SOMETHING WAITS (18 page)

He grabbed the yellow pages and began flipping through to the fast food section. Maybe even with all this lousy weather he could find a carry-out service somewhere willing to brave the elements.

He quickly discovered there were three types of carry-out specialists in town: chicken, Chinese and pizza. Of the six Chinese restaurants he called, none answered; too much snow for the Asians. Of the four chicken places only Chicken-on-the-Run answered and their next batch wouldn’t be ready for another hour or so—oven problems. Of the seven pizza parlors he tried, only Pepe’s Peppy Pizza responded and they hadn’t seen or heard from their delivery boy for several hours. Peterson hung up in philosophic defeat.

Normally, he didn’t care that much for pizza, but he was really getting hungry now, his stomach sending out little telepathic waves. And the longer it did the more ravished he became, or imagined himself. He’d have even settled for another antique bottle of Schlitz. He chuckled soundlessly in the empty room. His dad used to drink Schlitz, used to go to the market every week lick clockwork, buy cases of it along with those long cardboard boxes of smokes: Old Gold cigarettes. Peterson could still see the gold coins of the logo, recall the tall brown bottles of beer on the end table beside his old man, the blue skein of smoke hanging near the ceiling above the old black-and-white Philco TV.
Sea Hunt.
His mother never quite able to get the smoke smell out of the curtains. Yep, those were the days. The carefree days of ignorantly blissful youth. The only truly good days of his life. All gone. Like the bygone years with Glenda, memories receding to the darker parts of his brain, one day too dark to retrieve. His stomach snarled an incongruent gurgle.

There came a knock at the door.

He stood from the lump flea market chair, found himself grinning again. Marston, had to be. Who else did he know these days?

He opened the door to find the old man standing there in his lumpy robe, hands behind him, rocking irritably on the balls of his feet. Glaring.

“Mister Marston…”

“You didn’t bring it back!” The yellowed eyes filmed with anger, toothless mouth a white line of resentment.

“Pardon me?”

“I specifically asked you to bring it back within the hour! Is this your idea of being a good neighbor?”

Peterson was honestly stymied before it hit him. “The bottle opener! Oh, hell, I forgot!”

“I can see that you did.”

But he had it right there in his pocket, quickly produced it and held it out to the old man’s furrowed brow. “I
am
sorry! Completely thoughtless! That darned beer was so good it just slipped my mind.”

Marston drew a skeletal hand from behind him, snatched at the key.” “I clearly instructed—“

“I know. I really am sorry. Feel just awful about it!” And he had to stifle a smile. Crazy old man.

Marston jammed the opener in his robe pocket curtly. Then the wrinkled featured softened like warm taffy, the narrow shoulders shrugged. “Oh, well. Hell. Just a damn opener, I suppose. Not that important. You partial to chili, Mr. Peterson?”

Peterson could already smell the rich meaty odor wafting behind the bent back. In a moment the other knotted hand appeared around the edge of the robe with an unsteady magician’s flourish. Bony fingers held up a dish of steaming crockery.

Peterson blinked amazement. “Well…yes! As a matter of fact—“

Marston shrugged a rubbery smile. “Can’t hardly abide the stuff myself, not these days anyways. Heartburn.” And he cackled, winking. “But it ain’t stopped me yet! Here, take it. Made way more than will keep. Thought you might enjoy a hot bowl!” And he shoved the piping dish into Peterson’s hands.

“Mr. Marston, you are a mind reader!”

The old man made a scoffing face. “Pshaw! Jest tryin’ to be a good neighbor.” He nodded thoughtfully at the bowl. “Took me awhile with that, I’ll admit. Ain’t the pro I used to be. But I believe it will serve!”

“Indeed! Really, I can’t thank you enough! This is just what I needed!”

Marston wagged a gently admonishing finger, turning. “See that you bring back the crock, now! Within the hour if you don’t mind! Ain’t got what you’d call a well-stocked cupboard!”

“I will, I will, and thank you again!”

The chili was delicious. Hit the spot. The only time he’d had better was when Glenda had made it herself… but he wasn’t going to let his mind go wandering there again. He was too contentedly full at the moment. In another few hours it would be time for his antidepressant meds, maybe an hour of TV, then bed, and he’d have the weekend licked. That is, if this was one of those rare nights he actually slept.

After the chili, he quickly washed out Marston’s crockery and took it down the hall to I-E. He rang for several minutes but there was no answer from within. As directed, he left the bowl in front of Marston’s door and returned to his own place. He sat down in front of the TV and let it lull him toward sleep. It wasn’t long before he felt the acidic sting rising upward in his throat. Good chili, but spicy.

And he’d waited too long before supper to boot. That and the beer were producing a delicious stew of fresh heartburn. Naturally; and it had almost been a good evening. Combined with his usual insomnia over Glenda, it would be a minor miracle now if he got any sleep. He sat up in bed, holding his stomach, grunting. What he needed was some Alka-Seltzer to settle him down, or even some milk. Knowing he had neither in his woefully under-stocked medicine chest he pushed out of bed and went to double check it anyway. Found it as predictably barren as the fridge. Christ. He wasn’t a hermit, he was a martyr. He sighed at his haggard reflection. It looked to be a long night of tossing and staring. He bypassed the bedroom and flopped resignedly on the crummy sofa, lay there with an arm thrown across his forehead. There were new spider webs, he noticed, lacing the ceiling above. Maybe a fat black widow, trundling down here put him out of his misery in his sleep. His stomach giggled bile. Why didn’t he stock up at the drugstore like normal people? Easy answer to that one, Sparky, you’re anything but normal; you’re what we call terminally depressed.

There was a knock at the door.

For the strangest unreasoning moment he thought it might be Glenda out there in the hall, tears of forgiveness streaking her perfect cheeks. Sure. Right.

Peterson tucked a blanket around his shoulders and opened the door. Old man Marston stood in the dim hallway, floppy flannel hanging from skeletal frame, grinning. In his left hand was a glass of frothy, hissing liquid.

“Expected me, did you?”

Peterson nodded in casual disbelief and leaned heavily against the jamb. “In a way.”

Marston chuckled his old man chuckle. “My chili’s good but I do gets a bit generous with the spices and pinto beans! This should fix that scratch in yer innards! G’wan, take it!”

Peterson took the glass obediently, downed the contents in three gulps. Bubbly relief flooded him.

He handed back the glass, nodded his gratitude. Marston was studying him, yellow eyes narrowed speculatively. “Don’t looks so hot, Peterson. Getting’ enough sleep, are ya?”

“Not really,” Peterson admitted, though he felt he might now.

“Problems at work, I’m guessing.”

Peterson smiled weakly. “Not exactly.”

“I’m pryin’.”

“No, it’s okay. I think we’re friends now. My wife left me. Simple as that.”

“But not simple at all, eh? Widowed man myself. Know the feeling.”

Still? Peterson doubted, eyes drooping comfortably. Maybe he would sleep tonight.

Marston patted his arm paternally, smiled crinkles. “You brought back the kitchenware within the hour. That’s good, son. A good boy.”

Peterson shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, but it is. It’s a lot. It
says
a lot.”

“Does it?”

The old man’s expression evened. “Durn right. Means you’re a person can be trusted. And that means something these days, ‘
specially
these days.”

Peterson smiled sleepily. He suddenly recognized the odor now deep in the old man’s flannel robe: incense.

Marston nodded, appraising the other man intently. “You’re an Aries, I bet.”

“I am.”

Marston’s head bobbed enthusiasm. “Thought as much! Yep. You got all the signals, I kin tell! All the vibes, as the young ones say.” He stood there a long moment more that almost became uncomfortable before adding. “You get some sleep now, here. Things are gonna work out for ya.”

Peterson waved as the old man limped down the shadowed hall. “Thanks again,” he called, “thanks a lot Mr. Marston!”

“Always glad to help!”

He couldn’t sleep.

Not that the old man’s seltzer hadn’t done the job; it had. But all he could do tonight was lie there in the dark and rerun the same familiar home movies in his mind, the ones that always starred Glenda. Only it was worse tonight, worse than it had been in weeks; maybe feeling trapped inside by the weather, and the curtains of sleet outside reminded him of that final evening with her…or maybe tonight he was finally admitting to himself that she never was going to call, it had been his private delusion, ongoing denial; he was never going to see her again and that was the truth of it. And life without her really wasn’t life at all. He’d once known a brief lofty peak of existence, of golden days and wondrous nights…but he could never climb that beckoning edifice again. Never. When the very best of life is behind you, all that followed would pale in mocking comparison. And he was tired of the mocking…so very tired.

By two a.m. he had given up the idea of putting her sweet, smiling face out of his mind.

By three a.m. he had thought he might finally be on his way to a painless method of suicide.

At four a.m. there was a gentle rap at the door.

Something turned deep in his chest. He couldn’t image frail old Marston still up and about at this hour. Was it a special delivery from work? Had he been fired, too many days off lately? Whatever he imagined to find on the other side of the dark-framed apartment door didn’t prepare him for the shock of what was there. He pulled back the knob wearily. Looked into the dim hall and felt his heart stop.

Glenda stood smiling meekly up at him, eyes glistening. “Robert.”

He felt for a moment he might quite literally fall straight through the floor like some ethereal ghost…slip down into some other dimension that could only be another heartbreaking dream, another torture to wake to. He closed his eyes, jammed them shut a moment…opened them again. And she was still there.
Really
there. Not a dream at all. As real as the dreary apartment around her. She was
back
.

He couldn’t seem to find his voice. Couldn’t yet conceive it was truly happening. Yet there she was, there she was. There could be only one Glenda, and there she was before him.

It was she who finally broke the spell. She reached out a trembling hand, touched his chest tentatively from the doorway, looked up at him with the eyes of a lost child. “Robert. I’m…please…it’s cold…”

He shook it off instantly, flung the door wide, stepped back. “I-I…of
course
! I’m sorry! Come in!
Come in!
”

Arms wrapped tightly about her from the outside chill, she glided meekly into the room, turned shyly on threadbare carpet as he closed the door. Closed it and locked it. Locked out the night and the chance of ever losing her again. He could only stare for a moment. She was never more lovely.

“Glenda! I…--“

She rushed to him, pressed a cool finger to his lips, then moved warmly into his arms, held him, pulled him close, breathed into his ear. “
Shh!
Don’t talk, darling! Don’t let’s waste another second! Just hold me! Hold me!”

He held her. They wept together.

* * *

She pulled him toward the darkened bedroom, lay back on the blankets, golden hair spilling out like a halo about her. She held out her arms. “Please, Robert…if you still want me…”

If he still wanted her!

And it was perfect. In all the years he had known her, nothing compared to the next hour. Later, he would recall phrases like ‘total unity’ and ‘complete euphoria,’ but even that didn’t adequately describe it. If the poet had ever successfully defined the meaning of true love they wouldn’t still be trying, still, after endless ages past, endless ages to come, be writing about it. All Robert Peterson knew for sure was that life suddenly became possible again. And he swore to himself—swore to her—he’d never,
never
let her out of his sight. She silenced him again with her soft palm and snuggled tight against him. Outside the first visible stars in day shone brightly in icy clear sky. Tomorrow was going to be a splendid day.

* * *

“I have to go.”

He turned to her in the darkness, the shadow-swept bedroom. It didn’t register. Not after what they’d just been together, created together. “Go? Where? Glenda, I love you! I’ll
always
love you. I don’t want us to be apart again,
ever
!”