Warren Singer's forty-eighth birthday celebration was quite similar to the forty-seventh, forty-sixth, and forty-fifth. In fact, it was no different from the routine he followed every Friday evening. After work he drove from Sanford, Maine, up to Biddeford, stopped at Arno's Pizzeria, and ordered a large Hawaiian. Murray's Movieola was in the same strip mall. He rented two DVDs; one was a bonus footage version of the vintage Bogart film, High Sierra, the other was a XXX-rated opus staring the inestimable Candy Stripe. Back home in Sanford, stuffed with pizza and two bottles of Sam Adams, he was asleep on the living room sofa by ten, Miss Stripe and a bevy of nubile cohorts performing incredibly acrobatic maneuvers with rather well-endowed landscapers who had come to re-seed the lawns around their condo complex.
Since his parents' deaths four years ago, his life had settled into a rut he was not unhappy with. He was promoted to Case Supervisor for the State of Maine Social Services Department and transferred from Bangor down to Sanford, his hometown. There were five caseworker units under his supervision, four social workers per unit when fully staffed. He discovered that the higher up he went in social services, the less contact he had with people. This was an added bonus. He would rather push paper any day than interact with staff or clients.
Money was no concern. He inherited the house, his boyhood home, free and clear. He topped off the two-year-old Durango's gas tank every two weeks thanks to the new commute. Most of his salary went into savings. He had no interests that might subtract from any discretionary income, and he had plans to leave the department when he reached fifty-five. There were no women in his life. There never had been. There were no friends either. There never had been. Growing up, his greatest anxiety involved sitting by himself, whether it be lunch at school, a movie or a restaurant. He couldn't remember receiving an invitation to anything, but he suspected that he had not. Strangely, though, like someone with a disability, he adapted, walling out what people might think or say about him. A paperback book, usually a western, and a Walkman were his armor. He was a human armadillo. When caught out in the open, shopping, theaters or sporting events, he merely ducked into his tortoise shell and patiently waited until others went about their business.
Sex, however, was a problem. For years he considered a prostitute, but the idea of being caught, his name in the newspaper's "Police Roundup" column, the pain inflicted on his parents when they were alive to say nothing of his position in the state's bureaucracy, all this curbed his sensuality. Then, with his parents' passing, came freedom. The aforementioned DVDs and porn tapes were weekly rentals from a video store where no one knew him. Three years ago he took a vacation to Las Vegas, the first one in his life. The airfare was cheap and a decent hotel was his for a week at a reasonable rate. He didn't gamble but did enjoy the budget buffets and free drinks at the casinos. He spent five hundred dollars on his first sexual experience. It was an outrageous sum. The young woman, possibly Spanish, came to his room at 8:20PM and was gone thirty minutes later. It wasn't bad, if he did say so himself, for his first time.
The next two evenings he patronized the same escort service. Three nights brought three different women and three highly pleasurable interludes. He joked to himself that he'd finally found a hobby, something to occupy his leisure time and income. The only off-putting situation to the encounters was that the first two of the three ladies were completely shaved. They looked like little girls "down there" and his final phone call to the service specified that he wanted ladies with at least some pubic hair.
Vegas was now an annual trip. He could be himself out there, and he looked into area condos for when he retired. During last year's visit, he spent close to one thousand apiece for five nights of all night companionship. When he returned to Maine, his confidence was sky high and, looking around at the women in his workplace or just in his everyday contacts at the bagel place or cleaners, he thought about asking one out. When he did set his sights on a prospect, however, and the time came to pull the trigger, he always backed off. Las Vegas would do; it was better than what he had ever had before.
The discomfort he felt a few months after his birthday evolved into pain. He first thought it might be appendicitis, but it was way too high, near his rib cage. Antacids helped and, when he passed up his Friday pizza ritual, there was more relief. He disliked doctors and had been healthy enough not to have selected a primary care physician through the health plan. On Monday, though, he called Dr. Spruintz who took care of his parents in their final days. Fifteen minutes was all he needed to diagnose a gall bladder condition. Further tests would probably reveal a blockage or infection and the need for surgery. Until then, a complete change of diet might make the situation bearable, but attacks could come at any time. Despite a no fat regimen, he was much worse two days later, and Spruintz scheduled him for surgery the following Monday. He didn't go back to the office that Wednesday afternoon after hearing the news. He went straight home and took stock. The recovery could last as long as five days. Maine Medical Center was an hour away in Portland, but he would not be allowed to drive home. To top it all off, he had waited five months to have a contractor re-side the house, and he was beginning the day of the operation. There were his mother's birds and a cat, which he hated but had been reluctant to get rid of. They were another albatross around his neck. He sat on his couch in total despair. The operation was proving that, despite his efforts to live a self-sufficient life, he had failed. Towards the end his parents relied on him; he had no one.
He allowed himself the luxury of self-pity for the rest of the afternoon. He had three stiff drinks, figuring he could do no more medical harm than was already done. When darkness came, he sat down at the dining room table, a bit too expansive due to the Dewar's and made a list of people he'd ask for help. Those he was even remotely close to were his unit managers, but one by one he crossed them off the list for reasons that were both practical as well as impractical. They either lived too far away, or he knew they disliked him, having themselves been passed over for the case supervisor's slot he had gotten. He then went through the social workers in each unit he had under his supervisory umbrella. Some names he was hard pressed to put a face to. Just as he was about to close off that area and check out people in his neighborhood who had been close to his parents, he came upon Vera Hargrove.
She hadn't been in the department that long. She was an odd sort. Most of the new caseworkers were just out of college, but she was much older. He'd browsed through her personnel file when she came on board a few months ago and saw that she was forty and lived over on Kingman Drive, less than a half a mile from him. Professionally they only crossed paths briefly when he went to debate her approval of an exorbitant housing allowance. He hadn't mentioned that they were almost neighbors because he feared the idea of car pooling which some staff members were big on.
Since then, he hadn't spoken a word and didn't recall seeing her except for a few times on the way in to work. She was certainly close enough, he rationalized, to keep tabs on the siding people, check on his mail and papers plus handle the pets. He would pay her generously; say five hundred, even a thousand. And, if she could drive him home from the Maine Medical Center, it would certainly be worth it. The issue, however, was how ask a near stranger to do something that was so intimate. He got up from the dining room table and went to the couch where he thought about making the phone call any number of times, rejecting each scenario until he slipped back into complete depression once again.
The next morning he made it into work despite his better judgment. When the pain hit while driving, he knew he was a road hazard. He called the unit supervisors together and told them he was undergoing gall bladder surgery and would be out for the next two weeks. There were pats on the back, several "don't worry, we'll handle everything" and two who related similar experiences with older relatives. By ten he had taken care of the most major items on his "to-do" list and was about to take a pain pill when, as if by divine intervention, Vera Hargrove stood in his office doorway.
"I hear you're having gall bladder surgery."
There was a band of pain around his chest so he barely hissed out a yes.
"I had it five years ago." As if he doubted her, she hiked up her sweater armpit high to reveal not only her bra but, as his eyes focused better, a diagonal scar below her rib cage some five inches in length, running northeast by southwest.
He fought off another wave of pain and felt nauseous. "I need help."
She came over immediately, forced him to a sitting position and then picked up the phone. He put his hand on hers and pushed the phone back into its cradle.
"No, I mean help getting to the hospital and taking care of my house while I'm gone. I've no right to ask you because we don't even know each other, but I saw you live just up the road from me on Kingman and maybe you could help. I'd pay you for your time, gas and the like, but I'd understand if you said no."
"I'd be glad to do it."
He was so sure she'd have an excuse that he really didn't hear what she said.
"That's okay. It was just a thought; I'll find someone else."
"It's no bother at all, really. I can take you home now if you can't drive. Or give me your address and I'll drop by tonight. You can tell me what you want done and when."
Whether it was her acceptance or the fact the spasm was lessening, he didn't know, but suddenly he was feeling close to his old self again. He reached out and shook her hand as if to seal the agreement.
"The pain is starting to pass now. I'm pretty sure I can make it home, but, if you would stop by after work, I'll have a list made out and we can go over it. Be sure to set up a system where you keep track of your expenses."
She started to say something, and he felt he had offended her so he intercepted her protest. "I'll see you a little after five then, Vera. It is Vera isn't it?"
She nodded. "I'm Warren by the way." And, awkwardly, he shook her hand again.
She was late. It was after six when the doorbell rang. She apologized. She had run home to change before coming over. He had enough social wits about him to offer her something to drink. She took a rain check and sat across the kitchen table from him while he ticked off the items she needed to look after. He'd made a printout so it was all pretty straightforward: the parakeets, the cat, newspapers and the mail. The contractor might need an electrical outlet so he flicked on the porch light and showed her where it was on the bulkhead. The outside water spigot was just to its left if they needed it. She might leave the back door open for them in the morning, but it had to be locked each evening because there had been a few break-ins. When he was done with the instructions and tour, they made their way back to the living room. She took him up on his drink offer, white wine if he had any. He didn't, so she settled for Canada Dry ginger ale. She sat in a chair his mother always used. He decided that, if she were a house, she would be a fixer-upper by any realtor. There was a weight issue also. The bulky turtleneck sweater and full skirt camouflaged it somewhat. When she crossed her legs, he noticed they didn't fit snugly, forcing her into a figure four posture. She wore half stockings which covered her calves but revealed enough leg to see that she had not shaved them in some time. She wore the wrong glasses for her face, great round things which sparkled and changed color each time she turned her head. Her teeth were bright white, a positive feature, but Warren wondered if they were real. She stood to leave. He noted her ample breasts and recalled her "flashing" him that morning. Replaying the scene, he remembered that her bra was grey and dingy, not like the pink, lacy things that adorned his Vegas paramours.
On the Monday morning of his surgery, she was at the house in plenty of time. She helped him with a small overnight bag, and they made the trip to Portland in silence. Several times she reached over and patted his knee, assuring him that in a week it would all be over, a distant memory. She walked him to reception and stayed through the intake process, leading the clerk to infer that they were man and wife or significant others at the very least. He was asked who his next of kin was, who should be notified in case of emergency and was doubly embarrassed that he had no one and that Vera was sitting next to him when he admitted it. When he was shown to his room, he offered sincere thanks for her assistance, making small talk about how she would be late for work. She passed the matter off and gave his hand a squeeze before giving him a brief hug. There seemed to be a catch in her voice when she wished him well before heading out the room.
The surgery went fine. He went in around noon and was back from recovery and in his room by five that evening. He slept through the night, awakened only by the nursing staff giving him medication and running a few perfunctory tests. Around nine the next morning he came to. He was groggy, had a pounding headache and his side felt as if it was on fire. His right arm was stiff from being used as a base for the many tubes that provided him with god knows what fluids. When he got his bearings and adjusted his position enough to survey the surroundings, he saw Vera was scrunched up in a chair next to his bed. She was sound asleep, her head bent back at the oddest angle as if admiring some frescos on a cathedral ceiling. She made a slight whistling sound through her nose rather than a full fledged snore. He wondered why she was there. How long had he been out, days? He stretched and grabbed his watch from the night table checking the date. It was eleven o'clock on Tuesday the 12th, twenty-four hours after he had checked in.
There was a quick series of snorts loud enough to wonder if she was choking. The sound awakened her, and she instinctively checked her skirt to make sure nothing untoward was exposed.
"Well, you came through it with flying colors. Sometimes they can be cancerous but yours was fine. A Dr. Billings did the surgery and wants to make sure there's no infection so he thinks you'll be here for a few days."
"Why are you here?"
"After work yesterday I went back to your place. I was so afraid I'd miss the siding people; I slept on your couch. It's comfortable and all, but I never can get much rest in a strange bed. It's the new sounds—the refrigerator and oil burner kicking on are always the major culprits. After I got the workmen going, it's a nice color by the way, I was too tired to go to the office so I called in sick and came over here. I think I got more beauty sleep in the chair than at your house."
He pictured her on his couch, using his bathroom and possibly going through each room, pawing over his things. He tried to remember if he had left any porno DVDs out. Most of the time, they were sequestered in innocuous looking jewel cases that proclaimed them to be the silent comedies of Buster Keaton and early Charlie Chaplin. What if she liked that sort of movie? Rather than face her, he decided to feign sleep and hoped that, when he next opened his eyes, she would be gone.
By Friday he was ready to go home. He was down to two Tylenol four times a day for his soreness, had a decent appetite and was anxious about getting back into the old routine. On three of the five days he had been in the room, a huge bouquet of flowers as well as a bagel and fruit basket arrived. The card listed the "gang" at the office as the get well senders, but, as each day's largesse was delivered, the handwriting was always the same, and he suspected Vera was the true and only force behind the best wishes.
She visited him every day, bringing news and stories from the office as well as the construction men's progress. Driving him home, she chortled that he was in for a big surprise because they had finished up that very morning. There was an implication that she had browbeaten them into it. At least he could recuperate without the constant banging. When she turned the corner and pulled up to his house, he was stunned at the difference new siding made. He actually liked it. He had gotten so used to the drab exterior that he had never thought about it in any other way until some people down the street had their home done over in a light tan with yellow trim. It was perfect. Vera was quick to point out that she discovered some dampness in his cellar and asked the workmen if they could install rain gutters on that side of the house.
"I just batted my baby blues at them, and it was only two hundred more; they are the kind you never have to clean because they have some screeny thing over them. It's the latest technology."
She helped carry the flowers and gift baskets into the kitchen. It was spotless. He excused himself and went upstairs to use the bathroom. As he closed the door, he saw her nightgown and robe were on the hook. A clear plastic makeup kit rested on the counter by the sink. The room also bespoke her cleaning handiwork, the leading edge of toilet tissue folded into a neat triangle. When he came back downstairs, she opened the fridge and showed him that it was well stocked.
"The doctor said you need to change your eating habits so I got you things that were in the pamphlet the nurse gave us. We both could stand to lose a few pounds."
He nodded his appreciation and then took refuge in being weak. He went to the couch and sat. She brought the TV remote over to him and said she needed to get back to work but would return in time for supper.
When he was sure she was gone, he got up and explored all the rooms. His bedroom had been cleaned and vacuumed. The only areas that were untouched were his mother's old sewing room and his parents' bedroom. Other than that, there was evidence she had invaded every nook and cranny. He went back downstairs and sat on the couch for a few minutes before putting his feet up and sighing in comfort that he was finally home and over the ordeal.
He was sound asleep with none of the lights on when she rang the bell. He woke up disoriented still thinking he was back in the hospital and tripped over the coffee table getting to the door. He was on his hands and knees when she unlocked it herself and clicked on a light. She let out a little scream that may have started out as his name before she dropped the bundle she was carrying and rushed to help him.
"What the hell happened?"
"I'm fine; I just fell on that damned table when I heard the bell. I was sound asleep."
"We need to get you one of those timers that turns the lights on at a certain time each day. A bad fall could rip open the incision."
She helped him back to the couch, flicked on more lights and went into the kitchen. "I got us Caesar salads with sliced chicken. They'll be bland but there's plenty of roughage, and they're very filling. Do you want to eat in front of the TV?"
They dined in the kitchen. She kept up a running conversation about anything and everything. She was attentive. It was like having a waiter sitting at his table. When she thought his salad looked too dry she produced bottled Caesar dressing. His water glass was never more than half empty. When there was a brief lull, she bolted from the table over to her purse and the big carry all next to it. She pulled out something stringy and came back to him.
"What do you think of this? I can't stand being idle. When you were sleeping, I started this needlepoint. I know it's a girlie thing and men don't care much for it, but I wanted your opinion."
He tried to decipher what it was other than the Volkswagen logo it looked like. "To be honest it looks like the car initials you'd see on the grille of a Passat or Jetta."
"That's it! I just traced the design on a small, throw pillow cover and used different colored thread intertwined." She undoubtedly saw the confused look on his face. "It's our initials 'V' and 'W'-Vera and Warren mingled together. Isn't that prophetic, our own coat of arms ready made. And they are great cars too. Ed Wayman has one with over a hundred and fifty thousand on it."
She was still waxing poetic when he got up to use the half bath off the kitchen. He stood in front of the mirror feeling as if he had his foot caught in the rails and a train was bearing down on him. Waving at it to stop was futile. After supper she suggested watching TV in the living room. She cleaned up the kitchen for a few minutes then joined him on the couch carrying a glass of white wine, several bottles of which were chilling on the refrigerator's bottom shelf.
"You can watch sports if you want. I know men enjoy that, and I'm getting to be a big hockey fan ever since the Portland Pirates came to town. Maybe we could catch a few games when the season begins?"
"I still a bit logy, maybe you should pick the program in case I nod off."
"We should change your dressing then, before you're dead weight."
It was really no big deal to change the pad. He had already done it once himself, although removal of the old tape called for a bit of the old one, two, three and rip. He sat on a chair in the kitchen. He took off his sweatshirt and she gently edged off the old dressing, dabbed on disinfectant and placed a new covering over it. She kissed him on the forehead like she would a child signaling the torment was over. He went to put on his sweatshirt but she stopped him.
"Did I ever show you my scar?" She unbuttoned her blouse and let it drape open. She was wearing an off white, see thru bra with an exaggerated, lacey, floral pattern. She pulled back the sides of her blouse as if parting a stage curtain and pointed to the raised purplish mark he had seen from a distance in his office. As he looked at it, she reached behind and unhooked her bra which slid off as easily as gliding down a ski slope. Her breasts tumbled out. They were pendulous and pointed off to her sides, the nipples at forty-five degree angles. She guided his hands to her.
"Now we're equals in the naked department, I guess."
He had no words for what was happening. She backed away and walked him side by side, her arm hooked inside his, to the living room couch as if they were out on a Sunday stroll. She kissed him before sitting him down in the center of the sofa.
"I think we need to know if we're compatible."
Her skirt puddled onto the floor. With two thumbs she dropped her panties and, effortlessly, stepped out of them. He stared at her nakedness. She was too close. It was like looking at something under a microscope and seeing all its squiggly, lumpy-bumpy imperfections.
"I kind of got carried away when I was shaving my legs. I heard some men like the totally bare look. If you don't like it, no biggie, my hair grows back fast. I'm like the Maine weather, just wait a minute and it'll change."
She sat straddling him. Her breasts muffled his face. He fought for air and she mistook his pathetic groans for pleasure and responded in kind, leaning downward to kiss him. When she pulled back she was beaming.
"I knew we'd work together. I think it might be easier on you if we finished things upstairs where I can be careful not to bump you." She helped him to his feet, gave him a peck on the cheek and, naked, started up the steps pulling him behind her.
"What would you think about new carpeting? I'm thinking earth tones; you know, like the siding."