50 Years Waiting, Page 4

closed the phone. She looked to the ragged grass, broken fence, the outbuilding which wasn’t large enough to call a barn. When she was younger, she had necked with Thom in that structure. Then with Carl, maybe they even made one of their girls in there. She had been more careful with Thom, but they hadn’t been married.

  He had never asked, not that she would have said yes. Her mother would have thrown a fit, then her father would have run him out of town. Her daddy didn’t get upset easily, but if Thom had actually proposed… Just like the fit that Juss threw, Andrea sighed.

  She stepped back into the house, hearing Thom’s snores. Setting the phone on the counter, she opened the fridge; enough milk for another day, and she could get out a jar of spaghetti sauce, add some chopped onions to it, making pasta for dinner. Thom had wolfed two peanut butter and jellies at lunch, a large glass of milk washing them down. Was he hungry from years of slumber, or just his usual hearty appetite?

  She would see what he ate at dinner, wished she had some hamburger for the sauce. He had been a meat and potatoes man years before, but times weren’t that way anymore. She looked at the clock, nearly three. If he slept much longer, he might not easily fall asleep later, and Andrea didn’t want him roaming the house after she went to bed.

  “Thom, honey.” Her voice was soft, then increased as she approached the sofa. “Wake up sleepyhead.”

  He snorted, rolled to his side, then blinked. His eyes went wide, his mouth open. Andrea eased next to him, taking his hand. “Honey, it’s all right, you just had a nap.”

  He burrowed into her, and she gasped, then let him continue. When he looked up, he wore a small smile. “God, for a minute, I didn’t know where the hell I was again.”

  “You might wake like that for a while.”

  “Mmmhmm.” He nestled into her side, then kissed her through her clothes. She giggled.

  He continued those gentle motions. Andrea closed her eyes. She might be in her early seventies, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t desire a little affection. That was all he offered, then he sat up. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly three. You mind pasta for dinner?”

  “Pasta?”

  “You know, spaghetti. With sauce.”

  “Like last night?”

  She smiled. “Actually, not as nice as last night. No meat, but I’ll put some onions in it.”

  “What, you don’t eat meat anymore?”

  “I just like Italian food.”

  “Was he a wop?”

  She smiled. “No. Just hated pasta. I eat it all the time now.”

  He nodded, then looked grim. “How long’s he been gone?”

  “Ten years. Died of a heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  He stroked her hands. “You been with anyone since?”

  She laughed. “Oh, I got several boyfriends. They all take turns, I never get any sleep.”

  One eyebrow rose, then he smiled. “You still got a sense of humor.”

  “I still do, just a little dryer now.”

  He gazed at her face, sometimes catching her eyes, but he took his time. Then he gripped her fingers. “Did you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he good to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever…” He paused, then brought her hands to his lips, kissing them.

  “Did I ever what Thom?”

  “Think of me?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, then gently squeezed her hands. “Funny seeing your granddaughter. Hell, it’s funny saying that. You got a granddaughter Andy.”

  “I have a few of them.”

  “And two grandsons. Both would like to beat the shit right outta me,” he smiled.

  “Yes they would, Juss especially. Anthony’s not quite twenty yet, but Juss is…” She cleared her throat. “He’s just a few years younger than you.”

  Thom had been ready to chuckle, but he stopped, then traced her fingers. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why me?”

  “Why you what?”

  He stared at her. “Andy…”

  “Thom, I have no idea.” She stood, then looked around the room. “Is Jesus coming next?”

  He stood, then approached her. “Hope not. I just woke up.”

  “Yup. You better take a leak. Then a bath.”

  “You don’t like the way I smell?”

  She giggled, heading to the kitchen. “You said it first, when Laurel was still here.”

  She reached the doorway, but he met her, blocking her way. “I see her, and she’s you, but then I see you, and you’re all I want. I want you Andy, I still love you.”

  Andrea closed her eyes, those words like knives. “Go wash up. Pasta’ll be ready when you’re done.”

  Cat called while Andrea stirred the sauce; Justin would have come over, but he had to work, and Laurel had spent her afternoon going through old pictures. Andrea wasn’t surprised by either piece of news. She had given Cat all the old snapshots; the kids were supposed to scan them, then put them on Facebook. Andrea had never seen any up there, imagined those photos would never see the light of day. But something had piqued Laurel’s curiosity, Cat said.

  Someone, a grandmother knew. “Well, did she find what she was looking for?”

  “Not that I know of. Mom, you wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  “He’s just a friend.”

  “Mom…”

  “Gotta drain the pasta. I’ll chat later honey.” Andrea hung up the phone, then stirred the sauce, onions sticking to the spoon. The pasta still had two minutes, but Andrea didn’t have any more to tell her daughter. What Laurel might want to share made Andrea smile.

  Thom’s whistling made her knees knock. “You any cleaner?” she asked, her back to him.

  “Come kiss me and see.”

  She grinned, then turned the sauce to low. “Gotta drain the pasta. Be right with you.”

  He laughed, stepping to her side. He smelled clean, also very familiar. He had liked looking sharp, had been a little vain. He still was, that hadn’t changed overnight.

  “That’s a nice shower you got. Toilet makes a lotta racket though.”

  “Well, fix it. You got two hands.”

  “Yes I do.”

  He had set them on her hips, which almost tickled. She turned off the pasta, then rattled the lid against the pan. He chuckled, then moved away. “Shall I drain those noodles?”

  “You can.”

  He poured off some of the water, then dumped the contents in a nearby colander. She dished up two plates; it was nearly four o’clock, she liked to eat early. She would watch some TV afterwards, find her bed by eight. That had been her routine, once she got used to living alone. As they sat to eat, he took the seat next to her, which pleased her, but also rankled. What did he actually want?

  To sleep with her popped in her mind. “So Thom, here’s the deal. I eat supper, clean the kitchen, take a walk round the yard, come back in. Sit on the couch, turn on the television, watch some of it, then turn it off, lock the doors, go to bed. Now you’re welcome to join me for all those tasks except…”

  He set down his fork. “Andy, oh God.” He closed his eyes, then put his head on the table.

  “Honey, I’m not my granddaughter, I’m an old woman and…”

  When he looked up, tears on his face, she wanted to trade places with Laurel, just for one night. She wanted to be who he seemed to take her as, some figure from his memories, which weren’t that ancient. They were from just days ago, so immediate that how he sat there, only weeping, amazed her. He should be drunk or in a straightjacket or…

  “Andy, baby, I don’t understand any of this. The only thing that’s keeping me from getting loaded is your voice. Your voice, your eyes, your hands. These are the same hands Andrea, the same fingers, the same, the same…”

  He took her left hand, then turned it palm-up. Tracing the lines, he hummed the same tune he had wh
istled. It was Buddy Holly or The Everly Brothers, something recent to his mind, something trapped within hers. If she closed her eyes, she could go back with him, as if together they could wriggle through time.

  “I’m not that girl anymore.”

  “Yes you are.”

  She snorted. “Like hell I am.”

  He smiled, releasing her hand. Then he grew serious. “Did I fall asleep, lose track of time, shit!” He stood, stomping around the table. Then he took the chair across from her. “Everything’s changed, nothing’s what I know. All this technology, I can’t begin to tell you what’s different. But you say one little word, and I’m all right, I can breathe. I look into your eyes Andrea Watson; you’re still Andrea Watson to me. But then you’re not. You’re Carl’s wife, Carl…”

  “Falstaff. I’m Andrea Falstaff.”

  He nodded, then looked away. “You were gonna be Mrs. Thom Sugerman, believe it or not.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  He glanced at her smile. “You would’ve been.”

  “Over my father’s dead body. Or yours.”

  “Did they really hate me that much?”

  “They thought you were too old for me.”

  “Am I too young now?”

  His earnest voice pierced her. “Oh Thom, whatdya want with a shriveled-up old…”

  “Don’t say that. I love you, I know you. You’re still the same woman.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are to me.”

  She stared at him, trying to decide what was more important, her pride or his sanity. He seemed to believe what he was saying, but maybe it was the only way to fathom what was quite improbable. All day she had overlooked that point, but when Juss came over, or when Laurel returned, maybe with pictures to back up Andrea’s story, what then? For less than a day, Andrea’s life was like some crappy made-for TV movie. Melodrama, Sam liked to sneer, as