Sintown Chronicles II: Through Bedroom Windows (48 page)

“Hard work don't bother me, and I need a job."

“Do you have any experience?"

“That your tractor out front?"

Frank nodded.

“Brand new, isn't it?"

“Bought it this week."

“I've been using one just like it the past four years."

Frank smiled. “Then perhaps you can teach me how to use it. I take it you have references?"

Hank glanced at Greta who seemed to be busy loading packages of seeds onto a display. “I'm not going to bullshit you, Mr. Skinner. I've never worked a day in my life. I just got out of prison on parole, but they had me doing tractor work and mowing on highways."

Frank unconsciously took a step back. “You're an ex-con?"

Hank nodded.

“What ... what were you in for?"

“Mostly for being a young, stupid jerk. I ran with a crazy crowd. We knocked over convenience stores and rolled drunks for the most part. We got caught. I served four years of a ten-year sentence. Like I said, I'm out on parole. They'll send me back if I don't get a job, and man, I don't ever want to go back to prison."

“I'm not going to bullshit you either, Hank. I'm not interested in having a thief work for me."

Hank nodded. “Neither is anyone else. I don't blame you. I'll work for minimum wage and do a hell of a job for you. I'm not about to do anything to get my parole revoked."

Frank shook his head. “I'm sorry."

Hank nodded, turned and headed for the door.

“Hank, wait a minute."

Hank turned and looked at Frank expectantly.

“Seven dollars an hour if you can start Monday."

“I can start now if you like."

Frank looked at Greta who smiled. “I'm building a greenhouse out back. I suppose you can work on that today. Where are you staying?"

“They gave me two hundred dollars and the clothes I'm wearing when I got out of prison. My van was in storage. Right now, I'm living in it. Maybe I can park it out back and use your restroom until I get a paycheck or two and can rent a room."

“I suppose we can do that."

“Mr. Skinner, ‘scuse me,” Greta said. “I was listening. I have a spare room.” She looked at Hank. “I ain't using the room, but it ain't got no bed in it. There's a bed and mattress and some other furniture in the garage. It'll need cleaning up and you'll have to move stuff out of the spare room, but if you want it, I'll rent it and kitchen privileges for one hundred a month and you keep the place up—mow the grass and stuff."

Hank dug into his pocket and counted the folded bills. “I have a hundred and ten dollars ma'am. Could I pay you fifty now and the rest after I get a paycheck?"

“Miz Jenkins said to let you have the first month free. You'll be moving into her favorite room, but she says it's okay."

“Miz Jenkins? Who's she?"

“She's my friend. She used to own the house. She's dead now."

“She's a ghost?"

Greta nodded. “You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

“You sure it's okay with Miz Jenkins for me to move in?"

“It was her idea."

Frank tried to suppress a smile. “Are you okay with this, Hank?"

“Never met a ghost before. I'm looking forward to it."

“Look,” Frank said. “Why don't the two of you go on and get things worked out. If you get through in time, come on back. Otherwise, I'll see both of you Monday morning."

“That old brown pickup outside is mine,” Greta said. “Follow me."

“It ain't much,” Greta said after showing Hank the small house, “and the yard needs lots of work."

“I'll get the yard in good shape tomorrow Miss..."

“Last name's Dominick, but you call me Greta."

Hank smiled. “I didn't see a bathroom, Greta."

“Ain't but one and you get to it through my bedroom. Come on. I'll show you."

Hank followed, wondering how this arrangement could work out.

Greta snapped on the bathroom light. “That's a Whirl Pool. You'll like that. The toilet has a bidet. Don't reckon men use them things."

Hank smiled.

“Take a look in the closet. There's some pants and stuff that belonged to Eddie. He was about your size and he won't be needing them no more. There's underwear and shirts in the dresser."

“Who is Eddie?"

“Was. I lived with him a while. We wasn't married or nothing. He was a mean bastard. He was killed right there on the front porch in a gun battle with sheriff deputies."

Hank pulled open a dresser drawer and held up a pair of jockey shorts. “Size forty is what I wear, but the crotch is stretched all out of shape."

“Eddie had a big dick. That's all I miss about him. How long you been out of prison?"

“Four days,” Hank said as he looked through the tee shirts in the drawer.

“You get any pussy while you was in prison?"

Hank whirled around and stared at Greta.

“Maybe you humped a whore or two after you got out?"

“Greta, look, you don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not going to harm you."

“Hell, I ain't scared of you, Hank. I know I'm a little chubby and my tits sag a bit, but I'm still good in bed. I'm one of them women who like a lot of sex and I ain't got nobody right now. Let's make the bedsprings bounce. If you light my fire, you can sleep in here with me. That way we won't have to move all that furniture, and Miz Jenkins says if you are really good in bed, we won't charge you no rent at all."

“Miz Jenkins,” Hank said. “I think I love you."

Deborah Andrews sat at her desk, the morning sun warming her shoulders from the large window behind. She picked up the resume and studied the attached photograph.

“Hello, Mrs. Andrews."

Her head jerked towards the door. A tall man with brown hair, eyes that matched and rippling muscles showing under his white tee shirt was leaning against the door jam.

“I am Deborah Andrews. I conduct interviews only by appointment."

His smile was broad and toothy. “You still don't remember me, do you Mrs. Andrews?"

Her eyes traveled to the tight faded jeans he wore. “The doors are supposed to be locked on weekends. How did you get in?"

He shrugged, entered the office uninvited and sat on the sofa facing her desk. “The door was not locked. Is Moses still the janitor here? He always was forgetful."

“Yes, he is and I shall speak with him about leaving that door unlocked."

“Does he still stink as bad as he used to?"

She tried to suppress a smile. “I must ask you to leave, sir. I have much work to do."

“You must be very busy to be in your office on a Saturday. I went by your house. When I found no one at home, I took a chance on you being here. You still don't remember me? I was in your senior English class four years ago at Charlotte High."

“In the ten years I have been an education professional, numerous students have crossed my path. They are all special to me, but I can hardly be expected to remember all of their names."

“Oh,” he said as he popped open the vinyl folder and pulled out an apple. “I almost forgot.” He approached her and she felt alarm as he placed it on the corner of her desk. “Better wash it before you eat it. I stopped at the grocery on the way over here. My family used to own the Dot Grocery but recently sold out to Bi-Lo. My name is Buzz Adams. Remember me now?"

She watched him return to the sofa. Something stirred between her legs as she looked at his buttocks moving in the tight fitting jeans. Two years, she thought. Two long years since ... She shook her head. “I'm sorry. The name doesn't ring a bell."

“Damn it, I've waited on you many times at the grocery store. I was in your senior English class four years ago. You were my favorite teacher. How in the hell can you not remember me?"

She smiled and tried to relax, but her heart was beating much faster than she thought it should. “Bi-Lo will serve the community's needs much better than your parents’ store."

“Maybe, but you will not get the individual attention my folks gave. People will miss them. They've moved to a retirement village in Florida. Hell, I miss them already."

“I ... I see. Suddenly losing loved ones can cause pain. My husband suffered a heart attack and passed away two years ago."

Buzz nodded. “I ran into Petey Spencer recently at a bar. He filled me in. Petey said your husband was an old codger and you fucked him to death."

The smile froze on her lips. She felt his eyes focus on her chest and desperately wished she had not removed the suit jacket when she sat down to review job applications. “I think you'd better go, Mr. Adams."

“Hey—we're making progress. You remembered my name.” He crossed his legs and leaned back on the sofa. “Do you remember Petey?"

“I'm afraid not,” she said in the frostiest tone of voice she could manage.

“I'm sorry if I offended you, Mrs. Andrews. I guess my attempt at humor was a little crude."

“Although Mr. Andrews was twenty years my senior, he was no old codger as you put it. He was a gentleman—a wonderful man."

“Rich, too, according to Petey."

“Mr. Adams, I am quite busy. I do not have time for small talk."

“I'm very proud of you Mrs. Andrews. You must be one sharp cookie to move from being an English teacher to the principal of the Dot School in just a few years."

I'm proud of me too, she thought. I worked my ass off to get where I am today. “Mr. Adams, I'm afraid my success is due more to being in the right place at the right time than to any special talent."

“Oh, I don't think so. Petey says you went to school at night and during the summers to get your masters degree."

She nodded, and reveled in the praise. “I also earned a doctorate in education.” Her breath was coming in short gasps. She hoped he didn't notice her breasts rising and falling inside the pale yellow blouse she wore. What the hell is happening to me? she wondered when she realized her panties were getting moist.

“Wow. Petey didn't tell me that. I should be calling you ‘Dr. Andrews.’”

“That is the title I prefer, but few people in this hick town use it. Mr. Adams—I must get on with my work."

“That confuses me a little, Dr. Andrews. Summer School is over and the fall session doesn't begin until September. Don't you ever get time off?"

“It is none of your concern, Mr. Adams, but I rarely take time off. The business of education is my life. I must hire seven new teachers for the school year, which begins the fourth week of August for your information, and I have forty applications."

“I see,” he said as he stood up. “I just wanted to drop by and say hello. I confess that it does hurt my feelings that you don't remember me. Let me try to jog your memory. During my junior year, I was the quarterback on the football team—a damn good quarterback. My senior year should have been a huge success. There should have been scholarship offers from the major football colleges and a lucrative professional career. It didn't happen. Do you remember me now, Dr. Andrews?"

She shook her head and pushed back in the chair as he approached her desk. The fire in his eyes frightened her.

“You flunked me!” he said as leaned over the desk. “Right from the beginning of the year, you gave me failing grades. That kept me off the team. I didn't graduate, so there was no college career—no professional career. Do you remember now, Dr. Andrews?"

He was towering over her. She could not allow that. She stood up, but even at five feet and eight inches, she still had to look up to meet his eyes. She cleared her throat and said, “It is not uncommon for us to blame others for our own failures, Mr. Adams. Had you applied yourself to your studies, your dreams may have come true.” Was he smiling at her, or leering?

“You're right, of course,” he said as he returned to the sofa and picked up the vinyl bag. He faced her. “I played a little semi pro ball in Texas, but I couldn't scrape together a living that way. I wound up as a grease monkey in a fast lube joint. Finally I realized that bagging groceries was better than that, so I came back to Dot and the family business."

“There's still time. You're a young man. If you were in my class four years ago that would make you about twenty-two."

He nodded. “And I figure you're about thirty-three. You should be proud of me, Dr. Andrews. I went to the library in Charlotte last night and did some research on you. You were always big on research."

He pulled a manila folder from the bag. “Your husband was a rich bastard. The paper said he left you five million in stocks and bonds and his life insurance provided you with another five million in cash. What I can't understand is why you are still working. Debbie, you're filthy rich. You should be living the good life."

Her pulse rate increased when he switched to using her nickname.

“I am living the good life, Mr. Adams. I am very proud of my accomplishments. I come from a family of illiterate tenant farmers. As a child, I resolved to make something of myself. I worked hard on the farm and in school. I worked my way through college. I became somebody—somebody important. I am proud of my success. Education is what I live for. I would be nothing without it. I intend to continue with my profession for the remainder of my life. If you had applied yourself, you could be living the good life too."

“Becoming Dot's first mayor would also be a nice feather in your cap."

“I am the best qualified citizen in this illiterate town. You may be certain there will be major changes when incorporation becomes a reality and I assume control of the town's destiny."

He again approached the desk, opened the folder and studied it. “Mom and dad gave me the home place when they sold out to Bi-Lo, but no cash. I thought I'd sell some of the junk in the attic and basement. While cleaning out the basement I found a chiffonier filled with magazines, photographs and videos. The old man kept quite a pornography collection, Debbie. An old magazine called
Slut
was of special interest."

Her face seemed to turn to stone.

He pulled a stack of photocopies from the folder and tossed them on her desk. “You were a fine looking piece of ass back in your college days."

Deborah's hands flew to her mouth as she gasped audibly.

“Nice tits and ass and a pussy any man would love to fuck."