The Perfect Visitor
Lubrican
The Perfect Visitor
by Robert Lubrican
Bookapy Edition
Copyright 2010 Robert Lubrican
2nd Edition edited 2023
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Rights to cover art purchased at iStock.com
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter One
I grew up in the fifties and sixties, which is why I believe I have such an independent spirit. I'm sure there are those who would argue with me—my ex-wife would have been one of them. She always said I was an antisocial, cranky, irascible bull-shitter. In reality, I'm a really sweet guy who cares about people. Well, I care about the ones worth caring about. My motto is live and let live. If those who can't abide minding their own business like that were gassed, the world would be a better place.
I heard a few assholes slam shut just then, as some of you bleeding hearts out there thought, ’Oh, he's just another prick who thinks his opinions count more than mine, and who doesn't celebrate all life, like I do.’ Well, here's what I have to say to you: You're sanctimonious shitheads with no sense of survival or the natural order of things. And you're fucking up the planet.
See? I'm not irascible or cranky. I just tell it like it is.
Now that the airheads and what, in the good old days, would have been called pinko, commie fags have gone off in a huff the rest of us can get on with the story, which is about reality and survival - things genuine human beings have to come to grips with daily. I went to the school of hard knocks, and learned a few things. But you don’t have to go through the same class; what I learned, I'll tell a few potential friends for free. By the way, that word "fag" up there is just me, reporting the word that was used back then. I bear those in the LGBTQ community no ill will. All I ask is that they mind their own business, like I want anybody else to.
See there? I'm not even antisocial.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
One of three kids, I had a brother four years older than me and a sister four years younger. Dale, the eldest, joined the Marines and went to Vietnam. He came back in a body bag, and it tore my mother up to the point that it pretty well unhinged her. That affected the way she tried to raise the rest of us, particularly Wanda. I think maybe she tried to make sure Wanda wouldn't choose a man like Dale, whom she felt had punished her by dying thoughtlessly. I thought that was pretty stupid, but then most kids think their parents are stupid.
Wanda went with a guy named Phil all through high school, then dumped him when he announced he was going to be a firefighter. Mom said that firefighting was dangerous, and anybody who did that should have the common decency not to get married. So, Wanda ended up with another guy named Phil (it’s a common name), who couldn't have been more different. He's a psychologist now, and he can't help but practice his profession, no matter where he is or what he’s doing. I think it's kind of interesting that doctors and lawyers all "practice" their professions. Maybe it's because they keep getting it wrong.
Anyway, even though I'm not the psychologist, I’d decided that Mom probably had a mental illness brought on by the death of her older son. So I pretty much ignored her, and her advice…with the exception of the girl I picked to marry.
I should have been consistent.
I was dating two girls, and Mom said that Sherry was the practical one. So I married Sherry and as the years went on, she became a vegetarian (because cows have feelings) and joined Save The Whales (because whales have feelings), sending political contributions (of my money) to candidates who wanted to set limits on whaling. Stuff like that. I mean nothing has feelings after it's dead, so for me the only issue is: was it a clean kill? And if you want to save the whales, then stop people from killing them. You don't ask somebody to stop killing them and you don't suggest that they stop killing them. You say, "Look, the whales are my friends, and if you kill any more of my friends, I’m going to sink every fucking whaling ship I see on the seven seas. Got it?"
Of course that will never happen because of politics. Politics is why the human race will eventually go extinct. We didn't evolve any politicians for three hundred thousand years, which means for three hundred thousand years we were doing just fine ... getting better even. And then some motherfucker who didn't want to do any of the hard work decided he needed to be the first politician, so he could make decisions on behalf of everybody else, so they could keep doing all the hard work. And nobody saw the danger until it was too late and the politicians had passed some laws against killing them off.
But I digress. The point of this story is to share with you good folks what I learned from the marriage.
I'm big on vows and promises and all that kind of thing. A man's word is his bond. So when I said, "I do," I meant it. Sherry, apparently, thought it was negotiable. I didn't care what she believed or who she supported politically, but when she started giving me ultimatums, requiring me to support those beliefs, things got rocky. I had joined the Army three years after we got married, at which time she didn't say a word. Then, ten years into things, she got the equivalent of religion for an Atheist Liberal and demanded that I get out and get a real job that didn't involve murdering innocent civilians who just happened to be sheltering, feeding and arming the enemy. I think some of her new liberal friends were telling her I was a baby killer. It wouldn't surprise me.
So when I said I was going to finish the twenty years, she divorced me.
If I'd ignored my mother on who to marry, like I did on everything else, I'd probably be growing old with a good woman.
Sherry was married again within six months, which told me a lot. I didn't remarry. In fact, I didn't even go on a date for five years after the divorce. I had a hot little fling with a coworker, but office romances are a bad idea, so we called it off. Then she got transferred, and the temptation was gone.
Sherry was a sad case, and I didn't actually miss her all that much after a while. What I missed was her family, who I liked a lot. Her mother was a normal mother, and I liked her sister Debby a lot. I still get Christmas cards and the family newsletter from Debby every year, and Sherry's been gone for fifteen now.
Patience is rewarded. So those of you who have been patient long enough to get to this point will be rewarded, because, now that you have enough background, this is where the story actually begins. This story is about what I learned when Debby's daughter called me one day and asked if she could come stay with me for a week.
Actually, to give Debby a nod, it's about what I learned while Anna, my niece, was staying with me. Debby is an editor, and she can nitpick a man to death. She would be most happy to point out that I didn't learn these things when Anna called me, which is what she'd say that last paragraph implied. I like her, but she can drive me crazy sometimes.
Anyway, there I was enjoying my retirement, contemplating playing a round of golf, when the phone rang. I still use a rotary phone. My fingers are big and those itsy bitsy Dick Tracy phones nickel and dime you to death anyway, so I never got one. I picked up my heavy, substantial receiver, capable of being turned into a weapon upon need, and answered it in my usual crystal clear manner: "This is Bob. What the fuck do you want?"
"That's just rude!" came a sweet sounding female voice on the other end.
Because I had been without sex for a long time, I moderated my response to that, which would normally have been something like, "Why is it rude for me to ask what the fuck you want when you're the one who interrupted my day by calling?"
But before I tell you what I actually said to her next, let's just examine that last sentence a bit. Call it a nod to Debby, the editor. A lot of people would cringe if you said something like that in public. Why? It's just the truth. Wanda, and certainly Phil, would suggest that it's uncouth, impolite and crude to say things like that. And yet, they would say that if I altered my response based on my libido that would be even worse. Where the fuck did that come from? Sex makes the world go round. It's a biological fact. If it wasn't, we wouldn't be overpopulated like a motherfucker. In fact, the world is full of motherfuckers, which is how they get to be mothers in the first place. And the fact is that when I heard that voice I thought of a pretty girl who I might be more than willing to bed. Who knows? I sure didn't. Not then.
Now if she'd have announced that she was Mother Theresa, I'd have started thinking in different ways, out of respect for a woman who deserves respect for sacrificing her own pleasures for the benefit of others. It could be argued she was misguided, but the fact is that she had moxie and was twice the woman Raquel Welch, or Jane Fonda, or any other movie star you can think of was. Mother Theresa actually made some of the world a better place, even if other people kept fucking it back up again.
The point is, that's how men think, whether they want to admit it in public or not. We're wired to think that way by Mother Nature. So don't yell at me for being normal, okay?
I responded to this sweet young voice thusly: "You called me; I didn't ask you to call. You're interrupting my peaceful day and asking me to spend my precious time on you. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask you what you want in terms that might create a sense of urgency and brevity."
There was silence on the other end, which made me pretty sure it wasn't a telemarketer. They have a programmed and scripted answer for every eventuality, including "Goodbye!"
"I want to come stay with you for a week," was the urgent and brief reply.
"Really?" I was actually interested. Who on Earth - who sounded like that - would want to come stay with me?
"Really."
I had to give it to her, she took the brevity thing to heart.
"In that case, when should I expect you?" I asked.
"Don't you want to know who this is?" Her voice took on a tinge of uncertainty.
"Sweet thing, if you look anything like you sound I'll be ecstatic to see you, regardless of who you are."
"Oh." Now her voice sounded a little worried.
"Don't sweat it," I said. "I'm actually harmless."
"That's not what Mom says about you."
That kind of comment might worry some men, men who play around and take the biological imperative to its original levels, scattering their seed as widely as possible. That only works when there are too many women and not enough men. Once a cultural population stabilizes, that kind of thing becomes more negative than positive, culturally speaking. I mean the urge to be the alpha male is still there, but it can be controlled for the good of your future. It was one of the hardest lessons humans learned. Alpha males always die. Always. And they die a lot sooner than the Beta males.
"Well, if your mother told you I'm your father, she is sadly mistaken," I said. "I never strayed once in the ten years I was unlucky enough to be married."
"What about since then?" she asked.
Now that was interesting. This girl had moxy. She also recovered quickly. The male in me was still interested.
"Women don't seem to respond to my sterling qualities, perhaps because they refuse to look beneath my admittedly crusty and abusive exterior. I haven't had sex in over five years. You sound a bit older than that," I said. "Fifteen at the most, but still too old."
"I'm twenty-six," she said.
"Definitely not my daughter," I said.
"You have a daughter," she came back.
"Oh come on," I said. "You think I wouldn't recognize my own daughter's voice?"
"And you have two sons," she said. "Aren't you interested in how I know that?"
"It's not exactly top secret information," I said. "Now, are you going to come stay with me or not? It's a beautiful day and the golf course awaits."
"It will just be for a week," she said. "I need to spend some time at the courthouse."
"Are you a felon, going on trial?" I asked bluntly.
"Shouldn't that be alleged felon?" she asked.
"Technically I suppose it should be accused felon," I admitted. "But I can tell you right now, if you're all about being politically correct you're not going to enjoy staying with me."
"I'm not all about being politically correct," she said firmly.
"Well then we'll get along splendidly, especially if your physical appearance is as delectable as your voice."
"Perhaps it would be of value to you to know who this is," she said, a bit of a chill in her voice.
"Well it's pretty obvious that's important to you, so fire away," I said.
"It's Anna."
It didn't click. And I was in high-having-fun-flirting mode. Not that it's fun for the female I'm flirting with, but it's fun for me. I don't mind admitting it. The girls get to say no, so I feel like it's my right to at least give it a try.
"I'm happy for you, Anna," I said. "Are you going to stay in my room, or the guest room?"
"Anna," she said again. "Your niece? You used to be married to my mother's sister? Debby's daughter?"
Talk about tossing cold water on a poor old man's warm dream. I hadn't actually ever met Anna. She was born in '84, the year I got stationed in Korea for the second time, and two years after Sherry left me. I'd only seen a few pictures of her over the years, enclosed in Christmas cards. Was Debby still my sister-in-law? Had the divorce broken that semi-legal bond too?
The last picture I'd seen of her, if I was remembering correctly, was the eleven or twelve-year-old Anna, who looked bright and inquisitive and had a beautiful smile. She'd looked to be at that very awkward stage of life where she was so obviously female, but didn't really know what that meant yet. Some girls at that age are like a chrysalis, with a gorgeous butterfly inside. If you have enough experience you can tell what kind of butterfly she's likely to come out as, and you can appreciate the beauty of that butterfly, even though it isn't actually formed yet. I remembered thinking she was going to be a heartbreaker some day.
"All right then," I said quietly. "I'll get the guest room ready."
"Thank you," she said, her voice cool. Then, with more warmth, "I mean that. This will save me a lot of money."
"You're not in trouble, are you?" I asked, remembering her comment about the court house.
"No, it's nothing like that. I'll explain it when I get there. That will be Tuesday. Is that okay?"
That gave me two days to spruce things up. Not that I'd scrub the place down or anything, but at least I could police up the dirty clothes and dishes and clean the counter. Basic sanitation is generally a good idea. At least if you plan to entertain a visitor.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
On Tuesday, around eleven, I heard a car pull into the driveway and glanced out to see a seven or eight-year-old Malibu come to a stop. The curtains prevented me from seeing the driver, but I'd see her soon enough. I looked around the house again. All my porn was policed up. At least all I could find, which had turned out to be a significant amount of the stuff. Since I had taken up writing porn in my retirement, you'd think I wouldn't have so much of other people's stuff lying around. Most people are convinced that what they do is the cream of the crop, but I know better. There are a lot of people out there, both male and female, who write stuff as good as or better than I do. I just do it for fun, and to get off now and then. Anyway, I doubted little Anna would appreciate pictures of naked women in garter belts, stockings and six inch fuck-me heels lying around, so I picked them up.
The doorbell rang.
I opened the door, trying to put a smile on my face. It had been a long time since I'd tried to be pleasant, but I thought I was up to it.
I might have slipped just a little on the welcoming face, though.
What stood in front of me was female, there was no doubt about that. It was dressed in jeans with silver studs decorating them. The denim was worn in many places, clear through in a few. Above them was a T-shirt emblazoned with the words SQUEEZE FOR GOOD LUCK across respectable swells. On her feet were bright pink Converse All Stars.
But I noticed all that later. What took in my full attention upon opening the door was from the neck up. There was a shock of hair so pink it hurt my eyes. It turned out to be the same shade as her shoes. The hair looked lopsided, like it had slid over her scalp. On the right side it covered the whole side of her face, including her eye, while on the left there was bare skin from her neck all the way up past the top of her ear. That startlingly pink hair began there in a line that went up and over her head like a waterfall. It looked like half of a mohawk, except it wasn't standing up on top of her head. The edge of the bare ear glistened with metal that had been driven through the cartilage.
I looked down to her feet and back up. Somewhere in the dim reaches of my mind, the caveman that lived there said, "Yummmm?" Even the caveman wasn't sure ... and the caveman would settle for just about anything.
My eyes came to rest on the face, or more correctly, a little more than half the face. A single eye peered at me. It was swirling with colors, from brown to green to blue, an almost hypnotic effect. While the rest of her might be from a carnival side show, that eye was worth staring into. The nose, slightly bent, as if broken at one point and having healed badly, was above lush lips that were parted enough to show brilliant white, if slightly crooked teeth. They weren't hag crooked ... just not perfect teeth. The skin of that face was both perfect and unadorned by anything God hadn’t given her at birth.
All in all, I got the initial impression she was Goth, but had lost her makeup kit.
"I give at the office, I found Jesus decades ago, and I love my vacuum cleaner," I said.
"How nice for you," said the voice of the fifteen-year-old who wasn't standing at my doorstep. "I'm Anna."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I hadn't learned anything yet, except that she wasn't what I expected. Any sane man would know she wouldn't be that cute little ten-year-old I remembered, but give a guy a break, here.
"Sadly, I didn't get a chance to observe your development," I said. "If I had been able to do that I might have recognized you."
"So do I get to come in ... or is there something about me you haven't ogled?" she asked.
Ogled? I hadn't ogled her. I just looked. Who could help it?
"You don't gussy yourself up like that so people will look somewhere else," I suggested. "Where am I supposed to look when someone like you sashays up to my door?"
Now, I wasn't being flip or sarcastic. I mean that's why these people get themselves up like that. They want attention, right? I mean it's obvious. Why else would you dye your hair pussy pink? It's not like you stand around looking at yourself all day. Other people do, but not you. And you also don't dye your hair pussy pink and then expect people not to notice it. I wondered what her psychosis was. Debby seemed completely normal while I knew her. I couldn't imagine her being a bad mom. Debby was one of the few people I knew who actually improved on the air she breathed, instead of possibly wasting it.
That hair assaulted my eyes again, and I suddenly wondered if there was any other hair on her body that was dyed pussy pink. Then I remembered she was my niece and put that out of my mind.
"Mom always said you were cool," she said, sounding slightly annoyed, and making it clear that she believed her mother had obviously been wrong.
"And she always told me you were doing fine and she was proud of you," I countered, communicating the same concept.
"I am doing fine," she said.
"In that case, I have a couple of friends on the local police force, I can call one of them if you want to report the assault."
"What assault?" she asked.
"The assault in which some clown dumped dye on your head and tried to kill you with lawn clippers," I said.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't trying to be mean. But if you go that far away from the norm, you're obliged to be willing to take the heat. That's my motto. I was willing to take the heat for anything I did, normal or not. I'm big on personal responsibility. I had twenty years experience in enforcing it too.
"That's not what happened and you know it," she said darkly.
"Then the sorority sisters who hazed you should be thrown out of school and the sorority punished. There's no call for that kind of abuse."
"I bet you think you're funny," she said, looking me straight in the eye. "I did this myself and I like the way I look," she said. "Besides, it's none of your business, now is it?"
"It will be my business when the neighbors want to know why I have invited a psychotic drug addict, who is probably some Hell's Angel's backseat driver, into the neighborhood.”
"Is that what you think I am?" she asked, her voice suddenly cool.
"Not really," I said. "But the neighbors will. And they'll be all nervous and antsy about you, and watch this place like a hawk, and I won't be able to go out and get the paper naked anymore."
Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She recovered pretty quickly though, and those lush pixie lips turned up at the corners.
"You're teasing me," she accused.
I really didn't want to hurt her feelings. I mean she was kin, after all ... sort of. And Debby would be unhappy with me if I made her baby cry. Even if her baby was over a quarter of a century old and should know better than to alienate the eighty percent of humanity that was possibly worth leaving alive.
"I don't mean anything by it," I said. That wasn't true. I meant everything I had thought. But I’d learned to lie convincingly a long time ago. It's a valuable skill. I even went the extra mile. "Welcome to your temporary home away from home." I stood back.
She didn't just step into the house, though. She stopped along the way and gave me a hug.
You know those air kisses that silly people exchange? They have air hugs, too, where the only thing that touches each other are fingertips on the shoulders. For some reason they "hug" both sides of the body, just like they "kiss" both cheeks. It looks like an inane and meaningless dance of some sort, even when done between members of the opposite sex.
This wasn't one of those. She actually hugged me.
"Thank you," she said in that fifteen-year-old voice. "This is from my mom." Then she let go of me and started looking over the house.
I looked over her backside as that amazing head swiveled. There was a hole in the back of her exceptionally well-packed jeans, just below the right rear pocket. That hole was maybe an inch and a half in diameter, and skin showed through where panties should have. Unless she was wearing a thong. I only had real experience with one woman's underwear, and none of it had come anywhere close to being a thong.
She bent over to set down the small bag I hadn't even realized she had carried from the car and the T-shirt rose, exposing tattooed skin. I couldn't tell what it was, but it didn't appear to be a tramp stamp. It was part of a picture, rather than merely a design, and only black ink showed. It had been there for a while too, I could tell. Then she stood and it was gone. She started to turn and I looked away so she wouldn't catch me ogling her bubble butt.
"It's not what I expected," she said. "I thought it would look like a bachelor pad."
I didn't tell her she looked different than I expected her to, too.
I was about to give her my opinion of the dangers of stereotyping, when a bolt of blinding clarity highlighted the fact that I had been stereotyping her since I first laid eyes on her. It was a problem I'd developed while I was in the Army. I had met basically two types of people there. One was strack troops and family members who behaved themselves. The other was my customers ... those who didn't care what happened to others, took what they wanted by stealth or force, or had no conscience. They really were only about a percent or two of the population, but after arresting and investigating them for twenty years, and then testifying to send them to Leavenworth, one had a tendency to project a lot of their attributes onto more than one or two percent of the population. I was paid to be suspicious, but not of everybody. It was something I'd had to work hard to overcome, and one of the first things Anna taught me was that I hadn't completely overcome it yet. I needed to give her the benefit of the doubt.
"You have more in the car?" I asked. "I'll go get it."
"Do you read minds?" she asked, completing her turn. "I'll go with you."
Like a woman, she had brought way too much if she was only staying for a week. Unlike a woman, she didn't stand there helplessly and make the man tote and carry. She lifted what looked like the limit she could carry and staggered towards the house. During that process, I got to see another tat. It was a vivid Rolling Stone tongue on the inside of her right wrist. I admit I wondered what that wrist, and the tat, might taste like. Blame it on the tongue. By the time I got my load in she had already sniffed out the guest room. Hell, for all I know she was still a little worried that I might take her to my room.
I don't know about most men, but when my wife left and created all that extra space, I managed to fill it up with other stuff. In my case it was souvenirs of foreign lands, and old uniforms and equipment. I had clothes that didn't fit me anymore, and a ton of books and papers I kept just in case I decided to teach law enforcement at the local college.
So when I found out I'd have a visitor I'd boxed up some stuff to make room for Anna to store some things. It was only temporary, so I made her about as much room as the average motel would provide. I left her to see to her stuff and went to the kitchen to rustle us up some lunch.
When you've spent twenty-two years in the Army, assuming you're married the whole time, it actually equates to being away from your family and home for an average of eight years. That consists of overseas unaccompanied tours, schools and TDY (temporary duty away from your permanent duty station). I'd been in seventeen countries and had to fend for myself during those eight years. What that meant was that I could eat just about anything ... and would. Of course when you're cooking for someone else, especially a young woman for whom, as far as I knew, sushi was an exotic dish, you don't go for the roasted Australian grub, or monkey brains, or even skunk or rattlesnake.
I fixed us mac and cheese, with celery loaded down with peanut butter and raisins. I also stirred up a pitcher of pink lemonade. I set it out on the table and waited.
She wandered in about ten minutes later.
"All the drawers and closets are already full of stuff," she said.
"Actually, I cleaned out two drawers and a quarter of one closet," I said.
"And that took care of about half my things," she informed me.
"Be right there," I said.
"And do you have a broom? There are dust bunnies everywhere."
"A man has to have pets," I growled. But I got her the broom and dust pan. I wondered if she'd dust off the dust pan first. It was pretty dusty already.
I found some more boxes and cleaned out two more drawers. I just moved two handfuls of hanging clothes to my own closet.
"You have a lot of stuff," she commented.
"This is America, I'm allowed," I said.
"I just don't understand why guys want to collect so much junk."
"It's for the same reason a man buys a roll of duct tape, thinking it would be a great thing to gag a noisy woman with. It just seems like a good idea at the time," I said.
"Do you want me to leave?" she asked, getting upset. "Because I'll be happy to leave, if that's what you want. All I was trying to do was save some money. I'm not rich and I just thought ..." She didn't finish. Thank God she didn't cry. Crying women are one of my weak points.
"Hey," I said, reaching out to touch her elbow. "Ignore me most of the time. It's been a long time since I was civil to anybody, and even longer since I had family around. I'm just not used to it yet."
"I'll leave if you want me to," she said again. I thought that was interesting, because her body was poised to fight, not flee.
"I don't want you to leave," I said. "I've been looking forward to having you here. You just can't tell it because I'm a cranky, irascible old man."
"You can say that again," she mumbled.
"What?" I cupped an ear, deciding to test her. "Frequent gunfire has taken its toll on my hearing, but it isn't too bad as long as people speak clearly," I said.
"If you're sure it's all right," she said, clearly.
I grinned. She'd handled her embarrassment well.
What was more interesting was that she still wanted to stay.
Chapter Two
"Thirty seconds in the microwave and it will be fine," I said, reaching for her plate of congealed mac and cheese.
She ate like foreigners usually eat when they come to America - slowly and carefully, as though what they're eating might explode at any second. She didn't look like a carnivore, but I reminded myself that I'd already stereotyped her once, and she'd probably make her wishes known. If not, she'd eat what I served her or nothing at all.
"So, tell me about what happened all those years I didn't get to watch you grow up," I suggested.
She took a tiny bite. She actually bit a single macaroni elbow in half and chewed thoughtfully.
"I don't know. I read a lot, and went roller skating and rode my bike a lot. I went to high school and graduated. I couldn't afford to go to college, and I met this guy and did stupid things and had a little boy. He's six now, and will start second grade this fall. His name is Spencer. That's pretty much it."
"Hmmm," I said. "Twenty-six years summed up in seven sentences. I was hoping for a bit more detail."
"My life has been boring," she said. She started picking the raisins off of the ants-on-a-log and putting them on the edge of her plate. I reached for them and popped them in my mouth. "Sorry," she said. "I don't like raisins."
"Everyone has a flaw or two," I said. "Not liking raisins is a pretty harmless one."
"It's not a flaw, I just don't like them."
"Anna, dear, if you keep getting upset at the things I say, you're going to spend a lot of your time here upset, and that could make you break out and destroy that glorious skin on your face. We wouldn't want that, now would we?"
"You could just not talk," she suggested, deadpan. I honestly didn't know if she was joking or not.
"Never happen," I said. "Besides, I suspect most men babble around you."
"No they don't," she said.
I sighed. "Do you ever agree with anybody?"
"When they say something that makes sense ... yes, I do."
It was beginning to appear as though this completely unconventional, wild and crazy, throw-her-differences-in-your-face woman wasn't as unconventional or wild and crazy as she looked.
I decided this might be an interesting visit after all.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"So, you're divorced," I said.
We were sitting in the living room. There was still a sense of strain in our budding relationship.
"I didn't say that," she said, looking at me out of that one exposed eye. I thought of sheep dogs.
I let my eyes drift to take in her whole body. She was sitting in an overstuffed chair, leaning on one arm with her legs drawn up under her. It was a singularly feminine position. I could see her nipples pushing through the T-shirt.
"You said you made mistakes and had Spencer," I said. "Perhaps I jumped to a conclusion."
"Perhaps," she said. I was astonished that she'd actually agreed with something I had said. "I'm not the marrying kind," she added.
"I see."
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"I understand. You're not the marrying kind," I said.
"Do you have any alcohol?" she asked.
I was a little taken aback at the sudden subject change. "Not at the moment," I said. "Should I get some?"
"No," she said. "I don't drink. Well, not usually. I like some ales and flavored beers. And I get wasted once in a while, but I usually wish I hadn't."
"So you were thinking about getting wasted, but now you can't, and that's a good thing," I said.
"Something like that," she said.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
"I told you," she said, looking up at me. "It will save me some money."
"I mean why did you need to come here in the first place?" I asked.
"Oh that," she said. "I got interested in genealogy, and Mom didn't know a whole lot, except that her side of the family was here for a long time, and came here from Pennsylvania. I did some research online about exposing one's roots and one of the recommendations was to go through old property and marriage records at what's called a nexus. This is a nexus for our family. The idea is that the records sometimes contain information that can lead you backwards to another nexus, and on and on."
"Really," I said, grinning.
"Yes, really," she said. "Why are you smiling? Do you think that's funny?"
"Not at all," I said. "I just think it's interesting. While I was in the Army I did something like that. Whenever I was overseas, I tried to find evidence of our ancestors. I'm pretty sure I hit pay dirt in Germany, but I've never had the time to make the bridge between here and there."
"You're kidding!" she said, leaning forward.
"Not at all. Some of it is on Sherry's side—your side—of the family. Want to see my notebooks?"
"Of course I do!" she yipped, unfolding her legs and jumping to her feet.
"Attic," I said. "Follow me."
It was late afternoon by then, in July, and the attic was an oven. I'd insulated below there, but I hadn't gone to the trouble of insulating the roof itself. I was sweating freely within fifteen seconds of climbing through the trap door. Anna followed and exclaimed about the heat. The box containing my genealogy notebooks was on the bottom of a stack, of course, and dust flew as I moved the other boxes rapidly. She sneezed as I unfolded the lid of the genealogy box and peered inside. My genealogical research had always been a hobby at best, and a low priority one at that. When I got into it I did as much as I could. When a vein of information was mined out I usually lost interest for a while. I grabbed the three spiral bound notebooks and turned around.
Anna was fanning herself with her T shirt, held at the waist. She had raised it high enough that I could see the undersides of her naked breasts as she moved the material. I stopped and stared. The tantalizing edges of her breast flesh, above a flat, slim belly and the beginnings of the swell of her hips, were also singularly female in appearance. It wasn't at odds with her "look" necessarily. It was just that what she showed the world on the outside tended to distract the viewer from the fact that she had all the parts of an attractive woman underneath.
"What?" she asked, staring at me. "It's fucking hot in here!"
I don't know what made me say it. It just slipped out. "You could just take it off," I suggested.
Her hands stopped for a few seconds, and then waved the cloth ... lower ... more slowly.
"Are you a dirty old man, Uncle Bob?" she asked. Her tone wasn't angry. In fact I couldn't quite nail down exactly what her tone was, which was odd because I was usually pretty good at reading people's emotions.
"Have been for years," I said. I was trying to joke and lessen any strain I might have caused. I didn't know if I actually liked this girl or not, but I did know that she didn't set off any of the bells, whistles or radar that would make me wish she was gone. I know that sounds counterintuitive, but that's the way my mind works. It is still tuned to spotting the problem person, even though I retired from law enforcement years ago. "All men are," I added.