Time passed.
It was December 23rd.
She hadn't called him since dinner that night. When they'd both learned a little too much about each other. That had been a week ago.
He wondered why she hadn't called, and thought about putting in a call to Dr Worth.
"No," he said to the kitchen as he was in the middle of making his lunchtime turkey and ranch. "You're not doing that."
There was probably a good reason for it. Probably.
He had gone to pay the gas and water bills before the offices shut down for the Holidays, and somewhere along the way decided to haunt the nearest shopping Mecca to waste some time and get his mind, to his credit, off Sarah. He ended up coming back from Borders with a stack of books ranging from the grotesque (Tales of HP Lovecraft), to the mundane (Auto Repair for Dummies, since the Mustang's rear brakes were acting up and he didn't have a clue about that sort of thing), to the provincial (The Shipping News).
Then, she called. Sounded urgent.
"Where've you been?" she asked. He was thrown by the question and checked his answering machine, across the kitchen next to the flour and sugar canisters on the counter. It was a layout flaw—his phone being so far over there on the side of the kitchen he hardly used—and he kicked himself for seeing the blinking '5' on the display and having missed her messages.
"I was out," he said. "Errands. Sorry. What do you need?"
"Then you're busy?"
He sat at the table and popped a NakedJuice open. "No, not really, I mean the Mustang's been acting up but—"
"I have an idea I want to run past you."
He paused. "Okay."
"Christmas Eve services. I don't know how religious you are or not, but it's sort of a thing in my family that we go at least to the Christmas service. Does that sound like something you'd be interested in?"
A date? He wondered about the label, and decided it best to not call it a date if it was categorically in the realm of the Church. He sipped the juice again and said as he exhaled, "It sounds fine." More sheepishly, out of genuine unfamiliarity with the practice: "What do I have to do?"
"Dress nicely—that's all, I promise. I'll come by around seven tomorrow." She paused. "And, we'll go. Sound good?"
"Yeah." Bob said it honestly. "I'll see you tomorrow night, I guess."
"Great," she said and gave a quick g'bye. Bob thought for a moment that he'd made her really happy. He set the headset back on the table and watched the phone a moment longer and then chuckled once, in a higher octave.
The blue and white Dutch Colonial across the street belonged to the rose-waterer Myra Healey (nee' Patterson, by her own admission) and her younger yet somehow older husband, Daniel Walter. The former had worked on the clerical side of things with a sweeper company in town back in her own distant geological past—it was the only job she'd held in her life and it was forty years ago. She'd spent the time since then doting on Daniel Walter, a hunched and gaunt career unionist with a broad aquiline nose who'd retired from the GM plant in 1986 when production dropped. It was fifty degrees and snow was starting to fall, but as if to give a polite finger to the weather gods, Daniel Walter and Myra both sat on the porch in matching yellow rockers sipping what they'd told Bob were Mint Juleps. Both of them were obstinately old, enough so to brave the cold to drink on the porch and watch the world pass them by. And they seemed to revel in their oldness.
Bob supposed he held that against them. Maybe.
Their brick driveway, laid down by Daniel Walter himself with about half of his pension, was pitted and sunken, worn too greatly by constant wear and the lack of upkeep.
In front of the bricked and bumpy drive, blocking it actually (at which Myra and Daniel Walter didn't seem too perturbed) sat a 46 Ford. Cherry red. The chrome on the fenders and wheels shone almost too perfectly.
The blonde kid—and he was blonde, Bob could tell that much—driving it had put a little too much effort into aesthetics. Privately, Bob wondered if its owner respected the car enough to give it the Engine of Death and Power it deserved. Despite not knowing how to change brakes, Bob's own Mustang had given him a taste for automobiles—which was actually a great thing, since it seemed to have all the problems of a major carnival ride just about once every week. Repairing the old girl gave Bob something to do in his free time—and there was certainly a lot of that. He wondered again if the blonde kid reclined in the 46's driver-seat, with his tanned features and angled jawline and permanently downturned eyebrows, had as much time on his hands.
Then Bob's thought-train stopped and he squinted as a matter of course as he looked at the car, his lips turning down. A blonde kid with hair gelled in a line of forty-five perfect degrees across his hairline and, when he turned his head, his widow's peak. He wore a dark brown corduroy jacket with the collar popped, and Bob swore he saw him plunge a finger up his nose, digging for forbidden gold. A good looking kid, despite bad habits, with sharply angled eyebrows, an elfish nose that turned skyward at the end, and high, prominent cheekbones.
Through immaculate and polished windows Bob could see the blonde kid snapping his fingers every few seconds like some nervous tic.
Snap—and a flame on the index finger. Snap—and the flame went out.
Bob drew a quick breath and shot it back out.
Johnny Storm.
Way to hide in plain sight.
They couldn't leave you alone, Sentry. Ain't it always the way?
(Shut up. Shut up shut up shut UP.)
Goddamn them, Sentry. Look at that immature little sonofabitch out there. Clicking his damn fingers to the phat beats waiting on you to come out, thinking he's some slick secret agent, why we should go out there and give him a taste of his own fucking medicine, toss his little bleach-blonde perfectly tanned and perfectly formed ass right into the goddamn sun like you do with all your problems.
(SHUT UP!)
Come on, cease the charade! Put on that damn Sentry suit and bust down some walls, break some red lights and put this little motherfucker out of his misery. How much of a best friend can Reed be if he doesn't even trust you to live your own life? Huh?! So he sends the goddamn Janice Dickinson model to spy on you? Who do these people think they are?
(Friends.)
Friends would know when to leave well efuckingnough alone, Sentry. These are no friends of yours. I wonder sometimes if you missed that memo.
Bob stood slowly and drew a deep breath as he did. He felt his neck muscles tighten and one arm form into a fist.
(God damn this.)
Bob stared at Johnny a moment longer, and Johnny made the stupid mistake of looking back, if only for a microsecond in time; as soon as he looked at Bob, his head jerked back forward to stare down the boulevard. Playing nonchalantly, Johnny began thrumming his fingers on the aluminum rim of the steering wheel. Pretending not to have seen Bob.
Bob turned from the window and strode out of the kitchen. Quickly.
Johnny watched Bob leave the window and then pulled out his cellular. He dialed only four digits and waited for the signal to patch through.
"Yeah, it's Johnny," he said and didn't sound enthused. "Contact? Sort of. He saw me and looked pretty pissed, if that's what you're getting at. What?" Pause. "No. No, I'm not doing it." Pause. Sigh. He rubbed his temples. "Can I just tell you something, Nick?" Pause. "Okay. I'm going to remind you why the hell I'm doing this, and just how much bullshit I think this is. Okay?" Pause. "Okay. This is a favor to Reed, because despite everything and the Times' article to the contrary, I do think the world of the guy. You don't give me that same warm-fuzzy, Nick. No offense, I'm just saying. You give me a legit reason to keep up on Bob, or I'm coming home.
"Okay?" Pause.
Johnny closed the phone and burned it as it sat in the palm of his hand, and threw the flakes to the wind. He looked at Bob's house again, then threw the 46 in gear and peeled out.
He shook his head as he thought of Nick Fury's churlish commands to keep up on Bob.
"Bastard," he said. Meant it.
Johnny scowled as he looked in the rearview mirror, to the sight of a hunched old man with a Mint Julep in his hand, shaking an emaciated fist at the 46 shrinking into the distance.
In New York, or five miles above it anyway, in one of the SHIELD Helicarrier's conference rooms, Nick Fury pulled out his headset and tossed it on the table lazily. The static was strangely loud, and it rankled him. Reed Richards was sitting next to him, lounging uncharacteristically lazy in his seat.
Fury was irritated. "What?"
Richards sighed and it was one of those half-sigh, half-chuckle affairs. He ran a gloved hand through his hair and slid down in his seat.
Bob was in the bathroom doing meditation again when Sarah called. He threw on a towel and bounded out the door at the sound of the phone, and almost tripped going down the stairs. He caught the ringer a second before it went to the voicemail and spoke quickly into the receiver.
"Hello?"
"It's Sarah. I'm on my way—maybe about two minutes away. Are you still up for services tonight?"
Bob was momentarily puzzled and forced himself to remember. "Yeah, yeah. Door's open, just come on in whenever you get here."
"Great," she said. "See you soon."
He disconnected and ran upstairs. Quickly he changed; pulled on briefs, then grey trousers, and a simple white Oxford. Black shoes and socks. He stared at the sweaters in one drawer for a moment, and decided on a navy crew-neck. Not fussy, and it matched the grey and white get-up. He peddled down the stairs a moment later, just as Sarah was pushing the door shut. She turned around to see him, and he slowed, then stopped.
"Well, hello," she said fondly and held out a small bag that read 'Brooks Brothers' on it. "I got you something."
He was quizzical. "You didn't have to," he said and took the bag anyway. A thin band of butcher paper was taped in the center and as he unwrapped it he found the paper concealed another bowtie. A red one, with blue and yellow crossbars. He smiled slowly and genuinely, and chuckled once. "You…didn't have to do this."
"I wanted to," she said and slid her coat off, and tossed it on the bench by the staircase. "It's Christmas out, you know. Goodwill and all that."
He chuckled again.
"Well try it on," she said and motioned her hands forward. "I went in there and said I needed a bowtie and the lady took me right over to the ties and suits section, I guess it is? Anyway, this one caught my eye. The lady called it Royal Stewart tartan or something. Queen Elizabeth uses it. Not that you'd know that sort of thing." She smiled.
"Yeah yeah," Bob said, still mesmerized.
A gift, Sentry. Man alive. And what did you get her?
He wrapped it around his neck and tied it quickly and expertly, checking himself in the hallway mirror when he finished. With the Oxford and the sweater and everything else, it was like a perfect fit.
How fortuitous.
He marveled at his own handsomeness a moment longer and then turned back to Sarah. "Do you want to sit down for a bit, or should we just go?"
"Service starts at 7:30," she said and checked her watch. "Probably should have blown in earlier, but whatever." She grabbed her coat and pulled the door open. Bob grabbed his overcoat—it matched the grey trousers exactly—and said, "After you."
She smiled and leaned forward and kissed him briefly. Then, turned and walked out onto the front porch.
He slid his coat on and smiled, and his eyes narrowed with the action.
He was going to have to think of something great for her.
Continued...