to make with her. If she loved him, she loved him. Not what she could possibly mold him into - change him into.
He sat quiet, puffing on his cigarette. She was quiet. He looked over at her. Sitting in the middle of the bed, with sad eyes, saying nothing.
"What are you looking at me like that for?" He asked.
She only shook her head, saying not a word.
"Don't shake your head, you're thinking something. Now what are you thinking?"
She only shook it again, then laid back down in the bed and went back to watching the movie.
"Am I getting the silent treatment already?"
"No." She answered softly.
"No...no I'm not?"
"No." She returned.
"But you're mad."
"Nope."
"No?"
"Not at all." Again a soft reply.
"So, what are you doing?" He asked.
"I'm laying here, leaving you to smoke your cigarette, and watching the rest of the movie."
"You think you're slick, don't you?" He nodded his head, looking down at her.
"Huh? How is that?"
"Yeah...so, uh, what are you trying to say now?"
"Jake? I'm not trying to say anything, I'm laying here—and leaving you alone. Isn't that what you want? You said what you had to say, and what you said is, you are what you are. Fine. End of discussion."
"That's right. I am...so, um, what do you think I am?"
"I think you are, what you say you are."
"So, you're calling me a red-neck country boy from the sticks! Right?"
"Jake, I haven't called you anything. I'm trying to be agreeable. You called yourself that! If being that makes you happy, then what's the problem?"
"You! That's the problem! You want me to be something else, other than what I am!"
"No, Jake...that's where you're wrong. I only want you to be, what you're capable of. If what you are, is all that you're capable of, then be that and be happy. If it makes you happy being a red-neck country boy from the sticks on the bottom, and that's as high as you can get, stay down there, then. Because it takes a special kind of red-neck country boy from the sticks to recognize, that even though he may be that, he will be that—but on top! In other words, baby, be what you wanna be—but don't settle for second best at it, be the best. To do that, you either got it, or you don't."
Jake sat and stared at her a moment. She'd gone quiet. He put out another cigarette, still staring at her. "So, you're not asking me to—put on a suit…work in an office—"
"No. I'm not. There's something that you like to do, Jake, that brings you a sense of pride and pleasure. Investigate that, research the market for it and whether there's a degree to be earned in it. Find out if the pay scale would bring you a sense of satisfaction. If after doing all that, you find your niche—who's to stop you from going for it, but you? I just want you to feel good about yourself and be happy. That's all I want."
Jake laid back down beside her, then held his arm out for her to get back on his shoulder. She did, he folded it back around her. "Will you…help me?"
"Of course, I will."
"But don't push! I can make up my own mind."
"You almost 40 years old, you oughta be able to!"
"Don't get smart with me lil'girl...sassin' me gone get you a slap on the ass."
Vivian laughed, a wicked triumphant laugh.
"Damn you!" He
muttered, pulling her onto him, kissing her brow, her nose, then her lips. "You haven't won yet."
Vivian smiled, oh, but it sure felt like it, if so, it was only a small victory, time would tell how much so.
* * *
The house was quiet, and Shawn hadn't come to bed yet. Sylvia rose and went looking for him. When she found him, he was sitting out on the front porch. Quiet, alone. She joined him, closing her robe around her. She sat, putting her arm through his, laying her head on his shoulder, remaining quiet. He lifted his arm, and wrapped it around her. Because she was aware that he'd spent time with his mother, talking—about what, she hadn't a clue; she wasn't about to ask him a bunch of questions. When he was ready to divulge what he was feeling, thinking, he would. Long as he continued to hold her the way he was, stroking her arm the way he was doing, was enough for Sylvia. With her hand on his thigh, she caressed him gently, enjoying the cool night and companionable silence. He turned his lips to her, and kissed her brow. Smiling, Sylvia laid her head in the slope of his shoulder and neck.
"Let's go to bed, I'd rather be holding you in there." He whispered. Sylvia nodded, stood and let her husband escort her into their home. He went around locking everything down, as usual, leaving the porch light on for Mundo. And went to bed, gathering his wife in close to him, shut his eyes, and before he went to sleep, "Goodnight, my wife. I love you."
"Goodnight, my husband, I'll love you always."
Chapter 180
Shanna tossed out every idea and sense of reasoning and logic there was in trying to calm herself down. She didn't need hundreds of hours, the accumulation of days, weeks or months to know it was so. To know that this man across from her, was the man of her dreams. The man that was meant to be hers. At thirty plus years, and for the second time in her life, she was in love. This time, she prayed with all her heart and being, that it was with the right man. So far as she could see, he was. From the talks they'd had, she discovered that Officer Royce Collier was a gentle soul. A man of laughter and as easygoing as they came. So far, she'd learned that he was born and raised in Tomah, Wisconsin. Never been any further north than Minnesota, and no further south than Madison, Wisconsin. All of his schooling and training had taken place within those confines. Upon graduation, he'd been immediately placed, because unlike many of his comrades, he was happy to take the position available in the small town of Camp Daniels. The other's had wanted state police positions, or to go for positions in Madison or Milwaukee, some even Chicago. Not Officer Collier; Camp Daniels' speed was fast enough for him. Shanna liked that about him. Truthfully, there was little that she didn't like about him. She learned that he'd been married once—for five years, and that his wife had died of cervical cancer. She'd gotten pregnant three times, and miscarried each time; the longest she'd carried was for five months. Then came the bad news of cancer and a year later, she'd passed away losing her fight. Her death had been four years ago. His being able to sit and tell her about it, brought a lift to Shanna's heart; because the entire time, he smiled and shared nothing but pleasant memories of his wife, despite the heartache and loss.
"I can tell you this, one thing about a small town." He'd gone on to say, "They all think the best remedy for healing, is to find you another wife. Oh..." He chuckled nice and easy, "... the blind dates I've been set up with. They don't mean no harm, though, just looking out for me, I s'pose." Shanna could see why—he was heaven in a uniform. Dreamy warm, tawny brown eyes, golden blond hair that glistened like corn silk in the morning sun, with curly locks on top. If he didn't keep it cut close and neat, he'd have a riot of curls all over. What was left of them, were on top, usually hidden underneath his hat. Trying to pull her focus from his smiling eyes, from his perfectly straight nose—a nose she fought temptation to lean forward and kiss, she forced herself to listen, as he went on to tell her that he loved being one of the five policemen assigned to this area. It didn't bother him one bit that he helped to police a population of barely 500 citizens. He figured that the world would be a much better place if it were more like Mayberry. Shanna had to smile, because of course, The Andy Griffith show had been one of her favorite TV programs. And maybe that was the draw to him; he had that slow and easy "Andy Taylor" quality about him. Smiling, grinning—believing that life's not that bad when you look at it and search out all the positives. Right then, on that Memorial weekend night, Shanna wanted him like dry earth begged for rain. He continued on to say that now, the population was growing with the addition of herself, her brothers, niece and Sylvia's two—not forgetting the baby on the way.
"I tell you what, with the plans that brother of yours has, we'll be renaming that road McPherson Way. With a bed and breakfast in the works, a photography studio, and now...what is that you'll be doing?"
"Interior Design. I do reupholstery, design furniture and draperies, decorate—that kind of thing."
"Wow...that's nice. So you make things that much nicer, what you gonna call it?"
"To be honest, I haven't thought of a name yet. Any suggestions?"
"I'm not one for naming things, but I'll be sure to spread the word once you have it up and running."
"Why, thank you, every little bit helps." She'd returned, and he'd gone on to say how proud he was that just about everyone knew everybody, and word would be around in no time.
Shanna could only smile; he was a breath of fresh air. So different from John, who seldom had anything to say, but grunt, growl and bark questions at her. This was not the case with Officer Collier—he was a talker. While some women might think it ridiculously boring to hear him listing most all the families by name, and when they came into the area, there was nothing at all boring about it. She could listen to him go on and on about them for the rest of the night. After all, she'd had the opposite of what he represented, and at this junction of her life, just as Sylvia had said to her on many occasion, she just wanted peace, quiet and tranquility. Shanna understood and agreed, adding that what she wanted was nights on the front porch swing. Fishing when the fish were biting. Picnics, barbecues, the farmer's market, Tupperware parties, Home Interior parties, bake-offs, her own little garden and quiet nights at home. She didn't think that was too much to ask. That, along with a gentle man, when a woman needs a man to be gentle, and masculine, strong and proud, when a woman needs her man to be masculine, strong and proud...and protective. Growing up with a hardcore, protective father and three very protective brothers, it was what Shanna needed, what she expected. She still didn't understand what craziness made her hold out for so long with John Sykes.
"Ouch!" She snatched her hand away from the ball of fur in her lap. An adorable ginger kitten that he'd helped her pick out. "He bit me!" She laughed, shaking her finger. "He's 'bout hungry and needing to go out." Royce thought out loud. She agreed and they stepped out of his car, off the side of her home and put it down on the ground. Timidly, it stood still, not sure what to do, taking tiny kitten steps—not brave enough to leave the safety of Shanna, who had been holding him for the last hour. It began to meow in its tiny kitten voice. "Aaah, he misses his mother already." Shanna cooed, picking it up again.
"We should probably go and get him some kitty gear. What you think?" He'd asked her over the tiny meows, as if that were definitely the problem. Anything was fine with Shanna not to end the evening, and so off they went to Wal-Mart, since he was the one that took her to see the newborn kittens. Kittens and a mother cat that someone had dropped off behind the police station in a box. Obviously, they couldn't be bothered to find them homes. The moment he saw them, he thought of Shanna, thinking maybe she would be the type to like one. He'd taken her to see them, and sure enough, one down and six to go. At Wal-Mart, Shanna glowed walking through the superstore, holding the tiny kitten, and hoping no one commented about bringing it inside the store. She couldn't bear to leave it in his car, her comment had been to him, "We leave it in here, it might crawl up under your dash and get stuck there, you wouldn't want that." Because she'd made a valid point,
they walked in with it. As they strolled through the aisles, Shanna had an opportunity to give him a closer inspection, and thought he had a nice body. Firm, tone, solid. Of course her brothers practically towered over him, since he was only 5'10"—but he was sturdily built and fit, with bowlegs and a nice rump. Taller than her 5'2" height, they fit together perfectly. At least that's what appeared to be the case so far. They picked up all the things one would need for a new kitten and made it to the checkout. Laughing and talking as they were, Shanna never saw John Sykes duck back into an aisle, as he was on his way to the checkout as well and spotted them first.
He'd come back to town again, off of work for a few days, and decided to try and get with his wife again. He'd called her parent's home a few times, but that father of hers kept answering the phone. Knowing how the man hated him, there was no sense in alerting him that he was looking for his wife, wanting to speak with her, wanting her to come home. All the time that she'd been gone, he'd finally opened the letter concerning the date of their divorce, and flew into a fury over it. She wasn't getting rid of him so quickly, and now—seeing her out and about as if she were single and free, sent the heat to his head, making him burn with it. Dressed in shorts and that top, looking that way and then with another man. John saw red. He wanted to charge over and snatch her by the hair and slap her dizzy. He knew he couldn't. Knew that he dare not. He needed to know where she was living now. He'd scoped her parent's home for the last couple of nights, and her jeep hadn't been there. He felt his head buzzing with fury, that she could be out and about with another man. She was still his wife. Still his—until death would they part. He stood back and watched them. Laughing and talking, close and sweet. He waited until they went through the checkout, and then, ditching the items he was going to buy for himself to take back to his hotel, he moved through an empty checkout lane and rushed towards the double electric doors when they went out them. Staying back far enough, but keeping his eyes on them the whole time. They got into a car that he didn't recognize. No doubt it belonged to the man she was with.
BOMAW 7-9 Page 53
