Can't Get Enough of Your Love (3 page)

When I remember, that is, and I don't always remember.

I also got tired of doing and redoing my hair, wearing certain clothing, and putting on different makeup for our various nights out on the town. For Juan Carlos, I usually wear dark eye shadow and eyeliner, spiked heels, tight jeans, and “you-can-see-my-girls” blouses, stacking and pinning up my hair … so he can unstack
it later in the heat of passion. For Karl, I usually wear light eye shadow and eyeliner and baggier clothes, and I braid my hair as best I can … so he can unravel it (and me!) during our aerobic lovemaking. And for Roger, I usually wear no makeup at all, choose conservative “yes-I-have-a-decent-job” outfits, and keep my hair combed out to my shoulders … so he can grab it and …

Whoo.

I, uh, I sometimes get a little moist just while I'm doing my hair.

And keeping up with the bling has been murder. I have to remember to wear two silver hoop earrings, a silver herringbone necklace, and a silver pinkie ring for Roger, all of which he gave me for our third-week anniversary. Celebrating every little anniversary is fun, but when you have to keep track of three different timelines, you lose your damn mind. I have to wear two gold hoop earrings, a gold herringbone necklace, and a gold thumb ring for Juan Carlos, who has yet to give me any bling. I just happened to be wearing all that the day we met. As for Karl, who gives me the most bling, I have to wear as much gold bling as my ears, neck, fingers, and wrists can hold. Karl likes me to bling. He's even trying to convince me to get my eyebrows, nose, belly button, girls, and stuff pierced, but if I did that, I'd be a metal detector's dream. I'd also have a lot of explaining to do to Juan Carlos and Roger because all those holes aren't easy to hide. Karl also wants me to tattoo his name on the inside of my thigh. Not only would that hurt (I'm scared of needles), but that would also lead to discussions with Juan Carlos and Roger that I do not want to have when a man is down there
talking to my stuff. I want him concentrating, not reading.

Because of all this stress, last month during spring break I went searching for a new place. I needed to live as far away from Roanoke (and my mama) as I could get and still have an easy commute to work. I also needed to save myself the trouble of becoming someone else every other day.

I was feeling “tri-polar” or something.

But at first, I couldn't find anywhere to live that wasn't too expensive, too small (I need my space), or too close to Mama. I needed to find a cheap place in a remote area, and that meant looking to the hills.

One late March day I called a man advertising “a cottage on a pond” (what could be more isolated and romantic?) and drove to Bedford County.

Yeah, this city girl went to the country so she could get herself done on a regular basis.

I
met Mr. Wilson in front of his farmhouse about twenty miles north and east of Roanoke. Tall, lean, and rugged, Mr. Wilson could have been an ancient black cowboy, a Buffalo soldier, looking all country in his stiff blue jeans, matching jean jacket, black cowboy boots, and black leather cowboy hat.

“We'll take your car,” he said, and away we went down a dirt lane that shot off from his farm off Route 460.

We passed through mini-forests and drove through fields of green sprouts until he said, “Turn … left, I think, at the first oak tree.”

I slowed at the first tree I came to.

“That's a beech tree.”

How was I to know? I was a city girl! A maple, two sycamores, and another beech later, I saw the oak tree. Gravel roads led right and left around it. I stopped in the shade of the tree, and like something out of
The Wizard of Oz
, the tree spread out against the sky, a swarm of daffodils surrounding it.

“My granddaddy planted that one,” Mr. Wilson said. “And we planted Granddaddy right under it.”

What do you say to that? I didn't say anything. I was thinking,
No shit
. Or was it,
Oh, shit!?
Hmm.

At least I knew I would have quiet neighbors.

Mr. Wilson slumped down in his seat and closed his eyes, pulling down his hat. “Wake me when we get there.”

“Is it far?”

“No. I'm just old and need my naps.”

I took the left gravel path, which narrowed to a car width, and brush scraped the sides of my VW Rabbit. I crept along for half a mile, the speedometer below ten, until the path widened around some boulder-infested curves. I was worried that the muffler would fall off, drag, and muffle no more.

A few S-turns later, I saw a pond lapping on the shore mere feet from us. I stood on the brake. “Mr. Wilson?”

“Hmm?”

“I think we're here.”

He didn't look up or open his eyes. “You see the cottage?”

I saw only some cold, greenish water. “No.”

“Then we're in the wrong place. Turn around, go back to the oak, and turn right this time.”

I was almost out of gas, paint and primer from my car had decorated every piece of scrub brush in the county, and Mr. Wilson was snoring. I felt like screaming.

The right gravel path was smoother, though little saplings grew at intervals in the road. I felt like some Olympic skier going around (or through?) all those little
gates. Not that I watch the Winter Olympics. There are so few black people in those events. I mean, where is a black person going to practice cross-country skiing and shooting at little targets without getting arrested in this country?

After a gradual descent, I saw the top of a cottage peeking out from a stand of pine trees.

“Mr. Wilson?”

“Hmm?”

“I see the cottage.”

“What color?”

I squinted. “Looks like red brick with a black roof.” And it wasn't a cottage. It was a two-story
house
.

“That's the one.” He sat up. “The old girl's still standing. I haven't been out this way in years. I thought a storm might have done her in. Just park as close as you can.”

That wasn't easy. The gravel path ended, and a swampy area of high grass began. The Rabbit struggled over thick stalks and heavy grasses until it bottomed out and stopped on its own.

“Close enough,” Mr. Wilson said, and he got out. “Show yourself around. I'll be in the barn.” He pointed at a squat, dark brown building behind the house. “Have to see if she's still there. The doors should be open.”

As he walked away, I hoped to God that “she” wasn't his grandma. Then I thought up a little song: “Paw-Paw's under the old oak tree, Mee-Maw's in the barn …”

Acres and acres of thick grass surrounded me, a scene right out of every werewolf movie I'd ever seen. I expected to see wild dogs lurking here nightly. Even stray cats would be happy here, gorging themselves on field mice. If I harvested it all, there might actually be
a lawn underneath. I looked down and saw a couple red tulips peeking up at me, and the more I looked, the more flowers I saw struggling to come up through the grass to the sun. Daffodils, irises, and more tulips than I could count surrounded the house and a nearby pond. It seemed that the whole property was someone's garden.

The wooden dock jutting out into the pond needed work. Buckled planks drooped into the water, and the four support posts in the water tilted in all directions. It would be easier to tear it down and start from scratch. And why would anyone have a dock on such a small pond? If you dive off, you're almost to the other side!

I knew I'd have to create a driveway or carve out a sidewalk somehow. And the roadside scrub brush would have to be cut back, the cart path leveled, and the saplings removed. My back ached at these thoughts. Or, actually, my hands ached, because I knew I'd have three strong men's backs to rub down after
they
did all this work for me.

Friends with benefits have other uses, too.

The soil had to be rich. I could plant more crocus, tulip, and daffodil bulbs in the fall, and I could even dig out an area for annuals under the picture window near the front door. I looked up and saw empty white flower boxes under five windows. They could be filled up with petunias or something. Not that I had ever actually planted all that shit. That was Mama's domain. There wasn't a
gladiolus humongous
she couldn't plant, tend, and talk to more than her own and only daughter.

Mr. Wilson stepped out of the barn. “Been inside yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Take your time. I'm trying to get Sheila going.”

“Who's Sheila?”
And
, I had thought,
Sheila had better not be the sister you chained up in the barn
.

“You'll see.” He vanished into the barn.

Black shutters, dark red brick, all of the windows uncracked—so far so good. A rusty oil tank hugged the back of the house, but it wasn't leaking as far as I could tell. I used a stick to see if it had any fuel, but it came up dry.

What amazed me most were the doors. There were only two, one in front on the right side and one around the left corner, and neither had deadbolts or keyed knobs. Though the house was far from civilization, I knew I'd have to do something about that. Who puts in outside doors without locks on the knobs? Country people sure were trusting.

It was then I noticed there were no power lines. A thick black rope of a line connected the barn to the house, but there weren't any other lines. I had visions of hurricane lamps and candles inside, with a working butter churn in the corner by the wood cookstove.

The rumbling of an engine abruptly interrupted my visions. Mr. Wilson had gotten Sheila to turn over. I walked toward the roar and entered the barn through a heavy side door. Piles of firewood four feet high lined the wall to my immediate right. Mr. Wilson stood in the middle of an amazing machine, hands and jeans greasy, a broad smile on his lips. The machine made a U around him and filled half the barn.

He noticed me and shouted, “This is Sheila! Ain't she a beaut?”

Sheila would have been a “beaut” if I knew exactly what she was. Sheila was a mass of hoses, wires, and gears. Sheila looked like an aircraft engine on crack.

He crossed two fingers on his right hand and held
the hand high above his head. With his left hand, he reached into a mass of hoses and wires, and flipped a switch. A light hanging from a beam flashed on and off, flickered orange, and then stayed a steady, bright yellow. Sheila was a generator, and probably the world's largest.

He motioned me outside the barn, leaving the door open. “Always leave this door open when Sheila's percolating,” he said, wiping more grease on his pants. “The fumes can get bad. I rigged Sheila to work up to twelve hours a day on a single gallon of gas.”

“Wow,” I said, though at the time I didn't know why. Now, I know. Mr. Wilson's invention, while huge, is incredibly efficient. He should work for NASA.

We walked toward the house. “Sheila runs your lights, stove, fridge, and water pump.”

“Is there a washer and dryer?”

“Not yet. My wife, Jenny, God rest her soul, she liked to use the Laundromat over on four sixty, or she'd scrub ‘em up in the pond.”

That wasn't going to happen. The pond had greenish water, and I don't look good in green. “No problem.” And it hasn't been a problem. Mama has a nice washer and dryer.

“Let me show you Jenny's dollhouse.” We paused at the door. “You married?”

“No, sir.”

“You got a boyfriend?”

“No,” I said, and I didn't lie. I didn't have
a
boyfriend. Besides, country folks might not understand a concept like friends with benefits.

“A cute gal like you doesn't have a boyfriend?”

I had to tell him something. “I have a few friends.”

“Hmm. Not ready to settle down yet, huh?”

“No.”

“City girls are like that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jenny was a country girl.” He smiled. “Hmm.” He wiggled the doorknob. “I'll get you some locks, city girl.” He pushed the door, and it swung easily on its hinges. “Come on in.”

I expected must, mildew, and decay. I expected bats to swoop down, critters to scurry, and cobwebs to block my path. I expected a nest of mice to look up, smile at me, and say, “How ya do in'?” But Jenny's dollhouse was immaculate and smelled like pine, as if someone had sealed it with Saran Wrap.

Directly in front of me were shiny wooden stairs rising to a landing before continuing to rise to the left. I stood on a sparkling red-and-brown print linoleum floor. To the left of the stairs, four high-backed chairs surrounded a rough-hewn oak table shellacked to a glassy shine. The rest of the ground floor, it seemed, was the kitchen.

“Big, ain't it? Jenny loved to cook.” He rubbed his stomach for effect. “I used to be a bit larger. Jenny could cook all day, and I could eat her cooking all night. Storage room's behind that door there. Bedrooms, bath, and sitting room are upstairs. Do you like to cook?”

“Yes.” And I do more cooking in the kitchen than in the bedroom. And trust me, that oak table is sturdy enough for two people to, um, entertain each other on.

He showed me the little four-burner electric stove, the oak cabinets that needed refinishing, the skinny but adequate “icebox,” and the shiny sink and the plumbing underneath. Every cabinet contained pots, pans, and glasses, and each drawer bulged with silverware and
other cooking utensils. The ad didn't say it was a completely furnished cottage. I have saved so much money because of that.

“I did everything myself,” he said. “And I passed all the inspections the first time. You got a microwave?”

“No, sir.”

“Just as well. It ain't cooking at all, you ask me, and the electric couldn't handle it, anyway.” He opened the storage room door and reached into the darkness, grabbing and pulling a string.

“Let there be light,” I said.

He turned to me sharply. “Are you a religious gal?”