“How are you feeling?"
“The Alka-Seltzer Plus is helping, but my muscles are still pretty sore."
“Keep your eyes peeled for a pond on the right side of the road."
Tim pulled over at the bottom of the third hill they encountered.
“It's too dark to see much, Tim. There could be a pond out there,” Sandra said, peering through the passenger side window.
“If there's anything that even looks like a path to the right, let me know,” Tim grumbled as he drove back onto the deserted Highway 13.
“It would help if you put some headlights on this old heap."
“I have headlights,” Tim snapped.
“Why don't you put some halogen lights in? Then we might be able to see where we're going."
“Because they wouldn't be original equipment,” Tim muttered, still smarting from the insult to his precious Mustang.
“Hold it. Back up,” Sandra shouted. “I think I saw something."
The Mustang's aging headlamps dimly illuminated two ruts, about the width of automobile tires apart with grass between, leading off the highway. Tim cut the wheels to the right and cautiously followed the ruts, driving very slowly.
Silence prevailed when the car's lights finally, faintly, illuminated the red brick structure. Minutes passed before Sandra quietly said, “Tim, it's beautiful."
Leaving the Mustang idling and headlights on Tim climbed the porch steps. He fumbled with the key ring and dropped it twice before finding the right key. He unlocked the front door and snapped on both the porch and entranceway lights.
Sandra went inside, but Tim paused to admire the full, wraparound front porch. It reminded him of his youth. Fondly he recalled rocking beside his dad in a porch swing and watching him smoke a Lucky Strike. He pictured his dad deftly placing the still burning butt between thumb and forefinger and flipping the finished cigarette into the front yard where it would continue to smolder. Finally, with a puff of smoke, it would extinguish itself.
“Tim, you've got to see this."
His reverie broken, Tim hurried back to the Mustang, turned off the lights and shut off the motor.
Sandra beckoned to him from the entranceway of his uncle's house. It was beautiful. There was no other way to describe it. Half of the entrance led to carpeted steps winding their way to the second floor. The other half ended at a perpendicular hallway. To both the left and right were double solid oak doors. They entered the doorway to the left and found a tastefully decorated living room. Its most impressive feature was an antique grandfather clock with pendulum swaying rhythmically. The ornate hands on the clock read 7:09.
Tim checked his watch. “The old clock has just about the right time,” Tim said to Sandra's back as she retraced her steps to the entranceway. Together they entered the doorway to the right. Sandra found the light switch this time.
Tim noticed Sandra massaging her left shoulder. He stood behind her and took over the task. Her back sagged against his chest.
“Tim, would you look at that gorgeous dining room suit, and check out that hutch. I'll bet the glassware in there is 100 years old."
They moved, almost in awe, through yet another set of double doors to the left and found themselves in a smaller room with built-in shelves fitted with glass doors, a sizable table and chairs, and a red checked tile floor.
“That door,” Tim said pointing to the left, “obviously leads to the hallway, so this swinging door must open to the kitchen."
When light bathed the kitchen, they whistled simultaneously. “Tim, all of the appliances, even the sink, are modern.” Without thinking, Sandra grasped Tim's hand. “Did you notice in the other rooms as well as the kitchen that everything is spotless—not a speck of dust anywhere?"
What he noticed was her hand squeezing his. It felt right.
Sandra pulled away from his grasp and ran her fingers over the cutting block table in the center of the room. She crossed the kitchen and peered out the back door. “There is a back porch,” she exclaimed, “and...” Turning back towards Tim, Sandra's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes reflecting horror.
Tim wheeled around as he heard a booming voice spit out, “You damned well better be Timothy Dollar or I'm gonna blow your white ass off the face of the earth.”
Tim found himself gaping at the biggest, meanest looking, ugliest black man he had ever seen. The monster, dressed in army fatigues complete with cap, stood with feet apart and M-1 rifle at the ready, just inside the kitchen door.
“I am...” Tim's voice squeaked. He stopped and tried again. “I am Tim Dollar. This is Sandy Dollar. Who the hell are you?"
“ID,” the intruder demanded.
Tim produced his billfold and extended it to the outstretched left hand of the monster.
With no discernable expression on his face the huge man said, “Guess I scared you. Sorry. Mr. Coan said you'd be here afternoon. He didn't say nothin’ about Mrs. Dollar either. Name's Bobby Elliott. Been Mr. Harlow's caretaker for ... for long time. Mr. Harlow lets me live in tenant house across 13. Seen your car. Thought I'd better check. Mr. Harlow died. Mr. Coan kept me on look after place. Said I'd have to move when you got here."
“Would you put the gun down please?"
“Sorry. Best friend in Nam. Only friend now."
“I need to sit down,” Sandra sighed.
“Yes ma'am,” Bobby said with a deadpan face. “Den's best for sittin'.” Bobby led the way back through the breakfast room into the hallway and entered the first door on the right.
Sandra gasped. Only in magazines had she ever seen a room so perfect—pine-paneled walls, big comfortable looking furniture, tables, shelves, cabinets, a huge mountain-rock fireplace, stereo speakers everywhere and a big screen color TV set. “Where do those double glass doors lead?” she asked as she eased into an oversized recliner.
“Back porch, patio, ma'am."
“Are you the one we thank for having the place spotless for our arrival?"
“Yes ma'am. Too early in fall for fire or I woulda built one. Did same for Mr. Harlow. Mr. Coan kept me on. Said I'd have to move when you got here."
Noting that this was the second time in five minutes Bobby mentioned having to move, Tim said, “Bobby, I don't know yet what's going to happen. I arrived later than planned and haven't talked with Mr. Coan yet. I don't remember my uncle. I don't know anything about him. What I do know is I can't afford a place like this. I'm probably going to sell it, but I'm sure that whoever buys it will want a good caretaker. I'll need some help until I can sell the place, but I don't know what I can pay you."
“Mr. Harlow lets me stay in tenant house across 13. Raise some tobacco. Look after place. Gives me $500 a month."
“You can continue living there until I sell it, but I'm sorry—I just don't know what I can do about paying you."
“I'll help bring stuff inside,” Bobby said in his half-monotone voice, and departed without waiting for approval.
Tim grinned and whispered to Sandra, “It looks like we are about to move in."
“Tim, I'm hurting pretty badly."
The pain reflected in her eyes concerned Tim.
“Would you bring me a double dose of Alka-Seltzer Plus? I left it in the glove compartment."
After opening the trunk for the big man, Tim found the medicine, went back to the kitchen, let the tap water run until it felt cold, filled a tumbler and plopped four tablets into the sparkling water.
“Bobby says the bedrooms are upstairs and the beds have clean sheets. Seems he does laundry too,” Tim said as he handed the foaming beverage to Sandra.
Bobby returned from depositing Tim's two suitcases and duffel bag in the master bedroom. There remained in the Mustang only the cooler and a cardboard box of miscellaneous items.
“Bobby,” Tim began. “You knew my uncle pretty well, didn't you?"
“Used to talk sometimes."
“Like I said, I didn't know him. Could you come back tomorrow morning, show me around the
place and tell me about him?"
“Tomorrow afternoon. One, two o'clock. Busy in morning."
“That will be great. Listen, thanks for looking after the place."
“There's food in the frigerator,” Bobby answered. He turned sharply, walked to his pickup and drove away.
“Are you up to exploring the rest of the house?” Tim asked after leaving the cooler in the kitchen, but still carrying the box. “There can't be much more."
“Help me up,” Sandra sighed. She carried the empty tumbler with her, not wanting to risk making a ring on the end table that had no coaster.
Sticking his head inside the doorway to the room directly across from the living room, Tim switched on the light and commented, “Looks like the old man liked to read.” He did not notice the look of awe on Sandra's face.
Without entering, Tim moved to the last room on the bottom floor of his uncle's house. The hallway ended with a door that opened into the most luxurious study Tim had ever imagined. Wide-eyed he entered; unaware that Sandra just glanced at the study before returning to the library.
Sandra slowly moved her eyes from left to right, trying to get an overall picture of the room before examining its details. Bookshelves covered the walls, except for the wall with the entrance door and the opposite wall, which broke the shelving with a large picture window. The shelves themselves began three feet from the floor and ended three feet from the ceiling. Cabinets occupied the space between the floor and first shelf. The tops of the bookcases held framed photographs and knick-knacks. A large oval oak table occupied the center of the carpeted room with six red-padded chairs neatly arranged around it. In the corners on either side of the picture window, were recliners, a side table, and a reading lamp. Sandra looked more closely at Uncle Pete's books. Hardcover editions filled every length of shelving nearly to capacity. She began reading titles: Oblomov, The Tin Drum, Brighton Rock, The Arabian Nights, Far From the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure.
“Classics,” she mumbled to herself. “Have I ever read a classic? Surely I did in high school. Where are the romances, Old Man? Where are your good books?” She read title after title, running her finger lovingly along the spines of the books. I don't want to read classics, she thought.
As she continued to explore the books on the shelves her mind drifted back to grade school years when she first came to love books. To avoid the cruel taunts from schoolmates for the tacky clothes she wore and her chest that refused to develop, she hid herself in the library after school every day. Throughout high school, she filled lonely hours reading romances. One of the reasons she took the job at the convenience store was the rack of magazines and books that lined one wall.
Why do I enjoy touching these books so much? she wondered. It's almost as pleasurable as touching Hank.
“Nawww,” she said aloud, laughing at herself. Her finger came to rest on a slim volume, which she slid from the shelf. Silas Marner, she read, by George Eliot, whoever the hell he is. She placed the book on the table. If I'm stuck with classics, maybe I should start with a small one. Who knows? George might have known something about making a woman happy. I'll bet this Silas Marner meets and woos a beautiful lady and they all live happily ever after.
Sandra found Tim seated at the far right of the study behind a large ornate desk. His feet were propped on the desktop and his hands were behind his head.
“I could get used to this,” he called out.
The boyish smile on his face brought a smile to her lips. “This must be where your uncle worked,” Sandra guessed. She surveyed the large study that occupied the entire width of the house and was at least twenty feet deep. Again there were pine paneled walls, bookshelves, luxurious furniture, filing cabinets, a TV and some expensive looking stereo equipment. As she walked towards the desk, she felt her feet sinking into the deep pile carpet. She hoped the filthy socks she wore in place of shoes would not leave a stain.
“The only thing the place lacks is a computer. I could really get used to this,” Tim repeated, a broad grin on his face.
“My Alka-Seltzer Plus isn't doing much good this time, Tim. I've got to find a bed.” She headed for the staircase.
Tim retraced their steps, locking doors and turning off lights. It was just past nine o'clock, but he, too, was exhausted. It has been a hell of a day, he thought.
“This way,” Sandra called to him as he reached the top of the stairs. “There are four big bedrooms, each with its own bath and all furnished, but this must be the master bedroom. It's huge."
They entered the room together. The furniture looked relatively new. Tim's bags were on the floor at the foot of the bed. He picked one up and placed it on the sofa.
“My God, Tim. Come look at this."
Tim joined Sandra in the bathroom which, he observed, was as large as most bedrooms he had seen in the past.
“A shower, two sinks, and that thing must be a Whirl Pool or something. Hey, look at that—two commodes. We can pee together,” she laughed. Immediately she clutched her rib cage in pain.
Tim studied the large structure that occupied at least a third of the room and found that it had jets in it, so it must be something like a Whirl Pool. He had never actually seen one.
“My aching muscles could sure use a soak in that thing,” Sandra said. “Do you suppose there's any hot water?"
Tim turned the faucet market “H". In seconds the gushing water began to feel warm. “Bobby thought of everything,” he replied. “We're going to have to find you some clothes tomorrow. I have pajamas you can wear tonight."
“I don't sleep in pajamas,” Sandra stated.
“Well, I don't happen to have any nighties with me,” Tim joked.
“I don't sleep in nighties, either."
“Oh."
“You go ahead and turn in. Let me soak a while. I'll join you later, if that's okay."
“That's not okay, Sandy. We've already been through this. It's my house, or at least it soon will be. I get the master bedroom. You sleep across the hall."
“I don't mind, Tim. I owe you."
“Damn right you do, but I don't want payment with sex. If you ever tell me you want to sleep with me because I turn you on like Hank, then that's another matter."
“Nobody has ever turned me on like Hank."
“So you said."
“I'll sleep across the hall,” Sandra said coldly. She closed the door behind her as she entered the master bathroom.
Tim turned on the light in the opposite bedroom for Sandra and then slipped into his pajamas. Each night he looked forward to his escape into sleep, but he also dreaded it. Vivid dreams often accompanied sleep. Usually he dreamed of his raven-haired ex-wife—the good times they had together—or the good times he thought they had together—but good times nevertheless. Sometimes, however, less often now, the dream was a nightmare. He stood powerless, looking down at his bed, seeing his naked wife, legs spread and extended upward, with some other man between them.
He shook off the memory, retrieved a toothbrush and toothpaste from the duffel bag and headed for the small bathroom in Sandra's bedroom.
An ear-piercing scream momentarily nailed his feet to the floor. Recovering, he burst through the bathroom door and dropped to his knees beside her submerged body.
“What's the matter, baby?” he asked with genuine concern.
Sandra had stuffed a wash cloth in her mouth to silence her own screaming. She held up a hand with palm facing him. Minutes passed. He tried unsuccessfully to avoid looking at her battered, naked body. She removed the cloth.
“I'm sorry, Tim. I have more scrapes and cuts than I thought. The water stung when I got into the tub. I'm getting used to it now. I'll be okay."
He kissed her gently on the top of her head and returned to complete his nightly routine.
Sandra experimentally touched her arm with a soapy hand. She grimaced. That won't work, she scolded herself. She slid further into the water, leaving only her head exposed. The pulsating water was h
aving a dramatic effect on her abused body.
Tears formed and then slowly found a path down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. What the shit am I going to do? I'm free, but free to do what? I am what I am. Can I change enough to deserve a man like Tim?
Tim did not know how long Sandra soaked in the tub. He did not know that she kissed him lightly on the forehead as she headed for her bedroom. He had gone to sleep as soon as his head rested on the feather pillow. He dreamed happy dreams. The scenes were different, but there was one similarity. The companion in his dreams was a tall, long-legged, small breasted, large nippled, pubic hair shaved, honey-haired beauty—not his former wife.
He woke up with the sun blazing in the windows and with a throbbing erection.
Chapter Three
Tim relieved himself, a necessary first chore for man and beast at the start of each new day, and glanced in Sandra's open bedroom door on his way to make coffee. The bed was empty. He was pleased to find the coffee already made, poured a mug, added a spoon of sugar, and leaned against the counter until half the cup was consumed. Why can't my brain wake up without coffee like my body does? he wondered. Maybe it's because my brain doesn't have to pee. He chuckled at his little attempt at early morning humor.
Not finding Sandra in the den, he strolled down the hall towards the open study door, but found her in the library.
Remembering how he hated interruptions when he was reading, Tim waited for Sandra to come to a stopping point. “Couldn't sleep?” he asked when she glanced up at him.
“I slept a little,” she replied. “Tim, I hurt so bad. It's worse than yesterday. You're going to have to go to town and get me some more Alka-Seltzer Plus this morning."
He nodded. “What's that you're wearing?"
“May have been your aunt's robe and bedroom slippers, but I don't think so. The closet and drawers are full of women's clothes."
“Why do you think they aren't my aunt's?"
“They're too modern.” The panties, for instance, are brief's—I'm talking g-string. I haven't checked carefully, but I think I might be able to wear some of the stuff."
Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors Page 3
