Talk of the Town (7 page)

"Yes, Harley, I'm ready to go."

"Get out of the window," he said, appearing in the doorway—for a final inspection no doubt. "He'll think you're watching for him."

“I am.”

"Well, don't. And I'll get the door when he gets here." He stepped into the room, eyeing her attire. "Nothing shorter, huh?"

"Harley," she said, half shocked, looking down at the hem of her short denim skirt. She could already feel a cool breeze on the backs of her thighs. How much shorter did he want it? "Women my age begin to have sagging body parts, you know. If this were any shorter, my bottom would hang out."

"You still have nice legs. Can’t hurt to show’em off a little."

“You think so?" she asked, checking for herself, inordinately flattered by her son's praise. Her
son's
praise, it occurred to her. "You know, I don't think other sons would be encouraging their mothers to wear shorter skirts for some man they hardly know. What is it with you and this dinner? You aren't invited, you know."

"I know," he said, looking young and shy for a second. "I've just never seen you go out with anyone before." He shrugged. "I mean, I was thinking about it . . . and, well, I asked Grampa. He said you hadn't been out with a man since ... my dad. How come?"

She looked away to consider her answer, moving slowly toward the bed to sit down. "No interest, I guess. It was hard to trust men after your dad, and then later, when you were little and I was working at the plant, I was too busy and too tired to have much of an interest in men."

"Was it because of me? Because I didn't have a dad? Because men don't want women with kids?"

"No," she said without hesitation.

"I remember men coming to the house, asking you out. But you never went with them."

"I didn't want to. It had nothing to do with you." A brief pause. "As I recall, most of them would follow you home from somewhere or another, telling me what a great kid you were. That little league coach you had made me really nervous. I kept thinking that if you ever came up missing, he'd have kidnapped you. Your third grade teacher was the same way."

"So, how come you didn't date 'em?"

"I told you. I didn't want to."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she said, frowning, feeling annoyed for no good reason in particular. "It was easier that way." She laughed. "Men think women are weird, but it's really the other way around. You're just a young man, but you're getting weirder every day."

"Don't you get lonely?" he asked. His green eyes that were so like her own were solemn and grave. Even as a small child he'd had these profoundly thoughtful moments when he seemed like a very wise, very troubled old man trapped in a kid's innocence.

"I have you. And Grampa," she said, a standard mother's answer that clearly didn't satisfy him. She knew what he was asking, and he knew it. "I do get lonely. Sometimes. It passes. And then I'm glad it's just you and me and Earl."

"It won't be forever, you know," he said, reminding her that both he and Earl were getting older. They both listened to a car coming to a slow stop out front.

"I'll deal with that then," she said, rising to her feet. "In the meantime I'm happy with things the way they are, so you can stop trying to pawn me off on some unsuspecting man. Okay?"

He grinned, looking too savvy by far. "I don't think this guy is unsuspecting, Mom."

The squirrels were awake and clawing at her insides again.

"He is a little obvious, isn't he?"

"Lu said he could have lit up a neon sign this afternoon in the diner."

"He could have lit up Las Vegas," she muttered when he left the room to answer the knock at the door downstairs. She felt a fresh wash of mortification recollecting the moment she'd realized he wasn't going to kiss her right there behind the lunch counter. The unexpected disappointment had been staggering, and he'd grinned when it showed on her face. "The jerk."

He didn't deserve all the trouble she'd gone to, shaving her legs and putting on makeup. She pulled the carefully tucked cotton blouse from the waistband and knotted the tails in front so he wouldn't think she cared how she looked. Then she frowned down on the little black smudge across the toe of the white sneakers she'd put on, hoping she'd feel lighter on her feet when the time came.

This was exactly why she didn't date. A lot of trouble and fuss for nothing. She'd mention this to Harley tomorrow, she decided, walking into the living room.

"Look, Mom. Flowers," Harley said, grinning, indicating the clay pot in Gary's hands. One leaf and a thin green stub of a stem protruded from the center of it. "Eventually."

"It's a-refugee," Gary told her, his expression announcing his delight in seeing her again. "A little love and kindness, and it'll be a red begonia someday."

How appropriate.

Rose tucked her tongue into her cheek and graciously accepted the near dead vegetation without comment—however, both Harley and Gary saw the amusement in her eyes and knew it was a favorable omen.

He hadn't been sure of the reception he'd get. Earlier she had thrust his plate of meatloaf into his hands and promptly disappeared into the kitchen while he ate. His new friend Danny O'Brian had passed him some meaningful glances in relation to the amount of noise she'd made with the pots and pans, but she hadn't even said good-bye when he left.

Rose set the grocery store reject in the kitchen window where it could catch the morning sun—and where she might remember to water it once in a while. She took a moment to collect herself.

She didn't want to enjoy Gary Albright or his silly sense of humor. She didn't want to like him or the pleasurable feelings he stirred in her. She was determined not to have a good time in his company. Let's face it, what woman in her right mind, who wasn't looking for a relationship in the first place, would choose to go out with a garbageman?

Hmmm. On the other hand, who else would she go out with? Who would be safer? Now, that was a consoling thought. If she started to feel the slightest bit attracted to him, all she had to do was remind herself that he was a garbageman.

Not that there was anything wrong with garbagemen as a whole, mind you. And she was sure there was an auxiliary association of garbagemen's wives somewhere, too. She simply wasn't interested in joining.

“You have plenty of gas?" she heard Harley asking.

"Yes, sir," Gary answered, playing along good-naturedly.

"I want her home in time to fix my lunch for school tomorrow. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

She watched Harley slip an arm around her date's shoulder and turn him away, speaking in hushed tones. Her face burned hot as a torch when Gary nodded another "yes, sir" and patted the wallet in his rear pants pocket with his hand.

"Harley, honey," she said, taking his hand to lead him away, refusing to hear Gary's chuckle, avidly avoiding the expression on his face. She led her only son back to the kitchen, muttering, "You will not live to see morning." Adding in a louder voice, "Don't forget that you need to cook supper for you and Grampa. I left the directions there on the counter. Follow them."

An inch or two taller than she, he bent his head to her and whispered, "Do you have a quarter in your sock ... just in case?"

She stuck a finger in his face and wordlessly told him that he'd crossed the line. By several miles.

He grinned. "Try to have fun," he whispered with an impulsive peck to her cheek

"You are the worst son I've ever had, but I love you anyway," she told him.

"Yo, Gary," he said, turning away from her. "Remember what I told you, man."

"Yes, sir."

Rose sighed a mother's sigh and reached for her purse.

"He's only been a teenager for a year and a half and already it feels like a lifetime."

"Wait till he starts driving," he said, smiling as she groaned. "Earl, as always, it's been a pleasure talking with you. I hope to see you again soon."

Rose wasn't aware that they'd exchanged even a single word, but the old man lifted a friendly hand and waved them good-bye—or waved them away from in front of the television set, she wasn't sure which.

He followed her down the stairs and out of the front door of the gas station to where he'd parked his truck. If her truck were a blueberry buggy, his would have been a sumptuous sapphire carriage—with powder blue custom accents and shiny chrome trim.

"I have a car but . . . not with me. I hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind."

"Wait a second, let me get that," he said as she reached out to open the door.

"Look," she said, feeling ridiculous. "I can open doors for myself. You don't have to go to all this rigmarole for a simple dinner. I know you're trying to be nice, but it really isn't necessary."

"Yes, it is."

"No. It isn't."

"Yes, it is," he said again, reaching into the truck and removing another clay pot. "I didn't want you to sit on this. I had to special order it." He held it out to her. "This is for you. The other one was to amuse the kid."

"Thank you," she said, taking the shrubby little plant. The leaves were tiny and intensely green, and there were little blue flowers scattered among them. It smelled wonderful. A sharp, sweet, sort of minty smell. "I don't think I've seen this before. It's very pretty."

"Yes, it is."

"What is it?"

"Rosemary." She looked up and could tell immediately that he wasn't talking about the plant.

"Like rosemary and thyme?"

He nodded. "I looked it up. One of the books said it was native to the Mediterranean. Only the leaves are used for seasoning, you know, but extracts from the flowers are used in medicines and perfumes." He touched one with the tip of his finger. "In
Hamlet,
Ophelia says, 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.' But in the language of flowers it means fidelity in love. I like both meanings, don't you?"

"Yes. I do," she said, semistunned that he'd gone to such lengths with her name.

"In another book they said it was sometimes called sea-dew, too, and that it's useful in lovemaking. . . ." He frowned in concentration. "That had something to do with Venus, the love goddess, springing from the foam of the sea and the sea-dew helping to express sexual love." He laughed. "The book didn't say whether you were supposed to eat it, rub it on, or shake it at the moon, so I didn't try it. But, all in all, it sounded like a nifty little plant to give to someone named Rosemary."

"It sure does," she said, charmed, "I mean, it is. Thank you. For thinking of it and for . . ." She didn't know what else she wanted to thank him for. Everything, she supposed. For the plant. For looking up the meaning of Rosemary. For asking her out. For putting up with her freakish foibles. For his freakish foibles, too, she supposed, since she was feeling kindly toward him at that moment.

". . . for not giving away the plant's secrets in front of Harley," he said, filling in the blank for her, standing away from the door so she could get in. "He'd have that sucker plucked clean in no time."

She laughed, and he swung the door closed, then she grimaced as if in pain. They hadn't pulled out of the drive and already the date wasn't going well. She was having fun.

"Now, if you don't like the place I've picked out, you let me know," he said, taking Highway 101 north toward Arcata, a twenty-minute drive from Redgrove. "I was amazed at how many nice places there were to choose from around here. Thank God for tourism, or I'd have had to take you to one of those seedy waterfront places I was in this afternoon."

Ah-ha!

"You were down there drinking all afternoon?" she asked with a practiced calm.

Though he didn't look any worse for the wear, it was mildly gratifying to know that she hadn't misjudged him. She'd suspected that first day that he was a heavy drinker, and it certainly explained a great deal of his behavior.

"Not drinking, just looking around."

Oh.

"At what?" she asked, chagrined. "The fishing boats?"

"A few. Mainly I was checking out bars and chowder houses."

"For what?"

"For food and a dance floor."

"You mean you . . ." She turned her head and tried to read the expression on his face by the dash lights. Surely he was funning with her again. "'You spent the afternoon looking for a place to take me tonight?"

"Well, if this were Sacramento or Fairfield or San Francisco, I'd know where to take you. But I don't go out much when I'm up here."

"Why didn't you ask me to recommend a place?"

"I was afraid you'd say Burger King and end our date at seven-thirty."

She smiled, inside and out. Granted, her dates with eligible men had been few and far between, but she couldn't recall anyone going to such pains to ensure her having a good time. In fact, she couldn't remember anyone at any time going to such pains to ensure her having anything.

"So, where do you stay when you're up here?" she asked, needing a change of subject.

"I have a little place outside Eureka. A property investment really. Not much there but a roof and a bed."

"How long do you usually stay?"

"Depends. A week. Sometimes two. Longer if I need to. Less if I don't. I keep a flexible schedule so I can drop in unexpectedly and check things out. Ride the trucks. Go over the books. I get a better picture that way."

"You actually ride on the back of the garbage trucks?"

"Now and again. I don't want to forget what it's like out there. And it gives me a chance to see my guys in action. Make sure they're putting the lids back on the cans."

"You really love being a garbageman, don't you?"

"Yep," he said, turning his blinker on to take a left-hand turn to Arcata. "No sense in working hard at something you can't care about. Even Harley knows that."

They glanced at each other across the bench seat, silently debating the issue.

"Harley doesn't want to understand," she said, looking out the window at the settling dusk. "It's only temporary."

"How'd you get interested in welding?"

"I grew up with it. In the garage."

"You grew up over the gas station?"