Thirst: A Collection of Short Fiction

by Linda A. Lavid

  ~ T e d d y B e a r ~

  At 11 a.m. Sunday, Ted Blaine sat in the alcove of his rented room. The chores for the week – laundry, shopping, changing the sheets – had been dealt with, leaving only one distasteful task: the dreaded weekly visit from his sister, Meg. As the water boiled, he reached for a package of store-bought cookies, ripped it open, then moved the plastic tray next to her waiting cup. He figured the more he prepared for the visit, the faster she’d be in and out. Never really worked.

  He looked out the window and down to the street. The spot where she parked her Cavalier remained empty. His eyes ran up the road. Nothing moved, not a soul, not a car. God, he despised Sunday, the lifelessness of it. He scoured for signs of life, perhaps a shadow or the glow of a lit cigarette amid the dark windows and unevenly pulled blinds of the weathered brick building across the street. But the desolation continued. His glance finally settled on, what appeared to be, piles of coal along the street. Of course the craggy mounds were just exhaust-encrusted snow. Ted shook his head. This hapless view was nothing compared the sequin waters of St. Petersburg. Damn. Instead of returning home to Buffalo, he should have gone west. But then again, wounded animals tended to head for familiar territory.

  He sighed and turned his attention back into the room. The door to the bathroom was cracked open. Deep inside his chest he felt the familiar ache – Stacy. What he missed most was her rinsed-out lingerie on the shower curtain rod. What he missed least were her lame excuses for not coming home, two, three days at a time. Leaning forward, he reached for his wallet. He had made promises (often broken) to limit the times he’d indulge. But it was Sunday and the morning had gone by with hardly a thought of her.

  Tucked behind his driver’s license was her picture, naked in bed, lying on her side, her head propped in a folded elbow. He ran his finger across the tacky, creased surface. In a drugstore check out somewhere in Tennessee, they had picked up the Polaroid. She liked having her picture taken. Before snapping the shutter, he’d lingered. “Come on, Teddy Bear,” she’d mumbled through a forced smile. “Take the damn picture.” But he took his sweet time. It was only through the viewfinder that he’d have her singular attention, feel a modicum of control, however fleeting.

  In the distance a car door slammed. Ted leaned forward and peered out the window. Meg’s solid, squat figure, clothed in a heavy black coat, stepped off the street and onto the sidewalk.

  Ted gave the photograph another longing gaze. He followed the curves, the way her body dipped and rose, finally feasting on those full breasts with dark nipples. His calloused hands, she’d said, drove her crazy. Well, now it was his turn to be driven to the edge. Fifteen months and he was still stuck, mired in a lovesick maze, where all his thoughts twisted, turned and backtracked to the six months they had together.

  He shook his head. Meg had told him the best way to forget Stacy was to move on, find someone else. There were a couple of candidates – the landlady downstairs and Jennie at the hardware store, both nice girls, not particularly youthful, but nice nevertheless. Ted now thought of another drawback of having been with Stacy. Besides having to deal with her disappearing acts, he seemed hopelessly stuck on youngish women. Damn fool, he told himself. But would he have changed a moment? Simply – no.

  Hearing Meg’s familiar steps, he buried the picture in his wallet and went for the door.

  “Effing weather,”said Meg in the open doorway, stomping her feet on the small rubber mat. “Every year, I swear I’ll leave. And look at me, look at us. What are we, masochists?”

  Ted didn’t want to be part of the editorial “we,”but let it go. With Meg, he had to pick his

  battles. He extended his hands. “Winter won’t last much longer. Give me your coat. I’ll hang it

  up.”

  She slipped her arms from the sleeves. “Don’t bother.”She gave the coat a heave-ho and tossed it onto the bed. Then, straightening her sweater, she walked to the table and sat. “Chocolate chips today. Are they the chewy kind?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Of course.” She lowered her head and zeroed in. “Usually the thinner they are, the chewier.” Her face scrunched up. “They look pretty thick. Bet they’re like rocks.”

  “Sorry,”he said.

  “Don’t be sorry,”she said with a wave of her hand. “They’re still good for dunking.”

  Ted glanced at the bedside clock. She usually stayed a half hour. From his quick calculation, only thirty seconds had gone by. God, how did this ritual begin? Yes, now he remembered. The first month back home, he was, what was her word? Despondent.

  “How was work this week?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Meet anybody?”

  Ted put a teaspoon of instant coffee into her cup. “I met plenty of people. That’s my job.” “Ted, you know what I mean. Any prospects?”

  “No, Meg, no prospects. How about yourself?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Remember Jerry, the man who sang in the choir. He seemed interested, then poof, disappeared. I asked the Reverend about him. Apparently, the guy moved to Mt. Morris, wherever the hell that is.” She picked up a cookie and held it in the air. “Let’s face it, Ted. We Blaines are cursed. No way around it.”She then took a bite. “Dry but tasty.”

  He sloshed hot water into her cup, then pushed the sugar and milk in front of her. “Thanks,” she said. “You okay?”

  “I’m a big boy,” he said in a level tone. “Stop worrying about me.”

  “Well, you certainly landed on your feet.”

  Sitting down, Ted stifled an ironic laugh. Here he was fifty-seven years old in a rented room with a job that paid minimal wage and unpaid bills up the wazoo. “I certainly did.”

  “Have you thought any more about getting a divorce?”

  “Meg, let’s not talk about that. Let’s have a nice visit.”

  “Now Teddy – ”

  He interrupted, “Please don’t call me Teddy.” He was three years older for chrissake.

  She settled back in the chair. “Well, all right. It’s just that I’ve been thinking. In fact, I’ve got

  the perfect solution.” “Solution to what?” “Your life.”

  He took a deep breath, thinking of the bottle of whiskey he kept in the cabinet below the sink. He could drink it or simply creep up from behind and break it on her head. “Meg, any discussion about my life is off limits.”

  “It’s not only about you. It’s about us. Please listen.” He rolled his eyes, but kept quiet.

  “I think we should pool our resources and move in together.” His mind seized up. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Joking? Of course not. We could buy a double. I’d prefer the downstairs, but we could negotiate – Why are you shaking your head?”

  “I’m shaking my head because words escape me.”

  “Oh. Anyway, we’re not getting any younger. We can help each other out. I can food shop, fix dinner. You can take care of the outside, do any repairs that come up. And of course this doesn’t preclude either one of us from marrying again. We’ll each have a flat. And, you’ll like this, it would be cheaper. What are you paying here? Seventy-five a week. That’s three hundred a month. Pooling our money, we might be able to upgrade, live in the suburbs. There’s a really nice place next to Marge’s. You remember Marge . . . .”

  Her eyes sparkled. She was on a roll. Ted stopped listening, tuned out.

  Stacy and he had lived in a motel for six months. They had looked at apartments, but he liked the smallness of the motel room, the intimacy. She was never more than a few steps away, doing the stuff women did – painting toenails, trying on clothes, showering in a steamy haze.

  “There’s only one snag. Ted, are you listening?” “Yes. And what’s that?”

  “Now don’t get bent out of shape, but if you’re still married, she’d be entitled to the property. We can’t let that happen.”

  Remarkably, a trap door opened. He nodded. “Absolutely.
” Her face lit up. “So you like the idea?”

  “Meg, it’s terrific. But like you said, until I’m divorced it’s out of the question. But a divorce costs money. Money I don’t have.”

  “I’llstake you.”

  “I can’t take your money, Meg.”

  “You can pay me back. We’ll consider it a loan.”

  “I’m in too much debt as it is.” His mind raced with other arguments. “I gotta get myself situated. Besides weren’t you talking about getting a condo? Houses can be expensive. We both know that.”

  She stared off. “Yes, that’s true, but – ”

  “But what?”

  She gave him a solemn look, stone-like. “Ted, she’s out there.” “Who’s out where?”

  “That woman, that Stacy.”

  Ted raised his hands. “We agreed not to talk about her.”

  “But as long as you’re married, her bills are yours. Aren’t you taking a bigger chance by staying married than finally ending it? She already sent you that credit card bill. How many more will follow? How can you be sure she’s not charging her way across the planet? ”

  Ted felt he was up against a wall with a firing squad taking potshots. That’s how his sister made him feel, cornered, helpless, with no exit. Trying to remain calm, he ignored her and looked out the window.

  “Don’t have any answers, do you Ted? Always in denial. I don’t know why I bother.”

  The fuse was now lit. Feeling a slight burn, he challenged her gaze. “Bother Meg? Bother with what?”

  “With coming here every Sunday, trying to cheer you up. You know I could be doing other things. Takes almost two hours out of my day, my day off mind you. And for what, to see you moping around? Sometimes, I think you want to get back with that slut.”

  “Don’t call her that,”he said. “Slut’s being nice.”

  “I think you should leave.”

  “You’re throwing me out?” She hauled herself from the chair. “Fine. I’m going. But not before I say one more thing. Don’t you roll your eyes at me.”

  Ted got up, took the half-filled cups to the sink, and turned on the tap. As the sink filled with water, he squeezed in some dish detergent. To calm down, he focused on the billowing foam and began to count.

  She was behind him, hovering. “It’s over Ted. Get a life. That whore certainly has.” Suddenly, the cookies he had bought sailed past him and splashed into the water. “Ha,”she added, “Now it’s your turn to clean up MY mess. Have fun.” Seconds later the walls shook from the slamming door.

  Like wreckage from a ship, cookies bobbed in the water. Ted reached in. Scalding his fingers, he grabbed the plastic tray and lifted it out. An idea struck. The molded compartment could be recycled, maybe used to hold sponges or soap. And for the first time that day, he smiled.

  Sundays were now officially his, to do as he pleased.