by Teresa Quill
Gracie’s mouth dropped open. Unbelievable. “But. . .management. . .and we aren’t. . .you know.”
“Oh, Gracie. Who gives a hoot?” Irene chimed in. “We aren’t worried about that stuff, and we are the resident board.” She swept an arm around the room and from the nods she knew they agreed. “You can afford the extra cost to be a second person living in an apartment and that’s all management cares about. This isn’t the fifties.”
Gracie’s face turned red hot. She cared about John, a lot, but they’d never been intimate. He kissed her once when he was drunk, but that didn’t count. She wasn’t sure he even remembered. Moving into his spare room wasn’t exactly like moving into that kind of relationship but, oh my. What to do? She could stay in the Friendly Arms, in Skeeterville, in John’s apartment, or on her daughter’s futon. Except for her pride, the choice was obvious.
John said, “All I have in that room is a bed and a stationary bike I don’t use. Gracie, come on over and be my watchdog. I can’t promise it’ll be easy.” Then he flashed that handsome smile at her.
God help her, how could she refuse?
A week later management was notified, and her things were ready to move or to be donated. Gracie sat in the home she’d lived in for ten years surrounded by boxes. Irene and Clara Sue had helped pack her teacups. They found an old coffee pot she’d bought at a garage sale. It was a pretty silver with great decorations. Clara Sue said it was probably an antique. Gracie remembered thinking that she could serve coffee to John when she bought it, long before they had mornings together. But she never did.
Now they’d be living together, all day, all night. John’s alcohol problem wouldn’t magically disappear because she moved into his apartment. He said he wanted to change, but could he? Was he an alcoholic or did he just have a bad habit? Either way, he did need someone to help him, and she was glad to be the one.
Skeeterville would still be home. The same doctors, the same stores, the same friends, but a totally different situation awaited across the hall. One thing for sure, no matter what, her life was changing again. And that scared her.
Tictac curled at her feet. Head in her hands, she cried until there were no more tears. After she washed her face, she slept in her old bed for the last time.
The next day, a couple of the high school kids who worked in the kitchen helped move a few pieces of furniture across the hall to John’s apartment. The seniors helped with little things. Gracie still wasn’t sure about this. She was moving in with a man, and they weren’t even in a real relationship, not that she minded if John showed interest. But what would people think? What would her daughter say?
“This feels strange,” she whispered to John while the parade of people passed them with her last few items.
“We’ll be okay.” John patted her on the shoulder.
John directed a burley redhead carrying her favorite recliner to a corner where he’d made room. He gave her hand a quick squeeze, and Tictac hissed at him from her crate.
“Will we?” She pressed her lips together and looked down.
“Yes. Stop worrying.” He leaned down to the cat. “And I’ll make friends with this little beast yet.”
Tictac swiped a paw at him and caught her nails on the crate door.
After the church truck took away the leftover furniture and the stationary bike, cleaning and taking down her floral curtains were the only remaining tasks. After dinner in the dining hall, she sat surrounded by dear friends with a lump in her throat. Even though she knew them all, her stomach flipped and her mouth was dry when she rose to speak. She stood on shaky legs and tapped a glass with her spoon.
“Without all of you, I’d be moving to my daughter’s condo in the city. I wouldn’t be able to walk out into a yard and hear birds. I would miss you all. How can I thank you?”
A chorus answered, “Keep him off the streets!”
John laughed. “You’re right. I need our dear Gracie. Come on, let’s go home. Tictac’s probably wondering where we are.”
“Oh my.” Gracie blushed. “Goodnight everyone.”
He held the door for her as they entered the apartment. A couple of ladies in the hall giggled. She put her chin up and walked into her new life. After a few awkward moments, she sank into her recliner and pulled out her knitting. Tictac had taken residence under the chair beside her recliner, glaring at anything that moved.
John turned on the TV to a game show.
“Would ya look at that?” John pointed at the prize on the screen. She jumped. Her husband had so seldom spoken she assumed that was the way of men in their homes. If conversation was food, she would have starved to death. Her husband was a good provider and he loved her in his way. He had smiled a lot but didn’t talk much. John was a feast of chat and dessert to boot. She smiled. How nice.
A couple of hours later she excused herself to get ready for bed. He showered in the morning—she preferred to shower at night. He had cleared the bathroom cabinet for her and only kept one shelf for himself. What a sweet man. Knowing he was just outside the bathroom door in the living room made her feel odd about being nude, but it was a little bit exciting too. She blushed all the way through her shower. Powdered and clean, she straightened her pajamas and tied her robe on tightly. Before she slipped into her room, his snoring stopped her. Tictac glared at him from beneath a chair and the TV still blared. She turned it off and shook him gently. “Go to bed, John.”
After he rose from the couch and stumbled sleepily into his room, she slipped into her new room with Tictac. Her floral curtains hung in the window. The mirror on her dresser reflected the matching bedspread on John’s bed. Her bed went in the church truck since this was newer. How would she sleep in this new bed, in this new room? Tictac curled at the foot of the bed, obviously comfortable. With a sigh, she set her glasses on the bed stand and crawled under the covers.
After a few days, she found their routines complementary. Since they often had breakfast together before, she knew what he liked. They both had instant oatmeal. He made his coffee. She had her tea. He read the paper and she watched the morning news. They talked about everything. John talked whether or not she answered. She liked it. And, she was starting to feel at home. She made a light lunch at noon, nothing more than a sandwich or soup, but that’s when he had his cup of Irish coffee. She glanced at the clock. Twelve-forty-five. Almost time for an afternoon movie.
“Do you want coffee?” She saw that old coffee pot she’d picked up at a garage sale and thought again about serving his coffee in that, but he would probably think it was too girly. Besides, the silver needed to be polished again. Maybe she would have it appraised as Clara Sue suggested, or she could save it for a ladies tea.
“Coffee? Sure.”
After he drank his first cup, he went back to the cupboard for his bottle of whiskey.
“John, is that your second helping?” The clock read five til one.
The edge of his mouth quirked into a half grin. “Is it?”
“If I can’t straighten you out, I’m outa here.” She shook her finger and furrowed her brow, but she wasn’t sure she meant it. He put the bottle back and tiptoed away with an ornery look.
“How about some tea instead?”
He had Irish coffee with lunch every day. One cup, no problem. If he had extra whiskey in a second cup, he was ready to head out the door to “give the locals a hand.” She distracted him with card games and movies to avoid the second cup. She introduced him to new teas. He liked chai with lots of cream and sugar. She wasn’t going to hide his bottle. He was a grown man who had to make his own choices.
Sometimes he fell asleep on the couch in the afternoon. She enjoyed his company, even when distractions were needed. He laughed a lot, he smelled pleasantly of Old Spice, and he repeatedly tried to make friends with Tictac. It had been two weeks but the poor cat was still angry. She was perfectly content in the apartment, but she had not accepted that John was part of the move.
“Hey, cat.” Jo
hn lay on the couch beside Tictac’s chair cave with a treat in his hand. He held the treat a couple of feet away. Tictac crept towards the proffered goodie but John’s hand moved. She hissed and shot back to her cave. Another failure, but he kept trying.
Gracie still hadn’t called her daughter, and she had lived here two weeks already. Her daughter wasn’t expecting her, but she had to let her know. She’d avoided calling her last week, but she would be worried if a call didn’t come soon. She bit her lip. What the heck could she tell her? Hi honey, I’m shacking up with a guy I like? No, that was true but not exactly true. Hi honey, I’m living with a charming drunk and trying to keep him sober? Yes, but not what you’d tell your daughter. Hi honey, I ran out of money, so I moved in with a friend? Yes, not the whole truth but good enough for now. She dialed and got voice mail that said her daughter was travelling for a week. Phew. She left a message saying she’d moved in with a friend. Face that conversation another day. Meanwhile, she had an ex-cop to de-pollute in a gentle way.
Chapter 3
While Gracie swept the kitchen, John rested on the couch. Tictac eyed him from beneath the wingback that she had claimed. He stretched a hand to pet the grey ball of fur. She hissed and backed away, again.
“Aw, you’re not evil, you’re just scared.”
It might take a while, but the little beast would learn to love him, and maybe Gracie would, too. Love? He hadn’t thought about that. Did he care enough about her to change? He did like his whiskey. He’d been alone for thirty years. Retired from the force for ten. And in this apartment for seven. Could he really change?
Seven years of knowing Gracie had changed him, somewhat. He wasn’t as grumpy, at least that’s what his friends told him. He didn’t go out at nights, mainly so he could watch TV with her or do a crossword puzzle. When she walked in the room, something jumped in his chest, every time. Was that love?
“Are you awake? It’s time to go down to dinner.” She had a voice that invited smiles. A real sweetie. But, she did stand between him and his whiskey bottle.
“I’m up.” He pulled himself up from the couch and smoothed his shirt back into place. Tictac scooted into Gracie’s room. “Whoa! I need to get my sunglasses. You have this place gleaming.”
The place was spotless. Thanks to Gracie. Cleaning hadn’t happened often enough in this apartment, he was ashamed to admit.
“Oh, foo.” Turning away, she waved a hand. That blush came so easily that even a small compliment had turned her red. Then she regained her composure. “Thank you.”
He winked at her and she blushed again. Having her here for company might be worth the inconvenience of not getting to the whiskey bottle as often.
A week or so later, he passed on Wednesday Bingo to watch a new episode of Real Detective Stories. Gracie wasn’t there so he added a bit of whiskey to flavor his soda. Then a bit more. She’d never know.
Tictac glared at him. “Don’t look at me like that, cat.”
The cat slunk away.
“Real Detective Stories, my ass.” He fussed at the TV. “Show them doing paperwork seventy-five percent of the time. That’s a real detective story.” He poured another shot in his glass. Why did he watch this stuff? At least this show showed the real scenes and some of the interaction with the suspects, and they didn’t always solve the case. In real life, detectives told stories about suspects who got away and cases that haunted them for years, like the teacher who disappeared in ’84. They chased that case for five years before they could prove that the cafeteria worker killed her.
He got too old to do the field work. Retirement got him away from the paperwork, but he missed the camaraderie. Directing traffic gave him an excuse to go to the bar after the games and meet the guys for a drink. And he liked smiling at the people who passed by. People watching helped pass the time. No paperwork required. But now, he didn’t even have that. He added a little more whiskey to his glass.
He didn’t remember putting on his uniform or how long he was directing traffic at the intersection, but a chilly evening breeze rousted him from his drunken haze. He slapped his forehead. Gracie would be pissed. Worse than that, she’d be disappointed. A pang hit his chest at the thought. That woman was some kind of special.
What an ass he’d become, standing in the middle of an intersection at dusk. He could be with friends playing bingo. Was the headache he’d have the next day worth this? No. Was disappointing Gracie worth this? He put a hand to his chest and stumbled forward. Never again. Even though he’d not had whiskey with his lunch in days, this proved he shouldn’t drink at all. Without Gracie watching him, he didn’t stop. Without Gracie in his life, he probably wouldn’t stop. If he didn’t stop, he would be alone, without Gracie.
Just as he headed to the corner, a white truck with a fishing boat on a rickety trailer whizzed through the stop sign, almost hitting him. The truck was a whisper away when he jumped back, but the trailer bumped him over. As if in slow motion, he saw the passenger. Eyes open, but dead, a bloody gash in his temple. Dead. Really dead.
John landed on his side against the curb. He didn’t get up but old instincts kicked in. He looked for a license plate but the trailer didn’t have one and it blocked the truck’s. He grabbed for a notebook, but he didn’t have one. Shit. He tested his old body. Tomorrow would be a bitch, but aside from a pain in his thigh where he’d hit the curb he was all right. This was more important than a few body aches. He’d dealt with worse in his time, and a sore leg wouldn’t stop him now.
Checking his watch, he recounted the event to reinforce his memory. Time, 18:46. White Ford F-150 truck. Two door extended cab. Dead guy. Caucasian male mid-thirties with sandy brown hair. Mustache. Wearing a yellow shirt with blood on collar. Major injury to temple. Aluminum fishing boat. Ratty trailer. Headed to the boat dock. Damn it, he hadn’t seen the driver either. Where’s Deputy Radon when you need him?
Rolling over, he pushed himself up and limped towards home. Half a block before he reached the Friendly Arms, Gracie caught him.
“You stinker! I can’t believe you. You promised. I’m so disappointed. Do I have to hide your whiskey to keep you out of trouble? Why are you limping?” She flipped a lock of grey out of her eyes, crossed her arms, and pursed her lips.
As if her chilly stare wasn’t enough, the night air shivered across his skin and he regretted the lack of a jacket. He felt a couple of new aches forming, too.
“You’re right. I’m bad, just awful. We need to call the Deputy.” He fiddled with the brim of his hat. “Gracie, please get yer cell phone outta that big magic purse, right now.”
“What?” Gracie dropped her arms, confusion and exasperation mixing in her expression.
He almost reached out to lift her chin since her mouth was ajar.
“You’re right, I’m rotten, but I have something important to tell him. You have his private number.”
All the ladies had Deputy Tom’s number because he did safety talks in the church basement every year. Since he lived in Skeeterville, he said they could contact him for a police emergency. This was an emergency.
She slammed the phone into his hand. When he couldn’t turn it on, she dropped the phone back into her purse.
“Darn those fancy phones. You knew I couldn’t turn it on.” Clever girl, but this wasn’t the time. A murderer was dumping a body while they wasted time.
“He’ll call Phil.” She pulled out a tissue. She shredded tissues when she worried. Tiny bits of tissue were falling to the ground already.
“This is more important. I saw a dead body.”
Gracie stopped massacring the tissue. “Are you sure?” She gave him the I-know-you’re-drunk hawk eye.
“I’m serious, sweetheart. I’m limping because the fishing trailer hit me.”
After a flash of concern crossed her face and another hard stare, she let him take her arm. He limped back to Main and Elm, practically dragging Gracie along.
She dialed, frowning, and asked Tom to come right awa
y. They waited on the bench while Gracie shredded half of her little pack of tissues. Not long after, Deputy Tom Radon drove up in his SUV.
“What the hell, John?” Tom stood over them, hands on hips.
Rising from the bus bench, John put his chin up. “Tom, we have a murder case on our hands.” He repeated in detail what he’d witnessed. “I couldn’t get the license plate of the truck. In fact, the driver knocked me to the curb with that boat trailer.”
Tom blinked. Gracie sat quietly pulling another tissue apart. John could understand their doubt, but a dead body was not something an ex-detective would report if it wasn’t true. However, his credibility was suspect because he was drunk and directing traffic at the intersection when it happened.
Tom reached for his phone. “You’re drunk and I’m calling Phil. Then I’m going home to finish my dinner.”
John put a hand up.
“I might’ve been drinking a bit, but I know what I saw.” Okay, he was drinking more than a bit, but seeing a dead body sobers a man up, fast.
“Maybe you saw a guy sleeping it off like you should’ve done before you called me.” Tom flipped open his phone.
“I know drunk and I know dead. This guy was dead. Sandy brown hair and a mustache, a bloody gash in his temple.” He put a hand to his temple like a salute to show the location of the gash.
“This is crazy, even for you, John. Come on, I’ll take you two home, but I am calling Phil.” Tom shook the phone at John like a teacher’s ruler.
“Deputy, I was the one who called you, not John,” Gracie said.
They both turned to look at her. “It’s true that John drinks more than he should, but he’s never had hallucinations.”
“Gracie, this may be a first.” The deputy patted her shoulder. “It happens. He’s never come out after dinner either. I’ll give you a ride back.”
