June 22nd
It's quittin' time, and none too soon. Greg pokes his head into the conference room, where the team sit with stacks of files. They'd finally sent the last patient in the previous batch home with a diagnosis—opsoclonus-myoclonus disorder, brought on by a viral infection two years previous. No tumor, but also no real resolution of the problem; Gene's been called in for a consult on pain management, he's with the patient now.
"Find any good prospects, leave 'em on my voicemail," Greg says. "I'll get back to you."
"We have at least six potential cases," Chandler breaks in. She sounds annoyed. Chase shoots her a dry look. "Anyway, you're not supposed to clock out until five."
Greg studies her as if she's a particularly repugnant species of bug. "Is that so?" he says mildly. Singh lowers his gaze to the file in front of him, but not before Greg sees his quick grin. "You and McMurphy keep track of my hours. Good to know."
Chandler looks startled, then mulish. "No, we-I—"
Greg snaps his fingers. "I get it, you're preventing workplace fraud. Very commendable."
"That's not—"
"Of course as the headliner whose paying the damn bills for this money pit and everyone who works in it, I might have a teensy little prerogative when it comes to going home early on a Friday."
Chandler sends him a glare. She's cornered and she knows it, but she's too stubborn to give in. "You go home early every day."
"If you have time to notice, you're not working hard enough." Greg turns his head. "McMurphy!"
Colleen's muffled voice emanates from the kitchen. "What is it? I'm busy!"
"Twelve more clinic hours a week for Chandler!" he bellows. Chase rolls his eyes and gathers up his share of the files.
"It's my prerogative to take these home and examine them at my leisure in the relative peace and quiet of my living room, over pizza and something that isn't beer," he says, and stuffs the folders into his backpack. "Cheers," and he exits the room. Chandler watches him go, open-mouthed.
"You—you—" she splutters at Greg. "You'll let him do that?"
"How do you propose I stop him? Guess I could take him down at the door, but it seems a little dramatic." Greg straightens. "Singh can leave too if he wants. You, on the other hand, will stay until I call back later tonight. I expect you to have three cases ready for my disapproval."
Chandler sits there for a moment. Then she gets to her feet. "I'm going home," she says, sweeps her files into her briefcase, grabs her purse, and marches to the doorway. Greg doesn't move. "Get out of my way," she says. Her voice is calm, but her eyes hold sparks of outrage.
"You didn't use the magic word," Greg says. He must admit he likes this long-overdue display of rebellion.
"Fucking now!" she snaps. Without another word he moves aside and watches her storm off to her beat-up Civic.
"Up the revolution," he says softly. Singh shakes his head.
"Be careful what you wish for," he says, and gathers his files in a tidy stack before tucking them into his briefcase. "See you Saturday night at the rehearsal. Who's bringing the beer?"
"Duh. You are," Greg says.
Once everyone's out he goes into the kitchen. McMurphy's on the last of the cleanup. "When's the next bunch coming in?" she asks.
"Dunno." He goes to the cookie jar and finds it empty. "Hey!"
"Sarah's meeting with her plastic surgeon today," she reminds him. "She'll restock on the weekend. You could buy some from the bakery, you know."
"Slacker." He slaps the lid on the jar. "Expect company on Monday. Make yourself useful then and bake cookies."
"I do have a life outside this place," McMurphy says. She gives him a speculative look, her dark eyes bright with amusement. "Don't christen too many rooms this weekend. Anticipation is half the fun, you know."
"La la la," he says loudly as he heads to his office to grab his backpack. "No idea what you're talking about!"
Barbarella waits for him. He hops in, fires her up, peels out of the parking lot and down the road to freedom. It's a nice afternoon, cool and sunny, just perfect for a leisurely cruise home. When the sun touches his face it heightens everything, brings the beautiful day into sharp, pleasurable focus. He has the whole weekend ahead of him, a rehearsal Saturday night, and his wife home early today.
It strikes him that this is actually a good feeling. There have been a few of those over the years, mainly when he lived in a fool's paradise and had no idea what waited for him after the truth was revealed . . . but this is not that, at least he's fairly sure it isn't. He and Roz have had their share of ups and downs, but as far as he can tell she's in it for the long haul, and so is he. That realization surprises him. He hadn't really considered it, given it any true analysis . . . which tells him he's avoided thinking about it, a rarity for him; he analyzes everything and everyone right down to the ground, no exceptions.
Interesting. Why has he dodged this subject? Easy enough to parse: he doesn't want to jinx a relationship that has everything possible going for it. The superstitious aspect of proceedings isn't as shocking as it might be otherwise; he's self-aware enough to know that when it comes to personal attachments, he's as guilty as everyone else now and then when he knocks on wood and throws a pinch of salt over his shoulder. He just doesn't let anyone know about it because it ruins his rational-thought image.
There's more here though. The fear that usually backs such actions is absent, and that's what startles him more than anything else. He brings the car to a halt at a deserted four-way stop and thinks about it. He still has bad dreams about the loss of Roz and the home they've created, which is natural enough-he's either walked away from or been kicked out of every situation that threatened to turn into what he's got now. And yet despite the anxiety, there's no tight knot in his gut. What's different this time?
I want this, he thinks. No, it can't be that simple. Didn't he want a home with Stacy, a work environment that didn't rub him raw every single moment of every day, a chance to find some meaning in a life that held little or none before? Apparently not, if he's interpreting the results of his behavior correctly. It can't be that simple. He frowns at the stop sign. No, something else, some other variable has come into the equation, and he'll be damned if he can figure out what it is.
The puzzle occupies him all the way home. It still seems a bit strange to go past Gene and Sarah's place and into the driveway of the old farmhouse next to theirs, but when he sees Roz's pickup parked under the basswood tree in the back yard the oddness fades, replaced by what he can only acknowledge is enjoyment. And if he's honest, anticipation—not just because he'll soon have some of the best sex he's ever known, but he'll be with someone worth his time. He just hopes the worthiness is reciprocated—and that's something he's never let himself care about before either, another mystery to explore at his leisure. It occurs to him then that the variable he seeks is here, hidden in the eagerness he feels. He pushes the idea away, but knows it'll wait for him later, when he won't have any way to avoid it. Well, better later than now. Procrastination has its uses.
On that ambivalent note he parks Barbarella next to the pickup, grabs his stuff and heads for the house. The kitchen's open, just the screen door to keep flies at bay. He hears music from the interior. It's cranked, so that can only mean one thing: his wife dances while she works, something she does frequently. As quietly as possible he sneaks up, eases himself inside, then sets his backpack on the floor and leans against the doorframe, arms folded.
Roz stands at the sink and washes some kind of produce. She's wearing that lacy little black tank top he loves, and a pair of cutoffs so short they'd be a scandal if she was out in public. Her ancient CD player sits on the counter and blasts Junior Walker and the All-Stars 'Shotgun,' the bass cranked all the way up. But what has him riveted is the slow, sweet grind of her hips, the way her long, slender sun-browned legs pump in time to the music. She's really into it, so much so she doesn't even notice him. Greg can't help but grin. He shifts away from the door and comes up behind her, puts his hands on her hips. She jumps, turns her head and flashes him a smile as he starts to move with her. Slowly he brings her body against his, buries his nose in her soft, thick hair, breathes in her familiar smell. Within the insistent thump of the song's beat he lets her know how ready he is to take her. Her hands cover his, bring them up under her top to hold her small breasts. He gently rubs his thumbs over her nipples, feels them harden as she sighs and melts into his embrace. Her hips rotate ever so slightly in time with the song, to drive him crazy with the intermittent contact. He nips her earlobe, lets his hands slide down to tug at her shorts. She slips out of them with a grace that makes him groan as her tight little ass shimmies over his erection, and then she faces him, her fingers at work on his fly.
They make love right there at the sink, in rhythm together with each other and the music, and when her eyes widen in astonishment and she cries out, he knows a deep, almost savage satisfaction; he's the one who brings her to the edge and lets her fall, only to catch her in his arms and spiral down into the mutual delight of afterglow. Roz hangs onto him, her touch possessive. He takes pride in that too; she wants him as much as he wants her. When her lips touch his, the taste is as sweet as the strawberries in the colander on the drainboard.
"Ti amo," she whispers against his mouth. Her hands caress his face, her fingers trace the line of his cheekbones, his jaw, his neck, move down to rest on his shoulders. It's plain she doesn't expect a reply. He nuzzles her gently. The words are right there, they tremble on his tongue . . .
"It's all right," she says, and gives him a smile that makes her beautiful, to him anyway. "It's all right, amante."
They have dinner on the back porch, where they sit together like a pair of brand-new lovers, and do silly things like feed each other bits of sandwich, tomato and meat and cheese, offer sips of beer and the occasional potato chip. The strawberries do make an appearance, accompanied by a bowl of chocolate dip. He makes plenty of rude comments and she laughs at him, then offers a strawberry with just a dab of chocolate on the end. Her green eyes sparkle with amusement when he nibbles the tip, his gaze on her breasts. She does a much better job of things when it's her turn. Her tongue swirls around the fruit in a way that makes his balls ache, even though he's still spent from prior events.
It's later on that evening, when they lie together in bed as shadows lengthen in the charming room around them, that he says "You don't have a problem with me not saying the words."
Roz stretches a little and brings her foot up to caress his calf. Her toes rub him gently. "No," she says.
"Most women require it every five minutes."
"I'm not most women, and I trust you. Besides, you show me you love me every day. If that isn't enough, words won't matter anyway." She kisses his cheek. "You don't mind if I say it to you though, do you?"
He's not sure if she teases him or not, so he just nods and feels her smile, slow and sweet.
"Good, because I like saying it," she says, and snuggles in close. "So we can cross the kitchen off our list. What's left?"
"Bathroom, porch, second and third bedrooms, barn," he says. "And the yard, if we really want to give the Goldmans an eyeful."
"Let's save the yard for a full harvest moon," she says. "Mmmm . . . plenty of rooms left to make our own. That's nice."
He is almost asleep when her words come back to him. He smiles just a little and brings her closer. No, she's not most women. She's his, just as in some indefinable way he is hers. And that's the variable that makes all the difference.
'Shotgun,' Junior Walker and the All-Stars