Cold Tea on a Hot Day (12 page)

He was sinking all he had in the world into this place.

He turned out the lights and went out the front door to the curb, where he had begun parking his BMW in an effort to avoid what dust he could. He jumped over the door and into the seat, in the manner he liked to do to keep himself fit, or to display his fitness to himself and anyone else who might notice, and simply for the fun of it.

Backing out, he headed down the street drenched with early-evening sunlight. It rained a lot more down in Houston than here, and he was enjoying the dryness. He enjoyed seeing the play of golden setting sunlight on the buildings and trees as he drove the few blocks to his house.

When he saw the Victorian house, he reminded himself that it was his new home.

He pulled beneath the portico, got out and slammed the door, went easily up the stairs and in through the side door that wasn’t locked. He didn’t see a reason to lock the house. Most everything he owned was still in taped boxes that had been delivered on Saturday, which would make robbery pretty easy, he thought, glancing into the rooms at the stacked boxes. Although he figured that people exiting his house with boxes would likely be noticed and questioned in Valentine, America, where his neighbor across the street was often sitting on her porch and watching everything like a hawk.

Even when he had lived in the big city, though, Tate never had been much for locking anything. Lucille used
to say he didn’t lock doors because he had nothing worth stealing, not outside himself nor in.

Funny how he thought of Lucille these days. As if he was seeing a review of his life in order to see clearly the mistakes, so as not to make them again in the future.

The silence of the house engulfed him, and he had the dreary thought that he had not successfully built up riches of the spiritual sort, either. He had for too many years kept people at a distance, kept himself running after a journalism career so hard that he did not have time or energy to face the nagging bite of emptiness in his soul.

It was only when he had been brought to an abrupt halt, when he was face-to-face with the emptiness that was on the brink of swallowing him, that he had attempted to change his life. Sometimes, like right then, he wearied of the attempt.

Living life took a great deal of fortitude.

He thought of all this as he opened the refrigerator—a five-foot, curved-top vintage fifties Kelvinator that revealed his cousin’s total lack of concern with either the house or modernization. Or perhaps it stood as a testament to solid craftsmanship from another era. Tate found himself reluctant to part with it.

He wished for a good glass of sweet iced tea, but having none made, he took the easier route of pulling a small bottle of Coke from the wire shelf, then slammed the door. He popped the cap from the bottle, shook five cat treats from the container on the counter, and walked out the back door, where Bubba had already learned to wait for him each evening.

“You’re a pretty smart boy,” he said to the cat, as the
animal sat up to receive each treat. “You take the good things of life immediately.”

Immediately after the final treat, Bubba gave him a satisfied look and then turned and ambled away.

“Got what you wanted, and now you’re off,” Tate said to the cat’s retreating behind. “I feel used.”

Straightening, he drank deeply from the cold bottle.

The big, blooming lilac bush buzzed with bees. He was going to have to get a mower for the lawn. He had never owned a power mower. He had never owned a lawn. He’d
had
a lawn once, with Lucille, but he didn’t think it could be called owning one. He had paid a lawn maintenance crew to handle it for the five months or so they had lived in the house.

Just then he heard childish voices, laughter and a dog’s bark. A woman’s voice cut in. Marilee’s voice, from her yard just beyond the cedar trees.

His spirit perked up, and he started toward the sound, drawn along as surely as if by a cord. Through the break in the trees and to the gate in the fence covered with rambling rose vines, letting himself through the gate even before being invited by Marilee, who stood in front of a smoking grill, while Willie Lee and Corrine raced around with Munro in the shadowy yard.

“Well, you already have your drink,” Marilee said to him, her eyes on the bottle in his hand. “Would you like to join us for hot dogs?” Her eyes came to his, and her smile was warm.

“Yes, ma’am, that sounds right fine,” he replied.

He allowed himself the enjoyment of studying her womanly beauty, even when she looked away. Tate had
always considered it one of his finest traits that he could appreciate the delicacies of a woman.

“My mama always said there was nothin’ like these little Co-Cola’s,” Tate explained. “The Coke in them tastes better than in the bigger bottles. Lots better than in plastic.”

They were sitting on the back concrete steps, eating their hot dogs and beans off plates in their laps. Marilee had said she once possessed a picnic table and benches, but that during a power outage in a bad winter storm, she had burned them and had never replaced them.

Tate was in the midst of explaining how his mother used to take him and his brother down to the corner grocery every afternoon to get a cold drink out of the cooler of ice. “We didn’t even have ‘lectric in those little country stores when I was a kid,” he explained to the children he doubted could imagine not having electricity.

“Is it dif-fer-ent?” Willie Lee asked, breaking into Tate’s tale.

“What different?” Tate asked. “Not havin’ electricity?”

“What is in the bot-tle?” Willie Lee was looking at the now empty bottle in Tate’s hand.

Marilee said, “It’s all the same Coke, Willie Lee. Just some people think the little bottles taste different.”

“They do taste different,” Tate stated.

“Matter of opinion,” Marilee returned.

Tate took exception to an opinion he found poor, and into this Corrine inserted with a hesitant voice, “The little bottles are glass. The bigger bottles are plastic.”

Tate and Marilee regarded her, and then Tate said, “We should do a taste test.” He grabbed the idea with enthusiasm. “We’ll gather the different bottles of Coke and taste each one to see if there is a difference. It will be a great experiment. You can give the children points for a science project,” he added to Marilee, thrilled with himself for thinking of a way to contribute to the children’s education, and thrilled even still further at the bright smile that came across Marilee’s face.

“I think that’s a super idea,” she said.

“Well, by golly, then…come on and finish up those dogs, kids, so we can get to it.”

Ten minutes later, he was a little surprised when Marilee threw him the keys to her Cherokee and told him, “It’s your idea, so you go buy the Cokes. I’ll stay here and get the kitchen cleaned up.”

“Okay. You kids want to go with me?”

“Yes,” Willie Lee said immediately.

Tate saw Corrine looking uncertainly at Marilee, and noticed that Marilee hesitated.

“Yes, you guys can go,” Marilee said.

“Mun-ro, too.” Willie Lee put in.

“You bet, Munro, too,” Tate said, pleased that Corrine was joining them as they went out the door.

It had been many years since he had been alone with children. He had on a number of occasions, years ago, enjoyed his brother’s three children, but they were long grown. This experience with Willie Lee and Corrine somehow struck him as quite special. He realized he felt pretty important and grand, helping to improve children’s spirits with an openness about life.

He supposed he was getting a little carried away about a short trip to the IGA, but nevertheless, there was something about being a man of his ripe age with children that enabled him to jump back into his own childhood. He supposed he’d had to grow up enough to be childish again.

He took an index card from his pocket and jotted a note on it. Then he noticed Corrine looking at him curiously.

“Just jotting down a thought I don’t want to lose,” he told her. “That’s what newspapermen do.” He thought maybe she should know that trait; it might prove helpful to her in the future, should she get interested in a newspaperman.

At the checkout counter, Tate told the young clerk, who looked quizzically at the array of Coca-Cola in the different-size bottles, and some in cans, too, “We are conducting an experiment. I have with me budding scientists—” he put a hand on each of the children’s shoulder “—who might in another twenty years possibly develop soft drinks that can feed the world.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said the clerk, who was young enough to know everything.

Eager to get back to Marilee and share the fun of the experiment with her, Tate zoomed along the streets at a good clip. His mind was zooming on ahead, too, in the manner of a man who is powerfully attracted to a woman. That he had not been so strongly attracted to a woman in years came to him. Maybe it was simply the new changes in his life, he thought. Maybe the attraction would pass.

Still, Marilee James excited him, by golly. Each time he came into her presence, he felt like a man in a manner
he had somehow forgotten along the way. His mind took off with a strong fantasy of drawing her to him, slowly and seductively…hoping he hadn’t forgotten how to do that. He imagined kissing her.

It was at this part in the fantasy that he was brought to an abrupt halt, in both mind and vehicle, by the sight of Parker Lindsey’s truck sitting in Marilee’s driveway.

“Parker’s here,” Corrine said, as Tate pulled the Cherokee to the front curb. Her delight was apparent, and irritating.

“Yes, he is,” Tate said, carefully, mindful that Corrine’s young eyes had turned on him with some curiosity.

“Hello, Parker. Good to see you.” Tate put the sacks of Coca-Cola on the table and held out his hand for a shake.

“Hello, Tate.”

The man’s grasp was very firm. Parker Lindsey was an inch taller than Tate and a good ten years younger, maybe, but Tate judged himself to be on the high end of any comparison with the man. He let Lindsey see this in his eyes.

“Marilee says you all are about to run an experiment,” Lindsey said.

“Guess we’re intent on havin’ fun, too.”

Tate lined the can and various bottles of Coke on the counter. Marilee brought glasses for each of them, and they began to taste.

“Better rinse with water between each taste,” Lindsey advised.

Tate had been going to say that.

The one opinion everyone shared was that the cola in bottles, either the plastic or the small glass, tasted different from the canned cola. Everyone but Willie Lee, whose concentration went to the bubbles in each glass he was handed. He liked how the bubbles tickled his nose when he stuck his nose in the glass. At one point he inhaled too many bubbles and choked, causing Marilee to retire from the testing to keep an eye on him, as he wanted to continue experiencing the bubbles tickling his nose.

“Yep,” Tate said. “These smaller bottles of Coke taste a whole lot better.”

“I like the canned,” Parker said. “And I really doubt you could tell the difference in Coke out of the small bottle or the big one, if you weren’t lookin’ at it.”

“Try me. I won’t look.”

Tate, aware of being on the childish side but unable to stop himself, handed Lindsey his empty glass, picked up his water glass and swished water in his mouth, then turned his back.

Corrine was looking up at him, a curious expression on her small, heart-shaped face, and he winked at her. “You keep track of what bottle, missy, so there aren’t any mistakes.” Then he smiled at Marilee, who raised an eyebrow.

Lindsey handed him a glass with a couple of swallows of cola. Corrine watched him as he drank from it.

“Small bottle.” Tate handed his glass back to Lindsey.

“Lucky guess. Three tries.”

There was the sound of liquid splashed in a glass.

Lindsey gave Tate the glass again. Tate tasted, then tasted again. “One liter.”

“Okay.”

Lindsey disappeared with the glass behind Tate’s back. Tate took a quick swish of water, and repositioned himself for the final taste.

Lindsey handed him the glass with several swallows of brown liquid. Tate drank deeply, swished the cola around his tongue. Lindsey and Corrine gazed at him. Marilee, holding a droopy-eyed Willie Lee, suppressed a grin.

“Small bottle,” Tate said.

“You’re a good guesser, I give up,” Parker said.

Marilee chuckled aloud, which was Tate’s reward.

Tate looked at black-and-white photographs of the prairie on the living room wall, while Lindsey, on the sofa like he was used to being there, flipped channels on the television. They were alone. Willie Lee was put to bed, and Marilee was helping Corrine in her bath.

“Why don’t you go on home?” Lindsey said suddenly.

Tate looked around. “Why don’t you?”

“I belong here.”

“Do you?”

Lindsey gazed at him. “Marilee and I are engaged.”

“Oh? I hadn’t heard that.”