Time Off for Good Behavior (25 page)

“
Don
’
t come bitching to me,
”
Bones said.
“
I didn
’
t ask you to buy the Station.
”

“
Nice gratitude,
”
I
said,
“
after I saved your sorry ass from a probable lawsuit.
”

Bones looked up at the clock.
“
Isn
’
t your break over yet?
”

I settled in the comfy chair across from his desk.
“
I got ten more minutes.
”

“
There
’
s a break room in the back for employees,
”
he said.

“
Good thing I
’
m not your employee.
”

He made a dismissive noise and turned his attention to the mail on his desk. I smiled. Although playing Santa pretty much sucked, I had to admit that having something to do with my days was improving my general mood. T
he fact that I got to irritate Bones while doing it was pure gravy.

I watched him go through his mail, quietly drinking my water and fanning myself with a manila folder I
’
d pulled off his filing cabinet. My eyes floated over the items on his desk: a blotte
r, a pencil sharpener, a letter opener.

A package of sticky notes.

Crap.
I sighed, closed my eyes, and saw my wall full of crooked notes taunting me. If things were going to change, I was going to have to make them change. I sucked in some breath and spoke.

“
Hey, Bones?
”

“
Hmph?
”
he grunted, not looking up from the mail.

I got stuck on what I wanted to say, then rolled my eyes at myself.
Go ahead, Wanda. Have an adult conversation. You might like it.

“
Have you... always known... what you wanted?
”
Bones
’
s eye
s stopped focusing on the letter he was reading, but it took a moment before they floated up to me.
“
What kind of damn fool question is that?
”

I bopped my head back and forth on my shoulders, trying to think of an answer that didn
’
t include the phrase
Bite
me.

“
I just...
”
I sighed. Why was this so hard?
“
I
’
m going through a thing... right now... and I
’
m trying to figure out what I want. Out
—
out of life.
”

Bones watched me carefully, as though I were a dog and he didn
’
t know whether to pet or kick me. In the
end he did neither.

“
You in therapy or something?
”
he asked.
“
That sounds like a question someone in therapy might ask.
”

“
No, I
’
m not in therapy.
”
Not technically.
“
I
’
m just... I
’
m trying to figure things out. Forget I asked. You
’
re too damn cranky to
be of any use to me, anyway.
”

I took a swig of my water, preparing a wiseass comment if he poked fun at how red my face was.

“
What are you doing for Thanksgiving?
”

I looked up.
“
What?
”

He flattened his palms against the desktop.
“
Thanksgiving. Next Thursd
ay. Don
’
t you ever look at a damn calendar?
”

I gave a pointed glance at the calendar over his shoulder, then back at him.
“
No.
”

He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“
Shelley wants you to spend it with us, if you don
’
t have plans.
”

“
I do,
”
I lie
d.
“
Have plans, I mean.
”

He gave a short nod, then picked up his letter, although he kept his eyes on me.
“
You okay, Wanda?
”

“
Yeah. I
’
m fine. I have plans. My break
’
s over.
”

He waved his fingers at me.
“
On with you, then.
”

I turned around, got to the door,
turned back, grabbed my water, caught Bones watching me with smiling eyes.

“
Oh, bite me, Bones,
”
I said, slamming the door behind me and giving myself and my maturity an internal pat on the back.
You go, girl.

***

“
What are you doing for Thanksgiving?
”
Elizabeth handed me a plate to dry.

“
I can
’
t believe you don
’
t have a damn dishwasher,
”
I said, running my dampened towel over yet another plate.

“
You know,
”
she said, an amused smile playing on her lips,
“
I take back everything I ever said about you not h
aving the right disposition to play Santa.
”

I put the plate away.
“
I
’
ve got some guy Santas starting after the holiday. And not a moment too soon.
”

She laughed and was quiet for a minute.
“
So do you have plans for Thanksgiving?
”

“
Yes,
”
I lied.
“
What is thi
s obsession everyone has with Thanksgiving?
”

Elizabeth eyed me.
“
It
’
s Thursday.
”

“
I know.
”

She rinsed a bowl and handed it to me.
“
The kids and I are leaving Wednesday to visit my sister Cheryl in Atlanta. She invited you to come along.
”

“
Thanks,
”
I said, giving a flat smile.
“
Can
’
t. Plans.
”

“
I see,
”
she said.
“
You haven
’
t asked me about my meeting with the radio people.
”

“
Oh. Crap. Yeah. How was your meeting with the radio people?
”

“
Great.
”
She turned off the water and dried her hands on the kitch
en towel.
“
I
’
m meeting with the station manager on Tuesday.
”

“
That
’
s terrific.
”
I meant it. I was genuinely happy for her. Too bad
Grow up just a tiny bit
wasn
’
t on a sticky note on my wall, or I
’
d feel like I
’
d actually accomplished something that day.

“
W
ell, if you change your mind about Thanksgiving...
”
she said.

“
Can
’
t. Plans.
”

She nodded.
“
Yeah. Thanks for helping with the dishes.
”

I smiled.
“
Least I can do.
”

“
Well. Good night,
”
she said, heading out of the kitchen. I stood there alone for a few minute
s, then turned out the light and went up to my room.

***

I had just put my feet up on Elizabeth
’
s coffee table, a Marie Callender
’
s turkey dinner on my lap and a glass of good ol
’
Albert on ice nearby, when I heard the noise. My heart kicked up a notch.
I hit the mute button on the remote, shushing Frasier and Niles, and sat frozen on the couch, listening.

Nothing.

I took a sip of my drink but didn
’
t feel any better. It would be just like George to fuck up a perfectly fine Thanksgiving.

I put my meal down
and glanced at the door: it was locked. All the window shades were drawn. If he was out there, he wouldn
’
t be able to see me. I could run to the phone in the kitchen and dial 911, and the cops would probably get there before he killed me.

Probably.

Or the
y could show up, discover the noise was the neighbor
’
s cat
—
or, worse, my imagination
—
and I
’
d die of humiliation. Either way, it sucked to be me.

Crack.
I jumped up off the couch. It sounded like the crack of a piece of wood, maybe a large twig under someon
e
’
s foot. Or a revolver cocking.

“
Revolver,
”
I huffed at myself. A: how the hell would I know what a cocking revolver sounded like? B: it was a twig.

Under a foot.

Crap.
How could he have found me? Had he been watching me all along? Had he been waiting to make his move until after Elizabeth and the kids left? But they
’
d been gone since the day before; why wait until now?

I opened the front hall closet and pulled out Alex
’
s aluminum baseball bat. I went into the kitchen and got the cordless off the wall. Hauling the bat over my shoulder, I walked up to the door. I flicked on the porch light and looked through the peephole at the same time.

“
Wanda? Is that you?
”

I screamed l
ong and hard, releasing the pent-up terror lurking in my chest. Then I opened the door and threw the bat at Jack, who ducked as it went whizzing by his head.

“
Wanda!
”
He looked over his shoulder as the bat landed on the lawn.
“
I
’
m sorry. Did I scare you?
”

“
Did you... did you...
scare
me? No, Jack. You freaked the living shit out of me. I
’
m going to have to go change my underwear now.
”
I bent over, both palms on my knees, and gasped for breath.
“
What the hell did you think you were doing?
”

“
I was driving by
to check on the place. I thought you
’
d gone with Elizabeth and the kids. When I saw the lights on . .

“
Did she
ask
you to check up on the place?
”

He shrugged.
“
No, I just thought...
”

I straightened up.
“
Jesus, Jack. If you
’
d been that attentive before, you
might still be married.
”

His face hardened. He stepped back.
“
Look, I
’
m sorry I scared you. I
’
ll go.
”

I held up my hands.
“
No, you totally freaked me out, you
’
re staying until I calm down.
”
I grabbed my jacket off the coat-rack.
“
Do you smoke, Jack?
”