The Girl of His Dreams Page 7

  “No,” Sophie said, and at the same moment they both reached down to quiet Zola. “She’s such a nice dog,” Sophie said.

  “Well brought up,” he said. “Not like her owner.”

  “Oh, her owner isn’t that bad.”

  Willis twirled his cap on his finger, then, impulsively, he put it on Sophie’s head.

  “Oh, is that for me?” She fooled with it. “How does it look?”

  “Good, but I’m not giving it to you.”

  She set it firmly on her head. “I like it. Maybe I’ll get one myself.”

  “You can’t. I’ve never seen another one.”

  “Where’d you get it, then?”

  “The guy I bought my Raleigh bike from gave it to me.”

  Sophie stood up and looked at the sky. “It’s going to rain.”

  Willis squinted disbelievingly. There was just a fringe of clouds in the west. “If it rains, I’ll eat my cap.”

  She rolled her eyes and gave him the sort of smile that made him think she was just a kid. “How old are you?” he said to her.

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Saying that means you’re older than I think. I think sixteen, so it must be seventeen.”

  “Guess again.”

  “Well, you can’t be fifteen, so it must be eighteen.”

  “Guess again.”

  “Nineteen? You don’t look nineteen.”

  “How does nineteen look?”

  “Look at me,” he said. He was eighteen, but he wanted to keep things equal.

  “You’re nineteen?” she said.

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “I thought you were older. I’m older.”

  “How much older?”

  “Older.”

  He took a wild guess. “Twenty-two?”

  She nodded.

  That was old—and interesting. A lot more interesting than sixteen.

  A breeze rippled toward them, across the pond. “The sun’s still shining,” he said, but the sky was clouding over. Then there was a spatter of raindrops across the pond. “It’s not going to rain,” he said.

  She handed him back his cap. “How’re you going to eat it? With ketchup or mustard?”

  The sky got dark and the wind started to blow hard, bending the trees. And then there was lightning and a slow, distant rumble of thunder. Willis scooped up Zola and they ran for the park shelter.

  A boy and girl were sitting on a table inside. The boy’s mouth was red and the girl had her hand under his shirt. They were just a couple of kids, about thirteen or fourteen years old.

  Willis pulled his jacket off and dried Zola. Sophie walked around shaking out her hair. It was raining hard now. The windows were blurred with water. “Don’t tell me it’s raining,” he said.

  “It’s raining,” she said.

  “Okay, you can be the weather expert,” he said. “I’ll give you that. You can have cows and horses and all that farm stuff, too.”

  “Also planes,” she said.

  “I get running,” he said.

  “And you get the city. That’s your department.”

  From the corner of his eye, he was watching the kids. Now they had their arms around each other.

  “What else do I have wrong about you?” he said. “You’re twenty-two and you’re a flying farmer. So you didn’t have to ask your parents about coming to the city.”

  “I couldn’t ask them. My parents are both dead.”

  “Oh, sorry about that. You’re an orphan.”

  “I don’t think of myself that way. What about your parents?” she said quickly.

  “They’re in North Carolina.”

  They sat in silence. Then he reached over and kissed Sophie on the neck.

  “You know what?” she said. “I was just hoping you’d do that.” And her face got red.

  When the rain let up, they walked back to her house. She lived in an old building next to a parking lot. “Do you want to see my place? I’ll invite you to supper. Oh, no, no, not tonight. I’ve got to clean up. How about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She nodded. “Come around six o’clock.”

  In the middle of the night, he woke up, sure Sophie was in the bed beside him. Half awake, he felt her breath on his neck, and then he fell asleep again.

  Seventeen

  Sophie Browne is upside down … gone silly over Willy. Poor goose, she asked him to come to dinner and now she’s in a tizzy. Fuss or no fuss? Do something? Do nothing? An elaborate meal? Simple meal? Prepare it now? Wait till he comes?

  She had wakened early and couldn’t go back to sleep. Her heart thumped; it shook her awake. He was coming. She was too excited to sleep. Willis was coming here today. Maybe. He was coming today. Certainly.

  Or was he? She wanted him to come. Would he? Will he? Will he come? Willy, come!

  Maybe he’d come. Maybe he wouldn’t. She’d been too eager. She hadn’t given him a chance to say anything. Yes, no, I don’t know.… I’ll let you know.

  She knew. It was no. No Willy. No go. Poor goose! Boo-hoo! Nobody’s coming to your party.

  “Poor little worried duck,” her mother used to say. Sophie remembered how she would make her mother laugh, waddling around the room like a duck, darting forward and quacking, looking out of the side of her head. Little bright duck eyes, her mother called her.

  Rain spattered the windows. The king of Spain stays home in the rain.

  Yes, he is coming, her mother said. He kissed you.

  Maybe he was just feeling sorry for me. He’s not coming—why should I do anything? Even if he comes, he’ll probably stay five minutes, then run.

  Now, Sophie … be calm. Set the table, why don’t you?

  Suddenly she longed for her mother, to be in her mother’s house right now, to see her mother again on a Sunday morning, making dinner.

  Bring another chair, Sophie, her mother would say. They’d make room for Willis at the table. Get Willis a cup, honey. Her mother never moved when Sophie was around. The mason jar of sugar would be on the table next to the economy-size jar of instant coffee. Willis would talk to her father and her brother, and she could sit there and watch him, and when he looked at her, she’d smile and ask him if he wanted another piece of white cake.

  She went to the window, looked down at the wet parking lot. A car splashed through the puddles. When Willis had said, You’re an orphan, she had wanted to put her arms around him and her head on his shoulder. It was true, she was an orphan. She missed her mother. She needed her mother. Now. Today. Mom, I’m entertaining a man. She had never entertained a man before. No, not entertained. Don’t say entertained. It was an awful word. Like detained. Detrained. Derailed.

  She was off the track again. She wasn’t going to entertain Willis. That was too stuffy, too heavy, too scary. It sounded like a burial, like she’d invited him to a funeral. Her funeral. She imagined herself greeting him dead. One of the walking dead, wearing a Dolly Parton wig, with a speaker in her chest. “How do? Why don’t you-all come on in?”

  All day she was like that, back and forth, like a water pump, back and forth, back and forth. She felt good. She felt glad. No, bad. Worse than bad. Scared. So scared she couldn’t do anything.

  When she finally stirred, it was to attack her head. That head! That hair! Like straw. Like something you stuffed in a mattress or put around tractor parts in a box. She hated the way her hair sprang out around her head. She had cut out an article in a magazine. Before and After, with pictures that proved it. Picture one—Before, ordinary. Picture two—they wrap a towel around her neck and shampoo her hair. Next picture, they cut. Snip a little here, snip a little there. Then the comb-out. Then the makeup. Then the miracle. Picture number seven—After. Ordinary woman is now striking, stunning, beautiful. Smiling, always smiling. A face that belonged on a magazine cover.

  Sophie looked at the first picture again: ordinary. That was her. Then she looked at the next picture. Snip a little here
, snip a little there.

  She got the scissors and went to work. Snip, snip, here. Snip, snip, there. Then the makeup Pat had given her ages ago, before she even married Floyd. A little blusher, a little eyeliner. She worked cautiously at first, and then got bolder.

  She stepped back to look at the results. What had she done to herself? She ran to the bathroom and washed her face. That part was easy. Her hair was hopeless. She put on a kerchief and tied it at the back of her neck.

  And then it was time. There was no time left. She went to the refrigerator, made some hasty decisions. A spinach pie? Would he like that? But she should have cheese. No time to go to the store. Brenda. She ran down the stairs. “I’ll return it tomorrow,” she promised.

  “What’d you do to your hair?” Brenda pulled the scarf aside. “You cut it. Hey, cute.”

  “Cute? It’s awful.”

  “No, it isn’t. I like it. Martin, look at Sophie. Doesn’t she look cute?”

  In her apartment, she made the pie, then mixed up a quick corn bread. If he didn’t show up, she’d take it down to Brenda and the kids. Nothing gone to waste. Her eye scanned the kitchen. It was just a work space, an ordinary room, her plants crowding the windowsill. He’d never even notice. He wouldn’t notice anything, because he wasn’t coming.

  Still, she washed the floor and put everything away. The table was in the living room. She’d bought it in a secondhand store; it had an enameled top and green legs. She’d found her easy chair right on the street. Somebody had thrown away a perfectly good chair. Ditto on the carpeting, a beautiful pink-rose color. She put straw mats on the table.

  The last thing she did was get dressed. She put on a flouncy orange skirt and her strawberry blouse. Was Brenda right? She took off the scarf, then put it on again, then took it off. She didn’t look at herself in the mirror.

  She started watching out the window for Willis. When she saw him hopping across the puddles in the parking lot, she got scared. He was here! He and Zola. She ran to do ten things at once—a flame under the kettle, the fries on a pan to crisp. Oh, that spider plant was in the wrong place. She had it in her hand when she opened the door.

  “Hello! Come on in! Oh, Zola, you’re here, too! Where am I going to put this plant? You decide, Willis.” Then she smelled the fries burning.

  Eighteen

  “Nice place.” Willis spun around on his heel. Books and magazines on a table, plants, curtains, bright cloths, light and green things and good smells. By comparison, on a scale of Bad to Awful, his apartment fell off the charts. “Very nice, very nice.” Ill at ease, he put on an air of slight superiority. The Inspector General, in sweats and sneakers, paced the room. He was still holding the plant. “Where do you want this?” But she was back in the kitchen.

  “You really like my place?” she called.

  “I do.” He put the plant down on the floor under the window. “One thing for sure, Zola, she can use a few more plants.”

  “What about my plants?” Sophie said, coming back. “Do you want something to drink? I probably don’t have it, but ask me, anyway.”

  “Water,” he said.

  “Water! Oh, that’s easy. You can have all of that you want.” She brought him a glass of water, then ran back for a glass for herself. “Now that you’re here, should we have a toast?” She looked worried. “I don’t know if that’s right or not. Do you toast with water?”

  “What’s better than water?” He raised his glass and touched hers. “Let’s toast Zola. Good health and long life to Zola.”

  She put down her glass. “Do you want the window open?”

  She didn’t hold still for a moment. Was it too hot in here? She fanned her face. What about the light? Enough light? She turned a light on.

  “This room’s about twelve by ten,” he said. “I paced it out. Just about the size of mine.”

  “Too bad we can’t put them together, we’d have one big room,” she said, and the tips of her ears got red.

  Nice ears, he thought. Then he noticed her hair. “You cut your hair.”

  Her hands went up. “Is it awful? Do you hate it?”

  “No. Why do you say that? It’s different.”

  “That means you don’t like it.”

  “No, it just means I’m not used to it. I haven’t seen it before. Give me a minute.” He shut his eyes, opened them. “Hey, man! You cut your hair. Looks great!”

  “He’s teasing me, isn’t he, Zola? Does he tease you, too?”

  “Tell her I’m always teasing and I’m always serious.”

  “So, do you really like it, Willis?”

  He got up and walked around her and took a good look. The Inspector again. Her hair was short and uneven, a little shaggy. He touched her head. “There are just a few uneven strands in back. Get someone to trim that for you.”

  “Brenda will,” she said. “My friend from downstairs.”

  “I like it. It gives you a kind of free look. A city-girl look.” Then, despite himself, he thought of Lee. City girl.

  The photo of a guy in uniform with his head shaved caught his eye. Boyfriend? Former boyfriend? He didn’t like the face. “Who’s this dude?”

  She took the picture. “Floyd.”

  “Oh. Your brother. I like his haircut.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not really.”

  Another little silence fell. It looked like she was going to run again. “Let’s sit down,” he said.

  “Do you like your job, Willis?”

  “It’s okay. Do you like yours?”

  “Oh, yes!” She jumped up and moved the plant he had put on the floor. “How do you like living alone?”

  “It’s okay. How about you?”

  “Oh, no! I miss people. Well … I do like having my own place. You’re not really alone, are you? You have Zola. She’s company.”

  “What kind of company is a dog?” He looked down at Zola, who was curled up at his feet. Good thing she didn’t understand English.

  “I should get a dog. I always had a dog. Did I tell you that before? Tell me if I’m repeating myself.”

  “I never lived on a farm,” he said. “What do you do on a farm?”

  “You’re never bored.”

  “Same thing in the city,” he said. “It’s exciting. Step out of your apartment and you can get mugged, run over, or choked to death by the smog.” He checked her out. She was laughing. He still liked making her laugh. “Yeah, my favorite smell is bus fumes, followed by fresh gasoline.”

  She flew out again to check the oven.

  “Smells good,” he called.

  “As good as bus fumes?” She returned with orange slices on a plate.

  The meal was good. She’d made spinach pie—he never thought he’d like that, but he dug right in. And there was hot corn bread with lots of butter. “Great meal,” he said.

  There was a knock on the door. “Yoohoo,” someone called. It was Sophie’s friend Brenda, a small, pale woman in jeans and a plaid shirt. “How’re you doing? I came up to see if you need anything.”

  Willis pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “Sit down, sit down, Willis,” Brenda said, as if she’d known him forever. “Willis, you like this place? You wouldn’t believe what a dump it was when this girl moved in. Sophie’s really turned it into a palace.”

  “You want to have dessert with us?” Sophie said.

  “Is it the tutti-frutti I gave you? No, thanks. I’ve had it up to here with that ice cream. Why do you think I gave it to you? I just wanted to meet Willis.”

  “Well, here he is.” Sophie’s ears were red again. Willis got a little hot around the collar, too.

  When they were cleaning up later, Sophie started to sing, “Ta-ra-ra-boom-dee-ay. We have no school today. Our teacher passed away. She died of tooth decay. We threw her in the bay. She scared the fish away. She’s never coming out. She smells like sauer … kraut!”

  “Come on, sing with me,” she said.

  On the last stan
za, he was yelling and Sophie was laughing, and he threw his soapy arms around her and hugged her. Maybe he could have kissed her—he should have kissed her—but he let the moment pass.

  When he left, she went downstairs with him. “Is your car here?”

  “Still working on it.” He paused at the foot of the stairs. “I had a good time,” he said. “It was really nice.”

  “You don’t think I poisoned you?” She was a step above him, her hand on his shoulder. Her arm went around his neck and she kissed him.

  Nineteen

  The gate at the college track was chained, and Willis jumped the fence. The sky had begun to clear. The moon went in and out of the clouds. He was eager, aching to run at top speed, but he held himself back, setting a regular pace, slow at first, feeling better and better as he circled the track.

  It was good to run … good to run … good to run. Good to stretch out, to break free. Thoughts flitted through his mind. Sophie … Sophie’s kiss. He could still feel her arm around his neck. No girl had ever kissed him like that, held him and kissed him. He felt the glitter of tiny chemical explosions in his stomach. It was good to run and to remember the kiss, and run and feel the track under his feet, and run and feel the damp air chill against his cheeks.

  He circled the track several times, his motions smoother at each turn, the beats of his footsteps and his heart indistinguishable. And then, behind him, like an echo, he heard another beat, the faint but steady slap of another runner’s feet. When Willis was on the straightaway, he was on the turn. When Willis was on the turn, he was on the straightaway. He stayed behind Willis, not falling back not coming ahead, either, letting Willis set the pace.

  Was it a race? The moon disappeared in the clouds. Willis ran steadily. He didn’t look back. Who was it? He knew and was afraid to look. Aaron Hill. Who else ran at midnight?

  The back of Willis’s neck turned to ice. Aaron Hill. Had the word gone out? Had Aaron Hill heard about the Midnight Miler? Was he checking him out? Checking out the competition? The Midnight Miler had announced himself, and now Aaron Hill was here to see what he could do.