Smitten (12 page)

“That's when he called a cab,” Jason said. “He said he didn't care what it cost, he was going to make sure we got back to Pennsylvania.”

“This here's one heck of a barbecue,” Elsie said to Lizabeth. “Must be a hundred people here. I know it's a pretend wedding celebration on account of you panicked having a naked hunk in your bed, but it's a good one, all the same.” She rolled a hot dog over on the grill. “You spot the flasher yet?”

“No. This is harder than I thought. Half the men in the neighborhood fit his description.” She wasn't so sure she wanted to identify him, anyway. He'd stopped flashing her, and he'd never really done any harm to anyone.

Matt ambled over and put his arm around Lizabeth. “Great barbecue.” He took a hot dog from Elsie and stuffed it into a roll. “We've got seven different kinds of potato salad, six bowls of three-bean salad, four casseroles of baked beans, and something very strange with curly
noodles that I'm afraid to eat. The desserts are even better. Brownies as far as the eye can see. Mrs. Kandemeyer made cupcakes, Joan Gaspitch made chocolate-chip cookies, and Eleanor Molnar brought a sheet cake that says Best Wishes to Lizabeth and Matt Hallahan.”

Lizabeth winced. The dining room table was loaded with wedding presents. She felt like a fraud, and she knew she was a coward. “We need to tell these people we're not married.”

“Not me,” Matt said. “I'm not telling them. Besides, I like being married. I'm not too crazy about sleeping on the couch, but I like the rest of it. I don't have to eat breakfast by myself, and I get to play soccer with the kids after work, and you play Monopoly with me at night.” He spread mustard on his hot dog and loaded it with relish.

Ferguson left his station at the grill and stalked Matt's hot dog.

Lizabeth watched a pack of kids run across the yard. “If I stopped playing Monopoly with you at night, would you go home?”

“Nope. I'm protecting you from the flasher.”

“I think the flasher's retired.”

“Why do you want me to go home? Elsie likes me. The kids like me. Ferguson likes me.
I'm not sure about Carol. Carol doesn't express a lot of opinions.” He reached out and tenderly ran his fingertip along the line of Lizabeth's jaw. “I think you like me, too.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you think I like you?”

“You did my laundry yesterday.”

“I had nothing better to do. I got home from work early, and I thought I'd clean up the laundry room.”

“Yes, but you bleached my sweat socks, and you used fabric softener on my T-shirts.”

A smile spread through her before she could catch it. He was right. She'd actually stood there yesterday, fondling his socks, wondering if they were soft enough and white enough.

“Four days ago you told me you loved me. You said every day you loved me a little bit more. Is that still true?”

Lizabeth sighed. “Yes. But that doesn't mean I want to get married. We've been all through this.”

“I keep hoping one of these times I'll understand. So far it hasn't made much sense to me.”

He set his hot dog on a plate and helped himself to potato salad. Ferguson moved with lightning speed and grabbed the frankfurter.
“That dog is going to need his stomach pumped before the day is over.”

“He's just a puppy.”

“He weighs 113 pounds.”

Lizabeth was distracted by a man on the far side of the dessert table. She didn't know his name, but his face was familiar. He was one of those people you periodically run into in the supermarket or at the dry cleaner. He reminded her somewhat of Paul, with his bland, pleasant smile and calculated postures. A lawyer, she decided—probably trust. He wore new Docksiders, khaki slacks, and a white button-down shirt. He was in his early thirties, she thought, and a little soft around the edges. He acknowledged Emma and Al Newsome, poured himself a glass of soda, said hello to the Hoopers, and continued to move through the crowd. The whole while he moved, his eyes kept returning to Lizabeth.

Lizabeth was uneasy. It was the flasher. If someone had asked her how she knew, she wouldn't have been able to tell them. She simply knew.

She waved, and he waved back. A small, hesitant wave with just his fingertips. They stared at each other for a long, embarrassed
moment. Now that she'd seen him she was dying to ask him
why
. Why would he do such a weird thing? Why had he chosen her? Why had he stood there in the rain?

She should confront him, she thought, but she suddenly felt uncomfortable. He'd always seemed remote and harmless in his paper-bag mask, standing in a small circle of light on the other side of her window. Now that she saw him as a person she admitted Matt had been right. She knew nothing about this man. He was real. He had thoughts and obsessions and problems. He could be crazy. He could be mean. He could be dangerous.

She instinctively moved closer to Matt. He was a safe place in a crazy world. He was the friend she could always count on. He had common sense and strong arms, and he loved her. She took a step backward, coming in contact with his big, hard body.

“Oops,” she said. “Sorry.” And then she blushed, because she'd intentionally bumped into him.

Matt brushed his hand along the nape of Lizabeth's neck. Her skin was warm and silky, her hair caressed the back of his hand, and he suddenly felt choked with desire. He didn't
care about Ferguson or potato salad. He cared about Lizabeth. And he wondered about the man on the far side of the dessert table who kept staring at her.

“You know that guy?”

“No.”

“He waved to you.”

“Mmmm. Well, that's because I waved first. I've been trying to find the flasher. Checking out everybody's wave.”

“And?”

“He waves like him…but I don't know.” It was an innocent fib, she thought. If she told Matt the man was the flasher, he'd punch him in the nose, or he'd break all his bones. Maybe he'd do both.

Matt slid his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. “He's the right size. And he's the right age.”

“Mmmm.” Lizabeth let herself relax into him. They were at a party, and they were supposed to be married. And she wanted to indulge herself, even if it was just for a moment. She'd kept him at arm's length for the past few days, but her heart wasn't in it. The truth is, she wanted Matt Hallahan like she'd
never wanted anything in her life, and she was feeling downright deprived.

“Doesn't look like a flasher, though,” Matt said. “He looks kind of wimpy.”

Lizabeth smiled. “What does a flasher look like?”

“He looks like a crazed maniac. He's a man obsessed. He drools, and his eyes get big as duck eggs and bulge out of his head.”

“I don't see anyone here who fits that description.”

Matt gave her a squeeze. “Another week of sleeping on your couch, and I'm going to be the most crazed maniac anyone has ever seen.”

“Just what this neighborhood needs—another maniac.”

He kissed the back of her neck. “So what about you? Are you feeling maniacal yet?”

“Nope. Not me.”

“Liar.”

Elsie came over. “Who's the wimpy yuppie behind the brownies? He keeps staring at you two.”

“He's staring at Lizabeth,” Matt said. “She waved to him.”

“Oh yeah? He wave back? He don't look like
a pervert, but then you never know. Maybe I should go have a talk with him.”

A wave of new guests arrived, bringing more potato salad and brownies, and someone brought a ham. It was semiboneless in an orange glaze, dotted with pineapple slices and maraschino cherries. It was placed on the potato salad table, and before the first piece could be sliced away, Ferguson galloped in and snatched the entire ham.

Elsie, Matt, and Lizabeth saw the whole thing. “Ferguson!” they shouted in unison.

Ferguson dashed through the crowd with the ham firmly stuffed into his mouth. He dodged Matt and sprinted past John Gaspitch. Ferguson always took the same escape route. Down Gainsborough to the Wainstock house, then through the Wainstocks' backyard to the patch of woods between Gainsborough and High Street.

“Get that dog!” Elsie shouted.

A dozen children ran after Ferguson.

Ferguson loped across the side yard, ran between two cars parked at the curb, and bolted into the street. There was the sound of screeching tires and a yelp; and then there was silence.

“Oh God,” Lizabeth whispered. She was running, without thinking. Matt was ahead of her.

She reached the road, and Jason threw himself into her arms. “Mom! We were chasing Ferguson, and he got hit.” Tears were streaming down his face, leaving smeary tracks in little boy's grime. He buried his face in her chest and sobbed, and she looked past him to the inert form lying on the road.

“Oh, Ferguson,” she whispered. He was just a puppy. Big and foolish and homely. And she'd loved him.

Children sought out parents. Everyone stood in hushed knots, waiting.

Matt and Billy were bent over the dog. Billy's voice wobbled. “He isn't going to die, is he?” he asked.

The dog was unconscious. Blood was clotted on his hind leg. Matt stroked the dog's shoulder. Damn stupid dog, he thought. More trouble than he was worth. Stealing food, ruining soccer balls.

“Jeez, Ferguson,” he said, “why did you have to run off with the ham?” He swallowed back the emotion clogging his throat and burning behind his eyes.

Billy huddled closer to Matt and repeated his question. “He isn't going to die, is he?”

Matt took a deep breath and pushed the possibility of death away. “Are you kidding? Ferguson's too ornery to die. Hell, this dog is strong. He can eat a whole pot roast. We're going to take him to the vet. You stay here and keep him quiet while I go get the truck.”

He found Lizabeth standing on the curb. “Get a blanket. We're taking Ferguson to the vet.”

Fifteen minutes later, Matt, Lizabeth, Jason, and Billy stood in the waiting room of the Parkway Veterinary Clinic and watched the doors close behind Ferguson.

“They'll take good care of him,” Matt said, bolstering himself as much as anyone else.

Jason held tight to his hand. “He looks awful hurt.”

Matt took a seat and lifted Jason onto his lap. “We're going to wait right here until the vet's done fixing Ferguson up. We're not going to leave until we're sure he's okay. Does that make you feel better?”

Jason nodded and leaned back in Matt's arms. His face was swollen and blotchy from crying, and his breath was coming in hiccups. “Dumb dog,” he said. “Nothing but trouble.”

Matt smiled, because it echoed his earlier thoughts. “Yup. Fergie's dumb all right. But we all love him, don't we?”

Billy sat between Matt and Lizabeth. His eyes were large and solemn. His hands gripped the sides of his seat. “Do you love Ferguson?” he asked Matt.

“Yeah.”

“Did you have a dog when you were a kid?”

“No. I always wanted one, but my father wouldn't allow it.”

Billy looked at Matt with increased interest. “Really? My dad wouldn't allow us to have a dog either. What about your mom? Did she want a dog?”

Matt didn't answer immediately. “I didn't have a mother for a large part of my childhood,” he finally said. “She died when I was seven years old.”

“Didn't your dad get married again? Who took care of you?”

“My sister Mary Ann took care of me. And then when I was old enough I took care of myself.”

Jason sat up straighter so he could look at Matt. His curiosity was aroused. “Did your dad take care of you, too?”

“No. I hardly ever saw my dad.”

“Just like us!” Jason said. “Was your dad rich like our dad?”

“My dad was a coal miner. We lived in a small wooden house on the side of a hill, surrounded by other small houses.”

It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and in all the years he lived there he couldn't ever remember the house being painted, inside or out. He didn't tell that part to Jason. And he didn't tell him about the days when they had to ask a neighbor for food because his father had spent the food money on liquor.

“I had two sisters and four brothers,” Matt said. “Everyone called us the Hallahan Herd.” Matt smiled.

He hadn't thought about the Hallahan Herd in a long time. Usually he avoided talking about his childhood, but it wasn't painful to tell Jason and Billy. They took it on an entirely different level. It was ancient history, anecdotal, fascinating. There was no pity, no judgment passed, no scorn.

“I've never seen a coal mine,” Jason said. “Is it scary?”

“Sometimes. It's a dangerous place to work.”

Two of his brothers were still working in the mine. Both had lung problems. One was an alcoholic, like his dad. His sisters had married miners. Lucy was already a widow. He set that part of his history aside for another time.

“I didn't want to work in the mines,” Matt told the boys. “There wasn't enough money for me to go to college, so I joined the navy as soon as I graduated from high school. When I got out of the navy I wanted a job where I would always be outdoors, so I decided to build houses.”

He looked at Lizabeth and found she was as fascinated as her children.

It wasn't the coal-miner stories that fascinated Lizabeth. It was Matt's willingness to dip into a painful past to take everyone's mind off Ferguson. She remembered the unopened envelope from his father and finally understood some of Matt's bitterness. He'd been neglected as a child, and now he was only remembered for the money he sent home.

Jason rubbed his eyes. “I'm thirsty. I got empty from crying.”

“There's a convenience store down the street,” Matt said. “I could go get some sodas.”

Jason squirmed off Matt's lap. “Can I go with you?”

“You bet. I'll tell you about the time I was a boxer.”

“Wow!” Jason said. “You were a boxer? That's so radical.”