 
You'll See!

An Almost-Contemporary Tale

by Dai Alanye

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Copyright 2010 by Dai Alanye

Smashwords Edition 1.81

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_You'll See!_ _is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It is offered free, but if you wish to share the story with another person, please download an additional copy for each recipient. Despite its being offered at no charge, all rights are reserved by the author. Please don't copy, transfer or in any way alter the book beyond excerpting for purposes of published reviews._

_You'll See!_ _is an original work of fiction. All characters, locations and incidents are creations of the writer's imagination. Any resemblances to actual happenings, or to persons living or dead are strictly coincidental._

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You'll See!

Chapter 1 Town

day 1, Sat Aug 24, a score of years past

Light filtered through bedroom curtains and Charly woke, sensing something gone wrong. Her eyes wandered over cracked ceiling plaster in their morning ritual, her ears scanned the frequencies for early sounds—house noises, faint bird calls.

Nothing else, not even...

Yikes, no alarm! She panicked before remembering it was Saturday. _Thank Heaven_ —the one day she could gain blesséd extra sleep.

Her eyes drifted shut once more.

...and she lay on the beach, her flowing golden hair melding with silver-white sands—the sun hot, a cool sea-breeze rustling the palms. The waves, the soughing of the wind, the distant calls of seabirds—all seemed a conspiracy to lull her half asleep.

Adrian leaned close, his deeply-tanned left pectoralis major gently brushing her right deltoid.

He spoke in a husky whisper: "Come away with me, Elise—now. Don't return to your five-star hotel—we'll simply swim out and sail away."

His yacht swung at anchor, masts dipping to the eternal rhythm of the trade winds.

"A mere two days we've spent with each other," he said, "but two days with you is like eternity with any other woman. Come with me! I want you to see the black volcanic sands of Maui, the crystalline beaches of Bora-bora, the Great Barrier Reef—track lemurs and aye-ayes on Madagascar, view Cape Horn by moonlight, watch the giant sea-turtles come ashore at... I dunno—the Galapagos, or wherever."

"The child," she protested.

"Child! What child? I refuse to believe your slim youthful figure has ever borne a child. Besides," he laughed softly, "a child aboard a romantic cruise for two? How inappropriate!"

"But the child, Adrian! She's calling me!"

"Don't obsess, Elise. There's no child, no child, no child..."

She jerked erect, panicking a second time until she remembered—letting her eyes re-close, wondering why she'd again wakened.

"Momma! Are you awake, Momma? _Momma!_ "

Now she knew.

"Uhhh-hh... Uh, I am now, I guess. Can't you stay in bed awhile, Honey?"

"I'm hungry, Momma."

"No you're not, Frankie—you aren't hungry in the morning."

"I am today, Momma—real hungry... Momma?"

"Wait a second," she muttered. "Gimme couple minutes to wake up. Get dressed or something."

She allowed herself the luxury of one heartfelt groan before sliding her legs off the bed. _Blast!_ Why couldn't she sleep late on the one day possible? Frankie never wanted to get up on weekdays—almost always balked.

She pulled on the first clothes at hand and lurched downstairs to prepare a facsimile of breakfast.

The milk carton was almost empty, forcing a choice between cereal or hot chocolate for the girl. After consideration she decided to water it to stretch. Thin milk wouldn't hurt anything—nutrition would remain, though the flakes would be a bit mushier, the instant chocolate thinner. Frankie wouldn't notice or care.

_Absolutely got to shop today_.

One more blasted chore! She needed to review bills and figure how to stretch her measly pay—and the car was running on fumes.

Lord help us!

* * *

With breakfast, such as it was, completed and Frankie playing out of doors, she put the bills on the dining room table and started figuring, quickly becoming discouraged. One can of Coke remained in the fridge. She plumped into the recliner in the living room to let the frazzle fade away, pausing between sips to make the moment last, her eyes ambling languidly over stained wallpaper and worn carpet.

Soon she drained the can. Good, in a way—wouldn't have to lift her arm again. Her eyelids drifted down and she again lay by the sea—the sun veiled by high clouds, a light breeze blowing cool, waves plashing on the shore, land crabs scuttling past, sweat trickling down her ribs...

How odd, though. The sand seemed brittle, crunching as Adrian strode near. In the background his yacht engine thrummed. _Crunch, thrum—cruncchh, thrumm_ — _crunchchch, thrummmmmmmmm_...

" _Momma!_ "

What the devil now?

* * *

At his wife's house—ex-wife now—Trask had planned to leave by daylight but couldn't sleep, so got up around one AM and tried to read and watch TV. Neither worked—simply wound him up worse, and he hadn't slept well this week and more. At three he took a quick shower, packed the last of his things and headed to the garage.

Near the doorway his hip brushed a dinky side table, jostling a figurine. He pictured himself hurling it at the far wall, but cool dignity won out. Dropping house-keys on the table, he went through the door and into his truck, heading east away from the suburbs toward open country.

Time passed un-noticed, his thoughts jumbled with recriminations and might-have-beens. But around seven fatigue overcame anger and chagrin, and he looked for a place to stop. Driving slower to minimize his erratic course when tired, a sparse traffic bunched-up behind while waiting for safe stretches to pass. More daring or impatient drivers charged by him with horns blaring and gestures flying. He searched eagerly—then desperately—for a rest area or pull-off, the country devoid of human constructs other than infrequent houses or barns on the occasional strip of flat land.

Near nine o'clock traffic thinned. A faded wooden sign proclaimed, **West Baker/Little League/Champs 1986** , and he entered a town of two-story clapboard houses with front porches overlooking small neat lawns. The Israelites never greeted the Holy Land more rapturously than he did the parking spaces of this oasis. He held his course a few blocks into the business section, to be rewarded by sight of a diner.

The truck angled into a diagonal parking slot—bumping the curb and stalling. Shutting off the ignition, he rested his head on the steering wheel until startled awake sometime later. He slid out and slammed the door—opened it to retrieve the keys, reopened to push the lock button and slam once more.

Rubbing a groove impressed into his forehead, he stumbled up a few steps into a narrow eatery, dropping onto a low stool by the counter. Elbows on worn formica, he knuckled his eyes until vision became binocular, becoming aware of a skinny woman of a certain age standing before him in a white nylon uniform and tiara, and doing a pretty good imitation of a bored waitress.

"D'you have coffee?" he croaked.

"Not in the morning, Hon—only for dinner." A couple of older men down the counter chuckled. "What kind you want—express-o, Turkish, Irish, latty?" This drew more chuckles. While he tried to think of an appropriate comeback she produced a mug, filled it, placed a creamer and sugar dispenser near him. "Anything else?"

He winced at the effort of deciding. "Uh... no, not yet."

"You be sure and let me know, Hon." She took position on a stool at the far end of the counter. The regulars smiled, content with the latest scene in the daily comedy.

He added cream and measured out four spoonfuls of sugar, stirring with deliberation. Cautiously raising the cup in both hands, he drank and began a rapturous approach to full consciousness. _Nectar of the gods_ , he thought, vaguely aware the same phrase had entered his mind the day before and—had he realized—almost every morning of his adult life.

He guzzled the coffee and signaled his need for another. She sauntered over and re-filled his cup, asking, "Want me to leave the pot?"

Unsure whether his leg was being pulled, he grunted a safe reply. "No—guess not. How much d'I owe you?"

She sighed and scribbled a check.

He focused and saw $.81, fumbled for his wallet and took out a dollar, then added another, preferring to have this comedienne mock him as a rube rather than a piker.

He sipped this cup, dragging out time while mulling a decision. He'd driven enough, and you couldn't run away from troubles, supposedly. If he wanted a change of scene this seemed as good a place as any. Hills beguiled him after a lifetime in tamer scenes, and the town—what little he'd seen—had a comfortable old-fashioned feel, like stepping a couple generations into the past. An ideal place of exile for a double loser.

Completion of the second cup brought a partial return of alertness, and he swiveled to chance a remark to the gents on his left. They looked cordial enough, lounging in faded overalls and checked shirts, one with a red I-H cap and the other exhibiting a rakish blue beret, both showing a couple day's growth of grizzled whiskers on reddened and wrinkled faces.

"Scuse me," he essayed. "Is there any place to stay around here?"

They turned full-face to give the question proper consideration.

"Waall," drawled I-H cap, "ya got the motel down the other end a town."

"Er, I'm thinking longer term."

"Plenty salesmen stay at the motel," said Beret, "but was you figurin' a bed an' brekfuss, maybe?"

He considered. "Sure, that'd be alright."

"Ya got Kelly's on Maple, but she might be full this time a year. Then there's the Overlook place."

"Aw, fergit that," said I-H, "it's way ta hell an' gone. He'd never find it."

"Well, not like there's a lotta choices, fer cryin' out loud."

"What about Biscoe?" The waitress put her oar in. "Wasn't she startin' a B 'n B?"

He pulled out a pen and searched his pockets for a piece of paper. Waitress, up from her seat with interest in the discussion, pushed a napkin toward him. He felt suffused with gratitude, and had he not been so tired and somber might have given her a smile.

"Kelly's, you say?" And he wrote the directions to Maple Street—on the east side of town, south of Main. "Overlook?"

But they declined for him. Too hard to get to.

"What's the last one—Bristow?"

"Nah, Biscoe—out Undercliff way."

"How'd you spell it?"

This gave them pause. "Undercliff?" Beret asked. "Er Biscoe?" And getting a nod he spelled, "B-I S-K-O-...dubya?" That seemed the best bet. Yeah, couldn't be too far off.

"Ya go down Main here ta the light," I-H instructed him, "and left on River fer two er three blocks."

"Three," said Beret.

"Only if you count that alley," said Waitress.

"Then back west on Walnut Street fer a mile, mile 'n a half. Walnut turns inta Undercliff outa town. Ya see Bigley Road goin' off north, and ya got a brown house on the far corner. Can't miss it. The only one around, and yer past the cliff into a big cove. You'll see."

"Here. Take a piece of toast to chew on," Waitress urged him, offering a remaindered half-slice from Beret's plate.

As he exited she said to the men, "Afraid he'd conk out on the road if he didn't have somethin' to gnaw on."

"Sure," said I-H. "That's why I didn't wanta send him ta Overlook. He'd fall asleep an' slide off that steep road, an' we'd have the wrecker out fer sure."

The stranger remained their topic of conversation until another wonder showed.

"Is that fool haulin' a hay-wagon through town?" exclaimed I-H, as a large trailer pulled by a tractor hove into view.

"Hope he ain't gonna turn at the light—he'll scrape somebody fer sure," opined Beret.

"Ain't that old man Clarke?" said Waitress. "Halfway into second childhood anyways."

~

Chapter 2 House

day 1 Sat Aug 24

He found Kelly's on Maple Street with no trouble, a colorful Queen Anne on a terraced lot above a street lined with pin-oaks. Inside the front door a squatty woman with up-swept bleached hair greeted his ring with a questioning look.

"Yes?"

"Mrs Kelly?"

"Huh? No, it's Trotter—Kelly is my Christian name. What you want?"

He felt she feigned ignorance. "I'm looking for a room."

Her apparent puzzlement deepened. "We don't have any rooms," she exclaimed. "We're full. Did you have a reservation?"

Worn out, and never having been inclined to suffer fools gladly, the woman's hoity-toity attitude woke his temper.

" _Reservation?_ For _this_ joint?" He spun round and leaped off the porch.

"What?" she directed at his back. "What do you mean? Wait!"

He blindly reversed into the street, forcing a passing car into a panic stop. _Stupid witch_ , he thought, dividing the epithet between the Trotter harridan and the perfectly innocent driver of a small Chevy. Waving an apology to the latter, he accelerated down the street and around the corner to Main, where he paused to get his bearings.

Back to the light—can't go wrong if I get to the light.

His mood had started to mellow under the influence of sweet coffee and friendly strangers, but plunged once more, and he thought of abandoning this now hostile-seeming town and moving on. Dragging fatigue decided for him—no way could he hit the road again. At the light he mulled his directions before deciding north was to the right, and continued up River Street to look for Chestnut or Walnut or whatever-the-nut it might be.

Here stood a vista of comfortable-looking homes on wide lots—early century four-squares and bungalows—many sporting dried-out flower beds and cement drives leading to detached rear garages. After a long block he spotted Poplar, then the _alley_ , Carter Drive. The next sign restored his humor—partly broken off, it read only **_lnut**.

Walnut boasted but a couple blocks of houses before the blacktop wore down to a collection of patches and potholes, transitioning into Undercliff—dusty gravel bordered by woods and fields of soybeans or stunted field corn. The road soon earned its name as a rise near the north berm grew into a steep hillside that crowded and nearly overhung the way. A few seeps of water oozed between sandstone strata, giving rise to vibrant green appliques of weeds and bushes.

The road—now running on a firm, well-drained bed—became nearly smooth as pavement, darker river gravel replaced by bright sand and lucky-stones. To his left a steep meadow dropped into the bed of a stream that glinted between willow scrub and sycamores where a few black and white cows took advantage of the shade.

After a goodly mile the cliff tapered down and ran off north to join a more distant ridgeline, leaving a flat, gently-rising stretch of untilled land. A narrow track meandered to the right, and well beyond the corner stood his goal. He almost drove past in surprise. Nothing looked the least bit commercial—no sign, no parking lot... and no upkeep. He stopped on the road.

He viewed a two-story blockish affair—hip roof glistening with asphalt daubing, two brick chimneys sticking up. Speckled-brown fake brick siding, ragged near the bottom, was worn in random spots to expose a black base. Beneath the eaves ran a wide face-board carrying scrolled brackets, both painted dark brown in misdirected empathy with the siding. At one corner a recessed porch displayed floor and trim painted a thin chalky white. No plantings except weeds masked a sandstone foundation.

The hulk sat almost atop Undercliff—only forty feet or so back—and a haze of road dust coated it and the dried-up lawn and everything else on the front side. The house, the yard, the driveway, the road—dust.

He pulled into an unpaved drive, gravel crunching beneath the tires. His tired foot slipped from the brake to strike the accelerator, accidentally gunning the engine as he shut down.

A big droopy catalpa shaded the southeast corner, and underneath a little girl played before the porch, using a tablespoon to transfer dirt from one hole to another. As he pulled in she stood and sidled toward the steps. She wore a faded pink sleeveless top over shorts made from cut-off jeans. Light brown hair hung over her face, and blue eyes peeped above a mouth showing evidence of either chocolate or dirt. Hands and knees and bare feet were dark with dirt, her legs scratched and dusty.

Mounting the porch she yelled, "Momma! Somebody's here. _Momma!"_

The screen door banged as he exited his vehicle, and with dragging feet shambled toward his prospective hostess.

"Get your sandals on, Frankie," that personage ordered. Staring big-eyed, the girl scuffed into grubby flip-flops.

He turned his eyes to this other female, an apprehensive-looking roundish young woman of medium height with short dark uncombed hair, wearing a man's oversized checked shirt, the sleeves crudely torn off above her elbows, the tails hanging over faded denim capris. On her feet were unlaced sneakers, once white but now a dingy gray. Frayed holes demonstrated the positions of some of her toes.

What a frump!

The target of his eyes saw a scruffy figure leaning against a battered red truck, its passenger door rusted through and a fender dinged. The man was solid-looking and tall enough, perhaps, if he stood up straight. His unshaven face was rectangular, and his hair the shade she imagined people meant when they said _sandy_. Denim shirt and khaki trousers appeared to have been slept in, and his left hand gripped a brownish felt hat.

_Must think he's Indiana Jones_.

"What do you want?" she called. "Need directions?"

He stepped toward her and stumbled over a pebble, steadying himself with a hand on the truck hood.

_Drunk this early?_ she wondered.

"I'm looking for a place to stay. In town they said you kept a bed and breakfast."

"Who told you _that?_ " she challenged.

"The diner—couple old-timers. The waitress said..."

"Oh! Well, I don't have anything set up yet." _And where would I get the money?_ "Why don't you try the motel?"

The man stood unmoving. "Are you alright?" she said.

"Tired—drove all night." He tried to chuckle. "Want longer- term."

"There's Kelly's... and that new place on the far side of town."

"Kelly's is full. Didn't much like her, anyway."

She felt stirrings of accord. _That broad is something else!_ _Maybe..._ Niggling thoughts of greed and hope played in her mind, prompting a bit of audacity.

"Well I'm sure not ready, but I can show you a room if you want... But it's not ready."

He swayed again. "S'okay. I'm dog tired and just need to lie down."

Her face doubtful, she hesitated before turning to lead him into the house.

The door opened to the dining room, cluttered with a battered pedestal table and mismatched straight chairs, a low homemade bookcase by the far wall. Papers were scattered across the tabletop, stacks of un-ironed clothes filled the chairs, an ancient craftsman light fixture hung by its chain from the ceiling. Wallpaper still hinted its presence under beige paint.

To the left, the living room held a torn couch and beat-up recliner chair opposite an old console TV. An end table exhibited empty Coke cans and a plate of crumbs. Pink flowers flaunted across gray wallpaper, while a matching border sagged indolently.

Both floors were covered in a sculptured green pattern dating from the avocado era of decorating. Worn and frayed, the carpet was ripe for destruction.

Stairs stacked with old newspapers and magazines led up from the dining room. He and she mounted and went through a door with a crooked hinge to a carpet-less upper hall, where she led to the northwest room, probably the stuffiest in the house on late summer afternoons. The room's sole furnishing was a metal-framed bed with box spring and mattress. Two bare windows faced west and one north, and a door showed in the south wall.

She surreptitiously brushed a dead fly off the mattress. "Haven't got it ready yet, I'm afraid."

Dismayed but determined to rest he said, "Okay. You have screens? For the windows?" The air felt hot—stifling.

"Oh!" It was more a cry than an exclamation. "I'm so sorry—the storms are still up." She turned to him. "I can't... I can't handle the ladder carrying one of those. I'll have to get someone to..." _Take too long_ —and who would she get in any case? She had to ask him. "Or can you...?" Her hands fluttered.

He nodded

"I'm _terribly_ sorry."

"It's alright." Just so he could lie down.

"If you're sure you still want it, I'll get bedding and vacuum-up. I'm sorry about those storms—do you mind?"

"It's okay." He leaned toward the bed.

"You'll need a chair—you can take one from the dining room. And there's a dresser in the jun... in the storage room or maybe in the barn."

"Kay."

She thumbed over her shoulder. "That's the closet." She pivoted and spied the girl peeping through the doorway. "Frankie, I'm going to take your curtains for here, and make new ones for you."

"Mo-o-om!"

"New curtains! Won't that be nice? You can pick the color."

"But people can look in," the girl whined. "I'll be umbarrast," she told the floor.

"That's silly. Who's going to climb up to look in your windows? There's never anyone around, and it's only for awhile."

"That's what you _always_ say!" Frankie fled down the stairs and out the screen door.

"Kids!" Flustered by what she knew he knew was surely a valid accusation, she rushed to say, "I'll get started here. Why don't you get your stuff?"

"How much?"

She wasn't ready for the question, her daydreams stopping short of setting a price. _And God knows this place is no bargain_.

"Uh... two-fifty?"

"A month?"

She lit up. So like a man to chisel a woman, and probably for the fun of it. Her voice hardened. "Two-fifty's what I said."

He stared, and she glared back at him.

"I'll take it... for four hundred."

"Wha...?"

"You'll go broke—less than ten bucks a day."

"But I..."

"You can't operate for so little. Just take it!"

She became contrite, babbling to cover her confusion. "Well, things are a bit helter-skelter so I didn't want to... But I'll get them straightened up quick as... quickly. And Frankie won't bother you—she, she's generally well-behaved."

He opened his wallet to count out four fifties. "Have to give you a check for the rest."

_A gift from Heaven_. "Thank you! A check will be fine—no problem at all." She suppressed a grin, cramming the bills in her shirt pocket. "Let's get started in here. Go get your stuff while I straighten up." She rushed off.

When she returned upstairs he'd set down a suitcase and duffel bag, and seemed to be noticing the sheets she carried, a flowery feminine pattern in lavender and yellow.

"I'm sorry—these are all I have washed."

"Doesn't matter. I only want to lie down."

He looked and sounded pitiful, and she felt a stab of pity. But rest was not to be his—before the top sheet had been tucked she straightened with a gasp.

"I forgot! I need to shop if we want to eat."

"I ate breakfast. I only want to take a na..."

"And I've got to get to the bank before it closes. Oh, _shoot!_ What else do we need? What do you want for breakfast?"

"Doesn't mat..."

"We've got to get going. Frankie!" she yelled down the stairway. "Get washed, and put on something decent. _Hurry!_ " She turned back to him, thinking, _Can't leave him in the house alone. Lord knows we've nothing worth stealing, but_... She didn't know him from Adam's off ox.

"You come along, too," she insisted. "You can buy what you want."

"I'm gonna lie down."

"No, no!" she cried, half hysterical. "You'd better come, too, so we can... so we can talk things over. It won't take long. Do you want to wash up? Downstairs. _Frankie!_ Use the kitchen sink! Can you write that check now? Make it to C Biscoe. And don't take time to change—we've got to hurry." She scurried down the hall to the adjacent room.

He scowled at her receding back.

~

Chapter 3 Quite the Gentleman

day 1 Sat Aug 24

He slumped in the passenger seat of the woman's car—with Frankie in the rear, now wearing clean clothes and sneakers. The girl had been forced into socks and long pants to save the time needed for a wash job on feet and legs, but her hands and face looked clean, and she ran a comb through tangled hair while her mother started the car.

"Air conditioning on the fritz, I'm afraid—sorry."

Silent and sullen, he kept track of her from the corner of one eye. His new landlord wore a better-fitting oxford shirt. _Still a man's outfit,_ he grumbled to himself. But her hair had been combed and she didn't look as sloppy.

Driving one-handed down the gravel road she glanced again at his check. "Oh-oh! You misspelled my name. I suppose it won't matter, though—they know me well enough. _Charles Trask_. Imagine that! My name's Charly, too."

He quickly looked out the side window to hide his expression. _Frankie and Charly—good Lord!_ She could name her place The Dyke House _._

"I go by Chuck." Flat enunciation hid his feelings.

"Charly's only a nickname. Mine's actually Charlotte."

Surprised, he half-smiled at her. "That's nice."

"Old fashioned." She'd never liked it.

"That's why it's nice."

"Can I get candy, Mom?"

"No candy."

"Aw..."

"No candy—maybe ice cream."

"Yay! That's better yet."

"You'll have to be quiet in the store—no begging and no running around!"

Frankie slumped. "I'll behave," she drawled in a long-suffering voice.

They rolled onto the paved street. "I'll stop at the bank first if you don't mind, Mr Trask."

He was asleep.

* * *

She deposited his check, and after a wary inspection the cashier told her to wait a week before drawing against the funds. Then to the gas station where she enjoyed being able to fill the tank rather than putting in her usual five-dollars-worth.

At the grocery store, feeling quite amiable toward her benefactor, Charly decided to let him sleep, and parked so the sun wouldn't hit him. She and Frankie bought freely for the first time in many moons, while she tried to guess what type of food this Trask guy would prefer. The habit of frugality was too deeply ingrained to allow much splurging, however—ice cream and chocolate sauce for Frankie, blueberries and whipping cream for herself were the only luxuries. They over-filled the cart, but most of the purchases were staples.

She felt a pang of dismay when surrendering two fifties to the clerk in return for a five and a few singles. _Oh well—easy come, easy go._ But she resolved to stretch the rest of the money over a full month.

"You need school clothes," she told the girl, "and I ought to get a set of decent linens for his bed. And the car needs to be worked on." She sighed. "We're not out of the woods yet, Sweetie."

Frankie goggled her eyes at her mother. "We're not even _in_ the woods, Mom—we're in to-o-wn." The girl skipped and twirled across the empty parking lot

* * *

Trask stirred when the trunk slammed on the groceries, but continued comatose during the trip until Charly pulled into her drive and stopped near the back steps. When she returned from unlocking the door he sat sideways on the edge of the seat—rubbing his face, gritty from the ride along the dusty road with his head half out the window. He watched listlessly as she went to the trunk, then creaked to his feet to take one of the bags from her arms.

"Don't bother," she said, "Frankie and I can get everything. You take your nap."

"I'm okay now," he muttered. "You go in and I'll bring this stuff."

She allowed herself to be persuaded.

She glanced over her shoulder to check his progress. _Quite the gentleman_ , she supposed, but his attitude made her uncomfortable. First the extra money and now this display of chivalry. And he'd taken his hat off when they met. Guys she knew didn't normally act this way.

What's he up to?

~

Chapter 4 Simple Enough

day 1 Sat Aug 24

Charly called several times before sending the girl to wake Trask—the sky had darkened and dinner couldn't be delayed longer. She herself felt reluctant to do anything smacking in the least of intimacy, including knocking on his bedroom door.

The dining room table had been cleared and wiped and covered by a worn tablecloth—her only one. The room had been straightened, hastily vacuumed and dusted, and two light bulbs replaced in the hanging fixture—one stolen from the living room. A small picture now hung over the fist-sized dent in the east wall. Tomorrow she'd get the living room and kitchen. Thank goodness the bathroom was as clean as could be reasonably expected.

_Then the upstairs, when? And the basement? Too much—put that off for... maybe forever,_ she giggled to herself.

Amazing where her energy had come from. Perhaps the myth about cocaine on money was true—she'd been pepped-up by something.

* * *

"Mister? _Mister!_ MISTER!" Frankie shrieked. " _Hey!_ Arncha gonna _WAKE UP?"_ She kicked the door in frustration.

Trask slept through lunch, but faintly-heard knocking and calling caused him to open his eyes one by one and rise to a sitting position, half awake. The kicking did the trick. Red hot with sleepy resentment he leaped to the door and ripped it open, his face twisted in rage. The girl cowered by the opposite wall, eyes wide with fright.

Immediately penitent, he thought furiously how to save the situation. "Boo!" he squeaked in falsetto. No such luck—her eyes filled with tears.

"You _scared_ me!" she accused.

Trask sank to one knee. "I'm sorry," he half-pleaded, half-growled. "A joke—I thought you'd like it."

"I _don't!"_ she sobbed, turning and racing down the stairs.

_Brat!_ Having slept fully dressed he only needed to slip on shoes, then descended slowly, to be greeted at the bottom by a tableau of shocked mother and tearful outraged child. Resentful but recognizing the need for a degree of tact, he manufactured an excuse.

"I don't have any kids—how should I know she'd get frightened?"

He took his time washing up, re-entering the room to find them sitting stiffly at the table, hands in their laps.

"Uh—why'd you wake me?"

"What do you think? Supper," she snapped.

"So...? Is this included? Bed and _breakfast_ , right?

"Well, this first night..." She sighed, then accused, "You _scared_ Frankie."

"Didn't she realize I was fooling?" He frowned at the child.

Charly snapped, "She's only a young girl," then relented. "Well, sit down and eat. I figured this first time I'd make supper, and we'll get on a regular schedule next week. Such as, do you want to cook for yourself or eat in town, and where to put your food and so on. I mean, this is new to me, so..."

He attempted to look sympathetic but said nothing. Unfolding a flimsy paper napkin, he placed it on his lap from where it slid off the next time he moved. He saw ice-water in his glass, and eagerly took a long draft, partly to assuage thirst and partly to mask his discomfort. When he put it down she'd served her daughter and was offering him a platter of thick ground-beef patties. Fried potatoes followed, and buttered lima beans. A wedge of lettuce sat before him.

"Is ranch dressing okay?" she asked, eager for approval.

Trask searched for the right comment. "This is fine." He detected a small smile in response. _Alright_ , he thought. She appeared simple enough—unsophisticated. He didn't need to be subtle, merely cool and mildly appreciative.

_Well_ , she excused him, _I suppose lots of animals are grouchy at feeding time._

Supper and seconds went down well. Dessert followed—ice cream served in teacups. Despite residual bad humor, he couldn't help comparing this plain meal on chipped china, cheap mis-matched flatware and ex-jelly drinking glasses with the artful repasts occasionally contrived by Karen when in a homey mood. He found he didn't miss those artful repasts, nor did vin-whatever seem preferable to plain ice-water.

At meal's end Trask's offer to help clear was rebuffed.

_Fine with me, Babe—see if I care_.

Satiated, he went for a walk outside to cool off, but after scuffling through one circuit of the house he settled on the porch, manipulating the sagging chair over to the darkest corner in hope of remaining moth and beetle-free as darkness deepened.

In a few minutes the girl came out and leaned on the railing near him. He glanced at her and she at him, with nothing said for several moments until she plaintively asked, "Are you mad at me, Mister?"

He took a deep breath and sighed it slowly out, surprisingly contrite.

"My fault, Sweetums. I acted too scary. Are _you_ mad at _me_?"

"You hurt my feelings... But it's okay if you're sorry, cuz I'm sorry too."

His eyes moistened. He felt a deep need for forgiveness and sympathy from this small guileless being.

"I _am_ sorry," he whispered, and stretched out his hand.

She shyly squeezed his fingers and bent forward to look at his face, asking softly, "Are you crying?"

"No," he lied, "only real tired."

"Sometimes I cry when I'm tired, but usually I'm mad at Mom or somethin', and then she makes me go to bed."

He didn't trust himself to reply.

After a pause she asked, "Do _you_ want to go to bed?"

He nodded and rose, still holding her hand. They went in, and he climbed the stairs.

Frankie's voice drifted up from the kitchen. "He got tired and don't feel so good."

"Oh God," Charly groaned, "I hope it's not the food."

~

Chapter 5 Sunday Morn

day 2 Sun Aug 25

He woke next morning before the sun, feeling cold due to having slept with only a sheet for cover. But simply getting up and moving proved the room to be still warm. The storm windows made opening a sash pointless. He found his robe, located underwear and a clean pair of trousers, then carried them and his shaving kit down to the bathroom, padding through the house on bare feet.

_Why no blasted shower?_ He bitched silently as he filled the age-stained tub. Taking his time bathing, he brushed his teeth for the first time in two days, shaved for the first time in three, felt too lazy to wash his hair.

Excruciatingly refreshed, he entered the kitchen to find his landlady sitting at the metal kitchen table in a worn pinkish robe, and sipping what appeared to be iced tea.

"Would you like a glass?" she asked. He shuddered a negative, and she smiled. "If you let me take a bath I'll make a decent breakfast after. Have some juice," she offered, strolling into the bathroom.

Trask's used towel and washcloth soon sailed through the doorway.

"What're you going do with your dirty clothes?" she asked. "What if I give you a basket in the laundry room?" She beckoned him to follow, and opened the door next to the bathroom.

A mistake. With the possible exception of the basement—which she often compared to a dungeon—this was the darkest, shabbiest, messiest room in the entire house. One dirty, cobwebbed window shed early-morning light on a scene of despoliation. A low-wattage bulb hung loose on its wire from the ceiling, casting a yellowish glow sucked up by stained ceiling paper and apple-green walls. But the dim lighting had its uses, hiding most of the spiders that lurked in shadowy angles.

An old washing machine crouched on one side of the window and a chipped electric dryer on the other. A concrete laundry tub with rusted steel frame leaned against the bathroom-side wall. An unpainted shelf held soap and bleach. Piles of potential laundry lay on the cracked linoleum of the floor, some apparently organized into loads, others at random. A laundry basket sat next to the washer.

Charly gave a slightly hysterical laugh. "Guess I'll have to _get_ a basket first." With sufficient light he would have seen her face gleaming scarlet.

Trask's expression showed distaste, and not for the first time he thought, _What a slattern!_ But with self-conscious nobility he tried to hide his feelings.

"Um... uh, when I take down the storms upstairs do you want me to get this one too?"

Gratitude for his tact washed over. "Yes, yes, thank you—let's go back." _Oh, gosh!_ W _hat am I thinking? Why did I bring him in here?_

Charly bathed long to regain her composure. After dressing she woke Frankie and got her into the bathroom before starting breakfast. Concentrate orange juice, scrambled eggs and bacon, toast of cheap store bread, and hot tea composed the meal.

Trask liked the fare well enough, and it sure beat making his own as he'd done nearly every day of the last seven years.

The little girl ate after her bath and before being allowed to finish dressing. Good clothes were required. They were going to church.

Now Charly faced the continuing problem of her roomer being alone in the house. The thought of anyone—especially a strange man—prowling through their rooms, looking in drawers and cupboards, maybe even handling her clothes...!

"Why don't you come with us?" she asked, a little too brightly.

Caught by surprise, he said, "Well... aren't you afraid of the roof collapsing?"

She smiled quizzically.

"I mean... You know the old joke. I've been to church so rarely the roof might fall in when I go through the doors." He forced a chuckle.

"Samson made the roof fall down, didn't he Mom?" Frankie showed off her Bible-learning.

"That's not what he means, Dear. But you come with us, Mr Trask. You'll meet some people and... it'll break up the day, and we'd like your company, wouldn't we, Honey."

Frankie answered candidly with a shrug.

"Please come along, Mr Trask—I'm sure you'll enjoy the service. Please come," Charly pleaded.

After additional coaxing and internal debate he gave in with poor grace, sensing and resenting why she wanted him out of the house.

"I'll have to change."

"Starts at ten. Plenty of time—no rush."

Trask wasn't happy, and it showed. "We'll take the truck—at least we'll have air. But I've got to finish unloading. Where can I put my tools and gear?"

Relief showed plain in Charly's voice. "You can use the garage... or the room across from you, upstairs—our... our _storage_ room."

* * *

His tasks completed and new sweat washed off, Trask found his ties but the only sport coat that came to hand was too heavy for the season. In a fit of irritation he threw it on the bed and sent the tie after, coming defiantly downstairs in a short-sleeved oxford and summer-weight wool trousers.

"Oh, you look fine!" Charly exclaimed, perhaps fearing he'd be in denims. "We're a bit early, but I can show you around if you want to go now."

As they pulled out of the drive Charly pointed toward a barn across the field leading down to the stream. "The only green area this year—couple springs dribble out and water it a little. We used to keep a few cows there."

"Where'd they go?"

"After my father died we sold off the stock and machinery to pay for his funeral—not much insurance."

"And that's part of your land?"

"Oh yes. A hundred-fifty acres all told—down to the corner of Bigley and down to the creek, and onto the rise you see north."

All this land yet no apparent income. _What keeps her so poor?_ In his citified experience land ownership indicated money. He'd never heard the term _land-poor_ , never thought of the taxes that must be paid even on non-producing acreage.

"What of your mother? Is she still around?"

Charly's expression changed—became a little sad and perhaps resentful. "She went to California with my brother—my half brother. There was... She and he... Well, it's not important."

Charly's father had left the farm to her, his only child. Her mother's son by her first husband—fifteen years Charly's senior—talked their mother into moving in with him, convincing the widow—although by no means an _old lady_ —she needed his personal care. He declined to take along his half-sister. An aunt, her father's elderly relative, was roped into moving to the farmhouse as a surrogate parent. At the age of fourteen Charly had been effectively abandoned by both mother and father.

And _not much insurance_ hadn't been quite true. Forty-thousand dollars in insurance policies plus all but one of the bank accounts went to her mother and, therefore, to Charly's half-brother. Thad hadn't suffered money-wise by taking in his parent. In return, her father received a cheap funeral and a small granite plaque in the borough cemetery.

Charly—at that age having no understanding of money—would have happily sold the farm and given up the proceeds to maintain peace and keep her mother, had not the property been held in trust for her. Her father's lawyer, familiar with the family situation, managed to keep the half-brother's hooks out of it.

So the family split in two and now rarely communicated. Charly's early letters received brief and desultory replies, dwindling to an exchange of Christmas and birthday greetings—often only cards. Her mother became engrossed in new grandchildren and seemed almost to forget her youngest child, never even inviting Charly to visit— _Thad has so little room._ Nor did she ever express a wish to come back east herself.

After Charly turned seventeen a goodly quarrel over boy problems caused the aunt to move out, and the boyfriend to move in without benefit of clergy.

Her steering wandered. _Oh! I can't stand being reminded of this... this horrible crap!_ _We're a dysfunctional family, and look what kind of life it's led to. I truly need church today._

She guided Trask along the main street to where it became known as Route 512 again, and pointed out _The Plastic_ —the plant where she worked—a dark and severely functional metal building behind a large oiled-gravel parking lot. They reversed in its drive and came back to Water Street, then turned south. The street tailed off in a pleasant small park beside a wide shallow stream—a stream into which Charly's sandy brook fed. Old maples and oaks shaded the park, with a few sycamores leaning massive patchy-white trunks over the water.

"Do you swim here?"

"Too dirty—you get soapsuds sometimes, brownish ones, from bad septic systems," she explained. "But that doesn't stop some of the kids."

They strolled the bank and looked at the rocks for a couple of minutes before she checked her watch. "Oh-oh! Time to run."

~

Chapter 6 Martyrdom

day 2 Sun Aug 25

Starting toward the church Trask's feeling of discomfort evolved into dread. His family's approach to religion reached beyond casual to totally indifferent. During his public schooling few allusions to Christianity had ever been made, and certainly the Good Book was neither read nor studied. As a result he might have recognized a reference to the witches in Macbeth but not to the witch of En-dor. Even Frankie's mention of Samson had puzzled him until he, a fan of old movies, recollected the Victor Mature/Hedy Lamarr classic.

He recalled having attended one session of Sunday School at an early age—apparently hadn't enjoyed the experience and never returned. No memory remained of why he disliked it or what they'd studied. He'd been in a church exactly once since his marriage eight years previously—at Karen's insistence—for the celebration of a funeral mass for a relative of hers from whom she hoped for a legacy. How attendance at the woman's funeral would have helped he had no idea, and Karen refused to respond to his question. Perhaps their presence served to prove her just deserts to the other relatives.

Block by block his tension increased, peaking as they pulled into a parking spot. As the females exited Trask found himself unable to move, his backside having become as one with the seat. They turned to question his inaction with their expressions, Frankie gesturing.

"Arncha coming, mister?" the girl asked before running to meet a friend.

Charly's expression changed to concern, and she opened her mouth. Trask expected he'd hear a demand, but she remained silent and this somehow broke the spell. He unclenched the wheel, opening the door and sliding out.

The bell oppressively groaned and clanged as Charly clutched his arm, drawing him to the steps and up into the lobby.

A group of overly-enthusiastic people immediately thronged him, eager to get their hands on fresh meat. Trask let his fist be pumped by Joe Smith, Bill Jones, Bob Miller, Ed Brown—or men with some such names. He registered none of them, responding with a weak grip-and-grin of his own. He exchanged greetings by Mrs Smith, Sally Green, Ms Williams, Beth Brown and so on and so forth.

Charly, after running her own personal gantlet of greeters—mostly women curious about her escort and hoping she might drop a clue—guided him to a pew right down in the second row on the right, almost directly beneath the potentially censorious eye of the pastor. As the organist warmed up Trask swiveled to nervously scan the congregation—all of whom shrewdly seated themselves toward the rear—seeing only forty or thereabout, seemingly fewer than the horde who had mobbed him in the lobby.

He made it through the service with gradually moderating anguish. The sermon (on the duty of tolerating the minor flaws of others—their motes, your own beams, etc) seemed sensible albeit long and repetitious. After all, if Jesus got his points across in a few short paragraphs, what took a half-hour for a guy behind a pulpit? The organist contested the music valiantly but suffered many casualties in the form of dropped or false notes. Various volunteers sang, lit and snuffed candles, passed shallow silver pans.

Throughout the service Trask followed Charly's lead in standing, sitting, singing, responding—and felt the slight delay in his actions to be no more noticeable than that occasioned by communications between the Earth and Moon. The donation caught him unprepared with appropriate denominations, and faced with dropping a single or a twenty he felt constrained to choose the latter. Charly smiled in either delight at his generosity or dismay at his stupidity. At the end of service she nudged him one final time to rise and accept the pastor's handshake.

The lobby, steps and walk were thronged again with greeters and gossips, most of them unmistakably drawn by Charly's mobile accessory. She identified him as the first lodger in her _New bed and breakfast_ , and he in turn explained he had _Merely come to see the countr_ y. When asked of his home church he claimed casual attendance only, no special denomination—accruing one or two reproachful looks. He found himself more relaxed now, able to greet and converse with his usual facility. He also found the ease to take a first long look at his companion.

Un-noticed during his self-induced anguish over upcoming torment, Charly had dressed in a tan full skirt and a heather-blue short-sleeved blouse that fit properly. Plump though she might be, she showed a waist and proportionate hips. She wore her short dark hair pulled back with an azure headband highlighted blue eyes, and neat ears were unadorned. Indeed, she wore not even one piece of jewelry other than a small silver cross on a fine chain round her neck, and a clunky black plastic unisex wristwatch. Nyloned legs ended in polished white pumps with one-inch heels.

Trask stared for several seconds before turning back to Mrs Collins and asking that good lady to repeat her question.

The children ran shouting across the lawn under young trees that cast a thin shade. A hint of breeze did next to nothing to cool the adults, and the building's white clapboard front and tall steeple reflected a blazing sun, leading to an expeditious breakup of the assembly, terminating Trask's inquisition. The crowd strolled off or entered vehicles, and except for teens and adults who stayed for Bible study, the congregation briskly departed.

* * *

"Now that wasn't so bad. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

"Why dincha name me Debra, Mom? I like that name."

"Deborah, dear, and don't interrupt... Well, what do you think of Mr Switzer?"

"Who?"

"The reverend—the minister, our pastor."

"Oh, I dunno... alright, I guess. But what's with the organist? You'd think by the time she got to the fourth verse she'd make fewer mistakes not more. I couldn't stop thinking of Spike Jones."

"She's a lovely sweet woman—don't talk so. And Spike who? Or are you talking about old Fred Jones? He's a bit eccentric but he's been a board member since the Indians left—I think he must be over eighty. He's nice, too. Martie Mason—the organist—she's his daughter."

"So they're both eccentric."

"Now stop that!" Charly smiled complacently at his taunts. "I believe you _did_ enjoy the service, for all your fooling."

"Mom, _Mo-m-m-m!_ Listen! Debra was in the army like that Benjy girl—you know, she caught those boys. An' their cars had horses, an' this storm came. Mom! _Ain'tcha lis'nin to me?"_

" _Aren't,_ not ain't."

* * *

Arriving home refreshed from the air-conditioned ride, they somewhat unwillingly entered the stuffy house. Front and back doors were flung open, as were those few windows that worked. She offered two adjustable screens to Trask for his room but he suggested putting them into the windows at each end of the upstairs hall, giving himself two more storms to remove.

He changed to work clothes, put on a visor and gauntleted leather gloves. As he stepped from the room he encountered an ancient desk fan sitting on the hall floor. Plugged into the only outlet in his room, the blades spun at slow and medium speeds, clanging relentlessly against the guard at high. And it swiveled, too, if tilted at a suitable angle and given a nudge.

* * *

"Thanks," he told her. "Helps a lot."

"I knew we had another one in the junk-room closet. We used to have more but I don't know where they've got to."

"What do you two do at night in this heat?"

"Fans again... but we had a couple more for downstairs—those I can't find."

"Uh... I'm going to take down the storms now. Where do you want them?"

"Oh thanks! Maybe you should put them in the garage—the others are in there—the ladder, too." Charly laughed uneasily. "Don't trip over all the trash... I'll fix something light for lunch, then we can relax and try to survive till evening. Maybe it'll cool down tonight."

Trask swung wide the doors of the narrow garage and found her warning to be well founded. Garden hand-tools, bushel and peck and half-peck baskets, two lawnmowers, a concrete lawn roller and a push-tiller, a wheelbarrow, stakes and poles, flower pots and a broken birdbath, car and tractor parts and pieces, old tires and batteries, garden hoses, hanks of rope, chains and hooks, lengths of black-iron, galvanized and copper pipe, plumbing joints and fittings, one- and five-gallon cans that formerly held paint and roofing cement and grease, gasoline cans and plastic milk jugs, a hand sprayer, cement blocks and stray bricks, old tools and rusty pipe wrenches—these and more hung from nails and hooks and rafters, festooned the walls, piled up on two crude work-benches, spilled across the floor.

The ladder—an elderly wooden extension—hung from 2x4 ceiling brackets. Tip-toeing between stacks of rubbish Trask lifted it down—banging the far end on an old tricycle—and lugged the ungainly contraption into the open. No rope threaded through the pulley but he thought he might push the extension high enough by hand to reach the upper windows—and as it turned out, he could.

Trask looked askance at one split rung neatly mended with several turns of fine wire. Setting the feet firmly in the dry soil and arming himself with a short stake to reach the upper turn-buttons, Trask gingerly placed his feet next to the stringers to avoid over-stressing the rungs as he climbed, soon manhandling down one of the storms of his room. He threaded his way with it back into the corner of the garage where a few others were leaning, and on his way out cleared a path for easier navigation.

He spent a good two hours removing six storm windows, storing them, and minimally straightening the garage.

On the porch he stripped off his sweaty shirt and spread it across the back of the chair, leaving himself dressed in a soaked sleeveless undershirt. His damp gloves plopped onto the floor, and he hung his limp visor on a chair arm. A slight breeze began to dry him as he slumped on the rickety east railing.

After a few minutes Charly came out—dressed again in oversized mannish clothes—and handed him a tall glass of iced tea.

"Sugar?" she asked.

"Plenty."

She plunked in three spoonfuls—then stirred and stirred until most dissolved.

He drank deeply. "That's good," he sighed.

"Hungry?"

"Not so much... the heat."

"I know. Do you have shorts?" He nodded while swigging. "Take off those heavy socks and boots, too. Wear sneakers—you'll feel a lot cooler. You could use a straw hat—the brim keeps the sun off your neck and ears."

"Thanks for the advice, Farmer Jane."

"You'll see."

"Want those windows washed? I kept the ladder up."

Charly shook her head. "Too much trouble."

"No problem."

"I mean for me," she blushed. "If you do the outsides I'll be shamed into doing the insides."

They laughed companionably.

She felt encouraged by hard money and the prospect of more. He glowed with the knowledge of a worthwhile accomplishment. And when, Trask asked himself, had he and Karen last been this relaxed together? He and this woman barely knew each other, and yet...

"Make me a good lunch and maybe I'll do the insides too," he teased.

~

Chapter 7 Too Weird

day 2 Sun Aug 25

The outsides proved sufficient for Trask's ambition on this overheated day. He washed the two panes per sash with vinegar water, dried them streakily with old ragged towels, brushed dirt and spiders from the sash and frames, and grimaced at cracked and broken panes, missing or crumbling putty, dry rot in the paint-free sills. The work and sun finished him for the day as the breeze died with the onset of evening,. He stored the ladder with a feeling of relief.

* * *

Charly turned as he entered the kitchen. "Want to take a bath and relax before supper? I have to cook anyway, so..."

"Yeah, I will. I'm worn to a nubbin." He let out a long breath. "I could mow the lawn tomorrow."

"You don't have to do _any_ of that—you're a guest. And why bother? The grass hasn't grown in a month."

"Weeds are coming along nicely."

Buckhorn plantain infested the entire yard, looking like midget forest in places. In other spots sorrel and pigs-ear made startling oases of green in the brown.

"I suppose," she dolefully admitted, "but that's not your job—I'll get around to it. I never expected my guests would work around the place."

Trask thought, _Why can't she simply accept a favor and say thanks?_ "You're new to this business, so why not go along with me?"

_How condescending!_ "This isn't a co-op deal."

"Guess I'm antsy—need something to occupy me... Oh well, let me get some clean clothes and I'll hit the showers." But feeling worn from the heat he leaned against the doorway and watched her preparations for the meal. "Not your job to make me supper, either."

"I know... but it's Sunday—my Christian deed for the day."

"And back to the devil's work tomorrow?"

She chuckled ruefully. "If you knew the place I work for..."

* * *

Supper menu—meatloaf, boiled potatoes and cottage cheese on a leaf of lettuce. The fare struck him as old-fashioned, and therefore the more welcome, the meatloaf tasting savory after a cool bath renewed his appetite.

"You're partial to ground beef, I guess," he observed.

Red spots showed on her cheeks and her face froze. "I'm sorry... this is how we usually eat."

"I'm not complaining—I prefer simple food."

"You truly enjoy it or...?"

"Meatloaf can be like cardboard—I don't know if because of the meat or the cooking—but this has a lot of flavor. Taters are good, too."

"Ground beef can be a problem because you have to cook it well-done—not like a steak that can be pink in the middle. I always add pork to be sure to get extra flavor—and bread and onions chopped fine, and... What?"

A droll smile lit his face. "How does someone so young pick all this up?"

She blushed again. "All what?"

"My..." He'd started to say _wife_. "Er, some women cook for years and read plenty of fancy cookbooks but don't seem to have the knack you do—maybe you're a natural."

Music to her ears in one way, but she felt a bit uncomfortable—he laid it on too thickly. Charly again wondered, _What's he up to?_

"Too much blarney, Mr Trask. But I did start young, getting supper ready when my mother worked and... And I've always cooked and baked, but with only myself and Frankie I don't bother much."

Trask looked at the little girl. "You've hardly said two words tonight, Young 'un."

"She's worn out... doesn't sleep well in the heat. Right to bed tonight, Missy—and no fussing."

Frankie said nothing. leaning her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands, only swiveling her big eyes back and forth between them as they spoke. His dislike of the child evaporated, and he noticed how much she resembled her mother.

In a short while the girl brushed her teeth and slipped into bed, not even requiring a story, Charly related, so quickly had she fallen asleep.

Trask thought of offering to help with the dishes, but the house remained hot, nor did he want to get too domestic. What if she got too used to his help? When the novelty of having a guest wore off he expected it would be back to short commons and minimal housework. But for now the house had been mightily straightened up and in jig time, too—give her credit for that. The living room, where he now loafed, approached the presentable... if you overlooked the carpet and wallpaper and upholstery... and the stained shade on the floor lamp... and the water rings on the end table, and...

With Karen the honeymoon lasted for nearly four months before she no longer treated him as a privileged character. Of course Karen's house would always be neat—excessively, obsessively—and Karen would never be caught in sloppy or dirty or even overly-casual clothes, no matter if she'd just finished cleaning the oven.

But the oven rarely required cleaning. As she pointed out, there were plenty of good bakeries, plenty of restaurants and take-out places. And with her new responsibilities—her promotion a few months after their marriage—and the consequent long hours... Suffice it to say she had—in her own mind—excellent excuses for being domestic only so far as the need to impress others. And after four months she no longer considered her husband an _other_.

When they entertained guests the house would be spotless and the food exquisite—whether she bought it, as she often did, or made it, as sometimes occurred. When no guests were in the offing... Well, the house continued spotless, and luckily they both liked Chinese and Indian and Italian and... But eating from cartons got tiresome after awhile.

Seven years they'd maintained a marriage—more and more in name only. Three years on they designed and built a house—one-and-a-half wooded acres, brown brick and good-looking fake stone, shake roof, cedar deck with hot tub, a mounded rock garden across the whole frontage to deflect street noise, curving cobblestone drive for privacy, high-efficiency furnace, the air conditioned and cleaned and humidified.

Karen further demanded a pool but Trask refused that particular bit of foolishness. When they had children, only then would he consider a pool. The argument stymied her. With all her responsibilities how could she give proper attention to a child? And they owed that potential child a surpassing environment. They must be able to afford good daycare, highly-rated schools, a first-class university, lessons, camps, social opportunities... Let them establish their lifestyle before having to grind away at saving for a child's future.

In that case, he'd countered, shouldn't they eat at home more and entertain less often, spend less on clothes, drive cheaper vehicles, avoid custom-made appliances and furnishings? Of course not, she'd responded. Her career demanded a certain lifestyle, and she didn't intend to scrimp and save every minute. Why wait until they were too old and tired to enjoy life?

The house project served to keep him from brooding—designing it, picking an architect to check his conceptions and make the working drawings, finding a reliable and reasonable builder, choosing the appliances and finishing the interior, laying-out the landscaping. But all things come to an end, and once the house attained _perfection_ Karen wanted no further changes—except the pool, of course, but Trask kept his opposition to the end. Little doubt, no sooner had he left than she began putting one in.

* * *

Charly entered and collapsed into her recliner, working the handle to lay full back. "I'm pooped!"

So... already living up to his cynical prediction—Trask couldn't keep a sour expression from crossing his face.

She saw the look. _What now—am I required to wait on him hand and foot every minute?_ Nonetheless she asked, "Can I get you something?"

"No."

"Something cool?"

"No thanks."

"Coke, ice-water? Or I can make lemonade."

_Boy, that sounds tempting!_ But _No_ , he'd said, and _No_ he meant. "I don't want anything," he growled.

Charly frowned. Odd how it was less gratifying to have her suggestions refused than to be forced to get up and serve him. _What a dolt, this man!_

In a while Trask decided to make peace—after all, she'd offered to go out of her way for him. "Any cooler on the porch?"

"If I had the strength I'd go check... The way it's situated in that corner the wind has to be in just the right direction to get a breeze... Except in winter—it's always windy enough then."

"You need air conditioning."

With faint bitterness she said, "What _don't_ we need?" She reflected before adding, "Dad—my father—worked hard and made some money, but mainly he _saved_. He didn't buy expensive equipment for the farm or for the house. He fixed what he had on hand, or bought junk and fixed that. And he didn't fix until he had to. When something broke down, _then_ he made a repair, not before."

"Sort of penny wise and pound foolish, don't you think?"

"Perhaps... But he sure worked hard his entire life, and when he died he left my mother fairly well off, and me with this farm free and clear—but he didn't get to enjoy it."

"When did he go?"

"When I was fourteen—he was only sixty-six." Seeing Trask's look she explained, "My mother's second marriage, his first. He left it till kind of late."

"Retired?"

"No, he wasn't the type not to work—ever. Although maybe he would have quit at seventy or whenever he started to get feeble. A depression boy—too many memories of being poor, so he kept on till he dropped." She pressed a hand to her eyes.

To cover her emotion Trask said, "Did he farm all his life?"

"A part-time thing—for food and to save cash. He couldn't have made a living without a big investment in stock and machinery, and it wasn't his nature to lay out money unless on a sure thing—no gambles for Dad. He worked at The Mill for as long as I knew. He had a foreman's job."

"What mill?"

" _The_ Mill—southeast of town. Been there forever." She seemed surprised he didn't know The Mill.

"Baker something?" he said.

"Wood Specialties. You've heard of it?"

"Never."

"Oh. Well, I guess it's not so big. A big deal around here, though—it and The Plastic."

Trask found amusing her apparent capitalization of these descriptives. "And what's the right name for The Plastic?"

"Didn't you see when we turned around? Atlas Molding."

"You've worked there long?"

"Since Frankie turned two. They let me put in a seven-hour day, so it's convenient—I mean, for daycare and school. I drop her off at school in the morning, then she goes to my Aunt Sally's after. And I stay on the day shift—they don't rotate. In fact, their second shift is pretty light."

"Decent of them."

"Hah! Since I'm not full-time I get no benefits, and I can't bid for a better job and they can switch me all over the plant wherever they want. A good deal for _them!_ Course I'd be up the creek without a paddle if I had to go somewhere else, so I stay and don't complain too loudly."

"Have a union? What do they say?"

"They're useless at this plant. I guess the situation's different over at Gettrick—the union prez takes better care over there."

"Ignores the plant here?"

"We're smaller—and maybe we're dumber and less fractious, I guess. I hear he gets treated like management. They take him to the country club, Christmas presents for the wife—butter him up real good so he's easy to work with. Still, he's got to keep the big plant happy to get his votes come election time, and we seem to get the dirty end of the stick."

"I can't see that happening where I come from."

"Small town, high unemployment, stodgy people—simpler to go along easy rather than risk losing your job or maybe seeing the place shut down. They hint occasionally—subtle like."

"What did your daughter mention in the truck—Benjy?"

"Hmm? Oh, she was comparing the movie with Deborah who led the attack on Sisera."

"Sister what?"

"Sisera! The Bible story. Don't you know it? Maybe we _should_ worry about that roof."

Trask countered by going over to the offensive. "You let her watch something like that?"

"I know," Charly sighed, "but it's so hard not to let her stay with me, and what am I going to do—send her to her room every time I want to rent a tape? I make her cover her eyes during the _mushy parts_ —she thinks that's funny—and I try to distract her when the dialog gets coarse." Wistfully: "She has no friends to play with." They were silent until she thought of her ongoing problem. "Uh, do you want to go sight-seeing tomorrow?"

"What's to see?"

"Well, you'll find plenty of scenery around, and Gettrick has a shopping mall, movies... There's the Oilfield Museum."

"What the heck is that?"

She chuckled. "A good while ago there were wells around here—in the early days of the oil business when folks mostly used it for coal-oil and grease, I guess. The museum has old tools and stuff, pictures—you know, where they're lined up with their vests and coats and ties. And a model of a derrick and an engine house."

"Engine house?"

"Sure. Way back one steam engine drove several pumps, and big rods ran out over the fields and up the hills to work the pumps. I guess the old-timers were pretty ingenious... And I don't have a spare key," she blurted, "so you'd have to leave when we do."

Trask detected an un-natural tenseness in her attitude. _She doesn't want me in this house when she's not here._ Probably afraid he'd run off with the silver and fine linens.

"So then... When do you leave and when do you get back?" Not that he didn't resent being kicked out.

Clearly relieved, she said, "We leave around seven-thirty and come home around four. Is that alright?"

Trask grimaced. "What's my other choice? Where's this metropolis of Gettrick, and where's a bank?" Maybe he'd look up the Overlook place. With air and decent decorating he'd be willing to pay a few more bucks to get away from this dump.

Charly thought, _Now I'm going to have to get a key made... and think of another excuse not to give it to him. This is getting too weird._

~

Chapter 8 Illusion

day 3 Mon Aug 26

Trask stopped at the diner to have a coffee and interrogate the locals.

"Howdy, Stranger," the waitress greeted. "Find yourself a place to squat?"

"Yeah... at Biscoe's." Maybe his expression or tone gave something away, because they were on him like vultures on roadkill.

"How're things there? She got it set up for business?"

He considered his words. "A trifle rough."

This brought a few chuckles from the audience. I-H said, "Yeah, her daddy wasn't one to spend on frills, at's fer sure. And that Tenney—he'd never stir himself to fix-up somebody else's shack."

"Tenney?"

"Her ole boyfren'," put in Beret. "Ya think she foun' the kid unner a cabbage leaf?"

Both men chortled, but Waitress, after a glance at another customer, frowned and said, "There's nothin' wrong with that baby girl, and there's nothin' wrong with Biscoe either. Everybody makes mistakes."

"Aw Peggy, ya don' hafta get all upset at a joke."

"Speakin' of mistakes, Farrell, that burray ain't the least of yours—you better go back to John Deere." Her thrust got a few guffaws from I-H, who tapped his cap bill as if to prove his better judgment. Waitress continued, "You just lay off Charly Biscoe—she's okay. You're gonna set this man against her for no good reason, and I don't go for that... Course, she could lose a little weight," Waitress mused.

Miaow, said Trask to himself.

Beret squirmed and grimaced as he tried to laugh off Peggy's reproof, staying quiet for as long as Trask remained.

_No doubt who's in control here_. In one way it gave him a bit more respect for Charly, seeing as she had a loyal friend in this woman. But she also looked like more of a loser, what with having a child outside wedlock and being dumped by the perpetrator. So everything sort of balanced in the respect department.

But he decided not to hurry his look for a better place to stay. It'd be disloyal, and he'd get put in the same category as this old clown, Farrell/Beret. Not that he cared what any of these jokers thought, of course, but still...

He asked for directions to the bank, which seemed to be a tough place to find.

"Oh, just drive around," Waitress declared after much conflicting advice, "there ain't a dozen streets in the whole town." He also got guidance to the commercial area of Gettrick. "Out the highway for mebbe fifteen miles, an' everthin' important's on the main drag," instructed I-H. As for the Oilfield Museum, they were pretty hazy—the more exalted forms of culture were not within the purview of the regulars.

* * *

The bank proved to be nothing but a double-wide mobile sitting in a bare grassy plot, down a side street past a used-car lot. An over-dressed and heavily made-up teller looked after two windows and the drive-up. She loftily referred him to a desk at the far end, from behind which bounced an athletic-looking forty-something fellow with cropped black hair and a deep, Arabic tan, dressed in a white polo shirt and tightly-belted dark slacks, and wearing deck shoes without socks.

He offered a crushing handshake and pulled Trask into a client's low soft chair, saying, "Ah, a new customer—always welcome, yessir, always happy to see... Clay Feister's the name—I manage this branch. And what can we do for you today? New account? Why sure. Checking? Yessir, yessir. What kind? Well now, we've got Convenience Checking—hunerd dollar minimum balance and ten checks a month, no service fee. And we've got..."

Trask took an immediate dislike to this buffoonish character with his obviously insincere bonhomie. _Can't even decide whether to dominate or kiss up to you. What an act!_ But he wanted a local place, so... He chose an interest bearing account requiring a five-hundred dollar minimum balance, and deposited a check for two thousand drawn on his money-market account.

Feister studied the check with a combination of suspicion and curiosity. "Outa town, huh? Never heard of this bank—Station Street. Odd kinda name. You from Massatushetts?"

"Massachusetts. No, but the check is."

"Ah. You're not from out East yourself."

"No."

"You're from... Ah, here's your address—not from around here... Well, I don't know what I can to do with this. I mean, we're happy to have a new depositor, of course, but a unknown account from a outa-state bank...?"

"Well, here's the way I see things, Mr Feister. I'm not a banker myself, of course, but I have always assumed you fellows had mysterious and occult ways of determining the legitimacy of financial instruments. Perhaps you've a reference book on banks, or maybe the state banking commission or whatever you have here..."

"Certainly, Mr... uh, Trask, we can find..."

"Then, once you _do_ find such a bank exists, perhaps you might call them up—banker to banker, so to speak—and inquire whether my account does in fact reside there, and if it has sufficient funds to cover this check. Or... simply send it on to the clearing house and see what happens."

Feister's complexion deepened further, and his domineering composure drained away. He twisted his neck as if the unbuttoned collar felt tight.

"Heh-heh-heh. Sure, uh, no problem we, uh, can't work out and... I mebbe saw one a these earlier, come to think... Hope you understand we can't let you draw on this for awhile—till we do those, the... Well, let's say a week before we, er, you can cash..."

Trask only smiled. He had this clown pegged—the type who tried to dominate everyone, even to the extent of playing stupid in order to make his customers beg.

The clerk stared at Trask as he exited—perhaps in awe at his presumption, perhaps in fear of a side bolt from the lightning that must surely strike for his profane behavior at Seventh Federal Bank & Trust, West Baker Office.

Grimly exultant at having spiked Feister's guns, Trask sped off toward the fabled domain of Gettrick.

* * *

"Honey, you're gettin' conned real good. He's leadin' you down the ole garden path sure as anything."

Charly felt intensely uncomfortable. Work had not gone smoothly this morning. She'd been assigned—as often the case—to the paint line where she was a favorite of the foreman due to fastidious technique. She'd worked there so often she could compensate for some flaws and idiosyncrasies of the masks by clever twists and angling of the paint gun at the right points, and acted as a second inspector in catching poorly molded parts. But the gun tips required changing often today—not due to clogging, she suspected, but because they were worn and needed to be replaced—so her rate slowed.

She felt her wrist tiring, a predictor of later soreness and the need to waste an hour soaking it at home. As if that weren't enough, _Aunt_ Doris—her mother's distant cousin and a self-appointed adviser and commiserater—belittled her judgment, well on the way to convincing her she'd made a big mistake in ever renting to _This dude_ , as Doris referred to Mr Trask.

"So he pays you extra—big deal! I never woulda let him in fer a cent under five hunerd, mebbe six. And he washes a coupla windows and he's got you thinkin' he's a saint, yet you're losin' money every month. What you think ole Kelly Trotter woulda charged him? Prolly forty bucks a night if she can get it, the same as if he was stayin' over the weekend—more'n a thou a month! An' I bet that Lookover joint is worse yet. On top a everthin' you go and make his lunch and dinner. Yeah, I bet he's lovin' every minute, and thinkin', _I got me a sucker on the line here_."

Her new boarder couldn't be _that_ bad, could he? "Wait, Dory. You've got to remember my place is a dump... Yes, yes—no point denying it—though I'm beginning to get caught up. And he could have got by for what I offered—two-fifty—but he wouldn't."

"Acourse not! Give you a mite extra and he's got you feedin' outa his hand. You wait. Pretty soon he'll want all his meals and his laundry and what-have-you thrown in. Mark my words."

_Man! I feel miserable now._ Could Dory be right? Charly had felt suspicious right at the start— _and look how he'd frightened Frankie_. Then the flattery of her cooking and such, and _Let me carry those groceries for you_ , and _Do you want help with this and that?_ Deep down she felt Trask too good to be true. _And every once in a while he slips and acts mean._

But she only said, "I sure hope you're wrong, Dory, cuz I can use a few extra bucks with what Aunt Sally charges for sitting. And in February those lousy taxes come up—ugh! They'll kill me yet if I can't save some real money."

* * *

Work went no better in the afternoon and her mood steadily worsened until she clocked out. She hardly spoke to Aunt Sally and played deaf to Frankie's pleas for attention. As they neared home she brightened enough to peevishly say, "Frankie, please shut up a little, Honey—I'm not in the mood for silliness tonight. And try not to bother Mr Trask, okay?"

In a resentful voice Frankie asked, "What if _he_ bothers _me?"_

"Shush! I mean it!"

Charly's irritation rose as she noticed he'd taken it upon himself to drive across the back _lawn_ —such as it was—and park in the shade of the big oak tree that stood well east of the house. As she stopped he started up his truck and backed over next to her. He got out bearing a paper bag and a plastic sack.

"You were parked in poison ivy, you know," she said.

"What?"

"Poison ivy—around and up the tree. Why do you think it's so green?" _Gee, he looks awfully worried._ "Are you allergic?"

"I don't know—never had it. There a lot around here?"

"That's almost the only spot—must be something in the soil... Well, don't worry—if you've never caught it you probably aren't sensitive."

"Famous last words."

"You buy something for your supper?" she asked. He tilted the bag and showed her the top of a flat box. "Oh, pizza! Want me to bake it for you?"

"Bake them for _us_ ," he corrected.

* * *

While Charly heated the oven Trask laid down two pepperoni pizzas on cookie sheets, then looked at Frankie. Holding up a green pepper he asked, "Want some of this?"

The child shook her head.

Displaying a large onion he said, "This? Sweet Spanish—it's mild."

Violent head shaking. "Nuh-uh!"

"She'll eat pepperoni but you can forget most toppings."

"What for you?"

"I'm game—anything but anchovies." _Gee, this is nice of him... or is it?_

"Forgot those." He chopped half the pepper and half the onion and distributed them on one pizza, showering both with shredded mozzarella.

Charly said, "You seem skilled at this."

"I've had more practice than I like to admit."

Smiling, she put them in the oven. "Hers will be done first cuz it's on top." She pivoted toward him. "This is cool."

"Cool? Did you say, _cool?"_

Immediately apologetic, she blurted, "Nice—I mean it's swell that..." But he was striding out the back door. _What now, for Heaven's sake? I can't figure this guy_. Every quirk he demonstrated added to her concern. And Doris hadn't helped.

But here he came up the stoop. She jumped to shove open the screen door, and he entered carrying a large box.

"What's _that?_ "

"Cool," Trask said.

"Air conditioner?" she read. "You're going to cool your room!"

"I'm going to cool the _house_ , Madam."

While the pizzas baked they went upstairs to the northern hall window where he quickly managed to insert the unit, described by the furniture salesbabe as _The smallest, lightest one we got_. Charly searched for an extension cord, which he plugged into the outlet in his room.

"Stand back everyone, I'm switching on!" he announced, grinning widely. The fan started smoothly, giving an immediate illusion of cooling as they crowded around. After a few seconds the compressor kicked in, labored briefly, and the unit shut down. "What the he... heck?"

~

Chapter 9 The Curse

day 3 Mon Aug 26

The light in his room failed to turn on, and the lights in Charly's, Frankie's, and the junk/storage room. The hall light couldn't turn on because the bulb had long ago burned out.

As if he needed more failure. "Ridiculous!" Trask gritted. "Must have forgot to test this one at the factory. S _on of a pup!_ What the _fudge?"_

"Please!" Charly flicked her eyes toward Frankie.

He glared at her. "I haven't said anything."

"You've come pretty darn close."

He glowered with real anger, making her recoil half a step. _If looks could kill_... _This guy's got a real mean streak_. But she wouldn't be cowed in her own home.

"Maybe you're wrong—maybe it's a fuse."

"Impossible! This dinky thing doesn't draw enough amperage to... Unless something's locked up—bad bearing or..."

"Maybe we should check the fuse—just in case?"

"Did you hear me? Doesn't draw enough." He'd have to return the stupid thing.

"But maybe..."

" _Fine!_ If it makes you happy, let's check every... every gosh darn thing in the place."

The kitchen range had no power.

"Oh!" Charly rescued the pizzas, overdone while they tarried upstairs.

The bathroom worked but the laundry dryer did not.

"I think the fuse—just in case," she pleaded.

With forced patience and condescension he replied, "I _acknowledge_ a fuse is blown. But the fuse is not the problem—the _problem_ is the, the..." He struggled for an oath usable in front of a church-going woman and the young child who tagged after her. "The _blasted_ air conditioner is the problem that caused the fuse to blow. I mean, how bad can the wiring be in this place that..."

Charly began to laugh. "Oh, no!" she groaned. "You're going to have to go in the basement to check the box."

Trask found her humor misplaced. " _What?_ "

"I only hope you come back alive! If you think the laundry room is bad..."

"Eeww, the basement!" Frankie added.

* * *

A fuse was replaced, burnt out in a second attempt at starting, and replaced again before Trask would accept the extent of the problem. A heavy-duty extension cord extended through the hall and stairs into the basement, jury-rigged into the fuse box. Cooled air flowed down the stairway and diffused to the kitchen. Their pizzas were reheated to the consistency of cardboard, and they sat at the table while Frankie took her bath.

Charly kept breaking into giggles while he masticated stone-faced.

"Look—I'm sorry, but don't you see? _Everything_ is run down or outdated. I mean, look at the place—the outside shabby, the inside trashed-up, your room a flophouse, the laundry like the Black Hole of Calcutta. No! I know it is—and then you have to plunge down into the dungeon itself. And all the time you think this fuse problem is something _you_ added to the mixture. I know I shouldn't laugh." She giggled weakly, her eyes tearing. "Oh, my tummy hurts!"

Trask ponderously shook his head. "I do not consider this a laughing matter. I was so proud of that air conditioner. This place... it's _cursed!_ " He relinquished his resentment and joined in a weak chuckle.

"When you entered the house and glanced into the living room... You should have seen your face!" She broke up again. "You were trying so hard to be smooth—to pretend you didn't notice the mess! And when I showed you the bedroom looking like Pharaohs tomb..."

They stopped for more laughter.

"Don't forget my _laundry basket_ ," he sniggered.

"Oh, you rat! To bring that up again. I already said..."

Trask threw down his half-eaten slice of pizza. "This stuff is horrible."

"I don't mind it much," she diplomatically opined. But she put hers down, as well.

Frankie cracked the bathroom door. "Momma? Are you okay, Momma? Are you stopped laughin', Momma?"

They broke into guffaws once more, and when the spasm passed she went to her purse and held out something to him. "Before I forget," she said. "I hope... well, I hope the thing isn't cursed." A key to the back door, the excitement having somehow eased fears about her new renter.

* * *

They relaxed in front of the stairway, chairs pulled over to be in the direct stream from upstairs.

"I'll make supper tomorrow." Charly offered.

"Pizza?"

She giggled in obligatory fashion. "No... the curse, you know."

"I'll get steaks—fillets, Delmonico—the best they've got, even if... even if I have to drive to _Gettrick_ to buy them!"

She smiled. "Gettrick, wow! You must awfully eager, but try Price's. Their meats aren't too bad, in general. Ask the butcher to cut them special for you."

"We'll broil them... The broiler works?" he asked in a sardonic tone.

"Yes!" she said, mock testily. "Not everything is broken—unless the curse...?"

"I'll mow tomorrow."

"Sweet of you." _Whoops!_ "Swell, I mean, if you actually want to."

She slouched in the recliner, head back, one leg flung over the arm and swinging idly, her feet bare. He slowly ran his eyes over her from her delicate dirty toes to her big wide eyes.

Charly stiffened. _Why's he staring? Have I ripped the crotch out of these lousy jeans?_ She sat up and brought her legs together on the chair.

_Darn! She looked so graceful. But..._ delicate toes! _What am I thinking?_

"Er," he said, "what for veggies?"

"We have frozen broccoli."

"Frankie adores broccoli?"

"You kidding? If you want to, get string beans, she'll eat those—or fresh corn, if they have any. Don't get those from Price's—their produce lacks a lot." She pondered. "Say-y-y, why don't we get something from the garden? I've neglected it for a month but there might be some beans still—wax beans. Frankie loves those. You might find tomatoes, too." She pondered further. "In case you're wondering, the vege garden's the plot of weeds beyond the garage. At least, I imagine, it's been so long since I weeded... or looked, for that matter. Umm, do you understand gardening?"

Trask mocked a frown. "I'm not a _complete_ city slicker. I know plenty about gardening—landscaping plants, mostly."

"Flowers, you mean?"

He flipped his hand. "What's the difference?"

Charly smiled to herself. "You'll see... If you can't find a vegetable I'll make some kind of interesting potatoes."

They sat companionably for several minutes.

"Tell me..." Trask said.

"Mmm?"

"Why do you wear those baggy men's shirts all the time? I know you've got some clothes sense." _Oops, that didn't come out well_.

Charly frowned. _How condescending! Men can be such clods, at times_. "Because I have them left over from Dad and, uh... and besides, it's hot and sweaty at work and I don't want those guys staring at my... at me. If I wore tight tops I'd be hotter anyhow—more air circulation this way."

_And hides a few bulges, no doubt_. With a half leer he asked, "Are you the sexiest woman there?"

"Puh-leeze!" She jumped to her feet and stomped from the room.

Trask figuratively slapped himself. _Stupid!_ Now she'd be standoffish for a week, just as things were beginning to get comfortable. Maybe he _was_ his own worst enemy, as various persons had averred.

~

Chapter 10 My Ego

day 4 Tues Aug 27

But Charly proved fine if somewhat formal. "Morning." And, "Best night's rest all summer." They'd kept their doors cracked and the fans in the openings to draw in cool air. And, "We need lettuce, too—you don't want steak without salad—if you wouldn't mind picking it up. Price's will be okay for that."

"Anything else?"

"Whatever you want."

"Fuses?"

That earned him a little smile. "You be the judge," she said.

"Say, I've been thinking..."

"We need to get going."

"I'll make it quick. How about if you made me supper regularly? Would you mind? I mean, it's working out that way, and there's sure not much choice of eateries around here," he smiled beseechingly.

She knitted her brows. "I could, I guess—if you help with food and whatever. I've got to cook for Frankie anyhow."

"How much would you want?"

"To pay? Oh, I..." She shrugged.

"Two hundred?"

"Wouldn't cost so much, I'm sure."

"I'd be spending at least ten a night at restaurants—and not for better food."

She shrugged and gave a small smile of acceptance, and he pulled a check from his pocket. There it was—two hundred dollars.

"You planned this," she accused, resentful at being taken for granted.

"Well, I figured..." His turn to shrug.

"Frankie? Get in the car!" To Trask, with a glare, "We'll talk tonight."

* * *

She didn't care for this one little bit. Dory could be right, Trask had played her like a fish. _Twitch the rod and I go here, dangle the bait and I suck it right up_. But after dropping-off Frankie she began to cool down. Six hundred bucks. She might save three, maybe more a month. They could still eat cheaply if she shopped cautiously.

Five months to first half taxes meant fifteen hundred. _Plus what's in checking gets me within almost a thou. I could borrow from Aunt Sally. Sure, no matter she's been ticked off at me for eight God-blesséd years now_. She drove through the red light on Main while doing her sums, but the Sheriff never patrolled in West B during the day—one blat from a trucker was her only penalty.

The second half came due when—June, July? _Tougher—can't hit up old Auntie twice in a year. So try to borrow two thou from her, save some. Maybe get a CD? What—four, five percent?_ Not enough. _Got to save more out of his rent, I guess. Can I do four-hundred, maybe three-fifty_? Even at four her finances would be tight.

As Charly clocked-in her thoughts took a slightly different turn. What if Trask left? _All done, no hope_. She'd been fighting this battle for the last three years since the spare cash ran short and Franklin's pittance stopped coming. _Well then, that's the end. I'll fold—I'll sell the place, much as I hate to and often as I've put it off._ If she had to, she had to.

Assigned to the paint line again, a tired ache reminded her she'd forgot to soak her wrist amidst yesterday's excitement. The morning turned out muggy and hot as the hinges—going to be another bad one.

Break found her silent, refusing to answer Dory's questions or discuss her new B & B with anyone, still mulling the choices she faced. And shortly after break the foreman came over to her.

"Ya better wake up, Charly. Look at this slop you've been turnin' out."

"Oh, I'm sorry! My wrist is killing me. Forgot to soak it last night."

"Don't give a rat's rump 'bout yer wrist or anythin' cept these parts. If ya can't do any better ya mize well go home."

"Can't I switch to another job?" she pleaded, "This really is bothering me."

"It's yer _brain_ what's botherin'... Oh, go see the man, if ya want. I don't care."

"Thanks, Stewart—I owe you."

"Bull!"

* * *

The Man was surprisingly sympathetic. "Want to go home?"

"No, I simply want to rest my wrist—get onto another job."

"Alright. Tell Stewart I said for you to switch with somebody—don't know why he couldn't have handled this himself. Will you be coming in tomorrow—not going to let this keep you home?"

"Sure, I imagine."

"Good—don't want you out of here too much." He rubbed his nose, staring at her. "What rate are you now?"

Charly sat straighter. "Six thirty-five—utility, you know."

"Yeah. Well we ought, hmm... How's the new business?"

For a second he'd seemed ready to talk raise. Interesting! "How'd you know? I've told hardly anyone."

"No secrets in this town, Charly. Hear you've already landed a... what—renter, boarder, client?"

"Yes, and this far everything's working out, but there is so-oo-o much stuff to do."

"Tell me!" He smiled at her. "Probably even worse managing a small business than a big one. Well, good luck, and get along to Stewart. And take care of yourself—we need you in good shape around here."

* * *

After starting on her new task—pressing a threaded insert into a molding—she thought of the exchange with Gregg. First, a hint a raise might be in the offing, then an attagirl for no real reason. It must be the B & B. _I'm no longer such a loser in their eyes. I might live in a rundown shack on a worthless farm but I've got money in the bank and the prospect of more._ In her small way she'd joined the investor class. A little respect felt so very gratifying.

The job required slight thought or effort—load a part in the fixture, place an 8-32 insert, pull the handle—arm rather than wrist flexion—wrap and stack the finished part in a shipping box. She easily kept up with two molders, two parts per mold, 1.48 minute molding cycle. A conveyor brought the parts and divider sheets to her, and a material handler moved the packing containers. They were behind from last night's molding but she would easily be caught-up by quitting time.

She had plenty of time to think.

Cultivated farm acreage brought nine-hundred or better, depending on condition. Ordinary cleared land went for half as much seven years back, but recently up to maybe six-hundred. Wooded? More or less, depending on contours and timber age. The barn, though not large, was sound—say another ten or so. The house? Good for nothing but a hired hand's dwelling, but of moderate value even so. Ten percent real estate commission on farms, plus closing costs. _Wow!_ One and a quarter clear, perhaps—at least a hundred thou—maybe as much as one-fifty.

She might buy a modest home in town free and clear, get a new—well, newer—car and still have money in the bank. She might have twenty thou or more left over—she could invest! Cautiously, of course—she remained her father's daughter _. And a dinky raise here—_ fifteen cents or a quarter was their style, part-time utility work not being union scale. _Not much, but every little bit helps._ Medical continued a problem—and no retirement. _Well, one thing at a time_. Some light filtered through the clouds.

At lunch Charly abandoned her funk, letting co-workers blame the mood on her sore wrist. She didn't attend to Dory's carping, to her belittling six-hundred bucks as slave wages, but she responded to the other women as they attempted to gratify their curiosity.

"This a young single guy? Kelly's gets all families and codgers."

"Not too young—mature young."

"Good looking?" Betty Strickland sniggered.

Wickedly, Charly responded, "Movie star!"

"Shawn Pence, Tom Cruz—that type?"

"Shawn Pence is a greaser," Brandi interjected.

"He's not a kid," Charly said. "I'd say a combination of the guy who played the catcher in _Major League_ and a young Redfern." The description made no sense but caused intense excitement even among the old married gals.

"Yer feedin' us bull!" proclaimed Martha, still miffed at being shifted off an easy job.

"Well," Charly replied offhandedly, "beauty _is_ in the eye of the beholder, of course."

"An' he's jist throwin' money atcha, too? Way too good ta be true!"

"I don't care if he's some kinda Gary Grant in looks and rich as Corsus," Doris interjected, "he's still gonna take you to the cleaners, see if he don't."

"Aw, shove it, Doris!" exclaimed Brandi. "Yer so darn jealous yer face is green. Let 'er have some luck for once. She's earned it."

"Luck!? Yeah, she'll have luck alright—rotten luck. You ninnies think a lover-boy'll pop to life outa yer dreams and cure every one a yer problems—well, nothin' works that way nine times outa ten."

Stewart leaned around the break room entry. "Ya gonna cut the hen party and get ta work someday?"

Doris returned to high popular standing with her comeback. "We may be hens but you ain't no rooster, Stewie!" Cackling loudly they flocked back to the shop floor.

Charly's mood was not to be quenched by Doris' standard flow of pessimism nor by Martha's envy. Her prospects were brightened by having Trask, but even better—now that she'd decided on her new course she no longer needed to depend upon him or anyone. He could leave or stay, or she could kick him out if he proved too big a problem. She could and would use her own wisdom and will to control the future.

* * *

The early morning Trask loafed away, not starting to mow until nearly ten. Soon he came to regret the tardiness—another blazing hot day. He found a gas can in the garage, and an open quart of thirty-weight oil. The mower refused to kick over until he cleaned the plug and used starting fluid, with innumerable tugs on the starting rope. But the cutting went easily since only sparse grass opposed the dull blade, though weedy patches gave more trouble.

Soon he became mesmerized by repetitive circuits of the yard and the strangely pleasant contrast between the dusty tan of the near-dead grass, the bright green of the weeds, and the blue-green of crabgrass. The lawn area wasn't huge but still he took several breaks, starting the air conditioner and pulling a chair right in front to cool down and dry off.

During the mowing a half dozen vehicles—pickups and tractors, mostly—went by, lifting dust in their wakes that a light southwest wind sent drifting over the front yard and porch. Most of them craned their necks to watch him—a few waved. One woman stopped and chose to introduce herself while prying into his identity and relationship with Biscoe. Instantly resentful, he played inarticulate, not even admitting his name.

He finished a bit past noon and yearned for a long siesta, but needed to wash up and run to the grocery. A light lunch—mostly iced tea—and a brief snooze meant he didn't start on the garden till after two.

The sight took him aback. Used to his own neat beds he'd expected a profusion of lush green leaves but saw instead a riot of lanky dry stalks. Ragweed, dandelions, plantain, wild lettuce, coarse grasses, sorrel and more concealed and crowded the tame crops. Indeed, the only things he clearly made out were stunted cornstalks, and tomato vines tumbling untied from their stakes. Other vegetables were hidden at first glimpse.

Hesitant to start, he returned to the house to change his shorts and bare hands for trousers and leather gloves, then gingerly began at one corner. Red-faced and dripping, he was hard at it when Charly and Frankie parked and walked over.

"Oh, wow! Even worse than I imagined—completely dried out... That stack—you did all that?"

He straightened up to stretch and twist. "Your main crop, I think—weeds."

"Gee, almost a compost pile started. Looks great, though—I mean the plants look poor because it's been real dry, but the rows are way much neater. At least you've got the tall stuff out... Hmm, corn's shot, far past ripe—didn't get one ear picked this year, and I should have been watering."

"You have water?"

"You mean enough? Sure, we've got a great well. I only needed to drag the hose over. Dad used to have a swell garden—corn, beans, squash, cukes, onions, tomatoes, parsnips... We ate fresh vegies summer and fall."

"I put a few tomatoes on the sink but threw a lot out—cracked, chewed up, whatever. Amazing big green caterpillars. Huge!"

"Hornworms. They're repulsive... But they turn into a pretty moth. Kill em?"

"Tough to get off. Hard to see—same exact color as the vines, and they hung on for dear life. Didn't want to squish them, so I threw them way out in the field."

"How merciful! Hope they don't have a homing instinct."

"You're pulling my leg."

"You'll see... In fact, I have no idea—maybe they'll find something else to chomp on, and stay away. Nearly done?"

He came near and saw her nose delicately wrinkle at his honest sweat.

"Almost. I need a bucket or something for the beans."

* * *

Past five-thirty—dusty and sweaty—he came triumphantly into the kitchen bearing two old ice cream pails overflowing with wax beans. A look of dismay crossed Charly's face.

"What's wrong?" Trask wanted to know.

"You've picked so many! Here, put them here." Her hands fluttered over the abundance before she took one pail and poured its contents onto the counter. Charly began to pick at the beans and toss them into piles.

"What are you doing?"

"Separating them."

"I can see that! But why?"

She turned toward him in surprise. "They're all different."

"So?"

" _So_? Look here!" She held one up. "This baby isn't ripe."

"Small is bad?"

"Size doesn't matter, but it's not fully yellow—unripe. This one's bug-bit. Here's a good one. This one's too mature, but I might French it or make a sauce."

"They look yellow to me."

"They're greenish, many of them—not full yellow as they should be."

"Not yellow!" He disdainfully flicked his hand at another small pile. "And these have a different cosmetic problem?"

She put her fists on her hips and leaned toward him. "Those? If they were any older we can shell them for seed!" _He's pouting like a boy. I've disdained the gift he so proudly presented_. "Don't worry, we'll still have enough beans to feed a regiment—you've picked a ton!" She spoiled the praise by adding, "I'll show you a secret how to snap them off the stems—makes the picking easier."

"Just swell," Trask muttered, as he stalked from the room.

" _Din_ -ner-in- _half_ -an- _ho_ -ur!" she sang, just to rub it in.

* * *

Dinner, in fact, tarried till six-thirty. Charly changed into a nice blouse and put Frankie in a dress. The food was tasty and Trask only half a grouch.

"I didn't know steak could taste this way," she said. "And this," indicating the salad dressing, "also great, too."

"And the beans?" he asked sardonically.

"Perfectly prepared, if I say so myself. What do you say, young daughter?"

"I like yella beans."

"You'd better eat your lettuce," Charly threatened, "and more potato or you'll shrivel up and blow away."

* * *

He refused to help with the dishes—not that she'd asked, but if she had he'd have flat refused. He was acting childishly but didn't care—he wanted his grump and intended to have it. He went to the stairs to search for a magazine. Most of the piles had been cleared but he found an ancient Geographic with the cover missing. The mystery idly intrigued him.

After awhile Charly came into the living room and did her plopping and gusty sighing.

"I can no longer imagine living without air conditioning—this is _so_ luxurious." When he failed to reply she tried another tack. "We'll be able to eat beans the whole week from what you picked. I'll fix them a fancier way tomorrow for variation."

"Umph."

"Frankie liked the steak because it was so tender, I think. She's not a big meat eater."

"What _does_ she like to eat?"

The implied criticism stung her. "Ice cream and beans, but beans are her favorite."

He looked up and caught a slight teasing smile, so he said, "I guess to farmers beans must be the most important thing in the world—beans and their colors. In fact, I'll bet the colors of beans are as important to farmers as castes are to an Indian. Sure! Because if your beans aren't the right colors they can't marry and make baby beans."

She snorted a laugh. "You're simply mad because the city slicker can't stand a barefoot farm girl knowing... well, _beans_ about anything."

"I only hope the next time I pick veggies my color discrimination measures up—I'd sure hate to make another fox pass this bad."

"A what? Did you mean _faux pas_?" When he refused to acknowledge she went on. "It was a genuinely good meal, though, despite your blunders with the pods."

"True, true," he replied with detached judgment, "my purchases assured gustatory success."

She pondered her reply. "In my, uh... considered opinion, the meal preparation proved the key to tonight's culinary, er, splendor."

"I cannot disagree you properly turned on and off various knobs with adequate timing and... and zeal, yet..."

"Oh, stuff it! Is your ego back in shape yet?"

"My ego is always in good shape."

"I surely do agree." He made no response, and she thought, _He's staring at me again—have I got a button loose?_ She covertly glanced down at her blouse but all seemed secure. _Why that smug little smile? Does he figure he won the contest?_ Did he merely enjoy looking at her? No, he wasn't the type. On the other hand, Dory would say they're all that type— _Scratch a man, find a lech._

"What are you going to do tomorrow?" she asked.

"No plans... Some woman stopped today to give me the official inquisition."

"Who? What did you tell her?"

"I can't remember her name, and I didn't give mine."

"What'd she look like?"

"Oh, forties, fifties—short, I guess. She stayed in the car."

"Fat? No? Hair in curlers? Yes? Beat-up old Ford? Uh-huh, Mrs Barnum. She'll stick her pointy nose in everywhere, and you can't embarrass her. Don't tell her anything unless you want it broadcast."

"Nothing but lies will pass my lips," he intoned.

She giggled. "You... goof! That's all I can call you. Why do you say things like that?"

"Who, me?"

"I'm beginning to think you're always putting me on. Did you even care about those silly beans?"

"Deeply hurt—nearly crushed."

"Ah... Now I know never to take you seriously."

He'd covered himself well, he thought. He'd rather she considered him a clown than a bad sport. "Got something else at the store," he said.

"Fuses?"

"Close—light bulbs. Big 'uns—hundred watters."

"Oh, that's..." _Darn! Almost said_ sweet _again_. "real helpful of you. I'll reimburse you, of course." After a silence she said, "Here we sit, as usual, doing nothing. I don't think I've watched a solid hour of TV since you've been here."

"Miss your soap operas?"

"Hah! Not that I miss _any_ of it much—we only get two channels, the one without sound and the one without a picture."

He smiled at the joke. "Tremendously quiet and peaceful here—hardly any traffic, and I don't think I've even heard the phone ring."

Charly's face once more slowly reddened. "Well, there's a pretty good reason."

~

Chapter 11 Water, Water Everywhere

days 4, 5 Tues, Wed Aug 27, 28

"I've got to get one put back in and... Well, I haven't had much time. I'll try to do it this week."

But her thoughts were, _Darn, darn, darn, DARN! There goes my savings plan. Hundred bucks for a deposit since they ripped it out on me. Installation fee, first month's base rate—it'll be near one-fifty for crying out loud!_ Why did he have to bring this up?

And Trask thought, _Here we go again. This girl must be—until I started footing so many of the bills—ready for the poorhouse._ He felt a surge of discomfort much as, probably, an upper-class woman feels upon finding she has inadvertently allowed herself to be picked-up by a dozer operator. Did he want to continue here? Everything around the place was screwed-up. Yet his conscience or sense of empathy got the better of him.

"You know, I've been wanting to set up my computer and use the modem, so I'll need an extension for it. I ought to split the cost with you."

"A computer? You need a phone line for that?"

"For the modem, yes."

"Any extra cost to put in a computer—for the phone, I mean?"

"No. A modem simply ties-up the phone when on-line. I'd try to use it when you weren't home, of course."

"I should have taken care of this already." At least with school starting the payments to her aunt for watching Frankie would drop from seventy-five a week to twenty five, a clear savings of two big ones a month! She'd left that out of her earlier calculations on the tax payments, and it would make all the difference in the world. She could afford the phone, but the whole deal still rankled.

_Only problem—I'll have to ask her to keep Frankie late while I zip over to Gettrick and see the phone dorks_.

She said, "You probably wouldn't mind being able to call somebody someday, either. I'll take care it tomorrow or the next day."

"I'm happy to help you."

"No! It's my responsibility."

They were silent until he inquired, "How do you get by without one? You know—what if you have to miss work."

"I don't miss work."

"What if the girl's sick?"

"Oh, they know if I'm late something has come up. They cut me some slack that way."

"And you don't ever arrive late."

"Short of a foot of snow, no!"

"So you _do_ have a good arrangement with them."

Charly grimaced. "I suppose. It's set up around Frankie's school. I take her to school then start work, and after school she walks to my aunt's. But they won't let me go full-time in summer—that's where they stick it to me." But why must she justify herself? Why did every minor thing make her look like a fool and cost money to boot? Almost too much to put up with. _This guy's a problem, money or no_.

She jumped up. "G'night."

He felt a bit dismayed at the loss of company. "Say..."

She hesitated on the way to brush her teeth. "Yes?"

"Er, anything you want me to do tomorrow—errands?"

"No, don't think so." She took a couple of strides and turned. "Well, you can water the garden. We'll get more stuff pretty quickly."

"How quickly?"

"Probably be able to pick more beans in a few days."

"Beans again! And that soon?"

"You'll see. I'll show you tomorrow. Good night again."

After she went upstairs he pulled a chair over and changed light bulbs in the ceiling fixture. The glare became almost stellar. The old ones were forty-watters—surprising they hadn't all gone blind. He sat and tried to read the Geographic but couldn't concentrate on either Nigeria or sea slugs. Early to bed again.

* * *

Next morning she showed him the outdoor faucet, hidden behind weeds on the west foundation. The hoses were in the garage—he'd noticed them during the storm window project. But when he got down to the job he found two of them came up shy of the garden, so he plowed through a lot of gear to find a third. Try as he would, however, he located no sprinkler—only an old brass nozzle. He'd no intention of standing there while watering.

* * *

Charly easily accomplished negotiations with Aunt Sally, but the phone company was another story. First their clerk peered at the check with great intensity, making her wonder if her name was down as a bad risk.

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

The women offered the usual assurance. "Oh no, it's fine."

"When can you get service restored?"

'Probably within two weeks or so."

"What? I wanted service right away."

"We have to wait until your check clears."

"Nothing's wrong with this check. You can call the bank—it's covered."

"I'm sorry, that's our policy."

"But I'm running a business now—I need a phone for my customers."

"That's our policy."

"You mean if a big corporation came into town to start a new factory they'd have to wait two weeks to get service? I don't believe it."

"Oh, that would be different."

"Why any different for me?"

"Our policy. I don't make the policy—I just have to follow it, you understand."

Charly did _not_ understand anything except they held her to a different standard from someone wearing a suit. More words were exchanged but the result stayed the same. She left the office flushed and angry, dreading to explain the delay to Trask. The phone company and at least one of its employees she consigned to the uttermost depths of the fiery abyss.

* * *

Cooled off considerably by the time she picked-up Frankie, Charly drove home planning her speech. She'd simply say in a matter-of-fact way it would take a couple of weeks for service. If Trask didn't like it he'd have to lump it. He'd no right to expect her to instantaneously provide every comfort.

Frankie interrupted her thoughts. "Mommy, look! Can I play in the water?"

Charly stared. The front yard was being sprinkled, and something seemed strange about the house—he'd taken down the rest of the storm sash. She got a vague feeling of unease. Too many favors were being done, and without a by-your-leave to her. Her new renter seemed to be taking over.

He greeted her with a big grin, well pleased with himself.

"What's all this?" she wanted to know. She walked round to the front of the house.

"I'm watering the lawn."

"Obviously. But what about the garden?"

"Done."

"Sandy soil—did you give it enough?"

"I know how to _water_ ," he said.

She stared at the sprinkler hose. "Where'd this come from?"

"Your garage—I modified it."

"You _modified_ it!"

"It was no good. Already leaked, so I poked a few more holes."

"And you couldn't have asked?"

"Well... I didn't think you'd mind—the thing wasn't much good. I can get you another one if it's that doggoned important."

"I don't want another one—I merely want to be asked."

"Sorr-ry," he said, not sounding it in the least.

He looked put out, and her more reasonable nature kicked in. "No big deal, I suppose. I guess we're lucky they didn't all leak. They're probably older than... older than either one of us. I'm simply having a bad day. They gave me a hard time over at the phone company—the jerks. So... you took down the rest of the storms?"

"Yeah. Thought I'd do a little fix-up on them. What do you say?"

"You don't have to do _any_ of that."

"I know, but I'm restless. I don't feel much want to read or go sightseeing. I walked all over the place but that gets old."

"Oh? Where'd you go?"

"Down to the creek—only a bunch of puddles, now. And up to the woods."

"I'll have to show you a map of our property. Did you lock up when you were gone?"

They wandered into the house, still talking. Frankie quickly changed her clothes and ran out to play in the spray.

"How much property did you say you have?"

"A hundred fifty acres or so."

"Wow!"

"Not so big for a farm nowadays."

"I owned one and felt pretty good about it."

She chuckled. " _Owned_ —past tense?"

"Yeah." He wasn't eager to open the subject, but... "My wife's the owner now—ex-wife."

"Ah."

"She got some things and _I_ got some fewer things."

"Uh-huh."

"She liked the house more than I did—classy looking, pretentious, you might say... everything first class."

"I'm sorry—do you mean her or the house?"

Trask burst into a laugh. "Both! Yeah, they were both classy and pretentious. And for her, everything needed to be first class. Well... for me, too, then."

She smiled somewhat uncomfortably, not wanting to hear another divorced man go into a rant about the evil ex. She'd heard enough of those at occasional outings with work or personal friends, all too many of which seemed to end up late at night with everyone half-stewed and some guy either hitting on her or whining for sympathy.

But he surprised her by changing the subject. "How far does the place extend?"

"Nearly a half mile square—down to the stream, of course, and up along Bigley to where the road begins to peter-out near the crest of the hill. Along Undercliff to where the next plowed field begins, assuming Barnum hasn't encroached any more."

" _That_ Barnum?"

"The male one. They're a real pair. He doesn't say much but he's sneaky. She's right into all your business. I wouldn't trust either one with a nickel or a fact."

"Maybe next time I see her I'll give something to frizzle her hair."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll make up a tale to shock her—maybe tell her I'm on parole for manslaughter, or been released from a mental ward for violent offenders."

"Oh, don't... please. I've got enough problems as it is. Who knows what she's been passing on to people already. She doesn't need any help with her imagination—she's a horrible gossip."

Now that he had Charly worried, Trask kept going. "Never fear—I'll make it something juicy."

~

Chapter 12 Loafers All

day 6 Thur Aug 29

The diner had a land-office business going when Trask dropped in for lunch the next day. Beret was in evidence but not I-H.

"Where's your friend?"

"Think he's on vacation."

"What's he do—farmer?"

Waitress came over before Beret could answer. "Nah, only a loafer like this one."

As she rushed off Beret called, "Leave off, Peg!" He told Trask, "Jim does farm some, but Peggy likes ta make out we're all loafers compared ta her. At's her little joke. Gits sorta tiresome, though."

She hurried back. "Want something?"

"A hamburger, I guess—cheeseburger, lettuce, relish."

"Drink? Coffee?"

He nodded, and she left. "Well, she seems to be working hard enough now."

"Yeah, lunch-time. And early she's busy at breakfuss, but she quits at three an' another gal takes over, so she don't ezzackly kill herself... Gives us a hard time over tips, too, ever since you laid down that extra buck—as if we're cheapskates."

"Huh!"

"Yeah, you didn't help us none there."

Mock regretfully: "I just wasn't thinking."

"We fixed 'er, though. Made a deal where she gits ten percent from us now—no more. She don't like _that_."

"What'd you give her before?"

"Ten plus. You know—we'd round up some. A buck seventy, we'd give 'er two bucks—that sorta thing."

"Generous," he said. Beret gave him a look, but Trask kept his expression bland. "Well, I'm going to wash my pinkies."

"Yeah, see ya. I'm takin' off. We uzzally go over ta the alley after lunch."

Trask returned as Waitress brought his coffee. Jerking his thumb at the vacant stool he queried, "He's going to the _alley_?"

She chuckled. "The bowlin' alley—that's where they waste the afternoon after they waste the morning here. I'll be back."

She soon returned with his burger, the bun hot and crispy from the grill. "Exactly the way I like it," he said, "nice and greasy."

"You ain't kiddin', are you?"

"No, this is good."

"You're gonna make some gal a great husband. What'sa matter?" Trask's expression had soured. "I appreciate a man who likes his food... But Farrell, here, and his buddy—they retired kinda early, like at _thirty_ , and they been hangin' around and gabbin' for the last twenty or more years—before I ever got here. Wait a minute!" And she went off again. She came back after taking a payment, the crowd thinning out.

"Jim inherited his farm and sorta did less and less—his wife brought a few bucks with her. Now he only rents out the land and gets by on income. He went on _vacation_ —meanin' he went to live with his son in Michigan for a month or so. He's got a new place to loaf for awhile, but it gets colder come winter than here—if he went to Florida or Georgia he'd probably stay till May.

"Now Farrell, he never married and simply saved his money pretty well—not much of a drinker, so he didn't blow it all. And he got hisself alected borough trustee for awhile. Don't pay much but they give theirselves free medical, so that saves a bundle, and they all manage somehow to get their drives graveled and ditches trenched. Now the both of em hang around here after breakfast and take up space, complainin' every now and then about these lazy bums what get laid off and sit around the house collectin' unemployment, then they switch to the Alley after lunch. You'd be surprised how long they can make a cuppa last. They're the reason I only give one free refill, otherwise the place'd lose money on em."

"Harmless, though?"

"Well, mostly. They think they're doin' me a big favor to hang around when I'm not busy. Only problem is they eat lunch here, and then it _is_ busy. Lousy tippers, too."

"Ten percent?"

"Their latest joke—think they're _really_ gettin' to me. Fact is, the difference is that slight you wouldn't notice. Sit for three hours nursin' a cup and a piece of pie—it don't matter whether they leave a dime or quarter—it's still chicken-feed."

"Would you rather have them or not?"

"Well... they're company, I guess. If only they'd clear out of here before lunch I'd be glad to put up with em."

"Why don't you say something—give them a hint?"

"You kiddin'? These big time raconteers are so thin-skinned they'd never show up for a year after such a huge insult."

Trask chuckled. "So you _do_ want them to come around."

Peggy sighed. "Yeah, I suppose... Maybe I'll tell em they'll hafta wait for their lunch until I've thinned out the real customers—shouldn't burn em too bad. Tell me, though—what are _you_ gonna do with yourself? You gonna hang around here and become a loafer too?"

This stumped him. "Well, I hadn't much thought concerning it. What do you think— _should_ I get a job?"

"Ain't that what most able-bodied men do?"

"I look able-bodied to you?"

"Sure. Why—you feelin' poorly?"

"No, but any time a woman admires me I want to make note of it."

"Right! Well, you look more or less fit to me. You ain't inherited a fortune or somethin', have you?"

"No, but I'm not broke. Thing is, I haven't considered the future—don't know what I want to do, stay or go. What do you think, should I stay around this burg until my money runs out, or keep moving?" He gave her a wry grin.

"Well, Chuck, my attitude is, if I gotta work everybody should work. And if you don't start earnin' you'll eventually be tippin' cheap like my two Romeos, and we don't neither of us want _that_... Where'd you work before, assumin' you didn't live off some lectacy?"

"Brigadier Electric."

"B E? Say, did you ever meet up with Marv Beranowski? He worked there—maybe still does."

"It's a great big company."

* * *

Charly got through her day with a minimum of stress until time came to pick up Frankie, who played in the back yard per Sally's orders.

"Charlotte, I hope you can sit a bit, because I want to talk to you."

Oh oh!

"This man you've taken in—tell me what he's like."

The serving of tea and cookies delayed the inquisition. "Did you know this man before you took him into your house?" Sally prodded. "Did he have any references or know anyone around here?"

"Isn't it late to be checking-up on him, Aunt Sal?"

"Don't be pert, Charlotte—I don't appreciate it."

"He's been living in my house for practically a week, and we haven't been raped or robbed yet."

"That's not the least bit funny. Those are serious matters, and you've got to act responsibly for your poor child, if not for yourself."

"Well, what do you want me to do? He's paying good money, and Heaven knows we need it. And he seems to know how to act like a gentleman."

Aunt Sally tightened her lips and let go a salvo. "Doris has called me, full of concern over this man."

Charly jumped to her feet. "Of all people!"

"Now, Charlotte."

"Of all the people to pay attention to! You know she's always negative toward what I do... And she can never say a good word about _any_ man."

"Now, Charlotte!"

"And she exaggerates _everything_ to make a scandal."

"She is your relative, and she is _concerned_ about you."

"Oh, bull! She's concerned with making a big fuss. She can't scare _me_ so she's trying to get you upset—that's what this is."

"Don't be rude, Charlotte. Furthermore, Doris is not the only one. Your neighbor, Mrs Barnum, stopped to see me."

"Good Lord! She has to put her nose in everywhere!"

"She always acted friendly to me when I lived with you. She always asked after you and showed interested in your affairs."

"Tell me about it! She's interested in everybody's affairs. And if there _is_ no affair she'll make one up—the more absurd the better."

"She stopped at your house and tried to talk to him, but he was _quite_ uncommunicative."

Charly opened her mouth but was struck by a thought—she started to laugh.

"I fail to see the humor, Miss."

"Aunt Sally, you had better prepare yourself."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Be ready, the next time she comes, for a real shock."

* * *

Charly couldn't help smiling every now and then on the way home as she imagined the effect of Trask's proposed mischievousness on the Barnum woman's composure and—at second hand—on her Aunt's. Despite her prediction of greater but false revelations, she felt Aunt Sally didn't believe her, and refused to be completely assured of her boarder's honesty. Surely Trask would further embellish the truth next time Barnum questioned him, and with his off-the-wall temperament he might come up with something even more outlandish than he'd threatened.

"What are you smilin' for, Mom?"

"Oh... grownup stuff."

"When'll _I_ get grownup to hear stuff?"

"Maybe when you're Aunt Sally's age."

"Aa-aww! That's same as _never_."

"Well, maybe when you get to be fifteen—how's that?"

"When I get fifteen I can have a baby."

" _What_! Where'd you hear that? You may _not_ have a baby—not until you're at least thirty and have gone to college... and are married to a man with a good job. Where do you get these ideas?"

"But Mo-oo-om, babies are sweet. I _love_ babies."

"Babies are pesky, and no fifteen-year-old is allowed to have one."

" _I_ wasn't a pesk—I was sweet."

"Oh? And who told you that?"

" _You did!_ You told me so yourself," Frankie declared, sitting back mightily pleased with herself.

Charly gave a small "Hmph!" to continue the game, but all the same felt quite unhappy to hear Frankie repeat that kind of foolishness, even though the girl would probably be on to another cockamamie idea in a day or two.

But soon Charly got back to thinking of the Barnum situation. _Maybe I'll tell him to lay it on thick—dream up a good one._

* * *

After supper they sat down for what had become a ritual. _A married couple reviewing their day_ , Charly thought. Surprising how quickly they'd learned to relax with one another. Should she worry?

"Good chow," Trask said, to start things off and see her smile.

"You're too darned hard to please." They'd eaten hot dogs and baked beans. "I need to catch up on laundry but I'm too lazy tonight—maybe tomorrow."

"And maybe tomorrow you can wait till Saturday."

Beady-eyed, she said, "And I just might."

"Want me to put up more shelves for you in there?"

Charly appraised him. "Maybe you need to get a job. How are you fixed for money—I mean, none of my business but...?" To cover her embarrassment she continued, "I thought... Well, if you _had_ money I figured you'd have fancier wheels and such, not that it's any of my affair."

"I can pay my way here for awhile, if that's worrying you."

"I'm not _worried_."

"If you want to see my bankbook..."

"I don't!"

"You're not the first to wonder about my means of support—you and the joker at the bank—but I'm okay."

"I simply meant you seem restless. But who else wondered—Feister?"

"Uh-huh. He and Peggy-the-waitress."

"Peggy—the waitress at the diner? What does she care?"

"She doesn't like loafers. What's your excuse?"

_Good grief, I'm sure not getting the best of this discussion_. "Uh, Mrs Barnum."

"Yeah?"

"She's blabbing all over town, I guess. I've been thinking maybe you _ought_ to give her something good to chew on."

"That's a switch."

"Perhaps she'll look like a fool if she tries to pass on too tall a tale. So now I say, let her have a good one. But be subtle—she's not a complete idiot."

They conversed on other matters before he asked, "If I _were_ to get a job, where would I look around here?"

"Oh! Well, except for a few small businesses, only The Plastic and The Mill. You don't want to sell cars, do you? What type of work do you do?"

"Production engineering."

"Engineering? I don't know of any engineering around here. You mean bridges or something?"

"No—engineering to manufacture."

"Hmm. You said production—could you be a foreman?"

"Way different. But I can set up a process—a production process or production line, you might say—that a foreman would run."

This was completely outside her experience. "Gee, I don't know. Sounds rather sophisticated for this area. Maybe you should go to Gettrick."

"That place is beginning to sound like Golconda or Byzantium," he grumbled.

"Around here it's a sort of Promised Land, I'd say. Tell you what—Frankie starts school Wednesday so I need to get that stuff Saturday. We'll take you with us to the big city, and you can look around."

"I went there for the air conditioner, remember. But what do you need?"

"Clothes, school supplies—that sort of thing. Perhaps we'll get groceries, and I need other items—clothes baskets. And by the way, it's going to take a couple weeks to get the stupid phone company over here."

"Why doesn't she go Tuesday?"

"I guess the teachers come in then to get things ready."

"Is the school in town?"

"A grade school—they go to Gettrick for high school."

"There it goes again!"

She laughed. "Center of our universe... Where did you work before?"

"B E."

"Oh! Somebody I went to school with works for them. Did you know Sandy Selka?"

"They have a lot of plants."

* * *

Trask mulled the job question after she went up. With the divorce pending his general attitude toward life went bad, so he quit his job at Brigadier Electric and rolled over his retirement plan—worth more than thirty thou—half into a large-cap and half into a mid-cap mutual fund. In addition, over the years he'd invested in a muni bond fund now worth twenty-seven or eight. Thus his long-term needs were reasonably well covered—if he never invested another cent, through reinvested dividends and growth in the stock market he would be in fairly good shape come age sixty-five.

When they worked out the split, Karen announced she would keep the Beamer as well as the Grand Prix. "You like your old truck better, in any case." She would give him twenty thousand in settlement.

"Fine, keep it. But your figure's just a bit off—I want sixty."

"What?"

"Forgot the house, didn't you?"

She fumed, " _I've_ made half the payments."

"That's right—half. And none of the down payment."

"And who paid to furnish it? Who bought the appliances?"

"And who's keeping them, house and all?"

They settled on forty-eight thousand. " _No way_ will I give you fifty," she'd declared.

This appeased Trask. They avoided big lawyer fees, and he cared less than nothing whether she came out a few bucks ahead, although he wished he'd started by demanding seventy. Once they had proven irreconcilable he simply wanted the whole thing done as quickly and painlessly as possible. Ending up with fifty-four thousand in his money market account—two thou of which had gone to his checking here in West Baker—he could easily live for two or three years on that money alone, so long as Biscoe didn't raise his room and board.

But did he want to? No, of course not. He wanted to invest most of it and start in again filling up the coffers—not because he needed it but due to his nature. He might not be as bad as Charly's father but was still half a miser at heart.

~

Chapter 13 What Did You Tell?

day 8,9 Sat, Sun Aug 31, Sept 1

Big shopping day arrived and they piled into his truck, dressed up and each with a list. Frankie's scrawled across a whole sheet of notebook paper, and despite her mother's having told her not to count on getting one single thing she seemed convinced all her wishes would be met.

"Isn't she going to be disappointed?" Trask half whispered.

"Not at all! If she gets one thing off the list she'll be tickled pink."

"I can _hear_ you, Mommy," Frankie sing-songed from her seat between them.

In a saccharine tone Charly said, "Here's a pencil, Darling—cross off everything silly on your list."

"They're _not_ silly... most of em."

"Cross off _pardy dres_ , cross off _dollhos_ , cross off _lots uf ise creem_ or whatever that is."

"You _said_ we could spend some money, Mom—you _did!_ An' I want a dollhouse!"

"You need shoes a whole lot more."

"But you said..."

Trask turned on the radio—loud.

* * *

Charly wanted to splurge in the worst way but the habit of parsimony remained strong enough to protect their new-gained hoard. For Frankie's school clothes she came up with the bright idea of buying uniforms. After swift trips between Penney's and Sears for comparisons, Frankie owned a tan and a navy jumper, slacks in the same colors, short-sleeved white blouses, blue oxford shirts, panties and singlets, woolly navy tights, white cotton knee socks.

The girl no longer worried about her list because she'd tried on a dozen things and now wore a forest green polo with a tan skort and green knee socks. Next to a self-serve shoe store, and Frankie came out wearing white sneakers and carrying a large shoebox.

They then started shopping for Charly.

* * *

At noon they met at the food court and pigged-out on chicken fingers and chili, followed by frozen custard—Frankie gnawed a soft pretzel as a topper, valiantly trying to finish.

Trask complimented her new outfit, and she replied, "Look what else I got."

"What is it, a stool for midgets?"

" _No_! A dolly table."

"Oh-ho! Did it come with chairs?"

She showed him two stick chairs. "And here's my dolly-house." She thumped a box onto the table.

"Now that is a _big_ shoebox."

"Dollhouse," Charly corrected.

"An' I got big shoes!" Frankie opened it to show cleated hiking boots.

"I admit I am impressed."

"What did _you_ buy?" Charly asked.

He pulled out a container.

"That's it? Poison ivy killer?"

"You have any problem with it?"

"Ivy has beautiful fall color—the tree is simply aflame in October."

"And is your skin aflame from time to time?"

"You said you weren't sensitive."

"Nor do I wish to _become_ sensitive."

"Quite seriously, Mr Trask," she sweetly intoned, "if it weren't for the rash problem poison ivy would make a great ornamental—a ground cover, or you might trail it over a rail fence."

"So do you want me to get rid of the stuff or not?"

"Of course—but you won't find it easy."

"Why not? This stuff will wipe it out in no time—says so right here. "

_APPLY GENEROUSLY WHEN PLANTS ARE GROWING VIGOROUSLY. REPEATED APPLICATIONS MAY BE REQUIRED. ESTABLISHED PLANTS MAY REGROW FROM ROOTS_.

"Nothing could be clearer. This stuff can kill a redwood!"

"You'll see—just don't kill an oak. Uh, do you enjoy that chili?"

"No, but I order it so other folks won't have to."

She couldn't stop a chuckle. "I make better chili than that—do you want me to?"

"I wouldn't hate the idea."

Grinning, they stared into each other's eyes. She lowered hers, still smiling, and he turned his on a surprised passer-by.

Frankie hadn't missed this. "What's funny?"

"Her chili," he said.

"His landscaping fantasies."

"You'll see," he said.

"No, _you'll_ see."

They grinned at each other again.

"Mommy! What are you two _doin_ '?"

"I think shopping puts your mommy in a real good mood—typical woman."

* * *

Trask wandered back to the gardening center to buy a weed sprayer, while mother and daughter—Frankie's pretzel abandoned—went for school supplies. They met at the bookstore where he selected _The Hobbit_ for Frankie.

After loading their swag into the truck Charly instructed him to drive to the rear entrance of a discount store. Trask and the girl were left to amuse one another.

"What's a ter-oil?"

"Troll—big ugly mean thing."

"A giant?"

"Mmm, sort of—but dumber. Don't you know _Three Billygoats Gruff_?"

"Oh. O-oo-oh!" Pause. "Where's the three one?" This busied them until Frankie decided the third one hid behind a tree. "See his leg," she pointed out. Pages were shuffled. "What's in _this_ pichure?"

Charly emerged from the store carrying an armful of clothes baskets, and they were soon on their way home.

"You know what you need in the laundry room—more than shelves?" She raised her brows and he continued, "A bench or table."

"Sounds good—bet there's one in the barn."

"This barn begins to sound like an oversize treasure chest—a veritable Gettrick among buildings."

"You'll see—maybe. Would you mind hauling one up for me?"

Later she said, "She's quite intrigued, but the vocabulary looks too old for her."

"Is it too old for _you?_ "

"Oh, I get it. You expect _me_ to read it to her, not you."

"Don't you read to her in bed?"

"Sure. But _Mother Goose_ and things. Maybe I won't care for this."

"Plot too involved, you think?"

"Cute. But..."

"Haven't you ever read it?" Charly blushed. She did a lot of that, he noticed.

"No, I haven't."

"A great book—a classic someday, if not already. A fairy tale but much more. You've got a complex plot and real emotions—greed, fear, anger..."

"Love, pathos, treachery?" Irony dripped from her voice.

"None. Well, love of gold, perhaps—and treachery. Yeah, that too, come to think. Light on the pathos, though. Mostly humor—drollery, not laugh-out-loud humor. Truly though, I'll be surprised if you don't... um, tolerate it at least."

"Will you read it to me, Mommy?"

"Tonight, Honey, since our critic's recommendation is quite enthusiastic."

"Ye-ea! Lookit these pichures with me. What's in this tree thing?"

* * *

Arriving home and changing, they walked down to the barn. The big doors were barred on the inside and the end door secured by an aged padlock.

"Oh oh. Did you bring a key?"

Charly reached on tiptoe and ran her fingers over the top frame, dislodging a lot of dust and a key. Searching in the grass near the lintel she quickly found it, and after a certain amount of work—including spitting into the keyhole in lieu of other lubricant—managed to click open the lock. He laughed at her and she laughed back, quite pleased with her own ingenuity.

"You look good in rust," Trask told her.

"What!" She scrubbed at her lip.

He entered cautiously, swatting at cobwebs and testing the floor—it proved sound. The interior was dim to unadjusted eyes, the only light seeping in through cracks where battens hung loose from the vertical siding. He clicked on the flashlight and swept the beam around. Scattered straw and a thick layer of dusty litter covered the floor. At the far end stacks of lumber rose several feet high—to the right and left of them were mounds covered by old tarps. In the cleared center a narrow stairway on the south side reached to the loft, and a trapdoor covered a presumed opening to the cellar.

"Any way to get light in here?" he complained.

"Windows at the ends of the loft, but why don't you simply open the big doors?"

Trask struggled to lift an oaken two-by-six until realizing it needed to be slid out the end of its brackets. "Couldn't tell in the dark," he explained.

"City boy," Charly mocked.

They forced the doors part-way open against a rank growth of weeds, letting light flood in. A lifted tarp revealed a sort of library table with big curving legs sticking out at forty-five degree angles, and a narrow shelf beneath.

"Hey, this would work... Uhn! Weighs a ton."

"Too heavy?"

"If I can get the truck down here—is there a way over the ditch?"

"There used to be a drive. Overgrown now, but if you walk straight up there should be a culvert... Frankie! Where'd you go?"

"Up here," the girl called from the loft.

"Come down!"

"Don't you want to look around?" he wondered.

"I remembered we need to pick beans."

"Already?"

"I told you, you have to keep after them. Late in the season, though, so they might not be coming on too fast. You can stay here if you want but we'd better go... Frankie! _Git_ , now!"

* * *

Darkness had fallen by the time she came down stairs. "She fought going to sleep."

"Like the story?"

"Oh yeah."

"You?"

"Maybe—it's not bad. Going to church tomorrow?"

"No."

"Please."

"My ears still hurt from last time."

"I'm serious."

"I rarely jest, myself."

"No, I really mean it."

"Really don't want to."

"You've got to."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do—if you're going to be boarding here you need to meet my aunt."

Exasperated sigh. "What for? Can't it wait?"

"Better not."

"Have her come here."

"No—she won't."

"Why?"

"Oh, something concerning an eternal vow and a stack of Bibles." This brought a look from him. "She used to stay with me after my Mom left," Charly added.

"Oh?"

"Well... we had a great big fight and she left and said she'd never darken my doorway again—although we now get along pretty well otherwise. The thing is this—she's been lecturing me for two days regarding you being here due to what you said to the Barnum crone."

"Why?" He sounded peeved.

"She's convinced my aunt you're some kind of major criminal and my life's in danger. Oh, sure, you can laugh, but I've got to put up with this harassment. And I can't simply tell her to lump it because she looks after Frankie for me, and I surely don't want to have to find someone else. Besides, she's my aunt and she's nearly a million years old and she's worried about me.

"I told her an ex-con wouldn't have any money but she said you probably just held up a liquor store. I know, I know it's funny—to you! I told her you showed better manners than the typical crook, but she came up with the idea you must be a confidence man, because they're always misleading people with their charm."

"My _charm?_ Good grief!"

"Tell me about it! But please... It won't kill you to go one more time, and it's truly important to me."

"Oh... _alright_. But you owe me big-time for this." He gave in with a show of ill grace, planning to milk this for all it was worth. An idea formed in his head even as he agreed.

* * *

Charly fed them a great omelet and hot biscuits the next morning, the first payment on his favor, Trask figured. Bright and sunny as could be, she sang and whistled while washing up. Frankie seemed fascinated, as if seeing a new side to her mother.

After dressing he came slowly down the stairs, peeking to note her response. Her face lost it's cheeriness and became a blank, mouth open slightly as she surveyed his splendor. A navy-blue shirt topped black trousers upheld by paisley suspenders. A wide concoction glowing with zones and fine diagonal stripes of orange, maroon, flame red and pink tied in a big Windsor knot cinched his collar. On his feet were brown wingtips and—were he to lift a trouser-leg—white socks.

Charly stared. "Okay, let's hurry."

Did her voice tremble a bit?

* * *

They were late arriving and therefore privileged to sit toward the rear because Charly didn't want to travel down front with the service in progress. She glanced around nervously to see who observed them, while Trask acted blissfully unaware of any stares. The service droned and wailed on, the day's hymns sounding especially whiny to him.

When the collection plate arrived Trask dropped a fiver. They weren't going to catch him with a big bill a second time. He noticed she hid her tip in a small envelope, as if not wanting to reveal its size—a lot of them were doing so. The closing hymn rang out, and with the benediction given the exodus began, the minister working his way back, greeting and gripping hands. He took no notice of the get-up, nor did most of the congregation. Trask felt a mild sense of disappointment.

A few minutes after they exited a car pulled up, her aunt having just left the service at her own church. Charly collected her and towed her over to Trask's vicinity, the old woman seeming less than eager.

"Aunt, this is Mr Trask. Chuck—my Aunt Sally."

He offered her a limp hand, his eyes sidling away from her face. "Yeah, pleasda meetcha. Whatcher name again?"

She hesitated, then said in an undertone, "Sarah Biscoe."

"Oh yeah. Da old dame wit da money." He feared he'd overdone it, but apparently not—the effect seemed astounding. Her mouth worked once or twice as she turned away, grasping Charly by the arm and swiftly pulling her across the lawn.

"Charlotte, what's wrong with you? That man's a born criminal," she whispered fiercely.

"Oh, he's putting you on—I might have known he'd pull some trick."

"He's a convicted criminal!"

"He's merely trying to be funny, Aunt. He's getting even with me for..."

" _Charlotte!_ You listen and listen good. Mrs Barnum said he has to register with the police! Do you understand what that _means?_ He's a rapist or..."

"Ridiculous! You can't..."

"...child molester!"

"No way!"

"Don't you know the law? You listen to me, Missy..."

"Don't call me..."

"...this is serious business. Just because he's making up to you..."

"Now that's plain sil..."

"...and has turned your..."

"...ly. As if I'd..."

"...head. _Charlotte!_ You've got a young daughter...

"...fall for that."

"...in your house, if you can't worry about yourself."

* * *

From the corner of his eye, while listening to a monograph on local fishing by one of the older men, Trask saw the two of them going at it hammer and tongs. Charly seemed to be getting the worst of it, based on number and scope of gestures.

"...shiners in that crick a yours—good for nothin' but bait."

"Uh-huh," he replied distractedly.

* * *

"You've got to talk to Franklin." Aunt Sally would not be soothed.

"Never!"

"Then one of the others."

"No! Too embarrassing."

"If you won't, I will. And you can't leave him in the house with a young girl—you've got to get him out of there."

"Impossible! What would I say?"

"Then leave her with me."

"I'm with her all the time, Aunt."

"So there'll be two dead bodies instead of one!"

Charly sighed theatrically.

Her aunt's expression tightened further. "If nothing I've said this far has moved you, at least think of this..."

* * *

Wow! This was good. Or maybe bad—Charly looked pretty down in the mouth. But the old lady should be tiring soon, so fiercely as she went at it.

"So, wouldja wanna to try it?"

"Uh, where's that pond again?"

* * *

"Alright, _Alright!_ I'll do it. But remember it's from Barnum."

"You can't take any chances."

"Fine. _Alright!_ Enough!"

"You come see me tomorrow."

" _Aunt_... _!"_

At this moment Charly caught sight of two of her young co-workers threading through the crowd. Perhaps because, clearly an unusual happening, for they were overdressed, and one even wore a _hat_ , for crying out loud.

"Hey, Charly!" one called. "Look who's here."

She stared at them, nonplussed. What a time for them to interrupt.

"Ain't ya gonna innerduce us?"

"Er, Aunt. This is Betty Strickland and Brandi, ah..."

"Bowles. Pleased ta meetcha."

"My aunt, Sarah Biscoe."

"Hi, Miz Biscoe," said Betty.

Nudging Charly, Brandi whispered, "We meant him." She tilted her head in the direction of Trask.

"What! Oh no—not today. It's not good today—we've got some problems." Their expressions showed strong dismay, even resentment. "I mean, another time. We've got to leave right away. Next week—next weekend you can come over for lunch or something. At work... I'll tell you at work. I've got to go." Flustered, she turned and started toward Trask.

Brandi let out a pained, "Aa-w-ww!" but Betty pulled her away toward the parking area, signing a goodbye to Aunt Sally.

"This is bull!" Brandi exclaimed. "What a snob!"

"No, she ain't. Charly's okay."

"She's _jealous_. Don't want him to see us."

"She says we can come..."

"Wants ta keep her hooks in 'im."

"Oh, shut up, Brandi."

" _You_ shut up! Stuck up witch."

"Charly's nice."

"Oh bull! Leggo a me, I can walk."

"I'm gettin' sorry I brought ya."

"Yeah, well I'm sorry I came. And he ain't much anyways."

"Better'n anything _you_ got."

"Brad Pitts my fanny!"
"She never _said_ Brad Pitts."

"He's old! Must be _thirty-five_ if he's a day."

"He ain't _that_ old."

"Catch _me_ goin' to _her_ house."

"You'll go."

"I wouldn't go if she begged me."

"Shut up and get in the car!"

" _You_ shut up."

* * *

"Let's go!" Charly was urgent.

"Er... say, I'll talk to you next week."

"Don't fergit! I got tackle to lend you."

"Great! See you." He trailed Charly to the truck where she stood waiting—her face drawn and stiff—tightly holding Frankie's hand.

Driving down the street he asked, "What's with your...?"

She threw out her arm to cut him off. "Later!" She glanced down at Frankie's head.

* * *

At home Charly refused to talk until the girl changed into play clothes and went outside, then drew him into the living room and turned to glare at him.

"What did you tell the Barnum woman?"

~

Chapter 14 Registration & Recrimination

day 9 Sun Sept 1

On Friday _The Barnum_ had stopped again to pry further into his status. A compact woman in a sweatshirt and dark slacks, well into her forties but not bad-looking, she looked somewhat mannish with a cap of straight black hair and a doughy face. Her beady eyes skittered around as if cataloging everything before settling on him.

"Well, _hello_ again. How are you? And how's my good friend Charlotte?"

Trask put on what he considered an effective act, shrugging in a surly fashion and doing his best to look shifty.

"She's alright, I hope—poor girl. At least she's finally getting some help with you around here."

He sneered, grunted and shrugged again.

She learned conspiratorially out of the window, "Say, Mr... er..." When he failed to respond she went on, "Are you paying to stay here or is she paying you? I hear all kind of rumors in town—you know how folks will talk," she sniggered.

He stared insolently, demanding, "Where'za p'lice station?"

"What?"

"P'lice. Where they at? Gotta register."

Her voice rose an octave or two. "Register! Whatever for?"

"You never mine, lady, I jus' do. Better keep yer nose outa stuff, if ya know what's smart. So _where izit_?" He leaned forward to glower at her.

"I'm sorry..." She jerked at the gearshift. "I've got to rush now." Her tires spit gravel as she pulled away from the berm and sped off.

Trask laughed and laughed as he thought of describing and exaggerating the incident to Charly. But soon he began to wonder if he'd gone too far, considering how small towns broadcast news.

* * *

And now he answered, only half in jest, "I'd rather not say."

This did not go over well. Her expression was grim as she bit the words off, her voice rising. "What... did you... _say?"_

He frowned. "You told me to lay it on good, and I did."

"For Heaven's sake!" she cried, "W _hat was it_."

Trask began to get frosted. What right had this hillbilly chick to interrogate him?

"Okay—I told her I needed to register with the police."

"What? You _idiot_!"

Trask barked, "I said I'd give her something good to worry about, and you agreed."

" _Fine_ , then I'm an idiot, too. But why? Why did you have to say _that_ , of all things? Is it the best your imagination can... Oh _Lord_! This nearly finishes it. Now we've..." She attempted to calm down. "You've done a stupid thing, and you've got to..."

He cut her off. "You've said enough—stop while you're ahead."

"I'm not done, _Mr_ Trask—you've put me in a lot of trouble... And you've got to show me ID—see who you are."

"Are you _nuts?"_

"My aunt is going to go to the sheriff—have him investigate you."

"Oh, this is crazy—it's _crazy!"_

They glared at each other for a few moments until she said in a low voice, "She opened my eyes to something. You'll prove to me who you are or I'll kick you out of here—right today."

Trask drew himself up. "Would you _like_ me to leave here? If you do, just say it. I came here by chance, and I can leave the same way."

_If only you'd never shown up!_ Charly thought. But if he left, the problem—the effect on her reputation and the danger to Frankie—would remain. His leaving would accomplish nothing. She brought her hands up to her temples as if trying to block out his anger.

"Please," she pleaded, " _please_ —don't you understand? They could take Frankie away from me. I never thought of that before." Tears glistened. "My... her... Frankie's father works for the sheriff. If he hears of this... this tale Barnum is spreading... he'll go to child welfare and they'll come and take her away from me." _He's not responding—standing there_. "I've heard of this. They don't wait for proof—they, they go to court for an order... and then your child is _gone_. Don't you _see_?"

"And your aunt is helping them," he accused.

"No, _no_! She's helping _me_ —to prove you're okay. To beat them to the punch—before the gossip gets around. She'll see someone higher up, then Franklin can't do anything. But we need to prove you are who you say—that you're _clean,_ that my home is safe for her."

"And my checks aren't good enough ID," he sneered.

"I'm not trying to insult..." Her voice trailed off. _And he only stands there. My God!_

In Trask's eyes she receded until he watched a tableau of strangers—of whom one resembled Charles Trask—acting out some cryptic drama. Past incidents and humiliations ran through his mind, and an old bitter sense of failure rose up.

The idea of being falsely accused of a disgusting crime filled him with anger and revulsion. Worse yet, he knew himself partly—mostly—to blame. _That Barnum hag!_ But what could he do with the girl being thrown up to him? How could he put _her_ through an ordeal—a small child snatched from her only real parent? Never mind whose the fault, he was _compelled_ to do something. He brushed Charly aside and stalked up the stairs.

She stood looking up the stairs, hands clenched. _Please, please_ , she prayed, _let him not run off. Let him stay and do what I need—what we need—not simply walk out._ If he disappeared the scandal would worsen and her problems build. No guarantee Frankie would be safe—Franklin might still cause trouble.

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Charly retreated to the far side of the dining room behind the table, supporting herself on it.

Trask came down holding his wallet. He flicked his driver's license onto the table and it skittered off the edge. _Flick_ , a credit card followed—and another card, and another. She stopped most of them before they fell, and knelt to pick the others off the carpet. When she rose he'd already turned and started back upstairs.

Dashing away a tear, Charly looked them over. Besides his license and two credit cards they included his social security card, a phone card, library card, membership in an engineering society, a bookstore discount card. She copied down his social security number and the details from his driver's license, and added descriptions of the others.

She stacked the cards on the bookcase, washed her face, found her purse and rushed outside.

"Frankie, we're going to Aunt Sally's." The child brushed herself off and displayed her hands. "Never mind, we're in a hurry. Jump in!"

Speeding to her aunt's home, she sent Frankie to play in the back yard, despite the girl's dismay, and thrust the list at her aunt.

"Never again—it was terrible! I don't want to put anyone through this again."

Aunt Sally showed little sympathy. "This is for your own good, Charlotte. I don't see why you feel concern for that... that degenerate. You've got yourself in a pickle and I'm trying to get you out."

"I know you are, I _know!_ But... Like making him crawl! And he's done us nothing but good."

"Charlotte..."

"And we need him, Aunty. I couldn't have got Frankie ready for school without his money—that's how broke we were. And he's good for her. She needs a man around—a father figure. She responds to him."

"Charlotte, you listen to me—you're too soft. You be careful around this man. Something is suspicious regarding him—his coming here unexpectedly, his immediately being led to you, his excessive generosity. Men don't put themselves out for no good reason. What's his motive behind this?"

"There's _nothing wrong_ with him! Do you believe that stupid woman?"

"That's not at all what I mean. What I'm saying is, don't become dependent upon him and think he's the answer to your prayers—don't make another mistake." She ignored Charly's expression. "Oh I know you think of me as an unworldly old maid who can't tell you youngsters a thing. But I'm almost seventy-four—I've seen something of the world, and I know where the Bible speaks of the way of a man with a maid."

Charly stared at her open-mouthed.

"Better be careful, Miss. You got yourself all the trouble your young life needed with Franklin Tenney, God... _bless_ him! Well, I don't want to take the Lord's name in vain—but you know how I feel. And it's your happiness and that sweet child I'm thinking of."

Charly wrapped her arms around Sally and kissed her cheek, tears welling up again. The old woman stirred impatiently at this display of emotion.

"Oh, Aunty, I know—I know you're doing me _such_ a big favor." She stepped back and held the smaller woman by the shoulders. "And don't worry over my getting any romantic thoughts—I've learned my lesson. This man doesn't attract me nor I him, as far as I can tell." She gave a rueful smile. "Or if he's interested, he hides it pretty well." She blotted her eyes. "But you've made me feel a lot easier, even if I am bawling a little... When will you go talk to the sheriff?"

"Tomorrow! Holiday or no I'll try to see one of the supervisors. And if not then, I'll go back Tuesday for certain."

"And please not Franklin."

"No, not him. _Goodness_ , Charlotte," she added with some asperity, "I believe I despise him worse than you do. You know he was almost the entire reason for our quarrel."

* * *

Back home they saw nothing of Trask the rest of the day, and Charly did her best to stifle Frankie's questions. Later, while they continued _The Hobbit_ as a bedtime story, Frankie asked if it wasn't _real nice of Chuck_ to get them such a good book.

What a reminder.

~

Chapter 15 Not the Same

day 10 Mon Labor Day Sept 2

Trask came down late Monday morning and maneuvered around Charly in the kitchen while getting himself breakfast. He acknowledged her presence only by a brief glance, and she dropped her eyes. He remained standing to finish his bowl of cereal, then turned to place it in the sink.

She would have rather done anything than confront him, but gathering her courage she moved to block his retreat and penitently said, "I'm so sorry. If I could have done anything else..." Her face crumpled and she hung her head while the tears streamed down. He stood frozen for a couple of seconds before pulling her to his chest, pressing her wet face against his shoulder. She leaned on him, hands hanging limp at her sides.

"I don't blame you," he rasped. "You did what you had to. Such a slam, though. It's hard for me to take an ultimatum under any circumstances, but... well, you have to look after her—Frankie." He held her unresisting form a bit longer before fleeing the kitchen.

In his room, lying on his bed, Trask went through another fruitless review of his recent life. What a pathetic case he presented! Failed marriage, failed career... Yet as soon as he began to get his confidence back he'd pulled a stupid trick that would only mean trouble for himself and others. Too often, he knew, his lack of tact or judgment, his excessive candor or impatience stymied a hope or plan—on his job, at home, wherever.

He hazily visioned a police car racing down the road. Lights flashing and siren blaring it pulled into the drive, and they led him handcuffed from the house while flashbulbs popped. Karen stood by, congratulating herself. "Thank God I got rid of him before this affair!" The Chief Engineer at B E: "We tried to straighten him out but he always had to shoot off his big mouth!" His mother cried to his father, "Where did we go wrong? Tommy never troubled us this much."

A ridiculous image—for one thing, nobody used Speed Graphics and flashbulbs any more. A scene from an old movie, symbolizing his failures. To think how sure of himself, how gloriously happy he'd been when he and Karen wed, and how the thrill seemed renewed when they planned their home. _Nothing but the best!_ he'd crowed, and she had laughed with delight at his exuberance. How boundless life had seemed.

Why did love fail?

He and Karen had met the year after college when she came with someone else to a New Year's party at the apartment of a mutual friend. They hit it off, and were soon going together. Early fall of the next year they married.

Had brief acquaintance prevented them from sufficiently knowing one another? He tried to remember when the first signs of incompatibility showed up. Perhaps when she had criticized his family while staying with them during the first Christmas after marriage. She awarded his mother a pseudo-compliment on not _wasting time_ beautifying the house, a catty remark at the least. She followed with a comment to him. "Your Mom surely doesn't go in for gourmet cooking."

"Is that a problem?" he'd asked.

"No, why should it be?" Why indeed.

His father, she observed to Trask, _seemed to lack ambition_. His brother acted _rather full of himself_. His brother's wife Liz—tall, slim, and pregnant at the time— _looked like a snake that swallowed a rat_.

Each comment contained some truth. The question was, why did she need to bring them up? Why would she even have noticed had she not been looking to criticize? But he'd been deeply infatuated with the striking girl, readily overlooking her attitude.

They cruised along well for a couple of years—rarely seeing his family even though they lived within a half hour's drive—rarely seeing hers because _they_ lived seven hundred miles away and vacationed at ski sites during the holidays, in the Southwest in late winter, and hit Europe during the summer—when did such globetrotters have time to visit or be visited?

His and Karen's careers kept them busy, cloaking their detached social interests. He put in overtime when conditions required, she worked late almost every day. But after three years of increasingly arduous wedded life they began planning for their house, and during the next year went ahead with it. Little else busied their minds for quite awhile.

Then Karen received her big promotion and worked even longer hours, while his career droned along. She traveled, she attended seminars, she found it necessary to be social with business friends, often using their home as a backdrop while he—lacking their particular interests, so remote from engineering- began to see himself as a fifth wheel. Hurt pride led to sardonic comments on her associates, while she defended them by coldly disdaining his opinions.

Lack of a common outlook plus her sense—and maybe his—that they had diverged on the accomplishment scale—those were factors. Some haughtiness on her part, some resentment on his, her impatience for r _eal money_ , for social stature, for fulfillment at work, for more and more show—all contributed. He began to think she considered him a drag on her achievements. Did she in fact? Who knew? But he couldn't help thinking so.

One day she announced her decision— _her_ decision! No discussion, no compromises, no _let's try harder_ , no counseling, no trial separation—none of those were essential. She'd thought of everything, and prided herself on decisiveness. She'd made her mind up, and they must now negotiate terms. She would move out for the time being—efficient as always, her necessaries were already packed and loaded in the BMW. But he must understand—after the divorce she would get the house.

Karen's departure went smoothly—his pride kicked in and he gave vent to few arguments or recriminations. After the first shock Trask went cold, contributing only occasional sarcasm to this initial conclave. She left, they later parleyed further, the law was invoked to perform its functions, he'd packed _his_ things—less efficiently than she, perhaps—and left in turn. That was that.

And now? Now he lived a pointless existence in a backward hamlet populated by trailer trash and clod-hopping farmers, bunking in a shabby room of a run-down farmhouse on a dirt road in the boondocks, drinking water from a well out of mismatched glasses, counting himself lucky when this girl cooked him a hot meal served up on chipped crockery. He looked forward to an arid fall, a cold winter, and a bleak spring. An endless inventory of wasted days and empty years stretched before him—followed, he feared, by a lonely and desolate old age.

This poor woman... Poor in more ways than one—poverty-stricken, uneducated, unmarried and with no apparent prospects. What worthwhile man would want a chubby wench starting the slow downhill slide into middle age—to be saddled with a barren farm and someone else's brat? How could she attract anyone decent? She seemed foreign to glamor—didn't seem to own a lipstick. He'd never seen her with a piece of jewelry, her best clothes suitable only for church-going. To top it off she worked at a low-paying unskilled job in a grimy factory. How slight the hope of a happy life for her.

What of the child? She seemed bright enough—affectionate and cute. Yet what might be _her_ prospects? No father, no family of any account, no-one beyond schoolteachers—a faint hope, that—to show her any vision of a better life—she would grow up like her mother. Marry—or maybe shack up with—some rural clown or half-employed laborer and spend the rest of her days struggling to make ends meet for an unmannered brood of child demons and a drunken brute of a bedmate...

Trask stopped short, amazed at the comically distorted picture conjured up by his bruised ego. What was he thinking? Nothing could be this bad!

_I've got to shake it off._ This was what divorce did to you. If he didn't straighten out his thinking he'd end up one of those poor jerks who puts a gun to his head, merely on account of being dumped by a self-centered shrew.

To be honest, he kind-of enjoyed himself under these down-to-earth conditions.

He sat up and reached for his shoes.

* * *

Charly wandered pointlessly around the house, picking up, putting down, rearranging to no purpose. Frankie came in, the screen door slamming. Charly opened her mouth for a rebuke but held off, gazing fondly yet morosely at her daughter.

"Come here, Hon," she coaxed.

Frankie skipped over, but seeing her mother's expression, immediately became subdued. Charly drew her to the couch in the living room and sat down beside her. She ran her hand over Frankie's head—smoothing the flyaway hair, gazing into her face.

" _What_ , Momma?"

Charly stroked her hair, straightening the elf-locks. "Are you happy, Baby?"

Frankie shrugged. "I don't know—I guess."

Charly pondered. "Is this the kind of life you want to live?"

"Uh, what do you mean, Mom?"

"Do you like this house? Are your clothes okay? Do you get teased by the other children?

Frankie screwed up her face in thought. "Sometimes this boy, Caleb—he teases me. He teases the other girls, too. We don't like him much."

"What does he tease you about—your clothes or no father or...?"

"He says girls are dumb. He thinks he's the smartest of anybody but he's not—I'm smarter than him in reading."

No calamity there, apparently. "Our house—are you happy living here?"

"I like it okay, I guess, cept for the basement, cuz it's _creepy_." She shuddered melodramatically. "I don't ever want to go down _there_. I like my room... _Mom!_ You never made me any curtains, and you _promised_. When we went shopping—why _dincha_ , Momma?"

"Next time, Baby, but you have to remind me, okay?...But are you happy here? What do you miss?"

Frankie deliberated, wriggling in her mother's embrace. "Mom, know what? It's lonely—we should have a baby..."

_Oh-oh! Where is this going_?

"Or a sister—a _twin_ sister so we can put on the same clothes and fool people."

In spite of herself, Charly's mood brightened. Try as she might she couldn't get any tragedy from this sprite.

"What about Mr Trask, Honey?" she asked, wanting to air any complaints over having to share their home.

Frankie considered. "It's not the same, Momma—I want a sister."

Charly choked back a guffaw. _Oh, I give up!_ She couldn't be somber with Frankie around and in a good mood. If the girl could be happy under their circumstances, Charly had no right to feel sorry for herself. If she could get the place cleaned up more, invite over a friend for Frankie once in awhile and... _I'll make it up to him._ Somehow she'd keep Trask here, make up for what she'd put him through.

"Shall we do something together—other than buy curtains? Want to go on a walk?"

"Where to?"

"By the barn—along the creek?"

" _Yes!"_ Frankie clapped her hands.

"Go wash up."

Now she got her tragic child. "For a _walk_?" Frankie wailed.

"Go on. And put on socks and shoes."

"Can I wear my new ones?"

"You know the answer."

* * *

Trask changed to work clothes and went downstairs, starting to think of the storms, determined to pull himself out of his depression. A survey of the garage revealed no carpenter's horses—nothing useful to support the windows. He wondered if the barn might have any amongst its spoils, and wandered down the slope, searching out a route for his truck when he went for the table. He cussed himself for forgetting oil for the padlock but it proved easy to open, some corrosion and grime having been removed by its recent operation. He noticed laughter down by the stream—probably kids fooling around.

* * *

"Gesundheit! I don't blame you for sneezing—like a dust storm in here."

Trask shuffled to the door. _She looks pretty cheery_ , he thought. "Can't find carpenter's horses, and I'm looking for something to build them with."

"I think this is mostly siding and roof sheathing from the other barn."

"Other?"

"Yes, it fell down years and years ago, and Dad salvaged what he could manage, but I think the big old beams are gone. Did you look in the garage?"

"Didn't see anything."

"In the rafters? Did you look overhead?"

"Er... guess I never noticed—forgot to look up. What's there?"

"Two by fours, sixes. New—well, sort of newer lumber. Salvaged, again."

He nodded. "Good, good... Did you two make all that noise down the stream?"

"Up the stream. Yes, we were playing hide and seek and stuff. She was the one screaming."

"You were, too, Mommy."

"Only laughing at you cuz you were so goofy."

He sealed the barn and they walked up the hill together, the two of them keeping well clear of his dusty form.

"When do you want to eat?"

"I dunno—not too early. I' want to knock the horses together then take a bath."

"What do you want them for?"

"Work on the storm windows. Much easier with something to set them on."

"Oh, I see... What would you want for supper?"

"Surprise me. Something good, though—the condemned man deserves a hearty meal." The weak joke sounded rueful.

"I feel Aunt Sally will keep the law off us. She can be pretty determined when she sets her mind to it. She cows a lot of people—you'll see."

"I hope so. I'm feeling pretty discouraged by the whole deal. The next time Barnum stops I'll throw rocks at her—drive her off without a word passed."

"Wonderful! Break her windshield! That'll put us in the law's good graces."

"Mommy, are you serlious? Din't you tell me not to throw things?"

"Little pitchers have big ears, I see."

"Too big," she said, "most of the time."

Frankie squinted up at him and patted her near-side ear.

* * *

Bath accomplished, at supper-time he came down from his room refreshed in clothing and body. "Something smells good." She tilted a pot toward him. "Spaghetti! I go for that."

"You're such a picky eater."

"You're not a bad cook—for a kid."

"Thanks—I think." They both chuckled. "Did you get your sawhorses done?" she asked.

"No-ooo-oo! Got the wood selected and a design in my mind, but I figured waiting to make sawdust. And I'll need deck screws to build them—you probably don't have any."

"What are those?"

"Coarse self-driving screws—good for rough work... Cooler today, don't you think? I feel more energetic, in a way. Not so much as to work any more, though—it's loafing time."

"Last of the wax beans, today."

"No more, you think?"

"Very few. Too many beetles, too—they always show up late in the season and fight you for the pods. We're coming into peak tomato season, though—they're always late. We should water twice a week, maybe, until we have rain, although they'll probably crack anyway."

"I can't believe how hot and dry the weather's been."

"I know! No rain all August—never happened before as long as I can remember. Global warming, you think?"

He made a rude noise.

"I take it you disagree."

"Let them explain the Ice Ages first, and next I'll consider global warming."

"Food's ready—would you call Frankie and tell her to wash?"

* * *

Frankie went to bed at eight-thirty—not happily—in training for school. She would need to rise earlier, her mother explained, to do a more thorough job of washing, combing and dressing. They managed to get Bilbo safely past the trolls, and Frankie soon fell asleep though the sky still glowed.

* * *

"I need to get those curtains for her—maybe we'll be late tomorrow. What of you? Would you like new curtains?"

"Huh? Why would I?"

"Those are pretty old in your room."

"They look okay to me—not ragged or anything."

"I guess that proves you're a man."

This struck him as funny. "If you only knew."

"Knew what?"

"Karen would've had a fit if our curtains—or anything in the way of furnishings—looked old."

"Karen your wife—fussy about things?"

"More than you can imagine." Trask grimaced and added, "Divorce is tough—desertion when you think there's an unbreakable contract. Pretty depressing."

_Abandonment is tough, too_ , she thought, _probably a lot tougher than your old divorce_. "I worry most about Frankie—losing her father as if he rejected her. Luckily she doesn't remember much of him."

"How old was she?"

"Not even two."

"And he hasn't seen her since then? Astounding."

"Couple of times, way back. She's sometimes curious but otherwise doesn't seem to notice. Still, I worry something deep-seated will crop up later."

"Strange. Has he, er... Has he moved on?"

"Yes, I hear marriage is upcoming—the Feister girl. Money," her voice hardened, "so they'll have a big fancy wedding."

"How can he ignore a sweet kid like Frankie? Why doesn't _he_ buy her school clothes?"

"Well..." Charly wasn't sure she wanted to discuss this, yet felt somehow comforted by getting the story off her chest. "We haven't seen a cent from him since she turned three."

"Unbelievable! You couldn't get an award for child support?"

"I'm stupid, I guess—didn't want to beg. And I've got no experience with lawyers except for my father's executor. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to go that way."

She'd been hurt by Franklin's walking out—deeply hurt. So hurt she wouldn't let anyone know how badly. _He's right_ , _desertion is the worst sort of treachery._ Even without a marriage she assumed Franklin would always stick by her. Wasn't she worthy of his love? Hadn't she given up nearly everything for him? Hadn't she been willing to share the slight amount of money she had? And now he was looking to marry into bigger money. _What a_...

"What? I'm wandering."

"I said, she doesn't seem to know her full name—Frankie."

"What do you mean? I kept my name for her. Biscoe—she knows _that!_ " Another thing—rotten Tenney hadn't wanted his own daughter to take his name. _Of all the... Oh dear, what is he saying? Her first name_?

"No, no,—not Frances. Why would I give her an old-fashioned name like _Frances?_ "

"Ah, I simply assumed..."

She gave half a sneer. "Franklina—her father insisted—he's Franklin. But not his last name... What do you think of it?"

"Well, candidly it sounds... strange. Sorry—don't want to hurt your feelings."

"Ridiculous! Don't I know it? I never should have given in." _But I thought he loved me—stupid me_.

"It's been what... four, five—five years? You should have changed it."

"Change it! I never thought of such a thing. Are you serious?"

"It's not unheard of."

_If only..._ If only she'd thought of that awhile back. "Too late, I'm afraid—everyone knows her by Frankie. Too tough to change—to have all her friends and teachers learn a new name."

"I don't see such a big deal. Let her keep the same nickname."

"Well I'm not going to give her a moniker such as _Frances_."

"What have you got against it? To me it's a fine name."

"But you _like_ old-fashioned names, right? Anyhow, you're a guy. Men always like their names but women often don't—you wouldn't understand."

"Another Y-chromosome deficiency, you figure?"

"Maybe. Do you like Charles?"

"Not especially—but Chuck has a fine manly ring. Let's see—if not Frances, what? What takes a nickname of Frankie? Boy, I can't think of any."

"Forget it. Too late to change it."

Trask mumbled to himself. "Fra- fran- Francine—no—fras- fraw- fram- Ha! _Francesca_. Yeah, that'll do. Francesca will be great!"

"What?" _Drop it, please. Just drop the subject!_ Did he think she'd fall in with every fool idea he dreamed up?

"It's got class, and a natural nickname is Frankie. That's what you want."

Charly forced a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, I'm not doing anything so foolish."

He gave a dismissive grimace, disappointed at her lack of appreciation, always stubborn concerning advice. _Uneducated twit._ But so it stood—forget it. He changed the subject.

"Think I'll look for a job—maybe tomorrow."

"Good idea! Where?"

"The fabled metropolis of Gettrick, of course."

"Going to try The Plastic?"

"Maybe. Depends whether hell freezes over."

~

Chapter 16 Frankie

day 11-4 Tue-Fri Sept 3-6

Today Charly dressed differently, in new jeans and a neat khaki work shirt, the result of her recent shopping. She looked good, trim—but Trask affected not to notice. He had imperceptibly abandoned svelte-Karen as his ideal, raising Charly in sub-conscious comparison—but he retained enough self-awareness to smile at himself.

The females exited. Finished with grooming and breakfast, he made sure the briefcase contained copies of his resume. He should have started earlier and eaten at the diner, perhaps. Probably also should have got a paper on Sunday—if Gettrick _had_ a Sunday paper—and looked at the ads. But this was a beginning. He hadn't looked for work in many years, and needed to get the hang of it—ease into the proper attitude.

* * *

Arriving at school, Charly checked the bulletin board and found Frankie's home room. _Oh, good Lord!_ Franklin's cousin was the teacher, fifty-some years old and with the affability of a viper—Charly both loathed and feared her. Unfortunately, Grace Schulte merely loathed Charly in return, and showed no hesitation to mount a skirmish under most circumstances.

Charly escorted Frankie in and found the child's assigned seat, exchanging one glance with _Sergeant Schultz_ before fleeing. She trembled for her daughter.

* * *

Trask drove to Gettrick and—after taking notes from a phone book at the mall—prepared to make his stops. But first he would drive around in order to familiarize himself with the area. He drove and drove, and he thought and thought, and he worried over the child molestation charge. He stopped and entered stores to look around. He explored a park, and he drove some more. Eventually he drove back to the house.

* * *

Charly cross-examined Frankie on the way home from school. As she'd foreseen, the girl hadn't liked her teacher. "We're not sposed to smile," Frankie pouted.

"Why, Honey?"

"I don't know," she answered in a discouraged tone.

But nothing worse, she was relieved to find—Frankie evidently hadn't been singled out for criticism.

* * *

After supper and Frankie's bedtime Trask displayed a memento of his expedition—a movie tape from a video rental store.

"You bought it?"

"They had some titles on sale."

"Worn out?"

"Supposed to be new—it's in plastic."

"What is it?"

"A comedy—that babe from Private Benjamin's in it."

"Any good?"

"Oh, yeah. You'll laugh your head off. Shows the right way to keep a woman happy—every husband should study it."

"Well, I'm afraid we can't. The VCR is broken... for months."

He vented a long sigh. "The Curse, right?"

"Fraid so. But here's a bit of good news—Aunt Sally saw the Sheriff, and he's going to check you out. Maybe everything will get cleared up soon."

* * *

Wednesday morning, part-way perked up by last night's announcement, near nine-thirty Trask arrived at his first stop— _not_ The Plastic but a maker of industrial lighting fixtures and other sheet metal contrivances. Next he tried a quartz heater manufacturer, followed by an outfit that designed vibration sensors. By noon he'd left three resumes without even the courtesy of an interview. Hadn't taken even _that_ long but he dawdled to make the time pass. Discouraged, he decided to get lunch and call it quits, to spend the rest of the day making his saw-horses. He killed more time by buying a VCR.

* * *

Charly told him he shouldn't have, but readily watched the movie, laughing as much as he did. "So that's how you treat women, eh?"

"You saw how contented she became—thrived on it."

"Sure, and the slaves were contented on the plantations, too." Charly had been affected by the birthday celebration—teared up. Another scene made a particular impression on her, though not among the most comical, where the amnesiac _mother_ confronts the schoolteacher regarding the children's rashes. A plan—somewhat amorphous at first—began to form in the back of her mind.

* * *

Thursday. They arrived at school a few minutes early. Charly had dressed Frankie in an outfit that more-or-less matched to hers—navy shorts and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled above the child's elbows. Putting the girl in her seat with an admonition to, "Open a book and stay here," Charly approached the teacher's desk.

Her steps lagged, but she felt it to be a case of now or never. Mrs Schulte ignored her until she said in a firm voice, "Good morning!"

The woman looked up through narrowed eyes but did not speak.

Charly blurted, "I'm changing Frankie's name..."

"Wha-at? What are you talking about?"

"She'll be known as _Francesca_ in the future."

The teacher unknowingly repeated Charly's words to Trask. "That's ridiculous!"

"That's what I'm doing."

"You can't simply prance in here and make such a... such a declaration. Her name is Franklina, and _Franklina_ it will remain."

"That is _my_ choice not yours, Mrs Shultz... Schulte."

The teacher rose from her chair, attempting to tower over Charly but failing despite her sensible two-inch heels. "Listen to me, _Miz_ Biscoe," she hissed, "the school will not in any way put up with your foolishness—and in this room she will always be known as Franklina, never mind what _you_ say."

Charly's knees were feeling weak and by a trick of vision she seemed to be looking at her enemy through the wrong end of a telescope. Her heart beat loudly in her ears and she felt faint. But she hadn't come here to capitulate. She spun round and made for the door, followed by a triumphant "Hmph!" from Schulte. When Charly reached the door, however, she turned not right for the school entrance but left—and Schulte now exclaimed, "Mmph?"

Charly marched to the principal's office and confronted the school secretary. "I want to see Mrs..." She pointed at the door behind the secretary's desk.

Experienced in putting off unwelcome visitors, the woman automatically replied, "Oh, I'm afraid she's busy what with school starting. You'd better..."

Charly cut her off. "Is anyone with her?"

"Well, _no_ , not right _now_."

"Tell her I'm here and I don't have much time—I'm late for work."

Not at all pleased by the brusque command from this chit, the secretary pursed her lips and—without speaking—rose in her dignity to enter the inner sanctum, closing the door behind her. After a brief wait, during which Charly could make out only murmurs, the secretary exited and wordlessly nodded her within.

The principal did not stand. "Hello. I'm rather busy—what can I do for you?"

"I'm Charlotte Biscoe, Frankie's mom."

"Yes, Miz Biscoe. Is everything alright?"

"Not quite. I have a couple problems."

The principal frowned. "Why don't you take a seat. I hope your daughter is well. Or is it a family problem?"

"Not exactly... I'm changing Frankie's name."

The frown deepened. "Are you marrying?"

Charly had the worst hot flash she'd ever experienced—she felt she might glow in the dark.

"No," she croaked, "I'm changing her _Christian_ name."

"Why... I've never heard of such a thing! Why would you want to do that?"

Charly gained composure at this proof even school principals could put themselves in the wrong—she had a comeback prepared.

"Do you think movie stars are born with the names they use? Of course not. People change their names every day. As far as Fr... as my daughter is concerned, I've hated her name from the first, and now I'm having it changed."

The woman shook her head, looking both bewildered and concerned. "Oh dear! I can see so many problems—her teachers, her relatives, her... her small friends—they'll all have to learn her new name. Why, the child herself will be confused—she won't understand why you would do such a thing. Is this necessary?"

Relief flooded into Charly. She'd played out in imagination the possible objections she would need to overcome, and so far no stumpers had come up.

"My mind is made up. As far as confusion, there needn't be much. She can keep the nickname of Frankie, and only her full name will change—to Francesca. Would you need me to spell it for you?"

"No, no—but I'm not sure we can help you."

"But I don't need any _help_. You only need to cooperate—I'll do the work."

"What I mean is, we can't do anything at this level of the system."

"You mean here at this school? Oh! Let me have the address of the superintendent. If you can't make a record change, I'm sure his office can take care of it." Inspiration came. "Any legal details my attorney will handle."

"Your attorney?" The principal dug into a drawer for a sheet of letterhead.

Charly glanced at the paper. "All you need to do is notify your staff, and I'd appreciate an announcement to the students in Frankie's room."

"I see." The woman still looked displeased but tended toward docility.

Charly controlled a smile of relief. "The other thing... I would like her to be moved from Mrs Schulte's room. There are family conflicts—serious ones—and I'm afraid Frankie might be caught in the middle. If her schoolwork suffers or she starts having emotional problems... Well, you understand. At any rate, I'm convinced she must be moved."

The principal made a belated rally. "We've only _two_ second grades, you know. If she has problems in the new one what will you do?"

Another one Charly was ready for! "There's always home schooling, of course, but that wouldn't be my first choice. I expect she'll be alright in the other room—she gets along with nearly all adults in the normal course of things. Only a few... But no need to go into that. Well, I want to thank you for your help. If you can make the switch and announcement today, I'll check in tomorrow morning and see how matters are going." She stood and offered her hand. "Thanks again for everything."

She left behind a somewhat nonplussed official.

In the outer office she creased and tore in half the sheet of stationery. Lifting a pen from the secretary's desk, on the lower half-sheet she wrote and crossed out FRANKLINA MARIE BISCOE. Below she wrote FRANCESCA MARIE BISCOE. Ignoring the secretary's peevish look she handed the paper to her and said, "For record changes. Thank you so much," then breezed through the door.

* * *

Trask stopped at a mold maker—not expecting much of anything—at a couple of small plants that did no design of any kind, at a manufacturer of trailer-hitch balls. There he received a brief plant tour, revealing it as a manufactory with a crying need to be boosted from the Stone Age into the Bronze—but they were not convinced of this.

He made one additional stop before allowing depression to dispatch him toward home. This outfit made special hand tools to order, and he enjoyed an interesting discussion with the owner on heat treatments and alloys, followed by a query concerning the owner's former acquaintance who worked for B E.

"No, never heard of him," Trask said. "You'd be surprised how large the company is."

They would keep his resume on hand in case they needed fixtures or gauges for any future job where such items weren't supplied by the customer—that happened on occasion.

Though the day was still young Trask figured he'd been slapped around enough, and headed for West Baker. He felt a strong urge to stop at the diner and allow Peggy to renew his morale, but dreaded the possibility—maybe a probability in this town—his _criminal acts_ might have preceded him. He went right on home.

After a quick lunch he started in on the storm windows, removing cracked panes, prying out the glazing points, softening old putty with a heat gun while chipping away. Tiring of the work, he stored everything away and began on the poison ivy, treating the perimeter of ground growth as far as the sprayer could squirt without his having to tread in the poisonous jungle, the mist reaching nearly to the tree trunk. Higher up, branches of the vine reached out more than six feet, and he sprayed the tips of those that grew beyond the leaves of the lower oak branches. He figured to let the stuff die before working his way further in—should only take a couple days.

* * *

Things went less smoothly for Charly at work. She received a chiding for arriving late, and the paint line had fallen behind. Worse by far, Dory knew of the rumor concerning Trask, albeit not the most damning version. Charly found herself cornered on the plant floor during break—not even allowed to relax for ten minutes. Dory went at her with a will, refusing to consider Charly's contention the story was all a big mistake, a misunderstanding, the rumors certainly false.

"It's _you_ what don't unnerstand. Doncha know what men are? They give ya a wink and a squeeze and ya think yer future's set fer life."

And much more of the same. Charly barely kept her temper.

During lunch a few of the women made oblique references she chose to ignore, but she was again accosted by Betty and Brandi wanting to set the date for their visit, and those two would _not_ be ignored. She'd put them off Tuesday and Wednesday, but could postpone no longer. She asked them to show up around noon Sunday.

"Should we dress up, Charly?"

"Heavens, no! Only don't come in looking as if you've been slopping the hogs."

They chortled, assuring her they'd be decent.

"An' we hear he's not such a goody-goody, right?" Brandi slyly mentioned.

Charly frowned, and her mood—already creased by Aunt Doris—began to crinkle. "What do you mean?"

Betty dug her elbow into Brandi's ribs but failed to stop her.

"Like, maybe he's been a bad boy, huh?" Bad boys titillated Brandi more than well-behaved ones.

Charly searched for an emollient answer short of an outright lie.

"I'm disappointed, Brandi. Here I thought you were coming over to chat with me but apparently it's just some man who's attracting you. I ought to feel insulted."

"See whatcha done, Brandi! You oughta shut up."

" _You_ oughta! She's jus' kiddin', ain'tcha Charly? Yer jus' kiddin', right?"

"Maybe I am and maybe I'm not."

"Aawww," they chorused.

"And maybe I should keep you young girls away from big bad men. Perhaps I should tell your mothers what you're up to."

This proved too much to get past them—they both broke into scornful but jolly laughter, promising to arrive Sunday with bells on.

Charly took a parting shot. "Don't you want to meet us at church again? I'll introduce you to the minister." This occasioned more hilarity.

* * *

Charly arrived home in a festive mood, bearing store pizza and fixings, ready to try the experiment again. She was bursting to tell him her news but waited till Trask seated himself and started on the meal.

She grinned at him. "What do you think?"

"Great."

"As good as the one you made?"

"Darn near—but not so nice and chewy."

"Rii-ight... Guess what?"

"I know your news must be big, because you've nearly split your face with grinning."

" _Way_ big."

"Have I been given probation?"

Her face fell. "Oh, I'm so sorry—I forgot."

Trask's mood—raised by hers—fell to the floor. He put down the now-tasteless pizza.

"You haven't heard anything yet, of course—nothing works that quickly." He let out a big sigh, and they were silent for several moments, the life going out of the room.

Frankie broke the spell. "Arncha gonna tell him, Mommy?"

He raised his eyes to Charly, and with an effort asked, "What's your news?"

"I almost hate to say after letting you down. I didn't think..."

He sat up straight, squared his shoulders. "Go on, tell me. I am man—I can take the bad with the good. My head is bloody but unbowed, my backside is... whatever."

"Okay. Has to do with you, though. Tell him your name, Honey."

Frankie took a deep breath and crowed, "Fran-sesha!"

"No, no, Honey—Fran- _cheska_."

"Fran-sheka."

"Fran- _ches_ -ka. You were saying it right before!"

"Fran- _cheksa_... Fran- _sheh_... Aw, Mom, can't I just stay Frankie?"

* * *

Friday. Still cheered by Charly's having taken his advice, Trask pondered continuing to look for a job but easily talked himself out of it. Friday was no day to interview—Monday would be much better, after a look at Sunday's want ads. Besides, he'd better get more done on those storm windows—no telling when they'd need them. And it threatened rain—another reason to stick around home, although he wouldn't be able to polish the truck, in order to make a better impression on prospective employers.

_Pretty sure I can think of other excuses, too, if I try_.

Strangely, he didn't feel much like working at home, either, and things went slowly all day.

* * *

Charly stopped at school even though she knew from Frankie's testimony the transfer and announcement had both been made. She felt it a good idea for them to realize she would follow up—that they couldn't expect to get away with anything or put her off with excuses. And maybe—maybe a smidgen—she wanted to savor her triumph over Sgt Schultz.

School went well, although they pointed out she would have to get them the official paperwork as soon as possible. She'd discussed that very thing with Trask last night. He encouraged her to call her lawyer—that is, her father's lawyer who had executed the estate—and not from a phone in the noisy shop, but to ask to call from one of the offices. And if quizzed, she should simply explain she needed to work on legal business—that always impressed people.

So it proved. The superintendent ushered her into his office, saying she should take her time, as he needed to tour the plant. In she went and sat in his chair. She drummed her fingers for awhile, straightening her thoughts and getting up her nerve.

The receptionist sounded cordial but discouraging. "I'm sorry. Mr Dresser is semi-retired—he's taking no new clients."

"Oh..." Charly felt let down. "Oh, wait! I'm not new—he handled my inheritance."

Perhaps inheritance was the magic word. At any rate, the woman delayed only to get the spelling of her name, and within a couple of minutes the man himself came on the phone.

"Frank Dresser. Is this Charlotte Biscoe? I'd almost forgotten, it's been so long. You must be grown up by now. How's your mother?"

"She's fine, the last I heard. She's living on the West Coast."

"I see. And how's your no-account brother?"

"He's fine, too."

"I'll bet he is. He never misses the main chance, I imagine... Well, Charly—if you still go by that—what can we do for you?"

"I wanted to ask you what you would charge for a... a brief consultation, maybe only over the phone."

"Hmm. If I can handle the matter over the phone it'll be free gratis, as they say, but you'd better give me all the information first."

So she went through the whole embarrassing explanation, including being unmarried.

"A lot of that going around," Dresser philosophized.

Charly defended her decision to make the change rather than letting things ride, and in the end he acted understanding and even sympathetic.

"This is somewhat out of my league, Charly, and I'll need to make a couple of phone calls. But everything's so innocuous I can't imagine it costing much. I'd say fifty/seventy-five dollars in fees, and maybe another seventy-five in my time—say one-fifty all told. Is it worth that much to you? You'll want to take care of Social Security notification yourself—no need my getting mixed up with them."

After a brief hesitation over spending what would have been to her a shocking amount of money a few weeks back, she assured him of her willingness to go ahead, and after getting her promise to send him a certified copy of Frankie's birth certificate and a notarized letter of instructions on the name change, he wished her well and hung up.

_Another step forward_ , she thought, and went back to work.

* * *

Friday evening she and Frankie arrived to find Trask still working on _his_ storm windows, something she put an immediate stop to. Brilliant news! Her aunt, the magnificent old warrior, hadn't hesitated to brace the sheriff on his failure to report the outcome of the investigation, and that gentleman allowed they'd done some checking and so far— _so far_ —they'd found no outstanding warrants or charges against Trask—no record of any felony convictions, nor caught him in any lies. The Sheriff even added, albeit rather grudgingly, that _The man is probably okay_.

Aunt Sally retained her doubts, but as a Christian woman it wouldn't be proper for her to refuse to accept a man on the basis of mere rumor. For the time being she withheld her criticisms, even if she did still think Charly unwise to take any chances. No, Charly should not too freely trust this man, with regard to money or to... well, anything else, either.

Charly suggested a celebration but found Trask more interested in simply relaxing and contemplating his situation. The concern had been on his mind all week, and the more he considered the more he wished the bright idea of casting himself in a bad light had never entered his skull. He felt let down with the investigation not yet being final.

After supper—a rather pedestrian tuna casserole—and after the Bug's bath and bedtime story, Charly—perhaps starved for entertainment despite her recent excitement—wanted to see the movie again. They watched in comfortable companionship, commenting on the acting, pointing out significant details to one another.

While the tape rewound he offered a compliment. "You know, you're not too hard to get along with."

She pulled a droll face at him. "We live an exciting life—eat, work, sleep, watch a movie once in a blue moon. Hope your heart can take it."

"My heart? My heart's okay—how's yours?"

This approached dangerous territory, she felt. "Frankie's father claimed I didn't have one."

"Did he? You seem like a softie to me—too much heart."

"Actually, I made that up. And I don't want to discuss him... No, what I want is to think more of the future and live less in the past. You've helped me, getting me to do things I didn't have the nerve for."

"Good." He smiled fondly at her for several moments, and she smiled back until it seemed wise to break eye contact.

"Those two silly girls will be coming over Sunday for lunch," she said.

"Oh? Maybe I'll go see if Peggy's at the Diner Sunday—have lunch there."

"You can't. _You're_ who they want to see."

"Are you serious? How old are they, anyway?" he asked in irritation.

"Twenty, twenty-one... going on fifteen."

"For sure! Well, they're _your_ friends—what am _I_ supposed to say to them?"

"Maybe you should give them one of your Barnum specials."

Trask snorted in disdain. "Remember what happened the last time you put forth a suggestion. What should I say this time—I specialize in date rape?"

"I don't see you needing much help with your imagination."

"Never stops you, though, does it?"

Charly jumped from her chair. "I'm going to bed."

"Don't count on my being here for your soirée."

"Do what you want—see if I care."

~

Chapter 17 Potlatch

day 15,16 Sat, Sun Sept 7, 8

After sleeping on it Trask felt contrite, so he went to Gettrick after breakfast, first asking Charly if she needed to have anything picked up. Not ready to be won over, she gave him a rather curt negative.

Returning hours later he laid a package on the kitchen table and gave her an expectant look.

"What is it?"

He unwrapped and displayed a set of china—ironstone—six each of cups, saucers, bowls, dinner and dessert plates.

"Will you stop doing this?" she cried.

Disconcerted, he asked, "Don't you need them?"

"I didn't _ask_ you to do this! You act as if we're poverty-stricken or something!"

"I simply wanted to..." He got steamed at her ill will. "Well, _aren't_ you? Do you own a matched set of _anything_?" He stomped from the kitchen.

She spun around to the counter where she'd been torturing several carrots. _What arrogance! Does he think he's my fairy Godfather? I can't_ stand _this!_ Her emotions were so mixed—gratitude for his ready help melded with anger at his smug assumption of better judgment and superior taste. Didn't he ever think maybe she'd want to be consulted first? How irritating, the way he put things in front of her and waited for richly deserved applause. _Why are men so cocksure, so... conceited, so full of themselves_?

And yet... and yet, if a sermon were to be made on this incident, to whom would a preacher assign the better part? Hadn't he done something kind, even if in a crude and tactless way? Wasn't he trying to do her genuine good? And face it—wasn't part of the problem that she resented being put in a position of always having to accept favors but rarely being able to give them?

She ran through the dining room to the bottom of the stairs, calling up to him, "Chuck! Wait a minute."

"Throw them out if you don't want them."

"No! I... I only want to say I appreciate what you've done."

"A funny way of showing it."

"It was a..." _Not sweet, don't say sweet!_ "a decent thing to do. I flew off the handle, but we need them and I'm glad to have them."

He swayed at the top of the stairs, uncertain whether to return. "You're welcome," he said, and continued to his room.

She returned to the kitchen and stood looking at the china, an unadorned white with rolled edges, similar to cheap restaurant crockery but lighter—not pretty, exactly, but pleasant and respectably utilitarian—fine, in fact, for a casual lunch. She unpacked the pieces and carried them to the sink.

Part of her resentment lay in the fact she felt unsure of his motives. He seemed more considerate than any man she'd previously known—far more generous, at least. Franklin, even when first trying to get around her, hadn't done deliberately a quarter of what Trask did casually. The man seemed to want nothing personal from her, offered no intimacies... Yet they'd stared deeply into one another's eyes on occasion, and she'd felt at times there might be more than benevolence in his gaze.

She, on the other hand, although she felt a warm glow of friendship, certainly held no romantic feelings towards him—no, not a single one. Ludicrous to think of anything developing between them, different as were their ages and backgrounds.

She must handle—must control his gift-giving and render it harmless. The air conditioner, the VCR, those things were his, and she would have him take them when he left. In the meantime, using them did not seriously obligate her in any way. But tableware, light bulbs and other supplies, and even his labor around the house and yard—these things she must reciprocate either by favors of her own or reductions in his rent.

She'd read of potlatch, where one Indian would slather another with gifts, thereby putting the receiver in obligation and lowering his status. She must give gifts of her own. Yes, get back an equality she badly needed. She would discuss the problem with him, set up an arrangement—today, if his mood improved—soon, in any case.

* * *

After a brief sulk Trask went back to the drudgery of storm windows. Paint thinner and glazing putty he'd bought, and would use the thinner to make a sort of primer from the one can of usable paint to be found in the garage—the others dried-up or heavily skinned over during years of storage. The tiny hardware in West Baker stocked only industrial shades, so finish paint must come from Gettrick, and he would need to discuss colors with her—surely there'd be pouting or worse were he to select by himself.

Later, back in the house, Trask broached the subject over lunch.

Charly responded, "First we need to discuss these things you've been buying."

"Oh?"

"I can't have you spending _your_ money on _my_ property."

"No?"

"No, that's not businesslike. When you get something I need, I'll reimburse you—it'll come off your room and board."

"I see."

"You make a list of what you've bought this far, and I'll figure your payment minus the items and give you a sort of bill when next month's rent is due. Then you'll give me a check for the amount, right? "

"I will?"

Nettled, she asked, "Why are you acting this way?"

"What way?"

"You're not even responding."

"I certainly am. And I've disagreed with nothing you've said."

She turned to the girl. "Are you done, Frankie?"

"Can't I have dizzert?"

With the child working on a cone outside, Charly sat down determined to fight this out no matter what it took. A phrase entered her mind, one of her Dad's sayings— _I'll take him like Grant took Richmond!_ She'd never fully understood the analogy, for hadn't Grant taken months and months and months? But he _had_ taken the city—that was what counted.

She smiled at Trask—a rather forced smile. "Well, what do you object to?"

"I've made no objection."

"Puh-leeze! You obviously don't like the idea."

"I haven't said so."

She turned her head away and blew out a big breath. "Okay, does that mean you agree—you'll go along with me?"

"I haven't said I _disagree_."

_How does he manage to do this? It's as if I'm begging for a favor_.

"Mr Trask! Will you give me the list or not? Answer _Yes_ or _No!_ "

Trask hid a grin, savoring the chance of pulling another joke. "Have you gone through the implications of this new policy?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well... what if I want to get something and you don't want to pay for it?"

Progress of a sort, Charly guessed. "Such as?"

"Mmm... light bulbs."

"Why would I object to those?"

"Maybe you want seventy-fives and I want hundreds."

"Preposterous! That's not important." _Surely he wasn't serious_.

He shrugged. "What about the air conditioner?"

"Yours—you take it when you leave."

"What, er... what of the electricity usage?"

"Not a problem, simply a cost of business." _Pinning him down now_.

"Well... what if I don't leave?"

"Huh? You'll leave sometime."

"Maybe not—maybe I'll stay here forever." He received an annoyed look.

"Not if I decide... Well, whatever."

_Gotta be more creative_. "Nother instance, paint—paint colors. I threw away your paint."

"My paint?"

"In the garage, gone bad. Will the trash outfit pick it up?"

"Fit something in the container, and they'll take whatever can be lifted."

"So... what color?"

_Color?_ She glanced down to gather her thoughts, then looked up quickly to try to catch him smiling—no luck, he maintained his deadpan.

"We're talking about you keeping track," she pointed out.

"Uh-huh."

"You'll make me a list... with prices paid."

"Maybe I should give you the receipts—for tax purposes."

"Excellent! Good idea." Charly grinned, assuming he'd capitulated.

"But..."

"But what?"

"What if we have a conflict? You never answered that."

"We discussed," she said, "and settled it, as far as I'm concerned."

"How can you say that? We settled... perhaps two things—light bulbs and air conditioners."

"Those can serve as examples."

Trask shook his head dolefully.

She sighed. "Okay. What other things do we need to settle? I think you're simply drawing this out, though, and I don't see why. Give me more examples."

"Well, take pizza. Wait! I'm serious. You like one kind, maybe, and I want another—or I want ready-made but you want to save money and make your own. This type of question will come up time and again."

She could take it no longer, and broke into a smile. "You have got to be the most... most _exasperating_ man I've ever met! Why can't you treat this seriously?"

They grinned at each other for a few moments.

Trask said, "You want me to be serious?"

" _Yes!_ "

His face blanked. "What if I want something you don't? Take paint—there are different grades with different prices—cheap and better stuff."

"How about medium?"

"Fine, but what if I want to paint something and you don't want to spend the money? For instance, I want to paint the storms."

"You threw away all the paint?"

"Had to—except one can for primer."

"Well, I guess I can afford paint... I should have you get me some for the dining room. Wish we could have been done before the girls came over."

"What color?"

"Beige, I suppose."

"I don't like beige... See the problem?"

"Look, Mr Trask—if it's my house, don't you think I should have a _little_ say as to how it's painted?"

"Aren't you concerned with keeping your customers happy?"

"I'm beginning to lose all interest in the happiness of at least _one_ of my customers. Now look, please be serious. The question is, I think, whether my customer wants _me_ to be happy. What's your thought on _that?_ "

"Seriously? When I get something, I do it partly to please you. Shouldn't I get a few brownie points for good intentions?"

"Okay, but when you do this it's frustrating because... it's as if... when you take over I can't feel independent, and I don't enjoy that. As though you're doing it for pity."

Trask wanted to say, _Well, I_ am _doing it out of pity_ , but he could imagine how that would go over.

"It's quite important to me," she added.

His turn to sigh. "So I have to discuss every itty-bitty thing with you—can't do anything on the spur of the moment. What a pain _that'll_ be!"

Charly noticed he came close to smiling as he spoke. He acted as if life was a big joke. _How irritating!_ No wonder his wife dumped him. But tact seemed called for.

"Your judgment has mostly been good, Chuck. We can go on more-or-less the way we've been if you'll simply let me carry my own weight. I'll trust you. And if I think you've gone overboard..." She smiled at the thought of the movie. "I'll let you know and we have our discussion. But you'd better talk over any big items beforehand. That won't be too hard, do you think?"

Trask felt resentful. He'd thought he could fox her but as soon as she brought up the emotional side of things—her _feelings_ —she'd quashed his joke. Still, fair was fair. She had a right to have her feelings considered.

"Whatever."

"Oh, great! I'm happy we settled this, aren't you?"

"No. But first, what color for the sashes?"

She blinked at the shift. "What's wrong with white? That's what they are now."

"Boring. Bo-oo-or-ring! You see, there's this three-color scheme that works well: medium-dark siding—which, in effect, you've got—light-colored trim for the doors and windows—which you've got now—white, although something else might be better. Then dark, _dark_ for the sash, sills, doors, porch rail, what have you, for focal points. Spiffs-up a place."

Charly withdrew into herself, looking out the window, and Trask saw a certain charm in her profile—her eyes reaching into the distance, thoughts far away, lips slightly parted. A recollection of an old painting came to him—art nouveau style, a girl of the eighteen-nineties against a background of sea or rolling prairie, the light coming from...

He shook his head, pulling his thoughts back to the present.

Charly sat engrossed in curious new notions. She'd lived in the house her entire life—her father's house forever unchanging, except for gradual deterioration. Unchanging and unchangeable in her mind, until now. Decorating, remodeling, any sort of embellishment—these were foreign concerns to her. Just as she'd never dreamed of leaving this house until recently, so had she never visualized any significant alteration prior to this minute. Did she like the idea? She wasn't sure. And yet... wasn't life itself continual change? Nothing remained static.

She'd grown from child to woman in this old place. Her father—her bulwark—had died here. Her mother once here but gone away. A reverie of married life—lived in this house, she'd pictured it—gone glimmering. Her baby had grown to a toddler, then to a schoolgirl here, and all too soon—as with herself—would become a woman... and leave. Charly smiled. Everything around her had changed, and more change seemed fated—yet she balked at even minor revision of her home. She would have been more than content to simply re-coat everything in the same color, but new vistas beckoned.

"Gosh, I don't know. Before now I hadn't..."

"Think dark red, dark blue, dark green... brown won't work, you've got too much already. And think of variations to basic colors—all dark, though: wine, deep turquoise, olive..."

* * *

They all went to church Sunday. He didn't much want to but she again coaxed him, an easier job this time. They went, they howdied, they sang and recited, they visited and prattled.

On returning home Charly retained her blouse for the lunch, but changed to jeans and flats. Frankie had to stay dressed-up, unhappy she couldn't go play and get dirty, but quickly getting into the spirit of helping Momma. They made sure everything was picked up, put down her worn tablecloth—now dyed a somewhat streaky blue—set out the new dishes and old _silverware_ , brewed iced tea and checked on the chilled items. Frankie became more and more excited over _the party_.

Trask wore his same rig, sitting down to read. He found himself getting on edge, though. The idea of being the guest of honor, so to speak, failed to appeal. What type of act did they expect from him? Such was his psychic makeup that he couldn't imagine playing a passive role.

With everything ready, Charly went to the front window to look for her guests, sure they would arrive early. She extended her trip to the porch, and from there to the front yard to turn and view the house with the eyes of a visitor. She couldn't help but feel mortified. Everything shabby and unkempt—the weedy lawn, the scattered gravel of the drive, the tilted mailbox, the ravaged _brick_ siding, the trim and porch floor faded and cracking from want of paint. She could almost cry—the property looked so... so _needy_.

She heard wheels on gravel and turned to see Betty's car approaching. Her expression changed from hangdog to a bright smile—the trivial opinions of these scatterbrained girls should not matter much, and in any case she intended to show no lack of confidence before them.

Hi! Hi! You're so far out in the country! Is this all your land? Your baby girl—isn't she sweet? Where's your boarder? He's going to be here, isn't he? On and on they went in their own nervous enthusiasm, helping to mask any self-doubt of Charly's own.

Trask said a minimum in response to their greetings—shy on Betty's part, effusive from Brandi. They asked if Charly would give them a tour of the house but she declined—wouldn't want to scare them, she said. They giggled. Were they ready to eat? Betty was starving but Brandi announced she was watching her figure. Nobody else ever watched it, Betty confided in a stage whisper, earning herself a glare. They sat.

Betty dressed in comfortably casual clothes, but Brandi—as might be expected—wore shorts and a tight knitted top... and heels. She tried to slither gracefully into her chair and almost succeeded. Oh, your table looks elegant, said Betty. Blue and white is so cool on a hot day. Brandi asked Trask if he planned to settle around here? Did he like the area?

Charly served good cold cuts, homemade bread, condiments and relishes, iced tea. Brandi showed a better appetite than she'd claimed.

"I think I have a tapeworm," she said, to gales of her own laughter and Betty's embarrassed titter.

Lemon sherbet followed, and coffee was offered but declined. Pop, Brandi wondered? Vernors or root beer only. No thanks, she shuddered, she'd stick with tea.

Frankie, originally fascinated, grew bored with the _ladies_ and their—to her—alien interests. She changed and went outside with a cone. Now the adults could have some _real_ conversation.

"Where'd you say you worked?" Brandi asked, chin in hand and elbow on table as she leaned toward Trask.

"B E. Bigamous... I mean, Brigadier Electric."

"Say, do you know..."

"No! I know no-one from this area at B E. Nobody at all."

"Oh! I only thought..."

"Nope. Not a soul. Nobody. No one at all, a-tall."

* * *

Betty insisted on helping Charly with the dishes, even though Charly would rather have stayed and listened to Trask fend off Brandi's curiosity.

"I hope she doesn't slobber all over the poor man," Betty whispered.

They put away the food, rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink. Charly firmly refused the girl's plea to help wash—leave them till later.

"You're so lucky, Charly," Betty blurted out.

"Lucky how?"

"You got everything here—a house, property, things to look at."

"If only you knew, Betts. This is a shabby dump, as you can see—ready to fall apart. Nothing works, and the farm's of no use."

"But you've at least got your own stuff, see? And you can fix things up if you want... I used to feel sorry for you but now I envy you."

Charly shook her head and laughed. "You've got fantastic notions."

"And look what else you've got—a sweet kid, a man. I know..." She held up a hand. "He's _not_ yer boyfriend. But, still... he's company, ain't he? Even if he's older, he's not _much_ older—you can at least talk about things. Look at me. I got no guy, no kid. I live with Ma and Pa... And don't get me wrong, Charly, I love em, but always the same old thing day after day—family talk, TV talk, work talk. And always _old_ stuff, like I'm goin' on _forty_ or somethin'."

Charly put a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Sure, I got Brandi to hang out with, but let's face it, she ain't got the same outlook as me. Chasin' guys and hangin' out and flirtin's what she wants to do. And I go home to the same blesséd thing night after night and day after day... But you got somethin' to look forward to—you got Frankie, you got the house, you can look outa the windows and see somethin' besides the house next door or the one across the street."

"You're giving me a new outlook, Betts."

"And you know, Charly, even if you think the place is a dump—it's _your_ dump. You can think of fixin' the place the way you want—you can dream of things gettin' better. Sure, I can prob'ly put up new paper in my room or paint the trim, but what's the point? It ain't _my_ house, so why would I want to spend the time?"

After a silence she went on. "Brandi wants us to go into an apartment together but I know that's not gonna to work. I'll end up doin' the housework and fixin' the food while she tries to scout out some jerk to bring home. I'm not gonna put up with _that!_ "

Charly steered her toward the dining room.

"See, Charly, you're lucky! I only hope you know it."

* * *

They went outside to stretch their legs, and Trask offered to show them the poison ivy patch as they circled the house. Bummer! All he saw were wilted leaves where he'd expected everything to be sere and brown. Charly gave him a droll look. Betty wondered why anyone would be interested in dead weeds, and Brandi began to think Trask might be too old for her.

But back in the house he made a major comeback in her evaluation.

As they sat sipping tea he said to Charly in apparent seriousness, "You know, I've been trying to think who she reminds me of," He thumbed toward Brandi. "and it's finally come to me—it's Ladonna."

"No!" Brandi screamed with laughter, "Ya do _not!_ You don't think that."

"Yes—yes I do. What do you think, Charly, Betty?"

Brandi allowed them no chance to answer.

"Yer puttin' me on!" she cried. "I don't look _anything_ like Ladonna. Do I Betty? No, oh no!" she laughed.

"Charly," Trask demanded, "What do you think? Am I right?"

She played along, giving Brandi a judicious squint. "Maybe around the ears, a bit." _And that top she's almost wearing_.

Brandi couldn't speak for delighted laughter. Betty looked disgusted.

The by-play continued in this vein for several minutes until they fell silent except for occasional gasps of laughter from Brandi. Trask decided to shift targets.

"And Betty, you make me think—not because of looks but because of the general way you carry yourself—of my younger sister."

"I do?" she said, her eyes widening.

"Yes... yes." He lowered his head and pinched his eyes.

"What's the matter?"

"Well, it's a sad story. She ran off and married a man we thought was no good—a biker."

"O-oo-oh!" Betty moaned in sympathy.

"But we were proven wrong, to some extent. He straightened himself out and went legit."

"Oh!" she said in a rising tone.

"But..."

"Aa-ahh."

"He still rode his Harley, and she still rode with him as his Mama or Old Lady or whatever the phrase. When he straightened up he took a sales job out West, and he used to move from town to town riding his _Hog_ —and one thing that didn't change with him, he still drove like a bat out of hell, taking my poor baby sister along with him."

"Oh dear!"

"Things were okay for awhile, and the family quit worrying. But then, one bright spring morning, the kind of day when you just naturally think the whole world is going your way... That's when it happened."

Brandi squirmed, wondering when this interminable tale that wasn't about _her_ would reach a climax.

"Okay, what happened?"

He shook his head and sighed. Betty reached across the table in sympathy. Charly put a hand over her mouth and looked toward the window.

"We got a phone call from the Wyoming State Police." He took a few deep breaths to steady himself as the silence deepened. "They said..."

"What? What did they say?" Brandi demanded.

"He roared down a mountainside on a narrow twisting road, keeping his speed as high as possible, tires barely sticking to the road on the curves, the wind rushing past and the sun hot on their heads... You wonder, sometimes, don't you? Are we fated or does mere chance determine our lives and our... our doom."

They strained to hear his lowered voice.

"So which is it?"

"Brandi! Shut _up!_ "

" _You_ shut up!"

Betty glared at her friend. "Go on, Mr Trask—never mind her."

"I'm okay now... I can finish." Trask took a deep shuddering breath. "The sun glared and the wind blew cold that day as they came round the sharpest turn on the entire mountain. The bike flew downhill, and safety was the last thing on his mind. Ahead they saw a pickup pulling a horse trailer up the mountain, a trailer jam-packed with riding horses—barely moving. And as they zoomed past the trailer my sister, who always loved animals, took one arm away from her husband's waist to wave at the pretty horsies.

"At that exact moment they entered the sharpest part of the curve and... centrifugal force yanked my sister off the saddle and flung her over the guard rail, and down the mountainside she went." He covered his eyes. "I... I can't go on." He rose and stumbled from the room, through the kitchen and out the back door.

"Stay here," Charly ordered in a strangled voice, still covering her mouth.

She ran out, and the startled girls, peering through the back door window, watched Trask stumble across the yard and turn behind the garage, leaving Charly on the stoop.

"Oh, Brandi, he must be hurtin' real deep."

"I guess!...And she sure ain't so casual toward him like she says."

Betty murmured, "His face was all twisted up. It tells of a deep, deep sorrow. I'm not surprised he ain't the marryin' type after what he's been through. He'll never get over it."

"Oh, that's just _bull_ , Betty. A man can get over _anything_."

After standing on the stoop looking in the direction of the garage for a few minutes Charly re-entered the house. Her face stiff, she said, "I'm sorry, girls—we'd better call it quits for today."

"Oh, Charly, isn't there anything we can do?" asked Betty, her eyes glinting with sympathetic moisture.

"Yeah, maybe we should go try to cheer him up," Brandi offered.

"No, no. Better if... Go right now and I'll try to make things up to you, have you over next week. Here, here's your purse, Brandi. Betty, are you missing anything?" She rapidly shooed them onto the porch and over to the drive.

"If there's anything..." Betty uttered as she slipped behind the wheel.

"We'll talk at work," Charly interrupted, spinning on her heel and rushing into the house.

They were silent and disheartened as Betty started the car and backed onto the road, but as they accelerated toward town Brandi fleered, "I'm surprised she didn't kick us down the steps, she went so wild to get rid of us."

Betty gave her a stupefied glance. "Whatever are you babblin'? She's _worried_ for him. I don't know what you'd expect."

"Yeah, she is—worried she won't have 'im all to _herself!"_

"Oh, you! Sometimes you oughta just shut up!"

" _You_ shut up!"

They continued down the road, arguing all the way as to whether Trask would ever recover, and whether emotions were deeper for women than men. Brandi was sure he might be salvaged, if only the right woman came along to make him forget his anguish. She cited the Ladonna reference to Betty as proof he still retained an interest in women, to be rewarded with a scathing denunciation such as she'd never before heard from her usually placid friend.

Brandi stayed silent for literally minutes afterward.

~

Chapter 18 Just Like a Man

day 16 to 23 Sun to Sun Sept 8-15

Trask sneaked back into the house after they disappeared down the road, only to be braced by Charly. She tried to berate him but matters worsened.

"You're _mean_! Betty's a friend and she doesn't deserve... Oh Chuck, you..."

They both went into a laughing fit that stopped only to restart as they looked at one another and recalled part of the girls' reaction to the story or to his insincere flattery of Brandi. Frankie came inside and watched them, joining in—simply pleased, perhaps, to see them happy. Charly tried to answer her questions but stopped for fear of slandering Brandi and Betty.

They emerged from their bacchanalia of mirth, eyes red from rubbing away tears, still bursting into giggles when they looked at one another too closely. "Seriously... No, please... Seriously, Chuck, what am I going to tell the poor girl? I like her and I don't want her hurt. You didn't fool Brandi much—she's cynical enough to see through you, then she'll spill the beans to Betts... You've got to come up with something."

But he would only shake his head and chuckle at the memory of their faces. "Maybe you could say I'm..." stopping to gasp, "I'm a psycho who lies about _everything._ "

Frankie took so much note of this Charly sent her outside again, assuaging the child's disappointment by promising not to laugh any more—and they did, as a matter of fact, reduce their merriment to a few chuckles and snorts.

"Very funny! On top of people suspecting you being a pervert they'll... Well it won't fly. _Think_ of something, you dunce!"

Betty might be one of the dimmer bulbs in the chandelier but was a sweet decent person and Charly hated to think of her being played for a fool. That is to say, she hated the idea of Betty finding out. Betts was a plain girl with no figure to speak of and a soft expressive face that too readily showed emotion. On top of these weaknesses she showed so little in the way of aplomb or spirit she seemed destined forever to disappointment in love and life.

Even as she thought this, Charly became aware of the irony of worrying over the happiness of any other woman than herself. _As if I don't have far more problems than she has_. Still, Betty's confession to her had made an impression, and she was struck by how one's view could be different when looking at things from a distance.

What did Charly herself require to be happy? Not that she felt exactly _unhappy_ , of course. She'd never been a down-in-the-mouth type—the bright side of life always appealed to her. But she'd got used to thinking of herself as much put-upon and as having no future. Her outlook had changed rather drastically since the coming of Trask. A little money brought freedom of action and a new way of thinking.

_What do I need to be completely happy_ , she pondered. Enough money to be able to pay bills on time, to dress Frankie better, to be able to put away something for the future—those would do. If Trask stayed around for a few months, at least... A few clouds showed on the horizon—the tax bill, for which she still needed to hit up Aunt Sally, the condition of the car and its need for service and repair, paying for this winter's oil, the costs of maintaining the house. All in all, though, she and her daughter were much better off than only a month back.

What, though, if Trask should leave? More realistic now, she'd never find another boarder with his minimal needs and genial if aggravating personality. Plus the house simply needed too much—general fix-up, certainly, a second bath, a private entrance... No, if he left she could not continue the B & B. The whole idea stood revealed as a pipe dream.

What she needed was a sort of room-mate, another woman to move in with her. But whom? Not her aunt—Sally's prickly independence and controlling personality would be too much to take. They'd come into conflict before, and Charly couldn't see them ever getting along in close proximity.

_Besides, the woman made a vow_.

Someone such as Betty? Someone younger than herself, and without a dominating personality? Hmm... now _that_ made an interesting thought.

* * *

Trask having been of no use regarding the Betty problem—refusing even to take matters seriously—next morning at break Charly took the girl aside and confided to her.

"You don't have to worry about Mr Trask all that much—they later found his sister wandering in the desert. She only suffered amnesia for awhile." A lie, but at least merely a gray one.

Betty was so emotively relieved Charly felt all the more guilty for having furthered Trask's tall tale. She chalked up another small grudge against him, and resolved to find a way to teach him a lesson, to take him down a peg, to prick his balloon, to... Well, she would get even somehow. She considered inviting Betty and Brandi to show up again next Sunday to finish their tea—the first installment of her vengeance. And she would nag him into continuing to go to church with them. Who could know—some Christian behavior might rub off on him.

* * *

Monday evening brought a break in the drought with gentle rain at night and into Tuesday. Wednesday dawned dry but cool enough to require sweaters, making Charly think more of the pressing need to fill the oil tank, and of the other damage to her exchequer fall and winter must bring. Without a doubt the car must be serviced, and she worried the front tires would no longer handle snow—had already made driving treacherous last year. Once the phone was installed she would call to check prices, and when he paid for the next month she would do something. But until that time...

* * *

Trask tackled the storm windows with a will, determined to finish this week now that the weather hinted at cooling. With scraping and sanding done he stacked them on the horses with both ends and one side hanging clear. Under the supported edge he put aluminum foil to keep the paint from sticking to the horses. To the white _primer_ he added a quart of flat black to darken it in hopes one coat of dark finish paint would be sufficient. The edges he primed in one swell foop, figuring to pry them apart if paint ran between the faces—as it would, of course. This would be quick and dirty, simply to get the job done and over with.

Working in the garage and on the porch to avoid the drizzle, he cleaned up the runs the next day, priming one face, perforce leaving the oil-base paint to cure overnight. On Wednesday he painted the opposite faces, and got ready to glaze the broken panes he'd previously removed. Thursday he installed and puttied the glass in place and—using the dark bronze latex he'd selected as sash color—painted one face of the majority of them before running out of steam.

* * *

At work Charly's week went well, though she could have done with less chatter on the part of the girls, and less commentary from the rest of the women. Evidently these poor souls had so little going on in their lives that a minuscule social event loomed large for them, briefly topping the coming start of league bowling as a topic. Even a couple of the men interjected their notions of droll commentary. Trask's _tragedy_ came in for a lot of discussion, but at least it forestalled discussion of his supposedly checkered past.

Thursday evening she discovered she'd received a raise—a dime. Ugh! Better than nothing, though, and Friday she went to thank The Man. He brushed off her expression of gratitude.

"Almost an insult, I know, but we've got to be careful with the union or they'll be in here making a fuss over the utility position—demanding to make it forty hours and be unionized."

"Are they concerned over one dinky spot?"

"Think of the principle, Charly. If they let us get away with one thing, who knows how soon till we try to cut everyone's pensions and stop giving bathroom breaks? That's the way they figure. If old Joe weren't well taken care of at the main plant he'd probably have been on us about you before this. And if we gave you what you deserve...?"

"Well, I sure don't want to go full time yet, and I'd as soon not pay several hours worth of my time in dues, so I won't be calling up the international anytime soon. But is it wise for them to... well, _corrupt_ the union?" She hoped she hadn't spoken out of turn.

"In the long run—probably not. But in the short run... And _that's_ how McDowell and the rest of them figure. You know—in the long run we'll all be dead. That sort of thinking."

"I see, I guess."

"Buy yourself a couple more pounds of hamburger and enjoy the luxury... How's the business coming?"

"Pretty well, I guess, but my boarder is sure a character."

"I've heard a few of the rumors. Any truth to the worst of them?"

"Doesn't look that way. We asked the sheriff to check up on him and he's clean. But he sure likes to shock the nosy neighbors."

"Is that how the tale started?" Gregg laughed. "And you went to the sheriff? You were that concerned?" He chuckled again.

"No, _I_ wasn't. You can tell he's a joker—or thinks he is. But my aunt got terribly bothered and... Well, there you are. He seems to be a nice guy, and he's willing to put up with a great deal. Quite helpful with fixing things, in fact, which we need a lot of."

"What's he do for a living? Or is he independently wealthy?" This said drolly.

"He's apparently got money, but he's some type of engineer—production line engineer, I think he said—designs tools or something."

"A professional type."

"I suppose."

* * *

As the heat became less oppressive they began taking walks in the late afternoons when she and Frankie came home, even if wet outside—the sandy soil drained rapidly. They walked to the boundaries along the roads and explored beside the stream. They wormed their way through the weeds and bushes and saplings that had sprouted in the fields over the last several years, and up the wooded hillside to the north, finding paths made by stray dogs or deer but often trampling out their own.

One evening, at the edge of the higher ground where an ancient tangled apple tree barred their way, Frankie slithered through the low branches, followed by Trask. He turned to take Charly's hand and guide her through, and continued to hold it as they climbed. She made no effort to release it. After a few steps he turned to block her way, looking intently into her eyes. She held his look, a-quiver with a kind of anticipation as they stared at one another.

"Hey, arncha comin'?" Frankie shouted, and the spell dissolved.

Charly dropped his hand and Trask turned to follow the girl. Her face burned, and she resolved to avoid tomorrow's expedition, although when the time came she broke that resolution, as with many others made in days and years past.

It had seemed a magical moment, but what sort of magic—black or white?

* * *

They differed on one question regarding these hikes. With the cooling rain a few mosquitoes appeared, long missing during the hot dry summer. Charly insisted Frankie button-up, wear a hat, long sleeves and pants, roll up her collar. Trask protested for the girl's sake, pointing out the warmth while walking. But she didn't want the girl skeeter-bit, and besides, there was the danger—ever so slight but conceivable—of encephalitis. Trask seemed almost unaware of such a thing, and stated the chances were millions to one she'd be infected.

"Even at a _zillion_ to one I wouldn't feel comfortable taking a chance with her. Encephalitis is _very_ serious—deadly."

"Even so, the poor kid shouldn't have to spend her whole life bundled up in case of a teeny-tiny danger. Talk about feeling comfortable! Look at her!"

Charly got warm. "How would you feel if she were _your_ child? Would _you_ want to take a chance of losing her? Are you that callous?"

"I'm only saying," he condescendingly drawled, "you need to have a sense of proportion. If the danger is small, it doesn't pay to make a big fuss. After all, I notice you're willing to put her in the death trap you call a car."

"If that isn't just like a man! In the one case I have no choice—but in the other I _can_ do something. What's so hard to understand?"

"Just like a man!" he scoffed. "What would you know about men?"

And she must admit—to herself, of course, not to him—he had a point, for what _did_ she know of men? She knew so few—her father, of course, her half-brother Thad, Franklin-the-lout, those she'd done business with, a few men at work or church, and some met at the rare get-togethers she attended. The latter hadn't amounted to much—even when they tried to hit on her she hadn't learned much of anything much _about_ them. Perhaps they preferred it that way.

The men at work she knew well enough to be able to catalog part of their foibles, but she knew they might prove quite altered in a different setting. At church? Well, she supposed she might claim to know something of those few men, but only superficially. Business? She recalled with distaste Clay Feister and the smarmy salesman through whom she'd bought her car.

Her half-brother? She knew him well enough—all too well, in fact. The count came down to Thad, Franklin and her father. Dad—kind, loving, caring but inattentive in some ways. She wondered how well _he_ had known _her_. Franklin—interested in himself to the exclusion of everyone else—not kind, certainly not attentive unless after a loan or a romantic interlude. Questionable whether he even _was_ a man. She imagined Trask would consider him a boy.

As for Thad—not merely unkind but actively malicious. To him Charly represented nothing but an obstacle to gaining his mother's and stepfather's inheritance. Perhaps she exaggerated, perhaps she did him an injustice. But thinking of what he'd done to a young girl—not to her specifically, but to a generic young girl—made her despise the very thought of him.

She contrasted Trask with these—kind, attentive. Too much so with all the unsolicited gifts. He _did_ care for her and Frankie, of that she was sure. But did he realize what it meant to have one person in the entire world who depended upon you for everything—one person into whom you poured all your love? Of course not—no man could ever know. Only a mother could know.

* * *

Trask continued over the weekend to work on _his_ windows. She followed the progress and commented almost every day—a matter of importance to him, not that he would have admitted it.

On Saturday he finished painting and, if he did say so himself, they looked pretty good—good enough that he decided not to add a second coat, though it wouldn't have hurt. He might have hung them Sunday, but as he examined the windows he had his doubts. They looked pretty bad. No problem—he would at least paint the sills, possibly replace cracked panes. And the best part—he could delay his search for a job by a few more days.

* * *

Before church she unloaded her news of the afternoon's social plans. He wasn't pleased, having planned to get more work done, and spending time with _balloon-brained girls_ was no compensation.

"I can ask Aunt Sally, if she's more to your liking."

"If you consider that a threat, you're wrong—I'd prefer her."

"Sorry—first invited, first entertained. I'll get Old Sal next week."

"Hmph!"

They lasted through the service well enough, and Trask, in fact, rather enjoyed himself since among the hymns were _Amazing Grace_ , which everyone likes, and _A Mighty Fortress_ , which he—being familiar with the tune and enjoying its martial vigor—particularly favored. Notwithstanding the flaws of the organist he belted out the latter with such enthusiasm, making Charly blush. Certain Trask was showing off for that exact purpose, she determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her unease.

As they were leaving, the Reverend Switzer detained her and led her back to his office for _a minute_. Somewhat apprehensive this would concern Trask's _criminal record_ , she followed to the small room at the rear of the building and took the seat he offered. After some twaddle the minister cleared his throat and got to the reason he'd invited her presence.

Folding his hands and looking to one side of her he inquired in a low voice, "Is all well with you? Spiritually, I mean?"

Caught aback, she said, "Why... I don't know." She laughed nervously. "Shouldn't _you_ be telling _me?_ "

"Forgive me for bringing this up, Charlotte. I've been charged by the Session with this duty—nothing personal, please believe me. But I beg you to answer sincerely because the matter is potentially grave in the eyes of the Church. Don't be too... resentful, if you can avoid it. But if you can't... Well, it's entirely understandable."

She grew more surprised. "This sounds ominous. I wasn't being sarcastic or anything—I simply don't know what you're asking me for. What _is_ the problem?"

He cleared his throat once more. "Charlotte, everyone here likes you and wishes you well—you know that. But people— _certain_ people—are troubled."

He hesitated, and she prompted him in a rather forbidding tone. "Yes?"

"Because of your earlier... relationship with Franklin Tenney, people wonder about your present relationship with _this_ man, especially because of, of, er... some questions concerning his past."

_Trask!_ More fallout from his misplaced sense of humor.

"There is nothing between us— _nothing._ But even if there were, I can't... I won't let someone who doesn't even know me—has no relationship..." _Unfortunate word choice_. "...is no relation to me to... to..." She had begun to babble.

He was obviously troubled himself. "I need to take an answer to the, uh... doubters. I need facts or... or explanations to set before them. And I'm on your side here, Charlotte. Had I any choice... Well, what more can I say?"

She took a few breaths before going on. "So you..."

"Not me."

"...or someone... believes I am being... _intimate_ with this man. Is that it?" She waited for his nod. "Let me be careful of... of what reply I give. First, I have not been... _unchaste_... since Frankie's father left—five years ago. Second, this man—Mr Trask—and I have never been intimate in any way, shape, form or fashion, nor are we attracted to one another. He has never offered or... or suggested anything of the kind. Yes, we're friendly. But our relationship is business only. And—if it counts for anything—my daughter has been a sort of chaperon—she's always with us."

Charly paused, but the pastor made no comment.

"Well, is that good enough for my... my friends who _like me so much?_ " The last she uttered with heavy irony.

Mr Switzer took out a handkerchief, wiped his forehead and dabbed his upper lip, then carefully folded and returned it to his pocket. Taking a deep breath he asked, "And these stories?"

"False—absolutely _false_. He's a gentleman as far as I can tell... considering I haven't known too many. The problem is, he's a bit of a joker. You saw him— _heard_ him today—shouting the one hymn. He has a peculiar sense of humor. But the sheriff has checked into him."

"He has? And there are no problems?"

"None."

"Good to know, Charlotte— _very_ good to know. I, uh... I can't blame you for being angry, though, and I feel bad at having to put this to you."

She made no reply, but looked accusingly at him.

"And you should not be, uh... _too_ hard on the... the suspicious ones—those who doubted you. They, uh... they think he doesn't always act as a... a guest—escorting you to church, for instance."

"I see. Bringing someone to Christ is now considered a sin."

Reverend Switzer looked down for several seconds.

"Good point. I'll mention that at the next Session." He considered for awhile. "I'm sure this will be sufficient. And, Charlotte, please don't be too unhappy over this. Don't let anger keep you from attendance and fellowship. These folks who brought this up... I won't deny they tend to be busybodies. A fault, certainly, but not the worst. Perhaps I'll write a sermon," he mused. "And the Christian thing to do, remember... Please see if it is in your heart to forgive them—and forgive me for my part."

"Well... I know you need my ten bucks. That's a joke!" She dabbed at her eyes. _Silly! Crying now the ordeal was all over_. "I _do_ forgive you, because I'm sure this wasn't your idea. As for the others, it may take time. I'll tell you what, though—I'll be here every Sunday. And my boarder will be with me if I have to drag him... until some people come forward to apologize."

* * *

Most of the parishioners were gone by the time Charly came out. With the self-conscious pauses in conversation the meeting had taken longer than she realized. Trask and Frankie were waiting by the truck as, with clicking heels, she strode down the path.

He asked, "Have a nice chat?"

She responded with a glare.

_Whoa, what now?_ New storm warnings, Trask guessed.

* * *

But by the time they neared home she came back nearly to normal and was willing to speak. "Tall tales cause many problems, city man."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah—tall tales and people with too much time on their hands."

He pondered. "It makes me want to give them more to think of. I guess my instincts must be faulty."

"For certain. But there's more. They think you and I..." She nodded a warning at Frankie so he would reply cautiously.

"I see. All the guilt but none of the pleasure."

She couldn't help laughing, but her laughter was near to tears.

* * *

Chicken vegetable soup—homemade—and cottage cheese for lunch today. Betty again ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the preparations, and Trask seemed on his best behavior thus far.

Charly's co-workers had argued on the way over who was going to question him concerning his sister. When Charly served dessert and sent Frankie outside with her cookies, Betty asked him, "Why were you so, uh... broken up last week? I mean, since they found your sister wanderin' alive with amnesia and everything."

Trask frowned deeply. "Who told you this?" he demanded.

Betty quavered uncertainly. "Why... Charly said she got rescued in the desert."

He shook his lowered head, more in sorrow than in anger. "Sis never had amnesia, and she never went wandering in the desert. When she flipped off the bike she landed in bushes growing at the brink of the canyon and held on for dear life. She never needed to be _rescued in the desert_ by anyone. I can't imagine why Charly told you that."

Charly rolled her eyes and looked into the corner of the room as if searching for a rescuer of her own. _You can't stop this guy—what a BS artist he is_!

Betty was struck speechless by this, but Brandi wasn't as easily quashed.

"So what shook ya up so much anyways, if she was okay?"

Trask gave her an indignant look. "How would you feel if your sister went through such a scare? Wouldn't you be shaken to have to relive such a traumatic event?"

"Oh, I sure _would_ ," cried Betty, tender-hearted as always.

And Brandi, who would probably have been willing to dance at her sister's funeral, felt constrained to agree. "Yeah, I guess—maybe."

Trask glanced poker-faced at Charly, who gave him a tart look.

She said, "What do you girls think of fantasy fiction? Do you enjoy that sort of thing?" But they paid no attention.

Trask turned his attention to Brandi. "You remember when I said you reminded me of someone?"

She responded with a delighted laugh. "Oh _please_ , not _Ladonna_ again."

"No, no! I'm afraid I'm not up on pop idols, and I think I made a mistake. It wasn't Ladonna I had in mind—it was Shere!"

"Wha-aa-t!" This did not delight her at all. "She's a _hag_! She must be a hunerd years old, an' that straight black hair. I don't look anything like... are you kiddin' me or _what_?"

"Oh, wait, I'm wrong again. Amazing how confusing this is for someone my age. Not Shere—she's the one married to that short guy, right? No, I'm thinking of the gal in Bewitching. What's her name?"

Brandi heard this approvingly. She remembered a cute blond woman. "Beth something."

"Elizabeth Montague," Charly supplied.

"No, not her," Trask said, "the older one—played her mother."

Brandi jumped to her feet in astonishment and chagrin, eyes wide and mouth open, but brought nothing out. She put her fists on her hips and glared at him, unable to compose a phrase.

Trask gave her a big grin. "Gotcha!" he said.

"You... _why, you_... _!"_ But she quickly gave up and joined in the laughter, even at her own expense. After all, any attention was preferable than none. "I'm tellin' you, Charly, this guy is _bad_ —he's jist _bad_."

"Yes, do tell me," Charly murmured.

"Merely pulling your leg," Trask confided to Brandi.

She extended her bare leg to touch his calf with the toe of her sandal. "Wanna pull the other one?" she offered.

After the girls left Charly gave him a long considering look. "You were at top form today," she said. "I can hardly wait for the next bit of trouble your mouth gets me into."

He looked at the wall. "Well, I guess I'd better go work on those windows a bit more."

* * *

Following supper and Frankie's bedtime rituals they settled down to their now-traditional evening social hour and daily review.

" _Do_ you find Brandi attractive?" she asked innocently.

"Bring me a tarantula!"

"Huh?"

"A movie line— _Joe, bring me a tarantula!_ Ever hear it before?"

"No," she laughed, "tell me."

"Oh, this guy tells this girl he'd rather kiss a tarantula than her, and when she doubts him he says it. But what do _you_ think regarding Brandi?"

Contemplatively, Charly replied, "She's not bad looking, sexy to men, I imagine—a rather provocative dresser..."

"Needs guidance on hair and makeup, lacks culture," he finished for her. "Yeah, I've heard it all before."

She frowned. "What are you getting at?"

"The way you women run down a prospective rival. Always a flank attack, the pose of a concerned but candid friend."

"So you _do_ think she's hot!"

"Where's that tarantula?"

"Ridiculous! Why can't you ever be serious?"

She disclosed her interrogation by the minister. Trask was by turns angry with Mr Switzer, with Mrs Barnum, with small-town gossipy culture, and with himself for supplying every bit of fuel any rumor mongers required. He turned glum and silent, wondering if this particular weakness destined him to more disappointments. Analyzing its possible effect on Karen's attitude toward him, he decided it probably was a major contributor to her disenchantment with him.

Well, _that_ planted a big bruise on his ego.

He mused on C S Forester's Captain Hornblower who—to overcome the weakness of too loose a tongue—largely limited his shipboard conversation to clearing his throat. But no, that would require an iron will clearly beyond him. And Charly was now saying something.

"Eh?"

"How the storms are coming along?"

"Couple more days, I guess. I want to replace a few broken panes in the sash—the double-hung—and paint the sills. They're in amazingly poor shape."

Charly's further leading questions elicited little more response. She wanted to bring him out of his mood but, _Not even his precious window project cheers him up_. Well, she'd tried. _The heck with it_.

~

Chapter 19 Puppet Master

day 24-27 Mon-Thur Sept 16-19

Trask carted the big table up from the barn to the dining room and re-glued loose veneer on the top and one edge.

It looked, they agreed, too grand to be relegated to the laundry room and would instead become his computer table. The phone, if ever installed, would also mount on it. A rickety wooden kitchen table from the barn they ensconced in the laundry—cleaned, legs tightened, and awaiting a coat of paint when Trask got around to it.

When he mentioned refinishing the library table and the mess to be caused, Charly said, "Put newspapers down."

"I'll be sanding... dust all over."

"Maybe keep the sweeper near, and suck it up right away so stuff won't get tracked around."

"Dust will _drift_ all over."

"Oh... Well, you've got to work somewhere—we'll clean up later."

_What a woman_! Not even his mother was _that_ amenable, and Karen would have insisted he work in the basement. The garage would have been off-limits because of her car, and therefore designated a dust-free zone. As for using the dining room—preposterous!

Something could be said for hillbilly upbringing, it seemed. Easy-going, decent sense of humor, good cook and housekeeper when motivated, not too hard to gaze upon. This Franklin, he figured, must be remarkably finicky when it came to women. Or maybe—Trask's actual opinion—the guy was a freaked-out idiot. A man might do a lot worse when it came to a wife.

I ought to know!

Cool, breezy and dry—early fall weather. The sun shone brightly through scattered rushing clouds. Trask worked with a will under the brisk conditions—rising early, planning ahead and budgeting his time. Even with dragging the ladder from window to window he accomplished a great deal, and by the time she arrived home Wednesday afternoon he proudly showed Charly the results, paint still curing on a few sills but the storm sash installed regardless.

Stepping from her car, she gushed, "Oh, great! The house looks new! That tint is perfect—it goes great with the rest. Look, Frankie."

"It's okay." Frankie dutifully added her mite of praise before running off to play.

Charly instantly dismissed the contrast of the decrepit back stoop. "You don't notice the flaws as much, because your eye is drawn to the windows. Have you done the other sides? Let's look." Around the house they went, she assuring him of her enjoyment of the improvements, ending up at the back with her enthusiasm seemingly undiminished. "It _really_ looks good!"

Trask grimaced and said, "Enough, _enough!"_

"What's the matter?"

"Do you think _all_ men are stupid, or only me?"

"Why? Whatever do you mean?"

"If you laid it on any thicker you'd need a trowel."

She hung her head, blushed and wriggled like a child caught in a fib.

"Well, I _do_ appreciate your work," she said, "and the house does look a lot better."

"Garish—it clashes."

"I still _like_ it."

"When I'm done you can blather on if you want. I'll do the doors—take them off the hinges if the days stay fairly warm. And the trim is completely wrong for the bronze. Stark white—where the old wood isn't bare—is too cold next to a warm color. I'll get a shade of light tan—maybe Navajo White—that'll mediate between the bronze sash and the brownish fakey-wakey brick stuff."

"Mediate... As in federal arbitration or something?"

"Exactly." They were grinning at each other now, and he reached an arm across her shoulders to pull her to his side. She leaned against him, chuckling. "Now," he said, "do you honestly like it or not?"

"It stinks, but I don't want to hurt your feelings."

Frankie rounded the corner to see the action, and they quickly separated.

Trask claimed, "Going to be House Beautiful when I'm through. People will drive out of their way for a view—maybe come from town on tours."

"I'll count on it," Charly said.

Frankie left once the excitement ended, and the two exchanged a look. The girl must have an extrasensory talent to detect when contact occurred between the adults.

"I'll work on the doors tomorrow... maybe go select the trim paint."

"I thought you were going to look for a job."

"I want to finish this first."

"Now you _are_ finished, aren't you?"

"Sorta."

Charly eyed him.

Trask shrugged. "Maybe I should give it another go."

Still she said nothing.

"Yeah, maybe tomorrow," he acceded. "Hit Gettrick again, do more painting Friday."

"You won't look Friday?"

"Not a good day—too near the weekend."

"You want help Friday?"

"You'd miss work?"

"Umm... Er, Frankie won't have school—in-house training day for the teachers. Or, school-employees-early-start-on-the-weekend day."

"How would _she_ be of any help?"

"Keep you company, get things for you... you know."

"Make lunch, clean the brushes?"

"She'd stay out of your way."

"Your aunt break a leg?"

"I forgot to make arrangements and I hate to ask at the last minute... Please?"

"Maybe I _should_ look for work Friday." Pause. "Oh, _alright_. But don't expect me to get much done."

"I always expect miracles of you." She turned to go in and he trailed after.

"You have a nick-name in school?"

"Huh? Sure—Charly, of course."

"I mean something more elaborate. Like _The Puppet Master_."

"What are you getting at?"

"First you manipulate me into painting your house..."

"Did not!"

"...then you want me to look for work..."

"You were the one..."

"...then you manipulate me into baby sitting. What's next?"

"Oh, pooh! I asked you for one dinky favor—everything else was your own idea."

"I'm beginning to realize..." He stopped dead.

"What?"

"Nothing," he assured her, a faint tinge of guilt showing.

She looked at him narrowly, reckoning he'd started to make a reference to her marital status. The good mood began to evaporate.

* * *

Thursday: Trask stopped at the diner to have a coffee and waste time bantering with the regulars. They kidded him over his suit and tie, suggesting he try selling Bibles door to door. On to Gettrick and a couple of small plants where he accomplished nothing but to intensify a gloomy mood. He now decided to take a step long postponed and hit the main plant of The Plastic, a place he'd earlier sworn never to go, largely because Charly's comments gave the place an evil air.

A woman handed him an application, and he soon returned it with the vital information inscribed and his resume attached. This, the clerk informed him, was not adequate—he must fill-in the entire application. Embarrassed at having been called down before the other job-seekers, he did a rather sketchy job, and once more handed it to the clerk. She studied the sheets while he stood in front of her desk, feeling like a supplicant.

She frowned and shook her head. "Not complete."

"The essentials are in my resume."

"Didn't you go to high school?" she asked, giving him the fish-eye.

"Yes, one ordinarily does do that prior to college—not to mention junior high."

"No other jobs?"

"Since getting the old sheepskin, no."

"You got any relatives working here?"

"Not to the best of my knowledge."

"Is that a _No?_ "

"Correct."

"Well, you gotta put that down... What about diseases?" She put on a pained look. "You gotta fill it in complete, you know. Those blanks are there for a reason."

Trask became so angry he didn't risk a reply but snatched the form and did the necessary with a shaking hand, once more taking it up for inspection. She coolly looked everything over before nodding her acceptance.

"Have a seat now," she directed, and took the papers into the office behind her.

He tried to read a couple of badly abused magazines but made no headway. The room cleared of applicants, and twenty minutes before noon he was directed to enter the inner sanctum. A large chinless man, in a dress shirt with collar open and tie pulled down, waved him to a seat without speaking or offering his hand. For several minutes he studied both application and resume before looking up.

"So, B E..."

"No, I never met him."

The Personnel Director frowned. "What?"

"If you knew someone from there, I probably didn't know him—it's a big outfit."

"Why would I know anyone at B E? Or care?"

This was embarrassing. "It's what I get from most people—asking me that."

The man frowned. "Let's stick to business. What are you here for?"

"An engineering job."

"Do you know injection molds?"

"In theory."

"We mold _parts_ not theories. Ever design molds?"

"No."

"Then why'd you come here?"

Trask got the definite impression this guy wanted to give him a hard time, or was a bit dense—likely both.

"I imagine you do more than molding here."

"Oh, you do? Well, you imagine wrong."

"Don't you also do secondary operations? Press inserts, drill, punch, trim sprues and flash, paint, gauge parts, inspect, package, lay-out the plant, work on efficiency and quality? Those are all parts of engineering."

"Part of mold engineering, maybe, but what do light bulbs have to do with it? Where's your experience we can use? Your degree's only mechanical—I don't see any plastics. And I find your attitude puzzling for an applicant."

Trask considered his reply. "Basic engineering is the same for everyone in college. The different kinds of materials still have..."

"Nah! If you can't show me any experience with thermoplastics I got no use for you here." He offered Trask a disdainful look. "You can't expect to walk in without any specialized knowledge and try to pass yourself off as an expert—try to bull your way into a salaried job without showing me any training that'll apply to our work."

For Trask, this ignorant abuse finished the process started by the applications clerk. _Pompous jackass!_ This jerk hadn't the faintest idea what he was blathering about.

"Well, it's getting near lunch, uh... We'll keep your application on hand for three months, but..."

Trask stood and interrupted him. "Ever hear of the laws of physics? They govern the actions and properties of all materials—plastics, metals, glass... heck—water and air, time and space, light and plasma. Even here in your tiny world of injection molding. These things I know and know how to apply. The problem we've got here is not any lack of knowledge on my part but a complete ignorance of engineering on your part. You've memorized a few words and phrases to try and overawe the peasantry, sure, but you..."

"Get out!"

"...haven't the least idea what..."

" _Out!_ I'll call security!"

"Adios, jackass! And don't wait three months to deep-six my application."

* * *

Trask exited, leaving the other guy with a bigger tantrum than he himself had thrown, and bolted back to West Baker. He parked down the street from the diner, and waited in the truck until the crowd thinned—striving to regain a more philosophical outlook on life. In a spot partly shaded by a big silver maple, he turned off the engine, put the windows down, and allowed a sporadic breeze to cool him.

_Quite a fiasco_. His instincts had been right—he never should have gone. Probably Charly's stories of her job gave his unconscious a cue that led to prudent hesitation. By now he felt genuinely discouraged. He'd been to nearly every reasonable prospect for a job in Gettrick—short of a coal mine, if one existed. What could he do next? He'd burned his bridges at B E and times were a bit tough all over, though an ME and a decent work record would usually guarantee you some kind of job. He could sign-up with an agency and surely get work somewhere, but he didn't particularly want to leave this area—the thought of relocating again revolted him. What a washout!

* * *

He woke from a brief snooze to find the time near two, and the diner crowd considerably thinned. When he entered, only a couple dawdling at the far end impinged upon the privacy of a chat with Peggy.

"Well, howdy, stranger!" she greeted him. "Long time no see. Where you been these last coupla hours? Yer lookin' kinda down—lose your best friend? Or is your belly actin' up?"

"Gimme one of those greasy overcooked cheeseburgers and a milkshake—I think my blood sugar's low."

"You better try a double, Bud, seein' as how you look."

"Okay, a _bacon_ cheeseburger and a _chocolate_ shake."

After she made his shake and served him, and he downed half, the cook finished his burger and Peggy brought the plate over.

"What's the problem, Ace—world not treating you right?"

Trask shrugged and grimaced while spooning relish on his bun. "I've been to every plant in the Gettrick area, and I can't even get the time of day. I know things are slow but this is ludicrous. My ticket's supposed to open doors for me, but it's of no use around here."

"Your ticket?"

"My degree—ME."

"What's that?"

"Mechanical Engineering—you know, design and such."

"I guess. You drawin' unemployment?"

"Huh-uh, not eligible."

"Cuz you're from out-of-state?"

"Because I quit my last job."

"You done screwed up, boy... Finish chewin' before you talk."

He wiped his lips. "This tastes darn good—might cure me."

"I think it proves yer still sick. So why'd you quit?"

"Let's say it seemed to be a good move at the time. I got pretty ticked off with life in general. Then I came here, and _that_ seemed like a good idea at the time, too."

"You try The Plastic?"

"They hire in Gettrick."

"Nothin' doing?"

"Not for another generation, at least. I interviewed there, but sorta burned a couple ears on my way out the door... Some real idiots at that place."

"Way to go! Been to The Mill over in Baker?"

"Over in Baker? Where's that?"

"Other side of the crick—that's Baker. This is _West_ Baker, you know."

"A town over there? And isn't that _south_?"

"Not so's you'd notice now, but it was _the_ town years and years back. They ran The Mill by water way back when—you can still see stonework round the pond. There was oil back in the hills, and a teensy coal mine maybe thirty-forty years since."

"And West Baker came later?"

"I don't say exactly _later_ —some of these houses been here a long time. But Baker was the big deal from a business point of view. Houses, too—pretty big settlement of millers and miners and oilers. Maybe _this_ place was the management town—for people who could afford to keep a horse and rig early on, then a car later."

"Looks to be nothing but hills and forest."

"Oh yeah, now. The Mill used up near every bit of flat land on that side of the river—they stuck the houses on the sides of hills or on top of em. And you'll still see em if you go look. Well... not many, cuz they're mostly abandoned and tumbled down over the years. Shanties for the most part—two rooms and a path, lot of em. If they found a cove with flatter land they might build fancier—say _four_ rooms. Those are mostly the ones left today.

"That's where the Overlook place is. They bought a hill with the remains of a old house, knocked it down, scraped the top off and graded a drive up. Built a modern motel kinda place with a great view down across the river. They advertise all over, and get a fair amount of business."

"And the rest are simply gone?"

"Oh, most of em are abandoned and the roofs caved in. Others they use for hunting shacks. That means the big deer slayers hereabouts go play cards and drink there during buck season. I expect anybody who could moved on and went to Gettrick, or else came here to West Baker."

She paused and thought for awhile. "I guess West Baker's on the way out, too, in the long run. Farming used to be something here but it's going downhill—not the best soil, and the fields too small. The Mill used to be big—did a lot of lumber for the furniture business—but now decent furniture is cherry and red oak, which there ain't much of in these parts. So this town has got the people who're willing to drive twenty miles to Gettrick... And that ain't the most prosperous of cities either."

"You know, I haven't thought about it, but you've got a bit of history around here. I ought to tour around."

"That's the problem—all history and no future. Depends on The Mill, I guess. If they can keep going for a few more years maybe something will come along to save us. As for The Plastic... I'm surprised they ain't closed down already. What a dump!"

"You and Charly are in agreement."

"You know, I haven't seen her for a coon's age. You oughta bring her in here."

"When? You don't handle the evening clientele, do you?"

"Naw! Me and Bonnie are outa here by three. Vic and his crew handle dinner—if that's what you call it, cuz it's still mostly burgers. But I'm here Saturday morning—bring her around sometime."

"Sunday after church?"

"What do I look like, some kind of heathen?" she joked. "I got Sunday off, and Saturday I leave at eleven, so come for breakfast. Give the poor girl a break."

"How do you know her?"

"Oh, she and that bum she used to hang around with—they'd come in here once in awhile. And when she was little her daddy brought her in a few times. I remember her from then, mostly, cuz she was a cute thing. Why a girl that bright would go for a slouch like Franklin Tenney I will never understand... Course, livin' without her folks and only the old lady to look after her... And Tenney is good lookin', according to some, and I suppose the bad-boy type kinda fascinates too many young girls."

"What amount I know makes me think he's a real jackass."

"You ain't far wrong! He's the kind what looks after number one real good, and as for anyone else—he don't care. Right now he's got his eye on something better—a gal with money. I mean, in the family. Maybe not money from your outlook, but sorta big money for around here."

They were both silent, thinking over all they'd said. Peggy went to take payment from the last couple, then came back to him.

"Well, you gonna try The Mill?"

"Might as well. After that I can quit trying and loaf with a clear conscience. Besides, I'd like to look around—you make it seem interesting. Where's the old coal mine?"

"Back in the hills somewhere—you'll have to ask. Might not even be a road any more. Don't go exploring if you find it—those things was dangerous enough when they were kept up."

"Never fear," he said, "I don't even want to _explore_ these present-day going operations. I'm only job-hunting because you and Charly nagged me."

* * *

Trask found his way across the stream, driving east beside it to where it widened into a good-sized pond—and down the road stood a collection of old wooden buildings and a huge pile of sawdust and scrap wood. He went past without stopping and toyed with the idea of going on to explore—putting off his application until next week. But in a few minutes he turned around, deciding to get the chore over with once and forever. He pulled into a visitor's slot near the tacked-on office building, and after tightening his tie and donning his jacket, picked up his briefcase and entered.

A pleasant middle-aged lady in a dress smiled and greeted him from behind a cluttered desk, the first of several rows and clusters. He proffered his resume. "I'm looking for work—is this the right place?"

"Well... salaried? You don't look like shop."

"Engineering or... Well, whatever's available within reason."

"Hmm. Not much at present, but... Sharon!" She called over her shoulder. A trim-looking younger woman appeared, wearing a dress jacket over slacks and blouse. "Take this man back to Jess—he's looking for a job." His resume was handed on.

The new woman signed for him to follow and they cut through the office to a door leading to the shop. "Have safety glasses?" she asked as they stopped by a stand. He set his briefcase on the stand and took out his own pair. She pulled hers from a pocket and they continued down an aisle for a good distance, took a right turn and on to a set of double doors, through and left down another aisle to a closed room against the inner wall of this second bay.

All around the buzz and scream of saws and planers, mills and sanders filled his ears. A faint haze floated in the air despite the efforts of dust collectors, and the acrid half-burnt smell of fresh-cut wood reeked pleasantly. He found his spirits lifting at the sound of machines and activity, and the sight and scent of so much lumber, always exhilarating to him in a primeval way.

"Who is this Jess?" he asked as she paused at the office door.

"He's maintenance and engineering," she responded, speaking up over the noise of machinery. "Wait here for a sec."

In a minute she came out and held the door for him, and he thanked her with a smile and entered. A weathered and mustachioed older man sat behind a large battered desk, holding his resume.

"Trask?" The Super held out his hand without rising. "Engler—take a pew." He studied the paper a while. "Engineering? We don't have any needs at present. They tell you up front?"

"No, they shuttled me back here pretty fast. But, anyway, I'm looking for a job, engineering or not. I've been looking awhile."

"B E... our draftsman used to work there. Brad Fazio—you know him?"

_Boy, if this doesn't beat all! After the other bull I've put up with_...

"Let me see if I can explain, Mr Engle. B E has three, four, maybe five hundred thousand employees. They've got a couple hundred plants scattered over fifteen or twenty states. They make not only light bulbs—which is what I was in—but electronics, consumer appliances, all kinds of engineering equipment, motors, tools and God alone knows what else. And even if somebody did work there once upon a time, they've got the most turnover of any company you can imagine—practically half of everybody in the US has worked for them at one time or another. So... does that answer your question?"

Engler took this in without any change of expression, nodding his head several times. "If I understand you correctly, Trask, chances are you don't know our fella Fazio."

Almost as deadpan, Trask answered, "Even if I _did_ know him I probably wouldn't admit it."

Engler pursed his lips and leaned back in his swivel chair, continuing to study the resume. Neither of them spoke.

In a few minutes the man looked up, seeming to come to a conclusion, and Trask poised to jump to his feet and impart a worse blast than he'd bestowed upon the nitwit at Atlas Molding. He'd never handled frustration well nor suffered fools gladly, and was sick and tired of being grilled about whatever bumpkin had sometime earned a few bucks at his former employer. Be a big relief to simply forget working for a good while, register with a recruiter or employment agency, send out a few resumes...

"Well?"

"What? Sorry, didn't hear."

"Said—are you a hands-on type?"

"Sure, always have been."

"Some engineers are only pencil and paper office types."

"No, I'm not afraid to dirty my hands, do my own donkey work if need be."

"Well, as I said, we've got no need for engineering right now, but we can use a maintenance man... You interested in something on that order?"

This put a different light on things—the first positive words he'd heard. He considered... _Well, why not_?

"I suppose—why not?"

"You'd have to do whatever comes up—machine repair, install equipment, paint, mow the lawn, maybe. Can you trouble-shoot?"

"Yes."

"Electrical controls?"

"Yeah, I can isolate problems—I've done some control design. And I've got the NEC book."

"Know high voltage?"

"Not much—three-phase two-forty maybe, but nothing higher."

"Pneumatic, hydraulic?"

"Sure, pretty well."

"Okay. Pays eight and a quarter to start..."

"Eight and a quarter!"

"To start. Work seven to three, eat your lunch on the run, take a break when you can sneak it in. Overtime whenever we need you—time and a half. Hours might change from time to time. After the trial period you get medical, eight holidays, savings plan which I won't try to explain, other stuff. We shut down over winter holidays, and you get no pay unless you've earned vacation."

_What a crumby deal!_ But... "Good enough, I'll take it."

"One other thing—I've got to see your tools."

"See my tools?"

"Make sure you're not stretching things."

Trask got a bit indignant at being doubted. "What kind? Mechanic's, machinist's, electrical, carpenter's, plumber's, garden—what do you have to see?"

"That'll do—but forget the garden stuff." Engler seemed to think this rather droll.

Trask was again ready to walk out but decided to swallow his pride. "I don't have them with me," he grated, "Bring them tomorrow."

"Nine o'clock or thereabouts—let me get a start on the day before you come."

"Fine. I'll be here," he said, his face rigid and unsmiling.

"Okay, I'll walk you out."

Trask was steaming, and felt sure his attitude must show—but so what! He told himself he didn't care one way or the other. _I came here looking for a job and I can leave the same way._ What a ration of static these outfits were handing him! He had real doubts if he could even put up with this joker. His exit was by no means as uplifting as his entrance.

At the front entrance the man offered his hand. "Name's Engler, by the way, not Engle. Show me your gear and you can start Monday."

And there it stood.

~

Chapter 20 Sludge Pit?

day 27,28 Thur eve, Fri Sept 19,20

Trask drove straight home, and once there didn't start to cool down until he'd changed clothes and relaxed downstairs.

"Phone's in!" Charly told him upon arriving home, but he didn't much care.

She questioned him on his adventures but he only shook his head. Even Frankie irritated him, and hoping for some peace took a walk up the side road, to where an old house sat. He let the child trail after him but conversed little at first, answering in monosyllables. She soon grew silent but still followed.

The decrepit structure, overgrown and ready to collapse, stood a stone's throw beyond Charly's property line.

At the same distance farther down on the opposite side of the road sat a mobile home with a deck attached. That particular domicile looked in better condition than the old house, but not by much. Weeds and briars overgrew the yard, which contained a couple of junk cars along with other large trash.

The road here would better be described as a wide path, petering-out past the mobile.

"Who lives there?" he asked the child.

"I don't know—Momma doesn't let me come up here."

"By yourself."

"Uh-huh."

He turned back toward the old house. Even had the building fallen and been completely hidden he'd have known this to be a homestead. A tall Norway spruce shaded the near end of two ruts—signs of an old driveway—and a lilac grew beside the fallen porch. He'd bet on seeing daffodils in the spring, too, the three being almost inevitable signs of settlement from the previous century.

"Who do you think lives here?"

She looked sideways at him, sensing his teasing. "Nobody?"

"What of ghosts?"

"Maybe. Are there things like ghosts?"

"No, I don't think so. You've probably never been inside, have you?"

"No-oo-o!" She shivered theatrically.

"We can explore it one day. What do you think?"

She squinted at him with one eye. "Will Momma come?"

_Ah, it's a pleasant day._ He couldn't stay long around Frankie's comically adult mannerisms and maintain a bad temper. He would come to terms with this assault on his self-worth—make a go of the stupid job somehow, last as long as he could until something better came along or he moved on.

"We'll get Momma to come next time, okay?"

* * *

He complimented Charly on supper—spaghetti with meatballs and lima beans, and homemade garlic bread consisting of sliced white with the crusts trimmed—buttered and heavily dosed with garlic salt, and toasted in the broiler. She wryly thanked him for being easy to please, as usual. They sipped iced tea and spooned chocolate pudding.

"So, are you ready to talk about your day, yet?" He heaved a huge sigh, making her chuckle. "Any luck?"

"Depends what you call _luck_."

"Which means...?"

"Well, looks as if I've got a job if I'm willing to crawl just a bit more."

"Oh, that's good... Isn't it?"

"Not too sure."

"What's the deal?"

"Maintenance—at The Mill."

"Well, that's decent. Certainly nothing to be ashamed of."

"Not exactly what I'm used to. Low pay, and I'm on probation."

"You mean a trial period? Common enough around here. You're not being treated worse than anyone else, I imagine."

"I've got to show them my tools—make sure I'm not lying," he added sourly.

She expressed sympathy. "I see what's bugging you... Er, you do have them, don't you—the tools?"

He waved off any problem. "I've got tools they haven't even dreamed of. No, it's that I've been used to being treated as upper class, and now I'm learning what the peons have to put up with. Makes you think a little... Could be worse, of course—with the way my luck's been going I might have been hired to clean out the sludge pit."

"What's a sludge pit?"

"I dunno, but they've likely got one, and it's probably packed _full_ of sludge."

* * *

After further chat he went to select and load tools while Charly did the dishes. As often, she allowed Frankie to dry and put away certain things. Frankie did not yet realize this was work, and Charly made sure to offer the task as a privilege, making much of the fact the girl needed to be cleaned up to start with, the dishes were to be stacked just so and the _silver_ lined up. She reserved the more critical tasks for herself because, "You're simply not old enough yet, darling."

Frankie envied her mother's freedom and competence, and was certain she could do more than Charly allowed. Surely she would earn the privilege of handling the serving dishes by the time she turned _eight._

"Right, Mom?"

"We'll see, Honey. Maybe you'll change your mind about doing dishes when you're older."

"No I won't!" Frankie stoutly assured her.

Charly smiled, wondering how long it would take for her daughter to decide _helping Momma_ was work rather than fun. Twelve, ten? Ah, well.

* * *

Frankie slept after having been read to from a book of poems. The girl liked the cadences and rhymes even if vocabulary and concepts were beyond her, and she'd gone easily to sleep. They sat on the couch, idly watching shadows miming on the no-sound channel of the TV.

Charly hesitated to probe deeply, but nerved herself to ask, "Get a good rate?"

"Pathetic!"

"Oh." Her voice trailed off.

"You want to know how much—complete my debasement?"

"No... not really. It's not important—not if you don't want to say."

"In other words, you're dying to know."

"O-oo-oh! Tell me or not—I don't care."

"Eight and a quarter. You happy?"

"I wish _I_ got that much."

"And I'm sure you _could_. Go spend five years getting a degree, and see if the money doesn't start rolling in. But it's to start, so maybe..."

"I get six forty-five—with my big raise, that is."

Trask gave her a pained look. "How long've you been there?"

"Five years, nearly."

"Good grief! This town in a state of permanent depression or something?"

" _Something_ is right, I think. Many of these guys farm part-time as my father did, and maybe that keeps wages down. Also, there's never enough work around, even though a lot of young folks leave for bigger cities or head west or off to the East Coast or down South—join the service. I guess we're a depressed area... The thing is, a lot of people enjoy living in the country, even with the drawbacks."

"Yeah, I can see that—scenery, slower pace of life, less competition with the neighbors to look stylish, get to know everybody. Yeah, life here has its charms."

As he finished he looked at her so pointedly she felt a slight surge of panic—almost jumped up from the chair. She shifted uncomfortably, and he looked away.

Imagination, or wishful thinking? _I don't need to assume he's romancing me. Merely my conceit showing. Treats me more as a member of the family than a sex object—guess I'm safe enough_. But she couldn't help wondering... The day in the woods, the squeeze when they looked at the windows. Friendly? Or did he want to be more than a friend? Sally's warnings, Doris's nasty predictions—had she become vulnerable? Was he covertly insinuating himself into her defenses?

* * *

Engler looked over Trask's tools—those he'd decided to bring. Opening the drawers in his machinist's chest, Engler pointed to a one inch mike.

"Here, measure this," he said, handing Trask a round pencil from the protector in his shirt pocket.

"Length or diameter?" Trask asked by way of humor, expertly rolling the pencil between the micrometer anvils. "Minor—two-ninety, major—two-ninety-eight. Might read a couple thousandths low, though—compression of the soft wood."

"Umph. And these? They look too new. You buy them for show, did you?"

"You figure the best mechanic has the dirtiest tools, eh?" He picked up a ratchet. "This I use to unscrew things—if you try to tighten, it only clicks. But I have another one for tightening."

Engler twisted his lips and turned away for a second. "See you Monday at seven," he said. "We'll sit around for an hour while I get the jobs going, then I'll hand you over to the office for paperwork. Bring good ID so we know you're not a wetback, and come in the door over on the end. If you see a time-card with your name, clock in. If not, I didn't get around to it. Figure getting a physical sometime next week. Okay? Bring your mechanic's tools and maybe a few others, but leave most of these home till you need them... That's it for now, I guess. See you Monday?"

"I'll be here."

"And your helper," he said, waving at Frankie, who'd stayed in the truck through the morning's activities, "no need to bring her along. She yours?"

"She'll work cheap—buck and a quarter will get her."

"Can't say we couldn't use someone with smarts around here, but it ain't in the budget."

"She's Biscoe's granddaughter."

"Who used to work here? Now I _do_ wish I could hire her—he was a good man." He waved again to Frankie.

* * *

Trask's mood, as he drove home, differed greatly from yesterday's. Engler was a man of few words, apparently, and those much to the point. But he seemed to have a dry sense of humor and a willingness to take some kidding. _If I were an optimist_ —knowing he was— _I might even be looking forward to this job_.

~

Chapter 21 Jury-rig

day 29,30,31 Sat, Sun, Mon Sept 21,22,23

Saturday—for a touch of mild excitement—they shopped in Gettrick, taking advantage of sales at a big grocery. Trask picked up a gallon of latex for trim paint, and Charly stopped at a white sale to choose a few sets of sheets and towels, thinking with satisfaction of the supply of rags she'd be getting from the old items.

Frankie got her curtains—bought rather than made—and at Trask's urging, fancy curtain rods besides. Small-girl ecstasy!

For lunch they stopped at a fast food outfit with a playground, planning to allow Frankie to kill an hour on the slides and other apparatus.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked Charly as they finished their snack and the girl ran outside.

"I've got a ton of work to do—laundry, ironing, Frankie's curtains—and we need to stop at Price's for fresh and frozen stuff."

"Yeah, I've got a lot, too. Paint the trim, mainly, and I want to dig the garden."

"How long will it take?"

"Trim? Depends how good a job. If I only do the outer surface—which needs it most—I might finish this weekend if the rain holds off. If I do the inner parts, too—you know, where the sash run up and down—that'll take longer because the storms have to come down, and the painting's trickier."

"Supposed to rain tomorrow."

"We ought to get going."

They continued to sit.

"Want another Coke?" She agreed, and he went for refills. Frankie played on.

"She needs a swing," he observed. When the ivy is gone, I'll put one up in the oak."

"What do you figure—three, four years?"

He pretended to frown. "You know what the stuff said—kills in days."

"The End of Days, maybe. If you're that energetic, why not use the catalpa?"

"Branches too slanty—she'd wrap herself round the trunk. You need a strong branch parallel to the ground."

"By the time the poison ivy's dead... And why are you so eager to do the garden—planning to become a farmer?"

"Mankind were farmers for tens of thousands of years, starting right after the pastoral stage—it's in our genes. There's an eternal quasi-instinctive drive associated with burial of the apparently dead seed, and its rebirth and growth. And like that seed, the urge stays dormant until a man returns to the soil." He had her laughing by now. "I want to turn the soil over—get ready for winter."

"So _that's_ why farmers wear jeans—it's in their genes. But you're a flower man, city fella—how come the vegetables? Need more variation in your diet?"

"Love those beans. But I might do flowers once I've got the landscaping plan worked-up in my mind."

"Oh, a landscaping plan. And what is _your_ plan for _my_ property?"

"Your main need is another large tree to screen you more from the road, the house being so darned close. Give you more shade, too. A white pine, maybe, near the drive—they grow fast. And a couple of big rhododendrons in front of the porch. I'd like to see a dogwood, too, but it definitely wouldn't do well. Too bad, because they can't be beat for looks. But if I amend the soil, which the rhodies need, to hold moisture better..."

"Be sure and let me know what you have in mind for me... There's a park near here—want to check the _landscape?_ We can walk around and she can get tired out."

"Yeah, let's. We can always work some other day—it'll wait for us."

* * *

Sunday drizzled. After lunch Charly worked steadily around the house while Trask sat and read—criticizing her library, mostly _classics_ that failed to pique his interest.

"Here's Kipling," she called. "And Thackeray."

"Hate his stuff."

"Have you read him?"

"Sure—boring old New England fairy tales."

She appeared in the doorway. " _New_ England? England, you mean."

"No, that old Puritan bilge."

"Thackeray?"

"Yeah."

"Or Hawthorne?"

"Six o' one, half dozen t'other."

"Thackeray's the one who wrote _Vanity Fair_."

"Right."

"You know it?"

"Sure, who doesn't?"

"Who's the heroine—anti-heroine, rather?"

Long pause. "Dora something or other."

"Becky Sharpe."

"Oh, that's right! I'm thinking of that one by, uh... "

"Dickens—David Copperfield."

"No... Goliath Leadstream."

"You've never read _any_ of them, have you?"

"Not if I could avoid it. I can't stand those slow-moving rusty old melodramas. Where's your science fiction?"

Charly's grin broadened, and she plucked a volume from the lower shelf. "Try this and see if it's too rusty for you."

" _Henry Esmond_. Sounds deadly—how's it come out?"

"I won't tell, but here's part of what's in it—two beautiful women, sword fighting, an attempt to overthrow the crown—that type of dull stuff."

"And a whole lot of jabber and flighty manners, too, I'll bet."

"Well, that's how they used to write them. But what you said concerning Hawthorne is true, I think."

"Read much of his?"

"Mmm, sampled everything, more like."

"And didn't get too thrilled, I gather. Why'd you keep reading him?"

"It's probably literary blasphemy, but I couldn't take him. He's simply full of himself, and so critical of everything you want to choke him. He tried to impress everyone with his... Well, I don't know, but it's as though he wanted to leave behind smart-aleck quotations wherever he went or whatever he wrote. I think they still sometimes dueled then, and if so, it's amazing he wasn't shot several times a month."

Trask couldn't help laughing at her passion. "Okay, you've convinced me—no Hawthorne under any circumstances."

"One teacher wanted to stuff him down our throats every chance she got. I was eager to please her, and to get into the discussions she led in Book Club after school. But eventually I stopped going, and all because of Hawthorne—his _Seven Gables_ , his _Scarlet Letter_ , his _Journals_ where he shows how much smarter he is than the English and Italians, his stupid depressing high-falutin wordy anti-Puritan down-east tales. What a fraud! And I enjoyed the club, but Nathaniel was too much for me."

"You slay me sometimes."

"Then there was Emerson—I hope I'm not confusing the two. Oh, enough of him! Or them. Ever read any Jane Austen?"

"A _girly_ book?" He was aghast.

"She's quite good—some of her works—and they're _all_ talk and manners. You might want to try _Pride and Prejudice_ —the most popular."

"Sounds rapturous. Better let me try this pirate one first."

"Huh? There are no pirates."

"Isn't this the one that starred Errol Flynn?"

* * *

Trask slipped into The Mill several minutes early and scanned the IN rack next to the time clock for his name. Ah, there it was. He gingerly slid the card into the slot at the top of the ancient machine, then pulled it out and looked—no stamp showed. Another man came up behind him as he cautiously inserted the card again, and again went unrewarded.

"Here," said the other worker, shouldering past him to pull a card from its slot. "Like this," and he thrust his card briskly into the clock to the sound of a solid bang, striding off without another word. Trask tried twice more before he got the hang of clocking-in, then searched for the number on the OUT rack corresponding to the one on his card, as impatient men and women lined up behind him.

He allowed them to pass, sauntering in their wake. Here was the reason for the rush—a large coffee maker. Foam cups, sugar packets, dry creamer, paper napkins and wooden stirrers bedecked a coffee-stained shelf between the locker rooms' doors, and every soul eagerly poured a wake-up ration. Although he'd brought a thermos of Charly's coffee he appreciated this potential resource. He noticed they were putting quarters into a cigar box, and wondered idly whether all paid their just dues.

Taking his time, he strolled to Engler's office, not wanting to have to wait for the man. No fear of that. Himself was behind his desk, intent on paperwork, and giving every sign he'd been there for awhile. Trask chose to enter without knocking, a minor rebellious act of the type habitual with him.

The man indicated a chair. "Get coffee?"

Trask held up his thermos, and Engler went back to his work.

Several minutes passed before a man entered the room. "Somethin' fer me, Supe?"

Engler passed him a paper. "Hydraulic leak. Clean-up and replace whatever went—probably a hose. See if it's being cut or rubbed by something on the machine. This happened once a couple of months ago."

"Uh, you want me to bring you the part to see?"

"If you need to—if it's not obvious."

"Okay then, Supe." The man left.

"Lacks confidence. Not much of a trouble shooter," Engler confided. Another man immediately entered, and Engler went through his maintenance orders, selecting three of them. "Over by the planers," he told him. The man left silently. "Pretty good," Engler said, "but if he runs short of work he doesn't advertise."

A total of six men received assignments, one to replace a motor, others to look at bearings and belts and damaged guards, one to check a complete machine breakdown and report back. As time allowed, he made private comments to Trask. Two of them he introduced. One he queried as to the location of _Benny_ , last reported to be swabbing the men's locker-room.

"A job he should have done Friday," Engler growled.

He worked on at his papers, evidently making out a schedule, then checked last week's timecards, making notes. Trask attempted to read upside-down without seeming too obvious. At a couple minutes before eight Engler rolled back his chair and stood. "Let's see if anybody's working up front," and he led off through the factory. Stopping at a puddle near a piece of machinery, he pointed up at the ceiling. "Even yesterday's drizzle came through. This'll be your first job, I guess."

They stared up together, trying to pierce the gloom high above. "What type of construction is that?" Trask asked.

"Like it, do you? Seems they missed their aim when they tried to bring the two peaks together, and a puddle forms where the slopes meet. Nobody was sharp enough to straighten things out at the time, and we're not sharp enough to fix it right, so we keep on patching."

* * *

Around ten, after the formalities were completed and he'd promised to bring better proof he wasn't an illegal alien, they sent him back to the factory. Engler wasn't at his office, so he wandered over to the coffee station and sat at a nearby picnic table. Two other men were sitting there, and they exchanged grunts. Trask poured from the thermos and took a sip—plenty sweet and still hot, thank goodness.

"You just startin'?"

"Yeah. Chuck Trask."

His questioner rubbed a hand on his trouser leg, then offered it. "Joe Bstpflkz," he said, or something of the sort. "This is Morrie Fangnwpslk."

_Joe and Morrie_ , Trask repeated to himself, hoping he would remember. He'd already forgot the monikers of those who'd been introduced to earlier.

"You workin' for the Chief? Maintenance?" Joe pronounced it main-TAYN-ance.

"Uh-huh."

"Lotta overtime."

"Yeah?"

"Screw ever'thin' up," interjected Morrie, "so they gotta keep fixin' em."

"That good or bad?" Trask inquired.

His joke earned a thin smile. "Good fer them, anyways," Morrie admitted.

Joe pointed out they weren't _all_ screwed up—only most of them. He opened up on the qualities of the maintenance crew, but hardly started when Engler hove into view.

"Whoa!" Joe said, rising.

"You report to him?" Trask asked.

"Naw, but he's a feisty old goat sometimes." Picking up their coffees, they made their excuses and scurried off.

Trask stood and followed Engler into the office.

"Getting acquainted with the gravity gang?"

"The what?"

"Gravity—John and Maurie. They figure things'd fly off into space if they didn't weight them down with their bodies... Let's go to the tool cage."

"John? Not Joe?"

Engler glanced at him. "John Brozovic and Maurice Vankanegan."

"Oh."

When they passed into the fenced area, Engler pointed out a metal cart with two shelves. An inch-and-a-quarter iron pipe extended from the bottom shelf through the top. Welded to its upper end was a three-eighths by three-inch-wide plate, and on the bottom end a pair of welded rings secured the pipe to a lower shelf while allowing it to swivel. Trask frowned at the contraption.

"For your tool chest. Bolt it down—see these holes somebody put here? Use carriage bolts so they won't interfere with the lowest drawer. Then you swing this piece over the top and run another pipe—looks set up for a three-quarter—through this hole and down through the top here, and put a good padlock on it—keep things safe."

Trask's frown deepened. "You have much trouble with theft here?" He could hardly believe things were so _city-like_ in this peaceful countryside.

"No, we don't, and this is partly why. You don't have to if you don't want—up to you. But if it were me... Bring your tools in and get set up. Change this arrangement if your box doesn't fit. You can machine, I guess—know how to weld? Well, you can see the machine shop over there. Need any help, come see me. Don't have a lock, borrow one from Chester here. When you're ready, get ahold of me and I'll get you started on the roof."

Trask felt slightly overwhelmed. "Uh, okay, I guess."

"You didn't bring any carpenter tools, did you? You'll draw them as needed from Chester," he said, pointing at the tool cage attendant who stood vacantly observing them. "I'll get Benny to help you." And with that he went off, leaving behind a slightly dazed Trask.

"I got a lectrician's lock, you need one," Chester offered. An' ya can git a hand-cart outa the machine shop ta drag in yer box."

* * *

Charly called the oil company at morning break to arrange delivery. Infuriatingly, they wanted payment in advance, and she arranged to stop in their office after work. _Another blasted trip to the big city_ , she complained. Supper would to be late, and she expected Chuck to be on edge after his first day. _Blast, blast, blast!_ She called them back to change the appointment to Tuesday, adding irritably, "And I don't want any static about waiting until my check clears, either."

_I'll find a new supplier if they give me any trouble_ , she vowed. When would this credit stuff go away? Not one business had ever lost money on her, even if she'd now and then been late to pay. She must be listed in everybody's books as, BAD CREDIT—GET YOUR MONEY UP FRONT. What a joke! But she didn't feel much like laughing. _I'll never go out again in old clothes, and I'll get my car repainted or something. And if Trask wants to landscape the blasted house, I'll pay for it._ Anything to get from under this rep with people—too blasted degrading!

* * *

At a quarter to twelve Trask looked up Engler, having rushed to get the mods done to the cart. Only minimal work had been necessary, since his chest was apparently the same size as the previous one. He'd cut and drilled a new pipe for the hold-down, and transferred the old holes to the bottom of his chest. Still, finding the whereabouts of tools and hardware took time, but he didn't want to start by establishing himself as a goof-off on the first day, and hurried as much as possible.

They went off to find Benny, apparently a task in itself. They located him at the far end of the shop, kibitzing on a plumbing repair.

"I'm helpin' Carl here," Benny excused himself.

"No, ya ain't," declared Carl. "Yer jist gittin' in my way."

Benny chose to treat this as a joke, laughing self-consciously. "Well, in that case I guess I _kin_ give ya a hand, Jess. Whatcha need?"

Jess gave him a fishy eye but made no verbal reproach. "You're gonna help Mr Trask do a roof repair," he said.

"Chuck Trask," Trask said, holding out his hand.

"I'm Benny Ianiro—pleased ta meetcha. You gonna be workin' with us?"

Engler interrupted, "That same low spot we always have trouble with. Get an extension ladder set up, and Trask will inspect it." Benny stood blankly as if awaiting further intelligence. "Now," Engler added.

"Okay, Jess, I'm on my way," and he sloped off toward the other side of the plant.

"Let's go have a look from the outside, then we'll go see where Benny got lost. Or maybe he'll meet us—you can never tell. If anyone's looking for me, Carl, I'll be out near the side entrance."
As they tramped along Trask essayed a cautious question. "Benny... He needs a lot of attention?"

"That's one way of putting it. Production foisted him off on me some time back. Told me he'd got a man who needed more varied work rather than steady production. Thought he _might be good for maintenance_. I must not have been too sharp that day—didn't see it coming. Make a good poker player, that one."

"Benny?"

"No-oo-o!" Engler scorned the idea. "Whitmer, the production super... I owe him one but haven't had the chance to get him back yet, the so-and-so. Now Benny, he's more a Go Fish player, except he needs to be reminded when it's his turn. But he's smart enough to keep just short of being canned. The management here doesn't want to let people go. They're scared stiff a union might get in if enough employees started fearing for their jobs... Or maybe they're a bunch of old women."

* * *

After lunch Charly thought about planning supper. Not that she felt hungry—she merely wanted to make Trask feel extra good on his first day of work. After all, keeping him happy on the job might help assure her income. She didn't know how well off he was, despite his bragging. He might be one of those windbags she'd run into often before, merely better at fairytales than the average local clod.

And even if he did have sufficient money to support himself as he claimed, still... If he held a regular job wasn't he more likely to settle down for awhile? And the longer he stayed the better her chances to get enough money put away and not have to sell out. _Mercenary?_ she accused herself, y _ou betcha!_

She easily imagined him—with his volatile personality, his tetchy pride—getting into an argument and quitting the first day... or being so burned-up at having to do dirty-work he wouldn't want to rise up early and go in the next morning. But if she _rewarded_ his working, gave him a treat to look forward to when he came home from the job... Sure, it would certainly help. The question—with what should she bait the trap?

* * *

Benny steadied the ladder—not that he needed to—while Trask walked the roof. What a mess! Some kind of royal wood-butchers must have built this addition. Or maybe they took the easy way to make more on their bid. The buildings' roof angles met such that a long level valley was created—perfect as a catch-basin for runoff.

Over the years various sloppy repairs had been made to the area in an attempt to alter the valley slope to where the water would run off, but these hadn't been radical enough to do any good, the result being a series of small puddles standing today after Sunday's rain. He scratched his head and tried to visualize a reasonable fix.

"How often do you have to work on this?" he called down.

Benny shrugged. "Coupla times a year."

"What do they do, slop on roofing cement?"

"I spose."

He'd be getting limited help from Benny, obviously. Trask tested the area with his heel to see if the roofboards were rotted, but the patches were thick enough to make the whole thing feel monolithic. He walked around to sight from different angles while trying to get an idea of what to do, taking so long Benny became impatient.

"What say I get us coffee?"

"No, I'm coming." When down Trask said, "Go ahead and put the ladder back."

"Are we through here?"

"For now."

"Ya wanna gimme a hand with it? It's purty heavy."

Trask began to get wind of why Benny was disdained, and how he'd managed to finagle himself a job he couldn't handle—he put you in a position where you felt required to help him even while resenting his familiarity.

"Yeah, take it down—I'll grab one end."

* * *

"Fix it right?" Engler sounded skeptical.

"Better than working on it twice a year forever. Might well be dry-rotted."

"Wouldn't doubt it. What you thinking of?"

"Rebuild. Tear off the old roofing, rip out any weakened lumber, run a timber from peak to peak, and run both ways at angles that'll shed water."

"How'll you blend it into the other roofs?"

"We'll end up with compound angles, but we can work it out as we go along. Easier to simply layout on the spot than try to design it."

"And how long do you think this is gonna take?"

"Oh... say a day for me to figure things in more detail, and estimate materials. Maybe three, four days to rebuild, and another day to cover it."

"Optimistic, ain't you?"

"Not too much. Always the chance of something unforeseen, of course."

"You're not planning to do this by yourself, are you—you and Benny?" Trask shook his head. "How much help would you need?"

"Four men," he guessed.

"Four men for a week? Half our crew, almost."

"I'm counting myself. And maybe three would do it."

Engler snorted. "Never going to happen."

Trask grimaced. "This'll go on forever, then... until the roof falls in."

"Yeah, that's how we work here."

"Get in outside roofers—they'd probably be quicker."

"And how much will _that_ cost?"

"Well... seeing as they're used to this thing—four men, three days."

"Go on."

"Ninety-six hours, maybe thirty..."

"Forty, easy."

"... forty bucks an hour—four thousand minus one-sixty... thirty-eight forty. But it might be only thirty bucks an hour."

"Plus materials, plus they'd probably screw away more time than you think. Nah! Never happen. If we can't hide it in daily operations, or fit it in during shutdown, it won't be done—until the roof caves, that is."

"When's shutdown?"

"In summer. That's when we try to fix all the machines and systems we've wired together during the year. And we'll be too busy, same as always."

"Disgusting!"

"Yep, it is. What's your next idea?"

Trask slumped, dejected. After a few moments he said, "Use reinforcing fabric. Slap on roofing cement—or tar, if you have any—lay down the fabric then more cement. A jury-rig is all it amounts to."

"Well, that's what you'll have to do—like it or not—same as everybody before you."

Trask nodded without much enthusiasm.

"Eat lunch today?" Engler asked.

"No, I missed it."

"Too late to start the roof. Go eat, then come back here and I'll explain schedules and benefits and all the other stuff they should have told you up front but probably didn't... or you forgot by now. And I'll commiserate with you over not being able to do things right. Go ahead, take off."

* * *

Charly searched throughout Price's. Frankie trailed along with the cart, managing to bang it into most displays but missing the majority of other shoppers. Charly couldn't make up her mind what to get. She thought pizza too plebeian for tonight's ceremony. Steak? Nah, better something they hadn't eaten before. Stuffed pork chops? Good enough for Sunday but too ordinary for this occasion. Ham? No way. Roast a chicken? Not bad—he'd appreciate _that_ , she knew, but it would take too long.

Frankie spouted off, "Mo-oo-om! Cancha pick somethin'? I'm gettin' tired." They went and got ice cream, although they still had chocolate at home. Coffee Caramel Swirl— _yeah!_ She dawdled by the seafood cooler—they hadn't eaten fish yet.

~

Chapter 22 Feast

day 31 Mon Sept 23

Trask looked pretty contented with life, Charly thought, as she rushed to get things ready. He hadn't said anything, but she felt he must have enjoyed a good day. Wonderful! Everything worked out perfectly. Cooking was going well, and though late it should be a swell meal. Over dessert they could have a nice long talk over how things had gone for him.

_Oh, what a conniver I am_! This was going to be great—a red-letter day!

Okay, everything set. She hadn't a chance to change from work clothes, and had on one of those baggy old shirts today—but so what. "Frankie! Wash up and sit down. Chuck? Coffee now or later? You can sit down, too." He _was_ in a good mood, she saw.

"Hungry?"

"You'd better believe it—I could eat that fabled horse."

"You don't really eat horsies, do you?"

"If your mother would cook one, today I'd eat it, Sweetie."

'You're foolin'—I know."

He chuckled and rubbed his hands as Charly set his plate in front of him. A surprised expression crossed his face.

He certainly hadn't anticipated anything such as this, she'd bet. "Real special day, huh?" she asked. "The ocean's bounty," she added, mimicking his occasional high-flown mode of expression.

"Uh... yeah, I suppose."

"Things went well?"

"Yeah, I guess—no real problems."

"Think you're going to like working there?" He seemed curiously unexcited. She would never react that way. But guys, who could tell with them?

"Oh... won't be too bad, I imagine."

"What did you work on today?"

"Just getting... Didn't do much—only getting started. Signed in."

"That's nice."

Funny, he hadn't dug in the way she expected. He ate the parsley-sprinkled fingerling potatoes, and he'd swallowed a couple of tips of the asparagus spears, but only toyed with the crab legs, barely nibbling at a tiny forkful of meat.

"Aren't you hungry?" she asked, beginning to feel some apprehension.

"No, I'm okay," he answered without much enthusiasm.

Had he eaten on the way home, she wondered? She noticed him glancing at Frankie's plate, where the girl was polishing off her potatoes and gobbling a hot dog.

"She's okay," Charly said, "she doesn't care for this kind of..." Then it hit her. _Oh Lord! He's told me often enough he likes plain food._ What had she done? She felt like crying at seeing her work wasted—her big plan shot down by a thoughtless blunder.

Frankie leaned over and whispered to Trask behind her hand, "Mommy's sad."

"Charly? What's the matter?"

"Nothing. You don't care for asparagus?"

"Well... not much, but I'll eat it."

"The crab legs—what's the matter with them?"

He turned shifty-eyed, looking over at the stove. "Sorry—reminds me of bugs."

"What!"

"They're like big underwater spiders, you know. Makes me sort of queasy thinking of the things. Sorry."

She couldn't help feeling annoyed at his rejection of her hard work. "Would you want a hot dog?" she jeered.

"The potatoes are nice," he assured her.

"They're gone," she coldly replied

"No problem."

"I'll boil a couple more hot dogs."

"That'd be good."

"I'm... Frankie, dear, go play outside."

"But Mom..."

"Take your hot dog. I'll give you dessert later."

Frankie sighed. She knew something interesting would be happening, otherwise she'd be allowed to stay.

"Oka-aa-ay," she said in a long-suffering tone.

Charly waited until she heard the door close, then got up to fill a pan and get two hot dogs out of the fridge. She stood rigidly at the range, feeling an unreasonable anger building—blaming him for her own blunder, but unable to stop.

Mistaking her stiffness for hurt rather than anger, Trask went over and put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. She refused to turn her eyes toward him, and he decided to kid her out of her mood.

"You're not pregnant, are you?" he asked with mock sympathy.

She jerked away from him, swatting his hand from her shoulder. _"What!"_

Trask grinned uneasily.

"Why would you ever think _that?_ " she screeched.

He spread his hands in bafflement. "Well, the food—you're crying and..."

He dropped his eyes, and she mistook it as a reference to her waistline.

"I'm _fat_? I look _pregnant_ , I'm so _fat?"_

"No, no! This crazy food, and... I'm only kidding you!"

" _Crazy!_ And I look _pregnant?"_ she almost screamed. "I wasn't crying—I was _mad!"_

Trask heated up at her unwillingness to go along with the joke. He'd wanted to get her mind off her troubles, and here she was distorting what he meant—exaggerating, putting words in his mouth.

"Now hold on..."

"No, _you_ hold on..."

"Mom?" Frankie called.

"Stay outside," she shouted. She gave Trask another outraged look, hissing, "You fix your _own_ hot dogs!" and bolted toward the front porch.

She slammed the door and hurled herself into the porch chair.

Frankie looked sad. "Momma... why are you fighting with Chuck?"

Charly pulled the child to her. "We're not fighting, Darling."

"Are too. What's the matter, Momma, huh? I don't like when you fight."

Charly gave a gusty sigh. "We're only having a disagreement, Dear, not a fight."

"Well, what's a dis'greemet for? Don't you like Chuck any more, Momma? I like him, don't you?...Mom? Momma, tell me. Doncha like him any more? Will he go away?"

What a fiasco! Her big sneaky plan had blown up right in her face. Maybe she deserved it, trying to manipulate the man. If she were a good Christian, Charly knew, she would make it up to him, explain herself... even make another whole meal for him.

But his horrible insult! She knew she was overweight, but to have him throw it right in her face! She got angry all over again. And Frankie kept talking—demanding something. She tried to listen.

"...dizzert, Mom. You said!"

"Wait a minute, Honey. I'll get you something in a minute."

She would go back in and confront him. Even if he walked out she had to do it.

"You stay here for a while longer, and I'll bring it to you. Chocolate or coffee ice cream?"

"Eeww! Not _coffee_!"

"Wait here. Are you warm enough? Give me a couple minutes."

Trask wasn't in the kitchen and she couldn't see him out back. She marched up the stairs and saw his door closed. Taking a deep breath she knocked—no response. She rapped harder.

"What?" he growled.

"I want... I need to talk to you."

Silence for a moment, as if he weren't going to get up, but she heard him coming to the door. He yanked it open without a word. They scowled at each other for several seconds.

"I want you to understand something, Mr Trask. I do _not_... fool around with men! And I am not pregnant or anything like it!" Bitterly she said, "I may have an illegitimate child—no, don't interrupt—I know what you think of her. But I..."

"I don't! You have no idea _whatsoever_ what I think. And I merely..."

"Well, I didn't appreciate..."

"...tried to kid you..."

"...any, any... any implication..."

"And don't tell me that food wasn't weird!"

"I got it for _you!_ Because I figured you'd _enjoy_ something fancy for once!"

They glared at each other until he said in a sardonic tone, "Well, now you know, don't you."

"I knew before—you'll eat most anything, but not _bugs_ , I guess." She gave a big sigh. "Do you honestly think I'm such a slut?"

"No! No! The... the joke popped into my mind and..."

"And I look so fat..."

"Don't start _that_. You look fine. Jeez! I a-pol-o-gize!"

She found it tough to say, but, "I'm sorry, too—I over-reacted. You're not the type to be cruel, I know that." He made no answer. "I'll cook you something else."

"Don't concern yourself for me," he muttered. "Maybe I'll be down later."

She nodded and turned to go downstairs, contrite but still frosted.

* * *

Trask lay down and tried to read, but _Henry Esmond_ didn't register today. Thoughts churned through his mind so rapidly he couldn't settle on anything. His big mouth had got him in more trouble. Or was it his misguided sense of humor? What a stupid thing to say, especially to a girl in her situation—a deeply moral person who'd broken her own code and was bitterly regretful. He could hardly have thought of a better way to embarrass her if he'd taken a week. And after the accusation from her minister, too.

Upon reflection, the joke wasn't funny. What led him to pick that type of gibe? Maybe her floppy shirt after getting used to seeing her in more fitted tops. And the food, like the fables of pregnant women having bizarre desires—the old ice cream and pickles story—and the sudden mood changes. Yes, when you looked at it that way, the jest was natural... if life were a situation comedy.

But how many times would it take him to learn? His misplaced or mistimed sense of humor caused him as much trouble in life as his hot temper—perhaps more.

He rehashed the scene a few more times before dozing, and when he woke up it was dark and he'd no wish to go downstairs, and no hunger either. He changed into pajamas and didn't brush his teeth, simply went right to bed. But he couldn't sleep—got up and paced, noticed hunger and went down in his bathrobe to the kitchen. The wieners were still in the pan—cold and shriveled and scummy looking. Shaking them dry over the sink, he gnawed away, disgusted but half starving.

* * *

In due course Frankie got her ice cream, and after the child brushed and jumped into bed Charly read her a bedtime story, planning to come down later to wait for Trask. But Frankie was restless from the clamor of family conflict, taking a long time to nod off, and Charly fell asleep with her. Waking near midnight, she felt cramped and sore from trying to stay on the edge of the twin bed while avoiding a squirming child. She rubbed her lower back until muscles loosened, then sat with her head in her hands.

Her own pride—her super-touchiness—had brought on this trouble. Sure, Trask said a stupid unthinking man thing, plunging ahead with the first dumb notion that came to his block-headed mind, without a thought as to how his humor would affect others. But she'd over-reacted in spades. She'd set herself up for a fall, she conceded, with her glee over the trick she was pulling—glorying in her supposed ability to manipulate him.

Hadn't she often twisted him around her finger? Getting him to stay in the first place, and getting him to offer more money? Hadn't she secretly credited it to her ability to attract sympathy from men by using her _feminine wiles?_ Compelling him to go to church, practically shaming him into looking for a job. She'd deliberately maneuvered to get her way on every point. Even with the painting she encouraged him in order to get more done.

No, no... she judged herself too severely, even taking pride in these sinful skills—exaggerating. Looked at with dispassion, she'd never cold-bloodedly pushed him to do anything except find the job. He'd come here and acted generously on his own _despite_ her efforts not because of them. The painting? She was happy to have it done but it meant nothing great to her. The flattery served mainly to make him feel good about himself—a generous deed on her part, in a sense.

The church manipulation had been almost required by circumstances, hadn't it? First because she hadn't wanted to leave him alone in the house, then because of the supposed criminal-record thing and needing to face down their accusers. _Why should I apologize for dragging someone to church, I'd like to know?_ No, only the job weighed on her conscience. She'd sinned only to that extent—everything else might be explained away.

A burden lifted from her chest as she worked this out, and she rose and went into her own room. Too late to go downstairs and cook a meal, she crawled into bed, only a little fearful of meeting him tomorrow morning—only slightly worried as to how she might clear this latest deed from her conscience.

~

Chapter 23 Archaic Usages

day 32 Tue Sept 24

They were stiff and restrained toward each other in the morning, she punctiliously asking him his breakfast requirements, Trask making light of his needs. Trask remarked to Frankie that fall had now begun, which reminded Charly of the stop at the oil company, so she mentioned her prospective late return from work. He allowed as how he might be late as well.

And then the uncomfortable period ended as they went their separate ways.

* * *

For Trask the day went quickly, his thoughts fixed on performing his first assignment efficiently. The search for proper materials, the corralling and direction of Benny, the thoroughness of application held all his attention until completed an hour before quitting time. When he announced the roof ready for inspection—not without a certain restrained pride—he got the notion Engler showed a degree of skepticism. The grunted half-compliments of that worthy, the highest of which was, _Not too bad_ , soon reassured him. They were instructed to take time to clean up while still on the clock, a reward Benny seemed to think equal to a bonus or maybe a civic medal.

* * *

Time also flew for Charly, not that she was particularly busy but because she continually reflected on what she might do to make up for the wrong she felt she'd done. She made too much of the clash from one viewpoint—most people wouldn't worry about such a slight matter at all—would justify it with no effort. Then again, most people would never have entered into such a silly quarrel in the first place.

But she thought of herself as a genuine if somewhat casual Christian, and she wasn't made such as to blink at her own sins, venial or otherwise. One way or another she must cleanse her conscience, and by afternoon break the simplest and most direct solution came to her—if an opportunity occurred she would suggest he quit the job. And as to any other minor sins of commission or omission, she would make them up to Trask little by little through taking a bit more effort to meet what seemed his main interest—giving him the sort of simple hearty meals he claimed to like so well.

* * *

The clerk at Darnel Brothers Esso had failed to take to heart Charly's directive of yesterday. "We'll have to wait until your check clears," she advised, "and we'll post a credit for what's left over."

"No," Charly stated flatly, "no waiting. I want the delivery this week."

"I'm sorry," the woman shrugged, "that's our policy."

"And I've got my own policy—I'll see your manager."

"I can't do anyth..."

"Are _you_ the manager?"

"No." Aggravatingly, the woman only stood there.

"Well?" Charly said, raising her eyebrows and her voice.

"Look, Dear, I don't want to give you a hard time, but this is how your customer record is marked. My hands are tied."

"Ah-hah! I thought so! Apparently I'm down in everybody's books as a kind of deadbeat. Now, look!" she emphasized, leaning over the counter and pointing a finger, "This outfit has never lost a penny on me—I've paid every cent I've ever owed, and yet... this!" She smacked the counter-top with her palm.

Through the door at back walked a young man dressed in shirt and tie, attracted by Charly's raised voice.

"Can I help with anything?" He attempted a mollifying tone.

Mollifying or not, it failed to soothe her, and she waved her check at him. "I want oil, and here's my check. Winter's coming on, so deliver it now."

He raised his brows at her demand, and the woman handed him the record sheet with a telling look. He scanned slowly and pursed his lips. He glanced at the customer, dressed in jeans and a denim shirt covered by a neat chocolate wool jacket, her dark hair held back by a wide red ribbon, and with a clean, neatly dressed child. _Not the type to skip_ , he thought. And yet...

"Er... there've been some late payments."

She held his eyes un-blinkingly and raised the check in front of him. "Do you want this or shall I give it to someone else?"

He licked his lips and nodded a few times. "Later this week okay?"

"Thank you, I appreciate it. And can't you take the black mark or whatever off my record so we needn't go through this again?"

"We can do that, yes, sure, uh, but we'd better..."

"Wait till the check clears."

"Er, yes."

"As long as the tank gets filled quickly, I can wait awhile for a better credit rating, I suppose. Well... thank you both—you've been _quite_ helpful." Charly was brisk if somewhat insincere, smiling to show she held no hard feelings.

She floated out the door. _Oh, these minor victories_ —and always in a just cause, she assured herself— _felt so-oo-o good_.

* * *

Trask's errands proved less fortunate. He wanted to pick a gift to make peace after the quarrel, but between his lack of knowledge of what Charly might enjoy, and knowing she was hesitant to accept anything, he couldn't decide. At last he chose a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle with a scene of a castle on a cliff above a wide river—a general gift for them all to enjoy, he figured, hoping she liked that sort of thing.

He went on to buy wood glue, golden oak stain and polyurethane varnish for the proposed repair of the _computer table_.

* * *

Trask left his work shoes in the truck and entered the house in socks, planning to get a pair of lace-up rubber boots such as he'd seen on Benny, for future dirty projects. He felt disgusted at himself for not having the foresight to wear worn-out gear. Well, now he owned a set of trashy work-clothes—this was an intro to a new style of life. He took the tarry garments to the garage to later spot-clean with paint thinner before washing, and as he came back inside Charly's car pulled up.

"Mommy had a fight again," Frankie informed him.

He stared.

Charly shook her head. "Only motivation for the oil people."

"Mommy _yelled_ at them."

Charly demurred. "Not much."

"She didn't clout anyone upside the head, did she?"

Charly's brows contracted. "Don't encourage her, Chuck—nothing except firm speaking."

"Well!" A less than sane urge came upon him—an impetuous desire to tease the wild animal, no matter he'd felt its claws before. Cringing, in a humble voice he asked, "If you're not still angry, what is planned for supper tonight?"

The tigress's eyes glinted dangerously but she responded with quiet dignity. "Macaroni and cheese, if that's alright."

"My favorite."

"Aren't they all."

* * *

They ate, and Trask did enjoy it, Charly saw, and preened herself on another easy success. The meal included frozen corn and instant butterscotch pudding, making it Frankie's favorite, too.

"Lucky I have oil on the way." The air had cooled this afternoon, and heat from the oven felt welcome.

"When's it coming?"

"This week. I suppose any time up to Saturday."

"All out?"

"I shut it down—the furnace—right before we ran dry in early spring. We were pretty cool for a couple weeks."

"No other heat? What if you have a breakdown during winter?"

"Freeze until someone can fix it, I guess—it's happened."

"You need backup, living out here. What if the power went?"

"That's happened, too. Lots of sweaters and lots of blankets—that's our backup. Fortunately, we've never been down for more than a day or two."

* * *

They loafed in the kitchen tonight, taking advantage of residual heat from the range. He'd gone for a sweatshirt, and she came downstairs with her bathrobe over her clothes.

"The bathroom won't be fun tomorrow," she said.

"Starting to rain, too. Glad I got that roof done."

"At work? Do you like your job?"

"Could be worse."

"Are you sorry you took it?"

"Not yet, though I had my doubts the first day. I'm not used to switching jobs, and I suppose I don't appreciate change— _forced_ change, anyway."

"Do you want to quit? You don't have to stay on, do you?"

"We'll see—if it turns bad I might jump ship. No hurry, though, and I'd rather earn a few bucks than sit and watch my savings shrink... And who knows? I might learn something useful at this place. Woodworking's an interesting field, and it adds to my general engineering experience."

Well, she'd given him his chance—no need to go further. _Let's see, what to bring up now?_ Food was always a safe subject, and one of his main interests.

"Ever have fried cabbage?"

"Fried what?"

"Tastes good, though it helps to be German, I imagine. Would you be willing to try if I made it?"

He shrugged. "I guess. If it hasn't killed eighty million Germans... You German?"

"Grandmother. She accumulated a lot of unusual recipes."

"What goes into it?"

"Cabbage, noodles, onion, butter or some other greasy stuff."

"I'll try anything not too disgusting to look at. What else did Grammy cook?"

"Chicken and dumplings was a specialty, I guess."

"Yeah, that's real foreign food, alright."

"Soups, lots of stuff with sour cream, such as beef stroganoff."

"Sounds Russian."

"Can't help it, that's what she made."

"You liked grandma?"

"I never knew her. My dad was older, remember, and his parents were long gone. Aunt Sally is the custodian of recipes."

"What of your mother's parents?"

"Odd, but we never spoke of them—I wonder why not? As if my mother had no past life, in a way. I know almost nothing of her background, or if she even had any living relatives."

"Tough for a kid to grow up with no grandparents to spoil her."

"You knew yours?"

"Sure! Saw them fairly often. We were a close family... Sad to think of you growing up that way—older father, distant mother, no grandfather or granny—a tough life... And then your mother skips."

"You know, I never thought of it much—didn't know I was missing anything, I guess. Early on my mother was affectionate, I remember, but as I grew up she seemed to lose interest—that's the sad part. When she went away it hurt a lot. Aunt Sally tried to be kind, but it's not the same. Losing Dad was the worst by far, though."

He felt sympathetic, even protective toward her. "You've lived a tough life—no grandparents, no parents, no... well..."

"Go on—no husband."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Yes, you were."

"...Yeah, I guess. Sorry."

"It's okay. How could not notice? It affects _everything_."

"You've got strong character, though. I'd bet a lot of girls—well, that's how I think of you—a lot of women would have broken down under that many troubles."

She gave a world-weary smile. "I'm an optimist—too dumb to know any better."

"You're not dumb. Don't take this the wrong way..."

"Ye-ee-ssss?" she said, drawling it mock-warningly.

"You don't seem to be the typical dropout. I expected—when I first came here—I expected... Well, it looked like Tobacco Road or something."

"What's that—poor white trash?"

"Inbred poor white trash."

"Thank you _so_ much, Mr Trask."

"Don't get all hot and hairy. You know what I mean."

"I'm not angry, but you can't expect me to be thrilled to hear it."

"Sorry."

"Oh, stop being sorry! In a way I appreciate your honesty—your candor. I only wish my life would have been different in certain ways. I wish I could give Frankie more. She's the one who pulled me through a lot of this. You can't give way to self-pity when you have a child depending on you... When Franklin left I didn't obsess much because I needed to worry about her. You can't falter in a situation such as that. And she's sweet and happy all the time."

"Like you."

"That is so ridiculous— _like me._ "

"Still..."

"Still?"

"You must have bothered when he walked out."

"I'm not saying I wasn't. Like a real stab in the back—a Benedict Arnold trick. But I would have hurt a lot worse if I'd been alone and found time to brood—but I didn't. I took it in stride, I think, with Frankie's help. And... I wasn't by any means unhappy to see his back."

"And your attitude toward men has been affected."

This was getting uncomfortable. "No, I don't think so—but let's drop it."

They sat in silence until Charly thought of a change of subject. "We started speaking of food. Anything else you'd particularly enjoy—so we don't get too bored with the same menu?"

He pondered. "Spanish rice?"

"I've heard of it—I might find a recipe... Makes me think of slumgullion."

"What the heck is _that?"_

"Tomato soup, sausage and noodles plus vegies—celery, maybe some onion."

"Weird!"

"Nice and greasy—bet you'd enjoy it. Willing to try?"

"I'm pretty daring—I'll try whatever you want to have a go at, but no promises to clean my plate."

"Fair enough."

"Is that German?"

"Slumgullion? I doubt it—probably a depression dish."

"You must read a lot—you've got a good vocabulary."

"So do you."

"I went to college."

"What brings that up?"

"Those books in there..."

"And more upstairs."

"I'll bet you've read every one."

"Pretty nearly. And you know what? The English usage is better—they teach you better grammar. The old timers must have been better educated—I mean real education, not mere school-attending or diploma-getting education. Their speech is a lot more formal, too, only there are archaic usages."

"Archaic usages," he parroted. "I'll bet you learned _that_ in those books. Hey! I forgot something." He ran upstairs, soon coming down with a check. "Next month," he said.

She looked, then handed it back. "I can't accept this."

He frowned, expecting she'd seen a mistake.

In a way, she had. "You forgot to subtract the things you bought."

"Are we going through that again?"

She looked at him from under her brows.

He surrendered. "I'll see if I can find the receipts."

When he came down she looked through them. They seemed complete except for... "Where are the light bulbs?"

"Add a buck."

"Two."

"Whatever."

She made a note. "Easiest way this time, I'll give you a check tomorrow."

* * *

After a bit more talk Charly went up, while Trask stayed to mull over life, the universe, and everything. The talk of parents jogged his conscience. He'd promised himself to call home when the phone got installed, and in a week hadn't touched it. He ought to call right now—the hour wasn't too late. He vacillated but in time got up, went into the dining room and dialed. Three rings and the answering machine played its message and dinged.

"Hi, folks, it's Chuck. Sorry I haven't called before, but I wanted to let you know I'm okay, and I'll be calling again one of these days. Hope you're all in good shape. Goodbye for now, Ma, Dad."

He felt a rush of relief. A load off his conscience, and luckily they were gone or in bed. He didn't have to hear their sympathetic words, feel their pity. He didn't need to explain where he now lived and what he was up to—nor pretend he wasn't broken up over Karen, and happy as a clam with having rid himself of the old ball and chain.

No, he simply wasn't ready for that as yet. More time and the wound to his self-worth would be scabbed over. A bit longer and the pain of loss would fade to mere irritation. Yeah, awhile longer and he'd be ready for the great big family re-hash that was sure to come.

~

Chapter 24 Don't Cry

day 33-36 Wed-Sat Sept 25-28

The kitchen was below sixty degrees, and the bathroom frigid. Trask filled the tub with hot water and let it warm the room while he shaved and brushed, then after bathing let the water remain for its residual heat. As he ate breakfast he made a mental note to try the hardware after work for an electric heater—to run over to Gettrick if necessary.

At breakfast Charly handed him her check and he pocketed it without looking, shrugging into his jacket and running out into the cold.

* * *

At work Engler sent Trask to help Carl, struggling with the utilities for a machine installation. Plumbing needed to be re-routed for the new gadget, a large numerically-controlled mill.

Carl was fed up. "I sweated this blankety-blanking joint three times and the blanker still won't take—can't keep the water away. Think I got it swabbed dry but some drops sneak in again fore I get it soldered."

Trask surveyed the situation. "Got the line shut off?" He pointed to an inch-and-a-half copper tube running from the basement to somewhere overhead, from which the line under discussion, a one-incher, teed off.

"Acourse! Else it'd be gushin' out."

"Leaky valve."

"No foolin', Sherlock. Yer gonna be a lotta help, I can see."

Trask unlocked his tool chest and took out a battery-powered drill, chucking a three thirty-seconds bit. He went to the large line and drilled a hole below the tee. Water immediately dribbled.

"There's your gusher."

"Oh, real smart, Ace! Now how ya gonna fix that? Yer gonna change one leak fer another is all."

"Plug it with a sheetmetal screw after you get the fitting sweated. If the thing weeps we'll tape it or whatever, just so it doesn't squirt all over. Later we turn off the main line and fix or replace the valve, then plug this new hole."

"An' when ya think we can shut the line down? The plant ain't gonna go without water jist to help _you_ out, ya know."

"During a shutdown or something. Not our problem—let Engler decide."

Carl grumbled but got on with the job, and Trask pitched in to cut and clean and support the copper while Carl fluxed and soldered. By the time they took their ten minute lunch break Carl felt quite companionable toward Trask, accepting him as a capable worker.

"You looked like some kinda dude when ya first came over with the old man, but ya sorta know yer stuff."

"And you're not the worst mechanic I've ever known—not quite, anyhow."

Carl appreciated this sort of chaff. "Yer tools look awful new—guess ya don't do much real work with em."

"I usually let my helper do the work while I do the thinking."

"I don't see no helper here taday."

"That's funny—I do."

"Ya got it backwards, Bub—yer _my_ helper."

"Maybe so, maybe so—Engler did say you needed plenty of help."

"Ya can go blank yerself, Dude—I'm in charge here, an I know what to do in every sichiation."

"Yeah, he said to let you think that."

"I'll prob'ly hafta show ya how to hook up the wiring. Ya prob'ly never did any a that before, did ya?"

"Tell you what—you do a real thorough and complete demo for me, and maybe when you're done I'll begin to catch on. But I'm a slow learner, so I'll have to watch you till pretty near three, I think."

He made Carl bend the conduit, refusing to admit he knew how, transparently pretending not to catch on. He'd done little of it before, and hesitated to make a botch, but Carl accused Trask of dogging it as payback for his insults. He respected the _new guy_ for showing backbone.

Trask helped run and terminate the wires, checking their gauge compared to the power requirements of the machine, and referring to a booklet in his tool chest for ampacity recommendations. Carl took this as evidence Trask was a real pro.

"Hey, you some kinda contractor or somethin'?"

"Merely a wage slave like yourself, old buddy. This bitty book lets me check on the carrying capacity according to type of insulation and how it's run. You know, whether the wires are in free-moving air or in conduit—that sort of thing."

"The old man uzzally does that fer us." Carl gave him a dubious look. "You takin' over as his assistant or somethin'?"

Trask gave him a big phony grin as if to confirm his guess, then relented. "No, I'm only pulling your leg—I'm on probation, same as anyone."

They conversed on their way to the locker room, and after cleaning up continued together to the parking lot, standing beside Carl's vehicle until Trask tore himself away.

_Poor cuss must be lonely._ He'd learned most of Carl's work experience, plus his vast service in the Navy, where Carl had accomplished more than Admiral Rickover, albeit while languishing at a lesser rank. If they continued to crew together Trask felt sure he'd soon know the great man's life history from year one. Carl wanted to consider himself the best man in the maintenance gang, but evidently needed reassurance from his peers. Maybe tomorrow he'd ask Engler his opinion of Gresky, just to see what the _old man_ might say.

* * *

Charly liked the heater he brought home, and the lecture he gave Frankie. Trask took the girl into the bathroom while he plugged-in and turned it on, letting her feel the heat and pointing out the glowing coils.

"I'm showing you this, Kiddo, but I don't want you to even touch this, you understand?"

Frankie appraised him, not intending to be put off from another adult mystery. How unfair, the way they treated her like a baby.

"Why can't I turn it on the way you did? I turn on the TV and stuff."

"Does your mommy let you turn on the range—the stove?"

"Well, that's cuz it's dang'rous—I can get burned up."

"And so is this dangerous. Did you ever get a shock?"

She screwed up her face in thought.

"When you walk on the rug in winter—did you ever touch something and have a spark jump off?"

"Ooh, it hurts! I don't like that, no I don't."

"Well, as much as that hurts, this can hurt worse—even kill you." Frankie goggled in amazement. "So we have to be _very_ careful—adults have to be careful, and children aren't even allowed to touch it. Do you understand?"

Frankie nodded vigorously. "If I even touch it will it kill me?"

"If you touch the wrong way it can hurt something terrible."

"You touched it—and you didn't hurt cuz you didn't even jump."

"I know _how_ to touch it. And your mommy knows how. But _you_ mustn't touch the heater at all until you are old enough—which won't be for awhile. You see, Sweetie, when something electric is in the bathroom it's more dangerous than any other room because it's wet in here. If you jumped out of the tub all wet and touched this you might get a shock that would knock you right down—that's how bad it could be. So this is the rule—children don't touch this. Either your mommy or I will turn it on and off for you. Understand?"

Frankie nodded emphatically.

"And will you do as I say? Tell me."

"I won't touch it ever in the bathroom... Can I touch it in the kitchen?"

Trask had difficulty keeping a grin off his face. "How old are you?"

"I'm seven and a half—you know!"

"When will you be eight?"

"June eight."

"Here's the deal, then. When you are eight we'll think about this again. If I—and your mother—think you are responsible enough, maybe you'll be allowed to touch the heater when it's _not_ in the bathroom. Okay?"

This mollified Frankie, just so she could look forward to the rewards of growing up.

"Okey-dokey," she said.

Charly gave him a knowing smile. She recalled the mosquito incident, and self-righteously refrained from reminding him. He treated electricity every bit as seriously as she'd treated encephalitis. Well, he was an engineer and had _his_ hangups—his concerns—just as she had hers as a mother. _Good for him. Now we're on the same wavelength_. And if she ever needed to she could throw his lecture up to him.

* * *

Every evening Charly rapped on the oil tank, and on Thursday a dull thunk sounded through its rusted surface. _Great!_ They'd come earlier than expected. She quickly ran into the house with Frankie, and over to the thermostat in the dining room. Already set on seventy, but she pushed it higher. No click came from the basement. She adjusted it to seventy-five, to eighty—nothing. All the way up—still nothing.

_The switch_!

Down to the basement she flew, and crouching under the spider webs gingerly reached up to the switch-box in the beams over the big ugly furnace. She flicked it over and was gratified by immediate sounds of the burner starting up. _Ya-hoo!_

Upstairs she studied the bill Trask brought in from the doorknob—discouraging! But at least she'd already covered it, and the next one would be smaller. She felt warmer as she prepared supper, comfortable in her new affluence.

When she called them to sit down she noticed he had on a sweater and sportcoat, and Frankie wore her winter coat.

"What's wrong with you two? It's warm in here!"

"I'm shivrin', Mom."

" _You_ might be warm," Trask said, "you're cooking. But we're sure cold out there."

Now that they'd mentioned it, Charly wasn't as warm as she'd thought. "We should be feeling heat by now. I don't get it—the furnace is running."

They exchanged glances. "Maybe I'd better have a look." He arose and crept cautiously down the rickety basement stairs. No glow shone from the vents in the door of the old coal-burner, and when Trask yanked it open he saw no flame. Puzzling! The oil conversion unit growled—something must be going on. An idea came to him, and he shouted, "Turn it off—right now!"

"The switch is up above," she called.

He peered, found it, and shut the furnace off.

"What's the matter?"

He climbed the stairs. "No flame. Go ahead and eat—I'm going to check this before I sit down."

"What's the deal?"

He shrugged. "No idea." He found the flashlight and went outside, returning with a long thin stick. Downstairs he opened the furnace door again, tried to shine the light in, and probed the dark cavern with his stick. When he found bottom he pulled it out and held the end under the light—it showed wetness for nearly a quarter-inch.

He flicked on the switch while peering in with the flashlight. From the end of the oil gun a fine mist sprayed, but not even the hint of a flame. He once more shut the unit off and climbed the stairs, entering the bathroom to wash up.

She waited until he sat down. "Chuck—what's up?"

He shook his head. "No ignition."

"Is that serious?"

"No ignition, no flame. No flame, no heat."

"I mean, do I need to get somebody in?"

"I wouldn't want to tackle it."

* * *

Calling the next morning from work, Charly managed to get a repairman to come on Saturday afternoon. He arrived late but went directly about his investigation, at length coming upstairs shaking his head ominously, to plunk his heavy form and grease-stained coverall down in a kitchen chair without a by-your-leave.

"Ya got a real problem here, Babe."

"What does _that_ mean?"

"Jist hold on," he ordered, and wrote out an estimate, a device known to the cynical—and to the realistic, as well—as a minimum charge schedule. Taking his good old time, he scratched a total and handed it to her.

Her eyes scanned down to the bottom—four hundred sixty-four dollars and seventy cents! "I can't afford this!" she wailed.

"Well, Babe, it is what it is. Ya want heat, that's what it's gonna take."

"I'm not your _Babe_ ," she snapped, "and I might as well buy a new furnace!"

"Ain't gonna get no cheaper, _Lady,_ jist cuz ya _want_ it to."

Trask controlled his eagerness to get an idea of what was happening and how to go about fixing the burner, sensing this man would resent close observation. Enough was enough, though, and now he stalked over and thrust out his hand for the estimate, looking the repairman straight in the eye. Charly wordlessly put the paper in his hand, and Trask read down the entries, creasing each line with his thumbnail.

"Transformer. Spark electrodes. Filter. Nozzle. Nozzle screen. Flame ring. Anything you're _not_ replacing? Miscellaneous wiring—what for?"

"Big mess down there," the man stood to get on an even plane with Trask. "Some farmer musta slopped it together."

"Six hours labor plus a travel charge?" He handed the sheet back to the man. "You can do better than that."

The man shrugged and sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "I'm loaded up with work, Mac."

"I'm not your _Mac_ ," Trask said with a thin smile, "and two months from now you won't be so busy—better to fill up your schedule while you can."

"Whadda you know about it?"

"He's in maintenance at The Mill," Charly interjected.

This appeared to make a difference. Whether the fact Trask belonged to the brotherhood of those-who-repair, or whether he no longer seemed easy to fool, the whole look and attitude of the man altered.

"Okay, uh, Mr Biscoe, maybe I could knock off twenty-five..."

Trask cleared his throat. "A-hmm, a- _hmm_!"

"...er, say fifty bucks—give ya a break."

"And when can you do it?"

"Three-four weeks, depending."

Charly couldn't let this one pass. "We'll freeze by then!"

"Well, look, Ba... Lady..."

"Do you have the parts?" Trask asked.

"No! I got to order."

"How long to get them?"

Another shrug. "Coupla weeks."

"Aren't these standard items? Even out of town should be less than a week. Can't you get them locally, maybe from another shop?"

"How would _I_ know? How'd I know who has em?"

"Transformer should be the only order part, right? You ought to have the nozzle, for sure. Tell you what—give me the numbers and I'll order Monday morning..."

"Even I got the parts, I gotta work it in my schedule. There's lots ahead a ya."

"But how many breakdowns? How many with no heat?"

A resentful shrug came in answer.

Trask continued. "I'll order and expedite the parts—or you can—as long as you do it Monday AM. Part of that six hours is preliminary work. I can tear out the old unit and the bad wiring, and you can take an hour or two this week to get things ready for the transformer installation. Soon as that comes in, zip over here for the last hour or so."

"Yeah, sure... And ya wanta drive my truck, too? Tell me how to do the job?"

"I'm only trying to get heat as soon as possible—be most efficient."

"So ya Jew me down, and ya want first in line, too."

Trask knew he shouldn't, but his antic streak slithered to the fore. He eyed the man. "Biscoe is a Hebrew name, you realize."

"Hey, I'm sorry, man! Didn't mean anything by it."

"Okay, forget it—we'll pay your full price if you get the thing working by next weekend—get heat in here no later than Sunday afternoon. I'll help or not, whatever you want. What do you say?"

The man pondered. "Awright, I'll go for it. Full price, next weekend."

"Do the prelim work when?"

"Uh... I gotta call ya on that."

"Okay, I'll check with you Tuesday if you don't call us."

"Awright, then. Okay... and half down."

They stared at him, Trask recovering first. "When you do the prelim work."

"Now. I gotta get parts."

"Is your credit bad? Order COD and I'll be there with a check when the delivery comes in."

"Gotta be now."

Trask tried the reasonable approach. "Look, we don't know you, we don't know your record. How do we know you'll even show up when you say? We're willing to pay your price, cash on the barrelhead, but go along with us."

Obviously feeling in full control once more, Mr Greasy wasn't letting go. "You gimme two thirty right now or ya can wait till your buns freeze off, Mac. You ain't runnin' _this_ show, no matter what a big deal ya think ya are down at The Mill."

Charly had been looking at Trask in admiration, so well did he seem to be handling this obnoxious man, talking his lingo, foreseeing every part of the task. Now a sense of doubt came over her. She knew he wasn't likely to back down—with his jaw locked and face reddening—and she surely didn't want to give in to this clown herself. But what would they do for heat?

Trask gave the repairman a long level stare. "Able to find the door by yourself?"

The man sidled away, angry mouth working silently. He opened the door and started out, then turned his head back. "Ya blankin' Kike Jew blanker. I hope ya fre..." The door slammed on his words as Trask took a step forward. The truck roared from the driveway, kicking stones against the house.

They turned to look at one another—his face still stiff with anger, hers crumpled with concern.

"Don't cry, for God's sake," Trask demanded.

"I'm _not!_ But what are we going to do?"

~

Chapter 25 A Few Sparks

day 36,37 Sat, Sun Sept 28,29

They stared at one another until Charly broke the ice.

"Let's have a cup of tea. Sit down, Chuck, while I get the water on."

Trask sat stiff as a board and stared straight ahead, hands locked together on the table—angry at the repairman, more angry at his failure to accomplish anything.

"I'm sure glad Frankie wasn't here," she said to no response. Not wanting the girl in the way of the repairman, she'd earlier forced her into pajamas and put her to bed with a book. Frankie seethed at the thought of missing another piece of excitement, but Charly would bet the girl had fallen asleep in half an hour, and right in broad daylight.

The water boiled, and she poured, offering tea bag and sugar to Trask. He went through the motions of preparing his tea, unthinkingly bringing the cup to his lips before it had a chance to cool. He swore feelingly and at length.

"Scuse me," he mumbled.

"Finally," she said lightly. "I thought you'd taken a vow of silence." Time ticked on and she poured another cup for each. She looked in the refrigerator for a snack, bringing out a congealed hamburger patty. "Want to share this?"

He gave a gusty sigh. "Yeah, I need more calories after that affair."

They exchanged smiles, his rather unwilling.

"We've got ourselves a problem, haven't we?" she said, avoiding any hint of tragedy, but hoping he would snap out of it. "I think the guy considers himself lucky to have got away alive."

Trask raised one brow.

"You handled him real well. I'm glad you wouldn't let him take advantage. You must have a lot of experience in negotiating."

"Are we going through _that_ again?"

"What?"

"You know—where you, because I am a man and therefore too thick-headed to catch on, butter me up till the grease runs down your arms."

She looked down at her cup and said in a tiny voice. "Okay, I won't do it any more."

"I mean, I enjoy it and everything—you've simply got to become more subtle."

"I'm sorry."

"So the next time, watch my eyes real closely, and when they begin to cross you can figure I've heard enough, and you can taper off."

"Well, _I've_ heard just about enough, too, if you get my meaning."

_Danger signal_. Not that Trask cared much right now. A few more moments passed, and he said, "Another cup and the half burger—then I'll go look again."

"Any chance you can fix it?"

"No, not unless it _is_ by chance. But I've got a few ideas... How many repair outfits were in the phone book?"

"Half a dozen or more—he was the second one I tried."

"And the first able to come out right away?"

"Uh-huh."

"Monday I'll get on the horn to them, okay?"

"Excellent! Will they let you use the phone?"

"I expect. Engler is pretty accommodating, and I think he likes what he sees in me. I'll check with the crew, too—maybe some of them have experience with oil burners. "

"Sounds good... Unlucky the weather got cold too soon, otherwise we'd have time—no emergency."

"If it hadn't started to get cold, would you have ordered oil yet?"

She reddened. "Probably not. You know how things are."

"I know."

"And if you can save me any money, I'd surely appreciate it."

"I didn't handle things well, did I?"

"Understatement of the year."

He looked up sharply to catch her smiling.

"When you're right, you're right," he acknowledged, "and this time, you're really right."

* * *

Trask tackled the furnace with his trouble light, examining as thoroughly as he could, and making it a promise. _You or me, Baby—only one of us is leaving here alive._ The furnace chose not to respond.

A mess—an old coal-burner plastered with asbestos, and with the conversion unit crudely stuffed into where the ash-removal door used to be, the opening filled with a steel plate and more asbestos. Ancient knob-and-tube wiring fed the switch box, with a piece of greasy romex trailing down to the oil gun.

Peering inside, he could see the electrodes covered with soot—tomorrow he would drag the unit from the firebox, unpalatable a job though it would be, and try if cleaning them did any good. On the outside a dark stain on the cement near the conversion unit might be standing oil leaking from the furnace.

He came up the stairs and rooted in the burnable trash. Charly stared but made no comment. Back down he immediately went. After a few minutes she heard a rumbling noise, and in sudden optimism jumped up to stand by the basement door. It sounded loud—far louder than usual when the furnace ran. She stepped back as Trask came running up the stairs, herding her aside and slamming the door.

"Where's Frankie?" he demanded.

"In bed—what's happening?" He was already taking the stairs two at a time and didn't answer. She fluttered her hand over the register next to the counter. "There's heat," she shouted. How had he done it that quickly?

But here he was at the stair bottom with Frankie in his arms, trailing a blanket on the floor. He laid her on the couch in the front room where she muttered restlessly but didn't waken.

"What's going on?" Charly demanded.

"Is your insurance paid up?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "What are you babbling about?"

"Answer me—right now!"

"Of course! What's going on."

"Well," Trask said, affecting a calm he didn't feel, "I got the oil in the bottom to burn... and now... now we're waiting for it to explode and catch the house on fire."

Her eyes bugged out, and she noticed again the furious roaring from the basement. "You're not kidding!" she wailed.

"Let's get coats and blankets," he said, turning for the stairs.

She ran ahead of him. "Oh, Chuck, you crazy jerk!"

They tore into their rooms to get the articles, running down to the front room to await the blast. She glared at him in mingled fear and anger but couldn't think of a single appropriate thing to say. Finally she brought out, her voice almost normal, "Should we call the Fire Station?" Then, higher in tone, "Why did you have to mess with it?"

"Shhh! It's getting quieter.

In a few minutes the furnace sounded almost normal, the rumbling continuing to fall. Charly went over to a register. In a wondering voice she exclaimed, "Warm as all get-out. Did you get it fixed that easily?"

"Lord, no!" he said disgustedly, "What I did was almost burn the place down... Oh-oh!" He jumped up and ran out the front door, not bothering to close it.

She shook her head in stupefaction and slumped into the recliner, confused but relishing the first warmth in the house for days.

He re-entered and gusted the air from his lungs. "Whew! Guess we're okay. A few sparks coming from the chimney but I don't see anything alight... I should've sopped-up the oil first. Wow! Can't take this excitement at my age."

"Not fixed, then?" He shook his head. "Can you do it again?"

Trask registered disbelief. "You mean, try and burn down the house again? You sure have a sense of adventure!"

They stared at one another and began to laugh, just a bit hysterically. In a while he went back down to the basement, and shortly the furnace started, followed by another wave of heat from the registers. All too soon the sound cut off and he came wearily up the stairs. "Thought I could get the so-and-so to light itself off, but as soon as the bottom oil is gone the spray won't catch. Suppose I could run down and do the same trick every half hour, but that'd get old pretty soon."

"How are you getting it to light?"

"Run it to make a puddle, throw lighted paper into the oil, then turn on the pump to spray more oil. Probably incomplete burning, too—more soot than heat."

She digested this. "What do you think we should do?"

"Sleep, and tomorrow I'll dig into it more. At least we'll be warmer for awhile tonight... Oh well, let me drag this sack of potatoes back upstairs and toss it into bed."

She stroked the girl's head as Trask carried her past. "She'll be so disappointed tomorrow when we tell her what she's missed. She'll feel betrayed, poor baby."

She followed upstairs and watched him tuck in the covers, pulling them high around the sleeping child. Moisture prickled at her eyes—why couldn't Franklin have shown half the care for his own daughter as this man did for a stranger's child? How selfish could a person be? Yes, and short-sighted, too, to pass up the chance of knowing a loving baby. Bitterly, she wished Franklin his just deserts with his new marriage. _May you have every bit of bad luck you've got coming, you so-and-so, you._

* * *

Trask considered warming the place while they readied themselves for church, but no reason to be a glutton for punishment—a little cold wouldn't kill anyone.

"In fact," he proclaimed, "the hardship will toughen us." Neither of the females seemed to appreciate this inspiration.

In the truck a tiny devil whispered to Charly, and she asked, "Should I let them know your true religion?" He grinned, pleased with himself, and she went on. "Hebrew, huh, Mr _Biscoe_?"

"Let's say I'm an Israeli fixer-upper. Anyhow, it's Biscoe that's Jewish, not Trask—weren't you listening?"

"What are you going to do if you run into the man in the future?"

"You mean after I extract my fist from his skull? Or my foot from... wherever?"

Frankie very much wanted to understand the conversation but Charly told her to pay no attention.

"As if that's going to work," he scoffed.

"Best I can do for now... You wouldn't go after him, would you? Haven't you pretty well calmed down?"

"Maybe I'll call him a schmuck or schlemiel—keep the act going."

"What is it those actually mean?"

"I do not know, but I suspect they are uncomplimentary."

"You've got a real temper—a real _bad_ temper."

"You think? I feel it's appropriate on occasion."

"You won't bother him, will you? Let it drop."

"Might tell him the Mossad has a contract out on him."

* * *

Charly put herself out to make a comprehensive lunch, and after they finished and she cleaned up, went with Frankie to start on the new jigsaw puzzle. A bright day allowed the old house to warm but they still wore heavy sweaters and hats as well, the theory being overall body warmth would keep fingers flexible. Trask stood in the doorway watching them turn the pieces face up.

"You've fed me so much I don't feel like working," he complained.

"And maybe later you'll be too cold to feel like working."

"Good point," he sighed, and went to change his clothes.

* * *

He unhooked the wires and dragged the conversion unit—merely set in place, the closure plate held by packed asbestos and force of habit—out of the furnace. Examining the electrodes, he thoroughly cleaned them, ceramic and metal alike. He filed their points and considered how close to set them, then pushed the unit back in place and tried to cram part of the damp loose asbestos back over the joint between plate and furnace.

Re-attaching the power and mentally crossing his fingers, he snapped the switch, peering into the belly of the beast in hopes of seeing flame. Nothing, not even the slightest spark, although he watched for a good quarter minute. He tried again and a third time before giving it up. He stood for a long time, absently wiping his hands over and over to get rid of the pungent odor of #2 oil.

She heard him come upstairs after a short time, and call from the kitchen, "You finished with the paper?" She'd hardly looked through it but, absorbed in the puzzle and trying to keep Frankie from forcing together the wrong pieces, paid him little attention. _He knows what he's doing, I guess—and if he decides to burn the house down he'll probably tell us first_.

Trask went out the back door and soon re-entered the house and clomped down to the basement. Noises resulted, the furnace turned on and off.

"No, Frankie! Easy or you'll break those tabs. If they don't go right in, don't force them."

"But Mo-o-omm..."

"I keep telling you but you don't listen."

"Yes I do, but they won't go!"

"Because they're not right—they've got to look right..."

"They _do_!"

"...and they've got to fit easily."

"This is no fun."

"Oh, don't be a baby. Here! Start on this corner. Get the sky-bluish pieces, and put the ones with straight edges over here."

"Will you help?"

"I'm doing the bottom."

"Why can't _I_ do the bottom?"

Charly sighed. "Shall I help do the sky?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, _yes_! You get a-a-all-lll the pieces, Momma, and I'll put the straight ones together."

Charly sighed again, but here _he_ came to distract her. "What's up?" she asked.

Trask looked at her, deadpan.

She frowned and cocked an ear toward where the furnace would be seen had she X-ray vision. "Did you manage to get the thing running?"

"Maybe I did, and maybe I didn't."

She went over by the register under the front window, squatting down to feel. "I feel heat. Is it going to stay on?"

"Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't."

"C'mon you—quit teasing! What's the deal?"

"Well," Trask said, obviously preening himself, "I've jury-rigged a fix."

"Go on."

"I let oil into the bottom—you know, let it spray in—but not too much. Then I start a fire. Paper, kindling—a regular old bonfire. Then I add a couple pieces of four-by-four, standing on end. Now I've got a fire started, right? Okay, then I turn on the furnace again, and the oil sprays onto the burning four-bys, and the four-bys set it alight, and off we go. Darned ingenious, no?"

She was puzzled. "Why couldn't you do that last night?"

"Why? Because I only now thought of it, that's why. Sheez! How about some gratitude?"

"This isn't exactly a standard approach?"

"You kidding? The fire marshal would tear his hair out. That's the problem—I've still got to go check pretty often, otherwise the flame might die, then the firebox loads up with oil again. Not too efficient, of course, but...? I can't figure out why there isn't a flame sensor on the unit. Somebody must have screwed with it at one time—or it broke."

"Does a flame sensor make a flame?"

"Detects it—and if flame doesn't show within a few seconds, turns off the oil pump."

"So you accomplished nothing?"

"Nothing! Sure, if you call heat nothing."

"You know what I mean."

"Permanent? No, but we can maybe keep reasonably warm until it's fixed or—more likely—replaced."

"I see. This is where I lay on the flattery, right? How much do you want? Should I watch your eyes?"

"This time I'll let you skip—store it up for when I wreck something."

"But it's not quite safe? Should we sleep downstairs?"

"We'll let it go out at night or anytime I'm not here. This is only to get through a few days... By the way, how much insurance do you have on this place?"

"On...?" She made a large circle with her hand.

"Only the house."

"No idea, I'm afraid. I let the insurance man take care of that. They're always sending automatic increases, and I simply pay them. Why?"

"Perhaps you'd better check—make sure it's full coverage. You know, if you don't meet whatever their recommended coverage is they won't pay full replacement."

"I'm sure it's not much, the shape this place is in."

"You might not think this old place isn't worth much, but when it comes time to replace, you'll lay out a bundle. Make sure you meet the minimum, whatever it is. Wouldn't hurt to call tomorrow."

* * *

During the evening, conversing at the kitchen table over tea, he asked, "How do you heat the upstairs?"

Charly began to laugh softly, a hand covering her eyes.

"Don't tell me—it's The Curse."

She stood and beckoned him into the front room, pointing up at a large grill in the inner corner of the ceiling. He peered up. "Blocked?"

"Closed."

"That's it—one register? How do you keep from freezing?"

"It lets a lot of heat through, and I bring Frankie's bed into my room when the weather gets cold—like now, for instance." He gave her an appraising look but said nothing. She continued, "I figured we'd leave the stair door open with your room in use—I usually don't because it wastes more heat. Of course, you'd need to leave _your_ door open to get heat from the hall." She shrugged as if to say, _what else can I do?_

~

Chapter 26 The Curse Returns

day 38,39 Mon, Tue Sept 30, Oct 1

Trask called furnace repairmen and found two who were willing to come soon, one on Wednesday and the other Saturday. Had _the other side of West Baker_ not been so far from Gettrick he might have found more. He discussed the problem with Carl Gresky and Elmer Picone, both of whom were full of good advice which, unfortunately, contained nothing he hadn't already known or surmised. Both advised him to _Get rid of that piece of junk_ and put in a new furnace, but he'd already conjectured that to be his landlady's best course.

* * *

After work he and Carl drove to Gettrick to select a wood-burner. Charly resisted the idea when he brought it up Sunday night, again not wanting to be indebted. He assured her he would take the stove with him when he left, and she ultimately chose to accept this feeble cover story.

Trask selected the smallest, crudest stove in the outdoor store, drove back, and the two of them man-handled it into the front room, ripping back the carpet from the entire corner. Charly took this disruption with her usual ready humor, only snapping at Frankie several times as she ran around putting herself in danger at every opportunity.

A large slab of fake brick they laid down to protect the floor from hot coals, and with Carl's experienced help soon knocked crumbling mortar from the old chimney port, and assembled the stove pipe.

On the way back to The Mill Carl brought up Charly. "You takin' avantage a that?" Seeing Trask's frown, he amended, "Sorry—don't mean nothin'."

"Not much you don't, you scurvy skunk."

"Does she go out?"

"Not with the likes of you."

"So she's officer material," Carl concluded, inferring, _You've claimed her_.

Trask explained at length their lack of any relationship other than pure business, except for the occasional favor exchanged.

Puzzling this out, Carl soon asked, "Why couldn't _I_ ask her, then?"

"I've already told you, you barnacle-encrusted binnacle—she's a nice girl."

"Yeah! Well she wasn't so nice once, I guess... Sorry, man, I'm crude."

Trask glared but ignored the slip. "Are you willing to reform—stop cussing, drinking, smoking, chewing, spitting, picking your nose? Are you willing to go to church and bathe at least once a week, read a book once a year, save five bucks a week, get a respectable job, clean your fingernails, avoid sins of commission and omission, dress Amish? Until you are, forget it."

"I take a shower every day!"

"What's with those salt-water showers you were telling me about?"

"Fer the Jarheads. Us white-hat guys used fresh water." He chuckled as he recalled the Marines' bitter complaints over their accommodations, then turned solemn. "I gotta find me a decent woman," he whimpered. "Sometimes I think I oughta get back with my old lady."

"And what would she say to that?"

"Same as you—cept she'd be swearin' a blue streak while she did, the rotten old..." Carl gave a gusty sigh. "My fault, a course—booze, stayin' out."

"Still do?"

"Got it unner control. Anyhow, I can't afford much, what with her takin' the house and car, and I gotta buy my mobile."

"Join AA?"

Carl snorted. "I ain't no pantywaist Bible-thumper, and I don't need no monitor or whatever ta hold my hand. Way I said, I cut back."

_I've heard that one before._ But the guy at least seemed sober when at work.

Trask dropped him off at his truck. "I owe you one, Salty."

"Yeah, and ya better know I'm gonna collect—and soon."

* * *

By Tuesday the weather started to warm, but Trask decided to use his new _toy_ , as Charly called it, so drove up Bigley Road hill and, armed with bow-saw and ax, entered the woods. Almost two hours and a lot of hiking sparsely covered the truck bed with dry wood. Most fallen limbs and stumps proved wet and rotten, but he got decent firewood by cutting dead boughs still attached to trees. Trimming and sawing took as much time and more effort, and by the time he drove back to the house some of the romance of being a woodsman had fled.

He dumped the billets inside the garage, using a couple of five-gallon plastic pails to carry wood into the living room, taking care to mix in smaller pieces for kindling. Inside, generous amounts of crumpled newspaper got the smaller pieces going, followed by medium and larger diameters. The stove heated quickly.

"Wow!" Charly enthused, "it'll cook us out of here—I'll open my register." Up the stairs she went, only to call, "Chuck—it's real smoky up here!"

Stopping only to close the draft, he ran up to her room. A small amount of smoke hung near the ceiling and a stench of burning filled the air. They swiftly flung up the sashes, but the storms being on, that did no good. "Go!" He waved her out and they fled down the stairs.

Trask jerked open the stove door, and smoke billowed. Frankie was herded into the kitchen by her mother. He opened the damper and the smoke stopped coming, but the fire burned brighter. For a few seconds he froze in panic, then dumped wood from one of the pails and tried to scoop the burning fagots into it with a stick. Some he managed to get into the pail, embers fell onto the pad, and many fragments refused to lift over the lip of the stove. Smelling burning plastic, he picked up the pail and ran it out the door, flinging it into the yard bare seconds before it melted through.

Coming back, he calmed down and assessed the situation. Charly appeared with a large pan of water but he fended her off. "No! You might crack the iron. Check the floor."

A coal smoldered on the carpet, and she sloshed it generously. Trask emptied the wood from the other pail and she emptied the pan into it. Using two sticks as tongs, he plucked embers from the stove to dump them sizzling into the water. The filled pail soon joined its ruined brother outside, and he allowed the balance of the coals to burn themselves out.

He flopped on the couch in a fit of disgust, but soon roused to drag the ladder from the garage and take down her storm windows. Laying them on the ground next to the house, he left the ladder standing and went back in feeling mighty glum.

He again threw himself on the couch, avoiding Charly's accusing eye and resenting Frankie's return to view his defeat.

Charly chuckled, then apologized. "You look so woebegone, I can't help it."

"Everything's cursed," he moaned. "It's going to kill us in the end."

She laughed gaily if somewhat falsely at this, but he couldn't rouse himself to smile. Bad as his marriage had been, at least _stuff_ worked for him then. He felt like a real fool, too discouraged to complain.

"You know, Chuck, we're even now."

"Whadaya talkin' about?" he mumbled.

"For the utility room and other mess-ups when you came here. I've had my fiascoes, and now you're having yours. I'm not trying to be nasty—it's only... Well, we've both had our problems. Don't let things get you down. I'm going to open this, okay?" The embers in the stove were dying. "Why don't I get a ladle and scoop the rest into a pan? Then we'll throw everything out." He made no reply, and she went ahead.

"Safe in my room yet, do you think?"

He bestirred himself. "I'll go." In a minute he returned to report. "Smells a bit but I imagine it's okay. Wait though, let it air some more."

"Let's eat now," she said.

* * *

Trask said, "I'm surprised you take this stuff so calmly."

"How should I take it?"

"When in danger or in doubt/run in circles, scream and shout."

"Funny, I guess, but I see no need to get excited. I don't know how I'd react to a genuine emergency—if the house burned down, for instance—but these are merely life's smaller problems. I mean, things happen all the time—you can't let bad stuff get you down."

"A healthy attitude, I guess—and a surprising one."

"Let me ask you... Er, how would she—your wife... How would she have reacted?"

"Well, I don't know if she would have panicked—we never ran into this variety of situation. There would have been plenty of recriminations afterward, though."

Charly tried to hide a smile.

Trask noticed her satisfaction but decided not to twit her on it. "Guess I'll need to get old Carl over again tomorrow—see what we have to do to make this work right..."

"If you can't figure it out, I suppose you'll need to."

This statement—though spoken without malice—stung him, and he went on the offensive. "He's an admirer of yours, you know."

She shook her head.

"Yeah, he is—wants to ask you out."

"I'm sure he must be a prince if he's a friend of yours—but, no thanks."

This appeared a promising line of attack, so he kept it up. "I've explained your standards are high—outlined a few improvements he'd have to make."

No answer beyond eye rolling.

"You can imagine—daily bathing and shaving, clear the beer cans out of his truck, review a few Cliff Notes. That sort of thing."

"Got anyone else lined up for me? Maybe one of the regulars at the diner? Don't put yourself to any trouble, though. I expect I can figure out where to find this Carl, if necessary—there aren't that many bars around here."

"He's got this yearning... And he's got a steady job—pays more than mine."

"To put your thoughts on a more constructive track, why don't you check my room again?"

~

Chapter 27 Worth It

day 40 Wed Oct 2

When Charly and Frankie arrived home Wednesday afternoon, Trask and Carl had arrived and were starting to look things over. She'd rehearsed Frankie on her duties, and the child sat down in the kitchen—none too happily—opening a library book.

Trask formally introduced Carl to Charly, something they hadn't taken time for the other day, and Carl gave her a wide grin, saying, "Real good ta meet ya. How ya been?"

"I'm fine, thank you," she coolly replied, not wanting to encourage this roughneck, but then decided to get in a dig. "I hope you can help us with this—Chuck has been all at sea with it." She watched Trask from the corner of an eye.

"Hey, jist great, cuz I'm a sailor, an' this is right up my alley."

"In that case, shouldn't it be up your, er, harbor?"

Carl laughed a fit. "Hey, that's a good one—up my harbor. She's sharp, Chuck, jist like ya said. Har, har, har!" He stopped for a short coughing spell. "Yeah," he gasped, "I know these stoves inside and out. I been used to em since I was a boy. Why, growin' up we dint have no central heat—we jist..."

"That's swell, Carl," Trask interrupted. "Be sure and tell her about meeting Dan'l Boone, too. Come on, let's get going."

Carl mumbled an apology and flicked his hat brim to her as Trask dragged him up the stairs.

She couldn't believe it—what a character! _And Chuck told him I was sharp_?

In Charly's room Carl glowered at the now-exposed chimney and expressed disgust. "Lookit this! They taped a plate over the hole, fer cryin' out loud!" It was the chimney port for a former stove in the bedroom.

" _I_ put that up."

Carl turned to Trask in scornful amazement. "Ya can't do sumpin' like that on a chimney—you'll afixerate the whole house!"

"Afterward, doofus! I didn't know this hole existed when I lit the fire!"

"How'd ya miss it?"

"The wallpaper covered it—see where it's torn away? Maybe once they had the hole properly blocked, but whatever—no more."

Enlightened, Carl shook his head at the unutterable stupidity of _them._ The two next went out to climb the roof and plumb the depths of the chimney from above.

* * *

"Hunert-twenny bucks," Carl stated, "plus materials."

"Ah! You noticed the gold faucets in the bathroom," Trask said.

"There's a lotta work here! You ain't gonna git _that_ done in no hour."

"And not in eight hours?"

"Prob'ly not!"

"You're going to have first-class help, you know."

"Yeah? She knows construction?"

He broke himself up, and Charly had to admit it was pretty funny, even if this deal would cost her money. _And look at that sour puss Chuck is putting on_.

"You'll be making twenty bucks an hour if the job goes quickly," Trask said, scornful of this blatant profiteering.

"Yeah, I hope so, cuz I'm worth plenty." He winked at Charly who, for Trask's benefit, winked back.

Trask said, "You don't want to do this evenings."

"Nah! Saturday... You get it cleaned out in the basement—better run something down from the top in case that soot and ashes is bridged over. Maybe ya got bird-nests in there—sumpin's stoppin' the smoke goin' up."

"I'll take down the bricks on top, too."

"Go down as far as ya can reach inside. I mean, as far as _I_ can reach to set brick—not too far."

"Bottom of the rafters."

"That'd be good."

"You'll pick up the material."

"Ya better gimme some money—fifty bucks, maybe."

"Will fifty cover everything?" Charly asked.

"I ain't totally broke—it ain't Friday yet." He winked again.

* * *

Trask eyed Charly. "Quite an elaborate departure ceremony." Carl had made much of bidding Charly adieu, touching his cap again. "I don't think he ordinarily takes off his hat even when he sleeps."

"He has the instincts of a gentleman. His technique, on the other hand..."

"He wants you."

"He simply wants a modicum of attention and appreciation."

"I saw raw lust in his eyes."

"Sometimes you should keep quiet, Chuck."

"Well!" he said, acting miffed, "I _could_ let you do the work yourself."

"No you couldn't—it wouldn't be done to your satisfaction. What do you need to do to get ready for him?"

"The cleanout door broke off, and I have to pull its frame out of the chimney base, remove all the ash and soot and dead birds accumulated over the centuries, take down the chimney above the roof, ream it out, rip off the flashing... You're lucky the other chimney has no problems."

"And Saturday?"

"Put in the liner, re-set the bricks, re-flash, put in the new cleanout, cut holes in the liner, patch up the roof where we flash. That's most all."

"Take the whole day?"

"I imagine, unless he's the world's fastest mason... I have no idea how he's going to get the liner in."

"Why'd you try to knock down his price?"

"Merely for practice."

"Oh. And why do the bricks have to come down?"

"Mortar's rotten where the chimney's exposed to the weather—maybe inside the attic, too, for all I know. Amazing it hasn't fallen down... You know, we'd better replace the brick, too. It's that soft old pink stuff—pretty but weak. I'll tell Carl to add bricks."

* * *

That evening the next furnace man came over, an entirely different piece of work from the previous one—an older man, almost courtly toward Charly and unfailingly addressing her as Mam. Taking his time, he thoroughly examined the furnace and conversion unit, Trask looking over his shoulder and asking an occasional question. Upstairs he waited to be invited before sitting down, appreciatively accepting the tea Charly urged on him.

"I can probably fix your unit, including full service, for say—three-hundred seventy-five."

"And the romex?" Trask asked.

"That ought to be in flex, certainly. Add ten or fifteen dollars."

"This is an estimate?"

"I'm afraid so, but it should cover everything unless problems turn up."

"What if we wanted dual lines?" Trask asked.

"A good idea—say forty more."

"What are dual lines?" Charly wanted to know.

"With dual oil lines you won't need to bleed air from the system if you run dry or replace the filter—a convenience."

"And a new unit?" Trask asked.

In the end, Trask led him through every permutation, including a gas-fired high-efficiency boiler and radiators for both floors. Charly would hear none of this, and settled for a new burner at a price of _Around six-fifty_ , to be installed within three weeks. She offered a down payment, and he accepted a check for one-hundred fifty dollars.

* * *

"He's too good to be true," Trask said. "Hope he doesn't run off with your money."

"He won't. I trust him."

"Might be one of those gypsies who tour around cheating people out of their life savings."

"Life savings! If that's all he wants, it's no big loss for me."

"I'll cancel the other one. Do you want to think of a new furnace any more?"

"Too late, he's got my money."

"I'll call him first thing. He won't mind the bigger job."

"I'm not going to hand over four thousand dollars even if I could."

"I'll pay it." He received the evil eye. "I'll become your partner—junior partner."

"Ridiculous! Why do you keep this up?"

"Any business needs capital."

"There's no business—only a house with a room to rent."

"Bed and breakfast. Merely needs help with funding."

"Chuck, nobody in this entire state would stay here—put up with this—except you, and sometimes I think you must be dizzy. If you move out I won't even try to get another customer—it's vastly impractical. You yourself told me everything the place needs. Why, it'd take twenty, thirty thou to set up—not worthwhile."

"You'd give it up?"

"Probably look for a room-mate—some girl who's not too picky. Seriously! Tell me I'm wrong, if you can."

~

Chapter 28 Hammer & Tongs

day 43 Sat Oct 5

Carl _supervised_ while Trask mixed the mortar. Carl buttered the opening in the bottom of the chimney and forced the cleanout door into the chimney base, giving it a few smart raps with a mallet and cursing it into position.

"This place needs a floor—like a sty down here!" he grumbled.

Supporting the chimney was a sandstone block of great age, while the rest of the basement showed only crumbling patches of concrete.

"Your next job, if Charly's feeling generous."

"Lucky ya got gravelly soil, or this'd be soppin' wet and yer timbers all rotten."

They next climbed the ladder to the roof, Carl making the most of his superior position by giving Trask multiple orders. As a result, Carl made one trip up the ladder carrying his tools, while Trask made several carrying the balance of the mortar in plastic pails, followed by the tile liners.

"Yer legs broke yet?"

"Getting there, you lazy Kraut."

Carl glared, and pointed an aggressive finger. "I ain't no Kraut!"

"Lazy Polack."

"At's better. C'mon up and help. Let the other stuff wait." He peered with his flashlight down the chimney, turning this way and that. "Sure wish I knew nothin's stickin' out."

"Can't you see?"

"Black's a coal mine at midnight. I shoulda thunk ta put a newspaper in the bottom when we was down there."

"I'll go do it."

"Nah—trust to luck." Carl tied a sturdy cord around a brick and lowered it, and when it bottomed tied a knot in the cord at roof level, then hauled up. "See what I'm gonna do?" He untied the brick and knotted the cord to a small pair of reverse tongs with rubber pads on the arms, then inserted them into a length of liner and lifted. "See that? And when it bottoms, it'll release."

"Neat... if the contraption works."

"She's gonna work. Have no fear with Carl here." He buttered mortar onto the top edge of the tile, re-inserted the tongs, lifted and lined the tile up with the chimney, gently letting out cord.

"How much of the mud is going to make the entire ride?"

"Gotta take some things on faith, Chucky-boy. Don't make me laugh er nothin', cuz it'll jiggle." He lowered away. "There—think it's down. Yeah, see the knot?" He made a new knot before lowering the cord further and flipping it to release the tongs, "Okay!" He pulled cord and tongs up hand over hand. "Jist ta make sure, you run down the basement and look in the cleanout ta see it's there."

Coming back from the basement, Trask called, "It's down to the base!" He stopped to throw another tile over his shoulder before climbing the ladder. When he got up, Carl had mortared the second and was lowering it hand over hand. Trask checked his watch. "This is moving right along—ten twenty."

The third tile went down and seated, and a fourth, but after starting the fifth tile Carl said, "Oh-oh!"

"Oh-oh what?"

"Don't feel right. Don't think it went all the way." He pinched the cord at roof level and started measuring to the tongs between his outstretched arms. With a worried frown he said, "Ain't all the way down."

"Hang up? Pull it back up."

"I'm gonna." Carl peered down with the flashlight. Disgusted, he said, "Yeah, it's stuck on sumpin'. Got a gap 'tween it an the third. I knew things was goin' too easy."

He dropped the tongs down the hole while sighting with the flash beam. When they reached the tile he tried to pull it up... again and again and again, cursing as they failed to catch. He sagged, and turned off the light.

"What's the problem?"

"Can't git em set. Won't go tight agin the sides—jist slide up."

"Want to force it down?"

"Take a chance a breakin' it—er the one below?" They stared at one another.

"I'll try—you hold the light."

Trask lowered the tongs and immediately discovered one problem—the tongs needed to be sent down parallel to the long axis of the tile then rotated ninety degrees to the short axis, supporting enough of their weight by friction on the tile to let them close. They must be nursed toward the center so as to be able to lift the tile straight, and pulled up so as to clamp. Each time he managed to get them in position the pads slipped on the tile without gripping.

Carl switched off the flash, and Trask pulled the tongs up to examine. "You make this?"

"Yeah. Ingeenyerous ain't it?"

"Be even more _ingeenyerous_ if it worked."

"Hey—works fine!"

"Yeah, I can sure see that!"

"I thought it was bottomed—let up too early," Carl whined.

They sat and pondered. Trask visualized more than one way to redesign the tongs for better operation, but each idea required modifications they couldn't make today, and time they couldn't afford to waste.

As they brooded, Charly called. "Lunch, you guys! Wake up and come wash." They climbed down full of glum looks. Trask dumped the remaining mortar in a low spot in the driveway, then rinsed the bucket and tools. They slouched in to wash up.

* * *

"Not much fun after all?" Charly said.

"We're hung up," Trask told her, while Carl stolidly spooned down chili and rice.

"Can't fix it? Or simply tough to do?"

"Haven't figured out how yet. Probably Carl'll have to play Santa."

"I'm too big. Mebbe we can lower Skeezix on a rope." He indicated Frankie. "Have 'er tie a line roun' the stuck tile."

She caught on immediately. "I'm not goin' down a chimney hole!"

"Like Santa's elves—you can do it."

"Nuh-uh! Not me, no way!" She shook her head vehemently.

Charly backed her up. "She hasn't been to Scouting—doesn't know her knots yet."

"Well, we gotta do somethin' or the, uh, the _blamed_ chimney'll have to be torn half down and rebuilt. Ya don't wanta leave the sucker that way, all unsafe."

Charly felt Carl needed to curse in order to think clearly, so she banished Frankie as soon as they finished eating.

In the meantime Trask had been considering. "Your pads are shined up, that's one problem—need to be roughened. You can't pull hard enough to lock them tight onto the tile before they slip."

"I'll give em a good jerk, like settin' a hook in a fish."

Trask looked doubtful.

"Or we make a couple grapnels and yank it up, " Carl offered. "Got any big hooks?"

Hopeless—they had no such hooks, and Trask couldn't think of anything to make them from.

"If we hold the tongs down with a long rod," Trask suggested, "the force to overcome that would jam them against the sides."

"An' where ya gonna git a twenty-foot stick?"

"Not much more than twelve." Yet the idea didn't feel right—too awkward to maneuver a long thin board down a narrow hole. Carl muttered something but Trask interrupted. "Okay, got it. Tie a rope to a hoe, dangle it down to catch the tile, and yank her up."

"Might go crooked—jam in good."

"Got a better idea?"

* * *

So they tried, and did cock the tile. They next modified Charly's rake to add to their battery of tools, and by dint of many tries, much sweat, and a lot of salty language, at last retrieved the uncooperative tile. They wasted more time attempting to find and remove whatever projection caused the hangup, then Carl reverted to supervisory mode.

"Quit lollygaggin'! Make me some mud, Chuck!"

And...

"C'mon, Chuck! Time's a-wastin'."

When the tiles neared the top of the abbreviated chimney, Carl switched to laying brick, sending Trask down to mix more mortar. Carl built two courses above the roofline before adding one more tile.

"Okay," he said, dusting himself off, "You clean-up things here and I'll go wash for supper. Take the ladder down and put it by the truck."

"Don't you want to leave it standing?"

"You got a ladder, doncha? What ya want mine fer?"

Trask shrugged and gathered the tools Carl hadn't carried down. He put the balance of the old bricks in the pail, and hauled everything down in two trips. Feeling put upon, he lowered the ladder and carried it to Carl's truck, then washed off the tools and cleaned the pail.

Inside the house Carl seated himself at the table, expanding on his day's efforts until the building of the pyramids would hardly compare. Trask washed and sat, and the balance of the noon chili and rice was put before them along with a salad—Frankie being granted a hamburger due to her distaste for anything _hot_.

Carl, primed by the similarity of the meal to a favored navy dish, related his sea-going adventures, hardly less in scope than John Paul Jones'. Trask had got his fill of his co-worker, and would have cut him down to size except for Charly's willingness to carry the conversation—if nods, affirmatives, and various grunts and giggles were considered conversation. Carl supplied all else.

"Yer a lucky duck, Chuck," Carl said, looking around to see if everyone noticed his alliteration. "If I got fed this way every day I'd blimp out in a month."

Charly was quick off the mark to put Trask at a disadvantage. "He doesn't appreciate my food that much—says it's too boring."

"Boring?" Carl couldn't believe his own ears.

"See," she fibbed, "I make one big dish Sunday night, and we eat the whole week—saves oodles of time. This week chili, next week cabbage rolls."

"What the heck are cabbage rolls?" Trask muttered, wondering what Frankie thought of all this fiction—but he was overrun by Carl.

"Cabbage rolls! I ain't et none fer years. Chuck," he added disparagingly, "ya got _no idea_ what yer missin'. Why, I'd eat cabbage rolls fer a _month_ if I had em, and I wouldn't complain much fer two months!"

"Go for a year, why don't you."

"Course I like chili, too, and..." He accepted another bowlful. "What else do you make for this unappreciatin' butthead. Uh, sorry, Honey—jist forget what I said, okay?"

"What did you say?" Frankie asked.

"Er, nothin.'"

"How can I forget nothing?" she asked.

Charly declared it time for the little lady to retire with a small plate of cookies and a library book.

"Y'ever make pirogi?" Carl asked.

He was disappointed there. "Spaghetti, tuna salad, meatloaf, hash..." Charly went through a dozen rib-sticking dishes for the continuously appreciative Gresky, every one further convincing him Chuck was _too blankin' stupid_ to know his good fortune in having such a great landlady.

Trask interrupted this gormandizing. "What time tomorrow?"

"Oh, I ain't comin' tomorra. Nex' Saturday we'll finish."

This was no good. "Why not finish tomorrow?"

"Tomorra I gotta stake-out my stands fer deer."

"That's a month off!" Charly exclaimed.

Trask added, "Let's get this final bit done."

"I don't wanta go trampin' the woods in the rain er nothin'. Weather's good, so tomorra it is. You can wait. Jist put a tarp up there, case it rains nex' week."

"And if it turns cold again?"

"Well, light er up—safe enough, once ya get yer part done. Might get a whiff of smoke off the roof is all... Course, better ya put off firin' it fer awhile—let the mortar cure."

"I want to finish this now."

"Can't help ya, man—I done made my plans."

"So first day of hunting season, if it rains or snows you'll be in work—right?"

"That's differ'nt! Ya _never_ miss first day, and the deer don't wait on weather."

Charly winked at Trask out of Carl's view. "There's another problem, Chuck—the girls are coming over tomorrow. With them here I wouldn't be able to make Carl the kind of lunch he likes."

"Girls?" said Carl, suddenly all ears.

Trask followed suit. "Airhead chickies Charly works with. Always worried about their figures, so they want to eat light."

"Be kids runnin' aroun', too, I s'pose?"

"No, they're single—young," Charly said.

"Prancing around in those outfits," Trask added reprovingly.

"Outfits?"

"The one thinks she's Ladonna or something—dresses like her, anyway."

"She look like 'er?" Carl asked, with a skeptical but intrigued chuckle.

"Well, _she_ thinks so. Maybe, I suppose."

"Flashy," Charly added. "Shows too much skin."

They were silent, Carl eying the back door. "Be a shame ta spoil yer party. I mean, ya'd wanta show off yer new stove, a course."

"True enough," Charly agreed. "And the way they dress sometimes, we might want the heat." She and Carl joined in a laugh at the heedlessness of youth.

"Well..." he opined, "guess I could come over in the AM and git it done. When's lunch gonna be?"

"One or thereabouts."

"Only sandwiches and salad," Trask warned.

"I like sandwiches. I mean, if yer invitin' me, that is. I can git here 'bout nine, flash it, lay more brick, 'nother tile, seal it in ta shed rain, git off the roof an' clean up by one."

"Should be okay," said Charly, careful to keep any enthusiasm out of her voice.

"Aww!"

"What's the matter?"

"I jist thought. I'm gonna be all-over tar from roof cement after the flashin'—my clothes'll be a mess and my hands black. Jeez!"

"No sweat, Carl—just bring clean clothes," Trask assured him. "Come early and you'll have time for a bath, and for the roof cement I'll scrub you down with gasoline and a wire brush—you'll look good as new!"

"I'll give ya gasoline! Ya got thinner? Okay... see ya at eight."

"Go straight home—no booze. If you smell like a brewery you'll scare off the girls—mess up Charly's party. Stay bright-eyed and bushy-tailed!"

"You can come to church with us if you wish," Charly added sweetly.

"Nah! I'm Cath'lic—on'y go fer Easter. See ya bright an' early."

* * *

Charly and Trask laughed and congratulated each other for wit and originality, then she rushed to phone Betty and Brandi, willing to beg if need be to get them to come. They agreed with minimal coaxing, Brandi animated by the idea of an additional man, even though Charly described him as _Chuck's old friend_.

She and Trask kept on till nearly midnight, replaying parts of the conversation, mimicking Carl's talk and gestures, predicting the actions to be played out at lunch.

"You finally figured a way to get out of church," Charly told Trask, "or can he finish by himself?"

"You want him to paw through your undies drawer while we're gone?"

"The house wouldn't need to be open," she responded. "Oh, you! You got me to bite, didn't you? Hope you're happy."

"I'll stay home to make sure things get done, and to keep him from rolling off the roof in his excitement. An act of genius for you to think of girls, by the way. How'd you guess he'd go for it?"

"All the signs could be seen—divorced, living in a trailer, super polite like an old-fashioned cowboy... Well, an unusually talkative cowboy. Tell me, does he bug the women at work?"

"Not that I've noticed. Think he'll behave?"

"Might even be shy... Although one thing's sure—he won't be tongue-tied!"

This sent them into new gales of laughter.

"What's the trailer got to do with it?" he asked.

"No house maintenance, not much cleaning, no yard work—he's probably got nothing to keep him busy... or out of trouble. Look at that one up the road."

"I see. How long've they been there?"

"Years—my Dad was still alive. He despised them. I guess he went up to offer help when they moved in. Tried to make friends, and they rebuffed him—a bunch of bums."

"What do they do?"

"Take welfare money, I suppose—sure don't work for a living. I suspect they grow marijuana—maybe they sell it. You see the occasional car or truck go up."

"You're kidding!"

She shook her head, "Frankie and I took a walk across Bigley a couple of years back, heading toward the cliff. They met us in the woods and chased us off—worried we might stumble across their plantings in the woods, I'll bet."

"Were you on their land?"

"Not unless they own a big chunk, which I doubt—probably a fifty-foot piece under the trailer. We were a couple hundred yards off, but they came running across our path, waving a gun. They wanted no sneaking around, they said. And because of Frankie I turned right around and scooted off."

Trask's face hardened. "What did you do?"

"Considered calling the sheriff, but I pictured our valiant lawmen coming and making a fuss then leaving, and maybe those guys wanting to get even... I can see you don't like this, but don't go making trouble."

"They threatened you with a firearm? That's assault."

"A shotgun, double barrel. They didn't exactly point the thing at us, but they—the one guy—waved it around a lot."

"What were they like?"

"Scrawny, dirty-looking, long beards and hair, sloppy clothes—the works, as if they were playing hillbilly hippies."

"And what was said?"

"What am I doing? What am I looking for? Why am I _sneaking around?_ And more of the same I don't remember."

"Did it seem they might have held you if you gave the wrong answers—failed to prove your innocence?"

"It did... What a scowl you've got on your face! Tell me you won't start anything or I'll be sorry I told you."

"I'm not planning anything. Wish I'd been here, though."

She gave a soft laugh. "You're such a protector, Chuck."

"The idea of threatening a woman and child with a gun! I don't like it. Have you got a firearm here? By legend every farm is supposed to, you know."

"We have a twenty-two, yes."

"Can you shoot?"

"I did, several years back—my father taught me. I still know how to align a sight picture. What about you?"

"Water pistol."

"Want to learn?"

"You'll teach me?!"

"Why not? Annie Oakley did."

~

Chapter 29 Threesome

day 44-49 Sun-Fri Oct 6-11

They completed the chimney in good time, the final tile standing three feet off the roof with Carl laying brick to within a couple inches of the top, and forming a rain-shed. The flashing and patching done, they clambered down in high spirits, finished before noon.

"Ya git them holes cut in the tile?"

"Yeah."

"Git the thimble in?"

"Yeah."

"Close the hole upstairs?"

"Not yet."

"Well, ya gotta do that, ya know, else Charly's gonna turn blue someday. I mean, I know you ain't got the esperience ta know what..."

"Will you quit with the useless advice?"

"...Well, in that case, ole buddy, let's go meet the ladies." And he left Trask to do the clean-up and put-away.

Carl made a lengthy toilette, coming out clean and newly shaven, hair slicked down, wearing a western shirt and rather tight new jeans with a huge shiny belt buckle and yellow cowboy boots.

Trask surveyed him. "Going line dancing, are we?"

Carl showed hurt, and looked to Charly for reassurance. "You're fine," she said, letting her eyes linger briefly on Trask as she turned away, thereby informing him she shared his opinion but was determined not to make Carl self-conscious, and warning/advising him to ease off—all this in one glance.

Trask swallowed his next remark and went to wash up.

* * *

"Dint take ya long," Carl greeted his appearance.

"I'm not getting ready for a party." Trask again drank in Carl's splendor, the flashy red and white shirt slightly warming his eyeballs. "Got a big hat with a feather?" he asked, deadpan.

"In the truck."

_And the truck newly washed, I'll bet_. He dearly would have liked to roast Carl over this ostentation, but Charly still was giving that look. Tongue in cheek, he asked, "Want to take a walk while we wait?"

"Nah! Don't wanna git my boots dusty."

_Oh boy, Charly!_ Trask fixed her with a stare to communicate his chagrin at being stifled.

* * *

Soon Betty and Brandi arrived, Brandi still wearing short shorts even in October, Betty neatly and soberly attired in slacks and sweater. After introductions, Carl explained he _just happened_ to be here, because of an important job Chuck _couldn't handle_ , nor anyone else in all of creation. In no time he and Brandi were getting along like houses afire.

Assisting Charly in the kitchen, Betty hissed that Brandi was making a fool of herself again, with a man _even older than Chuck!_ Charly envisioned Trask, bent and doddering. She longed to share this assessment with him.

"She always does this!" Betty continued. "Fifteen or fifty and she'd still go after him, just for the attention. You see why I can't stand her sometimes? Oh, Charly! I get just sick of my life these days!"

Charly tried to reassure her. "Don't carry on, Betts. Learn to laugh at her. I know Chuck thinks she's a riot, but he says _you're_ the solid one."

"Solid!" Betty blurted, thinking her figure was being impugned.

"You know—down to earth, sensible, genuine."

"Oh! Well, Chuck's sweet, ain't he? Sorta crazy though."

_If only you knew, Betts—if only you knew_.

Charly had made meatloaf to serve cold as sandwich filling, and started off with canned tomato soup into which cooked potatoes and cream had been stirred, creating what she called Manhattan Potato Soup.

"Isn't it weird?" Brandi whispered to Carl.

"I kinda like it," Carl replied.

"Pretty good," Trask decided.

"So original," Betty gushed.

"Do I _hafta_ ," Frankie grumbled.

"Do you want dessert?" Charly threatened.

* * *

Lemon meringue pie arrived, an exceedingly popular choice. Carl was in Heaven.

"I could die and go ta Heaven 'bout now," he said, "I rilly could."

Brandi delicately belched, breaking into giggles at an admonishing glare from Betty.

After a goodly amount of pointless chit-chat, including Carl displaying the new stove to the admiring girls—taking credit for everything except mining the iron ore—the party showed signs of breaking up. Brandi decided to ride home with Carl, asking Betty to move her car so they could leave.

Betty returned red and furious. "You see!" she stage-whispered to Charly. "You see what she pulls? And he's old enough to be her father, almost."

Trask escorted Frankie to the front room.

"What am I gonna do, Charly? Sometimes I can't take it any more. She's the only friend I got with all the other girls married and busy with family, but she's always pullin' this stuff. If some goofy stud comes into the bar or Bowl-a-Roll she'll drop me to flirt without a by-yer-leave. And she don't mind lettin' me sit by myself or go home alone."

"You need a new friend, Betts—another friend. She'll never change unless something hurts her badly enough to make her think. She's like the mule that has to be hit in the head with a two-by-four to get its attention."

"Oh, Gawd!"

"Can't you find something else to do—not have to go everywhere with her?"

"When we bowl—in the leagues—I get better average but she's always prancin' around, gettin' all the attention. She's so pretty!"

"Oh, Betty! I think you're exaggerating there."

"Even Chuck said so the other day! And right in front of you!"

"Why shouldn't he say it in front of me?" How irritating. "Besides, he was simply putting her on—he doesn't think much of her looks."

Betty looked hard at her. "Are you sure, Charly? I mean, I know you say there's nothing between you two, but doesn't it pain you just a little when he goes on about her like that? Wouldn't you want him to notice _your_ looks?"

This was too ridiculous. Charly broke into peals of laughter, bringing Frankie running into the kitchen to be motioned back to the front room.

"Oh, Betts! Believe me, if I needed any compliments from him... I'll tell you, he goes on and on about my _cooking_ , plain though it is. But he _has_ complimented me on my appearance once in a while in an offhand fashion. He's not the type to flirt with a young woman that way, I think—not that I've noticed. And as far as Brandi! He makes fun of her most of the time."

Not all of this sank in with Betty. "It doesn't bother you—that he pays that much attention to her?"

"No! He's almost never given her an actual compliment when we're alone. You he has, though—but I'm not saying he's interested in you, you realize."

"I know."

"But he thinks well of you."

"Who _does_ he go for?"

"No-one, from what I can see. I know he likes to jolly-up women, but that's as far as it goes. Of course, he's older, so who knows what he likes."

"He's not..." Betty made a fluttering motion with her hand.

"Oh, this is too good! Wait'll I tell him you girls think he..." Charly broke into laughter once more.

"No, no, no! Don't say anything, Charly. Please! I'd feel so bad."

"He divorced a few months back—not a friendly one. Possibly he's off women for awhile. Maybe he'll end up a bachelor—I don't know. At any rate, he's not looking for a woman yet—especially not Brandi."

* * *

Later Charly asked Trask, "What did you think of the soup?"

"Not bad."

"Would you want me to make it again?"

"Sure."

"Really? How soon?"

"Year or two, I guess." He got the reaction he wanted. "Okay, maybe a week or two—happy now?"

"I'll never serve it again."

"Your choice, but won't Frankie be disappointed?"

_Just for that, Mister, I'll surprise you next week_. "What do you think of Carl and Brandi? Are they going to be an item, you think? Have we bettered the world through our efforts?"

"Bettered _her_ world, perhaps. Know what a Venus flytrap is?"

"Yes." Charly knew what was coming.

"Carl's the fly."

"Betty was hurt. Evidently Brandi carries on this way a lot."

"I'm plumb surprised—never would have figured it in a million years. What's your opinion?"

"I expected she'd rob the cradle but not the pall-bearer."

"He's only a couple of years older than I."

"As I said..."

He fixed her with a beady eye. "You're getting mighty catty tonight. For two cents I'd put you over my knee."

"You and what army?"

He rose to his feet and struck a threatening attitude. "Here I come, Missy."

"Where's that poker?"

He advanced slowly and she jumped to her feet and retreated. "My gun's around here somewhere!"

"In a mood of righteous anger I am impervious." He backed her into a corner.

She straightened from her crouch and said calmly, "Close enough, Chuck."

His hands dropped and he gave her a disgusted look. "You're no fun."

"Do you often abuse women?"

"Only when they're truly deserving—like tonight." He slumped back on the couch, and she turned to leave the room.

Part way she stopped and turned. "Tell me seriously—did you ever spank your wife, even in fun?"

"No!" he snorted, as if it were inconceivable.

"Then why would you want to try it with me?"

He considered. "Bigger target?"

She jabbed a finger at him. "Better check your stew for rat poison next time!"

"Hey, I _love_ stew! It's like I'm in Heaven."

* * *

In the bathroom getting ready for bed, she replayed the scene. She'd been in the mood, she admitted, for a brief wrestling match to top off the evening—a bit of foolishness. Not since Franklin _courted_ her had she engaged in any horseplay of that nature, and the fact was she missed the physical contact—hugging Frankie was thin stuff in comparison.

But how dangerous would _that_ have been.

Once Franklin accomplished his aim of gaining a woman and moving in with her their relationship became curiously lacking in play, and certainly in true affection. Conversations were brief, functional—not impish and full of wordplay and humor as with Trask. Even their lovemaking became utilitarian—almost impersonal on his part. Was she exaggerating? She considered... No, not much.

The recollection made her feel depressed. She felt herself aging in spirit as well as flesh, her most opportune years wasted on a fraud of a lover—time badly invested. Soon she would be beyond youth, slipping into middle age, her whole life wrapped up in a maturing daughter and the bare need to survive.

How had she come to deserve this—to somehow merit a poor future? Did one slip from virtuous behavior to doom her to frustration and disappointment for the rest of her life?

She wondered, at times, how life would have been had her father lived a few years longer. Would she have gone on to college? She'd daydreamed of it in high school, and her studiousness and intelligence made it a natural step. How would her father have looked upon that—him with his saving nature? Would he have judged college a waste, or was one reason for his saving to pay for her education?

They'd never discussed it, but in her heart she felt he would have met her desires, for one thing she surely knew—he'd loved her well. Yes, of that she was certain. Why else make her the heir to the farm, why else the small secret account in her name? If all besides failed her she had the utter assurance of her father's love to buoy her up.

She'd brushed her teeth long enough to nearly wear through the enamel. She finished and headed to bed.

* * *

From where he sat Trask caught a glimpse of her as she started up the stairs, and he couldn't suppress a sigh, disappointed he'd let her disarm him so easily. With someone else—someone to actively flirt with—he would have ignored the command to quit and more thoroughly tested the limits of her indignation. Not that he would have spanked her, of course—such an intimacy reached far beyond what their relationship allowed. But to bend her over his knee and threaten, to make her squeal a bit—that would have been diverting.

He suddenly felt restless, felt the need for inane activity—the desire to meet new and preferably uninhibited companions. Maybe Carl needed someone to bar-crawl with. Maybe the time had come to think of meeting women again, of getting back into the social scene.

* * *

Charly's week slid swiftly by, the work so routine she could think and dream of other things—breaks and lunch periods were fairly calm now that her boarder and his troubles were replaced by fresher gossip. Dory remained skeptical—envious probably—of her new-found good fortune, but even _she_ mostly moved on to other subjects.

And when payday came, her check with its paltry addition proved a greater joy than expected. Most would stay in the bank, albeit only resting in preparation for its departure for furnace repair and real estate taxes. She fancied she detected a new respect on the part of the brittle-mannered clerk at the bank, and even Clay Feister must soon start to consider her a depositor to be reckoned with.

At work, Brandi sparkled with high spirits, full of cryptic hints as to her social life, deliberately inducing questions to which she refused to give a straight answer. Betty drooped but slowly recovered—after all, hadn't she seen Brandi this way before? And didn't each affair end in grievance and recriminations aimed at the man? Soon, Betty knew, Brandi would need her support again.

* * *

Trask sneered at his paycheck yet felt pleased just the same. He lived so cheaply these days it was sufficient for his immediate needs if he didn't go hog wild on spending for some toy—such as a woodstove. He contemplated offering Charly more money—Heaven knew he wasn't paying much.

On consideration, he decided not to go to the trouble. She'd put up a fight, concerned about being patronized. She had a lot of foolish concerns, regardless of how down-to-earth she might be in most ways. A curious kid—serious and flighty both, brave yet often teary-eyed, calm during an emergency though quick tempered at a perceived slight, plain in dress and grooming yet attractive to men. A puzzle.

~

Chapter 30 Horrors!

day 50-70 Sat-Sat Oct 12-Nov 1

Saturday they traveled to Gettrick so Charly could choose wallpaper for the dining room, and Trask to buy a power steamer.

At the decorating store's overstock section prices were half off list, although quantities might be unpredictable. Charly picked out a sprigged early American pattern while Trask insisted on something Victorian and grand. They settled on a watered silk look, pale cream background with broad contrasting stripes widely set, a filigree of the same shade down the middle between each set of stripes. Dark blue or green were the choices. They liked blue better but chose green to avoid offending the carpet too much. A dark cream paint they chose for the trim, and selected the needed tools and supplies.

* * *

Clear the room! Curtains down, computer and other gear out, phone set on a chair, the round table squeezed into the living room, the library table pushed to the center for pasting the paper. They taped plastic sheeting to the baseboards to protect the carpet, and fired-up the steamer. Removing painted-over wallpaper proved a challenge, as the steam—they soon found—made almost no impression on it. Trask attacked the paper with disposable knife and scraper, cutting and hacking until Charly doubled over with laughter and warned him to watch the plaster beneath.

Small need to worry, for three more layers of paper soon revealed their designs. They'd hoped to have the old stuff off and the trim painting started this weekend, but it was not to be. The job stretched on over several days as tasks piled up and their initial enthusiasm waned. They not only needed to scrape off layers of resistant wallpaper but scrub the old paste off the plaster—no easy job—then fill in gouges and cracks. Despite plastic film, sticky scraps of wallpaper attached themselves to the carpet and their shoes, and were tracked throughout the house.

The trim presented an extended challenge. The carpet must be pulled up and rolled back, and the tacks holding it pried up or—if rusted in—broken short and pounded down. Inevitably the edges of the carpet tore and frayed. They looked at one another in dismay. By mutual consent Trask went for a straight-edge and slashed through the worn avocado at the boundary to the living room. They rolled-up and dragged it to the porch for later burning. The floor demanded finishing or recovering, but that decision they postponed.

The trim required scrubbing and sanding, but close inspection revealed other flaws. Runs and drips from previous finishes loomed large, and wherever paint approached wallpaper or carpet it was rough and contaminated with debris. By Thursday night they temporarily lost interest and declared a holiday.

"I hope you won't want to do this one." Collapsed on the couch, Trask waved at the living room walls.

"I don't even want to finish the other... I assumed Frankie would give us more help—remarkable how much her homework increased this week."

"She may be little but she ain't dumb." He heaved a tired sigh. "Wears me out simply thinking of the floor. Might be oak, so it should be left bare. I sure don't feel like finishing it, though."

"We might have chosen the blue pattern—how sad."

"This section of carpet should go, too."

"I don't even want to _think_ about additional work. Let's not do any more until the urge comes back."

"Next year?" he asked.

"See if I care."

"The furnace guy's Saturday?"

"What he said."

"Then we _shouldn't_ do any more—he'll dirty up the place too much."

"Good thinking, Chuck. And we can't work Sunday—day of rest."

They were silent. "What's our excuse for next week?" Trask said.

"Halloween," she volunteered.

"Two weeks off... Good enough."

They were silent for a minute until an idea came to her. "What of Carl? Think he'd go for this type of work?"

"Not for a century or two."

"What's that mean?"

"Big fight."

"You didn't!"

"Let's say... a spirited discussion—exceptionally spirited."

"You need to do something for your temper—see a counselor."

Trask gave a skeptical look.

"You'll get in trouble again, Chuck—maybe worse trouble."

"Phooey!"

"You'll see... What brought this on?"

"He wasted most of Monday trying to fix an automatic router, and when he couldn't they sent for the expert. That would be me," he added with appropriate modesty. "So I went over, and he'd screwed-up the job, of course..."

"I thought you considered him capable?"

"Sure, when it comes to sticking together pieces of crockery—bricks and such. But he's cut-and-try, whereas I'm methodical. I started to analyze the ladder diagrams—which somebody had modified in pencil a dozen times—and began to give him directions, but he had to argue everything I suggested. When it got to be too much I told him to shut up and listen, because I knew how to analyze and he obviously didn't."

"Oh-oh!"

"Oh-oh is right. The operator stood around soaking up every word, because maintenance is the nobility of the shop, so to speak, with them having to call us every time there's a problem, and wait around till we saunter over in our good old time. At least, that's how _they_ see things. Now he's got a good story about us fighting over how to fix the machine, and you can bet that was all over the shop the next day. Carl, of course, is fully aware of this, and what with him allatime bragging how he's the best of the crew, it went over like a lead balloon."

"I can imagine. No help from him any more, I suppose."

"Well," Trask said, "not at his usual modest rates, anyhow."

"Oh dear. Can't you make it up to him?"

"Me!"

"Well, you insulted him."

"Put your mind at rest! He got in plenty of his own insults, opposing everything I wanted to try. I solved in an hour what he couldn't in eight. That's what ticked him off the most. The devil with him!"

* * *

Saturday they tackled the room with renewed vigor, having decided to finish the outer foot or two of the floor and buy a large cheap rug to cover the center. They attacked the trim, deciding to ignore minor flaws, assuring themselves no-one would notice once everything had been newly painted.

The furnace conversion unit went in quickly, Trask having earlier removed the old one and cleaned the ashes, soot and charcoal from the furnace. Glorious heat filled the house and assuaged Charly's regret at having to surrender so much money.

On Sunday they attended church, then back to work in the afternoon, accomplishing enough that Trask could start on the floor before supper. Directly they found the boards not to be oak but a fine-grained softer wood, perhaps tulip. All the better! The finishing could be skimped and they'd paint instead—the darkest green available. On Monday Trask would buy more sanding belts, paint, quarter rounds to hide the edges of the floor where the sander wouldn't reach, and knee pads for her, he promised, to allow her to get down and dirty with him.

* * *

Charly now figured to start on the improvement of Frankie's social life. Trick and treating was pointless in the boondocks, and she'd never liked the idea of driving the girl into town to prey on the householders there. She decided to have a party and invite schoolmates. Trask used the computer to print invitations on orange paper, and Frankie delivered one to each of the girls in her room. Three positive answers were received.

"See," Charly told him, "not _everyone_ knows about your record." Trask gave such a ferocious scowl that she laughed. "Now we _have_ to finish the room," she continued, "even if it kills us... I mean, kills _you."_ More scowls and laughter.

* * *

They hastily sanded and painted the floor, and finished the trim in a few days time. The sashes he removed from the windows to do a better job, painting them cream inside, bronze outside—three down, dozens to go. For the bookcase they got fancy—shelves green, all else cream.

Wallpapering proved another act of martyrdom, the dumb stuff refusing to behave when pasted, the knack of trimming difficult to learn, the sheets ripping when they attempted to go around windows, and getting out of plumb by the time they got to the third wall. Fortunately they'd purchased more than needed.

But when they completed the hanging and washed off excess paste from ceiling and trim, Charly wailed, "Now the _hall_ looks terrible! What can we do?"

"Ignore it," he said firmly.

Down went the new rug, a cheap fake Persian of tan background and a multitude of flowery colors—it looked swell. The furniture and books were placed back, and Charly's spirits briefly soared. Next they started on the basement.

Oh, horrors!

* * *

Halloween—and at twilight the girls were delivered by their parents' cars. Tiny jack o' lanterns sat on the porch rails, candles in weighted paper sacks lined the front of the lawn and both sides of the drive. The house darkened, Frankie ran to greet her guests with a sheet thrown over her head. Charly guarded the door wearing an eye mask, while Trask skulked un-costumed in the living room, his dignity above such things. The girls took off their wraps to display their outfits, put away their baggage, and lined up to creep down to the _Dungeon of Horrors_.

One bulb covered with dark fabric almost lit the ghastly scene, while Charly preceded them with a dim flashlight wrapped in red cloth. At the first station they were instructed to dip their hands in a shadowed pan, then urged, "Hurry and wipe the blood off on this towel before it stains your clothes."

"What's in it?" they quavered.

"Guts! Chicken guts." Frankie whispered with great relish.

Frankie led off, playing up for all she was worth with shudders and groans. Two girls followed with squeamish delight, but the third squealed, "I can't. Oh, I just can't—I _can't!"_

The others coaxed her on, and right as Charly prepared to issue a reprieve she thrust her fingertips in with a shriek that brought Trask to his feet upstairs. As she wiped her hands they squealed with horrified delight at the torture transcended.

In a dark corner they crept through _spider webs_ —in another they fondled _bones_ —in fact, old and weather-polished cow ribs and limbs. At the last station _bats_ and _spiders_ descended upon their heads, and as Charly uncovered the flashlight they raced for the stairs and safety, screaming and giggling.

The invitations had instructed them to eat their suppers. After washing off any _blood_ remaining from the watery pasta they'd fondled, cider and donuts were available, and all the popcorn they might want. In the living room Trask showed them scary videos—the forest scene from Snow White and The Sorcerer's Apprentice from Fantasia.

After dressing for sleep and brushing teeth a general bed was prepared on the dining room floor from comforters and old blankets and sheets, and they settled down on the couch to watch the Wizard of Oz. They nodded off before Dorothy met the Scarecrow, and were guided to bed without resistance.

Next morning Charly roused them early and chivvied them through baths, brushings, and breakfast. Rushing to school they straggled into their room to the accompaniment of the final bell, giggling at the distraction they caused. During the day two of the girls fell asleep and were ordered to stand at the rear of the room for punishment.

Altogether it had been, as one of them said, "The best party ever!"

~

Chapter 31 Romance & Rejection

day 71-78 Sat-Sat Nov 2-9

A week after Frankie's party, still flushed with its success, Charly broached her need for a loan to Aunt Sally. Skeptical at first, when she absorbed Charly's new financial standing and understood her plans, Sally told her to check back in December. Charly took this for a _Yes_ , and worried over taxes no longer.

* * *

Thanksgiving hovered but four weeks away. They were used to eating at her aunt's but this year Charly thought of having the meal at home, the newly spiffed-up dining room an extra motivation. She discussed her plan with Trask, and he encouraged her.

"Will she come, I wonder, after her vow?" Charly mused.

"An actual vow?"

"She said it real firmly, I can tell you that. But maybe..."

"Insist. Accuse her of being childish if she hesitates. You know, turn the table on her."

"You make persuading her sound easy, but it won't be."

"If you're firm—don't get whiny or hysterical..."

"Hardly!"

"Keep asking until she says yes. Ah, wait... Frankie's the one—get her to beg Auntie. What do you say to that, Short Stuff?"

"Uh-huh. I'm good at... What is it, Mom—weaseling?"

"Wheedling," Charly sighed.

"I'll wheedsle her, Chuck—I will. Okay, Momma?"

Charly rolled her eyes, but approved the tactic.

* * *

At the Mill Carl showed signs of dissatisfaction and down-heartedness, his sarcastic remarks dried up, spirits low. On Tuesday, assigned to a job with Trask, he broke his silence.

"Say—ya ain't still ticked off at me er nothin', are ya?"

Trask felt tempted to apply the cold shoulder, but relented. What the heck, this poor joker hadn't bothered him all that much.

"Sure am, you lousy deck ape."

Carl punched him in the arm. "Yer okay, Chuck—I don't care what the other guys say." Back to the old Carl in a split second.

The next day he approached Trask in the parking lot. "Hey, Buddy, can I see ya 'bout sumpin'?"

Trask reached into his pocket. "How much d'you need?" he sighed in a long-suffering tone.

"You'd lend me money?" Carl showed mild astonishment.

"A buck, maybe, for the vending machines."

Carl looked around to be sure he wouldn't be overheard. "Say, I broke up with that Brandi chick, ya know," he almost whispered.

"You mean, she dumped you."

"Well... kinda mutual."

Trask gave him a knowing look.

"We went out dancin'..."

"You! Dancing?"

"A polka—and I sorta twisted my foot. So I say, _Let's siddown awhile_ , and she sez, snotty-like, _I dint come here ta sit_ , and I say, _So go dance yerself, then_ , an' she sez, _See if I don't_ , and I say, _Fine_ , and she goes and shags this young slick and off they go. An' she dances a couple times and sits down with him, which I dint care for one bit. An' I gets up and goes over to her and say, _You need a ride home or is he gonna take you on his handlebars?_ And he starts to get up but I pushes him down and say, _Don't make me do sumpin' we'll both regret_. So she sez, _I can get a ride from any man in here if I want_. So I say cool-like, _Real good ta know yer such a popular girl_ , an' I pay up an' leave."

Here Carl paused as if he expected input, so Trask said, "And...?"

"Well, I ain't seen her, ner do I wanta."

"Not much I can say, except in the long run you're better off without her."

Carl seemed unsatisfied with this, and his eyes wandered across the parking lot before coming back to rest on Trask. "I wanna ask ya a favor—you an' her."

"Me and... who?"

"You and Charly."

Choosing to misunderstand, Trask said, "I've already told you, she's not for you. I'm saving her for someone with class."

"No! It ain't _her!_ Yer a real pain sometimes, ya know that?"

"Well, look, old man—and I do mean _old_ —if you want something you'd better either spit it out or learn how to hint better, because I can't follow you."

Carl looked at him in a hangdog fashion. "I want ya ta fix me up with the other gal—the quiet one."

Trask searched for an excuse. To gain time to think he said in mock outrage, "What! You've ruined one virgin and you want me to turn another one over to your filthy urges?"

"C'mon man," Carl whined, "I ain't kiddin' around. I'm real lonely these days and I jist wanta git some nice female company... That Brandi! I dunno if she's a full-fledged slut or it's part-way a act, but... well, she ain't what I'm after. I want a _nice_ girl."

Trask got serious. "Carl, I don't see myself as a pimp—not even a part-timer."

"I tol' ya," Carl insisted, "it ain't _like_ that."

Trask twisted his neck and made a few faces. "I'll talk to Charly, but that's it. If she says _No_ , then I won't do anything more—in fact, I'll warn the girl off you." _Not that she'd believe anything I say._

"Okay! Good enough, Chuck. See what Charly says. I know she likes me real good."

"You disgust her—she only acted nice to get a good price for the chimney."

"Ya lyin' sack! Yer a good buddy, Chuck. I knew ya wouldn't let me down."

* * *

Trask smacked his lips. "Man! Been a long time since I've tasted ham and bean soup."

"I almost wish we owned a dog for the bone and scraps—hate to throw them out."

"A farm without a dog... Doesn't seem right—doesn't fit the stereotype."

"Dogs cost money... for upkeep and feeding, shots. And they make a fuss over licenses lately—four, five bucks every year. We kept a dog when I was younger— I might get another one if you moved out."

And that means just what?

Charly went on, "I think Sally will come over. Frankie's got her teeth into her."

"Good."

"I wonder...?"

"Uhm?"

"I haven't had any contact with my mother for so long..."

Trask nodded to encourage her.

"I'd like to invite her for Thanksgiving or Christmas. What do you think?"

"Me! Why should I have any thoughts on your family?"

"You wouldn't mind... if she stayed here for a few days?"

"Hey, I'm only the boarder. I've got no say on anything—unless you're planning to steal my room"

"You'd put up with her?"

"Of course! I'm surprised you even consult me."

"Well, I didn't want to spring it on you."

"What you mean is, you wanted me to help you make up your mind."

She chuckled. "Maybe so, maybe so. I'll write to her, then."

"Call her."

"Oh..." She seemed unsure, hesitant.

"If you truly want her to come, call her."

"I don't know..."

"I think if you two are estranged you should break the cycle somehow, and hearing your voice might do it for her."

She dithered, thinking it over—biting her lip and wringing her hands. "I think I'll do it. Yes, I think I will."

"Six-thirty there."

Charly hesitated, then rose and entered the other room. Trask heard a murmur, and in a short while she returned.

"She doesn't want to come. The flight, the long drive from the airport, the packing, the expense—every excuse you could think of."

They were silent until he said, "I can pick her up at the airport. What is it—fifty, sixty miles?"

"She might not want to stay here. That might be part of her reason, remembering how run-down the house is."

"Call again. Tell her you have transportation, tell her the place is getting fixed up but you can put her at a motel if she wants." Charly made no response. "Tell her about Frankie. Mention Sally."

"Not Sally—they didn't get along too well... But Frankie... she's never seen her."

Charly stood, and this time stayed longer. Her voice rose a couple of times as the conversation continued. In time the phone clicked down and she sat hunched over the table. At last she got up, head bent, and walked directly to the stairs without a word.

* * *

Charly was somber next morning. Trask said a minimum and avoided looking at her too sharply. Even Frankie seemed dour.

Over coffee he said, "I shouldn't have put my oar in."

Charly raised her head. "You did nothing wrong, Chuck. And _I_ did nothing wrong." Glancing at Frankie she murmured, "She didn't even..." She jumped up and rushed into the bathroom.

Frankie gawked at him in surprise, and he shrugged. They sat a few moments in silent contemplation until he realized the time. "I'm late!" He stooped to kiss the girl's forehead. "See you tonight, Charly!" he yelled, and rushed out.

Frankie rubbed her forehead in puzzlement. "Why'd he do that?"

* * *

By evening things were more or less back to normal, if quieter than usual. Frankie wanted to know why he'd kissed her, and Trask explained, "You were just too cute this morning—I couldn't resist. Did you mind?"

She considered. "I guess not."

Charly watched with a smile.

He asked, "Do you want me to kiss you again?" and held out his arms.

Frankie willingly gave him a hug and accepted another salute to her forehead, rubbing the spot vigorously afterward. She eyed her mother as if to say, _Aren't men funny?_

Later he and Charly sat before the woodstove listening to a classical radio station that came in clearly during winter.

At an intermission she mused, "She didn't even want to see her grand-daughter."

"Makes no sense."

Later she added, "Nothing helped—she gave an excuse for everything. So I tested her. I said, _We'll come visit_ you _. How about Christmas?_ _No_ , she said, _that wouldn't do—too busy_. _January, then_. _Oh, no—Thad and his family, yatada, yatada_. _We'll stay at a motel_ , I said. And then she couldn't talk any longer."
They were silent several minutes until Trask made up his mind to say his piece, hoping it would help more than hurt. "I'll tell you how I see things, Charly. You have a warped family—that side. It's completely unnatural for families to behave this way. I think you're well off without them, and I wouldn't waste another minute worrying. Heck, I'm only happy you don't take after that side—thank God your father had the right stuff in him."

Charly teared-up. "You're a good friend... Funny thing is, I look like my mother."

"Strange. But the personality, the character..." More silence, then he said, "If you're ready, I'll give you something else to worry about."

"What do you mean?"

"Your buddy, Carl..."

" _Your_ buddy."

"No, I think he's depending on you—he knows you like him a lot." She looked irked, but he plunged onward. "You _do_ like him, don't you?"

"I don't totally hate him, if that's what you mean. Wasn't he giving you a hard time?"

"Over with now. The malign influence of Brandi Bowles is at an end."

"Oh, I know all _that_ ," Charly said. She chuckled. "Claimed she couldn't take the guy any longer, but I think maybe she ran through his money."

"Well, he has a slightly different tale, as you can imagine—a bit more favorable to himself. The important thing is, he's learned his lesson." He waited for a response.

"And what lesson might _that_ be?"

"No more flashy, shallow women—only the pure of heart need apply."

"Well... I wish him luck. He's crude but borderline charming. How does he treat women, though, I wonder?"

"What does Beauteous Brandi say?"

Charly considered. "Hard to know. Mostly she tries to be mysterious, if you can imagine."

"No, I cannot. She's mysterious as a load of bricks."

"She never accused him of anything bad—being boring is the worst."

"What about the art of the dance?"

"Dance? I don't know anything of that. What do you mean?"

"According to him it's the fault of the polka. What's the song about..."

"Blame it on the Bossa-Nova!"

"Yeah. Seems he didn't want to polka, so she danced with someone else, and he decided she could keep right on dancing."

"Oh, that's almost funny—I need a few laughs."

"Well, get ready for a belly-laugh... he wants to be set up with Betty."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yeah."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Crazed by his years on the desolate ocean, I think."

* * *

Friday Trask invited Carl to talk to Charly. He would make no promises, but Carl could throw himself on Charly's mercy or goodwill or something.

After their meeting Charly agreed to assist him, and contacted Betty. "Chuck's friend is coming over, and I need help."

"Cleaning? I can come Saturday morning."

"Cooking—on Sunday."

Betty hesitated. "I wouldn't be any good—I only cook breakfast sometimes."

"You can take instructions, can't you? I'm sort of worn down, and it's a big job. I want to make a batch so he can take some home with him. Will you come?"

"I guess. What are you making?"

"Cabbage rolls. And you'll eat with us, won't you?"

"Oh, I don't know, Charly. After him and Brandi... And I never had cabbage rolls—how do you make them?

"I'll show you. When we get through you can surprise your parents one day. And if you can't eat them there's always peanut butter and jelly."

"I'd still feel funny."

"I don't want to have to put up with two men gabbing about... well, the kind of boring things men gab about. Keep me company, okay? And wear work clothes, because you'll probably get messy."

~

Chapter 32 Win Some, Lose Some

day 79 Sun Nov 10

They arrived from church to find Betty's car in the drive. The day had chilled and now promised snow—the hills were softened behind a mist of invisible airy crystals. Trask unlocked the door as they shivered on the stoop, light clothes cut through by a sharp breeze. Jackets went up on hooks in the back entry, and Betty was led to the kitchen register to warm up.

"I'll give you a wrap to wear home, Betts. How are your tires if it snows?"

"Okay, I guess. Can I have something hot?"

"Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?"

Trask went to get the woodstove hotted up, tossing in scraps from a crude new bin in the corner of the living room. Charly started water for Betty's drink, then she and Frankie ran upstairs to change. Soon they were down, Charly carrying an old red sweatshirt to go over Betty's blouse. "Throw this on, Betts." She made hot chocolate, one for Betty and one for Frankie. "Sweetie, you go with Chuck so Betty and I can work."

"Can't I help? Awww! Kin I a'least watch?"

"Stay in the hall but don't come in here. Betts, wash up when you've finished—we've got to rush." Betty put down her cup and headed for the bathroom while Charly rinsed her hands at the kitchen sink. She soon had pots on the stove.

"Good thing two burners work."

"What should I do?"

"Get cabbage, ground beef, ground pork, eggs..." Charly measured out rice.

"I can't find pork."

"Let me look... Dern! Here's sausage—we'll dice it real fine instead."

"Won't that be awful spicy?"

"Betty! You're thinking like a real cook—we'll leave out the pepper."

Betty glowed with pleasure. In no time, it seemed, the cabbage had been cored and tossed into boiling water to blanch, and Betty was put to work dicing and slicing and mixing, turning up her nose at first about sliming around in ground beef, eggs and onion, but soon with no more concern than the _guts_ testers at Halloween. Charly swooped from task to task, laying out tools and containers, giving brief pointed directions to her helper, shooing Frankie away when she crept further into the excitement. Before long the filled, rolled leaves were steaming in a large pot, and they—cleaned up—were sipping coffee. Frankie had given up, and read poetry with Trask.

"By the shores of Gitsey Gummy..."

"Gitche Gumee..."

"By the shores of Gitchme Gumee, By the shiny Big..."

"Shining..."

* * *

Betty laughed softly. "Charly, you were like a... a _executive_."

Charly pounded her fist into her left palm. "Speed, SPEED, _speed_!"

"Yes! Like Stewart!" They chuckled together. "Do you always cook this way?"

"Not really... This has to steam for an hour or two, and Carl will probably be here soon. I don't want to make him sit around with nothing to do but pester me... This'll feed six easily, and he'll get to take a bunch home. Are you going to be brave and try them?"

"Sure, I like tryin' new food."

"Enjoy spaghetti and such?"

"Who don't?"

"You'll be okay—only eat the filling if you can't take the cabbage."

"Reminds me of Chemistry class."

"You took Chemistry?"

"Yeah. I got a D—those equations. Nobody good to copy offa. I liked the lab, though. This boy at the bench behind—we'd always bump into each other." She grinned at the memory. "He did it on purpose, just to tease. You know how guys are."

Charly sighed. She'd been headed for an A in Chemistry when Franklin... _Dumbbell!_ _I could have aced everything—be teaching now. They always need science teachers._ What a waste.

* * *

Trask let Carl in through the front door.

"Hey, somethin' sure smells good!"

"You'd say that if it was the kitty-litter. Get in!"

"I got snow... My boots..."

"Leave them on the carpet—nobody cares. Give up the coat."

"Where's Charly? Hiya, Kiddo," Carl said to Frankie.

"Kitchen," Trask directed.

Carl, dressed more conservatively this time, strode down the short hall. "Hey, somethin' smel... Oh, hi," he said, spotting Betty on the far side of the table.

"Hi."

"I didn't know..."

"Just helping Charly," she told the sink.

"Helping Charly cook?"

"Just helping."

Carl was disconcerted, and Charly decided to give some aid.

"What's it smell like?" She grinned at him.

He gustily filled his nostrils. "Is it...?"

"Sure is."

"Oh boy, oh boy," he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. "This is gonna be so great! I'm in Heaven already. Uh, you like em, too?"

Betty glanced at him without expression. "I'm leavin'—I only came to help. Are you blockin' the drive?"

Charly stepped in. "You'll wait till they're cooked, Betts, then you can take a couple with you."

Betty looked out the window at the snow. "Okay."

Carl shuffled his feet and indicated his return to the living room. Charly hid a smile.

* * *

Betty departed, a worn blanket draped over her shoulders, into the increasing squall, and they sat down to eat. Frankie's rolls were eviscerated by Charly to avoid contamination of her plate by cabbage. Carl was excessively appreciative and did more than justice to her cooking.

"I should have baked rye bread," she chided herself.

"Ya bake bread, too? This guy don't deserve his luck." Turning ostentatiously away from Trask, he confided, "He don't say _that_ much good about yer cookin' at work, ya know—not the way ya deserve."

"Oh! And right as I was getting my shellfish recipes together."

"Ya hear?" Carl drove his elbow into Trask's bicep.

"Life here was placid before you showed up. Expect no more invitations."

"Charly? Straighten im out."

* * *

She urged Carl to leave before the snow got worse. Handing him a brown lunch sack she said, "I used two bread wrappers. The only plastic bags I can find, so look out for leaks."

"Don't worry, I'll lick the stuff off the floor if I hafta."

Trask escorted him to the door, a wry expression on his face.

"Well, ya tried, good buddy."

Trask shrugged. "Win some, lose some. At any rate, you still owe me for this."

"Yeah, right. Charly I owe, but you—pffft!"

* * *

"She asleep?" he asked as Charly entered the room.

"By the time I closed the door, I imagine. Still, keep your voice down." She indicated the register.

"Let's see what we can get. The music won't bother her, and we can talk more freely." He tuned in the radio. "What do you think? Any hope?"

She shrugged. "At least we gave them a chance. Not that I can see any meeting of the minds."

"Know what he said to me when you two were busy? _Boy! Don't she look hot in that red sweater?_ "

Charly stared at him. Betty had no figure to speak of. "It _must_ be love on his part."

"They're both somewhat slow on the uptake—they've that in common."

"How cruel!"

"Is it true or false?"

She ignored the question. "They're both simple—I don't mean in that way! In tastes and outlook. Problem is, he's a slob and she would rather not be."

"Why's she hang with Brandi, then."

"I don't know—not much choice, maybe. She wants better things from life than Brandi does, though—more permanent things."

"Big age difference."

"Yes," she sniggled. "He's _even older than Chuck!"_

"Not so funny, in fact. A few more years and he could have fathered her."

"But men are so juvenile... it might not matter much."

Trask chewed on that awhile. "You should know—about juvenile men."

"I do—I do, alright."

After a time he said, "I've been thinking... of your mother. D'you mind talking?" She shook her head. "Why not send her a picture of Frankie? Show her what she's missing. If you look like your mother, and if Frankie looks like you—which she does...What do you think?"

"I might, I suppose... There are only baby pictures, though."

"Get a new one made. See one of the photo outfits."

"I should get her hair done... You're always spending my money, you!"

"But generally in a good cause."

A tiny lump came into her throat. "I won't argue with that," she murmured.

~

Chapter 33 Always Excused

day 80-87 Mon-Mon Nov 11-18

Armistice Day they attended the ceremony at the cemetery and watched the five-minute parade down Main, then ate at the diner. Peggy showed so much pleasure to see the girls Trask considered himself a benefactor simply for bringing them. She cooed over Frankie and exchanged reminiscences with Charly—mostly concerning her father—pleasing Charly as well.

With the milk of human kindness oozing from his pores, Trask drove them home. Although the temperature barely skated above thirty, a hot sun melted yesterday's snow, and they went for a long walk until increasing clouds and breezes drove them back to shelter in the house. The air was crystalline and sweet as nectar, he thought poetically—the sky an amethyst bowl, the clouds white steelwool... Well, similes can't always be apt.

Charly decided to get the photo. She yearned with all her soul for a pose in a dark velvet dress with broad lace collar but sternly forbade it to herself. _Not before Christmas!_ Perhaps then she would splurge on Frankie. For now, the girl would wear a jumper—it would be fine.

Again the week sped by. Thursday afternoon Frankie receiver her trim and shaping. Saturday the photos were shot, with Frankie—to her mother's eye—as poised as any child model. Wednesday Charly would select a pose, and pick up the prints on Saturday next.

Charly considered buying dozens and handing them out wholesale at work and school, but that would be both prideful and expensive. The best and cheapest price bought four medium and twelve wallet-sized prints. Of the medium size, her mother and Sally would each get one, she would find a frame for hers, and the spare would be stashed away with other memorabilia.

* * *

Monday, a week and a half to Thanksgiving—school put the children to work on historical projects and displays, careful to avoid religion and to play up the _Native American_ contribution. Trask tried to made clear to Frankie she was every bit as native as any Indian, by virtue of having been born in the USA—but the school's brainwashing proved too effective. She knew you must be bronze to be a _native_ —white people were only _European Colonists_.

* * *

At morning break Betty rushed to Charly and dragged her away from the lunch room. "Charly, I _got_ to tell you."

A bit alarmed, Charly said, " _What_ , for Heaven's sake?"

"I made breakfast for him Saturday."

Charly had no doubt who _him_ was, and the world almost spun before her eyes. "Betts!" she whispered. "No, no! You can't!"

Betty looked taken aback, then doubled over, trying to hold in her laughter. After several tries she managed to say, "Just breakfast, not _bed-and-breakfast!"_ She broke into huge guffaws at her own witticism.

Charly sighed with relief. "Calm down, girl! You'll have the whole factory over here. Start from the beginning."

"Well, after what you told me—how he was down in the mouth—I thought a lot, and I got my nerve up, and I called him Friday night—not real late."

Charly urged her on.

"So he answers pretty quick and I say, _This is Betty Strickland_ , but he don't say anything. So I say, _From Charly's_. Then he says somethin' like, _I know_ or _Oh yeah_. And I say..." She paused to grin rather ferociously. "I say, _Charly tells me you don't eat good, so you want me to make you breakfast tomorrow?_ And again he don't say anything, and I get suspicious and say real tough-like, _Have you got some woman over there?_ And he 'bout croaks, I think, and says, _No, no, acourse not—I been sleepin', that's all_. So I say, _Well okay, do ya or doncha?_ and he goes for it right away."

Charly took her by the shoulders. "Betts, I can't believe you had the nerve to do this. What next?"

"I told him I'd be over at ten and he should give me directions, and I took em down. So then I said..." She chuckled at her own daring. "Then I say, _Make sure the place is cleaned up!_ "

They clung to each other, choking back laughter.

"Go on!"

"I took over eggs and bacon, and a pan and spatula, cuz Charly—who knew what I'd find? Well, his joint wasn't as bad as you'd think with a man livin' alone. Maybe he's... maybe he's... maybe he's got a _maid!"_ More strangled screams at this ridiculous vision. "I made him bacon and egg sandwiches cuz there was bread and mayonnaise, and he said he liked them, and he did, judgin' by how he scarfed em down."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What next?"

"I took my pan and spatula and went home."

"That's it?"

"I left him the rest of the eggs but we ate all the bacon."

The end of break stopped them, but Charly said, "We've got to finish this at lunch. Let's eat by the line."

* * *

While munching, Betty said, "That's all there is, Charly."

"He didn't try to do anything, say anything?"

"He was a perfect gentleman. Course he swears a lot, but he always excused hisself."

Charly spun round and bit her lip. When back in control she turned and asked, "You make any future plans?"

"No. Just didn't seem... natural, somehow."

"He didn't say anything—simply let you sashay out?"

"He thanks me real polite, opens my car door and says _So long_ , and I left."

"Wow! Wow, wow."

"You think I should call again?"

"No, definitely not! He's got to make the next move. But if he doesn't, you can't do a thing without putting yourself in the position of chasing him. You see? You've got to wait."

"Uh-huh... Only, how long should I wait?"

"Do you truly like him? Have you thought this through?"

Betty morosely shook her head. "I don't know, Charly, but I gotta do somethin' or stay home and die an old maid." Her shoulders drooped.

"There are worse things than being an old maid. He's already made one bad mistake—you don't want to help him make another."

"What'll I do?" Betty moaned, her high having evaporated.

"Go slow and get to know him, I guess—and you wait—maybe not till hell freezes over but—you wait! Meanwhile, I'll see what I can get from Chuck."

* * *

Carl showed a changed persona from the semi-depression of past weeks, as would be clear to any who saw him. Neither was he the Carl of old. Chester told one and all, "Carl's travelin' near the edge today—ya better watch him close." A strange nervous energy seemed to have command of the man, far different from his normal dynamic garrulity, completely opposite his recent tail-dragging stupor. Trask found no chance to talk privately with him until early afternoon when Carl located him painting safety stripes, bored out of his skull.

"Put yer stuff away," Carl whispered, "Boss says to help me."

"What's up?"

"Need to talk to ya," he said as he peered around.

"Did Engler tell you to get me?"

"We gotta talk," Carl moaned.

"After work. I'm not quite ready to get fired yet."

Carl left, muttering to himself.

* * *

At quitting time Carl stuck as close as a tick, trying to have a conversation right in the parking lot. Trask refused on account of frostbite, and suggested the Diner. Not private enough, Carl contended, and they went instead to the Alley, where the sound of falling pins masked communications. After they arrived and were served, Trask—despite Carl's impatience—insisted on phoning Charly to say he would be late.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Carl's got a burr under his saddle and he wants me to pry it out for him."

She broke into gleeful laughter. "Oh, wait till you get home! I've got the other half of the story."

"No kidding!" He glanced back at Carl who imperiously signaled him to return.

"I'll try to get Frankie in bed early—hypnotize her, maybe. Hurry!"

He sauntered back to Carl with a roguish impulse directing him. "You want another beer?" he asked.

"No! Siddown!"

"I'm going to get a refill on this Coke—it's watered down."

Carl made a grab for his sleeve, but Trask moved quickly. Coming back he slid into his seat with a contented groan. "I could almost take a nap now." He stretched and yawned, delaying the game as long as possible.

"Yer not foolin' anyone, Chuckie-boy. Now shut up an' pay attention, cuz I'm gonna singe yer ears with this story."

Trask grinned and looked knowing during the tale, and when Carl finished he felt his ears and found them un-singed. "Strange, though, I'll admit."

"Any girl ever do that fer you?"

"Not under those circumstances, for certain. But when she left—what did you do, exactly?"

"Jist walked her to her car."

"And what did you say?"

"Jist thanks an' g'bye an' stuff."

"And she said...?"

Carl shrugged. " _Yer welcome_. I mean, that's all she said!"

"No mushy stuff occurred? No words of passion or affection were exchanged? No fond looks, coy glances?"

"Like I said."

"She leave her hanky behind?"

" _No,_ blast ya! Nothin'! Like business er sumpin'."

"But no money changed hands?"

"Ya idjit! No!"

"Can everyone hear you yet?"

Carl pulled in his head and peered round—all seemed safe. "Don't think so."

"You might want to keep your voice down."

"I will."

"And avoid excited and expansive gestures."

"Can ya get _on_ with it?"

"I'm coming to a conclusion here—the threads are coming together. A pattern is appearing in the background. The puzzle pieces..."

"Chuck, I'm beggin' ya."

"Okay. Look, Carl, you were in the Navy, right? And did your duty for God and country, right?"

"So?"

"Don't you see the similarity? Seems obvious this girl is in the Salvation Army doing charity work."

Carl turned so red that steam ought to have jetted from his ears, but he spoke with quiet determination. "Chuck, the on'y reason I don't kill ya where ya sit is outa respect fer the woman we both love."

"The Statue of Liberty?"

"Yer landlady... Look, are ya gonna' help me or not? Cuz I can always go find a barkeep what'll give me better advice than this."

"Okay, Carl, let's both stop screwing around."

"Both?!"

"I don't know what Betty is up to, but I do know this—you've got to handle this ve-ee-rrry delicately. I suppose she might call you again, but you can't count on that. Still, you don't want to be too eager—scare her off. Then again, if you wait too long she might feel rejected and drop you completely... The way the setup looks to me is she's giving you one chance to show you're not a complete jackass."

"That's my thinkin'."

"You've got to act in a mucho un-jackass way—agreed?"

"Uh, yeah... Whatever that means."

"I'm making this up as I go along."

"I can see _that_ easy enough."

"Don't ask her out."

"Huh?"

"Instead—and not too soon—ask her to accompany you somewhere—a neutral place or doings. For instance, if it was coming up on Veteran's Day again you could invite her to watch the parade with you. Meet her on the street corner, watch the parade, walk her home and skedaddle."

"So ya want me ta wait twelve months, izzat yer scheme? Or's Memorial Day okay? Maybe the Fourth?"

"Sarcasm does not become you under these circumstances. Hold it! Just hold on—don't interrupt while the gears are turning... Where could you go...? Hmm, everybody goes shopping Saturday morning, right? An unwritten law. Maybe you should call her up, ask if you can take her shopping. You pick her up, she buys her groceries, you carry her bags, you take her home."

"Well, gee, Chuck, that's real nice, but I'm gittin' up in years and the excitement might jist be too much fer me. I better stick ta parades."

"Of course if you have a _better_ idea..."

"Well, what if she don't _wanta_ go shoppin'?"

"Then you can say, _I figure I owe you a breakfast, so how can I make it up to you? How's about we hit the Diner Saturday morning?_ "

"Ya mean, the shoppin's jist a lead-in."

"Sure, could be. Unless she _wants_ to shop—or whatever."

"Well, let's say we _do_ shop er eat er sumpin'... then what's next?"

"We'll take that up in our next session—make an appointment with my secretary. Eighty bucks an hour, by the way, and keep a diary of your progress."

* * *

During and after the recitation period Charly and Trask laughed and laughed, the need for quiet in the living room making for almost painful sniggering. The two stories didn't differ by much, but the separate responses, inevitably exaggerated by the tellers, gave endless opportunity for comparison and nuance.

"And she simply... _drove away_!" Chuck exclaimed.

"I _know_! She simply gets in and drives off."

"Took her spatula and skipped—like Meals on Wheels!"

"That's how it went. I never, ever would have guessed she had it in her—would you?"

"Carl was... bemused, in a trance!"

"Betty said he was a perfect gentleman. She said he... she said he always..."

"What?"

"After he... he..."

"He belched? What?"

Charly sucked in a deep breath. "Excused himself after he... each time he swore."

Trask rolled off the couch. "Kitchen," he gasped.

In the kitchen they laughed themselves out. Charly worried they were taking too much pleasure in the pain of others but Trask claimed the two victims themselves would look back fondly on these early hardships.

"Probably the first time in his entire life Carl showed any restraint outside of being locked in the brig. He's the original big-time know-it-all blowhard, and he gets away with the act because he's a comic. This has _got_ to be good for him."

"And maybe the first time Betty ever took control of a situation instead of letting it control her."

"What's going to happen, you think?"

"I have no idea, but I think we should stay clear for awhile. Let true love—or whatever this is—take its own course."

"Amen, sister. My gut won't take much more of this. Life must resume its even flow."

"But will it?"

"You'll see—maybe."

* * *

"Hel-lo—the Strickland resy-dence."

"Er, ah... Miss Stricklan'—kin she come ta the phone?"

"Neither a my parents is at home right now—you wanta leave a message?"

"No, I mean... Is this Betty?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

"It's Carl... Carl Gresky, ya know... from..."

"Oh..."

"Well, I'm callin'... That is, I'm callin' fer when ya, er, fixed me breakfast the other day... I mean... "

"Yeah?"

"Well, so... I was thinkin' maybe ya'd, er... I figure I owe ya, so..."

~

Chapter 34 Conflict Resolution

day 88-92 Tue-Sat Nov 19-23

Friday Trask came home late but Charly thought nothing of it—he'd planned to shop, she knew. Yet he seemed unusually reticent and subdued, and their evening confab covered little of the week before he went early to bed.

Saturday morning Trask seemed even quieter—grim looking—but she put off her curiosity. Frankie was spending the night at a friend's—the first fruits of their Halloween efforts—and not around to break the ice. Around eleven Charly sat reading in the kitchen. The day was cool but dry, the kitchen extra comfy because she had bread in the oven. Trask came down dressed in a turtleneck, and grabbed a jacket off the hall hook.

"Where're you going?" she asked, but got no answer. In a minute she rose to check the bread and noticed him walking toward the oak. _Poison ivy!_ His prime obsession and a potential source for disappointment. She knew the difficulty of killing the weed, and if he thought brown leaves now proved anything, spring would soon disillusion him.

Hot bread and strawberry jam claimed her attention later when the back door opened and closed. She swiveled to offer him a share but he bolted into the bathroom, his face turned away.

Something was wrong. "Chuck! What happened?" She went to the door and tapped. "Did you hurt yourself?"

No answer. She walked over to the window to look at the tree, thinking he might have tried to cut down a limb or something—she'd no idea. Nothing showed at the tree, but in the distance by Bigley Road a bizarre figure in black hopped and hobbled. Beyond the spread of the oak she saw the tail of a red vehicle parked on the road. An accident? Had Trask helped change a tire? As she watched, the car accelerated backwards onto Undercliff, the right rear wheel sliding into the far ditch. In a cloud of dust and stones it struggled back onto the road and sped west toward town.

The figure, the car—something clicked.

Charly leaped to the bathroom and pounded on the door. "Chuck! What happened? _Chuck_!" She grasped the handle and burst in, catching him rising from the sink with a sopping washcloth pressed to his face. She stared wide-eyed for a moment, seeing cuts on his face, smears on his shirt.

"Come out here—let me see you," she ordered, her voice steely. She clutched his arm and pulled him into the kitchen and onto a chair near the window. "I'll get something."

She fumbled in the bathroom cabinet for antibiotic salve—scratch and dent medicine she called it when dealing with Frankie—a box of bandages, peroxide, swabs. Returning, she dumped them on the table and roughly pushed his head back and over toward the light. The inventory wasn't pretty—a split upper lip, abrasions on jaw and cheek, a redness under his left eye, the beginning of a knot on his forehead.

"What were you up to?" she accused. He made no reply.

She tossed his washcloth into the sink and swabbed peroxide on each mark except for the lip. No dirt showed in the wounds, and they appeared minor—less extensive than many scraped knees she'd treated.

She blotted with a paper napkin, the only clean thing nearby, and applied salve to jaw and cheek. The other cheek and forehead she decided to leave alone. She rolled his lip upward to examine the inside, causing a flinch. Not too bad. Picking the largest bandages she placed one on his cheek and two over the longer jawline scrape. She rolled down the turtleneck, then forced up the sleeves, twisting and turning his unresisting arms to examine them. Trask's left elbow needed salve and bandage.

Finishing and rolling down his sleeves, she closely examined her handiwork, then sat down across the table, resting chin on fist and staring hard-faced at him.

"You look wonderful."

"You should see the other guy." A thin expression of satisfaction showed.

"What was this about?" When he stayed silent she added in a harder voice, "I intend to know."

"Ownership of a woman," Trask said, holding his lips stiff.

"Anyone _I_ know?" she mocked.

"Oh, you know him, alright."

"I meant the woman." No response. "Go on—it has to come out eventually."

"Apparently thinks he still controls right of access around here—that's what put his back up."

"Oh? And what were _you_ fighting for?"

"Truth, Justice and the American Way."

Charly's ire responded not at all to his attempts at humor.

Trask saw she wouldn't let go of this, but so what! He had nothing to hide. Her lack of sympathy—of empathy—stung, but he let her draw the story out of him.

* * *

Friday a patrol car pulled over Trask halfway home down by the cliff—unexpected, since exceeding fifty felt uncomfortable on the gravel surface, and he hadn't been blazing along. Exiting the truck, without being asked he proffered his license to the scowling young deputy, who immediately tasked him for it being out-of-state. Trask knew he didn't have to get a new one until six months had passed—that didn't get far with him. Next came an accusation of speeding, and when he expressed doubt...

"You callin' me a liar?"

Trask demanded to see the radar readout.

"You go look at that readout and I _will_ give you a ticket!"

"So this is merely a social stop?" The attitude of this bozo was getting to him.

"Where are you headed, _Mr Trask_?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"Biscoe's, is it?"

Everything fell into place. Trask looked closely at the officer's name tag—F TENNEY. He sneered.

"You want me to take you in?" Franklin blustered, thrusting a choleric face into his.

Trask failed to be overly impressed, correctly judging this guy had nothing on him but a grudge. More bluster and sarcasm were exchanged, Trask finally stating he let his lawyer handle all _punk problems_.

That tore it! Franklin dearly wanted to shut this jerk's smart mouth—this usurper whose living with Charly was used by casual acquaintances and cordial enemies to chafe him. And when the word _punk_ came up—the absolute worst epithet anyone could lay on him, the one challenging his very manhood—his hand dropped to his revolver and he envisioned pistol-whipping Trask into bloody unconsciousness.

Rigid with passion at the affront to his dignity as a peace officer, Franklin restrained himself, knowing a lawsuit would further destabilize the already shaky ground on which he stood with the Sheriff, and lose him the job that did more than anything else to maintain his status among his peers.

If he weren't in uniform, he promised Trask, he would do this, that and the other. Soon a challenge was issued and accepted, and without benefit of seconds they set the site and time for their duel—and the weapons.

* * *

When Trask strode across the field to their meeting he was in abundant doubt as to whether he should have handled the problem in this way, but determined to see the clash through. As he neared Bigley, Tenney exited the car and insolently sauntered toward him, wearing a skin-tight black outfit Trask contemptuously labeled a leotard, but was probably someone's idea of a martial arts uniform. Trask cast his jacket and hat on the ground, and they squared off for the ritual exchange of insults and dirty looks.

Franklin mouthed epithets and looked daggers at him but seemed curiously loath to close until Trask said, "C'mon, _punk_ , do your stuff."

Tenney jumped forward and slashed at him with a dozen furious hand chops which Trask largely managed to block with forearm and shoulder, missing a couple of his own punches but landing a painful jab on Franklin's nose.

Stung, Tenney stepped back, then exploded in a flurry of right and left fists at Trask's head. These straight blows Trask proved less adept at blocking and several broke through his guard. For his part, he only landed a couple on Franklin's shoulders until stepping up and planting a hard right hook into the short ribs.

Tenney skipped clear. The blow had landed dangerously close to the solar plexus—not only hurt but jarred the breath out of him. He changed tactics again.

By now, after less than ninety seconds of violent exercise, Trask was winded. He knew he'd have to bring the fight to a quick conclusion or lose through fatigue alone, and Franklin's longer reach caused him problems. He moved forward to grapple, and as he did Tenney spun round, turning his back. From seeing a half-dozen chop-suey flicks Trask immediately recognized this as the beginning of a backwards kick, and he accelerated to counter.

Perhaps due to Franklin's lack of practice or skill, when the left heel came at Trask he was in close and able to duck and swing the leg up over his head with his left arm. Franklin lost his balance, fell and immediately rolled—one foot caught Trask on the forehead but the blow went un-noticed. As Tenney started to rise Trask tackled his left leg and threw his weight on it. Franklin went down hard and Trask ended kneeling on the back of the man's left thigh, one hand pressing on Tenney's lower back and Trask's right arm crooked around Tenney's left foot.

He would have crawled farther up Franklin's back to smash his face into the dirt, but the younger man began a violent effort to free himself, and Trask decided to work with what he had. He pulled Franklin's foot off the ground and forced it toward the buttock, Trask's shin acting as a fulcrum around which the joint bent.

Tenney flattened out with a shout of rage and pain. As he tried to rise Trask released the pressure briefly then applied greater force. Tenney's arms shot from under his upper body and he screamed, adding various compliments on Trask's antecedents.

_Just for that!_ Trask put his full weight on the next effort. Franklin forsook his long allegiance to the Devil and blasphemously cried out to God and His Son for mercy.

A trace of pity seeped past Trask's battle lust. He released his grip to stumble to his feet, standing over Franklin with hands on knees, gasping in oxygen. Tenney started to rise but fell heavily as soon as he put weight on his left leg. He tried again to rise, sprawling on his side and clutching his knee with both hands.

"You broke it," he sobbed, "you blankity-blankin blanker!"

Trask panted, "Wanta... try fer... 'nother?" Sympathy held no place in his emotions right then.

Tenney got up to a three-point stance and tried to stand and lurch toward the road but caught his bad leg on a grass tuft, and down he went with another yell. "I won't be able to drive, " he moaned.

"Call a... cab." Trask gasped. He straightened and went to pick up his jacket. Without a backward look he shambled toward the house, slowly regaining his wind. By the time he entered he'd been gone scarcely ten minutes.

* * *

Charly shook her head as Trask finished the sordid tale. Despite his reticence, she saw he relished the brutal victory. Despicable though Franklin might be she couldn't rejoice at the prospect of his being crippled or even suffering great pain—she despaired of the race of men. A sense of foreboding came over her.

"He's going to cause trouble."

Trask gave her a flinty look, so sure of himself and his masculinity. "How? Sue me for excessive force?"

"He'll do something—something sneaky. They'll catch you on the road—he and his friends—arrest you, give you tickets for no reason, beat you up... Maybe he'll try to get at me, even, or Frankie." The more she thought, the less restrained her vision of Franklin's revenge. "This is terrible. You've got us in trouble again. What's wrong with you, Chuck—you and your temper?"

* * *

Franklin managed to hop to his car and slide onto the seat, groaning as he lifted his injured leg into place. Automatic shift enabled him to drive with one leg, sitting sideways and far over to ease the pain. He sped to the twenty-four hour clinic in Gettrick, pulling up in the ambulance slot and leaning on the horn until they came outside to get him. He was wheeled in on a gurney, his leg scanned and immobilized, and soon placed in an ambulance to the hospital.

There his story was that he'd tripped over a fallen tree with his foot caught in low brush. Peering at Franklin's X-rays, the orthopedic doc expressed skepticism.

"Were you wearing a hundred pound pack?" And, "How many times did you trip?" And, "Did a bear smack you in the face while this was going on?" For if Trask had landed few head shots, Franklin's chin and cheeks sustained damage when he'd sprawled on his belly.

He stuck to his legend regardless of how the medicos gazed askance.

They gave him the good news. He could look forward to an operation on Tuesday, a cast, and a week home in bed. After six months of significant physical therapy he might be back almost to normal.

Franklin's anger and chagrin nearly equaled his self-pity and desire for revenge.

~

Chapter 35 Arms & the Man

day 93-96 Sun-Wed Nov 24-27

"Get your left arm under the thing. Move your hand back... farther! Under the balance point. Lean back with your elbow against your side. Stick out your hip, weight on your left foot... Hmm, you don't look comfortable."

"There's a darn good reason—it's un-natural!"

"Well, try to _get_ comfortable—I'm simply giving you the general idea. Pull the stock into your shoulder. Raise your elbow— _right_ elbow! Get the butt higher so you can sight. How's it feel?"

"Lousy. Awkward."

"Hmm. Well, wiggle around until it feels better... No, Chuck." Charly sounded discouraged. "You've got to keep your left arm directly under or you'll shake. And the harder you pull into your shoulder, the better. How's your sight picture?"

"I can see the can—duh!"

"Can you see it through the _sights?"_ she asked with exaggerated patience. "Let me look from the other side. Stay back!" she ordered Frankie, who had crept closer. "I guess you're okay. Want to shoot?"

"Sometime today." He pulled the trigger—and again.

"The safety."

"Unh." He fumbled and clicked, then held his sight and pulled. The can flipped off the branch on which it balanced. "Lookie there!" he crowed. "Bullseye!"

"From twenty feet."

"Thirty if it's an inch."

They went forward and she retrieved the can, once a receptacle for tomato sauce. "Oh!" she chuckled. "Here it is." She showed him a streak on the outside of the rim where the bullet kissed it. "Bull's _ear_ , maybe—high and inside." She re-balanced the can on the limb. "Back!" she warned Frankie with a stiffly pointed finger.

"Can I see?"

"Nothing to see yet, Honey. You'll have to wait until he actually hits it."

Trask maintained a glowering silence.

Back at the line Charly chivvied him into position. "What was your sight picture when you shot? I mean, where were you aiming exactly as the shot went off?"

"Smack dab in the middle, of course—these sights must be off."

"You didn't close your eyes, did you?"

He scorned the notion.

"Try a couple dry while I watch."

He _shot_ but nothing happened.

"Work the action to cock the pin."

He pulled back the operating lever and tried again.

"Okay, I see the problem. You've got to take up the slack in the trigger, _then_ squeeze. If you jerk you'll pull the rifle sideways, the way your shot went. Cock and try again." She watched him practice twice before approving. "Good. Set the safety... Here." She handed him a bullet. "And remember to take a breath and let half out."

He loaded, unlocked, aimed and fired. The can kicked into the air.

"Low left," she said.

Frankie was allowed to examine the can, peering down the path of the bullet and feeling both entrance and jagged exit. "When can _I_ do it, Mom?" she breathed.

Charly lectured him on the art of snap shooting from the offhand position—of letting the sights drift across the target and anticipating the time of firing—and after a few more shots he began hitting near center. They retreated five more double paces. He found the target diminished considerably in size, managing to place only two more of four shots—disappointing!

They walked back toward the house, today's ten practice rounds having been expended.

"You held your aim so long you got shaky," she consoled him. "Next time'll be easier—you'll see."

"I figured the trick would be simpler, somehow. Don't see how John Wayne does it."

"Ha! Even Annie Oakley needed to aim. Forget that Hollywood stuff."

"Why'd your dad teach you? Varmints or something?"

"No, he wouldn't let me simply go and shoot. No woodchucks, no rats in the barn or any of what you hear of kids doing—only targets back here. He was extremely safety conscious."

"And it stuck, I see."

"No son, so he made do with me, I guess. And it does give you a feeling of security to know you can handle a weapon if need be."

"I'll pick up a box at the hardware, if they carry them." Only one half-full box of cartridges remained.

"Better get a couple—you'll want a fair amount of practice before you try that cannon."

* * *

Sunday they discussed the potential Franklin problem at length, and her concerns rubbed off on him. How to handle the predicament? Going to the Sheriff seemed useless—they assumed Franklin to be in good standing, not knowing his record. Trask was convinced the best way to handle a bully was to bully him back. Failing that—or in addition—you would want to bluff him. The first step, therefore, was to shoot the twenty-two, the next to get something more impressive.

Monday Trask consulted at work. Tuesday evening found him in Gettrick, by appointment, in the basement of a part-time gun dealer.

"Going after deer?"

"More like people."

This earned him a crooked smile. "Self defense? What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, something big and ugly and cheap."

"You're new at this, I'd guess. Ever shot before?"

"Only a twenty-two," he admitted, not adding his experience amounted to ten rounds.

"What do you think of a shotgun? Best thing to stop a break-in."

"Might need it on the road."

"Somebody after you?" The man looked more closely at him. "You been in a fight? You're not going after the guy?"

"In fact, I don't expect any trouble from him for a week or two—although he might have friends, of course. This is just in case he gets a crazy idea of getting even."

"He's worse off than you?"

"Do I look that bad?" Trask felt amused. He'd received a lot of razzing at work when he winked and claimed to have bumped into a tree. _How far did that tree chase you?_ they'd wanted to know. _Was it a big mean tree?_ He'd refused to elaborate. His wanting a firearm had given everything away, of course, but he still denied them details as to motives or personages.

"No, but I see you've been in action... I'm not going to help some joker perform a homicide."

"No, no. I simply want him and his buddies to know I have a means of defense. I figure the bigger the better when it comes to making him think twice."

"Hmm. Well, don't get me involved in anything. Are you clean? That is, have you had any legal problems—felonies?"

"See the Sheriff, if you want. In fact, I think I'd like to have you talk to him." He considered telling the whole tale, but thought better—who knew what complications might result.

"You don't look the type—seem to be a solid citizen. Guess it's okay. Tell you what..." He unlocked a case to extract a husky bolt-action rifle. "This is a piece of junk I took in trade. Looks as if he used the stock to pound nails, and he evidently didn't believe in proper care. The action's solid, though, and it'll be accurate enough at two-three hundred yards—adequate for what you want... Hundred bucks."

Trask handled the weapon, lifting it to his shoulder and peering along the barrel.

"You'll have to sight it in—I won't guarantee how they're set."

Trask awkwardly worked the bolt. Unlike Charly's straight pull this one needed to be rotated up and pulled far back. The handle clicked solidly and refused to go forward.

"Have to push down the follower." The man indicated a formed piece of sheet metal that sprang up into the path of the bolt. "Modified Mauser action."

"Guess I'll have to get familiar with the action," Trask muttered.

"Thirty ought-six. Good for anything up to rhino. You'll have to get used to the kick. Wear a padded jacket if you shoot much. Need a place to practice?"

"No, we've got plenty of open space and a big hill behind."

The man went to another cabinet and removed several metal and cardboard packages. "Not much call for these—the government used to give them away to gun clubs—probably date back to Korea but they'll still light off. If you take eighty I'll give them to you for fifteen cents apiece." Seeing Trask's puzzled look, he explained, "Eight rounds in each clip—for an M-1. You'll have to reload in a stripper clip or shove them in one by one while you hold the others down." He demonstrated, and offered to _throw in_ two stripper clips.

Trask agreed, his head spinning—hoping he wasn't being suckered.

The dealer put a white card in the receiver and told Trask look down the bore to confirm it was badly pitted and worn. Trask complied, although not sure what he was looking at. The man urged him to buy a cleaning rod, patches, oil, powder solvent, and a bore brush to avoid further deterioration of this once proud arm. Fortunately these came in a kit.

"You'll want ear protection."

"I've got earplugs from work."

"They'll do for casual shooting, I imagine. All set?"

"One more thing—I want to put a rack in my truck."

A broad smile creased the dealer's face. "I see what you're thinking—advertise what you've got. Step right over here, my friend—maybe I'll make a few bucks yet on this sale."

Trask left with the rack mounted and the rifle in it, after a demonstration of the features and a lecture on proper cleaning. _Ooh-rah!_

* * *

On Wednesday the crew at the Mill immediately spotted his new window treatment and demanded to touch and handle, but he put them off to next week, eager to be home and shooting while the light remained good. None-the-less they briefly examined the rifle in the rack at quitting time and gave a multitude of opinions on its worth.

Elmer, the chief Nimrod of their group, opined the firearm an early oh-three with a modified stock. Some idjit had got ahold of a fine military weapon and practically wrecked it, and Trask should take great care when he first shot. Furthermore, the early oh-threes were weak in the receiver, so he'd better watch out for blow-by, and wear safety glasses when he shot.

This sounded faintly discouraging, but Trask decided to have faith in the dealer and ignore the nay-sayers.

* * *

Though eager to use his new toy, Charly insisted he take more practice with the lighter weapon. After brief disputation Trask agreed, but only to keep her happy—certain there'd be little need. On Wednesday and Friday he went through one box of cartridges—fifty practice rounds that included her letting him load the clip rather than taking single shots—and she shot off the few left in the old box.

Frankie no longer saw much excitement in target practice and would have as soon stayed in the house, but Charly wanted her nearby at all times. She tensed up now every time she spotted a car. Fortunately West Baker was no hotbed of crime, and the minions of the law ordinarily spent little time there—almost never coming out Undercliff in prior years, nor recently. Franklin's side trip must have been a fluke. Still... she wanted her daughter within sight.

~

Chapter 36 Give Thanks!

day 97-99 Thu-Sat Nov 28-30

They argued the menu for Thanksgiving, Charly not wanting a huge turkey hanging around for a week yet feeling a chicken too paltry. At Trask's insistence she bought a capon despite its expense. The size was right and the quality would be high, a plus for her wish of favorably impressing Aunt Sally. Sausage stuffing would and be complemented by cranberry sauce, candied yams, mashed potatoes with gravy, green beans with almonds, soda biscuits, jello salad with crushed pineapple, pumpkin pie served with whipped cream. Coffee and tea would be accompanied by half-and-half rather than ordinary milk, with peppermint ice cream for anyone not yet stuffed.

Man! Merely thinking of it makes me drool.

With the bird in the oven and a list of chores and instructions for Trask and Frankie, Charly borrowed his truck—the rifle having been removed—and went to get her aunt. Sally primped for the occasion, wearing a satiny black dress and pearl necklace.

"Well, Auntie, I trust you'll use your napkin—you won't want to stain this outfit."

"You needn't concern yourself over me, Charlotte—I was raised when manners were still in vogue. I only hope your mobster guest doesn't spatter too much while he's playing the glutton." Sally's opinion of Trask had worsened as, over the weeks since they'd met, she further mulled his iniquities.

"Certain people retain their prejudices a long time—have you noticed?"

"We'll see. I still haven't heard anything positive of him. Mrs Barnum is afraid to go near after the way he behaved toward her. And as for how he acted that day at church...!"

"Don't worry too much—I warned him against belching and spitting, and he's made real progress with the knife and fork."

"Quite funny, but I'll wait for the proof of my own senses. Whatever you say, I won't be convinced he's a cultured man."

"Well, the Biscoe Bed & Breakfast is short on culture even in the best of times. Still, you might be in for a few surprises."

"Will any of them be pleasant ones, do you think?"

As they turned onto Undercliff Sally felt something slide across the seat and grabbed. "You have a cell phone?"

"Chuck got it for..." Charly instantly knew she'd slipped up. "I, uh, when I drive Frankie, in case the car breaks down, we can call for help so Frankie won't have to trudge through the snow or..." She tapered off, realizing she was babbling—giving the secret away.

" _He_ bought a cell phone for you?"

"For Frankie... for Frankie's sake."

"But you're not in your old car now, and Frankie's not with you."

"Well... mere habit, I guess." She sometimes wished she were a better liar.

"And does he lend you his vehicle often?"

"To go for you—my heater doesn't work well."

"Surely by the time you got to my home the car would have heated up."

"Er... be sure and tell me if you notice anything different when we pull in." Charly felt her aunt's eyes boring into the side of her face as she resolutely kept her own on the road. The cell phone had been bought for her safety in case a Franklin-incident occurred. Trask insisted on paying because he was to blame for the problem, and he'd brought up the Frankie argument as a clincher.

"What else has he bought you?" Sally pried.

* * *

They entered through the front, and Sally noticed paint spread around outside. Charly deliberately blocked her view as she hung their coats, and when Sally stepped down the hall she stopped in surprise at the entrance to the dining room. The library table acted as a sideboard and boasted a vase of bronze eucalyptus. A new dark-green cloth covered the round table, and on it shone the white dishes and classy new water goblets.

Sally entered and turned round to check the walls. She said nothing, but Charly knew the old gal was impressed.

"Frankie told me you bought a new rug."

"Unfortunately the rest of the place is unchanged. Go sit in the front room—at least it's warm." And Sally would get to admire the new stove, as well. _Ha-ha!_

In the front room Frankie ran to hug her great-aunt. They sat on the couch, and Sally said to the girl, "And this is your new wood stove."

"Do you like it? It's so-oo-o warm now."

"It certainly is." Frankie had earlier told her of the stove, and the house truly felt pleasant—Sally's memories of living here included cold, drafty winters. "Is it warm upstairs, too?"

"Ooh! It's so warm at bedtime I go right to sleep." Frankie hugged herself to demonstrate the comfort.

Her Aunt smiled fondly at her. "Do you have anything else new?"

"Chuck has a big gun!" She jumped up and stretched out her arms to show how big.

The goodwill gained was undone in a blink. The gun confirmed Sally's worst fears concerning this thug who dwelt with her niece. To show off such a thing in front of a small child! Trask entered at this unpropitious time to play his part as vice-host, and found himself the target of a gimlet-eyed stare.

Startled by her look, he managed to say hello.

"Good morning—afternoon." She eyed him as he went to the chair.

How disconcerting. Trask had been put on his best behavior by Charly, and as a result strongly wished—yes, _strongly_ —to put on a good act for her aunt. He'd suggested he wear work clothes and several days' growth of beard but she vetoed that, and with her insistence his better angel won out. Clean-shaven and wearing dress trousers and shirt with a tie, his shoes were decently shined, his ankles hidden by dark knee-socks. Perhaps, he conjectured, Sally felt surprise by the change in clothing from their last meeting.

"Getting cooler, isn't it?" A dull sky spit a few granules of solid water. "Maybe we'll get that good snow Frankie wants."

"Yes," Sally replied.

Frankie sat on the floor under the south window to play with her collection of blocks—a mix from three or four different sets—and various minuscule peg-shaped _people_.

Trask tried an additional comment. "Charly says we'll eat in twenty minutes... Would you want some music?" He gestured at the radio sitting atop the TV.

She followed his gesture but made no response—eerie. For lack of anything better, he got up and tuned the radio, standing there to identify the output.

"Oh-oh, opera." The stupid public radio people seemed to ignore American holidays—what did opera have to do with Thanksgiving Day?

This caught Sally's attention."You don't care for opera?"

"Not as such. Often there's good music but the singing makes it hard to hear." This quip brought no response. "Wagner's okay."

"Oh." Forcing herself to go on, Sally asked, "What is your favorite piece?"

He decided she meant _favorite opera_. "Tannhaüser, probably. Has a ton of good stirring songs, although to watch can be painful. I mean, part of the good music is overwhelmed by the gab—the recitative—and the acting can be pretty awful sometimes. If you can imagine Venus being played by a short dumpy woman in her fifties—with good pipes, of course—you'll get what I mean."

Sally was taken aback by this display of _culture_ from a man of bad repute who expressed himself rather crudely and displayed dangerous weapons around young children. But didn't she recall mobsters often enjoyed opera? Certainly that memory related to Italian opera, and this Trask person probably wasn't in the Mafia specifically, having a hard-sounding guttural name—therefore German music might be appropriate.

She considered herself a devotee of _good_ music, by which she meant such as Paul Whitmann and Fred Warren—musicians of her earlier years. Opera she knew more by reputation than direct scrutiny. She knew _vaahg-ner_ meant Wagner but had no idea what _taahn-hoyzer_ signified.

Trying for common ground, she asked, "What do you think of Carmen?"

"Has fine music and moves along pretty well, as I recall—way back in high school when I saw a production."

Sally searched for anything else to say on opera—the volume was low and she couldn't hear well enough to comment on whatever was playing. "I wonder if Charlotte needs help in the kitchen?" She made to rise but he leaped to his feet, eager for relief.

"I'll go check."

He came back directly, Charly being in full control of the meal and reminding him his duty was to amuse her aunt.

Fat chance of that.

In the meantime Sally came up with a subject. "Don't you want to watch the game?" In her experience men always watched football on fall holidays.

"No, not particularly, do you?"

"Isn't State playing?" If asked _which state?_ she couldn't have said, but she knew _some_ State always played on Thanksgiving.

"I'm sure they are—trust the colleges to deny a holiday at home to their players."

This was rather deliciously subversive—were she not determined on dislike it would have won him a smile.

"You don't care for football, then?"

"Oh, it's a fun game to play, and maybe to watch if I happened to be following a team."

"Do you have a favorite team?"

"College? Ohio State, I suppose—that's where I went."

"You attended Ohio State?" A hint of surprise showed in her voice.

"Uh-huh."

"I see... What did you take in the way of courses?"

"Mechanical Engineering. And you went to school, I believe?"

"Yes, to Slippery Rock—that probably sounds funny to you."

"No, Michigan is what sounds funny to me." She didn't get the joke.

Sarah Biscoe had studied Home Economics with the idea of teaching, but two years of dealing with teen-age girls at a rough school in Philadelphia brought her back home to look for a job where breaking up cat-fights wasn't required, and where young women rarely carried knives or razors.

The local economy presented her a splendid variety of opportunities—short order cook in a couple of cheap restaurants, inspector and supervisor during the war at a plant with a contract for mortar shells, years of clerking in a fabric shop, demonstrating sewing machines for a White distributor, sales in the home appliance section of a department store, and several years as a school secretary before retirement. Her college education hadn't been completely wasted nor fully utilized—a disappointment for her.

"What does a mechanical engineer do?"

"Around here?" How to concisely describe his new vocation? "Plays fix-it man, I guess."

Conversation came to an end as they both reflected on their ruined careers.

Before long Charly called, "Frankie? Wash up and help."

Frankie scrambled up eagerly and ran to the bathroom. In a few minutes Charly herself appeared.

"Let's start while things are still hot." Her eyes shone, her face pink with exertion. She looked uncommonly pleased and exceptionally pretty.

* * *

Charly kept the side dishes warm by putting the range's two burners on low with a cookie sheet across them, and she warmed the plates in the empty oven. Everything came out right for once, and the meal was a complete success. Aunt Sally congratulated her, and Trask, of course, had never tasted anything better.

The fulsome praise brought a sharp look from Sally, who watched him surreptitiously throughout the meal. His manners met her standards, and his conversation, while familiar, was acceptable. But now the barometer of her approval dipped once more. She couldn't miss the fact he and Charlotte appreciated one another and engaged in a great deal of badinage. He seemed quite paternal toward Frankie, as well—teasing and encouraging the girl to show off.

The table was cleared, pie and tea served—Charly used a small measuring cup for a creamer, and _that man_ applauded her for her ingenuity. Well! _Something_ must be going on here, Sally felt certain. A brief period of rather stilted conversation followed until everyone agreed increasing snowfall signaled Auntie should leave. Bundling Frankie into the truck with them, off they went.

Oh, how Sally wanted to interrogate Charlotte! But with the child along... At the first opportunity, she promised herself, the examination would begin.

And the opportunity came with remarkable if unsatisfying swiftness, for Charlotte called her on the cell phone on the way home.

"I have a bone to pick with you," Sally began, but her niece immediately said, "Here's Frankie!" and Sally conversed with the girl for several minutes, a pleasant enough task but extremely grating at this juncture.

"Let me talk to your mother, again, Dear."

Charly spoke fast. "I wanted to try it out, Aunt, but it costs a fortune to use, so I'll say goodbye for now. See you Monday. Bye!"

Charly escaped a lecture by the skin of her teeth. She'd seen one coming, detected the signals in her aunt's first words, and brought Frankie along as a buffer. Chicken-hearted of her, but evil delayed seemed less pernicious than present evil.

* * *

Saturday after lunch they tried the Springfield oh-three. Clouds drizzled, but nothing short of a gale would further delay Trask from putting this impressive tool into service. And impressive it proved, even to Charly, who gamely went with him, Frankie in tow. He propped another can in the regular spot, they rolled earplugs between their fingers and screwed them into ear canals, Frankie was sent to the rear.

Trask clicked on the safety and loaded one round. The solidity of the bolt sent a tiny thrill through him— _clickety-clack_! He raised the heavy rifle, ignoring the sling and balancing the same as the lighter weapon. Off went the safety, he made his sight, took up trigger slack—BLAM!

He staggered from the recoil, and the blast echoed round the hills.

"Whee-ooh!" Charly whistled.

"Mom! It's scary!" Frankie wailed.

He rubbed his shoulder as they went to find the can. His bullet had struck off to the right, but the amazing thing—after the noise and the big kick the holes in the can weren't impressive. The exit looked as smooth as the entry, and didn't seem much larger than the twenty-two. Puzzling.

"Supposed to be real powerful but where's the damage? I wonder if these old cartridges are the problem?"

"Sure got there fast enough," she said.

"A big kick and a big racket, but the can's hardly touched."

He decided to set the target in front of the tree trunk, and after fiddling with twigs and branches, managed to make a platform for the can, directly in front of eight solid inches of apple. "I want to see how deep this'll go."

"How'll you tell?"

"Probe the hole with a twig. Or cut the tree down, if need be—more firewood for next year."

Trask pulled the butt more firmly into his shoulder and leaned his weight forward. Frankie took her station farther to the rear.

Charly laughed, "Just like a dog—needs to be shot over so she stops flinching."

"Blam!" The can popped off the trunk and onto the ground. They looked for the hole in the trunk and had trouble finding one—so small a tunnel for such a loud device! Trask began shaving down a thin twig.

"Hold on, Deadeye—feel back here."

The bullet had gone through the trunk almost as easily as through the can, it seemed. The exit hole was no larger than the entrance, and only slightly frayed, an indication of hardly any bullet deformation.

He exchanged looks with Charly. "I guess the bullets are okay."

She snorted a laugh. "I bet it went halfway into the hill!"

"Well... I think we proved whatever we wanted to prove. The gun works, the bullets work, the sights work, and I'm wet enough for today. Let's quit. Here, I'll let you carry Mister Gun, so you can claim you handled the artillery."

She slung it butt upwards over her shoulder. "Keeps the rain out, city feller."

The loud smashing blast of this machine gave a seductive thrill, much like the feeling of driving a powerful car—but the raw force aroused a tickle of fear, too. Trask would shoot again to feel the rush, he figured, as soon as the weather cleared, but he'd done enough for now. And upon arriving at the house the two minutes of thrills were succeeded by a half hour of tedious reaming with bore brush and patch, of buffing every speck of rust or dirt with an oily cloth. Ah well, a good antidote to the questionable glory of gunnery.

~

Chapter 37 Cursed Again

day 100-107 Sun-Sun Dec 1-8

At church the rifle came to bet noticed by a few, and fishing dropped off the agenda. All assumed Trask meant to _Try for a buck_ , and when he denied any interest much astonishment ensued. They assured him venison tasted real fine, _If they been feedin' good_. Apparently enough corn grew around here, and enough oak trees ( _Deer ate acorns?_ ) so generally they did _feed good_.

Deer were increasing, he was told, and he'd be doing motorists a favor to _thin the herd_. Hadn't seen any? Must not be keeping his eyes open—they were everywhere. Surely he'd seen them run across the road.

"Be sure to look careful after dusk," they warned. And maybe that explained the mystery, because he always arrived home _before_ dusk. "Well, you better watch in early morning, too, cuz some of em stay out late."

Soon, he imagined, the whole town—the whole county—would know of his firearm, and Tenney ought to pick up the gossip one of these days.

* * *

Monday, the first day of buck season, was a holiday at the Mill, where half the male and a portion of the female staff would go sick in order to take off. A less severe problem existed at The Plastic with its largely female force but—perhaps in sympathy with the rest of local business—it followed suit. Charly being part-time and Trask being on probation, joy was not unalloyed. They went shooting again, finishing the partial clip and another—fourteen more rounds, of which Charly tried three shots to prove the weapon wasn't too much for her. The recoil impressed her as much as him.

But that was enough. Filling the hillside with lead, copper, and tungsten was not a goal—being able to use the rifle with assurance met their requirements.

Things seemed to be going smoothly, but that afternoon The Curse made a minor appearance—the vacuum cleaner died. Repair or replace became the question. Charly wanted repair—Trask argued that its age and general state of decay indicated replacement. She gave in but decided to wait for Saturday-in-Gettrick.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon she got another chance to use the cell phone. Charly's car quit a half mile from home, and well after dark due to a long lecture from Sally. She phoned Trask for help and—tying an old tire to the front of the truck—he pushed her home, the lack of power steering giving her arms a workout.

With jumper cables her car started, but stalled as soon as they were removed. He might have switched her battery into the truck for a charge, but cold and snow and dark oppressed them. Next morning it would go early to the gas station for diagnosis, repair, charging, oil change—the works.

* * *

The post-Thanksgiving interrogation had been comprehensive. Whispering—due to Frankie being in the next room in front of the TV—her aunt asked, "What is going on between you and that man?"

"Nothing except business."

"And there are no... feelings between you?" Sally's tone remained skeptical.

"Of course! We're friends—he's a hard man not to be friends with."

"I'm sure... as long as he has something to gain."

Charly laughed. "What's he to gain from staying in a rundown place like ours?"

"Exactly. What has he to gain from living with an attractive young woman in a backwater community, even though he can't find a proper job? Assuming he wasn't exaggerating his education, too... and lying about his history."

"You make him sound far worse than he is. Explanations exist for everything, I'm sure."

"Yet you don't answer my question."

"Which one, for Heaven's sake? You've asked a dozen."

"And you're _quite_ defensive!"

Charly sighed. "He's running away from his divorce, I suppose, and I get the idea he might not have been too thrilled with his job."

"Nor with his present one, evidently."

"No, but I'm sure he looks on maintenance as temporary. Better than his doing nothing, isn't it? What would you want?"

"Why does he lie?"

"Misplaced sense of humor. He likes to put people on—and he _is_ funny."

" _You_ apparently think so—the two of you grinned and winked at each other all through dinner."

Charly frowned at this, rapidly tiring of the interrogation. She liked and respected her aunt but the woman's constant monitoring of her behavior felt quite smothering.

"I'm a grown woman—if I want to wink at someone, I have no intention of asking permission first."

Portentously, Sally now asked, "And what of the gun? I can't believe I didn't notice that gun rack—my mind was on other things... And he shows such a thing to a child!"

_If only you knew._ Charly smiled, picturing Frankie during target practice.

"Does he hunt?"

"No."

"So!" Sally exclaimed. "Then why does he have it? He doesn't hunt nor watch football."

How football came into the picture Charly wasn't clear. She would have dearly liked to put off her aunt with a light story, yet wasn't an eager liar, and she knew the truth—or, more likely, a garbled and poisonous version—would before long reach the old lady. Well, when all else failed it was time to try honesty.

"For the same reason I have the cell phone." Her aunt's frown changed to puzzlement. "In case we run into problems." And she told briefly of the fight and their fears of Franklin's attempt at revenge.

Sally was thunderstruck that the forces of law and order would behave in this fashion. "Franklin beat him up?"

"No! He beat Franklin—that's why we're worried."

"He beat... So goes _his_ story—what he told _you_." Sally refused to accept a tall young lawman being outfought by an untrained civilian of no particular muscularity.

"No, Auntie. I saw Franklin limping away. He didn't seem to be in good shape."

"There were bruises on that man's face."

"I imagine Franklin has a few bruises of his own."

"You sound as if you're proud of him!"

"I'm sorry they fought happened but not sorry he won—Franklin had it coming."

A dread thought entered Sally's mind. "They fought over you," she accused, appalled at the idea of such a primitive contest.

This fancy Charly badly wanted to squelch.

"So you presume Franklin, who hasn't come near me in five years, is fighting over me with a man who's been my renter for three months. I don't think so, Auntie—it doesn't hold water."

"And what do you know?" A pained look crossed Sally's face and she lowered her head. "It sounds foolish, I know, but..." She raised her head and looked Charly in the eye. "I can't help thinking of you as young and inexperienced, even if I... you know—I've had _no_ experience. But I have observed men over many years, Charlotte, and just as dogs will fight over a bone neither of them would look at if the other didn't seem to want it... Well, that isn't the best analogy but you know what I mean. If Franklin thinks someone else wants you he might... And this Trask fellow of whom you know nothing—why wouldn't he try to avoid trouble?"

"Sometimes I think he enjoys trouble for its own sake. He's a rebel."

"And yet he attracts you."

"I deny it."

"You like him—it shows so clearly."

"I do... and you would too, I bet, if you let yourself. He's fun, he's helpful, he's generous, he puts up with Frankie."

"And this is merely out of the goodness of his heart—the purity of his soul."

Charly frowned. "There's not... I can't point to anything..."

"He's never laid hands upon you?"

"Hugged me, a couple of times."

"Hugged you?! And you don't call that...?"

"Brotherly hugs—if I _had_ a decent brother. One-armers—nothing."

"What else? What else has he done that's brotherly?"

Now a wicked sprite hinted to Charly. "Well, he did hold my hand once."

Thin gruel for Sally's suspicions but she pounced on it the same. "Under what circumstances?"

"Out walking, and came to a hard spot."

"You go for walks?"

"With Frankie—always with Frankie."

"What else do you do together?"

"We go shopping, we eat out once in awhile... that sort of thing."

"He's certainly complimentary, isn't he—loves your cooking."

"Am I such a terrible cook?"

"You made an excellent meal for Thanksgiving, I'll admit."

"Is it unusual for men to be interested in their stomachs?"

Sally was put on the defensive. "No, certainly not—although they want to watch football, the men I know... And Frankie is always with you?"

"Dawn to dusk—or later."

They both quieted, Sally having apparently run out of strictures and Charly hoping not to stir the hornets' nest again.

"You be careful, Charlotte... And I believe I promised you something." She left, coming back shortly with a check.

Charly thanked her warmly, picturing herself in front of Clay Feister, his beady eyes popping with surprise as she bought a CD.

Sally burst her bubble by reminding her, "And you _will_ be paying me back?"

* * *

The gas station's capabilities were limited, and when a test showed the charging circuit deficient, _the works_ included a tow to one of the GM dealers in Gettrick. _Woe is me!_ Charly emoted, _I can't seem to win for losing_.

Trask chauffeured them on Wednesday, getting to work late. In the afternoon they went to Gettrick and found the problem not yet diagnosed—they promised a call tomorrow. Charly took a repair rental at fifteen dollars a day, which proved a less comfortable vehicle than her seven year-old, hundred-thirty-thousand-mile clunker.

"I used to love that car—quick, neat to handle—a real sporty machine. Now I almost hate it—no air, bad heat, lost its pep. And beginning to look so whipped."

"I like it."

"You do? Well, I guess anything beats that beast you drive."

" _That beast_ is in good running shape."

"I know... If only mine were." She felt down.

"A nice sleek profile with that notch-back—looks good front and rear. The wide tail-light is real distinctive, and the control display, too. How's it handle?"

"Great, at first."

"And now?"

"Still not bad, but no guts any more—can't dust anybody."

"So you're a hotrod?"

"For awhile, back when it was new—new to me, that is. The gizmo showed over a hundred thou when I picked it out. With that and the rust I got a decent price."

* * *

Thursday evening Charly wailed, "They want hundreds—hundreds! Way too much, and I don't know if they're cheating me or what."

Trask commiserated and said,"What's on the list?"

"Alternator, battery, injectors—all kinds of stuff."

"How many injectors?"

"All of them, I guess."

"Does it run rough?"

"Some, I suppose."

"But not too bad?" She shook her head. "They going ahead with the job?"

"I told them I'd think things over, but I don't know what to do. Should I go to the other dealer—get another estimate?"

"What if I talk to them?"

"Would you? I'd feel a lot better if someone else checked it."

"I can feel them out—see what they've found."

"Please do. Even if you agree with them I'll feel better about the money."

Trask called in the morning and enjoyed a pretty good talk with the service manager, who seemed a straight-forward guy. They agreed to flush the injectors and check things thoroughly. When Trask called in the afternoon the injector count had fallen to one. After discussion they added the serpentine belt, the air cleaner and other filters, the thermostat, and a pair of new tires for the front wheels. No, Trask told him, only the front wheels—put the better of the old four on the back. After all, _the Biscoes_ weren't made of money—and they would keep the old battery to see if it might retain a charge.

* * *

"He thought you were my husband?"

" He assumed. I didn't see the need to correct him."

"You sure didn't save me any money, Mr Biscoe. Still, I appreciate the effort."

"You're getting a lot more fix-up for only a little more money—it's a good deal. Let's assume they're as straight as he seemed. We can pick it up Saturday."

"I'll be glad to get rid of this junk-heap they palmed off on me. But on to important things," she said. "Have you heard the latest from the lovebirds?"

"Carl hasn't said a word."

"They went bowling!"

"No way!"

"Way! Isn't it exciting?"

"My excitement is out of bounds."

"Well, for them it's a big step beyond shopping."

"What else did they do after bowling?"

"Went home. Oh! And she made him breakfast again."

"This is getting white hot. What's next, a movie?"

"He's met her parents. It's a real romance."

"If they don't go down the aisle within the decade I will be severely chagrined and disappointed."

"Slow start, maybe fast finish."

"Tortoises evolve into hares?"

"You'll see! Well, _maybe_ you'll see."

* * *

Saturday they picked up her car, and Trask talked them into charging for only two days rental on the loaner, winning more applause from her. They went shopping at the mall for a vacuum—Charly picked a small canister to replace the old upright. The price was low, it had the highest amperage rating in its class—thereby indicating either the most power or the least efficiency—and it was cheap. Besides, the others cost more.

The roads were clear but snow started falling as they left the mall. Trask asked to drive the car home, and put it through its paces—within reason, under the circumstances. No sooner were the groceries on the kitchen counter than Charly tackled him.

"How'd it go? What do you think?"

"I like that baby—lots of pep, corners well, the heat came on right away. How is it in real snow?"

"It's always been good except last year—I think the tires were too smooth—but it still got me through. And the heat works?"

"Roasty-toasty."

"Great! Almost worth the price for that alone."

"Probably the cheapest item on the bill, too."

"Do you think the battery's okay?"

"Only one way to tell—run it till it dies."

Charly detested becoming more and more dependent on this entertaining, helpful, charming, irritating, often troublesome man. This wasn't how she'd foreseen her life... and he was certainly no Adrian.

~

Chapter 38 Careers

day 108-114 Mon-Sun Dec 9-15

Krystyl Feister could kick her father by now, as she headed for the second section of the second grade to go through her spiel for the fourth time. _Will the horror of this day never end_? Thank Heaven she'd only the third grade to do after this room.

For an unknown bizarre reason the powers in the school system chose December eleventh for Career Day, and for stranger reasons yet they decided to include the primary grades in the program. At West Baker Elementary the school secretary found herself hard put to fill the speakers list—most local businesses were small and couldn't supply anyone.

The Sheriff's Department limited its people to Gettrick, members of the Volunteer Fire Department only volunteered for fires and wouldn't miss work, the auto dealer couldn't spare anyone who wasn't on commission, and the commission people weren't going to risk losing a sale. The pharmacist at the drug store agreed to come but canceled at the last minute, and Atlas Molding's superintendent wouldn't offer anyone for a program he considered foolish.

The finalists represented a Cashier/Produce Helper from Price's Grocery, a Payroll Clerk from Baker Wood Specialties, and a representative of Gettrick Bank & Trust—sort of. Clay Feister's daughter worked for the county treasurer's office, a job for which he'd endorsed her using his modest political pull as a village councilman. She was able to give him early information concerning properties which would come up for sheriff's sale in the near future, allowing him to approach the owners with offers they might not otherwise consider.

Feister owned nearly a dozen rentals and small commercial properties so far, and Krystyl had clued him onto two of them. When the school secretary wheedled him, he considered the public relations value of having his name in front of the public once again, even if the public this time mostly consisted of short young people—and he recommended she call the Treasurer to ask for the loan of his daughter.

Krystyl felt less than wholly happy in her job at the Treasurer's. The work was exceedingly routine at her level, and though she tried to be cordial, her personality—while pleasant—was not outgoing, and relations with her peers weren't particularly warm. In addition she was striking in looks—dark, willowy, tall and graceful, immaculately groomed—her hair sleek, make-up lightly but glamorously applied, her large eyes delicately accented—and well-dressed in addition, often in expensive dark suits. She looked—young though she might be—as though she ought to be in charge of the department.

Further, the men who came to the counter for information tended to cluster in her area, and she soon learned to keep her head down so they couldn't catch her eye and motion for her to serve them. This further vexed her female co-workers, who chose to suspect her of shirking.

Ridiculous! No way to win in this situation. And when she found herself nominated for the Career Day assignment it made matters worse, since now they would look upon her as the boss's favorite. Exasperating! She'd rather drone away at her regular work than go through this misery. Far from being a half day off, it felt more like a few hours on the rack.

In previous rooms the children obviously entertained no thoughts of careers, nor any interest in learning about clerical work. During the period that followed her meager description of the treasurer's office and what she did, two or three children would ask questions evidently rehearsed for them by their teacher. And the worst part? The teachers couldn't even come up with good questions.

Twice she'd been asked whether she got flowers—apparently confusing a clerk on the public payroll with one in private industry on Secretary's Day—as if that was of any importance in picking a career in any case. One asked—perhaps confusing her suit with a uniform—if they all had to dress that way.

One boy neglected to ask a question in order to call her _pretty_. Rather pleasant, she supposed, and everyone laughed with her and him, but ridiculous to think children this young would get anything from the program. Most ironic, she had only taken her present job because she couldn't select a career—didn't know what to major in at college, and decided to wait rather than spend five or six years knocking around inside the ivied halls the way too many of her contemporaries did.

She gave her talk and came to the end. Teacher called on a boy who asked if people gave her money. This was an improvement! She tried to explain what taxes were and how they were spent, though detecting slight comprehension.

"Franklina?" the teacher called, immediately adding, "Oh, darn!" under her voice. " _Francesca!_ " Krystyl looked a question, and Teacher explained in a whisper, "Her mother has a fit if you use the wrong name."

This was quite a slur on Charly because Teacher had only heard this from Secretary, she and Charly having gone through multiple conversations and one conference without the subject coming up at all.

Frankie asked, "Do you have computers where you work?"

A last, a half-sensible question. Krystyl explained they used computers to calculate the tax bills, and typed information into them. "Do you have a computer at home?"

"Chuck does, and he lets me play with it sometimes."

Krystyl stepped to her desk and knelt. "What's your actual name, Darling?"

"Frankie Fran-seska Marie Biscoe."

Krystyl stood and said, "You're a cutie." She tousled the girl's head and turned back to the front of the room, missing Frankie's glower at the un-wanted familiarity. Krystyl whispered to Teacher, "Is she Franklin Tenney's child?"

"Yes she is, but goes by Biscoe."

"Does she always dress that way?" Frankie wore navy slacks with a light blue oxford and a ratty old pullover.

Teacher whispered, "Her mother buys her _uniforms_."

They exchanged dismayed looks.

"Eeww," Krystyl said.

* * *

On Saturday mornings Krystyl drove Franklin to therapy. During the week he got to and from work by himself, awkwardly driving his car and using crutches to hop across the parking lot and up the stairs to his new desk job. On weekends he demanded to be babied, and Krystyl accommodated him, although wondering lately whether she might be charged with aiding and abetting a wuss.

She enjoyed the idea of being squired by a handsome slightly older man with a somewhat prestigious career and a bad-boy reputation, but recently had felt a few doubts.

After she brought him home and helped him onto the couch in the apartment he enjoyed in his father's house and made him a drink and placed an afghan over his legs, she sat down to talk awhile. As often the case, he wasn't much in the mood for conversation, and she racked her brain for topics. After a bit she remembered a certain incident.

"I met your little daughter."

"What?"

"In school for Career Day. I told you I had to do that."

He shook his head—didn't remember.

"She asked a good question. She's a real charmer."

"Oh?" Franklin was leery of where this might be leading.

"Her teacher told me she gets straight As—quite bright and well-behaved."

He shrugged, unable to come up with a comment, the idea of his daughter reminding him of Charly, and that reminding him of Trask, for whom he hadn't yet devised a practical punishment. The guy only beat him by luck and dirty fighting, but with his knee screwed-up, how could he get back at him? And as for Charly, the slut, he'd like to get her, too.

"Huh? What say?"

"I _said_ ," Krystyl emphasized, put out by his inattention, "she's changed her name."

"Who has?" he demanded, thinking Charly had married that blankin' blanker Trask.

Krystyl became exasperated. "Her mother! Changed the girl's name."

"Not Biscoe?"

"No! Why don't you listen? Changed her _first_ name. She goes by Francesca now."

"Frr-what?"

" _Francesca_."

"Steada Franklina?"

"Yes! For God's sake pay attention!"

"She can't do that! She can't... I'll get a lawyer—I'll sue her butt off! That ain't legal! The rotten blankin'..."

"Okay, I'm leaving. Call me if you ever manage to calm down."

"Wait a minute, Krys—hold on. We gotta talk about this."

* * *

On Friday Stewart directed Charly to see The Man during PM break.

"What's going on," she asked, a sense of foreboding building inside her due to recent rumors of impending layoffs. The foreman pretended ignorance.

Charly tried not to be distracted from her work—well, any more distracted than usual. If you actually thought about what you did on the paint line your IQ would probably seep right out your earholes. She re-considered her options and quickly decided they were limited to swiftly finding another flexible-hours job or selling out. And if she needed to sell, putting the property on the market should be done early, since everyone knew farms and empty land took forever to find a buyer.

None of this helped her equanimity, and she found herself losing concentration. The bell took forever to announce break, and when it did ring she felt a touch of anger that on top of getting laid off she must also lose the prized ten minutes of relaxation. She headed for the office in a bad mood.

"Morning, Charly, How's it going? Sit for awhile."

_Aren't you chipper! S_ he sat down and crossed her arms and legs, the perfect picture of non-receptivity.

He looked down at his papers for a minute before saying, "You know George Barry is retiring?" Charly nodded. "Yeah," The Man continued, "he's decided to go at the end of January, which—given accumulated vacation—means he'll be leaving here January eighth, middle of the week."

"Are you planning a party?"

"A few of us will be taking him for lunch, but... Why? Did you want to do something along that line?"

"Not really!" _What a thing to ask! What's going on here?_ She was becoming irritated at this foolishness that concerned herself not in the least.

"Well, so we need to replace him over in molding, and Stewart will be moving up, which means we need someone in Finishing." And he looked significantly at her.

_Whoa, what's this_? "What are you getting at, Mr Gregg?"

"Everybody knows, I imagine, the company is looking for ways to cut costs. We've talked of layoffs—which may well be coming—and we've considered other ways of trimming at the edges..."

_Now I'm completely confused_.

"...and one idea is not to replace Stewart but to put in a lead man—person—in Finishing. Take advantage, in other words, of a high-salaried guy—Barry—leaving, and replace him with someone cheaper—Stewart, even though he'll get a raise. It naturally follows if we do that with Molding we can do the same thing in Finishing. Now, of course I'm supposed to tell you how generous we are to offer this opportunity, not how much we're trying to chisel away at payroll, but I wanted to play straight with you. So, what do you say?"

This torrent of words passed her by to an extent, and she hadn't been expecting anything like this.

"Are you offering me...?"

"Yes, of course. Are you interested?"

"Well, sure! But I'm caught off balance—this wasn't what I expected."

"Yeah, I guess I sprang it on you rather suddenly... Well, here's the deal—you get eight-twenty plus a buck for the lead position. With full-time you'll have vacation, medical, and all the other petty stuff we offer as benefits. Your time here won't count as seniority with the union, but as far as benefits, it will, so you'll get two weeks next year like everyone else. Oh! And you'll have dues withheld, of course."

"Of course." She felt overwhelmed.

"And you'll be on the regular schedule."

_Oh dear_.

"Well? I think you should say yes or no pretty soon now," he joked.

"Oh... There's a problem... My hours now are perfect. Oh dear."

"Need time to think? I hadn't figured that, but... Why don't you see me Monday? The only thing is, I've got to confirm this with Gettrick, and I left matters to the last minute, assuming you'd take it right off. Don't take too long to decide... The deal is, Charly, I don't want anyone but you in that spot. I've no-one else here I'd trust, nor do I want to bring in someone I don't know from the main plant."

* * *

So here she was, more distracted than ever and having to fight her way through the workday with a thousand thoughts running through her head. Even if the money and benefits weren't a huge incentive, Gregg's compliments spurred her to take the job, but she must consider Frankie and her interests. Charly would rather spend more time than less with her daughter, and she wanted to have enough energy at the end of the day to play and work with the girl. Between the job and the extra housework caused by her boarder she might become neglectful, and that would never do.

Yet if she turned the offer down... Might not she be looking at a layoff? The implication seemed right there in Gregg's words.

She must share this with others, dearly though she loved her independence—with Sally, maybe even with Trask.

* * *

Her aunt offered sympathy, congratulations and discouragement. Poor Frankie would need to get up early and spend more time away from home. Poor Charly would need to get up extra early to get her daughter ready and drop her off. And poor Sally! She didn't think herself, at her age, quite up to the extra effort.

Charly could only agree.

At home she remained so tense with internal conflict that Trask commented. Frankie became hard to handle, resisting bedtime with the excuse tomorrow wasn't a school day. On top of everything else Charly started to come down with a cold and ought to go to bed herself, but she couldn't wait to talk things over.

Trask stayed up until Charly came down from Frankie. She explained the situation at more length than required, pouring out her feelings of disappointment at being offered a great opportunity yet feeling a need to turn it down.

"After years of hand to mouth it's a chance to get ahead— _hundreds_ a month! And maybe the best thing is medical insurance. We've needed it so badly, and we're only lucky something hasn't happened. This is such a dilemma for me."

He said nothing for a while. "I wish I could offer an idea but... Is there any chance they might adjust things if you explained the difficulty?"

"I don't see how—I simply don't see how."

"It's not as if you couldn't get another job."

"Maybe you could use your influence at the Mill for me." A feeble joke.

Treating the idea seriously, he said, "Well... as you can imagine, I wouldn't feel too comfortable at this stage of the game, but if you ever did apply I'd see whether Engler wouldn't put in a word for you. I think he might do it for your father's memory. Plus the Mill has no union, so the rules aren't as important."

That cheered her—but only a little.

* * *

Charly dragged through Saturday, not even willing to go on the usual Gettrick safari. Trask went, taking Frankie with him for a treat, and to give Charly time alone with her thoughts. And by the time the two of them returned she'd come to a degree of acceptance for what had to be.

Sunday proved better. Church almost always soothed her, and Betty came over in the afternoon bringing her mother's recipe for Spanish rice, at which the two of them worked so Charly could add it to her repertoire and Betty learn to prepare something more than breakfast. Needless to say, Trask enjoyed the meal and amply expressed his approval to a flustered but thoroughly pleased Betty.

~

Chapter 39 Advances

day 115-117 Mon-Wed Dec 16-18

Charly faced Monday with a sense of dread. Despite thinking she'd come to terms with her fate she was, in fact, still so dejected as to almost use her cold as an excuse to stay home. Duty won the day, however, and she dragged herself onto the work floor determined to do what must be done. Wanting something so much yet having to surrender it for a greater good should have been inspiring. Just the opposite—it was grossly depressing.

She planned to wait for morning break to see Gregg but couldn't concentrate, and finally told—didn't ask—Stewart she was heading to the office. She marched in and asked for the Superintendent. As she waited, the arguments pro and con rolled unbidden through her mind once again, engrossing her attention so thoroughly that when The Man buzzed she needed to be told twice to go in. Resolve weakening by the moment, she crept into his office and sat down in response to a gesture.

"Well, Charly, how are you today?"

She swallowed. "Look, Mr Gregg, I want my job and I have to keep it—we can't get along otherwise—and I'd love to take on the... the new responsibilities you've, uh... offered but..."

"Yes, I get it. Your family comes first, right?"

She nodded dumbly, almost ready to cry.

"On Friday I thought of what you'd said. I could see which way the wind blew, and I worked something out with the main plant. So... if you want the job on your reduced schedule, we'll go along."

She slumped in relief. "Oh! I can't believe it—that's wonderful. I know I'm being emotional..."

"No, no, don't worry—you're forgiven," he joked. "Just one thing, though—can you put in extra time after the day ends—after three-thirty?"

"Yes, that I can do, if it's not too much."

"Here's the problem—the foreman has a fair amount of record-keeping to do—attendance records, production and scrap rates. One of the reasons we decided on this change is we know Stewart isn't spending a huge number of hours on that—and we're going to cut down further—but some amount of paperwork still must be done. I figure if you spend most of the day on the line—which we need you to do to keep up production—you'll need to work late for the rest."

"I understand."

"In order to limit the amount you need to do outside of production, here's how it'll go—your material handlers will be taken away from you and go in with molding. You'll have only painting and secondary and the packing. The line inspection the operators presently do will go on as before—no change. Morning attendance checking will go to Stewart, and we'll sweeten the pot for him to make up for the extra work—probably give him a bottle of whiskey on top of the Christmas turkey."

"You give turkeys?"

"For supervisors, yes. The company's too cheap to give everyone a bird... Why, do you want one? I'll see you have one, if you want."

"No, no I don't."

"I knew you'd say that, and I know why—you want to keep being one of the workers—not put on any airs."

Charly couldn't help blushing. "I suppose." She tried her own joke. "So, at your level what do you get—a side of beef?"

"Well, no. As foreman you get a turkey, but at my rarefied level we get a country club membership."

Her mouth hung open. "You're not kidding!"

"No, I'm not. The privileges accumulate rapidly as you climb the ranks here. "Now," he teased, "maybe you'd prefer a membership to a turkey?"

"Thanks so much," she laughed.

"Okay. You'll do shift-end attendance, production and scrap reports daily, and the weekly compilation, plus any random things that come up such as absenteeism, grievance responses or behavior write-ups. Also the yearly employee evaluations where you'll need to give me recommendations as to what to put down.

"Well, that's it, I guess. Expect a visit from your union steward—and possibly someone from Gettrick might want to meet you, though I doubt it. What do you say?"

"It's perfect! I'll be so pleased to take the position."

"Good enough. For now, my advice is to say nothing, and I'll do the same. Word will leak out, of course, because even if no-one learned from Stewart or somebody at Gettrick, some character will still put two and two together, what with you speaking to me privately, and there'll be rumors in no time. If someone asks, you can do what you want, but I'd simply say nothing's settled yet.

"When the time comes we'll announce the switch. I'll have a talk with your department, and that'll be it. You might have difficulties with a few of these hide-bound old-timers seeing you promoted, but if necessary Stewart or I will talk to them one-on-one. Don't change any practices to begin with—you'll see how addicted most workers are to the way things have been done in the past. When the right time comes you can introduce any changes you want that don't excite the union, although you should try to discuss matters with me first. Okay?"

* * *

At break the others tackled her over being ensconced with The Man, so quick were people to notice.

"You been called in twice, Charly—what's going on?"

She thought rapidly, definitely not wanting to spill the beans and put up with the talk and speculation that would result from candor.

"Well... you know there's been talk of a shakeup around here—because business is hurting."

"Oh, no! You're not getting laid off!" Betty wailed.

"I knew it," Doris exploded. "They always go for the weak ones, like a pack of wolves on a crippled deer."

Charly had to laugh. "No, it's not that bad. Only a shakeup, and my job will probably be affected, but I'm not getting kicked out—not yet, anyway."

"Who is, then?" Doris held onto her suspicions.

"Nobody, as far as I know. They've got to get more efficient, though, and things will be changed here and there, I gather."

This occasioned much moaning, change being ominous in the mind of the typical production worker, but by afternoon break other subjects took pride of place, and the matter didn't come up again.

* * *

George Becker rubbed his temples and sinuses, his elbows resting on his desk, body stretched out with his chest almost hitting the edge. He kneaded his neck and dug his fingers into his scalp—the week not yet half done and he felt a migraine coming on. He cursed his destiny and the visitor who'd just left his office. Indeed, he cursed all women, starting with his ex-wife whose leech-like activities prevented his seeking early retirement.

As if he needed another problem! And this a complaint with nothing to back it up but an opinion—based on personal malice, he felt certain, and sleazy rumors. Oh crap! He ought to throw the complaint sheet in the trash, and yet... the young woman had been so poised, so self-assured. She worked in the Treasurer's office, and the Treasurer was one of the officials who passed on his budget. She'd stressed the importance of quick action—he sensed the specter of political pressure. What to do, what to do? His stomach began to work, and he opened a lower drawer to get antacids.

* * *

The phone rang and Brittany heard one of the ladies call, "Wanda!" and point toward Mr Becker's door.

Mrs Gordon, her trainer, smiled. "He must be under the weather today—dialed the wrong extension again."

"Why do they call her _The Wolverine?"_ Brittany asked as she watched the short sturdily-built Panagopoulos woman stride to the manager's office.

Mrs Gordon almost giggled, an unexpected response for such a dignified woman—at least, to Brittany she seemed dignified in the three days she'd known her since being hired.

"The wolverine's a kind of big skunk, you know, and if you ever go into the loo (Mrs Gordon was addicted to English mysteries and their slang) after she's been there..." She delicately pinched her nose, sending Brittany into a shocked paroxysm of silent mirth, so surprised was she by the sudden unbending of her mentor.

"In fact," Mrs Gordon continued with a droll expression, "it's probably a good idea for a young girl to avoid being alone with her at any time."

And here she made a gesture which mystified Brittany until she remembered an ancient conversation between two of her sorority sisters, and her eyes widened so comically that Mrs Gordon started laughing at her and she couldn't help laughing back, right out loud.

* * *

Wanda knocked before entering, a ceremony that rankled but which she followed as a small concession to office peace. _Eunuch-boy_ , her name for _Mr_ Becker, was insultingly covetous of his seclusion. She sat without waiting to be invited, crossed her knees and arms, and said to herself, _Just let him try to lay more work on me_.

Becker continued rubbing his temples while looking at papers on his desk, trying to get into the mood to speak to her. How ironic that he, who cordially disliked all women, should be fated to supervise an entirely female staff. As for the department's _clients_... Lazy weak-kneed drunken dope-using trollops made up ninety percent of the cases.

And now he must bargain with a woman whom he despised almost as much as he hated his ex-wife. He sighed and picked the top paper up, holding it out to Wanda with a phony loose-lipped grin.

"Here's another complaint come in that craves your special touch. I need you to look into it right away."

She kept her arms crossed, refusing to acknowledge the sheet. "I'm too busy—my case load is backed up for weeks, and I'm even working some on Saturdays."

"I want you to get on this right away and check it out. Probably nothing, but I need to know real quick."

She refused to be swayed, shaking her head. "Don't see how I can get around to it for a month or more."

"A case of a young girl, and a man living with the mother."

Wanda uncrossed her knees and sat up. "A young girl and her mother?"

"Right—and a man has moved in with them."

She reached for the slip. "There's a rush on this?"

"That's right—a rush."

She glanced at the sheet, then stood. "I'll get started right away." She scurried from the room, her nose in the complaint form.

_I knew that would get you_ , _you pushy creeping hag_. He continued to work over his head and neck, feeling the headache begin to recede.

* * *

As soon as Charly entered the house she began issuing orders. "Please put on more decent clothes," she said to Trask. "Frankie, leave your school clothes on. No, don't _Oh Mom_ me. And help me pick things up."

"What's going on?"

"Bad news. I got a call at work—Child Welfare is coming over for an inspection and interview. This can only mean trouble. Bet you this is Franklin's doing."

"They're coming tonight? What's the rush?"

"She said she's got to see me and the home right away—wouldn't take no for an answer."

"How can they do that—simply invade?" He was indignant.

"They can, believe me. And if you don't let them in and cooperate they get a court order the next day, and then they're all over you."

"Has this happened to you before?"

"No, but I've heard of it—I know what I'm talking about... Would you please help?"

Trask changed, and they rushed around picking up, putting away, vacuuming, making the beds neater, starting a fire in the stove to take the chill off, boiling water for tea—and before long there appeared a car in the drive and a knock at the door, and here came a blocky darkish woman in a severe mannish pants-suit, barging into the house as if she owned it.

She introduced herself to Charly, then turned to him. "You're..." looking at a paper, "Charles Trask."

"None other."

"Where's the child?"

Charly called Frankie to join them, and ushered the woman into the dining room. Trask headed for the living room to read but was halted in mid pace.

"You come in here, too," the woman called.

"What have _I_ to do with this?"

"You come on in here, too," she ordered.

He entered and sat at the table, his jaw tight, eyes squinted and face pink.

_Oh, please_ , _don't have a fit,_ Charly silently begged.

Looking him straight in the eye, Wanda asked, "What do you do around here?"

"Do? I live here!"

"Under what terms?"

Where was this leading? "I pay by the month—room and board."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. What the devil are you asking _me_ for?"

She frowned. This wasn't going anywhere—no sign of guilt or unease showed in his face or attitude.

"Okay, you can go."

Trask wanted to tell her where _she_ could go, but simply got up and went to sit on the couch while attempting to read his latest selection from Charly's library.

Wanda now got down to business as to Charly's income and hours worked, and where Frankie spent her time and who looked after her, and who was Frankie's father and where did he live and work and how often did he visit—taking notes of the information. She then demanded a tour of the house, and Charly conducted her room by room, first telling Frankie to go in the living room and play.

This elicited sharp looks from Wanda but the woman chose to say nothing.

Although Panagopoulos made no comments while viewing the house, her body language told Charly exactly how she felt about the decor. She appeared relaxed in the dining room, disdainful while examining the living room, unimpressed in the shabby but utilitarian kitchen and ancient bathroom, mildly disgusted by the laundry room.

Upstairs they went, and into Charly's bedroom. The woman took immediate note of the two beds, one full-size and one twin. "You _all_ sleep in here?"

"All?"

"You and he go at it right in front of the girl?"

"WHAT!" Charly uttered, glaring daggers.

Wanda instantly realized her mistake. "Well, where's his bed if you...?"

Charly pointed a rigid arm at the north wall, still glaring for all she was worth. Wanda exited the room and scurried down the hall. Charly pushed past her to slam open the door to Trask's room, revealing his bed and a few belongings.

She crossed the hall. "My daughter's room—she moves in with me in the winter." She remained hot with righteous anger at the assumption the woman had made.

Wanda descended the stairs in a subdued mood but briskly recovered what passed for poise with her. They entered the living room where she observed Frankie closely while asking her, "How do you get along with this man?"

Frankie, for some reason hidden deep in her own tiny mind, stepped near Trask and said, "I'm scared of him." She reached out to touch his knee with one finger, leaping back in a parody of terror, her eyes wide, crouching with arms shielding her body.

A sour look crossed Wanda's face, and in a brief moment of self-doubt the concern came that they were playing with her and would have a good laugh at her expense after she left. She looked round suspiciously, then strode into the dining room, telling Charly to bring her daughter with her. When seated, she called to Trask, "Have you got somewhere to go, Mister?"

Panagopoulos could easily imagine what it cost him to get up without a word and leave the room for upstairs. The easy victory immediately put her in a better mood. Men liked to consider themselves tough but could be reduced to kittens by a bold woman. Did these females realize she'd inflicted a stinging defeat on that fellow who probably impressed them with his manhood?

She smiled at the two seated in front of her—the attractive young mother and the pretty child. She reached out to caress Frankie's waist.

The girl twisted violently away, knocking over a chair in her determination to escape. She stood beside her mother and scowled at Wanda.

"I don't like you," Frankie spat—and ran into the kitchen.

Charly started to apologize but Panagopoulos laughed it off, covering up the stab of anger that came whenever she faced rejection. _Little brat_ , _you don't appreciate how much I can help you and your foolish mother_.

"Okay," she said, changing the subject, "how much do you get from this fellow?"

Charly became exasperated. "We already went through all that!"

Wanda waved an arm. "Not _him_."

~

Chapter 40 Christmas Dreams

day 117-121 Wed-Sun Dec 18-22

With the case worker gone they sat down to supper, necessarily a hit-or-miss proposition since Charly hadn't time to cook anything. Fortunately, Trask wasn't one to balk at leftovers, and with the help of cottage cheese and canned pineapple they made a decent meal. They discussed the evening's entertainment, with Frankie insisting _she_ had touched Frankie's _private place_ , and in answer to Charly's dissent jumped from her chair and pointed to her upper right buttock.

"That's not real private, Honey," Charly soothed, but Frankie would have matters no other way. She didn't like the woman and would hear no amelioration of the offense.

Trask inserted, "A couple inches south..."

He got the evil eye for his attempt at humor, Charly being determined not to have her daughter make too much of the incident.

Learning nothing from the previous rebuke he added, "If that wasn't one of them there _let's-be-friends_ I don't know what would be."

" _Please_ , Chuck! You're _not helping_."

He lowered his voice in mock sympathy. "She didn't try anything with you, did she?"

Between clenched teeth Charly gritted, "Enough! This is _not_ a _joke_."

* * *

After Frankie jumped into bed Charly took up the cudgels again.

"This swell visit was one of the paybacks for your match with Franklin—I hope you're satisfied."

That smarted. Trask atavistically felt he should be praised for having defended his woman—or at least for defending hearth and home, since she wasn't _his_ woman in anyone's mind except Franklin's—and he would have liked a modicum of gratitude to be shown, and maybe a teensy appreciation for his valor. Unreasonable, perhaps, but he fancied he deserved it.

In any case, he wasn't going to let his disappointment show, and he quipped, "Next time I'll let him beat me to a pulp if you think that would help."

"How amusing—except I can't afford a next time. You keep getting into trouble, and I keep having to pay for it."

She said it with feeling, and it stung.

"Maybe you ought to think once in awhile of how much _you_ have to do with all the trouble _I_ get you into. Franklin, as I recall, is something you brought to the table—he didn't go after me simply because he disliked the cut of my jib."

Charly instantly recognized the justice of this, and mumbled, "Sorry—you're right." They were silent for quite awhile, each nursing a sense of self-pity, until she came up with something to break the ice.

"By the way, I got the job—on my own terms. Starts next month."

"No kidding! You'll work the same hours?"

"Go in the same but maybe work over and come home an hour later. I think Sally will go along. I forgot to tell her what with the pressure of this visit on my mind... But I think she'll do it."

"Hmm... Tell you what—I'd be willing to bring Frankie home, and she'd be watching her even less time."

"Oh, don't even think that way—she still doesn't trust you. And on top of everything else, the Child Welfare people will probably get worried over you having more contact with her. That's what this visit happened to be about, you know—partly, at least."

" _What!_ More child abuse, you mean? What's _wrong_ with these people?" He felt disgusted and angry.

"Uh-huh. She asked me a few questions—nothing too direct, you understand—but I picked it up. And did you hear us upstairs?"

"Yeah, I did hear a commotion—what happened?"

"I might have shouted at her."

"And slammed a few doors, too, maybe."

"That too, I guess... She, uh, she took for granted we slept together." She chuckled and blushed deep red.

Trask broke into laughter. "I'm not the least surprised—same as your minister. These people always assume the worst... Or is it the best?"

He winked, and despite herself she blushed again.

"Not too funny. She assumed we were—as she delicately put it— _going at it_ in front of Frankie."

This Trask did not find so humorous. In fact, he blew his cork and said a few choice things about Wanda Panagopoulos that George Becker, had he heard them, would have willingly added to the woman's yearly job review.

When he was done Charly laughed so merrily he was forced to join in.

"Oh, it does my heart good to hear you carry on that way—she's a horrible obnoxious woman, that's for sure." In a few moments she added, "And you know what? as This isn't the finest house in town but it's a long sight better than the worst. We keep it clean, and Frankie is decently dressed and fed, and she's clean, too. This just might blow up in Franklin's face when she reports back... I mean, assuming she's half-way honest."

Trask thought of the accusation, and again the phrase came to his mind, _All the guilt and none of the pleasure_. He hesitated to voice it at this sensitive time. Instead he said, "Even if your aunt doesn't want me around Frankie, you can threaten to have me pick her up. That way Auntie won't complain as much about looking after her."

Charly considered. "You're right, I imagine, but it's more manipulation, isn't it? Poor Sal—she's always helping, and always being exploited by me."

"Well, I wouldn't feel too bad. She's probably the type who needs to be needed. If you and your daughter weren't around she might well be lonely."

"Thank you. I'll use that excuse to soothe my conscience."

* * *

In the morning Wanda deliberately arrived a few minutes late. She blew through the door and flung her coat onto her chair, turning and flourishing a paper. Having gained everyone's eyes she declaimed, "The wolverine! She spots her prey, she stalks him, she leaps and rends him limb from limb!"

Brittany bent a scandalized look on Mrs Gordon... except that lady seemed only mildly affected—she'd seen these dramatics before.

Wanda sat down and turned to her typewriter, beating the keys furiously for half an hour. With several pages filled she shuffled them together and headed for the manager's office. Knocking and entering, she waved the forms at him and cried, "Got him!"

Although he should have viewed the successful and extremely rapid resolution of this case with relief, Mr Becker couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor so-and-so this harpy had got her claws into—it reminded him so much of his own situation.

* * *

The balance of Charly's week went well for her, as did Trask's. Nature cooperated by covering the land with one of those beautiful glistening snowfalls that come from windless skies, frosting field and house and tree with faultless crystalline mantles. Even under a cloud-obscured sun the world was a pure eye-squinting white by day, a study in black and white by dark. He thought the vistas of open fields and woods and hills far more strikingly resplendent than any similar scene of the more built-up areas in which he'd lived before. Memories of childhood play stirred him.

He and Frankie scuffed through the snow for miles, it seemed, and Charly joined them when she wasn't busy. They hiked, they skipped, they ran. Frankie did her best to make a snowman but the temperature stayed far too cold for good packing, and the depth too slight in any case—nor were her snow angels impressive. In two days it vanished into thin air, leaving behind dry grass and weeds.

Charly always enjoyed the winter—at least it's early months—and much like Frankie she always hoped for a white Christmas. The fantasy looked achievable this year, and that belief together with the knowledge that for once she might spend some money on her baby girl—make up, to an extent, for earlier enforced miserliness—made her look forward with childish anticipation to the magical season.

Earlier Christmases—when she'd been part of a whole family—had not been bountiful, she supposed—but in memory they held a glow of warmth and pleasure subsequent harder times only enhanced. She determined to make this an old-fashioned holiday season, full of fun and feasts and surprise presents. She dreamed primarily of Frankie and Frankie's joy, with herself as an observer. Trask lingered in a corner of the picture, his presence surely adding to the scene, a benign but dim figure in the background.

He, on the other hand, depicted himself in the center of every scene, strewing gifts to the females with both hands, accepting their fulsome thanks with modest and self-effacing graciousness. He'd already planned and ordered a main gift for each of them.

Fall had been a short season—always ephemeral, it seemed this year to have vanished before being well begun. The dry summer brought down many leaves unturned, and others browned on the trees rather than coloring up. Winter's opening was always enjoyable, though, and it looked as if the season would be fine, making up for a disappointing autumn. Trask wanted more snow, no rain, cold days and brisk winds to enjoy both outside and before the hot stove.

Frankie felt sure this would be the best Christmas ever—hardly surprising since she had felt the same each year from the time she'd been old enough to remember. She only hazily realized the degree of effort her mother put forth to make those previous holidays gleam in memory, but she knew Mom would be awfully busy making treats and fixing up the house.

She fondly recalled the fun creating decorations for their _Christmas Tree_ , a zany foot-high construct of two sheets of acrylic that slotted together and presented tipped-up _branches_ on which the regalia hung. They renewed the decorations each year—made from construction paper and glitter, for the most part—as they tended to deteriorate in storage. A small selection of glass ornaments remained from Charly's childhood, but these suffered casualties and became fewer each year. They would string popcorn for garlands, while a half-package of icicles made the crowning touch.

And this year would positively be the best, because Mom promised to buy a real tree.

* * *

The days rushed past, filled with activity. They would eat at Aunt Sally's, and Trask was invited, too, Charly announced. She would be responsible for part of the meal but her aunt would prepare the bird they were to share. Christmas Eve would be spent at a special church service, then quietly at home singing carols and reading from Luke until Frankie gave in to the inevitable and went to bed. In the morning they would open the presents that had miraculously appeared round the tree, and at noon or slightly after go to Sally's.

Sunday night with Frankie upstairs asleep, they lounged in the living room listening to music, Trask on the couch watching as Charly strolled around on minor errands—straightening this, adjusting that. The radio started playing Jingle Bell Rock, a song he cordially despised. But she—in a mood for high-jinks—began to dance across the room in front of him. He laughed and jumped up to dance opposite her, neither one of them too skilled at this sort of thing. In a moment he took her in his arms, and they did a sort of jitterbug for a few measures. The song ended but they waited for the next. One immediately started—Silent Night... a Capella... in German.

What an alteration in mood! They slow-danced to the unconventional tune, instinctively moving closer to one another.

Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!

Still night! Holy night!

Alles schläft, einsam wacht

Everyone sleeps, a lonely watch

The carpet made a poor dancing surface and they hardly moved their feet, swaying to the sweet sad glorious tune, rendered mysterious and magical by a foreign voice.

Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar.

Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar,

Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!

Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!

Sleep in heavenly peace!

Sleep in heavenly peace!

He pulled her tight and kissed her. She molded her body to his and fully returned it. All their unexpressed hidden feelings for one another filled that kiss—mutual respect and fondness, the warmth from arguments settled, from errors made and acknowledged, from inadvertent slights given and apologies accepted, from obstacles met together and overcome—and it seemed to last forever when... She tightened her whole body and thrust away from him, an appalled expression on her face.

"What?" he asked, stepping toward her.

"No!" Her hands went up to ward him off. "No! I'm not getting trapped that way again! No—don't!" And she backed around him, circling toward the stairs. At the bottom she paused and seemed about to explain, but he barged ahead.

"What's the matter? It didn't mean anything."

_"Didn't mean...?"_ Her face crumpled and she ran up to her room.

He dropped onto the couch, dismayed and bewildered by her reaction. Nothing—a little kiss! _Like I acquired a case of the plague!_ He'd done no wrong, his hands hadn't roamed. _One Christmas kiss, for crying out loud!_ _Didn't mean anything—didn't hurt anyone_. Why had she over-reacted so? _What the devil?_ A holiday, wasn't it?

Trask's dismay advanced to resentment. If she hadn't wanted to be kissed why had she danced closely, why given him the impression—yes, _deliberately_ given him the impression she felt ready for some loving? She'd certainly kissed him back! If that wasn't a real kiss he'd never enjoyed one in his life. Women were weird unpredictable flighty creatures, he knew, but Charly was ordinarily down-to-earth even if she displayed a few quirks—prone to cry and blush for no reason—to get stiff or angry at the drop of a hat.

This was the thanks he got for everything he'd done for her—an insulting rejection. And the worst of it was, he didn't need to be rejected in the first place! He felt no real interest in her—a chubby untutored kid. Not as if he harbored any romantic feelings—she was in no way his type. A simple Christmas kiss and you'd have thought he molested her. _If it'd been a young stud_ , he caustically told himself, _maybe the reaction would have been different._ The longer he sat and reworked it the more indignant he got.

* * *

Charly threw herself across the bed and stuffed her face in the quilt. _Didn't mean anything!_ Yes, that was how love went with _them_ —it didn't mean a thing! A casual fling, the gain of bragging rights. To them—men—it didn't mean _any_ thing. Oh, what a fool she'd almost made of herself! Hadn't she learned? Hadn't she received enough advice—well-intentioned or ill-meant? To men deep feelings were denied—acts of love easily forgot. But to a woman feelings were everything—her life oriented around them.

What a betrayal! Not by him—no, for to him it _didn't mean anything_. The betrayal was hers—a betrayal of her standards and convictions—a betrayal of her interests—even a betrayal of her child's interests, for if she let herself be involved in another affair her daughter's already shaky start in life could be ruined. She recalled _Stella Dallas_ , the corny old-fashioned idealistic story of a foolish mother and loyal daughter, forced into a situation Charly had sworn to herself would never be hers.

She felt disgusted at her weakness. Only a moment or two, yet she might have ruined everything she'd hoped and planned for. The tears kept coming until she fell asleep to wake a couple of hours later, stiff with cold. She crawled under the covers fully clothed and slept till the alarm.

~

Chapter 41 We'll See

day 122 Mon Dec 23

Monday Trask came straight home and into the house, determined on a new course in life, yet he dithered for minutes before nerving himself up to dial long distance.

"Hel-lo?"

"It's Chuck, Ma."

She gave a gasp. "Charles! It's you?"

"Yes," he laughed, his eyes a bit moist. "How many _Chucks_ do you know in the world?"

"Oh, Charles! How good to hear you. You don't know how... We didn't know what happened to you or where you..."

"I called once," he protested.

"But you didn't say anything. We had no idea. Tommy said you were probably in jail and..."

"He would!"

"...we worried you might have been in an accident or... We simply didn't _know_."

"Well, none of that happened." And he told her where he'd been, and some of what he'd been doing.

"That close! We might have come to visit on a weekend. We didn't know if you were at the ends of the earth."

"Well, it's not _that_ close, and I don't know about visiting. But...I want to come for the holidays."

"Oh, thank goodness! Yes, of course. That's wonderful! Everyone will be here. Tommy's coming, and his family and... Here's Dad."

"Chuck! Good to hear from you. What the devil have you been up to, boy?"

"I've been working and..."

"You're coming home?"

"Yes, I'll..."

"When?"

"...be leaving shortly, and should..."

"When will you get here, I mean?"

"...get there late tonight."

"Well, hurry up—we want to see you. But watch your driving—don't get in an accident or get picked up by the police. You know how hyper they get around holidays."

"No, I'll be..."

"Here's your mother again."

"Charles?"

"Yes, Ma?"

"This is probably costing you a whole lot of money..."

"No, that's alright."

"...but I want to know how you've been keeping yourself. Do you have enough money to live on?"

"Of course, Ma,"

"How have you been taking care of yourself? Have you been eating well?"

"Oh, yes—no fears on that account."

"You aren't staying in some seedy motel, are you—a run-down fleabag hotel?"

"I'm living at a bed & breakfast."

"Bed and... Couldn't you get a nice apartment?"

"This is better—I get my meals and everything. Way cheaper."

"What do you do for lunch and supper? What of your laundry?"

"All included."

"Well... but... laundry, too? Not a B&B then, more of an a boarding house. How old fashioned! Who runs it, an old widow?"

"Er... not exactly."

* * *

Riding home that evening, Frankie puzzled over the situation. Christmas wasn't so happy all of a sudden—not for her momma and Chuck, it seemed. "Whatsa matter, Momma?"

"Nothing, Hon. Why?"

"You look sad."

"Only tired," she fibbed.

Frankie studied her. "Is Chuck tired?"

"...I don't know, Honey. Please don't worry."

"I'm not _worried_ , izzackly." Silence... "Are we gonna put up the real tree?"

The _real tree_ hung out of the open trunk—Charly had waited until the last minute in order to pay minimum.

"Sure. We'll put it up, then we'll decorate tomorrow, before Santa comes."

"Is Chuck gonna help?"

Charly paused, then said with what passed for a light tone, "You'll have to check with him, Honey. I'm not sure what he'll want to do."

"Is he coming to Aunt Sally's with us?"

"...We'll see."

* * *

Trask's truck wasn't in the drive, but perhaps he'd decided to hoist a few with the gang at work, unusual as that would be. _Perhaps best to delay having to deal with one another—best even to be asleep when he gets in_.

They hadn't spoken or even acknowledged one another in the morning. Going to be hard to break the newly-formed ice when they eventually had to talk. Maybe a small delay would bring a thaw.

What a time to have a fight. Holidays can be tough.

She and Frankie manhandled the tree from the trunk and around to the front porch, then entered by the back door, as always. She dropped a bag of groceries on the floor, and they took off their coats and boots.

"Look, Momma."

Frankie picked an envelope from the kitchen table—sealed, and addressed in Trask's printing. _PRIVATE, Charlotte Biscoe_

A card? Charly tore it open and unfolded one sheet. _Presents in my room. Don't let Frankie go in until it's time_. What was this? She felt goosebumps forming. Frankie studied her, eager to know what the envelope held.

"How'd you like chocolate milk?"

The girl was more than pleased at this relaxation of the _don't-spoil-your-appetite_ rule, and settled down at the kitchen table.

Charly climbed the stairs to Trask's room. In the northeast corner stood a large box wrapped in brown paper—the presents, no doubt. She looked around. His shoes, dress and work, were missing from under the bed, and the bed itself had been stripped—the sheets draped over the foot of the bedstead, the blankets and comforter folded on the mattress. Frowning and apprehensive, she threw open the closet door.

It was quite empty.

**The End —**(But keep reading.)

~

First chapters of the sequel to **You'll See!**

Not That I...

01 The Angel's Bell

day 122 Mon Dec 23

Flakes spiraled down, small and sparse, as Trask drove up and down hills, around and past the many curves on his route home. The ground was frozen, while clear days had dealt with the small accumulation from earlier snows. No fear of a slippery situation so long as the buildup remained slight, and the fall wasn't heavy enough to interfere much with visibility. Still, he drove slowly, almost of two minds about leaving, eager though he was to see the family, relieved as he was to be exiting an uncomfortable situation.

Headlights regularly glared at him from in front, but no traffic showed behind. The truck handled well, responsive to a touch on the steering, the brakes and tires in good shape, the rear wheels sufficiently loaded by his tools and clothing.

Not by the VCR, though. He sneered to himself. How would Charly handle _that_ little problem—fling it out? He was skeptical.

_She'll be happy to overlook her scruples_.

As miles swept by the hills became more rolling, the curves less sharp. A good thing, because traveling westward was bringing an increase in snow—the flakes larger and falling more thickly. He slowed, speedometer dropping below forty-five as he approached curves and intersections.

Near the state line he slowed further, glad the road was flattening and running almost straight. Shouldn't be much more than an hour now before a major interrogation covering his mysterious life this last half-year. He only hoped the new material would make them drop the Karen question—hoped he'd never need to hear her name again. But the more recent stuff... No doubt the glaring lights and rubber hoses were ready.

* * *

Charly sat on the bed until Frankie called up the stairway.

"Mo-omm! You comin' down? Are we gonna eat, Mom? Mommy!"

One good long sigh and Charly was on her feet. Out the door and down the stairs she went, assuring the girl all was well, life would resume its ordered pace, and some kind of supper would soon be on the table. She herself felt no appetite, but the act of preparing food might stir up the juices.

"What do you want, Honey?"

"Momma!" Frankie was aggrieved. Had her mother forgot they were supposed to have chicken fingers?

"Oh, Honey! I can't make those tonight—we'll starve before they're done. I forgot all about it." Would fried baloney do? Hamburgers? French toast? Nothing excited the child. Now they were both down in the mouth. "Want to make cookies after we eat?"

That brought a reaction, thank goodness, though Charly's own level of enthusiasm drifted even lower.

Why was she so bothered? Hadn't she prepared herself for this possibility? Hadn't she worked out the next steps to take—to secure their future without Trask?

But it was so sudden. Why had _he_ pulled up stakes? _She_ was the aggrieved one. The same old story—always the man whose pride was damaged. Weaklings!

She'd show him—show all of them. She wouldn't drag around as if it was some kind of tragedy. This wasn't the first time she'd been walked out on. And hadn't _she_ rejected _him?_ Yes, in a way it was all for the good. She built a picture of herself telling Doris, bragging how she told him off. _Keep your hands off me! Find some other floozy to maul! When he saw how it was he skipped right off, Dory. Nobody's going to try that stuff with me_.

But Frankie was trying to gain her attention.

"Oh Lord!" She yanked the pan off the burner. It would be burnt baloney tonight.

* * *

By the time Trask turned onto his folks' street the snow was two inches deep, and his speed down to the posted limit. He'd thought of driving past his... that is, past _Karen's_ house simply to take a look, but he lectured himself on how unwise it would be, considering the weather. Waste another fifteen minutes and the driving might get treacherous.

Odd to see so much traffic—worse than in Gettrick. Cars and vans crept toward him and sidled past, wipers flailing, heaters no doubt blasting. It was barely cold enough for a good sticky snow, probably above thirty. Tom's children would be astounded by a Midwest winter. Sure, they'd seen snow before, but only in the mountains on skiing trips, he imagined. He recalled snowmen and snowballs and snow angels of yesteryear. How great to see kids having fun, to share their delight, hear their shouts.

He turned down the defroster—it was making his eyes water.

The driveway approached, and he slowed, almost stopping, taking time to prepare for the blast of questions that was headed his way, still in the process of deciding how many and what kind of lies to tell, what tactics to use in deflecting their curiosity. Heaven knew he was looking forward to Christmas at home—but Satan knew he yearned to slip secretly into the house. Not that he was afraid of owning up, merely the discomfort of being grilled...

He pulled in slowly—up the rise in the front yard, almost touching Tom's bumper so as to be well clear of the sidewalk. Every movement was slow and hesitant as he switched off, dragged out his duffel, locked the truck and shuffled up the walk. The entrance neared and he reached for the bell, but the storm door was flung open from inside, practically leaping into his face.

"Chuck boy! Get yourself in here."

* * *

Charly lay with Frankie on the couch, a blanket over them because she didn't want to make up a fire in the stove. What would she do with _that_ particular purchase of Trask's? Couldn't ship the cast iron monstrosity. Have to send him a check if she could learn his address. Would he have gone to Kelly's—maybe the new motel? Might even be in Gettrick, she supposed. She frowned, trying to think of any apartments in West Baker.

"What, Honey?" Oh dear! Frankie wanted to talk about the movie, _It's a Wonderful Life_ —but all it made her think of was they were playing it on Trask's VCR. Why couldn't Frankie simply go to sleep and leave herself alone with her thoughts?

The phone rang, allowing her to abandon the girl.

"Hello?"

It was Sally, wanting to know if Trask would accept whole-cranberry sauce, relating how she normally served the plain stuff but this year she felt the urge for a change, et cetera, et cetera.

"Er, I'm not sure he's coming, Aunt... No, I don't know what he's doing... Girlfriend? No, I doubt he has one... Yes, it is bad manners, but he's an unpredictable kind of man. I wouldn't try to... I agree, but... Please don't start the gangster routine again—it's ridiculous."

And more of the same until she demanded whether she and Frankie weren't guests enough for her aunt. She felt wrung out by the time the call ended.

Now Frankie picked up the baton about Trask.

Why wasn't Chuck here? Wasn't he having Christmas dinner with them? Wasn't he going to help open presents? Where had he gone? Didn't he like them any more? She briefly diverted the girl by mentioning tree decorating, but soon the questions changed to whether Chuck would help.

_Oh, Lord! Let this night be over. Hurry the angel's bell_.

* * *

_Wow! Never dreamed I'd get off so easily_. Trask stomped up to the cramped bedroom, surprised the initial interrogation had gone so well. Tom and his family were jammed into one room, the boys in sleeping bags on the floor. His parent's house was fairly small, another complaint of Karen's. As if things such as that mattered in the long run. _Pretentious witch_.

He'd delayed talk by teasing the boys, claiming they'd grown a foot, accusing them of fear of snow. They stoutly denied this. He spoke of snowmen, of building an igloo to live like Eskimos.

"Could we? Could we for sure, Uncle Chuck?"

They'd all seated themselves, his mother fussing over him. Was he alright—healthy and well fed? "You don't seem thin." Yet she didn't question too deeply.

His father discoursed on the weather and his trip, the speed and conditions, the police and other cars on the road. And there Dad left it.

Tom got into dangerous territory. "You're working? You got a job there? What are you up to?" But before he was forced to answer, Liz came from the kitchen with a huge mug of tea.

"How many bags did this take?" he laughed.

"Just one, but I squeezed it real hard."

She was a tall girl, rail thin and good looking—probably hadn't gained an ounce since marriage. He'd rarely seen her anything but bright and cheery, yet she had quite a tongue in her head if sufficiently provoked. She chattered on for a bit, monopolizing the conversation.

And when she was through, and the others stretched out the first tentative feelers, he utilized the tea—sweet, and hot as the hinges of hell—to avoid much speech, lifting it to his lips and sipping cautiously to delay answers. It took a long time to drain the mug. This tactic, combined with their almost eerie general hesitation to probe deeply, had kept him safe... for now.

~

02 Third Degree

day 123 Tue Dec 24

Trask awoke early, mightily refreshed despite an unfamiliar bed, ready to face the world. He didn't mind that he'd beat everyone else awake, thereby having a few more moments free from questions and questioning looks. He quickly showered, shaved out of respect for the holiday, and exited in favor of a sleepy-eyed Liz, somewhat morose in the bright light of morning. They must have stayed up late hashing him over into the wee hours. Not that he cared... much. He cleared his throat in greeting, and she mumbled back.

He swiftly downed a bowl of cold cereal, then shoved a stick of gum in his mouth in lieu of waiting for Liz to clear the bathroom so he could brush. On with his coat and out into the truck, starting his Christmas shopping early in the day. Offhand, he figured it would take him pretty near until the stores closed, allowing him to come back late enough to jump right into bed. Another day free from inquisition. Yee-hah!

A moderate snowfall had built up to near half a foot, still coming down. Great for the boys, and pretty great for himself, for that matter. He loved a snowy Christmas. The streets were none too clear but gave him no trouble... He hadn't forgot how to drive in snow since last winter, the way so many people seemed to. Traffic was surprisingly heavy for Christmas Eve, probably last-minute shoppers, as he was. And look at all the stores he'd have to choose from, far more even than in the fabled metropolis of Gettrick. He aimed at the nearest mall, wondering if anything would be open before ten.

* * *

Breakfast was leisurely despite Frankie's almost frantic urge to get on with decorating. Hot chocolate, buttermilk biscuits with honey, oatmeal with brown sugar—mmm, what a treat. The girl stuffed herself and was thereby slowed down, like a python after swallowing a goat. Still, all good things must end, and within half an hour the pleas were renewed with increased vigor, and Charly was forced to lever herself up to drag in the tree.

Frankie shrieked with joy, but Charly could see another side.

"Oh! This is going to be a mess." Needles strewed the floor. In all probability the tree, evidently a balsam fir, had been cut in October and was in the latter stages of useful life. Smelled pretty good, though.

And now another problem presented itself. There was no stand, and she surely wasn't going to go out in this weather to buy one. Snow deluged the house and yard, building up rapidly as they watched.

If we don't have a foot by night..." The trip to Aunt Sally's might be imperiled, although her car ran well in snow, what with the front-wheel drive. Still, if the accumulation built up to where the under-body dragged, it would be foolish to make the attempt. Charly began to think what they might have for Christmas dinner if forced to stay home.

Back to the stand. Had Trask been here she knew he'd make one of scrap wood. But he wasn't here—not that she cared—and she certainly wasn't going to attempt such a task. After fending off various impractical suggestions from Frankie she decided to stand it in her largest cooking pot, half-filled with water to weight it down, and simply lean the tree in the corner. Fortunately it wasn't huge, only five feet tall. To further stabilize it she stacked chunks of firewood around the pot.

It looked so stupid when she was done that it made her morose, but Frankie was gleeful, and they ended up laughing at it. An old sheet was draped around the base to make _snowy hills_ , and they agreed to pretend the sheet's lavender sprigs were holly bushes.

Decorating. They owned but one string of fairy lights, and that not a long one. They swagged it back and forth none-the-less, and when plugged in it worked. Frankie clapped her hands with joy. But ornaments... no good news there. Their itty-bitty artificial tree hadn't needed many, but the few left unbroken after years of decimation would look mighty sparse on this tree.

Well, it was another way to kill time. They started popping corn to string into garlands. While the girl took the main responsibility for popping, Charly prepared her contributions to tomorrow's feast.

* * *

Spotting a donut shop, Trask impulsively pulled in, deciding to wait for store-opening over coffee and crullers. The snow was sifting down, traffic slowing and piling up, a few plows in evidence but still not enough accumulation to worry over. He would take his time.

"Hi!"

"Morning. Can I take your order?"

"I'm sure you _can_ , and you may."

"What?"

"Er, coffee and some kind of... How about rye toast."

"No toast. Would you like a fried cake?"

"Yeah, okay."

"What kind?"

"Umm, just plain, I guess."

"Old-fashioned plain or regular plain?"

"You're making this terribly difficult for me."

As she went to assemble his order he reflected upon the diner back in West Baker. Nothing against this girl, but when it came to witty repartee, she couldn't match Peggy. _Sigh_. He continued trying to warm up the waitress but only succeeded in making her look suspiciously upon him as he dawdled over three coffees and as many donuts. Probably considered him a middle-aged Lothario scouting for younger women.

_Huh!_ If only she knew how close he was to becoming a woman- _hater_.

Eventually he gave it up as a bad job and left, planning to make his first stop at the Mall restrooms.

* * *

After lunch, in the middle of stringing popcorn, Frankie fell asleep, worn out by excitement and early rising after a late night. It seemed an inspired idea, so Charly arranged the girl on the couch, covered by a throw, and leaned back in the chair, closing her own eyes. Perhaps she would dream again of Adrian, the ideal male who'd been so far from her thoughts these many months.

When she awoke—rather, when Frankie wakened her—she almost resented giving up her rest. It was dark out, the fire was dwindling, there was hardly any firewood in the house, nor any man to bring in more. Charly felt stiff and cold, and the garlands were unfinished. Too early for supper, so she made cocoa, to warm them both and to infuse some energy into herself.

Their eventual meal was a simple affair—a good barley soup made previously, peanut butter toast, sliced apples with cinnamon and sugar. Then for the long evening.

She hoped against hope Frankie would retire early but the nap had spoiled that. They finished _It's a Wonderful Life_ then switched on the radio. Before long the seemingly ubiquitous _Jingle Bell Rock_ came on, and she misted up for some reason. Ridiculous! She didn't think much of the original _Jingle Bells_ , much less this raucous interloper among Christmas carols.

Eventually Frankie gave up the struggle and allowed herself to be hauled up the stairs and put to bed. Charly followed suit, but she felt too much nervous energy to sleep, so stayed awake reading until her shoulders became cold outside the covers. She laid down her book and pulled up sheet and blanket and quilt and comforter, shivering for a few minutes while awaiting sleep.

Yet sleep was long in coming, even after she warmed.

* * *

"Are we going to church?"

Several sets of eyes scanned one another in puzzlement and wonder. Church? Christmas was for presents and feasting—what had religion to do with it? But the prodigal had returned, and they were inclined to refuse him nothing. To indulge his eccentric urge they would brave the icy blasts of night.

"You... want to go to church?" his father responded. "When? What time?"

"Don't they have midnight services?"

"Catholics have that Midnight Mass, I think," Tom uselessly offered.

"Is that what you want, Charles?" his mother asked.

"Aren't there some Protestant churches?" He halted, stymied. What did _he_ know?

"Look in the newspaper," said his father, ever practical.

"Maybe we could phone some of them... nearby ones, I mean," was Liz's contribution.

Her husband whispered to her, "Maybe Karen would know." He received an eye-dagger in return.

After a flurry of activity it was settled. They would go to church, and—by golly!—they would enjoy it. Probably.

"You know, Liz," Dad said, "this'll be perfect. The boys will be tired out and ready for bed by the time we get back."

Sure. It always works out that way—children always get tired on schedule.

But the important thing to Trask was, he'd again prevented a long inactive period during which they could begin the third degree. Tomorrow would be busy, and by the 26th they'd probably have laid aside all curiosity over this undisclosed period in his life.

On the way out the door Liz whispered to her husband, "When did _he_ get religion? Something is going on here, and I'm going to find out what it is."

Tom gave her a puzzled frown, and she added, "Not that I _care_ , of course."

~

In [Not That I... our hero and heroine stray afield in search of romance, not yet having fully learned that love is a trap for fools.]

~

Sample of the third book in the series, in process July 2014:

Wait A Minute!

Wait A Minute! follows Frankie, daughter of the heroine of You'll See! and Not That I..., picking up the story ten years later as she leaves high-school for... For where?

~

Outside after school, waiting for bus six to return from its Middle School run, Fraankie felt she'd had an exceedingly full day. But even at three-thirty of a warm, breezy afternoon the day's stress wasn't over.

"Frankie—take a little walk with me."

Jakobsson! What the devil did _he_ want?

"What do you want, Chris?"

"Just a little talk... Please?"

She was deeply suspicious. Was he approaching her as a hanger-on of Porras, or as part of a conspiracy with Chelsea? One was worse than the other. But intelligence on the enemy's operations might be gained. With lagging footsteps she followed him away from the sidewalk, past the flagpole thronged with potential listeners, and over to a clear space next to the school wall—a nearby honeylocust offering light shade.

They eyed one other, each hesitating to speak first.

"Well, Chris?"

"Uh... you're looking for a summer job, I suppose."

"So?"

"Er, have you got one yet?"

"What's it to you?"

He grinned uneasily, showing a different side of his usually cool demeanor.

"You're kinda tough to talk to, Frankie, but here's the deal—I know of something you can get, and it's pretty decent. You interested?"

She gave him a level look, refusing to answer.

"It's with Coburn's."

She continued her look.

"Home furnishings and major appliances."

Coburn's was the last department store in Gettrick still standing after the invasion of national chains and big-box stores. It was respectable employment, regardless of which department.

"Probably minimum to start, but if they like you..." He tried a compliment. "Most people _do_ like you, Frankie, and it could lead to a training program, maybe."

She wasn't friendly with him—distrusted him as one of Porras' satellites. Job or no job, she wasn't going to bite.

"What's the catch?"

His grin widened. "That's the trouble with smart girls—they always look for a catch. And before you say anything... Yeah, there _is_ a catch—I want you to go to the Prom with me."

"Wait a minute! Is this some kind of...?"

"Don't get hot! The job's yours either way. That is, I told my father about you—he manages the department—and I think he's interested. I mean, It's not exactly a guarantee, but you can check it out right away."

"Am I supposed to believe _I'll_ get the job instead of you? Or are _you_ going to be there too? Level with me, Chris—what's the deal?"

"I took a spot with the state highway department—more my style. But let's get back to the Prom. Whadaya say?"

Frankie took her time replying. "What do I say? Let me give it to you straight, Chris. You're not bad looking, and you probably clean up pretty well... and I know you're bright enough to hold a reasonable conversation. But here's the problem—anybody who hangs around with the types you do isn't my idea of good company. So thanks for the compliment and all, but you'd better find someone else."

A long silence ensued, during which Jakobsson's usually jaunty manner faded.

"That's it, then—that's final?"

"Fraid so."

"Even if there's no one else who'll ask you?"

She made no answer.

"Alright, Frankie, I don't exactly blame you... But check out the job anyway—I could drive you down there right now."

"If there's an actual job, I'd rather go on my own. Sorry."

He blushed, his light-complected face bright. "I understand... When you go, see Personnel, but tell them Mister Jakobsson's who you want to talk to... And there's something else I want to tell you, okay? Now don't get angry—at least, wait till I'm done before you blast off."

Her voice held a warning. "I don't care for the sound of this."

"Well, here's the deal. I've been getting plenty tired of Porras, what with school ending, and thinking more seriously about life and all. So anyhow, he's been bragging about how he's got you in a corner where you'll have no choice, and how he's finally gonna get what he should have had before Christmas—and that about does it for me. So I say, _I'll ask her out...for a ten-spot_. And he'd just been saying how nobody'd better not ask you, so he gets real hot, and I'm thinking maybe this is it and we're finally going to go at it."

"He'd never fight unless it was a sure thing. He calculates his chances."

"Ordinarily, but he was hot. Then I said—hear me out, Frankie. I say, _I'll get her to go with me then cancel at the last minute, and it'll give you a better shot_."

Frankie drew herself up, and Jakobsson rushed to finish.

"I swear to God, Frankie, I wouldn't have done it—not to you or anyone. I just wanted to give him what he had coming, and if he took me on... Well, so much the worse for him."

Frankie took a preparatory breath but Jakobsson spoke first, pointing past her shoulder.

"If you want to catch your bus..."

She turned and ran, the last to board.

~

Thanks for reading **YS!** Feel free to comment or criticize, or to inform me of possible typos or other errors. Flattery, sincere or otherwise, is always welcome.

You may visit my website which contains excerpts and free content. Links to other books are below.

Blood & Earth Roger rescues Vera from kidnappers... against her will.

Hair of Gold Valys disguises herself as a boy to join a treasure expedition...and then they discover her sex.

Hide the Child Jancy abducts Robbie to escape the boy's father.

Lovejoy's World Watch out for the ponies.

Additional works are in various stages of completion, including sequels to some of those above. And remember: Neither superheroes nor anything supernatural—merely ordinary people, much like you and me, caught up in extraordinary situations.

Dai Alanye
