Chapter 11

Dinner would have been awkward—or intimate—Trapper wasn't certain- had it not for J.T.; he carried the conversation, relating to his father the latest case to which he had been assigned. The woman silently ate, glancing at the father and so between bites but not participating in their conversation.

"And Briggs is the best diagnostician I've ever seen, Pop. I swear, he can practically just look at a person, examine their eyes, their mouth, their hands and he can tell what's wrong with them. Why we saw a patient today—she came into emergency and Briggs was called in to confirm, and he could tell just by the color of the whites of her eyes, what the problem probably was."

"Her liver?"

"Yeah," J.T. said, but the whites weren't yellow, at least not yet. Briggs said that he could see the tinge and then there was her skin. He's amazing." J.T. took another helping of whipped potatoes, scrapping to bowl to get all that was left.

"These are really good," he said to the woman, as he poured the last of the gravy over the potatoes. "My mom used to make whipped potatoes all the time only she never ate them because they're fattening—" J.T. realized that the woman barely smiled and went back to her plate. But J.T. also noticed she had barely eaten. But then, he considered, maybe she was watching her weight as his mother always had. He remembered that his mother had said she hadn't tasted ice cream since she had been in college at a sorority mixer. Nevertheless, his father had eaten and told the woman the meal was very good; especially the biscuits and she smiled and rose to clear the table.

"No," Trapper said, gently stopping her hand. "You did all the cooking—J.T. and I will clear and wash."

"You don't have to," she replied, disentangling her hand from his grasp. "I find I don't mind and it's just putting them in the dishwasher and wiping up. I really don't mind. It helps me feel I'm paying my rent in a manner. Tomorrow I thought I'd vacuum and dust and…whatever else needs to be done. And I'll mop the kitchen floor; I spilled a bit of flour."

"Tomorrow?" J.T. said as he scraped the last remains of his dinner from his plate with his fork.

"Don't scrape off the pattern," Trapper said. "And speaking of tomorrow," Trapper said to J.T., "can you take Irene to get a state identity card? Slaughter has an opening for a receptionist at his downtown office.

"What?" she said. This came as a surprise to her but now it was obvious to her; he wanted her out since she had behaved so brazenly. Or he was afraid to have her in his house, afraid of his own feelings.

"I told you I thought I could help you with a job. If I recommend you to Slaughter, he'll hire you. And I will recommend you."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Now if you'll excuse me…" the woman left the two men and went into the den closing the door behind her. She sat on the edge of the bed and realized she was shaking again and gripped one hand with the other. Trapper wanted her gone—she knew it now for certain-and she didn't blame him. She couldn't believe she had behaved in such a way, pulling off her top, hoping he would take her but she had longed for him, for his touch, in a way she couldn't explain or comprehend. But she knew, after kissing him, after being so close to him, that they had known each other physically, that she lain on her back and felt him moving over her and in her, talking to her, kissing her. Or she was losing her mind—that too was a possibility. And she shuddered with a vague memory of pleasure from him.

"So how long is she going to stay," J.T. asked as he scraped the plates over the garbage can before handing them to his father who rinsed them and loaded them into the dishwasher.

"Why? You tired of her being around?' Trapper felt mean and had to restrain from taking it out on J.T.

"No, not at all. I like having her around—she's easy on the eyes." Trapper glared at J.T.. "I'm just saying the truth. She's beautiful but I also have the feeling that once she goes, I go as well."

"Why's that?"

"I have a feeling that I'm sorta a buffer in a way and when she leaves, you won't need me around."

"A buffer?"

"Yeah. If I weren't here it would be just the two of you and if she'd fixed you a dinner like that, well, you would've broken out a bottle of wine and, well, you know how things would go from there."

"What the hell are you talking about?" But Trapper knew that J.T. was correct, that he had read the situation properly.

"You know. It would be…." J.T. raised his brows in expectation.

Trapper slammed shut the dishwasher door. "Wash and dry those pots and that roasting pan," he said to J.T. "I'm getting a beer and watching the game upstairs. See you in the morning."

"But, Pop, where am I supposed to watch the game? Irene's in the den where the big TV is. Can I watch it upstairs with you?"

Trapper unscrewed the top of the beer bottle and took a drink. "No. I'm going to enjoy a nice relaxing evening. Gonzo is having a few guys over tonight to watch the game. See if they can squeeze you in. There's a six-pack in the garage refrigerator. Buy your way in with it. Night."

Trapper paused slightly in front of the den door and listened; he heard the low sounds of the television and wondered what the woman was watching. He wondered if she had changed into one of the nightgowns Ernie and she had bought. But Ernie had also said—with a glint in her eye, that the night gowns weren't flannel. So taking a deep sigh to release his pent-up tension, he went on upstairs to his bed, beer and basketball game.

It had been two hours since turning-in and Trapper couldn't sleep. The woman and he…what had happened in the kitchen made his realize how weak he really was—at least where she was concerned. He'd ask Regis about telling the woman about his past with her, if he should. She had a right to know. It might even help—might jar her memory even more; she was already beginning to remember some things and if he told her about Las Vegas, told her about their tryst and about her discarded wedding ring, the divorce she had said she wanted, she might remember it all.

But Trapper sighed and tossed on the mattress trying to find a position to induce sleep. He would drop off and then suddenly awaken, thinking he had heard a noise. Once he had stepped out naked into the hall to check and see if J.T. was home but the door to the spare room was open and the room dark. He had stood silently to hear if there was any other noise but all was silent.

He had an early day and had told Ernie and now the grandfather clock downstairs had just chimed two so he started back to his room. Then he stopped; there was a noise, definitely a noise. He listened carefully. Yes-from downstairs. Trapper retrieved his robe and slipped it on, tying it and stealthily going down the stairs barefoot. He kept a loaded gun in a lock-box on the top shelf of his bedroom closet but abandoned the idea. It was more than likely J.T. making himself a snack. Or perhaps it was the woman.

The door to the den was closed. Trapper considered flipping on a living room light but decided not to since the light was on in the kitchen. Trapper walked through the dining room and stood again in the kitchen door and again, it was the woman. She sat at the table, both hands wrapped about a white china mug of what to Trapper, looked like steaming milk.

"I take it you can't sleep."

She was startled but recovered. "No, I can't. Warm milk is supposed to help. I used the last of it—I'm sorry."

"That all right. My housekeeper, Mrs. Eccles, comes tomorrow. She'll see what I need before she goes to the grocery. And that's why you needn't work off any perceived debt. Her job is to mop, clean and dust and a few hundred things I don't even know she does." He stood with his hands in his robe pockets, watching the woman carefully. She wore a pink terrycloth robe; at least Ernie had followed those instructions—no satin or silk. And the robe was long as requested. Trapper took a deep breath.

"I need to apologize for this evening, about what I did in the kitchen—touching you and... It's unforgivable. I've given you a place to stay and now it may seem as if all I wanted was to have you here so that I could..."

"No. Please, it's my fault—I know better or at least should. I know that when a woman stands topless before a man and invites him to take here that….I'm not naïve. I haven't forgotten what men are like." She looked back at her mug of hot milk. She had left the pan on the heat too long and the milk had burned on the bottom. She had put some soap in it and left it to soak but she had wondered if she had ruined what was obviously an expensive pan. Would he be angry or would it be Mrs. Eccles who would be upset? But she had been lost in a reverie as she had stood at the stove heating the milk. The thoughts of him and the feel of his strong hands on her and the sweet taste of his mouth had revived vague memories—just the briefest of recalled sensations came back and she had a fleeting thought that perhaps the two of them had been married; she felt such an affinity with him that it seemed in her bones.

Trapper pulled out one of the chairs at the small table and sat. "We can each blame ourselves all we like but that type of thing, well, it's what I was leery of all along. I shouldn't have brought you here for your sake."

The woman looked at him. "I decided to go to that women's halfway house. If I get the job you mentioned, I can save my money and pay you back for the clothing and…" She pulled her robe about her closer and Trapper began to wonder what she wore underneath it. And then he reprimanded himself. "Will you take me there tomorrow?"

"No."

"What? I suppose I can take the bus but why not? It's what I want."

"If you want to leave, I'll find someplace else for you to stay—someplace safe where I don't have to worry that something's going to happen to you."

"Why should you worry? Is it because you do know me from someplace else, some other time? You do, don't you?" She reached out and grabbed his arm, leaning toward him. "I know you do just as I'm sure I know you…it was…." The woman let go of his arm and put her hands on her skull, trying hard to think, to resolve the puzzling images that had haunted her. "I know your voice and your smell. I know you!" She looked at him again, almost terrified. "Tell me!"

Trapper cleared his throat. "Yes, I know you and I don't. I don't know your name-you wouldn't tell me. It was in Las Vegas…"

"Yes, Las Vegas. I was with….I can't remember but I….it's vague, like a shadow that's waiting to lift. I can remember a name…"

Trapper waited and watched as she stared vaguely into space, trying to remember. And then she broke down into tears.

"I can't remember the name…I can't." She pounded on her head with her fists in frustration. "Oh, God, why can't I remember?"

Trapper pushed back his chair and pulled her up, embracing her while she sobbed. He crooned to her soothingly and pushed her hair back, kissing her lightly. And then she turned her face to him and their lips met and Trapper felt both doomed and liberated.

"Oh, Trapper," she said when she broke the kiss, "did I love you? Did I tell you I loved you? Or did we just enjoy one another? Please, I want to know why I desire you. I may not be able to remember it all but I know, I know." And she put her arms up around his neck and Trapper picked her up and held her next to him while she nestled her head underneath his neck. He carried her through the house and when they came to the den door, she reached down to open it and she and Trapper went inside. And he kicked the door shut behind them.