Bunny Schumacher was very thankful that the streets of Palacios Del Mar were so well-maintained. They were nice and flat; no cracks or potholes for her to trip on. This was important, because not only did she have to walk to her destination, she had to do so carrying a fourteen pound terrier. This wouldn't have been a problem twenty years ago, or even ten, but at eighty-two, Bunny didn't move as fast as she used to.
The blistering pavement crept up through her orthotic shoes, and the Florida sun beat down on her head, turning every chrome surface she passed into a spotlight. It was sticky and still, and the air smelled like asphalt and sulfur. She knew she should have worn her straw hat, but she had just set her hair that morning, and her fingers still felt crampy from twisting the pink foam rollers. She didn't want to waste it, because she wasn't sure they would uncramp by tomorrow if she had to set it again.
She wished she could have driven, but her car was making that horrible screechy noise, and anyway, Bunny had never been comfortable driving. Murray had taught her, naturally, after the children started school. He had even bought her her own car, a big Lincoln. Bunny was not a naturally fearful person, but cars intimidated her. They were so heavy and loud, and overly sensitive to nervous taps on the brake or twists of the steering wheel. Bunny felt safer walking.
She'd lived long enough in Palacios Del Mar to know that the veterinarian's house on Ponte Vedra was one of the two-bedroom duplexes that lined part of the road. She remembered the controversy when they were built. Palacios Del Mar had been a community of individual homes, and the residents were suspicious of anything that might look different. "Duplexes!" Murray had snorted, frowning deep into the grooves of his cheeks. "Awful for resale value. Hmph."
Bunny didn't think they looked that bad. They were just as well-maintained as everything else in the community, with their neat green lawns and brightly floral hibiscus bushes in red and pink and yellow. That one, there, across the street from the Sandoval house; it looked so funny with its square of grass on the left, and crowded fruit trees and orchids on the right, like a child's game of opposites.
Murray squirmed in her arms and she clutched him tighter, afraid of dropping him. He flinched and whined a little. His cute little sticky-up ears were flat against his skull, and his big brown doggy eyes looked sadly up at her from her grip on the pink baby blanket. "There, there, Murray dear," she crooned worriedly. "Don't you worry. We're almost there. This is Ponte Vedra here, and here are those duplexes Daddy didn't like." She frowned and squinted at the mailboxes, glaringly bright in the early afternoon sun. "Hm, 128B. Yes, that's it right here."
She waddled slowly up the driveway. It had a bit of a slope, which was worrying. Bunny's balance wasn't as good as it used to be. She really, really wished she could have driven. The thought of the long walk back to Siesta Key Row in the heat and humidity was discouraging, but poor Murray; she didn't have much of a choice, did she?
The right side of the duplex was painted a pretty blue, and the door was bright red. Bunny wondered how the veterinarian had managed to get it past the homeowner's association. They were such sticklers! Murray had approved of the rules, but lately it seemed as though Bunny simply couldn't keep up with all of their regulations about mowing the lawn and moving the trash cans and losing shingles. It was all so confusing. Murray had taken care of things so well, and with him gone, it was so hard to remember everything.
She took the dolphin-shaped brass knocker in hand and rapped, three times, politely. Then she stood back, rearranged poor Murray in her arms, and waited. There was a tin coffee can filled with cigarette butts on one side of the stoop; on the other, a jolly-looking garden gnome holding a shovel. She smiled indulgently at it.
There was music playing faintly somewhere, something heavy; rock and roll, perhaps. Bunny wasn't sure. Then the doorknob turned, and the red door opened. A young man with shaggy dark hair frowned, surprised, down at her.
"Uh," he said, looking very taken aback.
"Hello," said Bunny cheerfully. Her mother had always told her to be "bright and polite, and they'll treat you right!" It didn't seem to work as well these days as it used to when Bunny was young, but she was hopeful, always hopeful, that people would be nice, despite their physical appearance.
This young man looked a bit "rough around the edges," as her mother would have said, "like a darn slacker," as Murray would most likely have huffed, but Bunny smiled up at him anyway. He wasn't yelling, or sneering, or telling her to go away, so she was encouraged. She could also feel the fresh, tantalizing blast of cool air from inside the house. The music was still playing – definitely rock and roll – and he was wearing the sweetest shirt with a white cartoon dog on it. Even the cartoon dog's little cartoon martini was cute. The young man's pale gray eyes blinked, then crinkled with an answering smile.
"Hi," he said slowly. "Um, can I help you, ma'am?"
Bunny beamed. So few young people nowadays used the word "ma'am." It was reassuring that he was polite. "My name," she said, "is Mrs. Bunny Schumacher, and I live on 1425 Siesta Key Row. The pink house," she added.
"Oh?" said the young man, nonplussed.
Encouraged, Bunny went on: "I am looking for the retired veterinarian who lives at this address. I'm hoping he could have a look at my little Murray here." She shifted Murray in her arms; he whimpered a little, and looked suspiciously through his messy fringe up at the young man. The young man looked skeptically back. "His poor little feetie has been sore and now it's bleeding," said Bunny anxiously. "He just limps and limps, poor thing."
The young man looked from Murray up to Bunny, then back to Murray. "Uh," he said slowly, taking in Murray's scruffy, whiskery little face. "Retired … veterinarian?"
"Yes," said Bunny, heart sinking. Had Larry perhaps steered her wrong? She had pinned her hopes to his information. "He does live here, doesn't he?" she asked fretfully. "That's what Larry McIverton said – there was a retired vet at 128B Ponte Vedra."
The young man's pale eyes flickered, then crinkled again. His mouth, an appealing cupid's bow made masculine by his unshaved cheeks, curved up into an engaging smile. "Ooooohhhhhh," he said, though Bunny wasn't sure why it had taken him such a long time to understand. It wasn't drugs, was it? Murray had always complained about young people with their long hair and their drugs. This young man had long hair. Did that mean he did drugs, too? That was worrying. But then the young man stepped aside and said, "Please come in, Mrs. Schumacher."
"Thank you," said Bunny. She was very hot and sweaty after her walk from Siesta Key Row, and her air conditioning had gone out that morning, along with the rest of her electric outlets. There must be a power outage on her street or something. She should ask one of her neighbors about it. She gratefully stepped inside the cool, airy duplex, Murray quivering a little in her arms, and looked around curiously.
The duplex had a high, lofty ceiling with windows letting in the Florida sun; she could see the tops of the mango and pine trees waving through the glass. The rock and roll music was very loud. There was a rather battered-looking pink sofa in the middle of the room in front of an enormous television set, and the coffee table was huge and round and made of rough wood. She supposed the room was decorated in some sort of rustic style. She preferred her rattan, but she did approve of the couch's color; pink was her favorite.
The young man fiddled with a small black thing, and the music shut off. The slap of his bare feet on the tile echoed a little in the sudden silence. "Okay, Mrs. Schumacher," he said, gesturing to the couch. "Why don't you sit down, and I'll take a look at your, uh, dog."
Bunny blinked at him in surprise. He was the retired veterinarian? People retired so young these days! Maybe he was older than he looked, or maybe Bunny had lived so long that even her fellow retirees looked young. That thought was a little depressing, so Bunny tamped it down and accepted his help sitting on the couch. She sank alarmingly deep, but her feet were very grateful for the break, and her arms, sore from holding Murray so long, relaxed as the little dog settled his negligible weight on her lap.
The young man sat on the coffee table across from her, scratched his head thoughtfully, and contemplated Murray. Murray stared back at him with an equal lack of enthusiasm. Bunny could feel his tail tucked hard between his legs, and his ears trembled over the back of his scruffy head. The vet offered his right hand, palm down, to him, and Murray stretched out his neck and sniffed carefully. One ear swiveled up, and the vet smiled.
"This is Murray," said Bunny, wanting the vet to like her dog. "I got him after my dear husband passed. Named him after him, Murray Schumacher." She scratched his hard little head with her fingernails; the wiry hair fluffed up adorably. "He's such good company, you know?"
The vet grunted a little and eased Murray's foot out of the tangle of pink baby blankets. Bunny had wrapped it as best she could with twelve medium-size Band-Aids, and the blood had seeped through onto the cloth. The sticky bandages pulled at the long, coarse hair around Murray's foot, and he yelped a little and jerked back as the vet started to peel them off. There was a clack, and Murray jumped in surprise. The vet chuckled.
"Serves you right, pal," he said gently, stripping the bandages off the bloodied paw. "Gonna bite a metal hand, it's gonna hurt."
Even through her dismay at Murray's impolite behavior, Bunny looked at his hand in surprise. Sure enough, it was shiny metal, all the way up into the white cartoon dog shirt sleeve. "Goodness gracious!" she exclaimed. "If you don't mind me asking, doctor, what on earth did you do to your arm to make it like that?"
"It's just a prosthetic," said the vet, smiling up at her through his messy, overlong hair. Murray glanced back at her as well; his brown eyes were anxious through the wiry fuzz, and had Bunny possessed a keener imagination, she would have noted how similarly the two regarded her. "Lost my arm in an accident."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Bunny, at once embarrassed and very interested. "Murray – my late husband, not this Murray - was an amputee too, you know."
"Yeah?" The vet crumpled up the last of the Band-Aids and took Murray's paw in his hand, examining it closely. "What'd he lose?"
"His leg, to diabetes," explained Bunny. "He would get so cross, you know, having to put on and take off the prosthetic. He did hate it so much because he said it itched. He once tried to hop down the hallway in the middle of the night to use the –" Bunny coughed delicately. "The offices – " She blushed and ploughed on; veterinarians were probably not embarrassed by discussing such things. They were doctors, after all. "He fell, and I simply could not get him back up into bed! We ended up having to call our neighbor, Larry McIverton, for help."
"Mmm," said the young man absently, raising Murray's leg to peer beneath the foot. "Don't think I've met him."
"He won the shuffleboard tournament two years ago," prompted Bunny, feeling that it might help the vet remember.
"Did he?" grinned the young man. "Well, well." He carefully pried Murray's toes apart. Murray whined and pulled back, but the vet had a firm and competent hold on the little leg. "Ouch," he said sympathetically. "Lookit that. Sandspurs."
"Sandspurs!" cried Bunny, horrified. "Oh dear me! And here I wrapped his little feetie up so tight! I didn't even see them!"
"They're pretty jammed up in there," soothed the vet. He grimaced, carefully moving Murray's toes. "Gonna need some tweezers," he said.
"I can't believe I didn't see them!" wailed Bunny. "Poor Murray-poo! Oh dear!"
"They're small," said the vet. "But I can get them out, I think. Just hold on here." He got up, collected the bloody bandages, and disappeared around the wall. Bunny could hear a sink run, and him opening and shutting drawers, and glass clinking. That must be his laboratory or work room, she thought. Or maybe a kitchen. Surely duplexes had kitchens, too?
Bunny was very upset. If only she'd seen the sandspurs and taken them out! "I'm so sorry," she said to Murray, who stared up at her reproachfully. "I didn't see them, wookums!" She pressed a shaky kiss to the top of his fuzzy head. His warm little ears brushed her cheeks. Her eyeglasses were really not sufficient anymore for looking at little things, she knew, but her prescription had changed, and Medicare was so stingy about paying for eyeglasses. Why did they have to be so expensive, anyway?
The vet came back into the room. Bunny noticed for the first time that his old blue jeans were tattered and worn, and the shirt with the cute cartoon dog was frayed at the edges. She supposed if one were a retired veterinarian with a prosthetic arm, one could wear whatever one wanted, even if it wasn't considered correct by polite society. Then she noticed he was carrying a tray in those strange dichotomous hands, one flesh, one metal; when he set it down on the round wooden table, she saw the contained not only some cotton balls and a dish of soapy water, but also a glass of iced tea, garnished with a fat slice of lemon and some fresh mint, clattering at her. She realized she was incredibly thirsty.
"Let's trade," he smiled, and held out his hand for her dog. "I'll take Mr. Murray here, and you have a nice cold drink while I take care of him."
"Oh, thank you so much, doctor!" she exclaimed gratefully. To her surprise, Murray didn't object when the vet tenderly scooped the little dog up off her lap, and let him turn him upside-down on his little bony rump so that his feet stuck up, leaning his back against the vet's stomach. The white cartoon dog with his half-closed eyes and cute cartoon martini smiled over Murray's head at her. She picked up the glass of iced tea and took a sip. It was cold and fragrant, and the smell of lemon and mint so soothing.
"It's very good," she said, beaming.
The vet smiled; he had a pair of tweezers in one hand, and Murray's little bloody paw in the other. "Thanks," he said, a little absently; he was concentrating on removing the sandspurs. Poor Murray winced and twitched every time one came out, but he wasn't struggling; his little mustached face gazed up in mild surprise at the young man.
"I got Murray at the pound," said Bunny, feeling the need to explain where her little dog had come from. "Murray – my late husband, you know, not this Murray – he had just passed, and our two children, Abe and Veronica, they don't live near here, and I was so lonely! So Larry McIverton's wife Nancy said I should get a pet. I'd never had a pet before – Murray didn't like animals; he said they were too much trouble – but the house was so quiet with him gone, so I decided to get a dog. Nancy McIverton – she passed away last year; did you know Nancy? Such a nice woman, she was from Indiana – she told me that it would be better to get a dog because I lived alone, and dogs deter burglars. Not that we have a lot of burglars in Palacios Del Mar, as you know, we're very safe here, and I don't remember any trouble with break-ins or robbers lately, though poor Mr. Carbona did have a grandson who we discovered was breaking into our cars and stealing things. He was so embarrassed – Mr. Carbona, not his grandson; that boy was shameless, you know? Such a pity because Mr. Carbona was a nice man, but he never really held up his head after that and sold his place on Sanibel Lane to Mr. and Mrs. Brown. That was before the McIvertons moved in, of course, so they didn't know Mr. Carbona's grandson. And the Browns moved away, oh, ages ago."
Bunny paused and sipped her lovely iced tea thoughtfully. The sweat she had acquired during her walk over had cooled and dried, and she felt a little sticky. She hoped she wouldn't have to take a bath, because something was wrong with her water; nothing had come out of her faucets since yesterday. Probably the sewers. She should call someone but that had always been something Murray had taken care of, and Bunny got so flustered on the phone anymore, with the machines answering instead of people and telling her to push buttons. She missed rotary phones.
"Anyway, I got Murray from the pound. There was a terrible lot of dogs barking and cats crying. I'd never been in one before and I had no idea there were so many animals that no one wanted! I thought of getting one of those soft white poodly things, you know those pretty dogs, so feminine and elegant, but when I was walking through the aisles there was this little cage sitting right in the middle of the hallway. They were very crowded, the fellow said, and didn't have room for him anywhere else, and I looked down at the little brown thing, so sad-looking, curled up in a ball and shaking he was so frightened, and I couldn't leave him there, could I?" She gazed limpidly at the vet, who was nodding absently and removing bits of broken sandspur from Murray's toes. Murray had leaned his head back so it rested in the crook of the young man's neck; his big brown eyes were closed, and although he was still quivering a little, and jerking when another bit of spur came loose, he wasn't struggling at all.
"He was so well-trained," Bunny went on. It felt good to tell the story again; everyone she knew had already heard it at least a dozen times, and Bunny hadn't had a new audience in months. "I took him home and he knew right how to do his business outside and not have any accidents in the house, and he curled up with me in my bed at night and sat on my lap during the day. He likes to sit in the Florida room and watch the neighbors go by, and he always barks at the egrets."
"Naw, he shouldn't do that," smiled the vet, wiping Murray's toes with a wet soapy cotton ball. Blood and dirt came off pink and dripping. "Egrets're good birds; they eat all those gross palmetto bugs. Muscovy ducks," he said solemnly, wagging a metal finger in Murray's placid face. Murray blinked placidly back through his untidy fringe. "You go after those sons-of-guns. Keep eatin' my bird seed."
"Muscovy ducks! Yes; they're so messy, aren't they?" complained Bunny, wrinkling her nose. "And noisy too. I remember," she added with a giggle, "how much trouble Mrs. Wú down on Sanibel Lane got into when she killed them and cooked them for Thanksgiving a couple of years ago. How the homeowner's association fussed! Though she did bring Murray and me some duck to eat and it was delicious. My late husband Murray," she added, "not little wookums here."
Murray was looking very content; his brown eyes were half-closed, and his nose nuzzled at the vet's neck. "You must have been a very good veterinarian," she gushed. "Just look how happy you're making him!"
"Well, I'm good at a lot of things," smiled the young man. He played thoughtfully with Murray's bloodied toes and said, "He should probably see a real vet – you know – one who's still in practice, just in case."
Bunny's heart sank. "Oh," she said. "I – oh dear. Well, I can't take him to the vet. Not to a not-retired vet, I can't." At his raised eyebrows, she blushed and admitted, "I – don't drive well. And my car is making the funniest noise. And I don't seem to have the money for it anymore. Things are so expensive nowadays, aren't they? And the bills just keep coming in; they never stop. I try to be organized – " She spread her hands helplessly, feeling foolish.
"Hard to keep up sometimes," agreed the young man equably, rubbing Murray's tummy. He was smiling softly at her through his unkempt hair, pale eyes luminous and kind. Murray buttoned up his big brown eyes and gave a little sigh against the vet's arm, relaxed and sleepy. "No shame in that, ma'am."
Bunny wanted him to understand. For some reason, it was very important that the veterinarian understood. He was so nice and sympathetic. "Murray – my late husband, not this Murray – he always took care of our money and the banks and the bills. And he died so unexpectedly that he didn't have time to teach me how to do it myself. We were very well-off," she said, struggling to regain some of her pride. "I really thought I would have had plenty to live off of. But I suppose with market crashes and bank problems and inflation and all of that, it's just not enough anymore."
"Lotta good people lost some money," the vet said slowly, glancing down at Murray who was snoring on his lap. "Livin' on a pension, myself."
She was suddenly struck by an awful thought. "Oh my - I can't – I can't pay you, not just yet," she apologized, feeling very embarrassed. "I don't get my Social Security check until the end of the month. But if you like," she added hopefully, "I could fix you some lunch? If you don't mind pimiento cheese," she said, very conscious of the limitations of her larder. Food was so pricy nowadays.
The young man's eyes twinkled at her. They really were pretty eyes, she thought; pale and rimmed with black lashes, though they looked as though they had been very sad at one point in his life. "I love pimiento cheese," he said warmly. "And don't worry 'bout payin' me anything. I'm not a professional vet anymore, so I wouldn't have charged you any money for takin' care of Murray here, anyway."
"Oh, thank goodness for that," she sighed, her hand on her breast. She was very relieved. "It's so hard to make ends meet these days, isn't it? And everyone tells me I should live on a budget, but I don't really know what a budget is, not really, and I have no idea how to make one. I'm afraid I'm not very well educated," she said sadly. "Not like you. I managed to get a high school degree, but then I met Murray – my late husband, not this Murray – and we fell in love and got married."
She beamed at him, and he smiled back. He had a nice smile, and he looked as though he was really listening to her, not just watching her talk and thinking about someone else, like her doctor always did. "He was a Jew," she explained. "And I was living in New York City with my grandmother – she was a Jamaican, and my grandfather was a Jamaican White, and the family always used to make such jokes at their expense, that they lived in Queens and not in Jamaica New York. And I met Murray – my late husband, not this Murray – at the theater one night – 'Brigadoon' at City Center, what a lovely musical! I still remember that love song they sang, something about 'Almost like being in love' – wasn't that pretty? – and it was warm for a March, so Mabel and I had worn our spring dresses and hats early, with the open collars and cuffed sleeves, and mine was candy apple-and-green polka-dots, and my hat had the dearest little fascinator, and Mabel had done my hair in sausage curls, and he came out of the stalls and I was chatting with Mabel, and Murray – my late husband, not this Murray – was walking past with friends, and he had a cigar and a big greatcoat and a nice hat, and he just stopped where he was dumbstruck, and begged me to let him see me home, and Mabel and I were so tickled, because he was much older and so handsome, and I told him no, because I was a good girl, you know, but I gave him permission to call, and he did, and we courted for two months and married right after I turned eighteen." She giggled and blushed a little when the vet grinned. "It was scandalous, you know," she whispered. "He was a Jew, and I'm mulatto, on account of my grandmother being from Jamaica, and how his family fussed! I offered to convert but he said not to bother; because if our gods couldn't stick the thought of us being in love, he said, then they could just go hang." She sighed, abruptly feeling very sad. "We had just celebrated our sixtieth wedding when he passed away," she said, drooping a little. "Poor Murray." She took a sip of iced tea. "My late husband, I mean, not this Murray."
She looked down at the tile floor; it was lacily patterned with the waving shadows of the branches. It reminded her of the shift of leaves in Central Park, undulating above her head against the pale blue sky as she and her lover walked arm in arm, speaking in warm secret voices about trousseaus and rings and honeymoons. In the silence, there was a shuffling sound; the young man had settled Murray on his lap, and was petting him absently. His pale eyes were soft, his lips curved down. It occurred to Bunny what a handsome young man he was, all cheekbones and jawline and long elegant neck. Pity about the hair, though.
"It sounds like you had a real nice life," he said, his voice rough. His metal hand held Murray close, and he reached out to her with his flesh one, scooping her fingers up into the warm palm. "I'm sorry about your late husband. I bet you two were real happy."
Bunny's eyes filled with grateful tears. It was so rare someone understood that sort of thing. "We were, doctor," she said earnestly, her voice breaking. "Oh, we were."
He smiled crookedly at her. Grief and regret seemed to push at him like broken sandspurs. Bunny squeezed his hand and said, "Thank you so much for letting me chatter."
"I'm glad to hear it," he said, voice low and warm. "My place is quiet, too. Nobody here but me."
"You've never married?" she asked, feeling a little shocked. A handsome professional man like him!
"I didn't," he admitted. "For … well, a lotta reasons. Tell you what," he said, smile sliding into a slow grin. "Let's sit on my patio and have some more iced tea so Murray here can show us how that paw's workin', and I'll tell you about the one that got away."
Bunny beamed. "That sounds lovely," she admitted happily.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Eventually, a thunderstorm rolled in and chased them back inside. Bunny was shocked to discover that they had sat on his patio, admiring the birds and fruit trees and orchids, for over an hour, sipping iced tea and chatting about the funny, silly things they had done when they were younger. Bunny so rarely got to talk freely, and hadn't realized how eager she was to have a good, long, uninterrupted conversation. To be fair, she also did not realize that her side of the conversation topped out at about ninety percent, because the veterinarian only smiled and listened and refilled her tea, and let her talk. Murray made himself busy rooting around the boles of the trees, pushing through the azaleas and hibiscus, and finally settling contentedly on the concrete slab under the young man's chair, snoozing in the shade. His paw didn't seem to be bothering him at all.
The vet absolutely refused to let her walk home. "Not when it's still rainin'," he declared. "Besides, li'l Murray here shouldn't be walkin' so far on that paw, not yet. Still healin' up."
He helped her into his big black car and set Murray in his pink blanket on her lap, and carefully drove her through the sodden streets back to her house. He even got out to get her mail so she wouldn't get wet, and pulled up into the car port behind her Lincoln. "That's a nice ride," he said appreciatively as he guided her by the elbow around a puddle by the downspout, Murray tucked in one of his big arms. "'F you like, I'll take a look at it sometime. Maybe just a loose belt."
"It's so nice you're so handy," gushed Bunny, impressed. "A veterinarian and you can work on cars! What a pity you didn't marry that redhead."
He winced a little. "Wellllll … maybe not such a pity."
He assisted her to find her keys and open the door. The house was dark, and when she flipped the switch, the lights still didn't come on. She sighed. "I'm sorry; I guess the power's still out," she apologized. "Well, we can eat in the kitchen. The windows make it nice and bright, even on gloomy days like this one."
Murray seemed content to sit on the young man's lap while she made pimiento cheese on white bread, and the vet politely accepted a warm can of store-brand cola. "I can't seem to get my faucets to work," she said plaintively. "It's so hard to get things fixed nowadays. I don't know how Murray did it. My late husband," she added, and smiled when the vet scratched Murray behind the ears, making the little dog's eyes shut happily.
He helped her wipe up the kitchen counter with a paper towel, and knelt on the floor to say good-bye to Murray. "You take care o' that foot of yours," he said to the terrier solemnly, ruffling the coarse, straggly hair around the dog's face. "And keep takin' good care of your ma, there."
"Thank you so much, doctor," burbled Bunny, beaming as he gently shook her hand. "I don't know what poor Murray and I would have done without you!"
"Glad to help, Mrs. Schumacher," grinned the vet. He scooped up Murray's soiled baby blanket off the kitchen counter. "I'll wash this for you," he said. "Bring it back tomorrow, see how that paw's healing up."
"What a lovely young man you are," she sighed, and impulsively reached up to kiss his cheek. "We need to find you another redhead," she decided.
He looked startled. "Er, that won't be necessary," he said, and grinned, ducking his head. The tips of his ears were pink. Bunny thought he was just adorable. "When's a good time to come by tomorrow, early afternoon?"
"That will be perfect; thank you, doctor!" beamed Bunny. She hadn't entertained a good-looking young man in decades. She hoped her neighbors wouldn't be too scandalized.
She shut and bolted the door behind him and smiled down at Murray. His little scrappy face blinked up at her cheerfully, brown eyes bright, ears perky and covered in bristly fuzz. He trotted after her into the kitchen, not even favoring his paw; it must have felt better already. The thunderstorm was dying down, her windows glazed and silver; she could see Larry McIverton's blue sedan splashing through the puddles up to his driveway. Her house was so quiet she could hear the tick of her grandmother's old banjo clock, and slap and slurp of water as Murray took a drink out of his little ceramic bowl. It didn't even occur to her that she had forgotten to ask the veterinarian's name.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
There was a knock at the door. Bucky turned around, surprised but not startled; he could guess who it was. "Come in!" he yelled, and turned back to his laptop.
He heard the door open, the clatter of the rain on the concrete rising, then becoming muffled again as the door slammed shut. Bucky looked up as Steve squelched into the kitchen, brushing water off his slicker.
"What're you doin' home so early?" asked Bucky. He tapped at his laptop keyboard and clicked the icon with his mouse.
"East Avenue flooded again," said Steve with a grin, running long fingers through his damp hair. "Had to cancel the meeting." He shucked his slicker and opened Bucky's fridge. "Beer?"
"Sure," said Bucky. "Sun's over the yardarm."
"Sun's gone 'til tomorrow," chuckled Steve. "You see the weather? Gonna storm all night."
Bucky grunted and accepted a bottle of beer from his best friend. "Stayin' in tonight?"
Steve raised his eyebrows. "Are you?" he asked carefully.
Bucky shrugged. "Got 'Tank Commander 4' in the mail," he said, and looked up sideways at Steve through his hair. Steve laughed.
"Thai or Chinese?"
"Pizza?"
"Mega-meat with olives and extra cheese?"
"Deal."
He sat easily next to Bucky at the rickety kitchen table. There was a show tune drifting in from the living room – Almost Like Being in Love, if memory served him well. An interesting choice, but better than some of the alternatives he'd had to live through as Bucky explored a century's worth of music. He still shuddered when he thought about Bucky's Disco week. He took a sip of beer, then frowned at the laptop. "What'cha doing, Buck?"
"Payin' bills," said Bucky absently. He clicked on something, shuffled the papers around next to him, and picked up the next one.
"Thought you already did that," said Steve, surprised. He pulled one of the bills toward him. He scanned it and raised his eyebrows. "Um. Buck? This isn't yours."
"I know that," mumbled Bucky, eyes on his laptop screen. "Think I can't read? Jesus."
"1425 Siesta Key Row?" Steve frowned. "Murray Schumacher? I don't know him."
"That's 'cause he's dead," said Bucky.
"Schumacher, Schumacher," muttered Steve, trying to place the name. He took another sip of beer. "So why are you paying a dead man's bills?"
"Can't a guy do what he wants with his money?" complained Bucky. He tipped back the bottle, let it zith down his throat, and let out a comfortable belch. Steve rolled his eyes. "Three and a half months; Jesus. No wonder they cut her off." He frowned at the screen. "Florida Power and Light lets you set up auto-pay, doesn't it?"
"It did for me," said Steve. "Buck, seriously, what the hell are you doing?"
"What do you know about Mrs. Bunny Schumacher on 1425 Siesta Key Row, Mr. Secretary of the Homeowner's Association Committee?" replied Bucky, a little aggressively.
Steve sifted through his memory. "Schumacher," he said slowly. "Yeah. Yeah! She paid her association fees this year with a bad check. Bounced like a rubber ball. Larry McIverton, he's the treasurer, covered it for her, said not to tell her."
Bucky grunted. "Larry McIverton sounds like a peach," he said. "Remind me to comp him drinks at the clubhouse at the Labor Day party." He finished paying the electric bill and picked up the next one. "Gonna make meatballs tomorrow. Want some?"
"Hell, yeah," said Steve appreciatively. "I don't know how you do it, but you manage to make meatballs that are even better than your mother's were."
"Don't get greedy," said Bucky, wagging his metal finger in Steve's face. "Most of 'em are going to Mrs. Schumacher."
Steve drank his beer in silence as Bucky worked his way through the bills. Every time he finished one, Steve picked it up and read it, but he didn't comment until Bucky was finished and ordered their pizza. When the laptop clicked shut, Steve collected the bills, shuffled them into order, and tapped them on the kitchen table to straighten them. "If I said you were a good man – "
"I'd tell you to shut the fuck up," said Bucky easily. "I'll set up the game. Gimme another beer."
Steve only smiled, and complied.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
On 1425 Siesta Key Row, the lights clicked on, and there was the tell-tale sound of the toilet tanks finally refilling. Mrs. Schumacher laughed and ruffled Murray's scrappy little head.
"How nice!" she exclaimed. "The power company finally got us up and running again." She picked up the remote and turned the television on. "Let's watch Jeopardy. That Alex fellow is so handsome."
Murray stretched out in the chair beside her, his brown eyes knowing, and rested his chin on her knee with a happy sigh.
xx-fin-xx