“So why did you move to Dot?"
“For one thing, my mother was nosy. She wanted to know how I was making a living and it would have killed her if she ever found out. The other reason is that I heard that Sandra Dollar was about to start her own publishing company and I thought I might get in on the ground floor.” He was glad she didn't feel the tires slip and he slowed down to forty-five.
“Who is Sandra Dollar?"
Randy laughed. “She and her husband Tim practically own the town of Dot. She has written a couple of novels, which I think are very good. They both showed up in my slush pile and I passed them on with high praise. The editors didn't agree with my judgment. The rumor is that she plans to start her own company to get her books published."
“And you think she'll publish yours too?"
“That's my hope."
“And?"
“And nothing, so far. The farmhouse I am renting belongs to the Dollars, but I rented it through a agent with a colorful name—Creasy Green."
Jo laughed with him. “But surely you've talked with this Dollar lady."
“Nope. I'm having no trouble talking with you, but basically, I'm rather bashful. I saw the lady once at the Dot Diner, but I didn't get up the nerve to introduce myself."
The freezing rain turned to sleet, pounding the Chevy with its staccato pings. Randy slowed to thirty-five miles per hour. “It won't be long now,” he assured Jo. He glanced at her. She seemed to be asleep. He turned on the car radio just in time to hear the latest weather report. They were now predicting a major winter storm with as much as eight inches of snow.
“Randy?” she said.
“You startled me. I thought you were asleep."
“No, just thinking. How do you make a living?"
His gray eyes turned steely and his fingers gripped the steering wheel with a vengeance. Through clenched teeth he replied, “I found a genre that I can sell easily. In fact I can churn out a book every couple of months and get five thousand dollars for it—sometimes more. I'm not proud of it, but I suppose I can tell a whore. I write pornography."
Chapter Two
Out of his peripheral vision, Randy caught a glimpse of red just as Jo screamed, “Look out, Randy!” He hit his brakes but there was no sound of screeching rubber as the Chevy spun in circles through the intersection of the Old Charlotte Road and Highway 13 and came to a stop in the driveway of the Dot Super Save.
“Are you all right, Jo?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“Yeah. You?"
“I will be when my heart settles back down out of my throat."
“That damned Mustang didn't even slow down. You had the green light. I'll swear to it in court,” she said angrily.
“Oh boy,” he said, looking out of his rear window. “It looks like the Mustang is in trouble.” He climbed out of the Chevy and hurried as fast as the slippery footing would allow across the road to the red convertible which had come to rest partially wedged in a drainage ditch just short of the entrance to the Dot Speed Shop.
“You folks okay?” he shouted at the woman in the passenger seat.
She rolled down her window and the male driver said, “I can't get my door open."
“Ma'am,” Randy said opening the passenger door of the Mustang, “let me help you out and then your husband can climb out this way."
Jo joined the trio beside the Mustang, wrapped in her new coat and her hands buried deeply into its warm pockets.
“I'm sorry, man,” said the Mustang driver, extending his leather-gloved hand to Randy. “I was coming too fast and the brakes just didn't work on this ice. I don't know how you managed to avoid me."
“I don't know either,” Randy replied. “It all happened so fast."
“My name is Tim Dollar,” the Mustang driver said, “and this is my wife Sandy. I'll pay for any damages. It was my fault."
“I'm Randy Nickels, Mr. Dollar,” Randy replied and, nodding towards Sandra, added, “Mrs. Dollar, I'm renting the old Saunders place from you. This is my ... uh ... friend Jo. My car's okay, but it looks like you have a problem."
The two women crossed the street to the warmth of the Chevy while the men tried to figure a way to get the Mustang out of the ditch. Billy Frank, having witnessed the accident from his service station, joined them.
“Man, oh man, oh man,” Billy moaned. “You really messed up the side of your pride and joy."
“This is a classic, isn't it?” Randy asked.
“Close,” Tim moaned. “It's a ‘66 with all original parts and equipment. I should have known better than to take it out on a night like this. I thought we could get back before the bad weather began."
“We could push her out, Tim,” Billy observed, “but we'd risk scraping up the side even worse. I'll get the wrecker and pull you away from the ditch. I don't think the frame is bent, but you'd better leave it at the station until I can check it out."
Tim nodded his sad agreement. After they safely extracted the Mustang from the ditch and parked it in the Super Save lot, Randy offered to drive the Dollars home.
“No need,” Billy interrupted. “I have a four-wheel drive Ranger and I pass right by Double D Acres on my way home. I was just closing the station when you clowns played your game of daredevil."
“Look,” Tim said, grasping Randy's nearly frozen hand, “Sandy and I are having a few people over for a little New Year's celebration. Why don't you and your friend join us?"
“That's nice of you to offer,” Randy replied, “but Jo's a little under the weather. I think I'd better get her to bed."
Billy laughed at the double entendre and Tim winked. “I understand,” Tim said, gripping Randy's hand a little tighter.
“What did you and Mrs. Dollar talk about?” Randy asked as the Chevy inched up the driveway to his rented house.
“Just small talk,” Jo answered. “So this is it, huh?” she asked, looking at the dilapidated structure illuminated by the Chevy's headlights.
“I expect it's a sight better than sleeping in a Charlotte alley,” Randy replied defensively.
Carefully, arms loaded with packages, they made their way from the car to the front door. “Hey, this is okay,” Jo said when they entered the living room, hoping to redeem her earlier insult. “I love the fireplace."
“Me too,” Randy agreed. “They tell me it was made from rocks collected off the property. The house has an oil furnace, but there's plenty of dead limbs lying in the woods behind the house, so I keep a fire burning most of the time."
They dumped their packages on the faded sofa and while Jo warmed her backside Randy stirred the ashes with a poker and placed new logs on the smoldering embers.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said as the rejuvenated fire burst into flames. “The kitchen's over there behind the living room and the hallway leads to the bathroom, a storage closet, and two bedrooms. There are two more rooms upstairs, but I don't use them."
“Randy, I appreciate..."
He stopped her with an uplifted hand. “I use one bedroom as a study. You can sleep in the master bedroom and I'll take the sofa."
“Why don't we both sleep in the bedroom?” she asked. “You do have a double bed in there don't you?"
“Mama Jo,” he grinned, “I told you and I told you. I am not interested in having sex with you."
“Randy Baby, I said sleep, not screw, in the bedroom, but if you don't think you can control yourself, I'll take the sofa. I think it will be nice to sleep by the fire."
“You go take a bath and I'll straighten up the place a little,” Randy suggested. “I've got a cheap bottle of champagne I was going to uncork tonight. We'll have ourselves a little private party while we watch the ball drop at Times Square on TV."
“Sounds exciting,” she said sarcastically, “but you don't have to get me drunk to sleep with me."
Randy picked up clutter in the living room, set out two glasses and a bowl of peanuts and carried his package back to the study. As he passed the bathroom
, he noticed the door was open a few inches. He jerked his eyes away when he saw her nude body relaxing in the tub, but on his return to the living room he paused long enough to get a good look at her soft white breasts. He felt like a peeping Tom, but he could not help himself. He had seen all shapes and sizes of breasts in pictures and movies and described in detail the breasts of the many sluts who passed through the pages of his fiction, but, at age thirty-two, this was the first time he ever actually viewed a woman's naked chest. He adjusted his underwear that seemed suddenly too tight and sneaked guiltily into the living room.
When she joined him he turned down the volume of the television and beamed. “It's an old joke,” he said, “but you sure do clean up nice—and smell good too.” She was wearing the red, men's-style pajamas and white fuzzy slippers purchased earlier. “In fact, if it weren't for your shaggy hair, you'd be down right beautiful."
She laughed. “Give it a chance to dry,” she said. “But I do need to get it cut. It's way too long."
“You want me to take a shot at it?” he asked.
“Have you ever cut a woman's hair before?"
“Nope, but if I mess it up we have a good barber in town and a beauty salon too."
“Why not?” she said and drew up a straight-backed chair next to the fire.
He found a pair of scissors in his study and picked up a large towel and her new comb from the bathroom. He stood behind her and covered her chest with the towel, clamping it behind her neck with a large paperclip. “How do you want it cut?” he asked.
“Suit yourself,” she replied.
He snipped away, cutting it shorter and shorter. She purred with every touch of the comb. He worked from behind her, from her left, from her right, and from the front. Then he did it all over again. She saw the long locks falling on her chest, on her lap, on the floor. She did not want her hair cut short, but she did not stop him. Finally he raked the comb over her scalp several times and stood in front of her, admiring his work.
“I'm a damn artist,” he bragged as he removed the towel, pressing his hands more firmly than necessary against her breasts in the process.
“Artist or butcher?” she joked. “I want a mirror."
“In the bathroom,” he said as he began to clean up the floor.
She screamed and he rushed to the bathroom to rescue her from whatever terror she had encountered. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek before he could protect himself. “I've never worn my hair short,” she said. “I love it. You're in the wrong profession, Randy Baby."
He smiled broadly as he pushed her away gently, his hands on her hips. She was so soft, so warm. “Let's pop the top on my Dot Grocery Special Champagne,” he said.
They sat on the sofa sipping the sweet liquid and eating salted peanuts while watching the leaping flames in the fireplace rather than The Tonight Show which was flickering on the television in the corner.
“What's that?” she asked, sitting erect.
“I didn't hear anything."
She muted the TV sound with the remote control. “Listen."
“That's just the sleet blowing against the front door,” he offered.
“I don't think so,” she said getting up and moving to the door. She listened for a moment and then opened the door a few inches.
They watched in silence as a poodle-sized mutt, gray fur matted with ice, slipped through the opening and marched slowly to the hearth. He turned around twice and laid down in a tight ball, his brown eyes focused on the humans to see what they would do.
“Yours?” she asked as she knelt next to the dog and scratched him behind his left ear.
“Never saw him before."
“I think he is yours now,” she laughed, moving her hand to the other ear.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with a dog?"
“Well, you feed it, bathe it, clean up after it, but mostly you just love it and let him love you,” she said, holding the dog's head with both of her hands. “You find him something to eat and I'll towel him off."
The mutt wagged his tail and leaned into Jo as she roughed up his fur with the towel she recently wore as a bib. She laughed out loud when Randy sat a bowl of Wheaties, complete with milk, in front of the dog.
“I'm fresh out of dog food,” he explained with a boyish grin while the dog, tail now wagging furiously, hungrily devoured the cereal.
“They've switched to Times Square,” Randy said, motioning towards the TV.
Jo turned up the sound while Randy refilled their glasses.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one—Happy New Year!"
They touched glasses as the Tonight Show band struck up the traditional Auld Lang Syne.
“Happy New Year,” they said in unison, followed by a sip of the cheap champagne.
“I'm not very good at making toasts, Jo. I don't know anything about your past life but I take it that at least recently it hasn't been very good. With all of my heart I wish that the New Year will be the happiest you have ever experienced."
They touched glasses again. “Randy, you're a good man. I've never known a good man before. May you never change."
Once more, their glasses clinked together. Still holding her glass, she put her arms lightly around his neck and gently kissed his lips. With her arms still propped on his shoulders she pressed her body into his and turned her head towards the fireplace. “Happy New Year to you too, Lucky."
The dog lifted and cocked his head to one side and barked. They both laughed and danced slowly to the music coming from the TV. “I take it that you just named the dog."
“Yeah,” she said. “The dog's like me. He's lucky you were willing to take him in out of the cold."
“Maybe I'm the one who is lucky,” he said softly. “If it weren't for you and the mutt, I would be spending New Year's Eve alone."
“Are you going to change your mind and sleep with me tonight?” she asked.
“No,” he replied gently.
“I always pay my debts, Randy Baby."
“You don't owe me anything, Mama Jo."
“Yes, I do—five hundred sixteen dollars and eighteen cents for clothes and stuff you bought me at Wal-Mart, six forty two for the burgers, and at least one night's lodging. Oh, by the way,” she grinned as she pulled her head back so she could look into his eyes, “Sandra Dollar wants you to call her in the morning."
Chapter Three
“Good morning,” Randy shouted over the roar of the vacuum cleaner. “How long have you been up?"
She flipped the switch and smiled at him. “Good morning yourself, sleepyhead. I got up about five."
“I told you to let me sleep on the sofa."
“I slept well, Randy Baby. Sometimes I don't require much sleep and other times I can sleep for twelve hours or more. Come here, I want to show you something."
Jo led Randy by the elbow to the living room window, which, last night, was dingy but today was crystal clear. They stood silently gazing at the snow pouring from the gray sky, piling up on the ground and car, decorating the otherwise naked branches of the hardwoods and bending low the boughs of evergreens. Without thought, he put his hand lightly on her shoulder and she sagged into him.
“Its beautiful,” he said quietly. “If I could adequately describe this scene in a written paragraph I would consider myself an accomplished writer."
“Only God can paint a picture this beautiful,” she replied. She lightly jabbed her elbow into his side. “Come on,” she invited, moving towards the kitchen. “I want you to see what I've done in here.” She opened the swinging door and continued, “The floor's so clean and polished you can see your reflection in it."
“Mama Jo,” he said with affection, “you don't have to do all this. You are my very welcome guest."
“Yes, I do have to do it. I told you last night, I always pay my debts. I figure by the time I finish cleaning the bathroom, we're even as far as last night's lodging is concerned. When I finish the b
edroom and your study and do your laundry I'll be paid up for a couple of additional days.” She reached for the coffeepot. “How do you like it?"
“I like what you've done very much,” he said, “and I like my coffee black with one heaping spoonful of sugar."
“Here you are,” she said, adding the sugar and stirring the black liquid while extending the steaming mug towards him. “Get dressed and I'll fry you up some bacon and eggs. I take it you like bacon and eggs since that's about all you have in your refrigerator."
“I'm not much of a cook. Have you looked into the freezer compartment?"
She opened the door and laughed. “There must be fifty frozen dinners in there."
“Food Lion in Charlotte had a sale last week, but don't laugh. Those dinners are quite good, once you get used to them."
Randy stood in the kitchen, sipping coffee and admiring this girl/woman as she bragged about what a great cook she was and how she would prepare him some super meals as soon as the weather allowed them to visit a grocery store. She was wearing a short-sleeved white polo shirt, faded jeans, white canvas shoes, white socks and the jewelry he bought her.
“What are you staring at?” she asked.
He blushed. “Your crotch, to be perfectly honest. Aren't those jeans a little too tight?"
“They fit perfectly,” she said a bit defensively. “Besides, I want you to see what you are missing by making me sleep on the sofa alone."
“Jo, look, I, uh..."
Lucky barked.
“Looks like somebody else is ready for breakfast,” Jo said and she opened a cabinet door in search of the box of Wheaties.
Randy fled to the bedroom to get out of the pajamas that so graphically betrayed his sexual interest in Jo. When he returned, breakfast was ready.
As he finished eating the last bite of toast Randy said, “I have three questions."
Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors Page 54
