Dorothy Garlock (7 page)

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Authors: More Than Memory

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“I’m ready to go home, Kelly. How about you?”
“Arrr . . . woof.”

 

 

C
hapter
F
our
T
HE DAY HER PHONE WAS CONNECTED
, N
ELDA
called her boss in Chicago and left her phone number—which was a mistake. The very next evening she had a call from the owner of the nightclub she had decorated in Chicago.
“Hey, babe, whatcha doin’ out there in the sticks?”
“Hello, Mr. Falerri. How did you get my number?” she asked, although she knew.
Darn you, Della. You know I’m not interested in this man
.
“I got ways, babe. When ya comin’ back to the big windy?”
“I’ve not decided, Mr. Falerri.”
“Where ya gettin that ‘mister’ stuff? I’m Aldus, sweetheart. Ever’body calls me Aldus. Say, folks really like the looks of the place, and I been braggin’ ya up.”
“I’m sure Elite Decorators appreciate it.”
“Not Elite Decorators, puss, you. The broads at Elite didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. Come on back here and open up your own joint. I’ll getcha all the
business ya can handle. When Aldus Falerri talks, folks listen.”
Nelda closed her eyes and gritted her teeth before she answered, trying hard to remember that he was a client, a valuable client who could steer thousands of dollars worth of business to Elite Decorators.
“I’ve business to finish up here, Mr.—Aldus. It will be some time before I can get away.”
“Hurry it up, babe. I want to show you off and . . . show you the town.”
“That’s kind of you.”
A roar of laughter exploded at the other end. Nelda could picture him laughing with the smelly cigar clenched between his teeth.
“That’s rich, sweetheart. Ask anybody. Aldus Falerri ain’t kind! Aldus Falerri is business, little puss. It’s what made my club the best on Chicago’s South Side. When I want somethin’, I go for it. Remember that, puss. Aldus Falerri’s got strings: I can call in favors.”
Was that a threat?
Nelda hated it when he called her
puss
.
“I’ve got to go. This is a six-party line and someone else wants the line. It could be an emergency.” She jiggled the dial to add authenticity to her statement.
Forgive me, God, for this lie
.
“Six people on your line? Honey, I can fix that!”
“No. No, please. That’s the way it is here. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I get back to Chicago.”
“That’s my babe. ’Bye, honey.”
“Good-bye.”
Nelda hung up the phone and looked down at Kelly lying on the floor beside her.
“Sheesh! That man is enough to make me want to stay here forever. You wouldn’t like him one bit, Kelly. He’s fat, he’s almost bald, and he smokes smelly cigars. I had to put up with him while I was decorating his nightclub. I never thought that I’d have to put up with him out here.”
• • •
During the following week, Nelda became absorbed in her work and time passed quickly. She and Kelly roamed the ditches along the roadside looking for specimens to take back to her workbench. For every quarter mile Nelda walked, Kelly ran a mile. At the end of the day they were both tired. On the back steps Nelda brushed the burrs and twigs from Kelly’s furry coat before she allowed him in the house. After watching her new television for a while, she was ready for bed.
It was so peaceful, so quiet, except for that motorcycle! It had gone by the house several times, always in the evening. And Kelly detested motorcycles. On the long trip from Chicago he snapped and growled at every motorcycle they passed. Whenever this one sped past he went crazy, racing through the house and barking furiously.
“Hush,” Nelda scolded each time. “That bike has a right to be on that road. Calm down.”
On Monday morning she washed clothes for the first time. Remembering the fresh, outdoorsy scent
of line-dried bedding from her childhood days at Grandma’s house, she decided to forgo the convenience of the new electric dryer and hauled the basket of wet laundry to the clothesline. She wiped off the line and pinned up the sheets, towels, and various pieces of clothing: panties, bras, shirts, shorts, and two cotton skirts. Then she stood back and admired her work.
“Pretty neat, huh, Kelly?”
Lying on the back steps, the dog moved his tail in a swipe at the screen door. His eyes were on the shed.
“Still think you’re going to get a mouse out of that shed? Well, good luck.”
Nelda went back into the house, put a roast in the oven on low heat, then began to work on the project she had started the day before. She spent the rest of the afternoon at her easel painstakingly painting a yellow tiger lily she thought would transfer beautifully to fine cotton fabric.
Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, she felt a prickling on the back of her neck as if someone were staring at her. She stopped painting and looked all around. Surely Kelly, who lay on the back step, would let her know if anyone was around.
In late afternoon, Nelda added a couple of potatoes to the meat roasting in the oven. She liked cooking, but not just for herself. The roast beef would be enough tonight and for sandwiches for a few days. How much more gratifying it would be, she mused, to be preparing this to share with someone else.
Banishing her errant thoughts, she went out to
gather the clean, dry clothes from the line. She had started on the towels when she heard the dreaded roar of the motorcycle. She looked about for Kelly. He was standing beside the house, his head cocked to one side, the fur on the back of his neck standing at attention.
“Kelly! No!” Nelda knew even as she shouted that the dog, fixated on that hated machine, wouldn’t hear a word she said. She dropped the towels into the basket and took off in a run after the red streak tearing down the lane toward the road. “Kel—ly! Kel—ly! Come back here.”
Kelly reached the road, whirling and barking at the monster coming toward him. He lunged and jumped, his own barks drowning out the voice of his mistress calling to him. For a moment Nelda thought he’d turn tail and come back, but instead he dashed back directly into the path of the machine. When it hit him, he flew into the air, landed hard, and lay still. The rider had done his best to avoid the collision. The back wheel of the cycle spun in the gravel before the machine skidded down the incline into the ditch beside the road.
Nelda slammed to a halt and clapped her hands over her ears, her heart pounding like the beat of a drum.
“Oh, no! Oh God, no!”
She began to run again. Her frightened eyes saw the rider limp up out of the ditch. Thank God, he was all right, but Kelly lay like a rumpled red blanket in the road.
The man reached the dog the same time Nelda did. She threw herself onto her knees.
“Oh, Kelly, don’t be—” With relief she saw that he was still breathing. He whined and tried to lift his head. In anguish, she cried, “Do something. Oh, please, do something—”
The man snatched a knit cap off his head and removed a pair of goggles.
“Lute!” Blond hair was plastered with sweat; blue eyes so narrowed she couldn’t see them carefully examined the dog. “Lute, are you hurt?”
He looked at her and then back at Kelly, who was weakly emitting pitiful yelps.
“I’m all right. Get your car and a blanket to lay him on and we’ll take him to the vet.”
“Is it . . . bad?” She hated to ask the question, but she had to know. The dog had been her companion for the past three years, and she couldn’t bear to lose him.
“I don’t know. He’s stunned, and he must have broken or cracked ribs. Get moving. Get the car.”
Nelda ran to the house, grabbed a sheet off the line, snatched up her purse, turned the lock on the door, and slammed it. In the car she fumbled for the keys, then whipped the car into gear, backed it up with a jerk, and turned it around. She had run so fast she was gasping for breath and had a pain in her side but refused to acknowledge it.
She saw Lute wheel the cycle up out of the ditch and park it in the yard beside the lilacs. When she stopped the car, he reached for the sheet and spread it over the backseat. Nelda knelt beside the dog, who
looked up at her with pleading eyes, bringing tears to her own.
“You’ll be all right,” she crooned. “You just forgot that you’re a city dog and not used to running free.” She rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes to rid them of tears before she looked at Lute.
“I’ll try not to hurt him when I lift him,” he murmured. “Hold the door open. Easy now, fella. This is going to hurt, but we’ll do it as fast as we can and get you to the vet. He’ll have you fixed up in no time.” Kelly let out a yelp and tried to move his back legs when Lute burrowed his hands beneath his body. “Whoa, fella. Easy now.”
Lute spoke to the dog in a low, soothing voice, lifting him in his arms and easing him onto the sheet-covered seat.
“You ride back here with him and try to keep him quiet,” he said to Nelda.
Cautiously she climbed in and squatted on the floor, careful not to jar Kelly’s long body which took up the entire seat.
Lute had to move the seat back in order to get under the wheel of her car. Loose gravel noisily spattered the fenders as he drove the car swiftly down the road. On her knees beside the dog, Nelda stroked his head, praying he was not seriously injured. She thanked God it was Lute who had hit him, not some uncaring stranger who would have simply driven away.
As Nelda looked at the sun-streaked blond head, unbidden thoughts invaded her mind.
Oh, Lute! I remember when my hands knew every inch of your body, and yours knew mine
.
As if she had spoken, blue eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, and Lute’s intense stare brought color flooding to her face.
“It’s just a mile or so now.” His words broke the spell. “I hope Gary is home. There’s a dog show at the fairgrounds. He could be over there.” Seeing Nelda’s panic-stricken eyes in the mirror again, he added reassuringly, “If he isn’t home, we’ll go to the fairgrounds; it’s only a fifteen-minute drive.”
By the time they turned into a driveway and stopped in front of a brick building set close to a new ranch-style house, Kelly was lying quietly, his eyes closed, his mouth open, and his long tongue hanging limply out the side of it.
“I’ll see if Gary is here.” Lute spoke softly but moved quickly.
Nelda watched him try the office door. It was locked, and her heart sank to her toes. Lute strode briskly to the house and rang the doorbell. Despite her anguish over Kelly, Nelda couldn’t take her eyes off him. His shoulders, hugged by a knit shirt, were broad and muscular, his waist and hips narrow in comparison.
She had loved him for all his tender, caring qualities when he was young. She recalled the harshness of his words and the hardness in his eyes that day at the cemetery. Yet here he was, all gentleness and compassion. Was he still, inside, the Lute of their youth?
Why do I keep wondering about him—and
longing for him? Stop it, Nelda! He is beyond your reach now
.
Nelda tugged her attention back to the wounded dog, and within minutes Lute was there opening the door. She looked at him hopefully.
“Gary will open the office.”
A tall, thin man wearing jeans cut off at the knees, a faded knit shirt, and an old pair of dirty white sneakers came into view behind Lute.
“Gary, this is Nelda.” Lute extended a hand to help her out of the car. She clung to it because her legs were numb from squatting on the floor for so long.
“Nelda?” Gary’s eyes flew to Lute, then back to her. “Well, hello, dear lady. Let’s see what we can do for your beastie here. Lute says he ran him down with that blasted cycle of his.”
“It wasn’t Lute’s fault.” Nelda jumped to Lute’s defense. Her hand was still tingling from the contact with his. “Kelly hasn’t been in the country before. He’d only been outside off a leash a few times in his life until we came here. It’s hard for him to cope with all the space and the freedom.”

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