Further procrastination . . .
Chapter 4
After their talk, she expects him to morph back into Eeyore Walt, but he surprises her.
If he's feeling done wrong and dejected, he doesn't show it. Anyone can pull off normal for a few days, but he's still holding it together a couple of weeks later.
She's about to cross the square on her way home under pink evening sky when she hears him call her name. Her first inclination is always to avoid, to protect herself, but she doesn't want to hurt him. The bee sting has been delivered, and she's done with that. She can only tolerate so much time in his immediate presence, but that's because she can't stop her mind from conjuring the feel of his lips and the smell of his skin and the weight of his hand at the back of her neck.
Even when he's not around she thinks about it too much, but at least then she's not in danger of losing her resolve. She's learned her lesson about sexual tension: It's best to relieve it independently as often as necessary in order to prevent future poor choices.
He jogs over to her from the Bronco, his keys jingling in his pocket. He's got hat hair, damp where the brim was, and the ends are curling up. An extra snap on his shirt is undone, and her eyes get stuck there on the lighter skin of his lower chest, and the virgin tufts of hair peeking out.
"Can I walk you home?" he says.
She has an immediate and distinct physical reaction below the belt.
"Really?"
"I should know where you live. For safety reasons."
"For safety reasons," she says.
She can't get herself to commit one way or the other, but when she starts walking again, he joins her.
"Ruby and Ferg know where I live."
"They do?"
"Yes, Walt. People who work together every day often have this information about each other. They talk sometimes, too."
To be fair, he has been talking to everyone more, and not just about work.
"That makes me look like a jerk, doesn't it?"
"It's not about you," she says, relieved that he's already annoying her.
"How far is it?"
"Why? Are you getting tired?"
"No," he says. She doesn't turn her head to look at him, but out of the corner of her eye she can see he's smiling. "I'm just trying to figure out what I have time to say."
"Just go with the least inflammatory material."
He reaches over and touches the shoulder strap of her bag. "Can I carry this for you?" he says, the backs of his fingers gentle on her shoulder.
"Why?"
"It's cultural programming. Like dogs carrying sticks around."
"That's innate programming."
"That, too."
"Fine," she says.
He puts the bag over his shoulder, and it appears a lot lighter and smaller when he's holding it.
He clears his throat. Oh, God, she thinks.
"So what you were saying. At the Pony. The other day."
"Two weeks ago? Yeah?"
"You were saying you were interested in me. Before, I mean."
She stops in the middle of the square and just stares at him.
"What is wrong with you?" she says.
"What do you mean?"
She sets out across the lawn again because she fears if she doesn't she might punch him. Or start crying.
"Yeah, Walt. That's what I was saying." The sarcasm should speak for itself. Unfortunately, with him, sometimes actual words don't even do that.
He watches her as they walk, and waits.
"I was naïve," she says. "I thought we were interested in each other, but you did everything in your power to prove me wrong."
"You're upset."
He's good with evidence.
"I'll get over it," she says, her voice crackling.
She feels the tears coming, and she wants to get away from him. She's not sure what hurts more: the fact that he doesn't remember the way it was between them before he fell apart again, or the idea that it never really was that way at all.
He's quiet for a while, his keys jingling and her bag thumping against his hip in rhythm.
"Why did you stay?" he asks.
She stops at the edge of the park and reaches for her bag. He slips it off his shoulder and hands it to her.
"I don't know, Walt. I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow."
As she's crossing the street, he calls out, "Is that the place?"
She stops in the middle and nods towards the coin and stamp shop.
"The apartment above. There's a locked entrance on the side."
He squints over at the building, thinking, and she leaves him like that. She doesn't want to know what's on his mind.
There was a point at which she gave up, as any reasonably healthy person would have done months sooner. It had been a bright blue and cold winter morning, but by afternoon, spring had arrived, sunny and warm. For some reason, that day, she finally understood that he wasn't coming back.
You don't reach a place in your life where you're willing to throw everything away for vengeance or for lost love, then snap out of it a month later. A person doesn't make a decision to sacrifice it all in some warped demonstration of honor then come out the other side capable of loving or of being loved.
He was a shell, always working on something with the door closed, something secret. He stopped asking the rest of them for help because they would try to moderate him, to refocus him, to talk to him, and he wouldn't be deterred. He was a mess: scraggly and vacant and scary.
She went home that night and cried like she never cried when Sean left. She gave up on him, and it seems grievously unfair that she feels guilty about it now. What was she supposed to do?
When she gets inside, she looks out at the square. He's already gone.
She changes into boxer shorts and a tank top, and she opens all the windows and a beer.
Barefoot, she steps out onto the rusted metal fire escape landing, which despite obvious safety code violations, triples as her vegetable garden and balcony. If anyone gave a shit, she'd have to stop, but no one does. With a pink metal watering can she found at a garage sale a few weeks back, she waters her two tomato plants, and the green onions, and the basil.
She's just turned on the shower when she hears a voice and turns it off. At first she thinks there's some sort of police action out on the street, but then she distinctly hears her name, multiple times, and she realizes it's him, barking, the way he used to get her attention at work. There's nothing happening out front beyond the regular end-of-day milling around, so she climbs out onto the landing again. The sun is setting now over the bank, and the alley is dusky with a purple tinge.
"Vic!" he shouts again, but she can't see him.
"What the fuck?" she whisper-yells, leaning over the low rail. "Where are you?"
"Where are you?" he says, and then she sees him, close to the building maybe twenty yards down, facing Second Street.
"I'm right here."
He turns around and looks up, then starts walking towards her.
"Is it safe to stand on there?" he says, as if it's her behavior that raises concern.
"Provided I don't fall off." She tries to keep her voice down since she's sure Mrs. Wong is staking out the back door of the Wok and Roll right about now trying to figure out what's going on. "What are you doing?"
"I needed to talk to you."
"That's what phones are for."
"Well that hasn't worked out too well for me in the past, has it?"
She doesn't know where the attitude is coming from, if maybe he found out she went out with Travis, which she didn't even really do. Or maybe he's rethought the whole ambush kiss incident and he's no longer cool with it.
He stops almost directly under her. Her shorts have wide legs, and she's not wearing any underwear or a bra, so she crouches and peers down at him through the grates.
He puts his hand on his hip and bows his head, shakes it then looks back up.
"They're tearing this place down in October," he says. "I knew I'd read something about it."
"Huh."
She's not prepared for this. She'd forgotten it was something for which she even needed to be prepared.
"You didn't know?" he says.
He's irritated as though it's information she would be expected to disclose to him as her employer. Or as her friend.
"I knew," she says. "I got a good deal on the rent because of it."
"So what does that mean?" There's a tremor in his voice.
"In terms of what?"
She knows what he's asking but she hasn't thought it through, hasn't decided how she wants to handle it.
"Does it mean you're leaving?"
"Walt. Come on."
"Can you just answer question? Can you at least do that?"
She considers calling him out on the "at least" bullshit, but she's getting a cramp in her hamstring and has to stand up, and by that time she wants to let him feel what he feels without starting a fight.
"Yes," she says.
"Yes what?"
"Yes. I'm leaving."
"When were you planning to tell me?"
"I was planning on giving plenty of notice."
"That's not what I mean."
"I've used twenty five vacation days in the past three months. I figured you knew."
That might not be entirely true. She hasn't thought much about what he knows and doesn't know. He's been out of the loop, voluntarily, and they've all gotten used to it.
A window nearby slams shut.
She leans over the railing again and says as quietly as she can, "Why don't you come up. I'll let you in at the side."
"No," he says, but he doesn't sound angry anymore.
"I have beer. And tomatoes."
"No. Thanks. I have to go."
But he doesn't go. He just stands there, a dark, motionless form at the bottom of the fire escape.
"Walt?
"Yeah."
"You weren't here. For so long."
He coughs.
"I know," he says, much quieter. "I'm sorry about that."
She stays out on the landing, in the dark, until the sound of his boots fades into the night.