Read Tied to the Tracks Online
Authors: Rosina Lippi
Tied to the Tracks (33 page)
Some time later Angie said, “Do you think anybody saw you heading over this way?”
They were pressed together still, John’s face against her neck, arms and legs intertwined, comfortably messy, warm, nerves still jumping. If she looked in the mirror Angie knew she would see that her skin was mottled from her chest to her hairline, something that would take a good hour to go away. Maybe she could blame it on heatstroke.
She’d have to avoid Rivera for a while, at least. And Tony, too.
“I’m too tired to worry about that just now,” he was saying. “You wear me out.” And then jumped when she pinched him. They wrestled for a moment and then she gave in, as she’d always meant to, when he got hold of her. She was trying not to think about time or work and was almost there when she heard someone downstairs.
John heard it too. He went very still and then all at once he moved, rolling off her and crossing the room in three long strides to turn the lock on the door. He looked so good standing there naked that Angie forgot to be worried for all of three seconds.
“Hello? Angie?” The voice on the other side of the door was not unfamiliar to her. “It’s Win Walker.”
“Win? What are you doing here?”
“The dispatch people sent me over here to check on you. I’m the paramedic on duty.”
Angie gulped down a giggle while John began to pick up his clothes.
“That’s nice of you. Tell them I’m fine, would you?”
“I’d be happy to. But first I have to check your blood pressure and pulse.”
John began to tiptoe toward the bathroom while Angie fumbled for her underwear.
“Angie? You okay?”
“Just a minute, I’ll be right with you.” She wished she had paid more attention to her clothes this morning, but then maybe a hot-pink bra held up by two safety pins and a pair of lime green jockey shorts decorated with poodles would distract Win Walker. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that the room smelled like sweaty sex.
She ran to the windows and opened them as far as they would go, and then she wrapped the top sheet around herself. Through all of this a sermon came droning from the other side of the door.
“Heatstroke is serious business, you know—”
“Is that so?”
“Folks die of heat prostration all the time. Down in these parts we lose a Yankee every year or so because y’all can’t remember to put on a hat when you go out in the summer sun.”
Angie flipped the lock and walked backward to sit on the bed.
“Come in,” she said, and put on her biggest, brightest smile.
He stood there frowning. “You’re not dressed.”
Angie glanced down at herself. “I’m more covered up in this than I would be in shorts and a T-shirt. I need to get back to work, can we get this over with?”
He pulled a blood-pressure cuff and stethoscope out of a bag. “Have you fainted again?”
“I didn’t faint before,” Angie said. “I threw up.”
“You fainted,” he corrected her. “That’s what Walker wrote on his duty sheet. He had to carry you into the house.”
“I don’t remember that,” Angie said, trying not to laugh. “I hope he was a gentleman.”
Win’s whole lower face twitched. “Stick your arm out here,” he said. “And stop trying to distract me.”
Angie had the sense that the best way to get rid of Win Walker was to cooperate, so she bowed her head in what she hoped looked like contrition and did as he asked. She put out her arm for the blood-pressure cuff, and got a look at his watch. It was just before five, and that meant she had been gone from the Jubilee for more than three hours. In an hour she had to be changed and ready for the parade.
Win was frowning at the dial on the blood-pressure cuff. “You been getting enough sleep?”
She tried not to tense, and failed. She thought of saying,
I got no sleep at all last night because I was otherwise occupied with John Grant. In fact, that salty smell you’re trying to ignore is more of John, who is hiding in that very bathroom. And do tell your aunt Patty-Cake I said hey.
I got no sleep at all last night because I was otherwise occupied with John Grant. In fact, that salty smell you’re trying to ignore is more of John, who is hiding in that very bathroom. And do tell your aunt Patty-Cake I said hey.
“Normally, yeah.”
“Your blood pressure usually on the low side?”
“So I’m told.”
“Okay.” He sat back on his heels. “You’re free to get up and go as long as you stay hydrated and out of the sun. Now I need to wash my hands and I’ll be on my way.”
Shit
.
.
Angie said, “Um, okay, but can I go first? I really have to. I’ll just be a minute, I promise, if that’s okay.” And she lurched across the room with the sheet wrapped around her. At the door she turned to smile at him.
“Thank you,” she said, reaching for the magic words that would take the suspicious look off his face. “It’s . . . it’s a feminine hygiene issue, you understand.” Then she opened the door and stumbled in, slamming the door behind herself. She turned, breathing heavily.
John stood at the far end of the small room between the shower stall—clear glass, no curtain—and a window, his face red with suppressed laughter. This in spite of the fact that there was no place to hide, and Patty-Cake Walker’s nephew was on the other side of the only door.
Angie turned on the water taps in the sink and then went over to him. “Either you’re willing to come out to Win Walker right now and admit you’re cheating on your fiancée, or you’re going out that window,” she whispered.
“I think Win’s sweet on you,” John said. “He wants your soul for Jesus but he’ll keep the rest of you for himself.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Angie said, trying not to giggle.
John grabbed her and kissed her, hard. “I’ll call you later.” And then he opened the window, chinned himself up and through it feetfirst, and disappeared. Angie watched him shimmy down the drainpipe and run off through the shrubbery, long and lean, the muscles in his legs working, which could not be good for her pulse or blood pressure but was a joy in every other way.
Then she used the bathroom—because that had been no lie—washed her hands and face, retrieved her clothes from the hook on the back of the door, and dressed as quickly as she could. All the while she was lecturing herself on the importance of keeping a straight face, making the right impression, and disabusing Win Walker of his suspicions.
With all the dignity she could muster Angie opened the door and found him still waiting, his expression closed and cold as he passed her on his way to wash his hands. Angie was trying to make sense of that as she went over to the bedside table to get her things, where she stopped dead. Dizzy again, but this time it had nothing to do with the Georgia sun.
Wrapping the top sheet around herself had seemed such a good idea at the time, given the state of her underwear. Now she saw—as Win had surely seen—a perfectly round wet spot in the very middle of the bottom sheet. Just to make things absolutely clear, a wilted, glossily damp, bright orange condom glistened against the cobalt blue of the sheet. A study in color contrasts, and the wages of sin.
John found himself laughing all the way back to the Jubilee. In spite of the close call, in spite of the seriousness of the situation, he was giggling like a girl, something that would have to stop.
He covered his mouth with his hand and bit his tongue. With some effort he called up images of Miss Junie, Miss Zula, Patty-Cake Walker. Caroline. That worked.
The thing was, he told himself, he had needed a rest. Even Miss Junie had told him to go take a nap. So he had gone to his brother’s spare bedroom. What could be more sensible that that? He sure felt a lot better than he had an hour ago, in spite of the fact that he had done a 5K run this morning after spending the night with Angie.
It was harder than he had imagined, having to field questions all day. People he barely knew stopped him, wanting to know where his pretty fiancée had got to, and how Caroline was holding up under the pressure, and wasn’t it just a bear, getting ready for a big wedding, and did he know how lucky he was to be walking off with the fairest blossom that Old Roses had to offer? This last bit of overextended imagery came from Missy Stillwater, whose sister Midge—he remembered with a combination of embarrassment and glee—had spent some time in the backseat of his car the summer he turned seventeen. John was very aware that every single person who came to talk to him about Caroline was looking for him to trip up and contradict the story that the Rose sisters were telling.
And still the worst part of the day was that he had to ignore Angie, which felt wrong in every possible way.
So he had fixed that. When Rob had told him that Angie was taking a few hours off in a quiet, private bedroom not ten minutes away, it had seemed the only thing to do.
Now Miss Junie would be waiting for him to escort her to the parade, and there would be more questions, of that he could be sure. He didn’t want to make Miss Junie wait, and still somehow he found it hard to walk any faster.
Like most of the matrons of her age and standing, Miss Junie had been watching the Jubilee parade from the corner of Main and the Parkway for the last thirty years. It was a good spot, just across from the university, made better by the fact that the Jubilee committee went so far as to build a raised platform. Every year Miss Junie picked one of her sons-in-law to accompany her there and get her settled. This year Miss Zula had decided to join her, so John, who had been given the honor, had both of them to contend with, chairs to adjust and readjust, and a sun umbrella to position.
At least it took his mind off the fact that Win Walker and Walker Winfield were leaning up against the ambulance parked down the street, arms crossed and heads bowed close together as they talked. He had got away from Rob’s without being seen, but still it gave him a bad feeling to see the two cousins in deep conversation.
When they first heard the high school band approaching, the ladies dismissed him and John loped across the street to stand with Rob and Kai.
“How’s Angie?” Rob shouted at him, and John had to be satisfied with giving his brother a dirty look. It did no good to lecture Rob, so he turned his attention to the floats, elaborate platforms heaped with bunting and flags and flowers in primary colors. Ogilvie was a socially active place and every club, league, and association had a float: the Junior League, the Garden Club, the Knights of Columbus and the Holy Name Society, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the Rifle Club. Every one of Ogilvie’s churches had some kind of float, some more than one. The First Baptist gospel choir went by in scarlet robes with golden tassels around their necks, followed by a whole battalion of Confederate reenactors in full uniform. John was just starting to feel more cheerful when the Basket Girls’ float appeared.
Miss Maddie sat on an elevated chair in the middle, her gloved hands folded decorously on the basket in her lap. There was a great blue ribbon rosette on its handle, which meant that last year her basket had brought in the most money toward this year’s Jubilee. The rest of the Basket Girls walked alongside the float, all of them dressed to the teeth. Rivera was in a red polka-dot dress with a tiny cinched waist that made her look like a very tall and exotic Donna Reed, and even Angie, John saw, had been talked into dressing up.
He knew with absolute certainly that the sundress she was wearing—butter yellow with a scattering of purple flowers—had been borrowed from somebody else and pressed on her by Miss Maddie. He couldn’t think of another person in the world who could have talked her into that dress, which made him think of talking her out of it, which was not a good thing to be thinking about just now.
Not that he could look away from Angie in a dress. She pulled at the low-cut bodice, fiddled with the wide brim of the straw hat. For once her hair was neither pulled back in a ponytail or hidden under a scarf, and the breeze sent the curls dancing around her flushed face.
“Wow,” said Rob.
“Very sexy,” said Kai.
Together they turned to watch the Basket Girl float disappear down the street toward the park. At the next corner Patty-Cake Walker was watching John, her expression all fire and brimstone.
Ridley Smith was a nondescript forty-year-old mortician who was also Ogilvie’s mayor. The only thing southern about him, outwardly at least, was his voice, which was deep and melodious.
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