Survival
Chapter 9
Laundry Day
It was Sunday. The wedding reception had been an unqualified success, despite the early departure of the Sheriff and one of his deputies. The consequences of the stud hog elopement and subsequent rescue from the soap-hole were long past, pending some paperwork issues on Monday. He could have gone in and gotten them wrapped up that morning, but it was a beautiful summer day, and he had chores at home.
He went down to the lean-to, fed Horse and spent some time with her, slipping her an apple he had appropriated from Henry the day before, loving her whiskery appreciation of it. After straightening up the kitchen, he washed his hands and played for a while. The night before had reminded him of tunes he hadn't played for a long time, but today, everything came out as blues. He scowled. It hadn't been exactly a bad time, after all, he and Vic had resolved the case, but every time he thought of taking her to her trailer, he felt unfulfilled and frustrated. Well, there was one way he had developed long ago to cure that.
He spent about a half hour chopping wood, which served two purposes, if you counted that he couldn't stop thinking about Vic, both how she'd looked at the wedding, and then with her summery dress split down the middle, her uniform shirt barely buttoned, covered from face to feet in bentonite clay and hog shit courtesy of Florian, Doug Framer's stud hog.
And if Vic didn't inspire him enough, it was all about the wood—if he started this early, in late June, by October, his whole back porch would be loaded with dry wood for the winter to keep him—of if he was very lucky—them warm. When he ran out of available logs, a squeaky hinge drew his attention, then the need to tighten the bolts on his shower head. He finally ran out of the small things, and thought about going back down to Horse for an early-morning ride, but the cabin needed some straightening, and he needed to change sheets and do laundry for the week. He had kind of put those things off the Sunday before, and was out of, among other things, clean underwear.
When Martha had been alive, he had never thought twice about laundry, or making anything clean or pressed. They had just mysteriously appeared in his closet or drawers, like the presence of an invisible laundry fairy. Now that he did everything himself, sometimes the laundry piled up and it never made it back into his dresser, just lay in a pile on his chair to root through and find something presentable to wear. A few months ago the pump on the washing machine had flooded the utility room behind the kitchen, and after swabbing the decks (literally) and draining the machine, he had let it be. He knew a costly pump meant the machine likely needed to be replaced, but he never got around to it. Martha had liked to hang everything outside in nice weather, which made it smell wonderful, but he preferred to just put everything in the dryer. Without the washer working, the dryer wasn't getting any use, nor was the clothesline.
He knew he almost always looked rumpled these days. Martha would never let him go out grizzled or rumpled. She made sure he always had plenty of razor blades and ironed knife-pleats in everything from his shirts to his underwear commensurate with the county position. He just considered it a prerogative of his age and duration of his position that he could now do as he pleased, but the wedding the day before had certainly made him want to step his game up a little. There had been some serious competition in all age categories, and Vic was one of the few single women of her age and qualifications in the area.
Vic had been Queen Bee until the call came in, and as such, had not missed a dance or attention from any of the single men in the county who attended, and more than a few of the married ones. He had wondered if he should have words with any of the married ones, but decided against it. He knew Vic's views on married men, and that she could handle herself with almost any of them. Still, he knew until he made some sort of declaration or statement, that she would be vulnerable to them. It made for a quandary. It had taken more than three years to get this far, to contemplate a relationship with her, so it was no surprise the steep grade of the last ascent would be the most difficult.
This morning, he wanted her quite desperately, missed domestic mornings like this at the cabin for coffee or just hanging out together, but he could not reveal that to her without, well, feeling desperate. He didn't want her to be with him out of pity for his loneliness, his age, or for his power in the county. He wanted her to just want him.
He debated on the laundry. In the end, he wadded it into a garbage bag, with a couple of baskets to in which to sort the clean laundry. The bottle of detergent had a few loads left, and he took a couple of dryer sheets. He could stop at the convenience store and get quarters.
He prepared for it almost as carefully as he cleaned his weapons. It was time to assault the laundromat.
When he pulled up to the laundromat at 8 am in the morning after stopping for change, there was no one there, which suited him fine. He was wearing, in deference to everything that needed washing, old sweats, an ancient Trojans t-shirt and his Kings Ropes hat. He hauled the bag, baskets and bottles into the laundromat, set the first machine to wash, and sat back. First into the washer was Vic's proclaimed dead guy blanket, and in the next machine, a load of his colors.
It was relaxing to just go inside his head and watch the rhythmic susurration of the machine until near the end of the first load, when he saw a white Dodge pickup pull up next to the Bronco. He knew she wasn't on duty, even on call…she had no official reason to be there or to consult with him. He decided to go out and see what was up.
By the time he got out there, she was wrestling a garbage bag of her own. She was wearing a Flyers t-shirt and short athletic shorts which left little to the imagination, but to which he could lend appreciation. Sporting acid green and purple sneakers, she looked like she was ready for a run. In the cleavage of her t-shirt, he could see a glimpse of north end of the scratches left from their barbed-wire pig wrestling match. He knew a couple of them ran down to her belly, where the wire had split her dress, and a hoof had also caught her in a couple of places.
"Here, let me," said Walt, as he pulled the bag out with ease, letting her get her own boxes and a bottle of floral detergent, and a small packet of softener sheets. When she bent over to extract the boxes, he enjoyed the unexpected bonus view.
"Great minds think alike?" she asked, as he held the door open for her despite toting her own wadded pile.
"Maybe," he said, hoping she was enjoying him in sweats as much as he enjoyed her in shorts. "After the hog spectacle, I thought I should wash the blanket we sat on, and it just sort of snowballed from there, thought I might as well get the rest of my dirty stuff done, too." He neglected to mention not washing the Sunday before.
"You're right about the great minds, then. I'm behind, too."
He made a wry face. "Day off."
She smiled. "Day off."
"How are your, um, wounded in the line of duty and all that…?"
"Scratches, a few bruises, nothing too bad. One rib is a little sore."
That was a quandary. She was technically not officially on duty and had been out of uniform… "Do you think we should go in and get it looked at?"
"No," she shook her head emphatically. We should not. It's just a little sore. Not even badly bruised, really. Just a little sore."
She began to sort and start a load. "How many do you have to go?"
"At least three left, one is my sheets."
"Oh, three for me, including my sheets and my whites."
"Okay."
"So why don't you do them at the cabin? I saw the washer and dryer behind your kitchen when we were working on the Murder Board." She began to load the machine with all her darks, and added detergent. She slammed the lid and the machine began to swish.
"Washer's broke. Bad broke. Cady keeps wanting me to buy a new matching set. Some days, I don't see the point, it's just easier to do it here all at once."
Vic continued watching the laundry swishing around the glass-front machine. "The point is she wants you to move toward the future. Ignoring the broken one doesn't make it less broken."
"The fix is pretty expensive."
"Then Cady makes sense," she said practically. "A new one should last what, 15-20 years?"
He scowled. "Maybe not. Nothing new works as well as the old ones."
Vic gave an enigmatic smile and rummaged in her bag. He thought he heard her murmur something like "hoping."
"What?"
She shook her head. "It would save you a lot of money in the long run, right?"
"It would save you money, too, to have a set. Especially since I know what the county pays you."
She twisted her lips. "That's why I live where I do, but that place doesn't have room for them."
"Or the hookups or anything. I told you, it's a dump, and I don't like that you live there. You and Sean had an okay place, but this one…"
"Yes, I know your opinion of my domicile," she said, a little distant and frosty, and watched her darks spin.
He turned to her, noticing they were both sitting in almost the same stance. Some days it was almost spooky. He preferred to think of it as samers. It was almost like finishing each other's sentences, or his speech patterns, something Vic had mentioned in passing that Henry had commented on once. He had noticed it, too.
"Say, about saving money—how many whites do you have, today?" she asked suddenly.
"Whites?"
"You know, not colored laundry? Really, do I have to explain?"
"Oh. A lot of socks, a few t-shirts and some boxers…"
A smile formed on her lips. "You wear white boxers?"
"You got a point to make?"
"Uh—no. Just interesting."
"How so?"
"I would have thought you were a color or pattern guy. Are yours the short ones or the long ones?"
"That is my business."
"Oh."
"Yep."
"I was thinking we could wash our whites together."
He could feel his eyebrows go up.
"Well, you know, combine two small loads into one."
It was not that it was a bad idea, and he was very curious what her whites might look like, but it was definitely none of his business—yet.
"Maybe Cady's right," he admitted.
She looked around from where she was observing his load on the spin cycle. It appeared to be nearly completed.
"I should probably buy new units. The dryer isn't broken, but I could get matching ones, and I could sell the old dryer. Might be the last ones I ever need to buy before I retire and move in with Lucian."
She grimaced but just shrugged at his referring to himself as old.
He felt bad he had put her in her place and then alluded to his age, but it was technically none of her business—yet. To maybe mend things a bit, he asked, "Would you consider doing an internet search for me up some recommended ones on your laptop? You know, Top Buys?"
She looked up, startled. "Uh—"
"We could take your truck down to Sheridan and bring them back this afternoon. You could finish your loads with the new equipment."
"Uh—"
"Like maybe at Sears? Unless you had other plans?" He threw in, "I'll even buy you lunch for letting me use your truck."
"It's a county vehicle, Walt. It's as much yours as mine."
"It's the county's, but you know it's cleared for personal use as well. One of the few perks of the job."
"Well…unless they have Wifi here, I'll have to go to the station or somewhere…"
"The Bee advertises WiFi. I could buy you breakfast." He suddenly realized he had just offered to buy her two meals in less than a minute. Did he already sound desperate, or just determined to spend the day with her?
"We'll be here awhile," she said, pointing to the laundry.
"Let's dry up what we have in the washers now and save the rest. We can inaugurate the new units this afternoon."
"Well…"
"You have other plans?"
She ducked her head, and he thought, no, she didn't. He felt the warmth of the prospect of just spending time with her suddenly expand in his chest.
"Well, then." He put the blanket and his darks into two dryers and felt happier than he had anticipating the wedding. There would be no strangling ties at Sears, time with Vic, and no one clamoring for his or her attention.
She had made a list of suitable machines, prices, and specs from several sites on the internet while they had been having The Usual at the Bee.
XXX
He had been a little uncomfortable at the notion of going to Sheridan with her in short-shorts and him in sweats. She had suggested they both change into something a little more appropriate for Sheridan, and fortunately, his first load had netted him clean jeans, checked underwear, and a snap shirt. His socks that day had been clean, but the last clean pair.
They stopped at the station and changed. At least he felt like himself again. His hat, of course, with his duty weapon, star and cuffs, was in the Bronco if he wanted it, but he still just wore the Kings' Ropes hat for the moment.
Hers netted an Eagles t-shirt and black capris, which he thought looked pretty cute with the sneakers. She had wound her hair in a ponytail that morning, and looked like she could be Gidget or Princess from Father Knows Best. If he told her that, he knew it would date him as an old guy, might even make him sound sexist, so he didn't say anything.
They drove both vehicles back to the cabin to measure the size of the washer and dryer, and the size of the place they were putting it. He quickly removed the hoses and moved the old ones, walking them to the far end of the back porch. They rode together in her truck to Henry's to borrow his appliance dolly. While they had been in Henry's storeroom and out of Vic's hearing, Walt had made his request.
"My pantry's pretty bare. Could you possibly leave dinner for two there this afternoon?"
Henry looked at him with interest. "For you and Vic?"
He jerked his head. That was as much as he had in him right that moment.
"I could do that," said Henry, evaluating, as they walked together out to the truck where Vic was sitting shotgun.
"Thanks," Walt said, noticing Henry eyeing Vic as she had helped him load the dolly.
"Your deputy is out of uniform," said Henry gravely.
"We're not on duty. She's performing a mercy mission by accompanying me to buy appliances."
"She looks cute like that."
"You should have seen her uniform an hour ago," Walt said, chuckling.
"Okay…"
"Short shorts. You know, we wear short shorts..."
"Oh. You are in appreciation phase."
"Still."
"While you are in Sheridan, could you pick up some parchment paper for me?"
Walt scowled. "If I knew where to find that…"
"Probably the grocery store, or specialty kitchen store. I've gotten it from Safeway there, before."
"Ah."
"It's for baking, Walt," Vic piped up from the cab. "Uncle Alphonse uses it for his Christmas cookies. Keeps 'em from burning."
Walt felt his face grow hot. The truck windows were open and she must have heard the entire conversation. He made a face at Henry, who merely gave a sympathetic smile.
He vaulted into the truck cab, looking over at Vic, who was pointedly staring out the window and rapping her knuckles against the door.
"It's not okay to appreciate my deputy?"
"Fuck you, Walt. This is not sheriff business."
At the moment, silence seemed like the better part of valor. It was a beautiful day, and they made the drive to Sheridan's mall in record time, punctuated by a few small comments between them. He hoped he was forgiven. He pulled near where he knew Sears Roebuck's appliance section was, and stopped the truck.
An hour later, and a little in awe at Vic's cut-throat wrangling before purchase, he was proud owner of a sturdy new, white set. The older style was still most reliable, and he didn't care. She said it was silly to buy a designer color steam set which would never be seen in the back of the cabin. She had also gotten them to credit the 'free delivery' special as a discount. He thought he would take her next time he went to the IGA.
He was happy, and she looked happy. He bought them slushies in the Food Court, then went around to back the truck up to the Will Call area. Loaded up, they drove down the street, and he pulled up in front of the Boot Barn. He had never purchased there, before, but knew the ladies liked to shop there. Actually, he knew Cady liked to shop there.
"Why are we here?" she asked hesitantly.
"I owe you some boots. I'd replace the dress, too, but I guess that was one-of-a-kind."
She was silent for a minute. "You don't have to fucking buy me anything, Walt. That might be interpreted as inappropriate."
He tipped her chin up, and he saw her nostrils flare at his touch. "It might be if it were just to curry favor or pay you for personal services, that sort of thing. Or if I were going to use county money."
He saw her go from defensive, to almost receptive. "Oh."
"Hey, I'm just offering because you could have worn your duty boots last night, and the county might be replacing those today. It was my error in judgment, so I'm making it right."
She huffed out. "Well, if you put it that way…"
"We can at least look," he said, nudging her toward the entrance. "If you don't like anything, we'll make it a raincheck, okay?"
She gave in. "Okay."
He hadn't been in a shoe store with a woman for years. Martha often ordered hers in the mail or went down to Denver for them. Cady had her own tastes and hadn't wanted him along for a really long time.
He fingered a pair of off-white Ropers with fringe. "How about these? They're sort of like the boots you were wearing…"
"Walt!" she whispered. "Those last night were from Wal-mart, these are the real things!"
"Well, yeah," he said, "they should last you for years, not just one night…"
"They are way too much."
"Those are on sale, ma'am, 20% off, today," said a clerk, who had glided up behind them to peddle.
"See?" he asked, and smiled. "At least try them on. If you don't like them, we keep looking." He hoped the 'we' didn't offend her and that she wouldn't exclude him. He was actually enjoying himself, especially the way the boots looked on her. He could almost imagine another sundress, and peeling it and the boots off her sometime in the near future …