Me and Mom Fall for Spencer (10 page)

“Three twenty-five.”

I take the knife from his hand and start
to slice, since he can’t seem to talk and work at the same time.

“There’s no need to peel the potatoes at
all. Most of the vitamins are right under the skin,” I say.

“Sullivan, my famous fries don’t have
skin. Those vitamins will never survive the hot oil anyway.”

“Suit
yourself
,”
I say turning back to the sink. “But frying doesn’t leech vitamins it just adds
fat and calories.”

“Duly noted,” he says and I hear his
knife slice through. “You’re smart, not too ugly, a mean gardener,
an
excellent walker…mover in general…so about the no
dating….”

“What did my mother say?”

“She’s protective because you may be
twenty-seven but you’re very innocent, and you don’t date so I need to keep my
lecherous paws to myself. She didn’t put it quite that way…that’s what I heard.
And she’s probably right…or is she?”

I think of the apron tying. Obviously
he’s doing what he wants.

“Sullivan…is she right? Have I made you
uncomfortable?”

“Do you think you’ve been too much?”

“I’m just having fun.
Just
goofing around.
But you’d tell me if I was making you uncomfortable,
right?”

Wow, this kitchen is not large enough
for this conversation.

“Is that why you touch me? You’re
goofing around?” I stand next to him. I am looking at the potato he’s slicing. He’s
stopped now. When he looks up he’s staring at me.

“Why else? I’ve only known you a week.
Right?”

I swallow.
“Right.
Tomorrow.
A week tomorrow.”

“It’s not good for man to be alone.”

He remembers the sermon.

“You’re lonely,” I say. It’s probably
rude.

“I’m pathetic aren’t I,” he says.

I laugh. “No. Where’s your family?”

“Dead.
They’re all dead. I’m an only child.”

I think at first he’s joking, but he
isn’t.

“How long have you been the only one?”

“Since college.
My mother raised me and she died. I never knew my father. It was just Mom and
me. She died first year of college.” He’s not looking at me. He scoops up a
load of potatoes in his hands and goes to the stove. “Close enough,” he says
looking at the thermometer, then he carefully drops the slices into the oil and
the bubbling sounds loud and steam rises.

I stand beside him. “You said no
children…so never married?”

He smiles briefly, eyes still on the
pan. “No. Not even a serious girlfriend really.”

“Why not?”

He does look now.
“You
first.”

I shrug. “No time.”

He shrugs. He better not say, no time,
because teachers have their summers off.

“No inclination.” He looks at me, “Also
not gay so don’t ask.”

I laugh. “Also not gay,” I say.

He laughs. “Good to know.”

I stop laughing. “Why? You got something
against gay people?”

He takes the knife and pokes at the
fries, shaking his head and smiling. I guess he’s not going to answer.

“So why this house?
Did you buy it on-line or something?”

“These are ready,” he says. It’s a
flurry then, he gets a plate. I look around and see the paper-towels, tear off
two sheets and lay them on the plate and he gets two forks to use as tongs,
another implement he either doesn’t have or hasn’t unpacked.

“So what do you think about me? What
have you observed so far?” he asks scooping out his first batch of golden
slices.

“You brought the basics.
But nothing extra—the clutter.
You came here, but whatever
your life was, you left it behind,” I say.

He looks at me, a deep look. I think,
damn—did I say too much?

He finishes taking out the fries, puts
in another batch. He
unwraps
a new shaker of seasoned
salt. He’s powdering the fries with this.

“What else?” he says, but he is suddenly
serious.

“Well, my guess is there are mostly
books in those boxes. You couldn’t bear to part with them. And you’re not
wired, no internet.
An odd choice…like you’re unplugged
.

“Go on,” he says.

“You’re lonely, which means you’ve known
people and this…isn’t what you’re used to. In some way…it’s like you’re just
discovering life.
Small life.
The kind a person
overlooks because they have something…bigger.”

“Hmm,” he says. “Go on.”

“You’re elegant.
More
Sherlock than Matlock.
It’s like you’ve been away but you don’t have
brutality on you…but you’re sad. You haven’t lost hope completely though. But
yeah…you’re disillusioned.

“You’re easy to please, like…it takes
nothing to please you.”

He finally does look at me and his eyes
are…soft. “What else?”

“I don’t know. I’ve said too much.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t hold back when I’m
asking. Please.” It’s a little like he was in church, when he nearly crushed my
hand.

I lick my lips. “You think I have the
answers. And of course I don’t. I’m so afraid for you to realize that. I’m
nothing much. But you…you’ve done things.
Seen things.
And….”

“Don’t stop, Sullivan,” he says this
with so much feeling.

“I think you have been in love…maybe
more than once. But I could be wrong.”

He is staring at me now, his mouth open
a little, his eyes…something tragic, something magic. I could look into his
eyes, fall into his eyes…me.

“I’m sorry. I…I said too much. I always….”

He just keeps looking, and I’m a little
afraid. I don’t know what this look means.

“You ah…you can take this first batch
over to
Cyro
if you want.” He looks away and fumbles around
in the pantry, coming out with a new, unopened box of aluminum foil.

He puts the whole first batch in the
foil then goes in the living room and comes back in with some wadded up
newspaper from one of the boxes and wraps the foil package in that. “Here,” he
says handing it to me. “You won’t burn your hands.”

“Thanks…look, Spencer, if you’re tired
or something…let’s just call it a night….”

“No, it’s alright.
It’s
fine, Sarah. It’s fine. You just surprised me. I asked for it, remember? I
wanted to hear it. I didn’t know…I mean you really thought about it. You’re…you’re
observant.” Then in a stronger voice, “You’re wrong…mostly…but…go on and get
Cyro
done and I’ll finish up here.”

I just nod, so sorry I said so much. I
take the plate of green peppers I made for
Cyro
and
take the foil off the plate I’d made for us.

Then I leave and I am barely aware of
walking out of Spencer’s and across the street. As I walk up
Cyro’s
porch stairs, I look at the newspaper Spencer
wrapped the fries in for the first time. That’s when I see it’s from Chicago. He’s
never said where he’s from exactly. At game night I heard him tell Mom he’d
lived all over the Midwest. So Chicago is not far-fetched. But there’s
something there, like a confirmation--I know I’m not so wrong about him. He
left a life…somewhere.

Me and Mom Fall for
Spencer

Chapter Seventeen

Cyro
is not in his chair. I ask him where he is and he says, “Back here,” and he is
in his room.

I’m not going back there. He’s not an
invalid.

“I’m setting your dinner on the table. You
need to eat it right away, while it’s still hot. Okay?”

“What is it?” he says.

“French fries.
They’re…homemade. Spencer made them.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Need anything?” I call.

“No,” he says after a beat.

“I…I shouldn’t have yelled.
Before.
But…I meant it.”

Nothing.

I start to leave, but I look around
again.

“Tomorrow…I’ll be here in the morning. We’re
gonna
clean,” I say.

He doesn’t speak so I go out.

Horny is still at my house. She’ll have
lots to tell Mom. Spencer had mentioned taking fries to Mom, but I’m not doing
it. I don’t know if he wants me back, and the sun has set. I really don’t know,
but I just want to do patrol. I think I said too much and now it feels forced,
but he said to come back. He expects me to.

I knock on Frieda’s door. He is right
there. “You don’t have to knock,” he says opening the door for me.

I see right away he’s got the food set
up on the coffee table. He’s waiting for me. But he’s frying the last batch and
he goes in the kitchen to take that out.

I sit on the edge of the couch, stare at
the wall,
try
not to. Mom says she wouldn’t buy a
house if someone died in it. She thinks a house should be torn down if someone
is murdered there. He never answered about this place, what made him buy it. One
thing I know, he bought it sight unseen cause until that day he rolled up here
in the rental truck, he’d not looked at this place.

He comes in the room then, and right
away…he’s different. He is nervous. He’s got the television on but the volume
low.

“Spencer…did I say too much before?”

“What? No.” He puts down the bottle of
tea for me and
a water
for himself and goes to the
wall and opens the first box and reaches in and pulls up a frame that he flips
back and forth on a stand.
It’s
sand art, constantly shifting
itself as he moves it one way or another. “See? Knick-knack as it gets.” He
throws it back in the box. “You’re not right about everything.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t be sorry.
Nothing
to be sorry about.”
He sits down a couple of feet away from me. He’s sat
hard enough to jar me. He hands me my drink, cracks the lid off of his and
takes a few swallows like he’s parched.

“Eat up,” he says.

I don’t want to. I just want to leave,
get ready for patrol. I have things to do and…I’m embarrassed now, embarrassed
to be here.

But he puts a heap of fries on the empty
plate before him. I can see he’s started on the green peppers. “This dip is
excellent,” he tells me, dipping a fry in there.

He still hasn’t turned the television
up. I hope he doesn’t.

He sits back then, his plate against his
flat stomach. “Eat up,” he says to me again.

I take my fork and get a few potatoes
and put them on my plate. We’re using paper towels for napkins and I hold this
in one hand a fry in the other and I lean back like him, only I nibble. “Good,”
I say.

He nods but he just keeps eating.
“
Cyro
okay?”

I decide to tell him about Jason
leaving.

“So you’re what…
gonna
be responsible for
Cyro
now?”

“I’m cleaning his place tomorrow.
Starting to anyway.”

“So that’s a yes?
On
Cyro
?”

“I don’t know…yes.”

“Just like that?
You take that on?”

“Why?” I want to say, how’s this your
business? I shouldn’t have told him.

“It’s a big thing. Most people, they’d
think it over at least. Sarah…if
Cyro
needs help Jason
shouldn’t assume you’ve got nothing better to do.”

“I don’t,” I say. “What’s better than
helping
Cyro
?”

He sets his plate on the coffee table
and stares at me.

“You mean that.” He’s not asking, he’s
just saying it.

Of course I do.

“God,” he whispers looking away, rubbing
his hands through his hair. He goes for the remote, turns up the sound, fishes
through the channels, flips off the set,
sets
the
remote on the table. “Sarah…,” he looks at me, “you don’t want to watch TV. You
don’t want to be here, do you?”

I shrug.
Less all the
time if I’m honest.
“I have a lot to do,” I say. I get it in my head,
the next thing, then there’s no stopping me.

He looks at me, looks away, laughs,
smiles, wipes over his mouth.

“The fries are really good,” I say,
though I have no appetite.

“You feel sorry for me, don’t you?” he
says.

“No,” I say.

“You just take care of people. You don’t
have to like them, right?”

“Why are you being like this?” I stand.

“Are you going to go now?”

“Yes.”

He takes my hand. “I’m sorry. I…want you
to be here…because I’m…fascinating.” He laughs a little. He lets go of my hand.

“You kind of are,” I say, softened by
the look in his eyes.

He takes my hand again and pulls me back
down. I go along and return my ass to the couch.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” I say.

We are like that for a few seconds,
letting that sink in and he still has my hand, his thumb rubbing over my
knuckles.

“I don’t,” he says first.

“I…won’t,” I say.

“But you were. I knew it.”

He’d said he was pathetic. He never
denied being lonely, said as much.

“I’m not like the dogs in the shelter,”
he says, a sad smile.

“They’re much cuter,” I say, laughing at
his surprise.

“I said you weren’t so ugly,” he says
like I’m getting revenge on that.

I take my hand away and stand because I
don’t know what to do with him now. “I have to….”

“Can I walk with you?”

I catch my groan before it erupts. “I
should go alone.”

“Why?”

“It’s always been that way.”

“Maybe it’s time for a change.”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“You didn’t eat.”

“I…I wasn’t hungry.”

“That stops you? I admire that.” He
laughs a little.

“I’ll take some home if you…want.”

“Sure.”

I pick up my plate but he takes it and
piles more on. I tell him again how good they are. He doesn’t reply.

I am standing there holding the plate. “I’ll
go now,” I say, embarrassed to be leaving, too embarrassed to stay. This is why
I never date, not that this is a date, is it? No.
It’s
just neighbors having French fries. But even this I mess up.

“Well…good-bye.”

He stands up and laughs. “That sounded
so final. You know I don’t think you’re ugly, right?”

Oh God. I open the screen and I’m on the
porch now. I think of the moon walk, one giant step for mankind, or something. I’m
almost off the porch. I walk
slow
but I keep moving.

“Sarah…I’m joking. You know that right?”

I don’t answer, I just keep moving.

Horny and Mom have moved to the kitchen.
They are at the table and when I set the fries there they are
oohing
and
ahhing
, well Christine
is. Mom is quiet. I say Spencer made them and Mom says,
goodie
,goodie
. “I guess you were at his house then. Bastard’s
gonna
go right ahead. I guess you two never discussed
paint chips.”

“Mom,” I say, hitting the table.

Christine shoots me a look.
Pity.
Spencer is right…it’s hard when people feel sorry for
you. I hope I haven’t done that to him. I didn’t go over there because I feel
sorry for him. But I have to admit, I know how to move toward people if some of
that is there…pity.

“I’m going out,” I say tiredly. I’m
leaving things unaddressed, like dirty stinking dishes piled in the sink. I’m
not facing things. She called him a bastard, and she’s reaching for his food. I’m
so disgusted with Mom right now. But I don’t have the strength to admit how
deep it goes.

Outside, in the dark, I want it to make
sense. My flashlight is in my hand. I start to walk past Spencer’s house. I see
the orange glow from his cigarette. He’s on the porch. I don’t know what to do,
or say. Frieda’s house has not only come to life, it has a heartbeat, it’s
staring at me, reaching for me…and it’s Spencer.
 
I don’t wave, I don’t flick my light, I don’t
look for long,
I
just keep moving. I keep moving. I
see the rental, cold and empty. No bottles on the porch. I have to make myself
pay attention, make myself see, and hear, and I hear the steps behind me.

“Sarah,” he says. I stop then. I don’t
turn. “You were right, you were damn near right…and it pissed me off…it scared
me…how right you were. And you just laid it out like that…and I saw it.
I..saw
it. But you just said it…I don’t know. But…I meant
what I said about the pity.
If that’s all it is….
I
can’t just be that…when I feel this…thrown. I’ve never been…so damn…weak. And
I’m trying to figure it out. But…I want to be your friend. Maybe I need
you…maybe
that’s
what I’m saying…but I’m asking you to
help me be something good for you.
Something more than
another stray dog.”

I click off my light and I turn to him. I
get it. I know what he doesn’t want. But I don’t know what he does want. “I’m
not…enough.”

He takes another step, his hand reaching
for mine. I still don’t know. I just don’t know.

His hand is warm, his fingers strong. I’m
standing here. He’s real. I can feel so much emotion in him, his displacement. He’s
been banished and he’s reaching…for me.

“You can walk with me again tonight.
Just once.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Are you sure?”

There is very little I’m sure of.
Very few things.
But what I am sure of…I guard closely.

“I’m sure,” I say. And I turn on my
light…for us both.

The next day I am up early. I have slept
heavily, dreamed in color, and as soon as I’m awake I come out of the dream,
out of another world painted the brightest hues, into the paleness of my room.

I sit up. Then I get up.
 

I slept in my underwear only. I never do
that. But I never walk with someone on patrol. I have allowed this twice. But I
told him both times only once. That is how I’m not giving it away. It’s mine. He
has to know, it’s mine.

I hit the
laptop,
make sure Aaron received my work. He’s emailed me more to do. It’s a thick
file.

I let the shower bring me the final laps
into the day. Thunder is rumbling as I dig for clothes. Mom is going to work
today, fulltime. I look at the clock. She is already gone. But I felt that. As
soon as I was up I felt the hallelujah.

I go to the window, naked, and the storm
is kicking up a breeze on my bare skin. I’m so alive. I’m so here, and I feel
it, all the past and the great rush of now.

Dressing is easy, shorts and a
tee-shirt, armor against the dirt that awaits me at
Cyro’s
.

Downstairs I make oatmeal. I eat this on
the back porch and my cat shows up and rubs on my legs.

The rain can’t quite break free, but the
sky is rolling with gray webs. I love this show. I love the way the birds tear
across the sky like they have somewhere to go.

We are all so busy being busy, back and
forth, stitching the stitches that hold the illusion together that we’re
building something that can’t be touched, that can’t unravel in tiny strokes on
the clock. One minute you’re alive, you’re whole, and the next a bullet waffles
like a football thrown your way, to tear a furrow in your skin, close to your
heart, it’s hot streak melting flesh, making that same heart quiver…because
it’s fragile as a bird winging and winging to escape the thunder.