Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (4 page)

Noting that this was the second time in five minutes Bobby mentioned having to move, Tim said, “Bobby, I don't know yet what's going to happen. I arrived later than planned and haven't talked with Mr. Coan yet. I don't remember my uncle. I don't know anything about him. What I do know is I can't afford a place like this. I'm probably going to sell it, but I'm sure that whoever buys it will want a good caretaker. I'll need some help until I can sell the place, but I don't know what I can pay you."

“Mr. Harlow lets me stay in tenant house across 13. Raise some tobacco. Look after place. Gives me $500 a month."

“You can continue living there until I sell it, but I'm sorry—I just don't know what I can do about paying you."

“I'll help bring stuff inside,” Bobby said in his half-monotone voice, and departed without waiting for approval.

Tim grinned and whispered to Sandra, “It looks like we are about to move in."

“Tim, I'm hurting pretty badly."

The pain reflected in her eyes concerned Tim.

“Would you bring me a double dose of Alka-Seltzer Plus? I left it in the glove compartment."

After opening the trunk for the big man, Tim found the medicine, went back to the kitchen, let the tap water run until it felt cold, filled a tumbler and plopped four tablets into the sparkling water.

“Bobby says the bedrooms are upstairs and the beds have clean sheets. Seems he does laundry too,” Tim said as he handed the foaming beverage to Sandra.

Bobby returned from depositing Tim's two suitcases and duffel bag in the master bedroom. There remained in the Mustang only the cooler and a cardboard box of miscellaneous items.

“Bobby,” Tim began. “You knew my uncle pretty well, didn't you?"

“Used to talk sometimes."

“Like I said, I didn't know him. Could you come back tomorrow morning, show me around the place and tell me about him?"

“Tomorrow afternoon. One, two o'clock. Busy in morning."

“That will be great. Listen, thanks for looking after the place."

“There's food in the frigerator,” Bobby answered. He turned sharply, walked to his pickup and drove away.

“Are you up to exploring the rest of the house?” Tim asked after leaving the cooler in the kitchen, but still carrying the box. “There can't be much more."

“Help me up,” Sandra sighed. She carried the empty tumbler with her, not wanting to risk making a ring on the end table that had no coaster.

Sticking his head inside the doorway to the room directly across from the living room, Tim switched on the light and commented, “Looks like the old man liked to read.” He did not notice the look of awe on Sandra's face.

Without entering, Tim moved to the last room on the bottom floor of his uncle's house. The hallway ended with a door that opened into the most luxurious study Tim had ever imagined. Wide-eyed he entered; unaware that Sandra just glanced at the study before returning to the library.

Sandra slowly moved her eyes from left to right, trying to get an overall picture of the room before examining its details. Bookshelves covered the walls, except for the wall with the entrance door and the opposite wall, which broke the shelving with a large picture window. The shelves themselves began three feet from the floor and ended three feet from the ceiling. Cabinets occupied the space between the floor and first shelf. The tops of the bookcases held framed photographs and knick-knacks. A large oval oak table occupied the center of the carpeted room with six red-padded chairs neatly arranged around it. In the corners on either side of the picture window, were recliners, a side table, and a reading lamp. Sandra looked more closely at Uncle Pete's books. Hardcover editions filled every length of shelving nearly to capacity. She began reading titles:
Oblomov, The Tin Drum, Brighton Rock, The Arabian Nights, Far From the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure
.

“Classics,” she mumbled to herself. “Have I ever read a classic? Surely I did in high school. Where are the romances, Old Man? Where are your good books?” She read title after title, running her finger lovingly along the spines of the books. I don't want to read classics, she thought.

As she continued to explore the books on the shelves her mind drifted back to grade school years when she first came to love books. To avoid the cruel taunts from schoolmates for the tacky clothes she wore and her chest that refused to develop, she hid herself in the library after school every day. Throughout high school, she filled lonely hours reading romances. One of the reasons she took the job at the convenience store was the rack of magazines and books that lined one wall.

Why do I enjoy touching these books so much? she wondered. It's almost as pleasurable as touching Hank.

“Nawww,” she said aloud, laughing at herself. Her finger came to rest on a slim volume, which she slid from the shelf.
Silas Marner
, she read, by George Eliot, whoever the hell he is. She placed the book on the table. If I'm stuck with classics, maybe I should start with a small one. Who knows? George might have known something about making a woman happy. I'll bet this Silas Marner meets and woos a beautiful lady and they all live happily ever after.

Sandra found Tim seated at the far right of the study behind a large ornate desk. His feet were propped on the desktop and his hands were behind his head.

“I could get used to this,” he called out.

The boyish smile on his face brought a smile to her lips. “This must be where your uncle worked,” Sandra guessed. She surveyed the large study that occupied the entire width of the house and was at least twenty feet deep. Again there were pine paneled walls, bookshelves, luxurious furniture, filing cabinets, a TV and some expensive looking stereo equipment. As she walked towards the desk, she felt her feet sinking into the deep pile carpet. She hoped the filthy socks she wore in place of shoes would not leave a stain.

“The only thing the place lacks is a computer. I could really get used to this,” Tim repeated, a broad grin on his face.

“My Alka-Seltzer Plus isn't doing much good this time, Tim. I've got to find a bed.” She headed for the staircase.

Tim retraced their steps, locking doors and turning off lights. It was just past nine o'clock, but he, too, was exhausted. It has been a hell of a day, he thought.

“This way,” Sandra called to him as he reached the top of the stairs. “There are four big bedrooms, each with its own bath and all furnished, but this must be the master bedroom. It's huge."

They entered the room together. The furniture looked relatively new. Tim's bags were on the floor at the foot of the bed. He picked one up and placed it on the sofa.

“My God, Tim. Come look at this."

Tim joined Sandra in the bathroom which, he observed, was as large as most bedrooms he had seen in the past.

“A shower, two sinks, and that thing must be a Whirl Pool or something. Hey, look at that—two commodes. We can pee together,” she laughed. Immediately she clutched her rib cage in pain.

Tim studied the large structure that occupied at least a third of the room and found that it had jets in it, so it must be something like a Whirl Pool. He had never actually seen one.

“My aching muscles could sure use a soak in that thing,” Sandra said. “Do you suppose there's any hot water?"

Tim turned the faucet market “H". In seconds the gushing water began to feel warm. “Bobby thought of everything,” he replied. “We're going to have to find you some clothes tomorrow. I have pajamas you can wear tonight."

“I don't sleep in pajamas,” Sandra stated.

“Well, I don't happen to have any nighties with me,” Tim joked.

“I don't sleep in nighties, either."

“Oh."

“You go ahead and turn in. Let me soak a while. I'll join you later, if that's okay."

“That's not okay, Sandy. We've already been through this. It's my house, or at least it soon will be. I get the master bedroom. You sleep across the hall."

“I don't mind, Tim. I owe you."

“Damn right you do, but I don't want payment with sex. If you ever tell me you want to sleep with me because I turn you on like Hank, then that's another matter."

“Nobody has ever turned me on like Hank."

“So you said."

“I'll sleep across the hall,” Sandra said coldly. She closed the door behind her as she entered the master bathroom.

Tim turned on the light in the opposite bedroom for Sandra and then slipped into his pajamas. Each night he looked forward to his escape into sleep, but he also dreaded it. Vivid dreams often accompanied sleep. Usually he dreamed of his raven-haired ex-wife—the good times they had together—or the good times he thought they had together—but good times nevertheless. Sometimes, however, less often now, the dream was a nightmare. He stood powerless, looking down at his bed, seeing his naked wife, legs spread and extended upward, with some other man between them.

He shook off the memory, retrieved a toothbrush and toothpaste from the duffel bag and headed for the small bathroom in Sandra's bedroom.

An ear-piercing scream momentarily nailed his feet to the floor. Recovering, he burst through the bathroom door and dropped to his knees beside her submerged body.

“What's the matter, baby?” he asked with genuine concern.

Sandra had stuffed a wash cloth in her mouth to silence her own screaming. She held up a hand with palm facing him. Minutes passed. He tried unsuccessfully to avoid looking at her battered, naked body. She removed the cloth.

“I'm sorry, Tim. I have more scrapes and cuts than I thought. The water stung when I got into the tub. I'm getting used to it now. I'll be okay."

He kissed her gently on the top of her head and returned to complete his nightly routine.

Sandra experimentally touched her arm with a soapy hand. She grimaced. That won't work, she scolded herself. She slid further into the water, leaving only her head exposed. The pulsating water was having a dramatic effect on her abused body.

Tears formed and then slowly found a path down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. What the shit am I going to do? I'm free, but free to do what? I am what I am. Can I change enough to deserve a man like Tim?

Tim did not know how long Sandra soaked in the tub. He did not know that she kissed him lightly on the forehead as she headed for her bedroom. He had gone to sleep as soon as his head rested on the feather pillow. He dreamed happy dreams. The scenes were different, but there was one similarity. The companion in his dreams was a tall, long-legged, small breasted, large nippled, pubic hair shaved, honey-haired beauty—not his former wife.

He woke up with the sun blazing in the windows and with a throbbing erection.

Tim relieved himself, a necessary first chore for man and beast at the start of each new day, and glanced in Sandra's open bedroom door on his way to make coffee. The bed was empty. He was pleased to find the coffee already made, poured a mug, added a spoon of sugar, and leaned against the counter until half the cup was consumed. Why can't my brain wake up without coffee like my body does? he wondered. Maybe it's because my brain doesn't have to pee. He chuckled at his little attempt at early morning humor.

Not finding Sandra in the den, he strolled down the hall towards the open study door, but found her in the library.

Remembering how he hated interruptions when he was reading, Tim waited for Sandra to come to a stopping point. “Couldn't sleep?” he asked when she glanced up at him.

“I slept a little,” she replied. “Tim, I hurt so bad. It's worse than yesterday. You're going to have to go to town and get me some more Alka-Seltzer Plus this morning."

He nodded. “What's that you're wearing?"

“May have been your aunt's robe and bedroom slippers, but I don't think so. The closet and drawers are full of women's clothes."

“Why do you think they aren't my aunt's?"

“They're too modern.” The panties, for instance, are brief's—I'm talking g-string. I haven't checked carefully, but I think I might be able to wear some of the stuff."

Waving the book in her hand, Sandra changed the subject. “All your uncle's books seem to be old classics or references. I didn't think I would like them, but this guy can really tell a story."

“What guy?” Tim asked, unable to read the title of the bouncing book.

“The author, George Eliot."

“Gal,” Tim corrected.

“Gal? George is a man's name."

“That's her pen name,” Tim explained. “A pen name is—well—it's a fake name authors sometimes use."

“Why didn't she use her own name?"

“I don't remember. That Brit-lit course I took was a long time ago. In Eliot's time, people thought of women as rather simple-minded baby machines. Maybe she had to use a man's name to get published."

“What was her real name?"

“Do you think I am a walking encyclopedia?” he asked, grinning.

“Sandy,” Tim said, tensing his body in mock pain. “Excuse me. There's one thing about me you can always count on. No matter when I get up in the morning, I have to sit on the throne within minutes of drinking my first cup of coffee."

“That's something else we have in common,” Sandra called out to the departing figure. She opened her book, found her place, and continued reading.

Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, stunned by despair, without any impulse to go to Sarah and attempt to win her belief in his innocence. The second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief, by getting into his loom and working away as usual; and before many hours were past, the minister and one of the deacons came to him with the message from Sarah, that she held her engagement to him at an end. Silas received the message mutely, and then turned away from the messengers to work at his loom again. In little more than a month from that time, Sarah was married to William Dane; and not long afterwards it was known to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had departed from town.

Having completed his morning routines of defecating, showering, shaving, tooth brushing and dressing, Tim sat on the side of the unmade bed and thumbed through the Charlotte Telephone Directory looking for the tiny section devoted to Dot. He knew he had seen a doctor's nameplate on the door opposite of Lawyer Coan's, but he couldn't recall the name.