Time Off for Good Behavior (25 page)

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Authors: Lani Diane Rich

BOOK: Time Off for Good Behavior
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Don

t come bitching to me,

Bones said.

I didn

t ask you to buy the Station.


Nice gratitude,

I
said,

after I saved your sorry ass from a probable lawsuit.

Bones looked up at the clock.

Isn

t your break over yet?

I settled in the comfy chair across from his desk.

I got ten more minutes.


There

s a break room in the back for employees,

he said.


Good thing I

m not your employee.

He made a dismissive noise and turned his attention to the mail on his desk. I smiled. Although playing Santa pretty much sucked, I had to admit that having something to do with my days was improving my general mood. T
he fact that I got to irritate Bones while doing it was pure gravy.

I watched him go through his mail, quietly drinking my water and fanning myself with a manila folder I

d pulled off his filing cabinet. My eyes floated over the items on his desk: a blotte
r, a pencil sharpener, a letter opener.

A package of sticky notes.

Crap.
I sighed, closed my eyes, and saw my wall full of crooked notes taunting me. If things were going to change, I was going to have to make them change. I sucked in some breath and spoke.


Hey, Bones?


Hmph?

he grunted, not looking up from the mail.

I got stuck on what I wanted to say, then rolled my eyes at myself.
Go ahead, Wanda. Have an adult conversation. You might like it.


Have you... always known... what you wanted?

Bones

s eye
s stopped focusing on the letter he was reading, but it took a moment before they floated up to me.

What kind of damn fool question is that?

I bopped my head back and forth on my shoulders, trying to think of an answer that didn

t include the phrase
Bite
me.


I just...

I sighed. Why was this so hard?

I

m going through a thing... right now... and I

m trying to figure out what I want. Out

out of life.

Bones watched me carefully, as though I were a dog and he didn

t know whether to pet or kick me. In the
end he did neither.


You in therapy or something?

he asked.

That sounds like a question someone in therapy might ask.


No, I

m not in therapy.

Not technically.

I

m just... I

m trying to figure things out. Forget I asked. You

re too damn cranky to
be of any use to me, anyway.

I took a swig of my water, preparing a wiseass comment if he poked fun at how red my face was.


What are you doing for Thanksgiving?

I looked up.

What?

He flattened his palms against the desktop.

Thanksgiving. Next Thursd
ay. Don

t you ever look at a damn calendar?

I gave a pointed glance at the calendar over his shoulder, then back at him.

No.

He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

Shelley wants you to spend it with us, if you don

t have plans.


I do,

I lie
d.

Have plans, I mean.

He gave a short nod, then picked up his letter, although he kept his eyes on me.

You okay, Wanda?


Yeah. I

m fine. I have plans. My break

s over.

He waved his fingers at me.

On with you, then.

I turned around, got to the door,
turned back, grabbed my water, caught Bones watching me with smiling eyes.


Oh, bite me, Bones,

I said, slamming the door behind me and giving myself and my maturity an internal pat on the back.
You go, girl.

 

***

 


What are you doing for Thanksgiving?

Elizabeth handed me a plate to dry.


I can

t believe you don

t have a damn dishwasher,

I said, running my dampened towel over yet another plate.


You know,

she said, an amused smile playing on her lips,

I take back everything I ever said about you not h
aving the right disposition to play Santa.

I put the plate away.

I

ve got some guy Santas starting after the holiday. And not a moment too soon.

She laughed and was quiet for a minute.

So do you have plans for Thanksgiving?


Yes,

I lied.

What is thi
s obsession everyone has with Thanksgiving?

Elizabeth eyed me.

It

s Thursday.


I know.

She rinsed a bowl and handed it to me.

The kids and I are leaving Wednesday to visit my sister Cheryl in Atlanta. She invited you to come along.


Thanks,

I said, giving a flat smile.

Can

t. Plans.


I see,

she said.

You haven

t asked me about my meeting with the radio people.


Oh. Crap. Yeah. How was your meeting with the radio people?


Great.

She turned off the water and dried her hands on the kitch
en towel.

I

m meeting with the station manager on Tuesday.


That

s terrific.

I meant it. I was genuinely happy for her. Too bad
Grow up just a tiny bit
wasn

t on a sticky note on my wall, or I

d feel like I

d actually accomplished something that day.


W
ell, if you change your mind about Thanksgiving...

she said.


Can

t. Plans.

She nodded.

Yeah. Thanks for helping with the dishes.

I smiled.

Least I can do.


Well. Good night,

she said, heading out of the kitchen. I stood there alone for a few minute
s, then turned out the light and went up to my room.

 

***

 

I had just put my feet up on Elizabeth

s coffee table, a Marie Callender

s turkey dinner on my lap and a glass of good ol

Albert on ice nearby, when I heard the noise. My heart kicked up a notch.
I hit the mute button on the remote, shushing Frasier and Niles, and sat frozen on the couch, listening.

Nothing.

I took a sip of my drink but didn

t feel any better. It would be just like George to fuck up a perfectly fine Thanksgiving.

I put my meal down
and glanced at the door: it was locked. All the window shades were drawn. If he was out there, he wouldn

t be able to see me. I could run to the phone in the kitchen and dial 911, and the cops would probably get there before he killed me.

Probably.

Or the
y could show up, discover the noise was the neighbor

s cat

or, worse, my imagination

and I

d die of humiliation. Either way, it sucked to be me.

Crack.
I jumped up off the couch. It sounded like the crack of a piece of wood, maybe a large twig under someon
e

s foot. Or a revolver cocking.


Revolver,

I huffed at myself. A: how the hell would I know what a cocking revolver sounded like? B: it was a twig.

Under a foot.

Crap.
How could he have found me? Had he been watching me all along? Had he been waiting to make his move until after Elizabeth and the kids left? But they

d been gone since the day before; why wait until now?

I opened the front hall closet and pulled out Alex

s aluminum baseball bat. I went into the kitchen and got the cordless off the wall. Hauling the bat over my shoulder, I walked up to the door. I flicked on the porch light and looked through the peephole at the same time.


Wanda? Is that you?

I screamed l
ong and hard, releasing the pent-up terror lurking in my chest. Then I opened the door and threw the bat at Jack, who ducked as it went whizzing by his head.


Wanda!

He looked over his shoulder as the bat landed on the lawn.

I

m sorry. Did I scare you?


Did you... did you...
scare
me? No, Jack. You freaked the living shit out of me. I

m going to have to go change my underwear now.

I bent over, both palms on my knees, and gasped for breath.

What the hell did you think you were doing?


I was driving by
to check on the place. I thought you

d gone with Elizabeth and the kids. When I saw the lights on . .


Did she
ask
you to check up on the place?

He shrugged.

No, I just thought...

I straightened up.

Jesus, Jack. If you

d been that attentive before, you
might still be married.

His face hardened. He stepped back.

Look, I

m sorry I scared you. I

ll go.

I held up my hands.

No, you totally freaked me out, you

re staying until I calm down.

I grabbed my jacket off the coat-rack.

Do you smoke, Jack?

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