9
Woodie stared at the mess that was supposed to be a wonderful dinner. He was a cat with its tail on fire as he poured and dumped everything down the garbage disposal. He slammed the dishes and pots any old way into the dishwasher before he turned it on. Fourteen years. Twelve years. Pete of all people! Pete was a goddamn vet. He ran around in torn coveralls with a baseball cap jammed on his head;
backwards
no less. He and Kristine had a lot in common. They both loved animals. He was good at his job, and he fucking lived in the small apartment over the garage. They even ate together. Kristine extolled his virtues every time they were together, saying the dogs loved him and he had such a gentle way with animals and the most soothing voice she'd ever heard when they were about to deliver their pups. Once, she'd even said she
adored
the young man. He remembered the pang of jealousy that shot through him at her words, but then she'd smiled and kissed him until his teeth rattled.
He knew exactly what he should do. He should march his ass out to the farm and demand an explanation. That's what he
should
do, all right. Instead, he reached into the cabinet over the sink for a bottle of hundred-proof Kentucky bourbon. He took a long slug from the bottle, his eyes watering as the fiery liquid roared down his throat. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to go out to the farm. He'd want to punch the young vet smack in the nose and maybe hurt him. On the other hand, the feisty jock might knock him on his forty-seven-year-old ass and damage the pricey porcelain caps he'd had to get his senior year in high school because of a football mishap. He took another long pull from the bottle as he made his way to the kitchen table. He plopped the bottle square in the middle of the table and squinted at it, trying to remember the last time he'd gotten drunk. The day of his divorce from Maureen. Actually it was a two-day drunk and a four-day hangover. On the fifth day he'd sworn to God, the banking industry, his dead parents, and anyone else he could name, that he would never, ever, get drunk again.
That was then. This was now.
Woodie eyed the bottle, wondering how much he could take in one swallow. He reached behind him to one of the kitchen drawers and withdrew a black magic marker. He drew a line on the bottle and gulped. He thought for a minute smoke was coming out of his ears. He actually craned his neck to see his reflection in the glass on the oven door. No smoke. He marked the bottle again and swigged. He gurgled his approval as the bourbon swished to the black line.
Forty-seven wasn't old. Fify wasn't old either. Fifty was prime if you didn't count the droop to one's ass, the slight loss of hair, the extra thickness around the waist, and the beginnings of jowls. He tried to remember what he was doing the year he turned thirty-three. No memories surfaced.
Thirty-three meant you were full of piss and vinegar, and you could get it up three or four times a night. Not to mention all that instant gratification at other times. When you were thirty-three, you had the world by the tail because you were lean and hard, a man's man. Curly hair, freckles, incredible blue eyes, and a charming grin be damned. Women loved you when you were thirty-three because they liked lean, suntanned, hard bodies. They loved mesmerizing blue eyes and running their hands through curly locks.
Woodie craned his neck to stare at his reflection in the oven glass a second time. He still looked good for forty-seven. Reasonably good. Hair plugs weren't out of the question. Grecian Formula was a possibility. He could get rid of his boxers and wear those shit-kicking jockeys all the young studs wore. The Calvin Klein colored ones. He could start wearing deck shoes instead of his Brooks Brothers wing tips.
He took another long slurp from the bottle, marveling at how close he came to the black marks. He was precise. He'd always been precise. He had to be precise because he handled money all day long. Bankers were as boring as Certified Public Accountants. He wondered what kind of underwear CPAs wore. If he was a betting man, which he wasn't, because bankers couldn't bet, he'd bet the vet wore yellow Calvins. Yellow, for Christ's sake. What was wrong with white or gray? Oh, no, that guy had to wear yellow. Yellow was bright and cheery. Summery. He could just picture him in one of the fields, stripping off his ragged coveralls and standing there like Tarzan in his yellow Calvins while Kristine voiced her approval. The stud probably had an electric-blue Speedo, too.
His head buzzing, Woodie clutched at the bourbon bottle before he brought it to his lips.
What were
they
doing right now? Were they in the barn rolling around in the hay? Were they upstairs in Kristine's bedroom, or were they in the little apartment over the garage on the narrow bed that was only big enough for one person?
Woodie continued to torture himself with thoughts of Pete, wondering if he was one of those rub-a-dub men who liked to run their hands over women's bodies and then suck their toes. Pete would be up on all the latest techniques. All young guys were. Spontaneous, serendipitous. That was Pete. What the hell was he? A forty-seven-year-old fart who didn't know his ass from his elbow. “I've managed to do all right,” he muttered, “without yellow Calvins and a blue Speedo.”
Woodie blinked as he peered at the bottle. Empty. “Shit! ”
His gait unsteady, Woodie staggered to the cabinet over the kitchen sink. Cooking sherry, olive oil, Balsamic vinegar. No liquor. Well, he could fix that. He had a liquor cabinet that was
stuffed
with the good stuff. All he had to do was find the damn thing. Maybe he should take a nap first, or maybe he should go with his original thought and go out to the farm.
In the living room, Woodie eyeballed the liquor cabinet and the couch.
It looked, to his bleary eyes, like an either-or situation. “Like hell!” he mumbled as he staggered back to the kitchen to look for his car keys.
As drunk as he was, he knew he couldn't go on the highway. He could, however, drive through the fields to arrive within walking distance of Kristine's barn. All he had to do was remember the way. Maybe he needed a map.
A brown grocery bag from under the sink found its way to the kitchen table. With the black magic marker, Woodie started to draw lines on the grocery sack. He made stars alongside what he thought were the various fields that would lead him to Kristine's farm.
Smacking his hands together in satisfaction, Woodie reached for his glasses on the kitchen counter. One had to be careful when driving while inebriated.
Outside in the warm, humid air, Woodie headed for the garage, where he was overtaken by indecision. He felt woozy; his knees were rubbery, and his head felt like a million bees were buzzing inside his skull. Should he take his racy Jaguar or the bank's minibus? The shocks were probably better on the bus, and it had four-wheel drive. In addition, it lit up like a Christmas tree in the dark with red-and-blue flashing lights on the roof.
Woodie turned on the ignition. It took three tries before he was able to shift into reverse and another two tries before he could shift into first at the end of his long circular driveway. He flicked on all the knobs, all the dials, and all the buttons as he sailed across the field in a crazy zigzag pattern in search of his true love.
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“I still can't get over the fact that Jack cleaned up the kitchen,” Kristine said.
“In case you haven't noticed, Kristine, Jack has taken over your kitchen. He's got those moldy books and journals spread all over. Gracie already peed on one of them, and Slick is about to lift his leg as we speak. I suggest we sit outside and have one last cup of coffee. Thanks for having dinner with me.”
“I enjoyed it, Pete. Next time it's my treat.”
“How many times did Woodie call?”
“Just once. I didn't listen to the message. I just erased it. I think we should invite Jack to join us. I'd kind of like to know what he's found so far. After all, he's going to be writing about my ancestors,” she whispered.
“Sure. I'll bring the coffee. It's hot, isn't it?”
“It sure is. I like to sit out on the porch and listen to the frogs and crickets. It's so peaceful watching the fireflies.”
“What are you going to do about Woodie, Kristine?”
“Nothing.”
“I don't think you're being fair. You owe it to him to listen to his explanation. I'm sure he has one. He's a stand-up guy, boss.”
“Was
a stand-up guy. I saw what I saw.”
“You're making him pay for things Logan did to you. That's not fair.”
“Whose side are you on, Pete?”
“I'm on the side of what's right. I know you're my boss, and I know you're my friend. I wouldn't think much of myself if I didn't try to point out to you when you're doing something wrong. By the same token, I'd want you to tell me if the situation were reversed.”
“Can we just drop it, Pete? The evening is too beautiful to spoil, and I really don't want Jack knowing my business.”
“Okay. We're picking up tomorrow, though, right where we're leaving off now. Deal, Kristine?”
“Sure.” She heard the screen door slam and turned to see Jack appear on the porch, a big smile on his face.
“So, Jack, what have you found out?” Kristine asked brightly.
“I'm still trying to organize the books and journals according to dates. The ink is faded and blurred in a lot of them. So far, I haven't found even a clue as to where the opening to the tunnel is. I'll have your kitchen back to normal before morning.”
“Aren't you going to sleep?”
“Are you kidding? I'm too excited to sleep. Being a reporter is rather like being a doctorâyou learn to go without sleeping. I take catnaps when I'm on a find like this. What are all those lights over there?”
“I bet it's a UFO,” Pete said, standing up to peer into the darkness. “They're all over the place. Wow!”
“Whatever it is, it's getting closer. Do you have a gun, Mrs. Kelly?” Jack asked.
“No, I do not have a gun. The Department of Defense says there are no such things as UFOs. What do you think it is, Pete?” Kristine asked as she cuddled Gracie and Slick in her arms.
“A police car. An ambulance. What else has flashing lights?”
“In my fields?”
“It's almost here, whatever it is. I think we need to check this out. You wait here, Kristine. Jack, you come with me.” The reporter tripped along behind Pete, his steps hesitant.
“Move, move!” Kristine hissed. “I thought all reporters had a nose for news. Yours isn't even twitching. You might have a real scoop here. A Pulitzer!”
“God!” the reporter said.
“It's a bus,” Pete said in disgust! “The bank bus. It's your friend, Kristine. And from the looks of things, he's three sheets to the wind.”
“Woodie! Jack, go back to the house.”
“You told me to stay here.”
“Now I'm telling you to leave. Go!”
“Get out of my way, you ... you . . . stud,” Woodie said, trying to push Pete out of the way.
Kristine watched as Woodie swayed back and forth in the evening breeze. “I saw you! And I saw you, too!” Woodie said.
“Guess what, Woodie, I saw you, too. What are you doing here? You're drunk.”
“Yes-I-am,” Woodie singsonged. “That's why I drove through the fields. I didn't want to have an accident.”
“We thought you were a UFO,” Pete said, just to have something to say.
“I don't want to talk to you. You think because you're thirty-three you know everything. Just because I'm forty-seven doesn't mean I don't know anything. So what if you have curly hair and big blue eyes. So what? I had a lot of hair. Once. So what?”
“Pete, get him some coffee.”
“This is just a wild guess on my part, Kristine, but I think this guy saw us at Jezebel's this evening,” Pete said, moving closer to Kristine.
“I saw you. All dressed up. Dancing, eating desserts on fire. I trusted you, Kristine.”
“What I do is none of your business. Now that you're making it my business, Aaron Dunwoodie, who was the woman I saw
you
with in the parking lot this afternoon?”
“Her! That was Maureen. My ex-wife. She came by to tell me she was getting married. No more alimony. She snagged herself a rich husband. I was so happy to be finally rid of her I took her to lunch.” He paused, staggered, regained his balance. “You were dancing cheek-to-cheek while they fired up your dessert. I know all about that. So there, Kristine.”
Kristine's heart soared. “Pete took me out to dinner to get my mind off
you.
”
“Who's that other guy?”
“That's none of your business, Woodie. You're drunk. Go up on the porch and drink some coffee,.”
“Are you going to marry me, Kristine?”
“I don't know.”
“Damn it, when are you going to know?”
“I don't know. When I do know, I'll tell you.”
“That's not good enough.” Woodie hiccuped.
“It's all you're going to get,” Kristine said.
“Then I accept.”
“Drink your coffee. You can sleep on the couch tonight. Pete, you better shut the lights off on the bus or his battery will die.”
“I called you,” Woodie said.
“I called you, too, Woodie. We're both too old to play games like this.”
“You're telling me we're old. You don't know the half of it. I thought ...”
“I know what you thought. You were wrong. Just the way I was wrong. How did you know I was at Jezebel's?”