Me and Mom Fall for Spencer (2 page)

Me and Mom Fall
for Spencer

Chapter Three

They are down there laughing for the
rest of the evening, squealing and giggling. I swear how
can
these two
be teachers with their dirty, dirty talk. I can’t even go down
there for my chocolate cupcake Mom brought me from the deli the other day. I
need my decaf, too, but I’m stuck up here
cause
I’m
not giving Horny the satisfaction of smirking at me because I’m sure Mom has
told her by now about the underwear scandal…tragedy.

I am thinking too much about him.
Him.
Him.
I don’t think another
man,
boy has even seen me in my underwear except for Dr.
Rob. I have not been the kind to show my stuff like that. I’ve never
sexted
. I think Mom has.

God I need a group to admit this stuff
too. “I’m Sarah. My mom’s…morally compromised. Oh hell she’s a slut.”

It’s psychologically damaging to think
about Mom getting cozy with so many guys. And don’t give me that two hands
shit. ‘I can count the guys I’ve been with on two hands.’ But how many times
over?

The next morning, I am at my laptop,
propped there in my bed against my gel pillows, and I like two because I sleep
on a slight incline because it helps my digestion, when I hear something start
up, like the roar of an engine. What the hell! I’m trying to see out my window
and I just glance him, Spencer Gundry, sawing things along the fence line, his
shoulders…wide,
arms
…strong…. My cell rings.

It’s like I’m being attacked from two
vantage points. I hurry to my bed and dig amongst the white sheets and find my
phone. It’s my boss.
Great.
What does he want?

“What?” I say in greeting.

Laughter.
God, if you think about it, making ridiculous sounds like a freaking animal, laughter
is just embarrassing.

“Hello Sarah,” Aaron says in a tone you
might use on a moron.

“
Yo
,” I say. I
am still in my underwear which is one of the reasons I love working from home.

The saw’s whine goes up a notch and I
stick my finger in my free ear and continue to rubber neck it from my window. Spencer
Gundry is removing the only defensive line we have against Frieda’s house.
More violation.
He pisses me off more than any man has had
the guts to do and we’ve barely spoken. Who the hell does he think he is…
.

“Sarah?”

“What do you want?” I ask Aaron
cause
there are always these gaps when you talk with him
like he’s setting up his words like they’re tin soldiers or something.

“Um…it’s your boss,” he says.
Stater
of the
obvious.
I never respect that.
Him.

“
Yay
,” I say
back. I’m looking for my shorts, not the cut-offs but those ones Mom was going
to throw away and I snatched them off the pile. They’re a little big, but I
could be buried in them, like spend forever in them they’re so soft.

Aaron takes a breath and launches into his
attempt to be boss-like. I’m saying
,
done, done, a
hundred times as I give up on the shorts and decide on a skirt instead, one I
can step right into. It’s white with little blue flowers. I think I made this…I
know I did, of course, like ten years ago. It matches my blue undershirt…that
I’m wearing. I lift my arm to check the
hair,
yeah I’m
good…if I keep my arms down.

Aaron is going on, not with the flow
because of the needed breaks like his brain has that delay. I can’t help that I
process at the speed of light. I have a war on my hands down in the yard. All
of a sudden I hear Aaron say, “Or I can bring them out Friday evening on my
way….”

“No,” I say.

“What?”

“No,” I repeat, dragging out the ‘o’ to
make it a longer word cause he’s obviously needing more than n and o can give
on their own.

He’s saying something about why he could
drop off the papers on his way…
yadda
,
yadda
, and I’m holding the hair on top of my head, in that
mirror again, and I grab a shirt off the floor and quickly dust the glass as Spencer’s
saw drops a note and thank God I can think for a minute. Then I go back to the
hair and how I could put it up in that hap-hazard way that’s right down my
alley.

Aaron is just grasping my rejection.
About freaking time.

“I’m not coming in, Aaron. No way
I’m
getting in that traffic on the bridge.”

He is the boss, he says, and I need to
work with him,
yakity
-yak.

“No,” I say again because he offers to
bring the binders…again, like I haven’t already answered this once.

He says he’s bringing them, dropping
them off and he hangs up on me.

Infuriating.
I hurry to the window
cause
the saw has suddenly
stopped. I’m not going to let this guy, this interloper scare me off. He looked
in my door and I should feel strange? No. No way. He should bear all the
shame…all the freaking shame. And now he’s clearing my hedge of protection? I
find my flip-flops and stick my feet in. Damn that chipped polish.

I stop in the bathroom to brush my teeth
because…obvious.

Down the stairs.
He’s at the fence, near my garden. Just taken off his shirt in fact, arms still
tangled in it as he looks my garden over, but when I push out the screen and
let it slap closed, his eyes are on me soon enough. I walk with purpose, it
ain’t
a runway buddy, and my flips are flopping with these
angry, efficient snaps every time I take a step his…naked way. He lifts his
arms and slides his shirt back on, and he picks up his saw and I’m very near
the weak-ass vegetation that’s on my side of the fence, across from where he
stands, and it’s not so thick now that he’s leveled his half.

“Good morning,” he says. “I hope I
didn’t wake you.”

My hand goes to my face. Am I puffy?
Who the freak cares.
“What are you doing?” Oh crap, I’m Aaron.
We hate the things in others we hate in ourselves. It’s true. I couldn’t have
asked a dumber question.

Gundry holds up the saw.

“We’ve met,” I say cleverly.

“Sorry. And about yesterday…I didn’t
mean….”

I hold up my hand, “Don’t talk about
it.”

He stops. It’s an, ‘oh shit,’ look, kind
of…I better watch him is all. He’s like…manipulative. His face…very expressive
and he’s not afraid to use it. It’s just a face but it could be as deadly as
that chainsaw if one wasn’t prepared for its…roar. And now he’s throwing it around,
the big eyes, not the saw, thank God…but the lips…well it all works together
and ropes you in…if you’re weak. I’ll bet he’s been close to his mother. She
did this, encouraged it,
told
him he’s cute.

“Say…would it be alright if I hopped the
fence and cleaned out your side?”

Hopped and cleaned out my…it’s just
disarming, that’s all. I’m not used to this much conversation…with a
human…besides mom I don’t…encourage this…boldness.

“This is my yard.
My
sanctuary.
I don’t ask you to understand. Just…respect. I come out here
in the morning…check my tomatoes…,” I wave toward my garden and let my hand
flop against my side.

They look great, by the way,” he
interjects and I swear his eyes glance over my breasts, not an obvious ogle,
but a sly drop incorporated with a quick look at my garden, a clearing of the
throat. “You do this yourself?”

There’re no elves, Gundry, in the real
gardening world. But I am not here to discuss my process. Or to make small talk,
which I loathe and refuse to be proficient at on principle. I look over my
shoulder at the garden to break from studying his face. He’s quite the looker,
and so what? He lucked out is
all.
It has nothing to
do with his character. He was bestowed a certain symmetry, pure luck, and why
should the world fall at his feet because of it? Cure cancer buddy, then we’ll
talk.

So I turn back to him. He smiles. It’s a
cheery smile. He’s apparently a morning person. Bully for him.

“I work from home…so….”

“Your mom mentioned that. Sounds like a
good gig. Hey look, about last night….”

My hand goes up again. Oh, he is a
regrouper
. Not the submissive soul I’d hoped. He just comes
back later…with that voice.
 
And my mother…that Judas?
“No.”

He pulls his chin in a little.
His jaw, on display now, one small nick from the razor, but
flawless other than that.
Mom is so going to try and get their parts
together. And Horny will be beating the drum.

“I never meant to…I’m sorry to have made
you uncomfortable,” he says, like I haven’t told him no. Not good. He slides
down a couple of notches…not down on me…cause that’s not the picture I want
right now and I know all the dirty talk from Mom and H., but down in my
estimation is what I mean.

“I like the privacy this strip of
vegetation affords…well I did like it until you butchered it,” I say, realizing
my voice is a little too loud, so I adjust and say more softly, “and I imagine
you have lots more to do than remove our hedge. You can’t have unpacked
already.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t have water. That’s
ah…why I came over yesterday evening…to ask if I can use your hose…until….” He
scratches the back of his head. The hair…it’s a natural riot, and with the
strong face, features so…well the hair gets a pass. And his arm, the exposed
underside of it, he is interesting, not a complete meatball at all…I just
mean….

My hand is up again.
Word
traffic cop.
I haven’t even told my hand to lift. I wonder now if I have
any control over myself socially…or if my body has taken over and I don’t even
have to be here….

“Oh sorry,” he says, and the arm drops
and there’s…amusement? Am I a joke or something?

“Don’t make changes,” I say. “It’s
enough you’re here. Just don’t…bring a brass band, you know?”

Now he’s not smiling. “What does that
mean?”

Oh. My kind of question except I don’t
like it leveled at me.

“Just leave things alone. You want to
live here, fine. Just stay over there…you know?”

“Wow,” he says low, staring at me, those
eyes, what is with those eyes?

“I’m…” What am I? Sorry? Mean?

“No, I get it. You’re right. It’s…I
didn’t mean to…maybe later. I’ll do yours later.”

What?
My mother?

I just can’t stay here…look at those
eyes anymore.

I flip-flop my way back into the house. Once
again I get inside and lean against the door. I’m huffing and puffing about
like when I’d hurried the day before, but I hadn’t hurried this time. What the
heck is it with this guy? He’s got me…I don’t know. I can’t believe this.

I grab the colander. This is the time I
pick my tomatoes. I always pick my tomatoes first thing. I’m not going to not
pick them just because this guy is attacking my life…fence.

I go back outside. My cat Muffins has
miraculously appeared. “You’re home,” I say, but my eyes are darting. Gundry
stands. He’d been squatting, fiddling with his saw, but he stands now.

I look away and go back to my garden. I
hate this, being in his movie when…this is my place, my private place, not my
privates. Damn must everything now be an innuendo? What am I…Christine?

“Hey Sarah, do you mind if I finish
this…on my side? I mean, well the noise….”

“I do mind,” I say with feeling, like
one of the patriots might have addressed the first congress over the tyranny of
England. It’s that kind of feeling.
Crazy.

“Oh. Whoa.” He says this.

“I mean…,” the hand…mine…its flapping
now. I tell it to stop, to pick a tomato or something. So I put my back to Gundry
and bend over to grab a tomato that’s fallen…and can’t get up…and I feel a
breeze, and I reach behind me, the skirt, it’s blowing in the wind…like the
answers, and I stand quickly and look back at him…because the same
underwear…surely not…he didn’t…and he’s looking right at me, and he pulls the
cord on the saw…and it roars to life.

Me and Mom Fall for
Spencer

Chapter Four

The following day I see Spencer out
front of Frieda’s sitting on her stoop picking on a guitar. He hasn’t seen me
so I pretend I haven’t seen him. I hold the box with the plate of rice and meat
and the smaller plate of salad. I take slow steps across the street, my
destination the small house directly across from Frieda’s. Or Spencer’s as we
must call it now.

Spencer is playing some chords, and he’s
started to sing, and he’s gotten louder and I hear my name in there, in the
song, but I don’t turn. I’m carrying food and I’m not coordinated enough to
look behind me as I walk forward. That’s my story.

I reach old
Cyro’s
porch and put the box on the old metal TV tray beside the door and knock on the
old metal screen door. I hear the TV and the afternoon news. I see him in there
in the recliner.

“Okay,” he says and I can tell he’s been
sleeping.

I don’t say anything, he knows the
drill, and I have to turn now and walk all that way in front of Spencer and try
to ignore him when he’s playing music and singing about me.

I can hear more of the words now, as he
keeps turning up the volume. He’s looking right at me while he plays. He looks
cute playing that thing. “She’s a girl, she’s a girl, she’s a tomato growing
girl,” he’s finishing, then he waves, and I wave and keep going toward my
house. No one’s ever composed a song about me before. Not a nice one anyway.
 

“Hey Sarah, wait up,” he says, and he
sets his guitar aside and catches up. By then I am looking over our mail. Not
that I care a fruit fly about it. I slap the door closed on the mailbox and
wait for him to say something.

“Sarah?”

I look up. Spencer is wearing a T-shirt,
looks new and Fruit-of-the-Loom-y. He has on beige shorts, loose, to the knee
and old tennis shoes.

“I saw you walking past my house last
night with a flashlight.”

“I was on the sidewalk,” I say
defensively. He can’t know how I’m looking back, trying to get used to the eyes
of Frieda’s house being lit again, being alive.

He laughs. “You don’t have a dog.”

“He died,” I say softly. I still can’t
talk about it without choking up.

“Oh. Sorry. I mean…it’s the neighborhood
watch thing, right? Your mom said you started it after….”

“No I didn’t.” God I’m so defensive
again but when in hell did Mom give him my life story? “Well I didn’t.
Cyro
started it,” I use the mail to gesture toward
Cyro’s
house. “I walked it with him…since…ten years old.”

“Wow.”

There is this silence and I forget not
to stare at him. I’m so much like Mom. Damn.

“So you feed him?” he asks.

“Take him lunch,” I say quickly.
Like I’m ready to fight about it.
Actually, it’s enough for
two meals. He doesn’t eat as much as he used to.

Then this blurts out, and I’m always as
surprised as everyone else to hear myself, “Do you have a job?”

Spencer laughs and pulls a face like I
caught him stealing or something. “No.” He laughs again. “I did have. But…I
left it.
To move here.
Fresh start.”

I have work to do. I eat my lunch then I
work until two when I break to do the laundry and feed my cat and walk around
my garden a bit, then take a basket of tomatoes and things over to
Leeanne’s
for the Wednesday market. She bakes pies and I
send produce and she mans the table at the Farmer’s Market. By two-forty-five
I’m back at my laptop.
With my decaf.

So why did he need a fresh start? Mom
would ask. Christine would so ask.

So when I see him later that day, I say,
“I have some rice…just peppers and chicken.
On the back
porch?
Or out here on the front, yeah.
Just…you
can sit on the steps and I’ll bring it out.”

He laughs again. “That sounds amazing but
you’re putting me in mind of hoboes and women feeding them.”

“Sounds like an old black and white,” I
say, and it’s almost…well better than most of the things I ever say.

“Yeah I love that stuff,” he says, “the
old stuff.”

I do too, but…it’s just…where can this
go, this sharing of personal information? I can’t be his friend.

So I go in and he must figure it out
cause when I come out carrying two plates, and kind of dying that we’re going
to do this…eat together…he’s sitting on the steps but he’s gone for his guitar
and he’s playing again and singing, “She’s a girl, she’s a girl, she’s a lunch
cooking girl.”

It’s just ridiculous. To be this
flattered. He’s probably sung that song a hundred times for a hundred girls and
all of them going, ‘oh Elvis,’ inside and him trying not to laugh.

So what in the hell am I thinking. He
might get the wrong idea about me and here we are living side by side already
and I’ll never get rid of him. It’s too much.

So I hand him a plate, fluffy white rice
and chicken and vegetables I’ve grown, and three different colors of sliced
tomatoes for an accent and also because they’re so damned good to eat.

And he takes a bite even with the steam
coming off, and he tilts back his head and says, “Oh Sarah…man,” and he moans
and I’m just holding my plate and I think my mouth is open, no it is.

And after that I don’t know what the
hell he says I’m just so caught up in how he says it.