ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild) (10 page)

Then she called Edna to update her on what was happening. “I should be home in about an hour. I’ll just bundle up the stuff Polly needs and pop it back to the hospital first.”

“Don’t rush," Edna said comfortably. “We’re getting along just fine here."

Maxine heard Graham babbling in the background, and Edna held the phone to his ear so Maxine could talk to him for a moment.

In startling contrast to the untidiness everywhere else, Polly’s closets and drawers were arranged with military neatness and precision, her dresses and suits color coordinated. Maxine found a bag and loaded it with the things Polly had requested.

In the kitchen she wrinkled her nose and then threw away leftovers and loaded the dishwasher, scouring the sink and counter. She tidied the books and newspapers in the living room into neat stacks, and when she was finished she wandered over to the sliding patio doors and stepped outside.

The small rooftop deck had a breathtaking view, overlooking the park, Lost Lagoon, and the towering snowcapped North Shore Mountains. This was the view that Maxine described when her clients wanted to know where she lived; it was a perfect setting for a fantasy.

Did Harold live in an apartment like this?

The thought of him brought back the tumult of feelings she'd had the night before. She had to forget about him. The way to do that was to keep busy.

She hurried back inside and grabbed the things she’d packed. Between her business, her son, and now Polly’s accident, staying too busy to think shouldn’t be a problem.

Her gaze fell on the law books and file folders, mute testimony to Polly’s devotion to her work.

It was too bad her own job didn’t use her brain a little more, Maxine thought. She remembered the books she’d borrowed about radio broadcasting. There were night-school courses offered at a local college, weren’t there?

With Polly staying at the house, there was no reason she couldn’t be away for a few hours one or two nights a week. And after Polly left, maybe she could hire Edna to come a few hours early and baby-sit.

She hated the thought of being away from Graham at bedtime. And it was a scary idea, going back to school.

For a while she did her best to talk herself out of it, but as she drove back to the hospital, dropped Polly’s things at the nursing station, and then hurried home, the idea just wouldn't go away. 

“Daddy? Wake up, Daddy. Today is my school, you promised."

Sadie’s persistent nagging finally penetrated the dream he was having about a boat and a naked woman. Harry groaned, rolled over, and managed to come to enough to squint at the clock.

Eight-fifteen.

Eight-fifteen?

He threw the covers aside and leaped out of bed. He had a fuzzy memory of turning off the alarm earlier, and he groaned. The week before, he’d crumpled under Mrs. Campanato’s relentless campaign, and Sadie had been attending the program ever since. She was due at Motoring Munchkins in fifteen minutes.

At least Sadie was dressed, after a fashion— her own fashion. She’d put on the costume he'd bought her last Halloween, a floor-length, silver-spangled, Cinderella-at-the-ball number. She had her magic wand under her arm and her yellow rubber boots on her feet.

Tugging on the jeans and sweatshirt he’d worn all week, he raced into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water.

No time to shave; he had to get Sadie fed.

He solved that dilemma by putting Cheerios in a Ziploc bag and slapping jam between two slices of bread.

“You can have a breakfast picnic in the car,” he declared, hauling her out the door.

Damn, he'd forgotten to brush her hair—and his own, he realized, glimpsing his unshaven face, bed-head hair, and glum expression in the rearview mirror.

What the hell. His looking like a crazed street person would convince Mrs. Campanato’s daughter Rosalie he was a bad prospect as a future husband and maybe put a stop to the coy glances she shot his way during the juice break. He could only hope.

“Are you pissed off, Daddy? You look pissed off, Daddy.”

“No, I’m not pissed off, and I told you not to use that word." 

“Why, Daddy? You say it on the phone; I heard you say it lots.”

Damn. He must have been talking to the software company who'd owed him money for two months now.

“It’s a man word; language like that isn’t for little girls. Eat your picnic, kid.”

He stopped at a light and noted that the strawberry jam he’d smeared on her bread was now decorating the front of her white Cinderella ball gown. He was gonna get those scathing looks again from the European mother whose little Elsa looked as if she’d been bathed in bleach and dipped in flour.

His spirits were at an all-time low. It had been two weeks since his disastrous date with India. After the first several calls, he’d given up trying to contact her; she’d obviously put out the word with her colleague that if he called, the rule was to hang up.

He’d written the outline for Sullivan, but he’d felt like a traitor doing it. And then when Sullivan said it was good stuff, and to go ahead, and “This here telephone sex broad sounds like a real firecracker,” and "Here's the money, Harry,” he’d wanted to punch Sullivan in the chops and tell him where to stuff the check.

Except he needed the money. The washing machine had packed it in, and Joe at the garage had found out the car needed brakes as well as a transmission. So he sold India to pay for it, God help him.

Meeting her had been shocking, because she wasn’t at all as he’d visualized. Not that he’d been disappointed, quite the opposite.

He’d found her incredibly attractive. He’d been captivated by the way she looked.

He’d been prepared for one sort of woman, but India was so far removed from his mental image, her appearance had taken him off guard. And he’d been stupid, insensitive. Dumb. He’d been really dumb.

He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t married, that she’d misunderstood his reasons for not introducing bloody George Joost, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that although her reasoning was all wrong, her conclusions were right; he was lying to her. He just wasn’t lying about what she thought. Did it matter? A lie was a lie was a lie.

And every time his mind circled like that around the situation and arrived back at the same sorry place where he’d royally screwed up, the sick feeling filled his gut and threatened to eat him.

He liked her.

Harry, for God’s sake, be honest— at least with yourself
. He more than liked her: he’d wanted to jump her bones right in the middle of the restaurant, for cripes’ sake. She was lush and hot and fleshy, the stuff that erotic dreams were made of. And smart; it was the smart part that did him in.

Each time he told himself it was better this way, that nothing could have come of their relationship anyhow, that he had Sadie to consider, that India was from another world, one that he didn’t want his daughter involved with, absolutely not, his gut ached until he wondered if maybe he was getting an ulcer.

His dad had gotten an ulcer, and an uncle, too. Lots of dads had ulcers when he was a kid. Did anybody get ulcers anymore? He hadn’t heard of them lately, but if this gnawing in his midsection didn't go away soon, he’d have to pay a visit to the doc.

Maybe he could sell an article on ulcers to somebody. He had to start scrambling for assignments again if he wanted to pay next month’s bills.

That depressed him even further.

He pulled into the parking area by the community center and stopped the car. He took his daughter’s sticky hand in his, convinced her she had to leave the magic wand in the car, and hurried with her into the controlled, headache-making chaos that was Motoring Munchkins.

Maxine was trying to get Graham to socialize with the other kids the way the pediatrician had suggested, but the thing that he liked best was the purple foam tunnel. It was about four feet long, and Maxine was kneeling at one end, head and shoulders half inside, alternately encouraging her son to crawl through it and trying to pry mouthfuls of foam out of his mouth before he swallowed them. He’d learned that if he put his face into the stuff and bit, he could dislodge chunks. He had some canine tendencies she hadn't noticed until now, Maxine decided.

“C’mon, punkin, give that to Mommy, that’s my good boy.” She stuck her finger gingerly into Graham’s mouth. He had seven teeth, and biting was his favorite hobby.

A small girl with tangled carrot red hair and a heart-shaped face smeared with jam was kneeling at the other end, watching Graham through huge blue eyes.

“He’s not ’posed to eat it,” she announced in a scandalized tone. “Daddy, this baby’s eating the tunnel."

Maxine could see long denim-covered legs behind the girl.

“This little girl wants to use the tunnel, Graham. Let’s go find that truck you like.” She reached out to pry him back toward her, but he resisted, head down, determined to take another bite, and she raised her voice as she hauled on her determined son. “C’mon, demon, foam has no food value. Take my word for it.”

"India?” The horrified male voice came from behind the little girl.

“India, is that you?” He’d crouched down on his hands and knees, and he was staring in at her, and she was pretty sure it was Harold.

Maxine froze.

“Harold?” It sounded like him, but the scruffy man giving her the incredulous look didn’t resemble the Harold she remembered from the restaurant.

Or did he?

“It can’t be you.” Maxine backed up and struggled to her feet.

He, too, was now standing, and the dumbstruck look on his face must mirror the one on hers.

His green sweatshirt had a hole in the elbow, and the shoulder seam was coming apart. His jeans fit him well, but they’d had cleaner days. His eyes were bloodshot. The thick, shiny hair she’d imagined running her fingers through was still shiny, but it was flat on the right side, and it stuck up in a rooster's comb at the back of his head. His strong jaw was unshaven, the cleft invisible under a generous growth of black stubble. It wasn’t just from this morning, either. It would take three or four days to cultivate that much beard.

It was Harold, but he looked more like a fugitive from justice than a romantic hero.

The incredulous look he was giving her suddenly reminded Maxine that not only had she skipped makeup that morning, but the pimple she got every month with her period was glowing like a neon light smack in the middle of her chin.

She had cramps, and her belly stuck out, although that wasn’t very evident, because she was wearing the baggy gray sweatpants that Polly had warned her were hideous and rightfully belonged in the garbage. And although her yellow tee had started out clean this morning, Graham had upchucked prune juice on it when she lifted him out of his car seat.

Harold might look disreputable, but she probably resembled an accident victim.

She certainly felt like one, if shock was any indication.

She had to clear her throat twice before she found her voice. "What. . . who . . . what
exactly
are you doing here, Harold?” 

He could as easily have asked her the same question.

“Daddy? Daddy, this baby won’t let me crawl through the tunnel, and he’s eating it more.” The redheaded girl was urgently tugging at Harold’s leg. “It’s not for eating, is it, Daddy? Come and take him out.”

Looking straight into Maxine's eyes, Harold reached down and put his open palm on the girl's fiery hair. His voice was strained. “This is my daughter, Sadie.”

Maxine tore her eyes from him and looked at the child. She had the face of a dreamy angel and the eyes of an imp. She was solid confirmation of what Maxine already knew: Harold was married, he wasn’t at all what he’d pretended to be. The fact that he’d forgotten to mention he had a little daughter whose mother didn't fuss much about appearances shouldn’t surprise her.

So if she already knew what a lying, no good, devious bastard he was, why did it feel as if her chest were caving in?

She was proud of herself for mustering up something like a smile for the child. “Hello, there, Sadie."

Fortunately Graham started gagging right then, and Maxine bent and dragged him out of the tunnel. She forced her finger deep inside his mouth and dislodged a soggy lump of purple foam. 

As soon as it was out he bit her, hard. After that, he gave her an angelic grin, wiped his runny nose on her shirt, and squirmed to get down.

“This is my son, Graham.” Maxine felt as if things were happening in slow motion. She jiggled Graham up and down and absentmindedly stuck the wad of foam in the pocket of her pants. “I’m gonna take him over to the toy area now. I’d rather you didn’t bother us again."

On rubbery legs she turned and walked away, but from the corner of her eye, she could see that Harold was following close behind.

"India, we have to talk.”

“No, we absolutely do not have to talk.” She set Graham down, rather forcefully, beside a heap of red and yellow blocks. “Your wife wouldn’t want us talking any more than we already have, now, would she, Harold? By the way, does she have any idea of how much talking we’ve already done?”

“I haven’t got a wife. I swear on my daughter’s life I haven’t got a wife.’’ His voice was loud, and several parents turned to stare in their direction.

He sounded a bit like a manic Dr. Seuss, Maxine thought hysterically.

“Cheryl died in a car crash when Sadie was six months old,” he said in a quieter tone.

He sounded as if he was telling the truth, but he’d sounded like that before. Did she dare believe him?

"Look, I’ll get someone to prove it to you, I’ll get my accountant to sign a statement; I’ll show you my income-tax returns, I’ll get a note from my doctor, whatever it takes.”

So maybe he wasn’t married. A little bubble of relief rose out of the confused and murky depths of her heart.

"What about you, India?” His voice vibrated with tension. "I didn't know you had a son, either. So who’s Graham's father?”

He'd remembered her kid's name the first time around. Another little blip wiggled its way out of the mire of her emotions, not exactly pleasure; more like pleasant surprise.

"I didn't marry him. He left when I was four months pregnant. He doesn’t even know he's got a son. I have no idea where he is.”

Relief sketched itself across his features, but after a second Harold’s eyes narrowed and he gave his head a disgusted shake. "He got you pregnant and then deserted you, huh? Some guys need castrating,” he said in a growl.

A woman helping her baby build blocks picked him up and hurried away, giving Harold a shocked glance.

"Castration’s not a bad idea.” Ricky and his dishonesty reminded Maxine that Harold wasn’t exactly blameless in that regard, either. "So what about you, Harold? You’re not really an international businessman who travels a lot, are you? Or is this just the nanny's day off?” The sarcasm in her voice would have made Polly proud.

“Of course I’m not a businessman. I’m a freelance writer,” he said in a contrite tone. “I do advertising slogans and short pieces for different publications. I work at home. I used to be an ad man, but I gave it up and went freelance when Sadie came. I wanted to be able to watch her grow up.”

Maxine could identify with that. The similarity to her own situation was amazing.

“I have a house not far from here, on Second Street in New West."

That shocked her. Her house was in Burnaby, one suburb over. She wasn’t about to tell him that they were nearly neighbors. She wasn’t about to tell him anything at all about herself besides what he already knew.

“So what do you write, Harold?”

“Ms. Bleckner? Maxine?” Rosalie, the buxom supervisor of the program, interrupted before he could answer. Rosalie held out a clipboard and a pen.

“Could I just get your signature on this, Maxine, please?” Rosalie’s plump, pretty face was wreathed in smiles. “I need a health record for every child, and I forgot to get you to sign this when you registered Graham the other day. And I do have the right address, 4709 Empress in Burnaby?”

Maxine could only nod. Harold wasn’t even pretending not to listen, the louse.

"So how’s Graham liking Motoring Munchkins, Maxine?” Rosalie asked. “This is only his second visit, isn’t it?”

Maxine nodded. "He loves it,” she said in a croak, wanting to strangle the effusive woman.

"You said Dr. Hawkins referred you. He’s my son Aldo’s pediatrician. He was so supportive when I told him about the program."

“It’s a good idea." Maxine felt like sending good old Dr. Hawkins a letter bomb for suggesting she bring Graham here.

Rosalie turned her attention to Harold, and there was no mistaking the coy flirtatiousness in her voice. Her massive breasts actually heaved, Maxine noted with disgust.

“Hi, there, Harry. It’s so great to have Sadie with us. She missed last session, Momma said you forgot. Can’t have that, now, can we?” She didn’t chuck him under the chin, but it was close. "I hope we’ll see you this Sunday. Momma said she invited you and Sadie to Aldo’s birthday party.”

"Yeah, she did. But I’m just not sure if—”

"Oh, you’ve got to come,” Rosalie cooed. “Momma will be so disappointed if you’re not there, she just dotes on Sadie. And my little Aldo loves her, too. He was asking a minute ago where she was. I’ll tell Sadie about the party, and then you’ll just have to come, won't you?”

“Yeah, well, I’ll have to see." Obviously Harold was now as uncomfortable as Maxine had been a moment before, and it made her feel better to watch him squirm.

“Rosalie, Lisa forgot the juice boxes again. Should I go out and get some? It's almost snack time.” One of the young volunteers plucked at Rosalie’s sleeve, and with obvious reluctance she hurried away.

“Maxine, huh?” Harold sounded pleased with himself. “So that’s your name. Maxine Bleckner. I like the name Maxine."

She’d always despised her name, but he rolled it around and gave it some sort of an exotic twist that made it sound almost bearable.

“Rosalie’s mother, Mrs. Campanato, lives on my street.” He sighed, rubbing a hand through hair that was already standing on end. “She babysits Sadie for me. I try to stay on her good side, but now I’m not so sure I’ll be able to. Listen, Ind—Maxine,” he corrected with the grin she remembered so well. “Please let me take you and Graham for lunch. This thing must be almost over. There’s so much I want to get straight with you, and this isn't the place to do it.” He gave her a beseeching look. "Don’t make me beg. I'll feel like an idiot getting down on my knees in front of all these kids and their parents. And Rosalie will be so pissed”—he grimaced and corrected himself quickly—“so upset when she finds out we’re friends, she’ll likely ban both

Sadie and Graham from Munchkins forevermore.” He looked around and then leaned close

and whispered, “Rosalie’s got a terrible temper. Her father says that’s why her marriage broke up."

“Daddy, can I go on the jungle gym with Elsa?” Sadie danced over, swishing her long white dress. She shinnied up Harold’s leg. “Can I, Daddy, please? I gotta have your 'mission, Elsa’s mommy said.”

“Yeah, you can, sweetheart. Hurry up, because we’re leaving in a few minutes.” Harold unhooked her and then waved and nodded an elaborate consent to Elsa's mom, a militant- looking woman in a tweed skirt and a brown twinset. She was wearing pearls.

Sadie squealed with delight and ran over to the woman, who gave Harold a cold stare and ostentatiously used a pristine handkerchief to dab at the jam on Sadie’s chin.

“That's one lady who definitely doesn’t approve of me,” he muttered under his breath. “But don’t let her influence you, Maxine, okay? Let’s have lunch. Please?”

Maxine was trying to figure out whether she should go. Her head told her to say no, but her heart was sending a different message. In spite of their disastrous dinner date, she liked him. She wanted to talk to him. 

It was probably just curiosity, she told herself. She wanted to hear more of his phony excuses for pretending to be someone he wasn’t. It was probably good research for her work, right? Wrong.

That was a bunch of baloney, she admitted. She just wanted to be with him, fool that she was.

She’d have to call home and see if Edna could work another hour or so. She opened her mouth to tell him she’d come, but her eyes were drawn over to the jungle gym.

Sadie was now hanging upside down, her long white dress flopped over her head, and it was very apparent that she had no panties on. Elsa’s mother looked horrified. She snatched at the skirt of Sadie’s dress and tried to talk her into coming down, but the child was singing a song, swinging back and forth.

Maxine started to giggle.

Harold turned to look, and he groaned and clapped a hand over his eyes.

“That does it,” he exclaimed. “Elsa’s mom is gonna phone the authorities; they’ll have me charged with being an unfit parent. We’ve gotta get out of here. Please say you'll come with me, Maxine?”

Maxine glanced over at the penned area where Graham was. Her son's face was magenta, and his concentrated expression told her that he was doing a good job of filling his diaper.

"I have to change Graham first. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” She hoped she had her cell phone in her purse.

“Yesss.” Harold’s whiskery face broke into a grin. He put his palms together and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Thank you, Goddess,” he intoned. And then he reluctantly made his way toward Elsa’s mom to claim his daughter.

They went to McDonald's and turned Graham and Sadie loose in the play area. “Please don’t do somersaults, okay, punkin?” Harold begged, and he was gratified to hear Maxine giggling. He liked her laugh.

They sat at a table where they could watch the kids, and he got them coffee and burgers and fries. While he was at the counter, he kept stealing glances at Maxine. She was so natural- looking, so fresh and pretty. He loved her freckles. He loved her with no makeup. He was going to tell her the whole truth about himself, he vowed as he paid for the food.

Yeah, and that’ll be the end of this new beginning, Watson. As soon as she finds out you 're doing an expose on her, you think she’s gonna want anything more to do with you? Forget it. She’ll figure you set her up.

He carried the tray over to the table, and she looked up at him and smiled. She had the greatest smile. She had the greatest teeth. She had the greatest breasts.