Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (8 page)

He did not know how long she had been standing there, nude, long legs slightly parted, peach-sized breasts tipped with strawberry nipples. Words of protest stuck in his throat. It was too late to hide his erection with a washcloth. She straddled him, lowered her bottom, rolled on a condom held in her hand, and impaled herself. She grasped his wrists and forced his hands to her tempting breasts.

Oh, God, she thought. He's so small. She rolled her firm, rounded buttocks in tight little circles.

Hang on, he pleaded with himself. Don't explode yet. It's been so long.

He lost the internal struggle, as he always did with his former wife, but Sandra beat him to the punch with the primordial scream.

She collapsed, pressing her breasts against his chest.

Man, that was great of her to pretend, he thought.

How the hell did that happen? she wondered.

That night Sandra crawled into Tim's bed. He protested. “That's my side of the bed. You have to sleep on the left.”

Tim buttered both pieces of toast, took a bite, said “Sandy,” swallowed, and continued, “I'm going to spend the day in my study—probably the rest of the week."

“
Your
study?"

“That came out rather smoothly, didn't it?” Tim smiled. “It
is
technically my study now, but I want to do some things to personalize it."

“You really like that room, don't you? You brighten up like a lightening bug every time you go into it."

“Spooky, isn't it? I know Uncle Pete built it according to his own tastes, but it feels like home to me."

“I think I'll spend the day going through that other woman's clothes—see what I can wear and get rid of the rest."

“Sounds like a good idea. If you have time, how about getting Uncle Pete's things together—my compliments to the chef, these fried eggs are delicious—get Uncle Pete's things together, maybe in a spare room. I can't wear anything of his."

Before starting the day's task, Sandra found herself in the library. I love this room as much as Tim loves his study, she thought. I wonder why.

Yesterday she had found the stereo components, but also discovered that the only CD's and tapes Uncle Pete had were classics. Today she decided to see what classical music sounds like, and selected the CD on top of the stack. She settled in the recliner, book in hand, listening to the soft strains of Bach.

When Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood's party at midnight, he was not much surprised to learn that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he had not sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance—perhaps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred housing himself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the night, if the run had kept him in that neighborhood; for he was not likely to feel much concern about leaving his brother in suspense. Godfrey's mind was too full of Nancy Lammeter's looks and behaviour, too full of the exasperation against himself and his lot, which the sight of her always produced in him, for him to give much thought to Wildfire, or to the probabilities of Dunstan's conduct.

The next morning the whole village was excited by the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every one else, was occupied in gathering and discussing news about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits.

Tim stood for a moment just inside the doorway of the study, breathing in the strength the room afforded him. Although it was of his own doing, the pile of boxes in the center of the study disturbed him. He resolved to get everything in its place before the day's end. He moved to the desk, produced a black ballpoint pen and yellow legal pad, and carefully compiled his game plan.

To Do List

+ Clean out desk.

+ Set up computer.

+ Clean out file cabinets.

+ Arrange documents from lawyer.

+ Learn to use computer.

+ Note contents of bookshelves.

+ Note content of cabinets.

+ Have telephone line (lines?) installed.

+ Start subscription to
Charlotte Observer
.

+ Check on mail delivery.

+ Work out agreement with Bobby.

+ Sandy?

+ Study document contents.

Tim reviewed his notes. That'll do for now, he thought. He pulled open the center desk drawer and moved the contents to the desktop. He shook his head and muttered, “Need a box."

He carefully began unpacking the boxes of computer equipment, placing the components on the bare study table, crushing packing material into an emptied carton and saving the remaining boxes for storage.

The sound of the doorbell startled him. It was more of a chime than a ringing or buzzing alert. It took him a few seconds to identify the sound, and when he entered the hallway, Sandra was emerging from the library.

“I'll get it,” she said.

He followed. His curiosity about their first visitor made him unwilling to let Sandra be the first to know.

Bobby Elliott, his bulk no longer frightening, removed his cap when Sandra opened the door.

“Clean house,” Bobby said expressionless.

Bobby had spoken to Sandra, but Tim, not sure if Bobby was asking a question or making a statement, replied, “Come on in Bobby. I need to talk with you."

Bobby followed Tim's gesture and trailed him to the study. Sandra, uninvited, followed also.

When they were seated, Tim briefly considered telling Sandra that her presence was not needed, but quickly dismissed the impulse.

“Bobby, it looks like I may stay in Dot after all. I can't say for sure, but that is the direction I am leaning towards right now."

Bobby replied only with his stony face, eyes locked on Tim's eyes.

“What were your responsibilities when you worked for Uncle Pete?"

“Clean house. Wash clothes. Car. Truck. Cook sometimes. Fix things. Errands."

“Sort of a handyman."

With a single nod of his head, Bobby agreed.

“You don't like me much, do you Bobby?"

“Don't know yet. Like Mrs."

Tim laughed. “Fair enough.” He fished a package of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Cigarette?” he asked extending the pack towards Bobby.

“Don't smoke."

“Mind if Sandy and I do?"

Bobby answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

Exhaling the smoke from the first drag on the unfiltered cigarette through his nose, Tim continued. “What kind of schedule did you follow?"

“Clean house Tuesday, Friday. Yard Monday, Wednesday. Thursday miscellaneous."

Bobby's use of the word “miscellaneous” seemed out of character to Tim. “And for your work Uncle Tim let you live in a tenant house and paid you $500 a week?"

“$500 month,” Bobby corrected.

“Would you like to continue to work for me, doing pretty much the same thing?"

“Yes."

“I would like that too. I especially need your knowledge of the farm. I don't like what Uncle Pete was paying you though."

“Can't work for less."

Tim laughed again. “I don't see how you can live on $500 a month, even if you don't have to pay rent. I was thinking about $500 a week. That would be $26,000 a year, plus the house, of course."

Sandra's eyebrows raised involuntarily.

“Don't need that much,” Bobby deadpanned.

Ignoring Bobby's comment, Tim said, “I don't like the looks of the shack you're living in, even if it does look better inside. Mr. Coan told me there is a total of twelve tenant houses. Are any of them in better condition than yours?"

“Yes."

“Then I want you to move immediately into the best one."

“No."

“What?"

“Born in house. Mamma, daddy die in house."

Tim was silent for a moment. “Can the house be fixed up, Bobby?"

“Yes. Need roof, siding, furnace, paint. Wiring bad."

“How about air conditioning, insulation, carpeting?"

“Cost too much."

“How much?"

“Don't know."

“Do you know a contractor who can do the work?"

“Brother."

“Your brother is a contractor?”

“Carpenter. Good. Drinks too much. Lost job. Good man."

“So you think you and your brother can do a good job remodeling the house?"

“Yes. How much you pay?"

“I don't know much about this sort of thing. I trust you. Let's try not to go over $50,000."

Sandra's eyebrows went up again.

“Not cost that much,” Bobby said as he stood up.

“How about your furniture?” Sandra asked.

“Old."

“Thanks, Sandy. I didn't think of that. I want you to get new furniture too,” Tim said.

“Is there any furniture stored in the barn you could use?” Sandra asked.

“Too nice for Bobby,” was the reply.

“We're not going to use it. If it's in good condition it's a shame to let it just sit there."

Bobby returned to his one nod reply. “Clean now,” he said. He turned towards the door as Tim stood up, then turned back and extended his hand to Tim. “Like,” was his final comment.

When Bobby closed the door behind him, Tim turned to Sandra and said, “I thought you were going to sort clothes today."

“I'm pouting,” she pretended through puckered lips. “You barely know Bobby, but you just committed over $75,000 to him. You haven't offered me anything."

“I barely know you either, and besides, I need Bobby.” The implication clearly was that he didn't need her. “I knew that Bobby wanted to continue working here. Remember the night we met him he mentioned twice that Mr. Coan had told him he would have to move out when I arrived?"

“So?"

“I need Bobby and I knew what his basic plan was. I now know what
my
basic plan is. I have no idea what is going on in your pretty little brain. You come up with a plan for yourself and we'll talk about it."

Her tears surprised Sandra and she burst from the room.

“Damn,” Tim exclaimed, but the sound of the slamming door kept her from hearing.

Tim slumped to his desk and put a big check mark beside “Work out agreement with Bobby."

Sandra initially worked furiously, dumping out dresser drawers onto the bed, sorting the contents into a “possibly” stack and a “no way” stack. “Wants a plan, does he,” she muttered, not aware she was speaking aloud. “I'm gonna steal his ass blind and get the hell out of Dodge. That's my fucking plan, Tim Dollar.” Visions of Silas Marner bathing his hands in gold danced in her mind. “Told me there was only enough money to get by on. Crap. He has a damn fortune. I'm gonna get my share, damn it. He owes me."

She sat on the bed and burst into tears again. No he doesn't, she argued with herself. What would have happened to me if Tim had not come along? He sure as hell enjoyed me last night, though. The internal debate continued. So he ejaculated. He could have done that with his hand—without me. I'm the one who enjoyed it. How did that happen? Hank was so big. Tim's is so small. Must be the way he used it. Damn, he just lay there. Must be the way I used it—I used him. Damn. That's it. He wants to use Bobby and is willing to pay for it. He has no use for me.

She stretched out on the bed. Visions of Silas Marner returned. Wait a minute, she thought. Do I want to be Silas, earning and enjoying my gold, or do I want to be Dunstan, stealing and enjoying the gold? Old Silas worked his ass off and now is crying in his beer. Dunstan never worked a day in his life, and now he is off somewhere having the time of his life with Silas’ gold. But is he truly enjoying it? The whole time I was with the Van Fans I lived on other people's money and I enjoyed it. “The hell I did. Screwing fat old men and rolling drunks is hard work. Dunstan just waltzed in, found the gold and slipped out into the night. I'll bet he's having a great time.” She was again talking aloud.

Bobby slipped back down the hall. This time when he approached, he made some noise with the vacuum cleaner. “Sortin’ clothes? Clean room Friday,” he said.

“I have made a mess, haven't I?” Sandra replied, trying to hide her tear-stained face. “I'm not making much progress. I think I'll read for a while and try again after lunch."

“What you do with old clothes?"

“Some of them ... most of them I can use I think. The rest we are going to throw away or give to Goodwill or something."

“Mr. Harlow clothes?"

“Tim wanted me to just dump his uncle's clothes in a bedroom until we have time to haul off..."

“I do Mr. Harlow."

“Great,” Sandra said, and then realized Bobby had something else in mind. “Bobby, I'll bet you could wear Tim's uncle's clothes. Why don't you keep them?"

“Yes ma'am."

At first there was a little peevish cry of ‘mammy', and an effort to regain the pillowing arm and bosom; but mammy's ear was deaf, and the pillow seemed to be slipping away backward. Suddenly, as the child rolled downward on its mother's knees, all wet with snow, its eyes were caught by a bright glancing light on the white ground, and, with the ready transition of infancy, it was immediately absorbed in watching the bright living thing running towards it, yet never arriving. That bright living thing must be caught; and in an instant the child had slipped on all fours, and held out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the gleam would not be caught in that way, and now the head was held up to see where the cunning gleam came from. It came from a very bright place; and the little one, rising on its legs, toddled through the snow, the old grimy shawl in which it was wrapped trailing behind it, and the queer little bonnet dangling at its back—toddled on to the open door of Silas Marner's cottage and right up to the warm hearth, where there was a bright fire of logs and sticks, which had thoroughly warmed the old sack (Silas's greatcoat) spread out on the bricks to dry. The little one, accustomed to be left to itself for long hours without notice from its mother, squatted down on the sack, and spread its tiny hands towards the blaze, in perfect contentment, gurgling and making many inarticulate communications to the cheerful fire, like a new-hatched gosling beginning to find itself comfortable. But presently the warmth had a lulling effect, and the little golden head sank down on the old sack, and the blue eyes were veiled by their delicate half-transparent lids.