Slow Dancing (2 page)

Frank put a stool behind the counter for Ellen. He never needed one because he didn’t have time to sit down. He’d finish with a car and walk behind the counter to write the bill, and then after the customer paid he went back out into the garage to work on the next car. Now that Ellen was there, he’d walk into the office and write the bill, but give it over to Ellen who’d take the payment while Frank lotioned his hands up. “When you go back to school, my hands are gonna miss this care,” he said, teasing.

While she waited for customers to come in, Ellen read. She always brought a book with her and when she finished whatever little tasks Frank found for her to do that day; sorting nuts and bolts into their proper bins, or transcribing sales receipts into a ledger, she took her book and went back to the counter to read. Sometimes he’d have her come into the garage, which was her favorite place, and she’d do inventory of the belts and parts and other items necessary to keep an auto repair garage in business. At four each day, he’d come into the office and say the same thing. “You about ready to call it a day, sister?” She’d hop down from the stool.

“Okay, I guess it’s time,” she’d answer. He’d watch her put her helmet on, buckling the strap snuggly under her chin, and he’d resist the temptation to check it for safety.

“Be careful, now, you hear? Walk your bike across First Street, and stay up on the sidewalk as far as you can.” Ellen smiled, didn’t get ornery or defensive the way some kids got when their parents fussed. She knew he was just worried about her. “And please call when you git home.” She never forgot to call; the moment she unlocked the door and went into the house, she reached for the phone. If he couldn’t get to the phone, she’d holler into the answering machine so that her voice echoed throughout the garage.

“I’m home, Frank!” He’d grin at the car he was working on and when he got a chance always called back.

They’d have stayed in this mode of mutual love and respect forever, if it hadn’t been for that one summer night when she couldn’t sleep. After the lights went off in the house, and she saw that he’d left the light on above the stove for her, she put her head down on her knees and swept a little sand that had accumulated on the step into a pile. Meditatively, she swirled the pile into a design, first this way and then that, until she was almost mesmerized, sure she could go to sleep as soon as she could get the gumption to go inside for the night. When she started to lift her head, she knew.

The hair on her arms rose up, and the goose bumps appeared on her skin; someone was there. She could feel the difference in the way the air was coming off the water. Too afraid to move, to turn her head to look, she waited until her heart slowed down from the racing pace to which it had climbed, her throat dry, closing up so that screaming for Frank wasn’t an option. She got the courage to slowly turn her head while keeping it down on her knees, and that’s when she saw him. He was on the edge of the woods, just at the bank of the river. Having crept out of the woods, or along the bank, she could clearly see the outline of a tall, lanky man, watching her in the moonlight. His was a black silhouette, but the moonlight shone on his head as a beam of light.

With speed and precision, she leapt up from the porch and opened the screen, slamming the big door shut and locked it while she yelled for her stepfather, her voice trembling. “Frank!” There in seconds, dressed in t-shirt and sweatpants, handgun in his right hand, he grasped her arm.

“There’s someone out there,” she breathed. He went to the door and looked out the four by six inch window at eye level, automatically looking to the wood line, but seeing nothing.

“No one’s there now,” he said. “No one I can see. Man or woman?”

“Man, I’m pretty sure it was a man. He was right at the river edge, right by the big pine.” A tall pine tree towered over the rest, its roots in the soft embankment of the river so the weight of the tree was slowly pulling it over, but it was still the tallest tree.

“Stand back, stay inside,” he said, gently pulling her around behind him as he unlocked the door and opened it. Stepping out on the porch, he looked close to the house before scanning the wood line and the riverbank, but nothing popped out. “It looks like the coward retreated into the trees.” He turned to her.

“You okay?” She nodded. “It’s a durn shame a person can’t sit on their own porch after dark.” He came inside and locked up the door again. “No need to be frightened now. I’ll see to the windows and doors if you want to go back to your room.” She nodded her head. Tonight, they’d sleep with the doors to their rooms open. He called out for her, asking permission to come into her room to check the window, low and facing the front of the house.

“Just as a precaution, tonight I’m gonna pull your dresser in front of this window,” he said.

“Okay,” she answered, watching him work. Slowly, the fear the interloper instilled in her was fading; she was safe in her own house and her stepfather wouldn’t allow anyone to harm her.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Frank called the postmistress, Jessie. “I have a big favor to ask, to one as busy as yourself,” he said, chuckling.

“Go fer it, Frankie,” Jessie answered. “I ain’t got all day.”

“Can you write a note that I’ll be in at nine-thirty today and tape it to my door? I got a small job that I got to attend to here before I come into town.” She agreed to it, to tape a hand-lettered sign in her neat penmanship.

Frank be late today.
Not exactly what he had asked for, but close enough, and people in town knew what it meant.

He was standing at the stove frying potatoes when Ellen came out. “Sorry about last night, Frank,” she said. “Think my imagination must be gettin’ the best of me.”

“No, no. You did the right thing. Intuition saved many a life, I reckon.” She went to the coffee pot and poured two cups. “I’m going out to look at the river’s edge after breakfast.”

“What about the garage?” she asked.

“Jessie’ gonna put a note up,” he answered. “This is more important for now.” They ate in silence, the possibility that someone meant to do Ellen harm foremost in Frank’s mind. He wasn’t sure what she thought, and didn’t want to alarm her. When they were finished, he adjusted the holster attached to his belt and stood up to put their dishes in the sink.

“I’ll get those, Frank,” she said.

“No, I will. It’s my job to do the morning dishes.” He was a creature of habit, but more, didn’t want Ellen to think her lot in life was to wash up after a man, even her stepfather. “I’ll take care of it when I come back in.”

“I’m going with you,” she said. He paused for a moment, doubtful at first but then seeing the wisdom in it. It might be good for her to go, to see exactly where the man stood. It was dry last night, so footprints in the sand should be visible. They walked out the door together, pausing at the house to survey the formal garden that surrounded it; beautiful roses, peonies and perennials that bloomed throughout the summer months and into the autumn, annuals they planted together, and an herb garden; herbs like sage, said to protect the people who lived within. Ellen bent over to pull sheep sorrel out of the herb bed.

“A vicious, invasive weed, delicious sautéed in olive oil,” Frank said, all traces of his Alabama accent gone. Ellen laughed out loud.

“Yes!” They walked to the wood line, the edge of the forest that bordered their property. It was never a scary place; as a child she’d set up her little tent there with friends each summer, a perfect, quiet place away from the adults to play Barbie. Now, not so sure, she didn’t think she’d feel safe out after dark ever again.

“I wish we could put up a fence,” she said. He looked over to her, nodding her head.

“Haft’ to be awful high though,” he said. “Haft’ to have barbed wire on top. When it gets that bad here, we best move away.”

“This is it,” she said when they reached the area. “I think this is where he stood.” They were careful not to step off the lawn, because clearly, right under the big pine, a line of large footprints were visible in the sand, the edge just beginning to be lapped up by the water as the gentle tide came in. It looked like whoever it was had walked along the water’s edge, to avoid the forest.

“Where did he come from?”

“I’m going to call the sheriff before we do anything else,” Frank said. He wanted to follow the footprints, to discover their origin. He looked up across the river at the opposing bank. It was desolate across the river, directly in front of their place; there were more cottages upriver, less down. The woods were thicker on the other side, the current was swift, and there was no dock or place to tie up unless the boater used a tree. He doubted whoever it was came from across the way, but crept along the river’s edge from the same side.

“You go on now, find something to do. I don’t want my conversation upsettin’ you,” he said when they got to the house. She smiled at him, but didn’t argue. It was making her queasy, the thought that her imagination wasn’t playing tricks. A stranger possibly wanting to do her harm had taken the trouble to make his way along the desolate coastline to spy on her.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go read awhile.” He nodded at her and waited until she was out of sight to call the sheriff. Well known in the county as a reliable and trustworthy auto mechanic, Frank did the work the county needed on many of their patrol cars. So when he called with a dilemma, they took him seriously. It was the first time he’d needed to call in years, since Margaret disappeared into the woods one day ten years ago.

***

The three of them, five year old Ellen included, were in the yard puttering, watering the roses and pulling weeds. When Frank stood up, Ellen was beside him but Margaret was gone, the hose with the precious water still running left on the ground. He looked in the house and then taking Ellen by the hand, walked to the river’s edge, just in case. It didn’t look like she’d gone for a dip, so they proceeded to the woods. Holding Ellen’s hand, they walked as far as they could into the forest, until the trees grew so close together he couldn’t get between them.

“Okay, I guess she’s not in here,” he said, smiling down at Ellen, not wanting to scare her. “Let’s git’ back to the house and make a few calls. Maybe she went to see her friend, Mary.”

“Momma doesn’t like Mary,” Ellen said, frowning. This was news to Frank.

“No? Why’d you say that?”

“She said Mary got the cooties,” Ellen said, obviously repeating what she’d heard Margaret say. Frank turned away, frowning. Margaret’s use of the word
cootie
to her five-year-old daughter transcended inappropriateness in spite of its truthfulness; he tended to agree with his wife.

“Oh, well maybe momma didn’t feel good when she said it,” Frank explained making an excuse for her. He was going to call Mary regardless. He reached out for Ellen’s hand. “Come on, sister, let’s get inside.” Then, on second thought, he reached down and scooped her up. She yelped with glee.

When they got inside the house, he put her down. “Run along now, darlin’, go on and play for a while.” She did as she was told and ran off to her room. He picked up the kitchen phone and dialed the sheriff’s office.

“Boyd here,” Boyd Dalton said when he answered the phone.

“It’s Frank McPherson, Boyd. I gotta slight problem here,” he said. “Margaret done took off again, but this time she did it right under our nose. I turned my back for a second and she was gone.”

“Okay, I’ll come out,” Boyd replied. They said good-bye and hung up. Frank walked to the back of the house to the bedrooms to get Ellen. It was a tiny house, cottage style.

Frank’s father built it after the war, and when he died, Frank left the apartment above the garage and moved back to his childhood home. Two months later, he met Margaret and her baby daughter, Ellen.

***

Margaret Fisher’s car, a vintage Buick, broke down as she was driving from Saint Augustine to Galveston. She just made it into the village limits when it started to spit, the engine sputtering for seconds until it died. She looked in her review mirror as it came to a rolling stop. Ellen was just two years old, in her little car seat, smiling and shaking a toy at her mother.

“Momma, go!” she said leaning forward.

“Nope, can’t do it. The car is broken, sweetheart. We have to stop here, unfortunately.” She looked around the dusty street and saw the line of storefronts, the gas station and the post office, and across the street, the blue painted cement block building with a neon sign out front spelling out Frank’s Garage. “Thank God, there’s a garage.” She got out of the car and opened the back door, reaching in to unbuckle her toddler from the car seat.

“Walk!” Ellen hollered squirming to get down. On the sidewalk, Margaret put her daughter down.

“You have to hold my hand, honey,” she said, gripping her child’s hand, the terror of a dream she’d had the previous night in which unseen forces, still vivid in her memory, took the baby from her. Ellen didn’t fight her, staying close by. Locking the car, Margaret wasn’t sure what sort of town this was, whether she and her belongings were safe or not.

Looking around the area, Margaret saw an old-fashioned place, quaint almost; a throw back to another time with a café in the center of town and a small, family owned grocery store crowded with locals, the sign out front; Family-Owned Grocery Store. She chuckled, first noting the women chatting with each other on the sidewalk and then, more sobering, groups of motley looking men sitting along a wooden bench near the entrance. They were waiting to assist shoppers as they packed their cars. She decided if she lived there, she could never shop for food at a place that hired such intimidating help, not knowing the men were indigents the storeowners allowed to work for tips. When she reached Frank’s, a customer was just leaving and he held the door for her to enter, smiling at her. Frank was still behind the counter.

“Help you?” he asked.

“My car just broke down, luckily, practically right outside of your door.” She pointed to the car across the street, and Frank came around to the front of the counter to look out the window.