Chapter 45
"Okay, here's one," I say, stopping in the middle of the pasture. "'You can't handle the truth!'"
The sun has just slipped behind the dark hills at the edge of his property, and as the daylight fades, there's an increasingly powerful scent of earth and pine on the frigid breeze.
"A Few Good Men," he says, a vapor cloud puffing out from his mouth.
"Why do you know so many of these?"
He shrugs and continues walking, the dry grass crunching beneath his boots.
I catch up to him and he says, "'Call me Ishmael.'"
"Moby Dick. If you want me to talk dirty, just ask."
"I plan to."
"Oh my God."
His lips twitch into a hint of a grin.
"It's your turn," he says.
"'I coulda been a contender.'"
"Too easy. Marlon Brando."
I make my most obnoxious wrong-answer buzzing sound, sending a shock wave through a small herd of pronghorn grazing nearby. They scatter and bound off in all directions.
"That's an actor, not a movie."
"On the Waterfront?"
"Is that right?"
"It's your game. You tell me."
"I don't know," I admit.
He shakes his head.
"I'm leaving for Philly Thursday." I've been waiting for an opening that hasn't presented itself, so I just shove it in here on impulse. "I meant to mention it earlier."
He stops and turns to me. For long seconds he's in his head, then he says, "I thought that wasn't for another week and a half."
"It wasn't." I wrap my arms around myself. The cold is much less tolerable when standing still. "My mom wants me there for Thanksgiving. And it's cheaper to fly on a holiday."
"Omar still flying you down to Denver?"
"Yeah."
"Not on Thursday."
"He's making a trip on Wednesday."
"So you're leaving Wednesday," he says.
"From here, but the flight'sThursday."
He shifts his weight, and says, "Okay." I think he's about to say something else when he starts walking again.
"Your turn," I say.
"'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.'"
"Talk about too easy. I won't even dignify that one with an answer."
"So you're forfeiting?" he says.
"No."
"Then dignify it."
"A Tale of Two Cities." I cock my head and give him that in-your-face attitude I haven't shared with him, or anyone, in way too long. "All right. Last one, for the 2015 Ford Focus and a mind blowing lay around about Christmas time."
"I'm ready," he says.
"Seriously, Walt, don't tempt me."
"I mean I'm ready for the last one."
"Ouch," I say.
"Which is it, Vic?" He's nonchalant, probably because we've been negotiating this all day.
"I'll get back to you."
The truth is I've been holding out for a miracle that I've progressed enough to know isn't coming. The dreams are still with me, and I understand now that there is no stepping neatly from this dark, guilt-plagued compartment into the far more appealing love and sunshine stall. Nevertheless, some small but influential part of me seems to still consider that a prospect.
As if he knows, he says, "It'll be with you for a long time."
I nod, but in the grey light I doubt he sees. To him it probably seems like an extended, pregnant silence before I say, "I had to do it."
Now maybe he nods and I miss it. For a few moments again it's only the arrhythmic crunching of our four feet across the field.
He finally says, "It's good to hear you say that, Vic."
We haven't talked about this at all for weeks, and he's treading lightly.
"If I'd been killed, I wouldn't know. But if it had been Ferg? I couldn't have lived with that. I had to do it."
"We second guess ourselves after these things," he says.
I watch him moving next to me. He's a cowboy silhouette in profile against the fading western light: brim low, head tilted down, hands deep in his coat pockets.
"Are you afraid I'll do that when I come back?"
"Not afraid," he says. "But you need to be ready. You need to be confident you could do it again if you had to."
"I'll get there."
"I'm not rushing you, Vic."
"I know."
We're nearing the dark cabin. Aside from dropping my bag when I first arrived this afternoon, I haven't been inside since the night Lizzie unloaded on us, and for some largely unexplored reason, I'm still not particularly comfortable with the idea.
"I'm waiting," he says.
"Okay. The last one's the toughest."
I pause for effect.
"'You had me from hello.'"
He lets out a huff of a laugh.
"Jerry McGuire," he says.
"Shut the fuck up!" I yell, and the sound seems to get sucked instantly into the rural silence. "You did not just get that one."
He kicks the bottom step of the porch, loosening the mud.
"I was married, Vic. With a daughter. We all lived together."
"You had like a DVD player? And cable?"
"A VCR, then eventually a DVD player. Direct TV for a while."
"Those words should never come out of your mouth again. It disrupts the natural flow of the universe."
At the top of the stairs I wrestle my right boot off, figuring it's easier than trying to deal with the mud. The left is harder. My arm looks normal, and I'm not wearing the sling tonight, but it doesn't yet function like a normal arm. "Where did it go?"
"Where did what go?" he asks, watching me struggle.
He motions for me to sit on the top step, and I do it.
"The DVD player."
"Cady," he says. With a quick tug, the boot is in his hand.
I stand up again and put them both by the door.
I'm about to ask him how Cady is, but another mental block worth consideration at a time other than now stops me.
Inside, Walt turns on the lamps and starts a fire in the stove. I take off my jacket and hang it on the rack next to his hat and his coat. I'm about as uncomfortable as I predicted when he comes over to me, closer than he has been lately, and puts his hand on my hip.
"You've been avoiding this," he says.
"I have."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really," I say.
"Is it that stuff with Lizzie?"
"Well, yeah, that was awkward."
"And?"
He's rubbing his thumb back and forth across my hipbone, maybe not even aware. His belt buckle through my cotton shirt is cool against my stomach.
"This is Martha's house," I say. "It feels selfish to be here like this."
His eyes are ultra-blue and focused, but warm.
"Seems like if I'm doing this, I shouldn't be doing it here."
"Doing what?"
"Being with her husband."
His other hand comes up, the back of his fingers brushing my cheek, then rests on my shoulder.
"I'm alive, Vic, and so are you. This is where I live. What we're doing isn't wrong."
Anymore, I think, but I don't say it.
"I don't want to disrespect your marriage."
"You never have."
"I don't talk to you about it much anymore."
"Well, maybe that's all right. This is about us, and I want you to get used to being here."
He doesn't push it beyond that.
Together we fix what folks in these parts call "supper," which consists of fresh trout, baked potatoes, and the salad I brought. While we're waiting for the potatoes, we sit on the couch, our knees barely touching, and drink a couple of beers while I read aloud from the copy of Lonesome Dove I gave him.
After dinner we do the dishes, and as with everything else, we work well together. I'm drying my hands when he turns to me. Again I'm expecting him to say something, but instead, he gently moves the collar of my shirt out of the way and runs his fingers over the scar.
"I can feel the plate," he says. "Especially the screws." He's intent, studying. "Is it sore?"
"No. It's still numb."
I can, however, feel the other two fingers, warm and damp, resting lightly against my chest, below my collarbone, at the top of what technically could be considered my breast.
"I'm Robocop," I say. "I guess you know that one, too."
"I got roped into watching it with Lucien." His hand is sliding lower and his voice getting softer, and somehow, without moving, he seems to be even closer. "Claims it's his favorite."
It's one of those just-one-bite, just-one-sip things that never works, but I convince myself I have the restraint because it's the only way my internal executive will allow it to happen. When his lips touch mine, it's soft, and it's tentative, but the motor is sparked. We haven't been doing this, either, and when his tongue swipes lightly against mine, I remember why.
"I should take you home," he says, then we're going again, this time less tentative, more heated.
When we come up for air, I say, "I've missed this."
"We do it well."
His hand has snuck under my top, onto the sensitive skin at my side.
"Vic," he says. "I want you to be sure, 'cause if we start again, we're not stopping."
I stand up on my toes and kiss him, my hand flat against his chest.
"I'm ready," I say. "I'm sure."
And that's how it's decided.
Ten minutes later, we're both topless and lying like sardines facing each other on the couch, hungry and busy. He pulls me by the belt towards him, against the undeniable evidence that he's as into it as I am. I run my hand up it, and I'm unclasping his belt buckle when a bright white light penetrates the front window and travels across the wall above us. We stare at each other, orienting ourselves, then apparently it hits us both at the same time because we're up and we're scrambling.
He's got his shirt back on, and he's fastening the snaps, but I can't find my bra. Still half unsnapped, he gets down on all fours and reaches under the couch, pulling it out. Putting a bra on still takes me a long time because my shoulder doesn't rotate the way it used to. I hear the car door squeak, and I panic.
My bra isn't even properly fastened when Walt throws me my shirt and I put it on. The car door slams. He's tucking his shirt in, and when he gets around to the front, I stare down at the bulge, which really can't be mistaken for anything else. I shake my head, and he pulls the tails out again.
My chest and face are flushed, but it's too late to do anything about it with the sound of boots on the steps.
"Fuck," I say.
"It's okay," he whispers, but he's not even convincing himself.
I probably don't have to tell you who it is because who the hell else would drop by Walt's cabin at eight o'clock on a cold Monday night.
When the knock comes, and she calls, "Dad?" through the door, I panic all over again and can't figure out where I should be that will least look like I was about to remove her father's pants. I opt for the couch and get myself over there as stealthily as possible. His hand is on the doorknob, and I notice his hair, and I'm praying mine doesn't look as disheveled as his does, then I'm psychically trying to communicate to him not to do that self-conscious hair-smoothing thing when he opens the door, but it's too late.
The door is open and he's nervously running his hand down the back of his head to his neck, and he's saying, "Punk," and she's dropping a gym bag then she's in his arms. "What are you doing here?"
"Sorry," she says, and she still hasn't seen me, to the point where it's becoming creepy that I haven't stood up yet, so I stand up, and she sees the movement, and the smile drops from her face and her pale eyes grow wide. "I was . . ." she starts, and then her brow furrows, and she's trying to figure it out.
"Hey, Cady," I say. "I was just leaving."
Now she's really confused. "Your truck isn't here."
Shit.
"I was about to drive her home," Walt says, helping me, I think.
She looks down at his untucked shirt, with one tail longer than the other and the chest pockets unaligned, and then down at his sock feet.
We obviously totally suck at this.
"You were?" she asks, but she's not being superior, ironic Cady, she's legitimately confused.
Then she's looking at me, and I can't tell you what she's noticing, but it's something.
Walt closes the door and takes her snazzy leather jacket, and while he's hanging it up, he flashes me this look that could have any number of meanings, none of which include anything even remotely romantic or sexual because that's been effectively killed for tonight.
She sort of shakes it off like she does, and she says, "Okay. Um, I'm here because they're still working on the kitchen, and the smell is horrendous. I can't sleep there."
I didn't even realize she was in town. Last I heard, she was doing some consulting work in Rapid City.
"Well you're welcome to stay," Walt says, and to his credit, he sounds sincere, though his body language is a mess. He's half smiling and antsy, scratching his head, then putting his hand on his hip, then shifting his weight, then putting the other hand on the other hip, then feeling his stubble, which isn't there.
"Thanks, Dad," she says, then she comes over to me. "How are you, Vic? My dad told me about the crazy dog episode."
It's so genuinely thoughtful and sympathetic that I feel kind of bad for the negative thoughts I've had about her on and off. I remind myself there really isn't any trouble between us. It's just an occasional inkling that I'm not her type of person.
"I'm much better, thanks," I say. "Should be back at work around the New Year."
She nods uncomfortably, then turns back to Walt, who has somehow managed to fix his shirt. In my opinion that only looks more suspicious, but I have no way of communicating that to him.
"Don't let me interrupt, you guys," she says, and seriously, I almost laugh out loud.
"No problem, Punk. I'll just take Vic home."
He grabs his jacket and I pick up my bag. My salad bowl is in the kitchen, but I don't want to highlight the date qualities of the visit, so I leave it.
"You know where everything is," he says. "Be back in about twenty."
On the way across town, we both make a few that-was-crazy comments, but nothing goes anywhere conversation-wise.
When he walks me to the door, I say, "Your house is just a hotbed of awkwardness, isn't it?"
He smiles as he hugs me.
"It could've been worse," he says.
"That it could," I say. "Make sure you don't think about it on the way home or you'll have to untuck your shirt again."