Big Foot Stole My Wife Page 8

  “Remmie? Do you have time to find my slippers before you leave? It seems so damp and chilly this morning. I hope there’s nothing wrong with the furnace.”

  Her son’s voice is patient and, for the most part, imbued with affection. He is not a candidate for sainthood, but he is a good son.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the furnace,” he says as he comes into her bedroom. “Let me raise the blinds so you can enjoy the sunshine.”

  He takes two steps, then pauses as he does every morning. The micro-drama has been performed for many years. Very rarely does anything happen to disrupt it, and there is nothing in the air to lead Remmie to suspect this day will be extraordinary.

  “No, leave them down. I can’t tolerate the glare. Oh, Remmie, I pray every night that you’ll never face the specter of blindness. It’s so very frightening.”

  Two steps to her side; two squeezes of her hand. “Now, Mother, Dr. Whitbread found no symptoms of retinopathy, and he said you shouldn’t worry. The ophthalmologist said the same thing only a few months ago.”

  Her eyes are bleached and rimmed with red, but they regard him with birdlike acuity. “You’re so good to me. I don’t know how I could ever get along without you.”

  “I’m late for work, Mother. Here are your slippers right beside the bed. I’ll be home at noon to fix your lunch.” He bends down to kiss her forehead, then waits to be dismissed.

  “Bless you, Remmie.”

  Remmie Boles goes downstairs to the kitchen, rinses out his coffee cup, and props it in the rack, then makes sure his mother’s tray is ready for her midmorning snack; tea bag, porcelain cup and saucer, two sugar cookies in a cellophane bag. The teapot, filled with a precise quantity of water, is on the back burner.

  He enjoys the six-block walk to Boles Discount Furniture Warehouse, and produces a smile for his secretary, who is filing her fingernails. She is not overly bright, but she is very dependable—a trait much valued in small business concerns.

  “Good morning, Ailene,” Remmie says, collecting the mail from the corner of her desk.

  “Some guy from your church called, Mr. Boles. He wants to know if you’re gonna be on the bowling team this year. He says they’ll take you back as long as you promise not to quit in the middle of the season like you did last year.” Having been an employee for ten years, she feels entitled to make unseemly comments. “You really should get out and meet people. You’re not all that old, you know, and kinda cute. There are a lot of women who’d jump at the chance to go out with a guy like you.”

  “Please bring me the sales tax figures from the last quarter.” Remmie goes into his office and closes the door before he allows himself to react.

  Ailene has made a point. Remmie is not a recluse. He has dated over the year, albeit infrequently and for no great duration. Alas, he has not been out since the fiasco that was responsible for his abandonment of the First Methodist Holy Rollers in midseason.

  Yes, even Methodists can evince a sense of humor.

  Lucinda was (and still is, as far as I know) a waitress at the bowling alley. He’d been dazzled by her bright red hair, mischievous grin, and body that rippled like a field of ripe wheat when she walked. She agreed to go out for drinks. One thing had led to another, first in the front seat of his car, then on the waterbed in her apartment.

  The very idea of experiencing such sexual bliss every night left Remmie giddy, and he found himself pondering marriage. After a series of increasingly erotic encounters, he invited Lucinda to meet his mother.

  It was a ghastly idea. Lucinda arrived in a tight purple dress that scarcely covered the tops of her thighs, and brought a bottle of whiskey as a present. In the harsh light of his living room, he could see the bags under her eyes and the slackness of her jowls. Her voice was coarse, her laugh a bray, her ripple nothing more than a cheap, seductive wiggle. He quit the bowling team immediately.

  Back to work, Remmie.

  He ignores the message and settles down with the figures. At eleven, he goes out to the showroom to make sure his salesmen aren’t gossiping in the break room. He is heading for the counter when a woman comes through the main door and halts, her expression wary, as if she’s worried that ravenous beasts are lurking under oak veneer tables and behind plaid recliners.

  If Ailene hadn’t made her presumptuous comments, perhaps Remmie would not have given this particular customer more than a cursory assessment. As it is, he notices she’s a tiny bit plump, several inches shorter than he, and of a similar age. Her hair, short and curly, is the color of milk chocolate. She is wearing a dark skirt and white blouse, and carrying a shiny black handbag.

  “May I help you?” he says.

  “I’m just looking. It’s hard to know where to start, isn’t it?”

  “Are you in the market for living room furniture? We have a good assortment on sale right now.”

  “I need all sorts of things, but I don’t have much of a budget,” she says rather sadly. “Then again, I don’t have much of a house.”

  To his horror, her eyes fill with tears.

  Remmie persuades her to accept a cup of coffee in his office, and within a half hour, possesses her story. Crystal Ambler grew up on the seedy side of the city, attended the junior college, and is now the office manager of a small medical clinic. A childless marriage ended in divorce more than five years ago. She spends her free time reading, gardening, and occasionally playing bridge with her parents and sister. She once had a cat; but it ran away and now she lives alone.

  “Not very exciting, is it?” she says with a self-deprecatory laugh. “It’s hard being single these days, and almost impossible to meet someone who isn’t burdened with a psychosis and an outstanding warrant or two.”

  “Mr. Boles,” Ailene says from the doorway, “your mother called to remind you to pick up syringes on your way home for lunch.”

  “Is your mother ill?” asks Crystal with appropriate sympathy.

  “She was diagnosed with diabetes the year I graduated from college. It’s manageable with daily insulin injections and a strict diet.”

  “It must be awfully hard on you and your wife,” she begins, then gasps and rises unsteadily. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s perfectly all right.” Remmie catches her hands between his and studies her contrite expression, spotting for the first time a little dimple on her chin. “I should be the one to apologize. You came here to look for furniture, and I’ve wasted your time with my questions. I do hope you’ll allow me to help you find a bargain.”

  Crystal is amenable.

  Remmie smiles thoughtfully as he walks home for lunch. There is something charmingly quaint about Miss Ambler. She is by no means a hapless maiden awaiting rescue by a knight; when she selected the sofa, she did so with no hint of indecision or tacit plea for his approval. But at the same time, she is soft-spoken and modest. He’s certain she would never wear a tight purple dress or drink whiskey. He doubts she drinks anything more potent than white wine.

  He’s halfway across the living room when he realizes something is acutely wrong. His mother never fails to call his name when he enters the house. It is an inviolate part of their script.

  “Mother?” he calls as he hurries upstairs to her bedroom. The room is dim; the television, invariably set on a game show, is silent. The figure on the bed is motionless. “Mother?” he repeats with a growing sense of panic.

  “Remmie, thank God you’re here. I feel so weak. I tried to call you, but I couldn’t even lift the receiver.”

  “Shall I call for an ambulance?”

  “No, I simply need something to nibble on to elevate my blood sugar. If it’s not too much trouble, would you please bring the cookies from this morning?”

  “You skipped your snack? Dr. Whitbread stressed how very vital it is that you stay on your schedule. Maybe I should call him.”

  “All I need are the cookies, Remmie.” Despite her avowed weakness, she picks up the
clock and squints at it. “My goodness, you’re almost an hour late. Was there an emergency at the store?”

  “A minor one,” he murmurs.

  Remmie calls Crystal that evening to make sure she is pleased with her selection. She shyly invites him to come by some time and see how well the sofa goes with the drapes. Remmie professes eagerness to do so, and suggests Saturday morning. Although Crystal sounds disappointed, she promises coffee and cake.

  The week progresses uneventfully. Whatever has caused Audrey’s bout of weakness has not recurred, although she has noticed a disturbing new symptom and broaches it after the evening news is over.

  She holds out a hand. “Feel my fingers, Remmie. They’re so swollen I haven’t been able to wear any of my rings. Perhaps you should take all my jewelry down to the bank tomorrow morning and put it in the safe-deposit box. If it’s not too much bother, of course. It’s so maddening not to be able to do things for myself. I know I’m such a terrible burden on you.”

  “I’ll do it Saturday morning,” Remmie says. “I have some other errands, and I’ll be in that neighborhood.”

  “Errands? I hate to think of you spending your weekend driving all over town instead of having a chance to relax around the house. You work so hard all week.”

  “I enjoy getting out.” He picks up her tray and heads for the kitchen.

  Saturday.

  Remmie grimaces as he pulls into the driveway. His mother’s jewelry is still in the glove compartment, and the bank closes at noon on Saturdays. His mother will spend the weekend fretting if she finds out about his negligence, but there’s no reason why she will. A good son does not cause his mother unnecessary concern.

  He sits in the car and replays his visit. Upon opening the door, Crystal hadn’t thrown herself into his arms, but she’d held his hand several seconds longer than decorum dictates. Their conversation had been lively. They’d parted with yet another warm handshake.

  He locks the glove compartment and goes inside. And freezes as he sees his mother slumped on the sofa, her hands splayed across her chest and her eyes closed.

  “Mother!” he says as he sinks to her side. “Can you hear me?”

  “I’m conscious,” Audrey says dully. “I was on my way to the kitchen when I felt so dizzy I almost fell.”

  “Let me help you back to bed, and then I’ll call the doctor.” Remmie picks her up and carries her to her bedroom, settles her on the bed, and reaches for the telephone.

  “No, don’t disturb Dr. Whitbread. He’s entitled to his weekends, just as you are. If I’m not better on Monday, you can call him then.”

  “Are you sure?” asks Remmie, alarmed at the thinness of her voice.

  “It’s very dear of you to be so concerned about me, Remmie. Most children put their ailing parents in nursing homes and try to forget about them. The poor old things lose what wits they have and spend their last days drooling and being tormented by sadistic nurses.”

  “This is your home, Mother. Why don’t you take a little nap while I fix your lunch?”

  “Bless you,” she says with a sigh. He’s almost to the door when she adds, “There was a call for you half an hour ago. A woman with a trailer park sort of name said you’d left your gloves at her house. I tried to catch you at the bank to relay the message, but they said you hadn’t come in. I hope they weren’t your suede gloves, Remmie. I ordered them from Italy, you know.”

  “I know.” He urges himself back into motion. Had he subconsciously chosen to leave his gloves at Crystal’s house so he’d have another excuse to call her? He ponders the possibility as he washes lettuce and slices a tomato.

  Audrey is strangely quiet all afternoon and declines his offer to play gin rummy after dinner. Remmie finally breaks down and tells her about Crystal Ambler.

  “She sounds very nice,” says Audrey. “She lives in that neighborhood beyond the interstate, you said? Your father and I made a point of never driving through that area after dark, even if it meant going miles out of our way.” She pauses as if reliving a long and torturous detour, then says, “What exactly does this woman do?”

  Audrey listens as Remmie describes Crystal’s job, her clean, if somewhat Spartan, house, her garden, even her new sofa. “She sounds very nice,” is all she says as she limps across the dining room and down the hall. “Very nice.”

  Sunday, Sunday.

  Remmie calls Crystal while his mother is napping. After he apologizes for leaving his gloves, he invites her to meet him after work on Monday for a glass of wine.

  Monday.

  Remmie tells his mother he’ll be working late in preparation for the inventory-reduction sale. He uses the same excuse when he takes Crystal to dinner later that week. On Saturday afternoon, he makes an ambiguous reference to the hardware store and takes Crystal for a drive in the country. Afterward, he feels foolish when Audrey not only brings up Crystal’s name, but encourages him to ask her out. He admits they have plans.

  “Dinner on Wednesday?” murmurs Audrey, carefully folding her napkin and placing it on the table. “What a lovely idea, Remmie. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to have a meal in a proper restaurant.”

  “Would you like me to see if Miss McCloud can sit with you while I’m out?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of bothering her. After all, I’m here by myself every day. I’m so used to being alone that I’ll scarcely notice that you’re out with this woman.”

  “I’d like to meet your mother,” Crystal says as they dally over coffee in her living room. “You’re obviously devoted to her.”

  “My father left a very small estate. My mother insisted on working at a clothing shop to put me through college, then used the last of the insurance money to finance the store. Before her illness grew more debilitating, she came down to the showroom at night and dusted the displays.” Remmie smiles gently. “I’d like you to meet her. She’s asked me all about you, and I think she’s beginning to suspect I might be …”

  “Be what?”

  “Falling in love,” he says, then leans forward and kisses her. When she responds, he slides his arm behind her back and marvels at the supple contours. Their kisses intensify, as do Remmie’s caresses and her tiny moans. His hand finds its way beneath her sweater to her round breasts. His mind swirls with deliciously impure images.

  Therefore, he’s startled when she pulls back and moves to the far end of the sofa. For an alarming moment, she looks close to tears, but she takes a shuddery breath and says, “No, Remmie, I’m not going to have an affair. I shouldn’t have gone out with you in the first place. I’m too old to get into another pointless relationship. I’d rather get a cat.”

  Remmie bites back a groan. “Crystal, darling, I’d never do anything to hurt you. I don’t want a pointless relationship, either.”

  “Then take me home to meet your mother.”

  He frowns at the obstinate edge in her voice. “I will when the time’s right. Mother’s been fretting about her blood pressure lately, and I don’t want to excite her more than necessary.”

  “Maybe you’d better go home and check on her,” Crystal says as she stands up. However, rather than hurrying him out the door, she presses her body against his and kisses him with such fierce passion that he nearly loses his balance. “There’ll be more of this when we’re engaged,” she promises in a warm, moist whisper. She goes on to describe what lies in store after they’re married.

  The constraints of the genre prevent me from providing details.

  Time Flies.

  “Does your friend drive an old white Honda?” Audrey asks Remmie while he’s massaging her feet to stimulate circulation.

  He gives her a surprised look. “Why do you ask?”

  “Someone who matches the description has driven by here several times. It most likely wasn’t her, though. This woman had the predatory gleam of a real estate appraiser trying to decide how much our house is worth.” Audrey manages a weak chuckle. “And of course I can barely see the street from my windo
w these days. It’s all a matter of time before I’m no longer a burden, Remmie, and you’ll be free to get on with your life.”

  “Don’t say that, Mother,” he says as he strokes her wispy gray hair. A sudden vision of the future floods his mind: his mother’s bedroom is unlit and empty, but farther down the hall, Crystal smiles from his bed, her arms outstretched and her breasts heaving beneath a silky black gown.

  He realizes his mother is staring at him and wipes a sheen of perspiration off his forehead. “Don’t say that,” he repeats.

  Several more weeks pass, and then back to Boles Discount Furniture Warehouse we go.

  This morning Ailene is typing slowly but steadily. “Crystal called,” she says without looking up. “She said to tell you that she can’t go to the movies tonight.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Something about baby-sitting for her sister. Oh, and your mother called right before you got here. She wants you to pick up some ointment for her blisters. She said you’d know what kind and where to get it.”

  Remmie closes his office door, reaches for the telephone, and then lowers his hand. Crystal has made it clear that he’s not to call her at the clinic. But this is the second time this week she’s canceled their date to do a favor for her sister. Last week she met him at the door and announced she was going out with some friends from the clinic. Remmie had not been invited to join them.

  Can he be losing her? When they’re together on the sofa, her passion seems to rival his own. Although she continues to refuse to make love, she has found ways to soften his frustration. She swears she has never loved anyone as deeply.

  He collapses in his chair, cradles his head in his hands, and silently mouths her name.

  When Remmie comes into the living room, he is shocked. He is stunned, bewildered, and profoundly inarticulate. The one thing he is not prepared to see is his mother sitting at one end of the sofa and Crystal at the other. A tray with teacups and saucers resides on the coffee table, a few crumbs indicative that cookies have been consumed.