Me and Mom Fall for Spencer (6 page)

“Maybe Mom did,” I say. If she didn’t,
I’ll take it later.

“Well…I’ll see you later,” he says.

 
He
pulls on my braid and as he walks away he’s singing about a girl who is a
dog-walking girl, and one thing, I’m giving him lots of verses.

Me and Mom Fall for
Spencer

Chapter Eleven

I wheel
Cyro’s
chair over, get it on the porch. He’s in there. Jason is a long time at work
already. Then I run home and get his food, take that back over. I can’t help
but feel Spencer’s eyes on me. It’s purely imagination on my part
cause
I know he’s not on the porch.

It’s funny how I have to remember not to
stare at Frieda’s house now. My habit all these years is looking there, always
looking at it. And now I have to remind myself not to so Spencer doesn’t catch
me gawking at the place.

I still have to pick my garden. I don’t
know where Mom is, probably shopping or over with Christine hearing all the
details about my boss.

I grab my baskets off the porch. I
pretty well stripped my green beans, and that’s the most time consuming, but
I’ll have to cut okra cause that’s ready every day. I’m going to make a big pot
of vegetable
soup, that
I do know.

So I’m in my garden and there he is at
the fence giving me a heart attack like usual. “Sarah?”

I look at him and he’s holding a towel. “My
kitten is sick.”

I’m kneeling by the eggplant, holding my
knife
cause
if you’ve ever tried to snap an eggplant
off the plant, good luck. So I stand slow, then put my knife in the basket and
dust my hands on my shorts. When I get close I can see the poor little animal
is struggling for breath.

I dig for my phone and I’m already walking
to the truck while I search through the numbers for the vet. I let them know
we’re on our way.

We lose the kitten there, but at least
they put an end to her suffering. They don’t really know why she died, there
are three possibilities and they are telling us these, and Spencer is standing
there stroking the little thing with the back of his finger.

Spencer gives the kitten a last pat and
leaves it there on the table and we go out. He has the towel in his hand, which
he shoves in the trashcan by the front desk before he pays.

We go outside, pretty quiet and get in
the truck.

“I read how we put our emotions on
animals,” I say. “I mean, that’s why it hits us so hard.” It doesn’t make
sense. Of course we put our emotions on animals,
it’s
called love. I meant
,
we’re softer with our animals.

He laughs a little, even though he’s morose.
He reaches and pulls on my braid again.

“You could get that dog,” I say, and I
don’t mean to, it is a flashing passing thought and it gets out
cause
I’m always pimping those dogs.

He puts the braid pulling hand over his
mouth for a minute and looks out the window.

After a few seconds he says, “Is there a
park around here?” He speaks so softly I’m not sure he said it.

So I just start the truck.

“Sarah, is there a park around here?”

“Yes.” I back out.

“Can we go there?”

I side-eye him.
I hope he’s not going to lose it
cause
I still have
that okra and good vegetable soup takes an hour.

“Yes.”

So he’s flipping my braid around kind of
slow, and I have to remember not to run off the road. The park is about five
miles, on the other side of town. It’s where they shoot the fireworks. It
borders the lake and it’s very pretty there.

“You know what I’d like to do?” he says
when I turn the truck off and we’re sitting there in the parking lot, the
pavilion in front of us with a few picnic tables, and the water beyond that and
then the big backdrop of trees, one of which is starting to change into yellow.

I’m afraid to say anything else. I hope
he isn’t planning to drown himself.

“Let’s you and me take a nap, right
here. You got a blanket in here?”

“A smelly one behind the seat,” I say,
not that we’ll be using it anytime soon cause this sounds fishy.

He laughs. “I’d like to put that smelly
blanket by the water and lay there while you tell me everything you can think
of about yourself. I think I could drift off like that. Could you?”

My life story would put anyone to sleep.
But not really.

All I can think about is the okra, but I
don’t really care about the okra, but it’s all I can afford to think about
right now.

He smiles but his eyes are so sad.
“How about it?”

“I…,” I can’t look at him so I stare out
the windshield.
Me
telling my story is making me more
nervous than lying on the blanket.

“I don’t know. I’m not telling my
story.”

“C’mon,” he says, and he’s already
getting out then trying to lean the seat forward and like a duffle-
pud
I lean in to the steering wheel and let him yank that
blanket out.

He’s already got it under his arm and
he’s walking toward the water, looking back at me every now and then and
nodding for me to follow.

Crap. I get out and slam the door and
shove my hands in my pockets and walk after.

At the water he spreads the blanket and
sits heavily and pats beside him for me to sit also. He’s untying his shoes. I’m
keeping mine on. I sit.

Here we are side by side. We look at the
water in silence. It’s so beautiful I’m kind of proud for him to see it, where
he lives, where I do.

After a while he lays back with a big
sigh, his hands pillow his head. I think, here goes, and I do the same, hands
on my stomach though. The clouds are beautiful too, and he asks what I see and
I can clearly see Homer Simpson, but he just can’t catch it, but he’s laughing
at least.

Then he starts it. “You’ve lived here
all your life….”

“Yes.”

“Went to kindergarten here….”

“District
Two
,
all the way.”

“Graduated eighth
grade.”

“No. I mean yes.
But
homeschooled.”

He looks at me. “You’re kidding.”

I look at him. My God, close like this,
lying like this. I look back at Homer.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I say.
        

“I don’t.
Officially.
But unofficially…yes.”

“That sounds like Mom.”

“Speaking of Marie…I can’t see her
homeschooling.”

I laugh. “Merle schooled me.” I look at Spencer
to get his reaction.

“What?” he lifts his head a
little.

“Sleepy yet?”

He laughs some more. “You’re waking me
up.”

“He’s a retired teacher…even back then. She
hired Merle, but he wouldn’t take pay. He said it was too much fun. He’s such a
sweet liar. I did my work on-line and he over-saw. Marie just told off the
school system and made the big dramatic announcement she was taking her kid
out…at the
schoolboard
meeting with the newspaper guy
there of course.”

“That’s fantastic,” he says. “I’m
impressed.”

We stare at each other for a minute. I
don’t know why we are smiling.

“High school?” he says.

“Merle.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“College?”

“State college over in Carterville and
as many on-line classes as possible. I learn best that way.” I bat my lashes.

“Damn.”

“You?”

He looks away.
“Um
college, yeah.
Didn’t learn a thing.”

“What did you go for?”

“Oh…psychology then
political science.
Useless.”

“Too bad.
I was business and marketing.”

“Not Agronomy?”

“Hardly.
Might have been interesting though.”
My God I am
making small talk. Two big white gulls fly overhead.

“Fantastic,” he says.
Then,
“Favorite movie.”

“There’s this one about four brothers
killed in World War II.” I name off a half a dozen more movies, all of them
made in the forties.

“You realize this isn’t a common list
for a girl your age.”

“I’m not a girl my age.
Or common.
I’m not common.”

He lifts up on his elbow.

I swallow all
crackily
.

“You, Sarah Sullivan, are not common,”
he says, and he has his cheek scrunched on his shoulder, and a smile that
reaches the sadness in his eyes even if it doesn’t obliterate it.

I have to look away.

He lies back down. I put my arm over my
eyes so he’ll know I am done talking.

“Tell me about Frieda’s murder,” he
says.

“You know you’ve
Googled
it,” I say back. I’m mad he just leapt there.

“I haven’t.” He’s on his elbow again. “Sarah
I haven’t.”

I lick my lips like I taste the words
that I won’t speak.

He taps my nose, and it’s barely visible
because I haven’t taken down my arm.

“A week ago I didn’t know you,” I say.

A crow calls and I imagine it gliding
over the water.

“I don’t know how I stood it…not knowing
you.” Then he lies back down, and I can breathe.

I go into that state that is almost
sleeping but you can still hear. And the whole time I feel him beside me.

Many times in my bed at night I’ve tried
to imagine sharing that space with a lover. I am so deeply practicing this
feeling of someone…it just seems impossible…yet here I am…I can feel him, the
weight of him, the mass of him, so close.

The sound of people talking wakens me,
and I look and see Spencer is not disturbed. I can look at him for just a
minute, and I do, his face turned toward me, his body rolled my way, and he is
not touching me, but we are close.

Why? Why does he seek me out? He said he
wanted to be with me all the time. He said he was joking.

He is beautiful, too thin, the bones in
his face so visible, his cheeks go in, his jaw is prominent his brows and
lashes are so heavy, and I know when he’s awake his eyes, so framed are even
more expressive.

Then those same eyes open, and there I
am looking, and as soon as he sees me I’m just stuck, and what’s funny is I
don’t look into eyes without concentration, determination. It just feels so personal.
But
with him, I can’t not look
.

“Spencer…
are
we
friends?” I want to groan, but I control it. Is this the dumbest question?

He smiles, rolls his face into the arm
that cushions his head, then quickly rolls back and smiles at me. “Sarah, could
I sleep this close to you without a weapon if we weren’t friends?”

Me and Mom Fall for
Spencer

Chapter Twelve

“I’ve seen Spencer enough today,” I say,
already in my beater and knit shorts
cause
I’m working
my ass off on the computer then going to bed.

Mom is holding a pan of my vegetable
soup she’s taking to Spencer. “I need you to run my ideas past.”

Like I’m going to hang out at Frieda’s
and discuss paint chips?
Um, no.
I’m not going to
force myself on Spencer yet again. And I have Spencer saturation. That means I
have to let this go through the strainer. I’m on overflow. Add the inside of Frieda’s
house to that and I’m psychotic.

We’ve been together constantly, and if I
show up over there it’s embarrassing. And I can’t take anymore. I can’t even
look at him right now. I’m ready to pop.

His words, his skin, his jaw, his lips,
his earlobes, his sideburns, his stubble, his teeth, his eye lashes, his
nostrils, his smell and the skin scrunched on his cheek, and the way his tongue
helps him form words…my name…that look in his eyes, unspoken something…and back
to those words. It’s coming at me like rapid fire clips in a Technicolor movie,
sound bites too. Crap!

I have to work. And there’s still
patrol! And church in the morning.

“No, Mom. It’s n…o.” I take my bowl of
soup, my third and two bottles of water and my dishtowel in case I spill and
laptop under my arm I go out of the kitchen. My hair is all over the place, wet
from my shower even though I prefer baths, and I’m tired and sun-burnt, and
cranky and hungry and overwhelmed and…not myself.

All I can think about is Spencer Gundry.
He is holding my brain hostage. How am I going to live with those words in my
head, those feelings lying beside him got going in me. I am preoccupied. So
much so I trip on the stairs and my soup slops onto my shirt. “
Frickin
’ hell,” I say, and Mom hears it and yells, “Sarah.”

Oh, pot meet kettle, but she still has
to do it, be my own personal Pharisee.

“Mother-
eff
I
mean,” I yell.

“Sarah Marie,” she yells back, as she
goes out the door
cause
I hear it slap behind her.

I am so glad for her right now, standing
in the path between me and Spencer Gundry. Spencer Gundry. I say it three more
times.

Spencer.

Spencer Gundry.

Gundry.

I shake my head and enter my room and
put all my stuff down, glad I didn’t get soup on my laptop. “Thank you God,” I
say aloud. And I go to my dresser and root for another beater and more bottoms,
long ones this time so I can walk outside in them without looking like a ho on
the prowl.
 

I get busy but it’s nearly impossible,
so I keep checking the gossip sites, telling myself I’ll ease into it, my work,
I will, just a little diversion to get my mind settled…but all I see are
couples, breaking up, getting together, dating openly, dating secretly,
couples…and I think of how he stroked that kitten, fingers long and lean, on
the guitar, touching my hair, and the way he threw that towel away, that look,
the park, what he wanted, the blanket under his arm, the words he said, and
even I know there were words he didn’t say, cause I have those, books and books
of those, and he laid back, and I laid back, I followed easy…so easy.

And the pale underside of his arm as he
stacked his hands under his head, beckoning me to lay my head just there, and
what would it feel like, the relief, soft skin, muscle beneath…strength…and
words when he lifted his head, my name…and what he said as he leaned toward
me…he is a man.

He isn’t Jason or Mike, so obvious and
hard to respect, he is nothing like them, he is a man, deep as the lake, and it
means something when Spencer Gundry puts his face by mine, his body by mine, it
does more, much more than make me furious.

It makes me see I’m a woman. Just like
anybody, wanting the same things, pulled by the same want. I could be his.

Seeing as I am not going to get much
done I finish my soup and shove my feet in my shoes, and my hair into this big
bulging knot on my head and put on my cap and go downstairs and take my
flashlight off the charger, and check that I have my phone, find my
hoodie
, even though it’s warm, and I stick my phone in the
pocket.

I go out the front door and right away I
hear Spencer playing the guitar. And Mom is laughing. It makes me smile, but
not really,
cause
I don’t trust Mom to behave, to keep
her mouth shut about me, but at least I know Spencer can handle himself, I know
that now.

The lights are on at Frieda’s, every
light, and I haven’t seen it that lit up, cause Frieda was frugal, but on
Halloween, she’d light it up like it was now, upstairs and down. Back in the
day Frieda made every kid do a trick to get their candy. None of that, “I don’t
have a trick,” crap. God I practically lived there, slept there more than my
own home. What would I have done without her?

I don’t want to think about it. I am not
running, but I don’t want to dwell on it either. I thought I’d turned a page. But
then Spencer came, and now we are going to what,
pick
out wallpaper? I’m not exactly ready for that.

Jason is home.
Car in
the driveway, him coming out of the house carrying a bottle, crossing over to
me.
I hit him with the beam, but it doesn’t stop him, and he knows, for
years, you don’t challenge the death ray.

He’s taught me the meaning of jealousy,
me and
Cyro
walking the street, he not allowed. That’s
how I recognize it in myself, the jealousy, even now, jealous when Christine
takes Mom away, jealous now knowing Mom is with Spencer and I’m not. Jealousy
is the hardest thing to admit, the worst,
cause
once
you get there you can kill.

So here Jason is, and he’s taught me the
meaning, and he stalks through the death ray like it is light from a
flashlight.

I keep walking. Just because someone
breaks the rules doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge him. But of course, he will
be acknowledged.

He’s walking with me.

“Try to ignore me, Sarah. Just try.”

I’m not trying—I’m doing.

I am checking out the rental. No more
bottles on the porch. I walk around back and he is close behind me, and I
realize that bottle I’d found last night is probably from him.

“You let him walk with you?” he says.

I smell alcohol from three feet away.

Oh, I let Spencer break the rules so now
there are no rules. I go about my check until he grabs me. I pull away then. “Get
away from me.”

“Don’t give me that,” he steps closer,
grabs me again. I hit him with my flashlight.

He grabs his arm. I’ve hit him hard.

“You tell him what a freak you are? You
better tell him Sarah. He might not be as patient…as stupid as I’ve been.”

I’m holding the flashlight. Next time
he’s getting it under the chin.

“You want to give it away, Sarah,
finally, you only have to look as far as me. I haven’t been shy about it. You
think I’m
gonna
stand by and let him move in,” he
gestures below my waist, “all the way in.”

I plow into him, flashlight in the
chest, he staggers back laughing mean and he catches himself.

“Are you out of your mind?” I yell.

“God,” he falls butt first against the
house, closes his eyes and lets his body sag. “This is such bullshit.
This whole thing.
We should have gotten the hell out of here
years ago.”

I don’t want to hear this.

“We were never going anywhere. But if
you need to be my guest,” I say.

“I signed up for the army.”

I stare. “You did not.”

“I’m leaving. November first. You can
come over in the morning and make sure he’s still
breathing,
you can give him lectures about taking a shower now and then. You can empty his
pee jars and haul his ass to the doctor’s and make sure he’s got his pills. You
can get in his groceries and make him pay his bills and do his laundry. Know
anything about wound care? Yeah, I’m passing the baton.”

“You said you wouldn’t.” I asked him not
to sign up. I begged him.

“Yeah, well…you don’t have any right to
ask me for anything. Else.”

“Jason!” Standing there, leaning heavily
on his cane in the dark beside the empty house.
Cyro
.

It throws Jason but he hardens his face
again. This is a big effort. “Go home
Pop
,” he says,
his eyes straight ahead as he takes another drink from the flat bottle.

“I called Colin.” Colin is our sheriff. “You
need to get home before I have you arrested.”

“For what?”

“Leave Sarah alone.
Go home.”

“Oh…your girl.
Let’s not take chances with the princess.” Jason moves sullenly off the wall. “I’m
just your son. Throw his ass in jail…right Pop?” He’s even with his father,
staring him down as he moves around
Cyro
. Then he
goes across the street but not to the house. He throws the bottle against the
street, lets it shatter.

Then he gets in his car and backs out.
Cyro
makes it to the front yard and calls to him, but Jason
isn’t listening. He roars off.

Cyro
stands there a minute looking after Jason’s departure. I don’t know what he
must have done to get here so quickly. I wonder if his leg is strapped on
properly. So I go to him, don’t touch him, he wouldn’t want me to take his arm,
but I’m waiting for him to move so I can see him across the street.

We do
that,
go
slow across the street, careful to stay clear of the glass. Colin comes and
Cyro
says it was a false alarm. Colin drives slowly down
the street, shining his light where mine will be shortly.

“Sarah…I’ll talk to him.”

“Did he tell you? November first?”

Cyro
nods. “It’s time.”

We both know that doesn’t excuse it. He’s
driving drunk. “We should have told Colin to pull him over.”

“He needs to go. It’s time for a change.
For you, too.
You’ve got no business out here in the
dark.”

I look at him. He can’t say this to me. Not
him.

“You see how defenseless you are if
someone…?”

“You know I have to,” I whisper.

“You’re going to be hurt.” He turns
away. He’s angry. I watch him work his aging body up the stairs. I watch him
open the door, and before he goes in he turns to say, “Go home.”

When we patrolled together, back in the
day, we walked opposite sides of the street, talking with our lights, if at
all. Now he’s made a speech.
 

How can he say this to me? He’s the one
that invented patrol. He’s the one that taught me.
First from
his chair, wheeled down the street.
He held the light and I held a light
and he’d wait while I took my light and checked everything. “All clear,” I used
to say, my voice low-pitched even then. Then we made up signs. I’d arc my
light. That meant all clear.

Then his leg began to heal, and he used
crutches and he went through the surgeries, then therapies.

This lasted for years. But Diabetes got
him and the leg had to come off.

He said it wouldn’t stop him. For a
while he was in the chair, in the street again, but it was a different street
and no one cared about a crazy guy, an old man.

He tried to tell me it was over. We
didn’t need to walk it anymore. So I told him it was okay. I would do it alone.
By then, I had to do it. It was my life.

But now…he tells me to go home. He says
I could be hurt. He used to tell me I wouldn’t be hurt. He said I could use my
faculties, just like I had that night. I could think. I could use my light. I
could use my mace. I could scream and yell. I could kick in the
place,
do the things he taught me. He used to say I was
strong. I had to be strong.
Nobody’s victim.
No one
could stop me.

And I got better, stronger. I got well.

But now it’s his son, his own son who
breaks the rules. And he straps on his leg and makes his shaky way over to save
me.
 

It’s like he took his blessing away and
prophesized I’d be hurt. A
car goes
past too fast and
someone yells, “Hey Baby.” And they laugh and speed down the street. And I’m
standing there with my heart hammering. What am I doing?

What am I doing?

I’m back at my house. I am looking over
at Frieda’s, at Mom on the porch talking to Spencer. He sees me and waves. Mom
turns and sees me standing on the sidewalk but she’s mid-sentence and she keeps
talking to Spencer.