If I Could Be with You.

Gildner, Gary

THAT PEARLY EVENING when Sergeant Major George Prolly, ret., did not show up for dinner, down the hall in her office Mrs. Loretta Strictor, the director of Piney Woods Rest, leaned back on the edge of her desk just so, her blouse uncurtained, to receive the flushed face of the Reverend Jarrod Lutish; he murmured something she could not make out. Seated at the table where Sergeant Prolly should have been winking at her from his wheelchair, Miss Ginger Flambeau reached one hand to her tear-stained cheek while forking creamed chicken to and fro on her plate with the other. "What did you say, Jarrod?" Mrs. Strictor whispered, caressing the neat part in his lacquered hair.

Miss Flambeau had an idea, but she didn't have it clear enough to cry aloud. It seemed when she had journeyed down the hall to dinner that the DANGER door up ahead had suddenly slammed shut. Then she thought she heard George--outside?--shout, "Olee Spit!" Who was Olee Spit? Furthermore, that door was supposed to be locked, always, because, Mrs. Strictor warned, it protected folks from something terrible enough to suck their precious breath right out. "Jarrod?" she whispered again. "You were saying?" His response was a gush. "Cheeky, dreamy, evil, grand, oh Jesus, Loretta!"

Sergeant George Prolly, riding downhill, had actually shouted, "Holy Shit!" And seconds later, leveling out, crossing Highway 7 in high thrall, he added, "Men, we are in a scoot, attacking like hell!" His words felt rich and courageous, even profound, and for an instant or two he reckoned that the swordlike length of sunlight squeezed in the stunning weave of gray clouds on the horizon was his final destination, and he welcomed this as fitting. The ugly slamming sound of the DANGER door echoed in Miss Flambeau's head, along with George Prolly shouting again, and tears refilled her eyes, her fork abandoned in a mound of creamed chicken. Beyond the DANGER door, she remembered Mrs. Stricter saying, was a very steep slope going down, down to a highway that zoomed north to the cold heartless neighborhoods and byways of the nation. Where folks, most of them, did not know how to fall on their knees. Nobody wanted to go there, did they? No, no, that's right, Mrs. Stricter did not wish for any of her residents to exit that door and go tumbling down the hillside, attractive as it might be, thanks to their wonderful handyman Pinky Fleeter's fine mowing. "Madness and glory!" the Reverend Jarrod Lutish cried into Mrs. Strictor's cleavage.

So Miss Ginger Flambeau had stayed to her purpose right past the DANGER door and into the dining room, where gentle Mr. Sun was gracing their table, warming it, and waited for Mr. Prolly. Maybe tonight she would marry the sergeant. This idea made her neck and shoulders want to stretch, her teary eyes feel tender. She began to hum a song from long ago that had lovebirds and a nice brushy drumbeat and two horns in it. Listen to them! "Jarrod, we mustn't do this," Mrs. Stricter whispered, twirling a strand of his hair around her index finger, "if it's madness."

After George Prolly and his wheelchair crossed Highway 7, they were still traveling fast and bumpy enough for him to lose his false teeth and for the chair to achieve the woods next to Mrs. Marble's apple orchard and to keep going for almost fifty yards. It is remarkable that George and his chair did not crash into a tree or get snagged by a picker bush or just roll over like a doughnut, but they did not. And where oh where was Mr. Prolly? His absence caused Wilma the nurse's aid, counting heads in the dining room, to start wringing her hands, a habit that she knew drove Mrs. Stricter crazy but could not stop. She also felt a chill and hoped that their creamed chicken tonight had not been infected by any Asian birds powerful enough to invade their shores.

One extra cold winter night in Detroit, at The Flame on Woodward Avenue, Miss Flambeau recalled, a man with a large gap between his two front teeth sat in the front row holding an armful of red roses that were intended for her. She just knew it! Naturally she winked at this generous smiler when she uncrossed her feathers and peeked out. Yes, of course she loved to dance, you silly man. And what do you like to do? "Jarrod, did you hear me?" He moaned. Mrs. Stricter felt his tears on her skin. Across the room she could see their reflections in the framed aerial view of The Church of the Piney Woods Saints next door, the slant of the day's last light striking the photo in such a way as to cancel the intended image and mirror their actions perfectly. She rather liked it, and tingled. George Prolly felt something like a tingle, coming to rest, finally, in a pile of old leaves pushed together over the years into a nicely shaped bed that smelled to him like something from his youth on the farm. At first he did not make this connection, he was too stimulated and surprised by his ride--in fact, his heart seemed to be knocking, as if wanting free of his chest to continue the campaign alone--but by and by the tingle-like pricks on his neck and the knocking of his heart eased off, and everything in his personal machinery fell back more or less into line, and he took a long moment to gaze at and smell his new terrain. "Jarrod, isn't what we do just a little bit naughty?"

Miss Flambeau, looking off dreamily, whispered, "Ladies and gentlemen, today is Sergeant George Prolly's birthday. Let's give him a really big, generous hand for coming home to us safely." She whispered this so sweetly that the words seemed part of her favorite song. Not the one with the lovebirds in it--that other one. Oh, what was it? She began to hum, and then softly sing, "If I could be with you ... one hour tonight ... if I were free to do the things I might ..." Smack dab in a woods turning to dusk, that's where he was, and by God it was damn fine, the berries deluxe. Now he recalled his descent beginning just beyond the door he was not supposed to use but did because it was open and because he hated creamed chicken as much as he hated Piney Woods Rest and his niece June Prolly Gladdy for putting him there. He could still see her patting his arm and saying, "Buck up, soldier!" Then turning and walking off, shaking her fat hinder. But he had escaped! He was AWOL! No goop tonight! Yes sir, he was smelling ripe apples in a musky woods in early fall and remembering how good fresh apple pie tasted. He could eat one right now, the whole thing, and wash it down his gullet with a glass of cold sweet milk. Damn that place! Gumming and belching and gas-passing in almost all sectors, and Mrs. Stricter raising her voice for the hard of hearing: "Ladies and gentlemen, the Reverend Lutish will now deliver a few words of encouragement."

George Prolly made a fist and shook it. Encouragement? Was she crazy? The man wore perfume! And dyed his hair! And moved among their tables smiling like an actor on TV showing how bright his teeth looked after brushing with a curl of toothpaste that reminded George of chicken crap. Tonguing his bare gums, he shook his fist again, fie would miss all that tonight unless they came in suitable numbers and secured him with rope. But they'd better move quick; though he'd lost his choppers, he still had ordnance and knew how to use it. "Naughty, naughty Jarrod, and naughty, naughty, naughty Loretta," the minister crooned.

"Thank you, thank you, oh my yes, thank you," Miss Flambeau nodded her head. "Yes, I have always enjoyed playing Detroit, because he is always here, in the front row, the big galoot. Those roses? For me? You are too, too kind, sir. Oh, well, yes, at one time he was a major attraction. People said he could hit that ball right out of the park! fie even showed me his bat. Oh, please, you will have to excuse me now. I can't take it. My precious boy, my tall, tall tree. Cut down too soon from glory ... years and years gone ..." She quickly pressed her napkin to her cheek, glancing this way and that, fearful the other diners might see her tears and laugh. Wilma wrung her hands. She needed to send Pinky to find Mr. Prolly. They were both crazy, in George Prolly's opinion. He could see her pressing Lutish's hand between her long red-tipped fingers. They were in it together, like two dried dingle berries clinging to a sheep's stink hole. He had seen them emerge from her office touching each other the way people do when they do more out of sight. Did they think they could fool everybody? He would not hesitate to pump a slug in the polished toe of that phony bastard's black Italian shoe, if the bastard led the charge to recapture him.

"And where is the Reverend Lutish?" Miss Ginger Flambeau asked very quietly, trying to change the subject. Quieter still, she added, "My George does not like him, no, no, no," which caused her to blush, "although he does like how I sing and dance." Her breathing becoming more rapid, Mrs. Strictor said, "Oh Jarrod, where are we going? Where are you going? Tell me ... tell me." "I am going down on my knees now, Loretta." "For the pain, Jarrod?" He rolled his face against her like a dog rubbing its cheeks in something rich. George Prolly hawked up a gob and let it fly. They'd wheeled him into the church, promising he'd enjoy the singing of Miss Flambeau and the Calm Waters Choir. He went for her sake. She looked real nice in that white robe, with her golden hair flowing over her shoulders, but he was disappointed they didn't let her sing; she just swayed and hummed behind Lutish while he went on and on about Heaven, what it looked like in sickening detail, until George couldn't stop himself from hacking up and expectorating on the carpet. That nurse's aid with the bad b.o. came and wheeled him away.

Miss Flambeau took out a hanky scented with Evening in Paris and dabbed her neck. Surely she was in love. Just listen to her heartbeat! Is it Valentine's Day yet? Really it should be Valentine's Day more often. But where is her sweet George Prolly? Pinned down in a foxhole once, he had to piss like a racehorse. Couldn't raise up on his knees, couldn't do anything except roll over and let go on his good buddy Al from Hopatcong, New Jersey, who'd been dead all morning, picked off by a sniper. "When I was a girl, Jarrod, I would cut a lock of my hair and skip around it three times. Wishing real hard for my prince. For my handsome rich prince who could take me anywhere! Take me anywhere, Jarrod, take me." Miss Flambeau closed her eyes and made a promise: "Oh George Prolly, since you are so nice to me--and he is, Daddy--I will marry you if you want me with your heart and soul." George hated that greasy hairball, but he didn't hate Mrs. Strictor because sometimes, when he lay in bed, he could smell her, up real close, as if he had his nose in her neck, and he'd feel a flippy sensation down there where he'd almost forgot he had anything left to cause such a thing. You can't hate an inspiration like that.

The Reverend Lutish issued a long low rumbling growl-like noise from the back of his throat; he was still on his knees, latched to Mrs. Strictor's left nipple, the vein across his forehead clearly in full and splendid pulse. Loretta Strictor was reminded of the night-crawlers her father prized from the earth behind the pig lot when he prepared to chase catfish. Jarrod's vein also filled and shone that same bright purple on Sunday, having got all worked up describing Heaven's golden arches and lush greens, its white mink-covered recliners and perfect hair. When that vein filled and pulsed, and when he cried looking at her breasts, her body simply could not hold back. George Prolly did favor how women smelled when they smelled pretty like an orchard in spring, walking into a room all flushed from the hot sun, or bending over to ask could he manage another piece of fresh pie, apple or peach, his choice. Now there was a dandy deluxe situation--fresh peach or apple and a woman's front dusted up just a little bit with flour. Until Truman dropped the big one, that's the kind of dilemma he thought about real hard when he had the opportunity. Women and pie. And don't leave out church widows. You introduce him to a good sweet-smelling church widow who's still interested in bunky and he'll show you what he's made of. Miss Flambeau wet her lips, sucked her tongue. She could taste chocolate and champagne and something else she couldn't name right then.

"Jarrod, Jarrod," Mrs. Strictor whispered, "you look to burst." "I am so full, Loretta. You have no idea." "Does it hurt yet? I want to hear, Jarrod. I want to feel closer and closer." Mrs. Strictor never bent over to ask George Prolly could he eat another piece of her pie, but sometimes on those nights he was referring to, on the real down feather pillow he paid extra for, she would leave a smell behind that made him think--no, believe--that she had just been there to give him ideas. But all she wanted was what she wanted from Mrs. Marble: additions to their contracts. Her apple orchard, his big house in Atlanta. Hah! No one lived there anymore, not even that chinless June Prolly Gladdy, his only blood kin, but it was worth a bundle because it sat on land the developers were willing to yank out their front teeth for, or so it seemed from the way they pulled at their faces when they came around to beg. Here, take these, throw in these with the offer! For they are worthless to me without that precious deed. "I said does it hurt yet, Jarrod?" "The pain is always with me." "I know, I know. But I mean that especially good hurt that you say is like two giant rocks you must embrace and carry forever." "Loretta"--he looked up at her from his kneeling position--"I am touched. Through and through. And now I must--" "Jarrod, do we have the time? You are expected in the dining room." The Reverend Lutish whimpered. He pawed the floor. How could she hold him back? Developers! By Jesus, nobody was going to develop a thing on George Prolly's land because he was giving it to the Animal Rescue League. The League didn't know this yet. Nor that they would have to use it for League work, nothing else. Let Mrs. Loretta Strictor sneak into his room under cover of darkness and leave her smell on his pillow all she wanted, his land was just waiting for dogs and cats to put their smells on! Which reminded him, he had to pee. All that excitement charging down here had put some pressure on his bladder.

Miss Flambeau took out her compact and quickly powdered her cheeks. Then she regarded her eyes. Were they sad? Were they bad? Were they her Daddy's or Mr. Baseball Man's? No. They belonged to Sergeant Major George Prolly, her sweet intended, so please do not confuse her. "Jarrod, hold up, I need to get more comfortable."

Unzipped, adjusted, and now aiming at that sea of rusty leaves gave George Prolly a kind of happiness: he couldn't stand up and piss across the road anymore, but by God he could make a respectable arc. Truth was, he could stand up, with effort, though tell him the point when he didn't have any place of interest to walk to? No--he didn't mean that, exactly. He meant something else hard to explain. Put it this way: he couldn't just stomp his heel and bow and lead his lady around the dance floor anymore. His days of holding a fair hand, his arm around a sweet waist, smelling her excitement mixing with his were done for. Bend his ear anyway you want about the pleasures and rewards of old age--wisdom, reflection, not running the rat's miserable race, busting ass for another buck, any of that--and he'll say go straight to hell. Fact is, he can't remember right now what the thrill was to make another buck anyway. But to take a lady's hand and bow and lead her onto the floor with music all around like rain after a hot, dusty march was an entirely grand thing, nothing you could ever pay a dirty dollar for. And George Prolly--God damn you--began to cry.

Loretta Strictor got more comfortable by scootching back on her back and planting her bare feet on the desk. Jarrod had flicked out his tongue to show her what he must do; her breath had caught; now, comfortable, she waited for him to flick closer. If she could afford to, Wilma would retire. Her joints hurt, her back would never be right again after lifting dead Mrs. Marble off the bathroom floor. Why wouldn't Pinky answer! She knew he was in there, comfortable on the john with his magazine and his Dr. Pepper. She raised her fist and struck the door again. Suddenly she wondered--worried--did she lock the DANGER door after slipping outside to enjoy her Mint Patty in private?

George Prolly cried for everything he missed and would never see again or smell again or do again. And he cried for the crying son of a bitch he had turned into. And for the snot on his face he could not rub off. He tried to get at the .45 in the side pocket of his chair, but his shaking hand was useless. He pulled at his nose until it felt numb, like rubber. Finally he sat still. After a while he cleared his nostrils with a farmer's blow. Then straightened his shoulders. He wished he were sitting across from Ginger Flambeau in the dining room causing her to blush a little. The old girl was dying. He could see it. The more she tried to paint herself up, the worse she looked. He was a bum, a rat, for just hightailing it like he did, leaving her to eat alone.

"What am I, Loretta?" "You are a dog, Jarrod." "Am I a good dog or a bad dog?" "Bad, Jarrod. Clearly bad, bad, oh so--oh so--bad." She gripped his ears. Privately, she thought his tongue-flicking licking in the snake category. But never mind fine distinctions, she enjoyed Jarrod s, let us say, unorthodoxies no matter what he wanted to be. She also enjoyed their reflections in the picture across the room, and the room itself, the desk, their spontaneous, perhaps even reckless, timing. Why not? She was officially free now, a widow at last, her ancient distinguished husband, Senator Hector Strictor, finally achieving his cast bronze commemorative in the statehouse rotunda--and Jarrod was free too--so she could love him. Couldn't she? In fact, she wanted to tell him that--and maybe they could make their relationship more, you know ... because getting together like this made her feel so ... so ... but not now, not right now ... because oh my bad bad doggie ...

Oddly enough, Miss Flambeau was blushing right then and could not understand why. She looked so pale lately. She closed her compact, closed her eyes tight, counted to nine. Then she reopened her compact and looked at her face again. Why did she always count to nine? Nine, nine, nine. "Bang, bang, bang!" Pinky Fleeter yelled from his stall in the john, a copy of Travel (5 Leisure open across his legs. "Okay okay I'm coming, damn it, never mind my bowels!"

Exhausted by his tears, George Prolly fell into a brief doze that felt very, very long. When he awoke, provokingly rich pieces of his dream still spun slowly round in his head; he rubbed his eyes, then stared into the moon-dusk. He had died and gone to Heaven. What a surprise! Heaven started out to be the stage in his old high school gym, that dinky paint-splattered floor that May-Star Bondurant fell on, hard, crashing off a plank and breaking her arm playing Juliet. The plank was hidden by a fake wall that George had built; in the wall he'd cut a window so she could lean out of it and talk to Romeo of their love. George had fixed that damn plank to rest on two sawhorses and when May-Star disappeared from the window and cried out he rushed to her side and held her and stroked her long blonde curls and promised to love her forever.

Nine, nine, nine. It rhymed with mine. It rhymed with fine and line. Yes, of course! She danced in a chorus line. "Nine fine ladies, all in a line!" the m.c. sang, and out they came in their feathers. She must show George her feathers. For his birthday! "George, honey. May we please get married on your birthday? Please?" But May-Star Bondurant sweetly blinked her eyes and said, "Forever is too long, Mr. Prolly, I am very sorry indeed. You see, I have promised my dear mother I will take care of her when she can no longer walk in the cemetery to dispense fresh flowers on the dead." Mrs. Strictor whispered fiercely, "Faster, Jarrod, faster, faster!"

May-Star took her broken arm and her long blonde curls and rode away, leaving him to study the smears of paint on the floor of that empty stage. He blinked at the moon and shivered. He had gone to school with May-Star Bondurant and she had broken her arm, but not playing Juliet. She'd fallen from her pony, whose name was Prince. In the dream, though, when she rode away, she called her pony Old Moses. "Let's go home, Old Moses." Why would a dream change a sweet young pony's name to Old Moses! And have her break her arm in a play she wasn't even in! Only he was in the play; well, not really in it--he was the props guy. Some props.

"Please, let me explain," Miss Flambeau said to the other diners, unable to raise her voice much above a whisper. "Oh, please, listen to me! We were nine fine ladies, all in a line." But nobody would look at her. Because she was an embarrassment? Crying and wiping her eyes and crying some more? Was that it? Well, too bad for everybody. "So," she took a deep breath, "so I will just have to show my pretty feathers to Sergeant Major George Prolly of the United States Army. On his very special birthday."

"We mustn't do this, Jarrod, we mustn't, mustn't--" and Mrs. Strictor was on the brink of a beautiful, beautiful climax, almost, almost, almost there, when a knocking at the door stopped everything cold. Shivering, George went home too. His father sat him down and explained how to treat these old bones they'd collected. "Break 'em with a sledge hammer, boy. Crush 'em. Mix 'em in manure with sawdust, muck, loam, wood ashes, and anything else that'll work. Then cover everything with more muck and more manure, real wet. In time she'll ferment up nice as pie. Then spread her out in the field. Anybody wants to know what Heaven's like, boy, you tell 'em mucky bone pie. Jarrod Lutish appeared lost, confused, struggling vaguely to his feet. Mrs. Strictor wanted to know who was at the door. "It's me, Wilma. Something is awful wrong with Miss Flambeau, I can't get her off the table. But I finally located Pinky to go find Mr. Prolly. Today is his birthday." Miss Flambeau's on a table and that contrary old coot's having a birthday--or is Pinky the one having a birthday? This is why you interrupted me, you hand-wringing overweight illiterate dropout! Lutish felt a sharp piercing pain in his lower back and fell to his knees again. Buttoning her blouse, searching for her shoes, the director snapped, "Well, go attend Miss Flambeau! I'll be--I'll be--just a minute!" She could see Wilma thumping off to the dining room, nervously squeezing her hands, sweating. She'd fire the woman if she could find a good cheap Hispanic. "Jarrod, what are you doing down there!"

Miss Flambeau looked slowly around the dining room, her eyes flashing. She was ready. She had her silver dancing shoes on, her feathers in hand, all she needed was Mr. Prolly. Wilma was ready too--to grab the old lady's ankles if necessary. Some of the other diners were watching them, some were still feeding themselves, some were just sitting at their places, waiting for who knew what. Wilma's heart was racing. What was taking Mrs. Strictor so long? Where was Reverend Lutish? And Pinky? And Mr. Prolly?

A long string of saliva was just about to fall off Sergeant Prolly s chin. He didn't feel it. Didn't feel the night's chill either--he was too heated, damn it, over that dream mixing everything up: the play, the pony's name, the bones, and May-Star going away to nurse her mother instead of saying yes to him, yes, I will marry you, George Prolly. Under a by God full pearly moon just like this one, exactly like it, don't tell him no--and do not come any closer, whoever you are, because he is not going back to Piney Woods Rest. June Prolly Gladdy can have her fit, can shape her mouth into a round teethy hole like a sea lamprey, he is staying right here.

Put reasonably back together, Loretta Stricter leaned over Jarrod Lutish. "Tell me you are not having a heart attack." He shook his head. "Amah--amah--a muscle spasm." She patted his hair. The word spasm leaped in her head like a fish suddenly free, mocking her, as she turned to go see about Miss Flambeau, that old stripper, getting up on a table. God, she was so close. Wilma could not understand why Pinky Fleeter hadn't come back yet. She had especially wanted him to check the basement: basements were threatening dangerous places, not just damp and hard on your joints. Why an old man on his ninetieth birthday, in a wheelchair, would want to go down to the basement, even if he could manage it, made no sense to Pinky. He was still smarting from having his john time disturbed; he'd been deeply into musing upon an advertisement for Jamaica. "Once you go, you know," the Travel & Leisure ad said, and he wanted to know; he wanted to wear tasseled loafers and sip from a tall frosty glass harboring pieces of speared fruit, the almond-eyed tanned woman sharing his table clearly admiring him.

Did May-Star ever miss him? Did she ever cry herself to sleep at night after tending to the old woman? Did she ever wake up to a clear sunny morning, hearing birds sing, and declare she had had enough misery and loneliness, by God, she was writing George Prolly a letter to come fetch her! And he had been waiting for that letter! Day after day. For years. Until his legs gave out, May-Star. But he is still waiting if you can open your heart in any way. You don't even have to speak loud, a whisper will do it, his hearing is pretty good. You could maybe also lift your hand and wave. He remembers your waving hand, May-Star, was like a daisy in the wind. Then he dozed off again.

Mrs. Stricter told Wilma to take her hands off Miss Flambeau's ankles, and she told Pinky Fleeter he had tobacco juice on his chin and looked disgusting. Then she said to Miss Flambeau, "Ginger, honey, we've got the stage all set up for you now. The musicians are here, the beautiful colored lights, and the audience is waiting." Miss Flambeau, whose chin rested on her entwined fingers, smiled down at the director. "My feathers?" she asked. "Goodness, yes, your feathers are here, too," Loretta Strictor said. "I don't believe these people realize"--Miss Flambeau fluttered a hand to indicate the other diners--"that I am named after Ginger Rogers, the fabulous Ginger. So they can't possibly care to see me dance." Mrs. Strictor shook her head. "No, no, Ginger, they know, we all know, and we would love to see you perform, honey, but the theatre is full, there's not one more empty seat. I myself will have to stand. Which I will not mind a bit." She offered her hand to Miss Flambeau. "Let me help you down. Mr. Fleeter, please hold this chair steady so our star dancer won't fall. That's it, honey, easy does it." Pinky Fleeter marveled that Miss Flambeau's bare feet were not the ugly scaling horny scabby red things old people usually have; in fact, they were kind of pretty. So were her calves. She held out her hand to him in such a graceful way he felt his face get warm taking it.

George Prolly woke up feeling cold. Fie wished he had brought along his Western jacket with the fringe in front that Miss Flambeau so admired. He'd let her finger those strips of leather every time he wore the jacket to dinner. The last time he wore it, she said, "Oh, how I wish you were my houseboy, Mr. Prolly." She couldn't help it if she sometimes didn't close her mouth all the way and drooled. It was the damned medication they fed her. He let her stroke the leather strips because it made her happy. Nor did he mind her following him around like she did; there are some things that give some folks a little joy and don't cost you anything. Go to hell if you don't agree with him.

"Do you think you can escort our star to her room now?" the director said to Wilma. "My room?" Miss Flambeau said. "Yes, honey, to put on your makeup, to get ready," Loretta Strictor smiled. "And also," she turned back to the nurse's aid, still smiling, "can you please, please stop wringing your hands?" As she said this her eyelids, dusted a light lavender color, came tremulously down. She kept her eyes closed while Wilma took the old dancer away. She had a blockbuster of a headache coming at her. She wanted a hot bath, a neck rub, her soft, forgiving bed, Pickles purring on the pillow beside her. But she had to say something to Pinky Fleeter, smelling of tobacco gruel and oily hair. Keeping her eyes closed, she said, "Now, what about George Prolly?" Pinky cleared his throat. "Appears he is not on the premises." "Not on the premises?" "No, mam. I searched inside and out and even in the basement." "Why would an old man in a wheelchair want to visit our basement?" "What I said to Wilma."

The moon had gone behind the clouds some time ago, but Sergeant Prolly took note of it only just now, raising his head and glaring around to defy anyone to sneak up and surprise him. He was normally not a man to make a fuss in public. But when Mrs. Strictor and his Judas niece and even that house pet Lutish sandbagged him, saying if he wanted to leave Piney Woods Rest they could call in the lawyers to read out, real slow so he could follow, the contract he had signed, he was outraged beyond anything he had ever experienced. Their smiles sticking on him like ticks. Not even the sniper who had shot his buddy Al from Hopatcong, New Jersey, and laughed as he pissed on the poor guy's body got to him--got under his skin--so mean. Of course when they realized that his Atlanta property had not been included in the contract and they came to him with sweet talk, he was ready.

"Daddy? Daddy?" Miss Flambeau lay in her bed, drifting off to sleep. Standing beside the bed, looking down on her, Wilma decided she would quit Piney Woods Rest and go back to the Bide-AWee Motel and Casino if they would let her be in charge of the laundry room again and pay her medical insurance. Mrs. Strictor was too hard to work for any more. Plus, what she was putting Reverend Lutish through was a crime. Why wouldn't she marry him? She would. Wilma moved to the chair in front of Miss Flambeau's vanity; she had to sit down, her joints were on fire. "Daddy? George and I are getting married ... just as soon as he comes ... comes home from the war ..."

"The police? Jarrod, do you think I want it broadcast that I am not trustwor--no, I want to find him!" pacing, walking her headache away. Trying to. Pinky Fleeter led the Piney Woods Rest kitchen staff around the grounds; they aimed their flashlights at bushes and trees, they banged their pots with wooden spoons. Wilma sat at Miss Flambeau's vanity, stroking her hair with a silver brush; if they found her, she would look them straight in the eye like Katharine Hepburn, and say, You cant fire me, I quit! Her knees hurt too much to go searching for Mr. Prolly, who wouldn't talk to her anyway. Wouldn't talk to anybody except Miss Flambeau. And today was his birthday. They had that cake ready to bring out and everything.

Something burst in Sergeant Prolly's head like fireworks almost, a fierce brilliant series of lights and explosions of such surprise that they left him unable to speak, though he wanted to--wanted to take one more step and fall in those leaves and cover up. A big truck's air brakes blasted through the trees and picker bushes, clearing his head a moment. Then he heard an owl hoot. Another one. Talking to each other like sweethearts. Who-whoo ... who-whoo, they said, and down he went. Ah yes, he was tired. Keeping quiet under these leaves ... good idea. Exactly what he'll do. Go away now.

"Wait, wait. Perhaps we do want to notify that nice Sheriff Duane. Because, Jarrod, Mr. Prolly was receiving callers about that Atlanta property, was he not? You don't suppose one of them has, let us say, seduced that old man into leaving us?" Miss Flambeau was almost asleep, the sedative doing its work. Wilma thought she would try just a little touch of her lipstick before leaving. And she was leaving. Because she did not forget to lock the DANGER door, and was exhausted worrying about it, and was not going to hang around for more abuse from that mean woman. Jarrod Lutish, bent forward and supporting himself with a hand on the edge of Mrs. Strictor's desk, said, "When things are back to normal, Loretta, including my lumbar region, I wish to get down on one knee, and take your hand in mine, and ask you a very important question." She stopped pacing and looked at him. He appeared unfinished, not completely grown up. But maybe that's what appealed to her--besides having him in the business. She resumed pacing: she had other important matters on her mind. Anyway, why would she want to marry a minister fifteen years her junior who just might not be all there? Her pacing became slower. She was tired. And she felt ... bone-lonely. There went those owls again, seeming to coax the moon out from behind the clouds big and round and lighting up Sergeant Prolly's smile. "Good night, my prince," Ginger Flambeau whispered. "Good night, good night."