Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (53 page)

“Wait,” he called out.

It was his voice, but it was somehow different. She turned.

“Would you be more comfortable if I avoid the diner?"

She realized the difference in his voice. The arrogance was gone. “Why in the hell would I want that?” she smiled. “You're my best tipping customer."

He returned the smile.

What a beautiful set of choppers, she thought. “Damn it,” she said aloud, her eyes twinkling. “You'd better start talking to me or I'll tell. What's your name?"

He hesitated, then said, “Jake. Jake Everheart."

That evening, when he paid for his meal, Jan said, “I'll see you later—about nine."

“What? Why?” he stammered.

“You taste good.” She walked away, leaving him standing there with a big smile on his face.

“I was beginning to think you weren't coming,” Jake said with obvious relief in his voice as he opened the door.

“I don't own a vacuum cleaner and it took me a while to find a neighbor who would lend me one,” Jan replied as she pushed past him into the cluttered room, half dragging the tank styled cleaner behind her. “Damn, you are one nasty man,” she joked, setting down the cleaner and depositing her handbag on the rocker.

“The empty jug, I believe, belongs to you,” he laughed.

“I'm happy to feel that you installed an air conditioner today. Where is it?"

“It's a window unit I put in the bedroom. If I keep all the other doors closed, it adequately cools the living room too."

“I guess it was too much to hope that you would pick up your trash too,” she said as she began to gather the clutter and deposit it in a trash bag she brought with her.

“Hey, don't throw away those envelopes,” he shouted.

She looked at the envelope in her hand and protested, “It's empty."

“Yeah, but I haven't removed the stamp yet. I'm a collector,” he explained, taking the envelope from her. Bending to help with the cleaning task, he said, “You're by far the prettiest cleaning lady I've ever had."

“From the looks of things, I'm the only cleaning lady you've ever had,” she laughed. “You sure do read a lot.” She began to stack magazines in one pile, newspapers in another and paperback novels in a third.

“I try to occupy my mind with something interesting to keep the ghosts away."

“Ghosts?"

“I shouldn't have said that. You'll think I'm weird."

“Hell, I already know you're weird."

“I read mostly news magazines, trade magazines and trash,” he said, separating out of the magazine pile those that were business related.

Looking over his shoulder at one of the trade magazines she asked, “What kind of business are you in?"

“You wouldn't be interested,” he said.

“Maybe not, but it's going to take the rest of the evening to clean up your pigsty. We have to talk about something."

“Okay, but remember, I warned you. I run a little mail-order business. I pick up odds and ends made in third world countries for a dollar each, or less, and market them for ten dollars or more."

“Sounds like a hell of a profit margin."

“It's not as large as you think. My major expense is in advertising. Direct mail and even classified ads in major magazines don't come cheap. I've recently put a home page on the Internet. I've only received a couple of orders from it, but I'm hopeful that will pick up. I average a net profit of about five dollars an item."

“Aren't you taking advantage of low wages and child labor by buying from third world countries?"

“That's what the do-gooders would have you believe. However, if we don't buy from these poor countries their wages will be even lower and more of their children will die of starvation than do now. The way I see it, I'm helping their economy, not hurting it."

“What's this?” she asked, holding up a paperback.

“
Daniel Deronda
,” he replied.

“I can read, dummy,” she laughed. “Most of your paperbacks look like whodunits, but isn't George Eliot a famous highfalutin’ writer of some kind?"

“George Eliot was an English woman writer during the nineteenth century. You should like her. She was a women's libber before the term was invented. To answer your question, her works are classics. In my judgement,
Daniel Deronda
is definitely not one of her best. I liked
A Mill on the Floss
and
Silas Marner
much better."

“How'd you get started reading classics?” she asked.

“You've been in town long enough to have heard of Tim and Sandra Dollar."

“The gotbucks couple who run the town? Of course I've heard of them. In fact, Mrs. Dollar was in the diner today showing off her baby."

“Mrs. Dollar fancies herself as something of a writer, as well as a sharp business lady. Somebody said she has written a novel, but I don't think it's been published. Anyway, she writes an occasional book review for the
Dot Courier
. Only, instead of new titles, she reviews the classics. She's into Charles Dickens now, but previously she reviewed George Eliot's books. I read her review of
Adam Bede
, bought the paperback version, read it and was hooked."

“You know how to use one of those things?” she asked, motioning towards the vacuum cleaner.

“I guess so,” he replied cautiously.

“Then get busy, you old fart."

When she had the living room looking decent, she turned her attention to the bedroom. “At least the floor's not littered with trash in here, but don't you ever do your laundry?” she asked, nodding to the huge pile of dirty clothes in one corner of the room.

“Yeah,” he replied, “but I have to go all the way to Charlotte, so I wait until I have enough dirty clothes to make it worthwhile."

“I'll bite. Why do you have to go to Charlotte?"

“Because there's no laundry or launderette in Dot."

“Hmm. Sounds like a good business opportunity for somebody,” she said.

“I checked into it. Everybody in Dot uses well water and septic tanks since there is no central system. It would cost far too much to build a septic tank that would accommodate the heavy use of a launderette."

Jan shrugged her shoulders. “You have any clean sheets?"

“I think so.” He checked in the hall closet and returned with sheets and pillowcases.

She stripped the linens off the bed and spread a soiled sheet on the floor. “Dump your dirty clothes in the sheet and put it in my car. I have a washer and dryer in my apartment. I'll take them with me in the morning."

“Does that mean you're going to spend the night?"

“I'm thinking about it."

When the bedroom was in good order, Jake said, “You're working my butt off. I need a break."

“I've been on my feet waiting tables for eight hours and you're the one who is tired?” she teased.

“I have a few years on you,” he retorted, stretching out on the bed. “I noticed you didn't bring any liquid refreshments with you tonight. All I have is beer. Will that do?"

“Oh, you have something better than that,” she replied and she jumped on the bed, ripped down his faded, dated, Bermuda shorts and took his flaccid penis in her mouth.

“Jan,” he mildly protested. “You don't have to do that."

She ignored him and filled her mouth with his testicles. She felt a tingling sensation all over her body when he began to moan and gently caress her hair. Immediately after his last outcry she trotted to the living room, took a bottle of mouthwash from her handbag, trotted back to the bathroom, spat his semen into the commode, and rinsed her mouth. She saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked pathetic. He put his arms around her, cupping her breasts.

She grinned at him through the mirror. “You don't like my boobs, remember? They need implants."

“I lied,” he said looking very sad.

She pressed her back into his chest. “What's wrong, Jake?"

“I feel so guilty."

Anger flashed in her eyes as she spun around. “Guilty?” She spat the word out.

“Yes,” he replied, recognizing but not understanding her anger. “You give me so much pleasure, but there's nothing I can do for you."

Her eyes softened and she looked at the filthy tub. “Fill that thing up with nice warm water, Jake. You're about to receive a sex education lesson."

“I really am an old fart,” he said, pulling her to him while reaching around and generously soaping her breasts. “I knew a man could give pleasure with his mouth and fingers, but I've never done it before and I just didn't think about it."

She wiggled her bottom against his scrotum. “Don't tell me you've never kissed a pussy before."

“Well, when I was a kid there was this kitten..."

“You know what I mean."

“No, I haven't. Mary wouldn't let me."

“Mary?"

“My wife."

“I didn't know you were married."

“It was a long time ago. She's dead now."

“Want to tell me about her?"

“No."

“You loved her very much, didn't you?"

“We were both virgins when we married—childhood sweethearts. She made the sun rise every morning for me. When she died, I died with her, but my damn heart kept beating."

“How long ago was it, Jake?"

“About fifteen years. I went into a deep depression. We owned a little gift shop in Virginia Beach. I sold it and the house. There were too many memories. I moved to Norfolk—I don't know why. When my money began to run out, I started this mail-order business. That way I didn't have to meet the public and pretend to be happy."

“How did it happen?"

“Heart attack. Can you believe it? She was only thirty-seven years old. We were having sex. I killed her."

“Bullshit!” Jan exclaimed scrambling to her knees and turning around to face him.

“No, I did,” he insisted, tears trickling down his face. “She said she didn't feel good, but I insisted. I was always so damned horny. I should have taken her to a doctor, but instead I forced myself on her."

“Jake,” she cried out, pulling his face to her breasts, “it just happened. All these years you haven't been just grieving for the wife you loved. You've been punishing yourself for something that was not your fault."

“I haven't even looked at another woman until you came along."

“When you said you felt guilty a little while ago, this is what you meant, isn't it? You felt you were being unfaithful to Mary."

He pulled his head back, but held onto her. “No,” he answered. “I swear to God that isn't it. Mary would want me to find someone. I know she would. If the situation were reversed, I would want her to find someone."

He brushed his lips over each nipple. “Jan, why are you being nice to me? I don't have much to offer, certainly not love."

“What?"

“I won't allow myself to ever love again. It hurts too bad when it's over."

“I never said I was in love with you, Jake."

“What then, pity? I don't want your pity, Jan."

“What do you want, Jake?"

“I don't know."

Jan kissed his ear affectionately. “I don't know why I am attracted to you, Jake. It may be that I feel sorry for you. It may be pity. But if it makes you happy, and it makes me happy, what is the harm?"

Sarasue sat in a lawn chair in the shade of a towering oak tree, watching the children playing on the backyard swing set. Working for Rita Holder was much easier than for her previous employer. Brad, five years old, and Troy, three and a half, were well behaved, but Rita was very concerned for their safety. With that fact in mind, Sarasue questioned the wisdom of owning a house with a yard that backed up to a golf course. One of these days an errant golf ball was sure to strike one of the children, and Sarasue was certain that Rita would blame her for it. How could she prevent it? Make the children wear helmets when outdoors? “Maybe a suit of armor,” she laughed aloud.

With little interest, she watched workmen on the course digging a trench across the fairway. She had heard someone say Bo Nading discovered that the contractors laid the wrong gauge of underground wire and he was making them replace it at their expense. Frankly, she didn't care if the course construction was ever completed.

The sound of hammers and saws beyond the narrow blind of white pines beside the house caught her attention. She wondered if the man was over there—the man with the bulging muscles and handsome face that caused her to become aroused on more than one occasion since moving to Dot. Mrs. Holder said the man's name was Carl Elliott, a contractor who worked for the Dollars and was responsible for most of the new housing construction in town.

“Kid's,” she hollered, “play in the sandbox for a little while.” Without question the children scampered to the big red box filled with white sand where pails, shovels and sifters awaited.

Sarasue headed to the house, thinking the children would be safe in her absence if they stayed away from the metal swing. She moved down the hallway towards the bathroom, and noticed that the door of the master bedroom was closed. She was certain she left it open that morning after cleaning and making the bed. She paused and heard muffled noises inside. An intruder? Slowly and quietly she turned the knob and pushed the door open a few inches. Mrs. Holder and guest were naked on the bed. Rita's head bobbed in the crotch of Bo Nading's wife.

Quietly Sarasue closed the door and shook her head in disgust as she sat on the commode, emptying her bladder. How in the hell can one woman do that to another woman? she wondered. She choked back an urge to regurgitate. Now, if Mrs. Holder were beating that bitch's ass with a whip, that would be another matter. She grinned and without thought her hand slipped between her legs. She fantasized about two white bottoms submissively turned up to her while she inflicted deep red gashes with a thick belt.

Sarasue returned to the backyard and panicked. The kids were not there. “Brad! Troy!” she called out over the sound of a ripsaw. There was no answer. “Oh my God, my God, my God,” she shouted as she ran towards the white pines. Did that woman get them? “Brad! Troy!"

Visions of a kidnapping by the woman Rita warned her about added to her growing panic. Did that Jan Patrick take them while I was in the bathroom? she thought as she plunged into the pine thicket, panic rising.