Knox County Ch. 06

There was a chill wind in the air. Cynthia wore a stocking cap, jeans, gardening gloves, and a sweatshirt over a long-sleeved insulated t-shirt, and still she felt goosebumps. Next to her, Elizabeth wore a jacket, and she certainly seemed warmer.

"I think I bid in too low," Elizabeth said, picking up the trimmings and stacking them in a wheelbarrow behind her.

"How so?" Cynthia was kneeling, pruning the rose bushes three inches above the ground.

"I figured posing would be just that. Posing. Didn't realize posing meant being his landscaping crew."

Cynthia finished the bush and pushed mulch over the exposed stalks remaining in the ground. Her internet research told her this was the best way to protect them from the cold Wisconsin winter and insure they came back next year in full bloom.

"Better than last week," she said.

Elizabeth nodded. "Anything's better than pretending to clean bathrooms for five hours."

Cynthia laughed. She looked to her left. Sean was sitting on the porch, sketching them as they worked. Next to him sat Brandon, his tiny brow furrowed in concentration, doodling on a smaller sketch pad. She watched Sean glance at Brandon's drawing, reach a pencil in and slash a line, then look back at them, smiling and nodding before resuming drawing.

"What's it like living with him?"

Cynthia pondered this, not sure what was being asked. "Well, it's a lot easier now than when I first started."

"How so?"

"First time I came here, I thought he was going to die on me. Literally." She saw Elizabeth's eyebrows arch. "His wife had just died, I suppose. They told me it took her a year to die. Some kind of cancer. A really nasty one. And he took care of her the whole time. Here, I guess. And he didn't do any of his work, his drawing and painting."

Cynthia glanced back at Sean, saw his narrowed eyes as he peered at some detail her mind would never pick up on. "So when I came, he had this burst, I guess, this compulsion to get it all worked out of him. He was painting day and night. He didn't bathe--Christ, he smelled like a barn--wore the same clothes for days on end, lived on toast and jam. He looked like a ghost. He was so pale, huge, black bags under his eyes, like he was on death's doorstep. And he was emaciated."

She saw Elizabeth turn around, stare at him for a moment. "He's like a boy sometimes, you know?"

Cynthia nodded. "He was worse then. Like a zombie, almost. He just had this look, this vacant stare kind of. He didn't speak. The day after I got here, I had to lead him into the bathroom to take a bath." Cynthia paused, not sure how much to tell.

"Total wreck?"

"Worse. He . . . uh . . . well, when he got to the bathroom, he just stared at me. I had to undress him. He didn't do anything, just stared like he was in a dream or didn't really understand what was going on." Elizabeth stared at her, and Cynthia decided to move on. "Then, I put him to bed, and he just did it. Like, if I said jump through this hoop, he'd have just jumped. I don't know, it's hard to describe."

"He was totally lost."

Cynthia nodded. "That's as good a way to put it as any. But after a few weeks, he started to come around. Started to get some energy back, smile sometimes, hold conversations that lasted longer than thirty seconds."

"So what do you talk about?"

Cynthia shrugged, starting in on another rose bush. "Anything and everything, I guess. Except his wife. He's never--and I mean not even once--mentioned her, and I've never brought it up."

Elizabeth said nothing for awhile, and they silently went about clearing the landscaping bed. With two bushes to go, Elizabeth asked, "You ever sleep with him?" When Cynthia said nothing, she added, "Sorry. None of my-- "

"It's not that. The answer is no, I've never slept with him."

"Sorry, but-- "

"Not sure I could, tell you the truth. It's not like that. When I undressed him that one time, put him into the tub, and gave him a bath, he got . . . you know. Aroused." She smiled. "He's equipped, I can tell you that. Wow." She held her hands low to the ground and spread them apart. Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up. "He needed it, I could see it in his eyes, and I kind of helped him along with that. But it wasn't sexual. For me at least. It was . . . I guess you'd say clinical almost. Like this was something he needed and I was the only one around. You know what I'm saying?"

Elizabeth nodded. "That's what my job was like most of the time."

"How so?"

"It was never tender. I usually felt like a receptacle, like I was there just for something warm and wet to pump into."

"I think you were a little more than that. They could've gotten that for far less than they paid you."

"Yeah, they wanted the glamor of it, I guess. And confidentiality definitely. And someone who dressed and looked like their secretaries. You know the look, young, slim, dressed in a business suit."

"That's how you dressed?"

She nodded. "Always. None of those short, tight skirts." She laughed. "Imagine trying to get past the doorman in some of those neighborhoods dressed like a fifty dollar whore."

Cynthia started to say something, then stopped herself. "You can ask," Elizabeth prodded.

"Well, was it ever good? For you, not them. Was it . . . erotic, exciting?"

"Once."

"Just once?"

Elizabeth giggled. "The first time, I was so nervous it was impossible to really enjoy. That took awhile. Then it got boring, tell you the truth. Almost always the same. Blow 'em and bang 'em. But there was this one guy, it was different. It felt . . . . It was almost loving, tender. He's the only one that didn't see me as a whore. He saw more there."

"And how was that one?"

"It was awesome. We did things I'd never allowed anyone else to do."

"Like what?"

"Well. . . ." Elizabeth pursed her lips and her voice lowered to a whisper. "I let him put his fingers in places I'd never had them. Or ever had anything else, for that matter."

Cynthia smiled and raised her eyebrows, looking Elizabeth square in the face. "And how was it?"

She nodded and smiled. "Awesome."

"And did he ever . . . did you ever see him again?"

"Once." She picked up another bundle and put it in the wheelbarrow. "He wanted to meet for dinner, try to date."

"And?"

She shook her head. "Would've never worked."

"How do you know?"

Elizabeth lowered her head, staring into the mulch. "I don't."

"Because you were an escort, right?" Elizabeth nodded in response. "Well you're not anymore, right?"

"But the people he works with, the places he goes, what if I run into one of them?"

Cynthia snorted. "What're the chances of that really happening? And of them actually remembering your face or your name? You said it yourself. They didn't notice anything more than the opening between your legs."

Elizabeth sat back and curled her legs to her chest, holding them there with her arms. Cynthia followed suit, then hopped back up when she felt her jeans getting wet. Elizabeth didn't seem to notice, though. She was staring down at the half-pruned rose bush.

"Was there something there? Beyond the sex?"

Elizabeth nodded.

Cynthia put her hand on top of Elizabeth's knee. "Let me tell you something. You heard the long, drawn out sob story of my . . . my . . . of what I did to David. You heard how upset I was that night, right?" Elizabeth nodded. "A month or so ago, David calls me out of the blue. Says he wants to meet, maybe talk it all over. Maybe it wasn't all my fault." Cynthia snorted at this, and Elizabeth's eyes peered deep into hers, hanging on the next word. "So we meet, we talk for awhile. I was afraid at first. Worried he'd humiliate me again, like he did that night. I probably half-hoped he would. I deserved it--still deserve it, really. I betrayed him, and no matter what his faults, he didn't deserve what I did to him."

Cynthia fell back to the ground now, ignoring the damp mulch soaking the seat of her jeans. "But he didn't humiliate me. He wanted to talk it all through. See if maybe there was still a chance."

Cynthia turned her head and looked at Sean and Brandon. Brandon had abandoned the sketch pad and was running around the lawn, kicking a ball. Sean was sketching intently, looking up every few seconds before going back to the pad.

"So is there? Still a chance?"

Cynthia shrugged. "I don't know. I hope so, but don't know." She looked back at the girl. "I know I'd give almost anything, but I don't want to rush back into it. He wanted me to move back in that night, but I said no. I don't want to go back and have him realize he still can't trust me. That wouldn't work. We'd both be miserable, and it'd just be dragging out the inevitable."

"So what're you going to do? Are you going to see him again?"

"I already have. We've met a few times, for coffee or dinner. We talk about things."

"How's he feel about this?"

"Me living here? With Sean?" Elizabeth nodded, and Cynthia said, "He was jealous at first, but I explained he had nothing to be jealous about. If he didn't believe me, he could move in for a week and see for himself."

Cynthia put her hands on Elizabeth's shoulders and looked into her eyes. "What I'm telling you is this. There's always a good reason to never take a chance. David has a million excellent reasons to never speak to me again, but he is. Because at the end of the day, it's really hard to find someone who can be your best friend, your lover, and your soul mate. I didn't realize that until I found out what I'd lost, and David didn't realize that until I was gone. We can both go out and find someone else. But love, real love, love that supports more than just sex but also a marriage, is harder to find than you think. Got it?"

"Yes."

"So if you think there may be something more there with this guy, something more than just great sex, then you owe it to yourself to give it a shot. Don't look back fifteen years from now, alone, and think about him and ask yourself what could've been. Try to make it be, and if it doesn't work out, at least you gave it a shot."

* * *

Sean walked in the kitchen as Cynthia was putting on her coat. "Where you going?"

"I've got to run into town and pick up some groceries for your dinner. Any special requests?"

He shook his head. "Mind if I tag along?" She did a double take. "What?"

"You've not left here since I've been here. That's been, what, three and a half months?"

He shrugged. "Then I suppose it's time I got out a bit, eh?"

It took awhile at the grocery store. Sean kept putting items in the cart and Cynthia just as quickly put most of them back. He'd have some nutrition in his belly or nothing at all, she'd told him. He sulked, but enjoyed the game. By the end, he managed to sneak in a few candy bars and cheese popcorn. He didn't even like cheese popcorn, but it was fun watching her look when she watched it pass the scanner.

When they were back in the car, he prodded her shoulder. "Fancy a nip?"

"Why not? Where do you want to go?"

"Not a clue. Never been to a pub hereabouts."

She smiled, keeping her eyes on the road. "A pub you want, a pub you'll get."

She drove to the old downtown district, away from the box stores on the state highway and onto the quiet, bricked streets lined with law offices, two banks, antique and hardware stores, a diner, and scattered taverns.

He gazed at the buildings. The brickwork was wonderful, the clean tuck points of the banks next to the sloppy, worn down looks of a boarded up laundromat, clashes of architectural styles lining the street. He spotted an alley pass on the side street.

"Wait," he said, his arm shooting to her bicep. "Back up, park over there." She drove around the block. "Over there," he said, pointing to the alley. "Park right here, okay?"

She pulled into a parking spot. He reached between his legs on the floor and picked up his sketch pad and pencils. Then he heard her sigh, and turned to look at her.

"Are we going to have that drink, or do you want to draw?"

"Can you give me maybe twenty minutes? I'll meet you there."

She got that stern look, the one she shot him when she put the chocolate covered raisins back twenty minutes before. "Twenty minutes. Lion's Head, right around the corner. You're even a minute late and I'm leaving."

He nodded, sliding into her seat and all but pushing her from the car. "Okay, twenty minutes."

The alley was gorgeously decrepit. The narrow lane was filled with potholes exposing chipped, bare bricks beneath a few inches of asphalt. There were sagging, unpainted porches, overflowing trash containers, sixty-year old murals faded to almost nothing, missing bricks, and boarded windows. All right here, twelve miles from home. How could he have missed this glorious ruin?

He heard a tiny voice behind him. "That's incredible." He ignored the voice, concentrating on the panorama. He didn't have much time left. He started making notes on the bottom, colors to use and textures to apply. "What're you writing?" the voice said. He didn't need this, and he turned to tell whoever she was to bugger off.

"Listen," he said, tilting his head. He stopped. He was staring into the brightest green eyes he'd ever seen, deep, captivating, and lively.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that you have real talent. That's really very, very good."

He felt himself blushing. He cleared his throat, unable to speak. He managed a nod.

"May I?" She held her hands out, and he raised his arms, handing over the sketch pad. She had light red hair cut short, and freckles sprinkled lightly across her nose. She was a vision, he thought, a vision from his Belfast childhood. The comely Irish lass with bright smile and wit, a pixie-like figment of his imagination.

"Where did you learn to do this?" She looked back at him and smiled. When he said nothing, she said, "I won't bite, you know."

He cleared his throat again. "I do it for a living."

He could see the surprise in her eyes. "Really?" She looked back at the picture, and a sadness came over her face. "It's what I wanted to do at one time. But I had nowhere near this much talent." She handed back the sketch pad and he closed it, threw it onto the seat behind him before standing.

"I'm . . . Sean." He held out his hand, praying she'd shake it.

"I'm Aimee," she said, gripping his hand into hers. It was smooth, warm, soft. "Pleased to meet you, Sean. Live around here?" He managed another nod. Her eyes were dancing again, a smile curling her lips upward revealing a small line of straight, very white teeth. "Where around here do you live?"

"About twelve miles out." He raised his arm and pointed, his eyes staying on her face. "That way."

She nodded. "Well, Sean, I suppose I should be leaving you alone now. It was nice to meet you, and I hope we meet again." She nodded at him and walked away, nearly reaching the corner before he found his voice.

"Wait," he called to her, slamming the car door behind him and jogging over to catch her. She stopped and turned, smiling at him. "I was just going in to meet my housekeeper for a drink. Can I . . . would you . . . maybe if you're-- "

"I'd love a drink," she said, taking his hand in hers. He didn't move, content to stand there holding her hand and gazing at her. After a minute, the pixie laughed. "So where's the housekeeper drinking?"

"Lion's Head."

She nodded and led him down the street, stopping and pushing into a dark tavern.

"What does she look like?" He stared at her, not understanding. "The housekeeper?"

"Yeah, yeah, Cynthia. She's . . . I don't know . . . a few inches taller than you, really pretty, brown hair, about thirty-five or so, I should guess." He peered away from the eyes and into the bar, saw her walking toward them. "There she is."

As he tried to pull Aimee into the bar, he felt her hand tighten in his and her arm became rigid. He looked back and saw the shock on her face, then he turned back to Cynthia. She, too, had stopped, and she looked scared.

"What?" he said to Aimee. "What's wrong? It's just Cynthia." She said nothing, and he turned to Cynthia. "Cynthia, come here. I want you to meet-- "

The hand jerked from his and he turned back in time to watch Aimee dash out the door. He turned back to Cynthia, dumbfounded. Her eyes went from the door to Sean and back to the door. She strode to him. "Wait here," she said as she passed. The she, too, was gone.

* * *

Aimee was walking fast, trying to get back to the safety of her car two blocks away. "Wait," she heard from behind her. She turned her head and saw Cynthia Holloway jogging, trying to catch her. She started jogging, too. Cynthia kept calling to her, telling her to wait, come back, but she couldn't. She needed to get home, to her couch, the warmth of a cup of cocoa and a book.

A half block from her car, the drawing popped back into her mind. And the shy artist who drew it, bumbling his way around a simple invitation for a drink. And the darkest, softest eyes she'd ever seen. She felt her jog slow to a walk and heard Cynthia's voice get closer. Then she stopped altogether and waited. This quiet artist was the first spark, however brief, she'd had in her life in months. In the ten seconds it took Cynthia to reach her, Aimee decided she wasn't going to let Cynthia Holloway get in the way of her and happiness anymore.

"Thank you," Cynthia panted when she caught up. She bent over, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. "Please go back. Please."

Aimee's eyes narrowed. "Why? Why should you care what I do?"

Cynthia shook her head, still looking down and catching her breath. "I don't care what you do. I do care about him, though." Her breath was coming back, and she leaned back and sucked in gulps of air. Then she looked forward, straight at Aimee. "I know you hate me. Fine, I can understand that. But don't take it out on him. Go back and have a drink. Have a whole mess of drinks. I'll leave, he can call me when he's ready for a ride home."

"What's your angle on this."

She shook her head. "No angle. Well, yes, there is an angle. The angle is that he needs someone."

"He's got you, hasn't he?"

"You don't understand. I'm his housekeeper. I clean, do laundry, cook for him, make sure he gets enough sleep. That's it. But he's all alone. He's getting better since I came on board. But he's still alone. I didn't know him before-- "

"Before what?"

"Before his wife died. So I guess I could've been reading his look wrong. When he came in with you. But we've both seen that look, and that's what I saw."

Aimee looked at her. Her face, her eyes, her whole body was pleading with her to go back to that bar and have a drink. She looked around Cynthia's shoulder, back down the street. She saw him over a block away, standing outside the door, shuffling his feet and looking at them. She could see the anxiousness in his face from where she stood.

"And you'll leave."

"Promise. Just have him give me a ring on my cell when he's ready and I'll come and get him. I'll hang around town."

Aimee shook her head. "Don't bother. I'll give him a ride home."

Cynthia nodded, relief pouring over her face. "Thank you. We'll go back, I'll grab my purse, and I'll write down the directions to his house."

"That won't be necessary."

Cynthia snorted a laugh. "Yes it will."

Aimee stopped and turned to her. "He doesn't know where he lives?"

She shook her head. "I'll bet he couldn't find the place in a hundred years."

Aimee smiled, wondering what kind of man didn't even know where he lived.

They went into the tavern, Sean following behind them through the doors. The relief was evident on his face, soon replaced by a joyful giddiness. Cynthia wrote down the directions at the bar while Sean ordered two pints, Miller Lite for her, Guinness and Harp for him. Cynthia handed her the directions, waved, and left.