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                                        Chapter Four

Five o’clock that evening, the sun still radiant over the tops of the western rows of his orchard, Denny lounges in his Lazy-Boy recliner in the living room and, using the special green button on his remote, scrolls through a canon of programming.  De trop reality TV is dominated only by mindless sports and slothfully written sitcoms. 

            He decides to drive into Ventana Springs to rent a movie.  And to stop by Bayler’s Market for a new package of Oreo cookies.  He showers, dresses in a fresh green sport shirt and tan Docker’s shorts, evaluates himself too long in the mirror, changes out of the shirt and shorts, slides through the clothing in his closet, and puts back on the same green shirt and tan shorts; this time, though, he’s pleased with his good luck: he inherited his parents’ hardy handsomeness.  There are his father’s penetrating blue eyes, the broad flat forehead, the angular physique; his mother’s straight nose, wavy blond hair, full lips.  Perhaps too effeminate for lips on a man, but he catches some women looking at them longer than ordinary interest.

            He backs the Oldsmobile Delta 88 from the garage and heads down the mountain.  At the highway, he notices the station wagon is still parked under the trees.  Shadows darken the interior.  His confrontation with the girl finds the regret he felt before when she left without the food.  He wants to apologize, but he is afraid it will only encourage her to return.  He drives away, passing the station wagon without another glance.

***

            Since Bayler’s closes at six on Sundays, he stops there first and buys Oreos, another jar of Skippy and a loaf of whole grain bread.  Kay works the register.  He doesn’t know what to say.  The words he recited during the drive to town jumble like Scrabble tiles.

            “Sorry about Sam,” she says, dragging the bread across the bar-code reader.

            He plays ignorant.  “Sorry for what?”

            “Dumping your cherries in the trash.”

            All he can think to say is: “I won’t send a bill.”

            “No, no,” she says, “please, that’s not what I mean.  God, he can be such a pain in the ass.  If I get like him at his age, I hope somebody shoots me in the head—you know, to put everyone else out of their misery.”

            Denny laughs.  And words fall into a straight line.  “Guess what.  You’ve never, uh, been up to my house before.  You know.  I invite you to dinner.  Before you leave.”

            Her face freezes in surprise, and then melts to a warm smile.  “Well, sure.  Love to, Denny.  That’s very nice of you.”

            “Tuesday?  Seven?”

            “I can’t get out of here until after seven; can we make it eight?”

            “Eight.  Fine, good.  Eight’s better, yeah.”

            “All right,” she says, dragging the Oreos across the bar-code reader.  “Tuesday.  Thank you.”

            “Eight.  You’re welcome.  Great.”

            Excitement overwhelms him.  He drives out of town and remembers that he came to rent a movie, chuckles to himself.  No, you didn’t.  You came to ask Kay to dinner.

            On the drive home, he plans for Tuesday night.  What will he cook?  Lasagna.  And some garlic bread.  A white wine—a Chardonnay.  Before he realizes, he’s arrived at Cherry Road.

            Sitting behind his fruit stand in the big red chair is a woman in her thirties with short, scruffy black hair, a face strangely attractive—in a trashy way—hard featured, slits for eyes.  She watches him turn up the road.  He stops the car, feeling secure that he knows the right thing to do.  He attributes a change of heart to his date with Kay.  Leaving the engine running, he takes the bag of food and walks to the woman—who doesn’t move—and sees she wears a stained, light blue t-shirt with Bodega Bay written across the front over a background of the ocean, sea gulls flying.  Her blue jeans are torn at the knees—on purpose perhaps to be in style—and she’s barefoot.  He introduces himself.  She nods.  He hands her the bag of food.  Taking it, she looks inside, folds it up and thanks him.

            “If you still need gas,” he says directly, “I have a gallon up in the barn.”

            She gestures to her car and replies, “That’ll get that thing about ten miles.”

            “It’ll get you to a gas station.”

            “Need money to buy gas,” she says, head rocking side to side incredulously.  Denny doesn’t like the way she says it.

            “You say that like it’s my fault.”

            “I said it like it’s the truth,” she says.  “It ain’t your fault.”

            “Did Sharon help you out any?”

            “Who’s Sharon?” He points to the Sturtevant house.  “Yeah.  Can of tuna, some Wheat Thins, couple tomatoes.”

            “She’s a nice lady.”

            The woman nods with open disinterest.  Denny glances around, stepping to the side to look over at her car.  “Where’s your daughter?”

            “Why?”

            “We, uh, didn’t hit it off very well.”

            “She’s a little young for you.”

            “I don’t mean—what are you—I mean, well, we sort of had a little . . . spat.”

            She grimaces. “A spat.  Arlie doesn’t have spats.”

            “Well—”

            “What’d she say?”

            “It wasn’t her.  It was me.  I was tired and she surprised me.  I could’ve been nicer, but, uh . . . .”  He doesn’t finish.

            “You were an asshole?”

            Her blunt accusation rallies a platoon of defensiveness.  His impulse to get angry, tell her she’s an ungrateful bitch, kick her off his chair, off his property, call the Sheriff fritters away to “Yeah.”

            “She told me.”

            A car door slams.  Arlie, her hair still in the ponytail, strolls over as if she’s on a nature walk, eyes in the trees and sky.

            “Hi,” Denny says too brightly.  “I’m Denny Bringleson.”

            “I’m Arlie.”

            He turns to her mother.  She says, “Bobbie.  Roberta, actually.”

            He points to the bag in her lap and says to Arlie, “I brought you more food.  Sorry about this afternoon.  I wasn’t very neighborly.”  He glances at Bobbie, back at Arlie.  “An asshole, I guess.  I don’t use that word, but I guess that’s what I was—good word today.  Yeah.”

            Arlie stuffs her hands in her back pockets and says, “We aren’t neighbors, but you’re definitely an asshole.”

            “Arlie,” her mother says, chuckling, scraping mud from the cuticles of her nails with her thumb.  “Looks like we might be neighbors for a time, though, if we don’t get enough gas money.”

            Denny senses she’s saying something for his benefit.  It wouldn’t hurt him to give them twenty bucks so they could get home.  But maybe twenty bucks isn’t enough.

            “Where do you live?”  It’s Arlie’s snorts back.  “What?  Am I missing something?”  Bobbie points to her car.

            “That’s home.”

            “Where you headed?”

            “Nowhere in particular,” Bobbie answers.  “L.A., maybe Phoenix.  Maybe right here  in—what’s the name of this place?”

            “Ventana Springs.”  He envisions them staking camp right on his property under the pines, littering, mooching, maybe stealing.  He’d resort to locking his windows and doors when he left, something he never does now.  “How much do you need to get where you want to go?”

            Bobbie looks up at him.  “Two hundred.”

            Arlie adds, “But three would be better.”  A glance at her mother.  “Think so, mom?”

            Denny nods, already telling himself there’s no way he’s going to give two total strangers who think he’s an asshole that much charity.  “I can . . . I’ll give you a hundred.”

            Bobbie glances at Arlie.  “Okay.  I have to feed my girl.  It’ll sure help.”

            “I’ll go get it.”

            “Wait, though,” Bobbie says.  “I’m not taking any charity.”

            “I thought you—”

            She stands.  “I earn it.”

            He starts to ask how, hesitates, fearing her answer might embarrass him.  She isn’t unattractive.  And there’s nothing repugnant about her, except her gruff, blunt way of talking.  Still, he doesn’t want what he thinks she’s offering.  It isn’t a lack for wanting it, it’s . . . it’s that he doesn’t want the first time to be like this.  He can’t think of how to turn her down.  He’s never had this kind of offer. 

            She needs the money.

            He admits to that voice that her openness, the offering of herself for and in front of Arlie excites him.

            The woman—Bobbie—still carrying the bag of food, and the girl named Arlie walk to the Oldsmobile.  He follows silently, wondering if he has things right.  They get in the car.  Arlie slides over between Bobbie and Denny.  He drives up Cherry Road, feeling Arlie’s stare like something hot and stinging and glances past her to her mother.  Calmly, Bobbie pulls a half-smoked cigarette from her shirt pocket, lights it, and inspects the hazy, August sunset.