The Dinosaur and the Dragon Lady -- a novella

8/9/2019 The Dinosaur and the Dragon Lady -- a novella

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(c) 2009 Levi MontgomeryAll rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in anymanner without the express written permission of the

author.

This is a work of fiction. It is entirely a product ofmy own murky imagination, and any resemblance to

any person, place or event is purely coincidental.

Please visit my website at

www.levimontgomery.com


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The Dinosaurand the Dragon Lady


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e married his childhood sweetheart. He married her twice, ac-tually. Theyd been engaged since that day on the beach when

he was in sixth grade, but no one knew it but them.H

He married her the first time the day after he graduated from highschool, and they had to lie about their age and the state they lived inin order to do it. It had no legal standing, and neither one of themconsidered it any more (or any less) than a morally binding lifetimecommitment to each other. When they got home, when they gotback into the state they really lived in, she went home to her parentshouse next door, and finished school, and he got a job, and went to

make a home for her. They were married, but no one knew it butthem.

He married her the second time the day after she graduated fromhigh school, and it was in a church, a big church, with cake andguests and a hovering photographer who got on everyones nerves.When they were done, she went home with him to the place hed ren-


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THE DINOSAURANDTHE DRAGON LADY LEVI MONTGOMERY

ted with his first check from the auto parts store, after their first wed-ding. Hed lived there alone since then, and she had come to visit him

in the place she thought of as home, too.He kept working, and she stayed home with the constant music ofher huge record collection and wrote her first novel, pounding outchapter after chapter of stuff that made him cry, it was so good. Alltheir friends said so, and when she sent it off to find a home amongthe dozen or so agencies she copied down out of the big book at thelibrary, they all thought so too, and she started another. The first onesold just about the time she started her third. But it seemed as if the

books were the only babies shed ever have.Four long years went by, four long years of monthly crying jags

because shed started again, she wasnt pregnant. She was irregularenough that they got a lot of false alarms, and then when she didstart, theyd both cry. But toward the fall of that fifth year, she didntstart and she didnt start and she didnt start, and both of them andall four of their parents all held their metaphorical breaths for a

week, two weeks, three weeks. . .Saturday morning, twenty-four official days late, she woke up feel-

ing a little queasy, and then she threw up in the bathroom, and thenthey danced around the bedroom and the living room and the kit-chen and her little office, laughing and crying and hugging. Well, itwas all one room, but they danced all through it, kissing and crying,and slapping each other on the back. Congratulations, Mommy!Here, have a cigar! he said, handing her the fat black marker fromher desk. Well, it was the kitchen table, but it was the end she usedfor a desk. Why, thank you, sir! she said, curtsying, taking it, andCongratulations, yourself, Daddy, she said, handing it back to him.

About mid-afternoon, they took time off to start the next one.Well, they knew they couldnt start another one yet, theyd have towait a while, but they didnt want to get out of practice, and theypracticed so hard they broke the old bed-frame, and then they

laughed so hard they cried, and then they hugged so hard they criedsome more.

About five, they realized they hadnt told anyone, so they called her

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parents, and then they called his parents, and then they had to fightoff the invitations out to dinner that very night. Sorry, they had plans.

They started all over again on the broken bed, flattening thesprings and mattress right down to the floor first, and they were sosoft and gentle they didnt notice time stealing away till it was nearlymorning, and then they slept till noon. He insisted she eat a humong-ous breakfast, because she was eating for two now, and then theyspent the rest of Sunday calling all their friends from ever and any-where, making their announcement and taking notes on obstetricians.

But she wasnt pregnant. She had a malignant tumor in her abdo-

men, and seventeen long short days later, she was gone. Those seven-teen days were a lifetime, a lifetime that went by in a blink.

es a stubborn old man, now. Well, hes not stubborn, and hesnot old, but his life took a serious crack that last day, the day

she hugged him so hard, so fierce, it was like shed never be able tolet go, and then she slowly went so limp, so soft, it was like shed

never been able to hug him at all. The needle skipped back everytime it got to that crack, until that single groove was so deep, so set,that there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go excepttrudgingly around again.

H

He gets up from the bed he sleeps so carefully on his side of, getsready for work, eats Wheaties for breakfast, makes two pastramisandwiches, locks his door, walks seven blocks to the parts store. Hecomes home, he whispers hello, Im home to the empty loft, he haschicken breast and potatoes and salad from a bag, he watches TV. Hegoes to bed early, reading, carefully on his own side. He uses half thecloset, leaving her stuff undisturbed on her side. Saturday morningshe ties on his white apron and moves through the quiet loft, with nomusic and no laughter and no dancing. He dusts all her stuff on thetable, her typewriter and glasses and the cracked cup of pens andpencils, the box with half of her fourth novel in it. He picks her

purse up off the coffee table, dusts under it, puts it back. Hes forty-two years old.

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aturday afternoon, when he finishes cleaning, Morry goes downto the waterfront, three blocks from home. When Mr Big-time-

city-slicker-developer came along a few years ago and tried to makethis into one of those gentrified ex-industrial areas, the waterfrontwas one of the first parts he did. He still had money then, and this, atleast, he did right.

S

Youre supposed to call it the boardwalk, or perhaps TheBoardwalk, but it irks Morry just a little too much, and he just calls itthe waterfront. Theres a mile and a half of wide concrete (notboard) walkway, almost a promenade, with a few piers and docks and

a lot of open water on one side and old industrial properties in vari-ous stages of gentrification on the other side. How finished abuilding is depends on where he was on it when he ran out of funds.And if your building is kind of somewhere less than finished, getused to it. This was close to twenty years ago, that Mr Big-time camebreezing through here with his big-city ideas. But the waterfrontspretty nice, with its fat green railings and lamp posts.

July, and the people are out in force. Oh, not the tourists this thingwas going to attract, they all go to the big city, seventeen miles downthe shore. The big city seventeen miles down the shore, whoseboardwalk and tourist industry have been well established for fiftyyears or more. These are just the locals, out for a hot July Saturday af-ternoon, biking or roller-blading or just strolling along like they haveall the time in the world. All the tourist-trap stores that opened upthat first summer have gone away, following the dodo-bird plans ofMr Big-time off into the la-la-land of all silly ideas. The businesseshere now are bars and cheap hotels, a dive shop, a couple of weldingplaces. A 7-11 and a meager handful of Starbucks serve the refresh-ment needs of the crowd.

Facing the water, spaced along the length of the not-boardwalk,are green wooden benches, and Morry walks the length of thecurving promenade all the way down to the south end, then turns

and comes back. He sits for twenty minutes on the bench closest tohis building, then he gets up and walks down and back again. Everyother Saturday, he gets his hair cut, and the Saturdays in between, hegoes to the grocery store twelve blocks inland. Then he goes home.

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He doesnt do this for fun. He doesnt like it or dislike it any morethan anything else in his life, he just feels he should get out of the

house once in a while. It takes him almost exactly forty-five minutesto walk the three mile round trip at a comfortably brisk pace, plustwenty minutes of rest and another round trip. With the time to andfrom his building, this makes a two-hour workout thatd cost a for-tune at a gym somewhere, plus he doesnt have to talk to people. Inwinter time, he wears his black raincoat and carries an umbrella andthe rest of the year, he wears khakis and a polo shirt and carries anumbrella. Sometimes, in the spring or fall, wearing his brown-and-

white light nylon jacket, he looks at the old men he passes, thinkinghe should get one of those hats like they have, and the short poplinjacket with the zipper that doesnt have a flap over it. He should puton the rest of the old-man persona.

This is a Saturday in between, and hes walking up the alley behindhis building with a cloth shopping bag in each hand. He never makesa shopping list. At the grocery store, he buys frozen chicken breasts,

small red potatoes, Wheaties, bread, pastrami, Swiss cheese, mayon-naise, and grapefruit juice. He doesnt need a list to tell him whichones hes out of or will be. Milk and salad in a bag he buys threetimes a week at the mom-and-pop in the corner unit of the groundfloor of his building. Three or four bottles of vodka a year from theshop down the not-boardwalk, and hes set.

He passes the power door, like a garage door, that leads to thefreight elevator, and unlocks the door of the clanging steel stairs. Thefour college boys on the top floor, above Morrys place, all drive theircars right into the elevator, parking in their loft. Morrys only fourflights up, and he doesnt have a car, and he doesnt bother with theelevator. The sign over the big green elevator door says FR IGHT.There was a painted plywood sign, till Mr Big-time came along anddolled up the ground floor. He put up these fancy brass letters, over agarage door in a ragged back alley, and one of them fell down a few

years later. Itd be even funnier if the elevator was a balky old thing,likely to trap you between floors, but its actually pretty reliable. Heuses it once in a while, but he doesnt really need it.

As he passes the second-floor landing, he notices that the door

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there is closed. Odd. That doors has been propped open since theMacGyvers moved out, what? three years ago?

Sundays, Morry never leaves the apartment, reading all day in thebig bay window. He checks out a stack of books Monday after work,and if thereve been any decent movies on during the week, hellhave catching-up to do before he goes back tomorrow. Hes heardpeople talking about renting movies, but hes not sure what hed haveto go out and buy to make that happen, so he doesnt bother. Willy,at work, told him Oh, just watch movies online, and that got reallyfun for a while, because he had to try to convince Willy that he really

doesnthave a computer. Why not? No, the question would be Why?So I can watch movies? I can do that now. Buy stuff? I do that now,too. He tells Willy he figures hes as modern as he needs to be, nowthat hes got a new TV that you can change channels on without get-ting up. Oh, and a new phone, he had to get a new phone just four orfive years ago, when the phone company said he had to stop using arotary-dial phone. He had a hard time finding one that doesnt try to

take messages, though. Actually, he got one with an answering ma-chine in it and just hasnt ever bothered to turn the answering parton, but he doesnt tell Willy that. Its a lot more fun this way.

Morrys nowhere near as backward as he leaves Willy thinking heis, but Willys just too much fun to torment. Morry knows about theinternet, hes even used it quite a bit, at the library, researching this orthat, and at work, where theres this whole system for getting partsordered. But if he wanted to get a computer of his own, hed have toget on the bus and go clear across town to where the stores that sellsuch things all hulk like lurking monsters awaiting the unwary, andhed have to plunk down at least five hundred bucks, and then hedneed a printer, and then hed need this, and then hed need that, andnext thing he knows, hes out a couple grand, just so that he canstand in the breakroom and complain about how this upgrade neededthat upgrade, and that program needed this one, and he doesnt want

to have to replace his something-or-other, but the whosit says he hasto. That seems to be the primary purpose of computers, is fuelingthis whole new form of one-upmanship in workplaces, where the an-tiquity and unreliability of your computer earn you bragging rights,

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with bonus points if you just bought it last month and its already adinosaur. Listening to them talk, Morry feels like a dinosaur himself.

Then, if he did want to buy stuff online, hed have to go get acredit card. Morrys not really sure how much money he has. He getshis paycheck, goes to the bank, takes enough in cash to keep him fedtill the next one, and puts the rest in checking. When a bill comes in,he writes a check, hoping theres enough to cover it, but never both-ering to balance the checkbook. She always did that, and he doesntwant to intrude into her domain. Well, thats just stupid! Shes dead, moveon! But he puts the bank statements, unopened, into the tax-man

shoebox with everything else, taking it down to the accountant on thecorner every January, as soon as he gets his W-2. Every year, he getsthe same lecture about letting money just pile up in checking likethat, good heavens, man, dont you everthink about it? it isnt doinganything for you in checking! and every year, he gets a bunch of newinvestments and holdings he forgets about, putting the papers the taxman gives him in the safe-deposit box at the bank. Hes pretty sure he

could afford a computer if he wanted one, and the monthly bill forinternet access, and the increased cost for the cable bill, and. . . yeah,just like that. One thing leads to another. Why bother?

He sits in his bay window every Sunday, finishing up the weeksreading, sipping something cold or hot depending on the weather,watching the light traffic, watching snow slide off the power lines,watching the driving rain sheeting down his window like a mountainstream, watching the sunlight move board by battered board acrosshis familiar floor.

onday, making his two pastrami sandwiches, he throws awaymost of a package of baloney thats been sitting in the door

of his refrigerator threatening to turn green, thinkingwhat in the worldwas I thinking?Its been there four weeks now. He used a little the firsttime he made lunch after he bought it, and then he went without

lunch that day because he wouldnt eat the stuff, and then he paidMom and Pops outrageous price for pastrami so he wouldnt have todo thatagain. Hed been thinking change something! quick, before you suf-focate! is what hed been thinking. Sandwiches made, he checks his

M

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brown paper bag, deciding its got at least a few more days in it,maybe all week, if hes careful with it.

Lunch in hand, he walks up the shoreline, away from the not-boardwalk, into a true industrial area, buildings getting crumblier andgrimier around him like a fast-forward of decay. Thinking about thebaloney, he crosses the street, walks on the wrong side all the way towork, gazing into all the wrong windows.

Theres no earthly reason why thered be an auto parts store here.Theres no repair place within miles, and do-it-yourselfers arent goingto stray this far from the comfort of that corridor along the freeway

where you can get everything you ever need in life, so all the big partschains passed this spot by. But right within walking distance, there arecountless warehouses, shipping companies, freight couriers, and stor-age places, all with forklifts and industrial tractors and fleets of trucksto maintain, and Jerrys Parts House has never hurt for business.

Hes worked here since he was eighteen years old. Hes the man-ager now. Jerrys trying to get him to buy the place, but he doesnt

want the headache. He does his job and he goes home, and if theplace burns down overnight, hell go to the big chains and get an-other job. Or retire, hes pretty sure he could just retire. But then hedhave more than just weekends to fill up. Somehow.

The door opens, and a young lady comes in on roller blades. Thestores only a couple of blocks from the water, and even this farnorth, where Mr Big-time never threw any money around at all,theres a pretty decent street that runs along the shore, with benchesand little mini-parks and Starbucks scattered among the piers, thereal, working-class piers, and its not all that uncommon to seesomeone in here on roller blades, except that this one is sort of limp-ing, rolling a ways on one foot, and then just stumping the other onedown like it doesnt work.

She scuffles to a stop against the counter, asking Do you have,like, just bolts and stuff? I mean, can I get a bolt for a skate here, or

do I have to get, like, a frazzenhammer mounting bolt for a 73Whatchamonkey? Morrys so startled by her question, all he can dois stammer, although he knows exactly what shes asking. Shes askingDo you have open-stock hardware here? and the answer is Yes, of

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course! Right this way, Miss, but before he can gather his thoughts,Willys swooped in like a hawk closing in on a chick. Well, actually,

once he turns his thoughts away from the oddness of her questionand looks at her, he can see why. Shes quite stunning, actually, allsunstreaks and sunglasses and long, long legs. Shes only about eight-een, a couple of years too young for Willy, but not enough that itlllook perverted or anything, and Willy turns on all the charm he canmuster. Watching them, watching Willy and his smooth act, watch-ing the girl and her giggles and flutters, he thinks about that baloneyagain. Time to change something, somewhere.

Not that these thoughts are new. Every spring, when the firstgreen haze appears, if you look at enough trees from far enoughaway; every summer, when the thunderstorms pound the windowson his north wall; every fall, when the leaves start to go crunchy;every winter, when the snowflakes start to pile up on the windowsills,these same thoughts come along: Shes dead, pal. Get over it. Well, thatsnot quite fair. He knows hell never get over it, but he knows he

needs to move on, if hes going to keep breathing. Its been eighteenyears come September.

Look at Willy. You cant even eat baloney instead of pastrami, andWillys got a new girlfriend. Well, not really, but hes got her phonenumber, and hes got a good chance. Shes got her leg up on thecounter, now, twisted like shes broken it or something, and shewatches calmly as Willy works away at her old-fashioned skate, farfrom calmly, trying to work while his eyes keep traveling forever upher leg. Morry goes into his office, closes the door, gets busy on thebooks.

Lunchtime, he eats in silence, listening to Willy and the two parts-runners rattling on about some game called Something 3. Hewouldnt have to pretend confusion when it comes to video games.Apparently, this ones brand-new and Willys beaten it already. So nowwhat, he waits five years for Something 4? Turkey breast. Hell get

some sliced turkey breast at the grocery store next time. Maybe helleven go early, walk all the way over there just to get turkey breast. Hecould eat sliced turkey breast sandwiches. Change something, pal,youre going under.

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He gets home late, climbing the stairs with his sliced turkey and hislibrary books. He can hear the elevator working up and down the

shaft by the stairwell, and up and down and up and down and up anddown. The way it works is you get in, and you turn a key in one ofthe three keyholes, and it goes to your floor, and when you get outand close the door, it goes back. It comes out right in his living room.Well, its one big room, about forty feet by about eighty, but it comesout right there, not in a lobby or something. Except you cant stophere, only Morry, because he has the key for the third floor.

Theres a tiny window in the bathroom, the only window in the

south wall, over the alley. Its not much bigger than a sheet of paper,and it opens out like an awning about four inches, and he has tostand on the toilet seat, but he manages to see a moving truck in thealley. Either a college kids moving out, or someones moving into thesecond floor. College kids that are going to move out generally do soin June, not the middle of July, and they use borrowed pick-ups oroverloaded Accords, not Mayflower trucks, and the door on the

second floor landing was closed for a second time when he gothome. Hes betting second floor.

After dinner, he washes his plate and fork and knife, washes herglass pan and puts it away, wipes down the counter and table. Hetakes the garbage down to the dumpster in the alley. The secondfloor door is gaping open on a miscellany of furniture and boxes, buttheres no one in sight and he goes on by quickly. Coming back, hesnot so lucky, and he almost runs into a woman on the stairs. She cantsee where shes going, because of a huge cloth-covered somethingshes carrying like its pretty light, and she must have gotten confused.Shes coming down the stairs, like she went too far up. She sets thesomething down and smiles brightly at him. Shes wearing black span-dex pants and a white sweater, and they fit her like she was cus-tom-made for them. Her hair is that perfect red that even Morryknows you cant get from a bottle. Her body is so perfect, hes incap-

able of breathing. Her face is the prettiest face hes seen in a longtime. He feels a tall cumulus thunderhead of threat somewhere,brewing on the horizon of his mind.

He wants to escape up the stairs and he wants to stay and talk to

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her and shell want to shake hands and he doesnt want to touch herand he wants to find an excuse to touch her face and he wants to not

have to speak to her and he wants to pour out his life story to herand its been forever and hes just staring but its only been as long asit takes her to put the whatever down and smile brightly at him.

Hi! You must be my neighbor from upstairs. Im Caroline, and Ijust moved in today, and shes holding out her hand to him and hellnever be able to move, but hes reaching smoothly out to take herhand in his, telling her his name, greeting her, being just a normalman on the edge of middle age, and not a high-schooler swallowing

his jack-hammer heart, fighting down the raging hormones. Shes al-most as tall as him, pretty much eye-to-eye with him, which makesher six feet tall, and in a moment of freedom as she turns to thecloth-covered load she set down, his eyes slide swiftly down thelovely landscape to her feet, and no, shes not wearing heels. Whitesneakers of the simple type that used to get called tennis shoes, andhe gets his gaze back up in time to meet hers coming around from

whatever that is, although he got a little hung up right at halfway.Shes saying something about her baby, and he feels a moment of re-lief before he sees shes uncovered the whatever, and its a cage andher baby is in it. Her baby is a dragon. A miniature dragon, all scalesand flapping wattley things behind its head and a tail as long as yourarm.

Theyre Australian Frilled Dragons, and shes got nine of them,two males and seven females. This ones name is Smaug, whichsounds vaguely familiar to him, and the cage hes in is actually just atravel crate. His cage, which he has to himself except when hes sup-posed to be earning his keep by impregnating a female, is ten feetlong and nearly that high. She has five of them, and the moving com-pany got them moved in, but she didnt trust them to move her ba-bies. He helps her haul cages up from her rattle-trap Econolineparked in the alley, watching her move as she climbs the stairs ahead

of him, hoping theres no Mr Caroline somewhere, hoping theres aMr Caroline somewhere. Caroline What, he wonders. Shes what?maybe thirty-five? forty?

He goes off to his own place, thinking of baloney and pastrami

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and sliced turkey breast. He stands in the open door of his refriger-ator a long time, weighing the turkey in his hand, feeling thunder-

clouds build, and in the end, its only his frugal nature that keeps himfrom throwing it away. He lies in bed a long time, watching the head-lights wash backwards over his ceiling, his hand flat on the mattresson her side of the bed. Its not even the same mattress.

e doesnt see much of her that first week. Well, its not too sur-prising. Weekdays, he basically leaves once, and then he comes

home once, and most of the time, hes either inside or hes not here

at all. Hes taken to whirring up and down in the elevator, so hedoesnt have to sneak past her scary door. She painted it bright red,sometime Tuesday, but thats not what scares him. He walks homefrom work telling himself to get a grip, to stop acting like a scared ju-nior-high boy, not even a high-schooler now, just a scared timid littlerabbit of a junior-high boy, to just stop it, and go knock on her doorand ask her up for coffee. Or out for coffee, thats better, no threat

there, no chance shell think the wrong thing, just do it, but when hegets into the alley, hes in the elevator before he can stop moving. Hewatches the steel plate of her closed elevator doors go by on theother side of the elevators grated gate, wondering suddenly why shecarried the cages up the stairs.

H

He sees Skater-chick at work a couple of times. She seems to comein for the oddest reasons. Her skates arent in-lines, theyre the old-fashioned kind with four wheels like a little car, and they seem toneed a lot of attention from Willy. Morry watches with amusement asWilly fixes something hes pretty sure he watched him fix yesterday.Oh, well, as long as the work gets done, he cant find it in himself toscold Willy. Skater-chick has a name: Tuesday, believe it or not, sheadds, like he might not. He doesnt have any trouble with it. Hes notgoing to tell her hisname, not his nameas opposed to Morry, which isjust what he tells people so theyll have something to call him.

hursday evening Caroline traps him on the stairs, asking if hehas a step ladder. Shes wearing a lime green caftan so drapey he

can tell shes not wearing much under it. The elevator wouldnt comeT

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when he wanted to take the garbage down to the alley, and when hesaw her lurking on the stairs, it occurred to him to wonder if shed

wedged the door open on her floor so hed have to come out here, soshe could waylay him, but thats just being stupid. Actually, the guysupstairs have been known to hog the elevator long before Carolineever showed up. And, yes, he has a step ladder, you have to have onewhen you live in a place with fourteen-foot ceilings, and yes, she canborrow it, and then hes moving up the stairs to his door, and shesfollowing him. Not good. Not good at all.

Hes perfectly aware of how abnormal it is that he keeps all of her

stuff right where she left it. She was a part of him for so long, liter-ally for as long as he can remember, for so long that even now, allthese years later, some part of him still cant believe shes not here.Some part of him is afraid shell come in, looking for her stuff, andnot be able to find it. If she comes back from wherever she went, hewants that to go as smoothly as ever it can, to be so easy and so per-fect that shell stay. Ok, its stupid, and you dont want to look at it

too closely, but right now, shes following you up the stairs, andtheres no good way to tell her Wait here, Ill be right back, and heopens the door to his place. The ladder lives right there, right in theodd little hidey-hole between the stairwell and the elevator, and hesgot it on his shoulder, headed back down the stairs, before she cansay Nice! I like what youve done with. . . or whatever she was go-ing to say. He carries it down the stairs like hes afraid she cant, butthats pretty stupid, too, and he cant very well carry it into her placewhen he just shut her out of his, and he stops, dithering, but sheopens her bright-red door, saying Here, right here by the door. Ivegot this new twisty bulb for the light there, and I cant reach it.

Well, no, you cant. Its fourteen feet in the air, and theres a kitchenchair standing under it, and hes just about to say something when hesees the defiant look in her eyes and he thinks maybe hed better notask her if she really thought a chair was going to help. Mutely, he sets

up the ladder, which is plenty tall enough for him, so it should be tallenough for her. Hes just thinking he should offer to go up, when shestarts up the ladder, nimbly, gracefully even. He steps over to hold itfor her in a token of support, and when he looks at her, already

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halfway up the ladder, he suddenly remembers what shes got on, andhe jerks his head away before he has to find out exactly how much

else she is or is not wearing. Her head is up, her eyes are on the light,and he thinks maybe shes just not thinking about it.Then they move around the apartment, putting twisty bulbs in

everywhere. She must have spent a small fortune those things arentcheap. Halfway up the ladder for the third time, she suddenly stops,but he cant tell why. He has his head resolutely turned away, fightingthe urge to look up, and he cant tell why shes stopped. She comesdown the ladder, and when hes sure shes down far enough, he looks

around like oh, are you done, and shes not looking at him, blushing adeep hard red. She mumbles something and goes off behind a wall,coming back out a few moments later with jeans and a sweatshirt on.

She goes up the ladder without a word, and hes a little confusednow, because he really had decided she was doing this whole thingdeliberately, and now hes pretty sure that was wrong. They get therest of the lights done, and then they look at lizards for a while and

she offers him a drink and he says no thank you, and then he goesback out to take his garbage down. His hearts hammering prettyhard, and he feels a little short of breath, but hes gotten through itok.

riday, Willy comes in on roller blades, fumbling and lurching sobadly Morry makes him take them off before he breaks some-

thing. He and Tuesday are going skating on the boardwalk tomorrow,and it occurs to Morry that he could skip his walk, but he wont. Hesees people there every once in a while, people he knows from hereor there, and they mostly just say hey, how are you, yeah, me too, niceday isnt it, see you later. He can handle that.

F

Actually, though, he doesnt see them at all on Saturday. Cleaning isespecially hard on him this week, and by the time he actually getsoutside, perhaps hes simply missed them. He moved around the

apartment in a sort of daze, thinking the oddest thoughts. He foundhimself wondering how much it could upset her if she came backand hed put her typewriter on a shelf somewhere, or hed put herglasses in her purse and put the whole thing away in a box. He didnt

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actually move anything, but he stood around a lot, thinking darkthings like that. He got out to the waterfront almost two hours late.

He walks along slowly, nowhere near his normal pace, stopping atbenches and sitting, stopping by the sculpture of a woman searchingthe horizon, waiting for her fisherman to return. He stands there along time, looking at her. He stops at the rail above the one littlestretch of actual beach along this part of the shore. Most of this islong-disused harbor structures, stone and concrete walls going rightdown to the bottom. Here, theres a little bit of sandy beach, a longramp leading down to it, and down there a small family squeals

among the rocks like the gulls in the sky above them. He stands therea long time, too. Forty-two. Forty-three this December.

He turns around in the middle of his walk and heads home, stillwalking slowly, but steadily now, head down, just getting where heneeds to be. He hears her before he sees her, behind him, calling hisname. He stops and turns around, thinking run, run. Shes wearingshorts and a tee shirt, as beautiful as he would have guessed shed be.

Her legs are perfect. She has on shoes youd go to a sporting goodsstore to buy so you could go for a walk. Theres a heartbeat monitoron one arm and an iPod on the other, and she has dark green knitsweatbands on her wrists and forehead. Shes carrying pink weights inher hands, punching them out into the air in front of her, right leftright left as she walks.

Morris! she says, Morris Carruthers, Ive been looking for you!She comes up beside him, keeps moving so he has to turn aroundand start toward home again, more like his usual pace. His name isntMorris.

What are you doing for dinner tonight? Wait! Dont answer untilyou consider this: having dinner at my place. Thats what youre doingfor dinner tonight. Hes a little put out by the presumption of it, buthe lets it go.

A long time ago, he had a pain in his abdomen, and he went to one

of those walk-in, no-appointment places. They called an ambulanceto take him to the ER, and when he got there, they put him on agurney and rolled him through the halls to the waiting surgery. Hewatched the lights flow by above him, interspersed with edge-on

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views of signs, amazed that he wasnt scared or worried. There wasnothing left for him to decide on, nothing he could do if he wanted

to, and in that simple fact he found a freedom he hasnt known since.This is a little like that, but only a little. He feels a bit of that relaxa-tion, knowing he doesnt have to make any decisions.

He showers and shaves carefully, puts on a white shirt and Dock-ers. No tie. He has to wear a tie all day, and if she has a dress code inher loft, hell just come home and eat chicken breast. Well, its latenow, too late to cook anything. If she kicks him out for not wearing atie, hell come home and eat a pastrami sandwich. It took him till

Thursday to do it, but hes had turkey sandwiches two days now, grit-ting his teeth to make them, gritting his teeth to eat them, not quiteadmitting to himself that he likes them. Now hes got a date. Sort of.What if he likes turkey? What happens to the pastrami?

She told him she had New York steaks, and he digs out a bottle ofa very good red wine that hes been saving for something special. Shedoesnt kick him out, and he doesnt have to go home and eat pas-

trami, and its actually a lot of fun. Shes got a commercial-grade gascookline in her place, and the steaks are perfectly charred rare, andthe salad is better than his bagged stuff, and the wine is perfect. Shetells him about herself as she cooks; the young marriage, his death inIraq three years ago, her dancing career. Dinner is done and gone,and they talk on and on into the night. Well, she talks and he listens,and when he deflects her questions, she seems to be letting it go likeshe can wait.

Theres too much of himself he cant talk about. When he wasyoung, her life filled his own, pressed down, and shaken together,and overflowing, and when she was gone, her presence still seemedto hover. He can feel her now, pressing into the back of his mind,pressing against him, wanting. . . wanting what? Wanting him to. . .what? Hes wanting to leave, wanting to be home, wanting to beasleep, and hes beginning to dread the attempt to leave, not wanting

any awkwardness to mar this evening, but when he starts to check hiswatch and look toward the door, she stands up. At the door, at herbright-red door, the knob in her hand, she leans in and kisses himgently. She was aiming for the lips, but he shifted a little, and kissed

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her cheek as she kissed his. Theres something, some kind of signal,in her eyes. Something to do with other nights and other tries, but he

doesnt get it all.He lies in bed, watching the lights on the ceiling, watching theshadows of his not-twisty-bulbed fixtures. He would put his hand onher side of the mattress, but to tell the truth, he can feel her sostrongly right now, hes afraid hell find her sharp little hipbone overthere, and he keeps his hands on his side. Hes trying to feel what it isshe wants him to do, and then he wakes up and its morning.

Theres bright sunlight streaming in over the tops of the curtains,

and he sits up in a moment of panic, but its Sunday, no need to beanywhere, and he lies back down. But he cant sleep, hes thinkingabout that kiss, and he has to get out of her bed to think about it. Heeats Wheaties, staring at the back of her big Underwood. He forgotto get his hair cut yesterday. He cant go without for two more weeks,or Willy, whose sleek black hair is elbow-length, will call him a long-haired hippie freak. Tomorrow. Hell go tomorrow, on the way home

from the library. Last Monday, he went to the grocery store, and thisMonday, hell go to the barber. His routine is crumbling around himlike a foundered ship, breaking apart on a reef somewhere.

He goes down to the far end of the room, pokes around on theshelving by the washer and dryer, comes back to the table with ashoebox in his hand. He stands over her end of the table for a longtime, picking up the pens and pencils from the old cracked cup andputting them back. He takes the shoebox back to the shelves, empty.Hes reading through the works of Dick Francis, in chronological or-der, and hes got a couple hundred pages to finish by tonight, but hefeels restless and edgy. He cant settle into the old recliner by the baywindow over the street.

He opens the refrigerator and stands there a while. Theres slicedturkey breast in his own refrigerator. Right there next to his pastrami,and he closes the door, walks to the window. Maybe he should move.

Hes lived in two places all his life, the house he grew up in, till Juneof 1983, and this big comfortable room hes lived in since. He cantmove. He walks down to the other end of the room, looks out thewindow there. Same street, different angle. Maybe he should let his

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hair grow out like Willys. Hell call the tax man, see if he can afford ared Corvette, and hell let his hair grow, and see about buying some

weed. Ha. Right. He walks to the chair, sits down, opens his book,closes his book, gets up. Maybe a Harley. Hell get a Harley, and someblack leather chaps and a vest.

He goes to the big closet they built against the back wall, opensthe door on her side. Theres a lot of stuff in there. She liked shop-ping, and she liked dressing, and they made enough money, andtheres just a whole lot of stuff in there. He closes the door, goesback to his chair. He sits with his eyes closed, feeling like a fool. He

knows shes not there, but he feels her anyway, trying to decide whatshe wants him to do.

onday, Willys moving like hes a little stiff and sore. Appar-ently, he spent a lot of Saturday morning landing on his butt

or his knees, and all three points are giving him grief now. Betweencustomers, he tells Morry about it. She seemed to find it quite amus-

ing, skating tight little circles around him, with her feet like this, onetoe this way, one toe that way, and her feet dont even seem to moveat all, but she can skate rings around you, giggling, while you try toget up. Then shes off again, fifty feet down the road while you try tojust get moving. Fun? Oh, yeah, he had a blast, really, and hell defin-itely go again, but he has to recuperate, first, and then he and theparts-runners are talking about some game for something called a360, and one of them says, oh, yeah, you can get that for PS3, too,and hes old again. He goes into the back, checking on his alternatorstock.

M

The week drags slowly by. He takes turkey sandwiches on Mondayand Wednesday, pastrami on Tuesday and Thursday. Friday, he takesone of each. Never let it be said hes not a man of adventure. He seesCaroline a few times, just passing, and she seems friendly enough,stopping to chat, but she seems to sense his reservations. She seems

to be biding her time.Saturday, he gets his cleaning done and goes to the waterfront.

Hell go to the grocery store today, back on schedule. Early Augustnow, and the heat could be shoveled up like snow. The girls on the

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not-boardwalk are favoring bikini tops and very short shorts, skatingor biking or strolling past him with a display hed find a lot more fun

if he wasnt so confused. That one, right there, in the sport bra notquite being hidden by the ragged cropped-off tee shirt, look at thelegs on that one. Thatd be a lot of fun to look at, if he could just fig-ure out how he feels about the whole female race right now. Oh, wait.Thats Tuesday, Willys new girlfriend. Wheres Willy?

Morrys sitting on the bench nearest to his building, waiting the re-quisite twenty minutes before his second round trip, and Tuesdayswirls from full-tilt skating to the seat beside him like it was easy, her

feet just like Willy said for the swooping circle at the end.Hey, Morry, what up? she says, and he knows thats a cool greet-

ing, but he doesnt know the answer. She throws her hair forwardover her head, then back again, combing it out with all the fingers ofboth hands and blowing one long hard breath. Shes shiny with cleansweat, and she looks like a soft-drink ad.

Wheres Willy? he asks her, looking down the walk the way she

came. From what he said, he could be pretty far behind her at anygiven time.

Oh, hes at his place. He wouldnt come out today, she says, witha comic pout. Hes too wasted. We went to this bar last night, and Itold him to stop, but he kept drinking, so I went home, and last I sawof him, he was, like, blotto.

She leans down to adjust her skates, and he can see a tattoo ofsomething on her smooth, tan back, where the tee shirt rides up. Itlooks like a coiled snake or something. Not a tramp-stamp, higher upon her back. She has a butterfly on her upper arm, and he cant see itnow, but when she had her leg on the counter, he saw a small tattooof some sort on the back of her knee. Wait. A bar?Shes howold?

A bar?Youre howold?She looks up at him, grinning, from down there by her skates.

Guess!

Eighteen, he says, with no hesitation. Maybe younger. Tooyoung to be in a bar. Hes trying to figure out why he cares, why hethinks it might be any business of his, and he decides that if his em-ployee is likely to get arrested its his business.

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Why, thank you, sir! she says, laughing, straightening up fromher task, combing her hair back again. Very kind of you, Im sure,

but Im thirty.You are not!Yep. Thirty. The big three-oh.You liar! Youre nowhere near thirty! Hes looking at the skin

around her eyes. Twenty, maybe, he might believe shes twenty, butshes digging in the little belt-pack shes wearing, handing him her li-cense.

Youre right, she admits, like it hurts. Im not thirty. Im twenty-

nine, but I say Im thirty so people wont think Im lying. Her licensesays shes twenty-nine, and hes not sure he believes it even then, butits most likely true. Does she know Willys only twenty-two? Yes, butshe says it doesnt matter, its not very serious anyway, hes too timidfor her, and then shes up and off before he can ask what that means.

Walking home, he sees Caroline coming the other way, handspunching out in front of her. Saturday again, she says, passing him.

Eight oclock. My place. She keeps walking. Hes got very mixedfeelings, but hell do it.

Showered, shaved, standing in his bathroom, looking in the mirror,the feelings arent so mixed. Or rather, theyre mixed, but theyre amixture of all bad stuff. Like fear, and shame. Fear of her, of him-self, of them. Fear of what might happen, of what might not hap-pen. Shame because of his ridiculous but very real feeling that heneeds to stay faithful.

He takes a lap around the big room. If things get too ugly, and hecant be seen outside anymore, he could take his walk right in here.Forty plus eighty, one-twenty, times two, two-forty, call it two hun-dred twenty feet, thats half of a third of a quarter-mile, seventy-twolaps and hes done. Thats how far he walks on Saturdays, seventy-twolaps around this room. No, thats one round trip. One hundred forty-four laps. Unless he did something wrong there, and how in the

world is this going to solve his problem? Is he going downstairs ornot? He takes another lap. One hundred forty-two to go. Twelveminutes. Hes going down in twelve more minutes. What if she. . .

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Lap three. If he keeps this up, hell need another shower. He sitsdown by the bay window.

Hes still not sure, until the minute he knocks, whether hes goingto or not. Crouching in the back of his mind is a part of him sayingrun, run. But that part doesnt seem to have any actual motor control,and his legs keep walking, and his hand reaches up and knocks, andshe opens the door and hes in her apartment, moving on autopilot,avoiding decisions. They look at lizards, at her miniature dragons,while her dinner finishes itself, and then theyre eating at her antiquemaple table. She keeps trying to work the conversation around to

him, and he keeps asking her questions, and he wins because hesmore determined not to talk about himself than she is not to talkabout her.

Her husband was an officer in the Army. They married right outof high school, his last summer before West Point, and they werewaiting to have kids until he made major. But he was still only a cap-tain when an IED got him, and they never did have any kids. The

dragons are her babies now. She looks a question, a challenge, at him,but he pretends he cant see it. Hes not going to tell her. She keepsprobing, and finally, at the door, she takes his face in her hands. Sheis exactly eye-to-eye level with him, and she looks him right in theeyes, her hands framing his face. Theres a deep sympathy, an em-pathy, in her eyes as she says softly Morry. Youve got to let go. Youre not keeping her alive, youre killing yourself, Morry, sosomeone must have told her something. Hes lived here a long time.The mailman, the couple in the mom-and-pop, the lady in the liquorstore, anybody in the neighborhood, practically, could have told herthe basics. He doesnt turn away this time, when she plants a soft drykiss on his lips.

He closes his blinds, gets ready for bed, wanders around a whilewith a glass of milk. When its gone, he wanders around a while withthe empty glass. He can feel her presence so strongly he cant look at

the bed. Hell see her there, propped up on her elbow, watching him.His back to the bed, he whispers to her. Well? What is it you wantme to do? But theres no answer. When he turns to the bed, shesgone.No, shes not! She was never there! Not tonight!He goes to bed, but

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he cant sleep. He listens to his clock ticking, listens to the traffic inthe street, watches the lights on the ceiling. He thinks dark and

gloomy thoughts and wakes up dark and gloomy. Sunday. You cantgo out on Sunday. Not if you want to salvage anything at all of yourcomfortable, safe old routine.

onday morning, Willy shows up at work with a black eye anda fat lip and a stubborn silence. Morry asks all the obvious

questions, but he gets absolutely nothing, and he gives up. Willy goesabout his work in a dismal silence thats painful to everyone around

him. He comes in Tuesday morning with a bright and cheerful de-meanor that everyone knows is fake, an act put on to deflect thequestions. Theres a big involved story about a bar fight Sunday nightthat the cops had to be called in to bust up, but he was out of thereby then, and the cops didnt get him, he was just trying to get out ofthe place and he got caught up in it, and he was so quiet yesterdaybecause he hurt so much, but hes fine today, thanks for asking, thank

you very much. Morry knows the real story has yet to come out, andthat he may have to wait for a witness to tell him the truth. He sus-pects Willy lost his fight, or hed have been a bit more eager to tellthe tale. Maybe Tuesday saw what happened. He suspects theyre see-ing a lot of each other, and the next time she skates in here on herforever legs, hell get to kill two birds with one stone: find out whathappened, and torment Willy some more by getting the truth he liedso determinedly about.

M

Wednesday, going home after work, turning into the alley behindhis place, he sees Caroline moving away from him toward the stair-way door. He walks down the alley toward her, trying to figure outwhat that is that hes feeling. That bit right there, thats excitement.Hes excited to see her. Theres a definite quickening in him some-where. But this over here, this big piece over here, whats this? Shy-ness? Timidness? No, something more sinister than that, something

more like dread.Shes a determined and aggressive woman. She sees what she

wants and she goes after it, and she wants him. She has her sights seton him, with all of the overtones and undertones of aiming, of

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marksmanship, of snipers and soldiers and hunters. Hes still movingdown the alley toward her, but hes moving quietly. Somewhere in-

side, hes sneaking, and he feels a bit of shame. She gets to the door,goes inside without seeing him, and he feels an immense relief. Hellskip all the TV and reading part of this evening. Hell figure this out.Hell decide what this woman means to him, and what he wants herto mean. He takes the elevator up to his place. He eats his chickenbreast and potatoes by the light from outside, pretending hes nothome.

What am I to do? he whispers to the silent apartment. What do

you want me to do? They told him at the city Building Services of-fice that this building was built in the 1890s, and the floors are madefrom 4x12s set on edge, laminated face to face. Thats on top of theheavy, close-spaced beams that actually hold the floors up, but thereason the places are so quiet is those laminated 4x12 floors. Basic-ally, his floor and his ceiling are twelve inches of solid oak, and hiswalls are eighteen inches of brickwork. Yeah, youd be pretty quiet in-

side, too, if you were built like that.He can feel her presence like a faint mist through the whole loft.

Shes not anywhere in particular (except dead), and he wanders fromcorner to corner trying to hear her voice. Shes only a figment of hisown imagination, she doesnt have a voice, except the voice he givesher. The things she wants him to do are the things he thinks shedwant, or the things hed like her to want, or the things he thinks hedlike to think she wants. . . ok, yeah, it just goes downhill from there,pretty fast, too, so just shut up.

He sits in the recliner by the north-facing windows, watching thebuildings across the street take on a sideways pinky goldy glow. Hecant see the sun, but he can see this weird glow, and shes lit up hislife just like that for all these eighteen years now, an invisible sourceof light, coming in from offstage, casting everything in those starkshadows and highlights. Shed be forty-one now, forty-two in January,

but he still sees her at twenty-three, a beautiful, sexy, successful youngauthor, leaning back from her typewriter there at the kitchen table.Shes frustrated by not being able to get past this little bit of plot, andshe runs her hands sharply through her hair, sighing. Shes not there!

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Shes dead! Shes gone!and he gets up and strides to the table, hell do it,hell put that thing away, and he strides to the table, takes up the

heavy old Underwood, turns sharply, marches briskly down towardthe shelves, slows and veers off, wandering along the line of win-dows, and he hugs the typewriter close, moving in a big loop back tothe table, standing there, not setting it down.

Hes crying hard now, silent tears sliding down his face unnoticed.Hes got it up off the table now, and she is dead, and she is gone, andshe wont care, and he turns back to the shelves, walking slowly now.He looks down blindly at the sheet of paper in the machine. He cant

read it this close, and maybe not in this light, but he knows what itsays. Hes read this sheet of paper so many times he could recite it,standing by a desk somewhere like a student in an old-fashionedschool. This part had frustrated her for three days before. . . Sheddecided to leave it. The night before, shed lain in bed, telling himthat she was going to skip it, move on, there were pieces of the storypiling up behind this broken part. Shed get them all out, and when

she came back through the story the next time, reshaping, remolding,reworking it, shed see her way clearly. She just had to make it clearwhat had actually happened while having this odd character thinkhed seen something totally different. Shed get it figured out, andshed gone to sleep curled against his chest like she was sitting in hislap. But in the morning, she was in so much pain, they went to thedoctor, thinking something was wrong with her pregnancy, and theydnever let her come home.

The Underwood is on the shelf, now, and he doesnt even hurt.Much. He goes back to the table, looking at the cup full of pens andpencils and an old thermometer. Hes remembering how she used totake her temperature so often, looking for that magic moment.Theyd make appointments, based on what that little glass stick toldher. Hed leave work at nine oclock in the morning, or two oclock inthe afternoon, racing home to try to catch that one fleeing egg. He

didnt tell Jerry exactly what was going on, just that his wife hadhealth issues. Hes looking at the cup full of pens and pencils, tornbetween youre-on-a-roll-now-keep-going and little-steps-at-a-time-youll-get-there. Little steps win out, and he goes to the recliner but

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he doesnt sit down and he goes to the long leather couch she likedso much but he doesnt sit down and he goes to the weight bench she

wanted so badly and then never used but he doesnt sit down andthen he goes back to the recliner and sits down. She never sat here.Except when she crammed in next to him.

The glow is gone now, the only light he can see is artificial light,and he sits there watching shadows move above him. Watching shad-ows move. Hell write his autobiography, and hell call it WatchingShadows Move. Except he thinks someone may already have used it.Maybe its in a song.

The mist is fading now, just a faint glow like shes happy. Maybeshes glad he put her typewriter away. Maybe shes still frustrated bythat part she couldnt get as right as she needed it to be, and now shewont have to look at it.And maybe shes dead, pal! Maybe shes all in yourmind, and maybe shes happy youre finally taking steps to let her die there, too.He goes to bed, frustrated but pleased, in a strange little mix.

hursday, Willys face is a hideous green and yellow, and theparts-runners tease him about being pretty early for Halloween.

Hes got the bar-brawl story down pat now, not embroidering it evenmore every time he tells it like he did the first couple of days. Morrystill cant wait for Tuesday to come in, so he can get to the bottom ofthis. She seems to be taking her time. Shes usually in a couple oftimes a week. Maybe shes ticked at him for getting into whatever itwas. Maybe he tried to defend her honor in a bar somewhere, weirdeerie music sounding as he and the bad guy approach each other inthe emptying high-noon street, close-ups of twitching fingers, coatsbeing flipped back, the quick flashing draws, the loud report, the badguy lies dead in the dust, and the fair maiden flees the scene, angrybecause the good guy sank so low. Lifes pretty fair like that.

T

Walking home, he turns the final corner into his alley carefully, buthe doesnt see anything. The elevator door wont open when he turns

his key, which means it isnt there, and rather than take a chance ongetting caught out here, he climbs the stairs, carefully. Hes halfwayup the first flight past her landing when her bright-red door opensup, and he sighs in giddy relief. He turns to her door feeling an ec-

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static dread. Shes standing there grinning at him, and the thoughtraces through his mind that he could stand to be coming home to

that grin for the rest of his life.Hey, Morry! Listen, Saturday? Cant do it. Im dancing this week-end and next, at Civic, and he feels a let-down so immense heknows its real, this thing he has here, whatever it is, its real. But shesgrinning that big grin, and shes still talking. So, well do it tonight,ok?

He panics briefly, wondering what she means by do it, but hecant really feel anything except joy, and it bubbles up past whatever

other things there are inside him. Sure! No problem! Same time?Yes, she says, same time, but not the same place, ok? Your place

at eight, ok? Oh, and dont cook. Im bringing dinner, and she closesthe door on his rising panic. His place?! His place at eight?! Cant dothat! and he steps toward her door, to tell her that wont work, to tellher. . . what exactly? To tell her hes living in a shadowy past that cannever come true again? To tell her he lives with ghosts? To tell her he

cant have her in his place because he has herin his place? He movesup the stairs, thinkingyou moved the typewriter, you can move anything. Justput her purse in the closet, thats all you have to do. So you have pensand pencils in a cup on the table, so you have a box of paper on thetable, so what? Shell know in some magic way that theyre not yours?Just leave them be, put away her purse and forget the rest.

He goes into his apartment, swiftly smoothly crossing to her purseon the big glass coffee table she made him lug home from the curbwhere someone had put it, hoping someone else would come alongand make someone lug it home. He feels a panic as his hand closeson the strap. She was so protective of her purse. He could get introuble just for moving it, and he was pretty certain he wouldnt livethrough any attempt to open it. It was months before he could evenlift it for the few seconds it takes to dust under it on Saturday. But thepanic he feels at touching her purse pales next to the panic he feels at

letting Caroline see it sitting there, and he takes it up firmly, goes tothe closet past the bed, opens her side. Theres no room in there, nospace he can be sure isnt being held for something, and he closes thedoor again. He drops the purse behind the bed. Theres nothing over

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here except the bed and the closet. She wont come over here. Unless.Unless. No. No, if she thinks shes going to end up in his bed this

soon, this things over anyway. He moves through the rest of theplace, straightening and dusting, moving things around. He only doeshousework on Saturdays, but hes pretty neat and tidy most of thetime, and the place is ok to start with. Oh, wait, oh, no, oh, wait, wait,wait! Shes bringing dinner! Shes bringing dinner, and theyre going toeat here, and its almost eight and shell be here any minute and theonly place he has that you can eat is the kitchen table and hes notfancy like she is and he doesnt have a dining table just the kitchen

table and its got all her stuff on it and he cannot, cannot, can notmove all her stuff. Not now. Not this soon. Caroline will just have tounderstand. Hell have to tell her, and shell have to understand, andsomething in him feels a vast relief at the thought that he will havetotell her.

At five minutes till, he opens the door, leaves it ajar, wandersaround the room feeling like a kid called in before the principal, like a

jaywalker summoned into court, like Farm Boy before the Princessrolled down the hill after him. He cant set the table, he doesnt knowwhat shes bringing, but he puts down placemats and silver and wineglasses. The rest will have to wait, but this much will establish theirplaces at the clear end of the long table, away from the clutter at theother end. Itll be ok, shell understand, shell have to understand, andthen shes there, toting a stack of dishes like youd take to a potluck ifyou were all hoity toity, graduated sizes with lids that let them nest ontop of each other like that.

She looks oddly at the clutter on the other end of the table, but hecan see the thought go through her mind like the lights on his ceilingat night: Hes a bachelor. They live like this. Dont say anything. Shegets her dishes set up on the stove and counter, gets out plates andbowls efficiently, like she knows where to find things in his kitchen,gets the food served. There are half a dozen different things, served

in some order he doesnt understand. He guesses youre supposed tocall them courses. The meal goes smoothly and quietly, small talkfilling the space like petals falling, small talk about her dancingmostly. Shes in some sort of troop, or possibly a troupe, he keeps

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meaning to look it up, and theyre putting on some kind of perform-ance at something called the Civic, which he suspects is the old

theater the city runs as a cultural something or other. Dont ask him,hes just a parts-counter man.Hes pretty sure hes going to have to go to one of her perform-

ances, and hes pretty sure hes supposed to arrive at that conclusionon his own. Hell lose points if she has to bring it up. And flowers,hell have to get flowers. Another date, thatll be another date, andnow hes lost track of what shes saying. It doesnt seem to have cometo her attention, though, and he tries to listen as she tells him about

someone in the troupe (hes pretty sure its troupe) who cant getsomething right, something with a French name hes pretty sure hecouldnt even say, much less do. Shes serving him a dessert that lookslike a tiny piece of thin chocolate cake with chocolate syrup on it. Hetakes it, thinking its a pretty measly dessert, but then he finds he cantfinish it, its so rich, and they move to the old leather couch.

Shes wearing tiny black shoes like ballet slippers and a black dress

with a skirt that makes him think of tulips and fairies, maybe a fairydoing her impression of a tulip. The skirt is just above her knees, andhes quite certain thats her bare skin there. He doesnt think you canget nylons that sheer, that thin, that not-there, and that has to be herbare skin, inches from his hand. She shifts her legs around under her,turning toward him, putting one foot up under her bottom like thatwouldnt hurt at all, like its a natural position someone might want tosit in, and the urge to reach out and caress the little hollow rightthere, right beside her knee, is almost overpowering.

Hes sitting in the end of the couch, a glass beside him on the widewooden arm. Vodka and grapefruit juice. Back in the olden days,back when he used to go places, back when he was they, and theywent places, every time he asked for one of these, hed ask for whatthe last place had called it, and every time, hed be in a place thatcalled it one of the other names for it. Salty dog, sea dog, old pirate.

He got tired of being made to feel foolish for asking for the wrongthing, so he just took to calling it vodka and grapefruit juice. Theydstill get all snide and smarty-pants, and tell him what it was called, butat least hed get what he wanted. Now he makes his occasional drink

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himself, and he could call it whatever he wants, but hes gotten in thehabit now. He picks it up to keep from caressing her knee, right there

in that delicious little hollow.Shes sitting upright on the couch next to him, not against him butwell within his reach, not leaning back against the couch, just sittingthere, watching him, turned around toward him. Her eyes are big andbrown, and hes feeling a little silly just looking into them like this,but he cant seem to stop, and when she asks her question, it isnteven a surprise. Maybe he saw it coming, somewhere there in hereyes. It should hurt, but it doesnt.

Tell me about her, Morry.Just like that, and just like that, he knows hes going to. He doesnt

have to blurt anything out, he can take his time and shell wait forhim, but hes going to tell her about her. Maybe not all of it, maybenot tonight, but hes going to talk about her. He sips his drink, won-dering where to start, whats the most important bit. If he can onlyget one thing out before he chokes up and freezes, what should it be?

After a long moment, he starts to talk, barely not whispering.We were friends from the very beginning. She grew up in the

house next to me, and I cant remember ever not knowing her. Shewas just. . . always there. A long moment goes by, and then he canbreathe again, go on again. This hurts so much.

There was this one time. We were at a picnic of some sort, I dontremember why, Fourth of July maybe, something like that. Shedbeen down on the beach. Well, I was there, too, but Id gone back upby the tables for something. All our parents and aunts and uncles andeverybody were up there by the tables being boring, and we were alldown by the beach, and I went up for something, I dont rememberwhat. Another time out before he can go on.

I was up there, and she fell and skinned her knee. She was in fifthgrade, and I was in sixth. She skinned her knee, and it wasnt really allthat bad, but she started to cry, and she came running up off the

beach, crying. He still feels the raw pain of those tears, watching herrun up the bank, crying. He didnt cry, but he could feel her tears inhis eyes.

Her mother saw her coming, and she jumped up and ran to meet

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her. She ran right by her like. . . like a scene in a cheesy movie. Hermothers holding out her arms, going down on her knees, and she

runs right by her. She ran to me. Now he is crying, shell think hes afool, crying like a baby over something that happened thirty yearsago, and he stops again, looking out the window above the curtains,blinking hard. When he has things under control, he looks at her, andshes got tears in her eyes, and he has a hard time telling Carolinestears from her tears, as she runs past her mother toward him.

She ran to me, and she hugged me, and I hugged her back, and Iremember thinking that my cousin Denny was going to make fun of

me for liking a girl, and thinking if he did, Id deck him. Well, he did,and I did, but thats another story. I just hugged her back. I put buthe has to stop and breathe, feeling light-headed.

I put my face down in her hair, and his arms are around nothingthere in front of him, his face down into nothing. I told myself thatthis was what love felt like. I was twelve years old, telling myself whatlove feels like, and you know what? I was right. I pulled her knee up

where I could see it, and I brushed the sand off of it, and I blew onit like my mother always did, and then, right there in front of Godand my cousin Denny and everybody, I kissed her knee. I didnt eventhink about it, I just leaned down and kissed her knee. Just because itwas what needed to happen.

He will never ever forget the look in her eyes when he looked ather. He bent down and kissed her knee, and he raised his head andlooked at her, and the look in her eyes said everything that all theyears from then on, for as long as hed had her, kept trying to sayagain, over and over and over. Hes crying openly now, looking atCaroline, looking at her, seeing one of them move forward and oneof them draw back.

Shed come to him a few minutes later, down on the beach again,her crying over with, her knee all better. Shed come to him, off toone side, and she told him Some day, Ill kiss you, Morry, Ill kiss

you right here, laying her fingertip to his lips so softly he can stillfeel it now. Ill marry you, and then Ill kiss you right here, her eyeson his, one fingertip holding his lips closed on his hammering heart.He doesnt tell Caroline that part.

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Caroline reaches out, puts her fingertips on his shoulder, doesntsay anything, and he carefully doesnt lay his face over onto her hand

like he wants to. After a moment, he gets up, goes over to the win-dow. He stares out into the dark through the tiny gap in the curtains,not seeing the night out there, seeing the first time he married her.Theyd been chaste until then, and they were chaste afterward, butthat one time, kissing her there in the car after their fake weddingthat meant so much more to them than the real one ever did, hed al-most slipped that one time. Hed wanted so badly to be her, to beeverything she was or could be, and it seemed like the only way to do

that was to do that. Hed almost said something to her, but then helooked in her eyes and knew that if he suggested it, shed take him upon it, and it would be a loss, not a gain. He kissed her one last time,and drove her home, and it was another year, before they. . . yeah,that, and he turns back to Caroline. Same feeling. Same feeling, ex-actly. He wants her so badly it hurts, but right now, it would be a loss,not a gain, and he sits carefully upright where he was before. She

hasnt said anything since he stopped talking.Shes twisted around even more, and her legs are parted a little

more, and her skirt is up a little higher, and he wants nothing more inall the world than to lay his fingers right there, like that, but he doesnt,and then shes gone, kissing him gently one time at his door, lookingup under his lowered eyes and not saying anything. Shes left all herdishes, as though she didnt want to dilute that moment.

He moves silently through his empty loft, clearing things away,loading the dishwasher, washing Carolines la-ti-dah potluck dishes byhand. He stops a lot, looking out into the night, looking into her eyes,looking into Carolines eyes, watching them merge. Finally, he goes tohis sleepless bed, lies in the night with his hand on the mattress,thinking his strange thoughts.

n the morning, hes not sure what to do about Carolines dishes.

Hes pretty sure theyd be ok right where they are, but she mightwant them for something, or she might just want them home, and hegoes downstairs, taps gently on her red door. No answer. He goesback up, dithers a while. He needs to get to work, theres no one else

I

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in till ten this morning, and hes running out of time. He gets hisspare key from the hook in the hidey-hole, writes a note, stacks all

her clean dishes on the table, and drops the note and key through theopen transom over her door. He walks to work, whistling a little.Maybe Tuesdayll come in today, and he can torment Willy, althoughits beginning to feel like when you want to tell a joke, but the talkmoves on too far before you can get a word in, and then its too late.The moments gone, and if you tell your joke, people wont get it.Hed at least like to get the truth about the fight.

But Tuesday doesnt show up, and he walks home thinking it feels

like fall. The leaves are still up, mostly, but theyre not really greenanymore, and theres a pretty brisk wind sliding through the streetcanyons. Maybe hell have to wear his coat soon. He walks down hisalley, wondering if Carolines gotten her dishes yet. If not, at leastshell be up now. He had a good long think about Caroline last night,specifically about Caroline and him, Caroline and him in bed some-where, and hes decided that if he keeps that in mind, then when the

time comes, it cant surprise him so badly that itll scare him off.Thats the only reason hes thinking of her green caftan as he comesup the stairs. If shed worn that caftan up the ladder, and hed lookedup at her, and shed seen him, and shed come down the ladder againlooking at him. . . if shed pulled the caftan off over her head. . . Hisdoor is standing open.

His door is standing open, and Caroline is standing in the middleof his kitchen with a scarf around her hair, and old scruffy jeanshugging her shapely bottom. Shes facing away from him, lookingdown at something in her hands, and theres a trash can he doesntknow standing on the floor beside her, and as he watches, her handscome around from in front of her, and tip a box of paper into thetrash can. Beyond her the kitchen table is completely bare, nothingon it, not a thing on it, and he feels a frightening rage build up like athunderhead in his throat. For a moment, hes seriously afraid hell

kill her, get a knife and just slash her until she stops moving, but thatdoesnt last long, hell just scream at her until he goes hoarse, and allthe names hell call her flood through his mind like rap lyrics, but thatdoesnt last long, hell just shout at her, shout at her to get out, but all

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he actually does is he walks over to her, snatches the box away fromher, and says Get out!

He bends over the trash can, starting to pull her stuff out, buttheres a lot of it in there, and he wants this woman out of his housenowand its her trash can, he cant keep it, so he just upends it on thebig nailed-down square of vinyl flooring that marks the kitchen, hurlsthe empty can out into the noisy stairway, and says Get out!

Shes plucking at his sleeve, tears in her eyes, but hell never believeanother word this woman says, and he wants her out of his house,and he shoves her toward the door, and says GET OUT!

Shes crying now, but he doesnt care, and he goes down on hisknees by the pile, sorting out sheets of manuscript, smoothing them,turning them right-side-up and frontwards. Somewhere in the backof his mind, hes brushing the sand from her knee, blowing on it,telling her over and over again Its ok, its ok, dont cry, please dontcry, its ok.

The woman plucks at him some more, but he shakes her off, say-

ing Get out! Just get out!She lets go of him, and in her voice he can hear a mixture of pain

and sorrow and pity, but not a hint of guilt or remorse.Some day, youll thank me for this, Morry, really. I only want

whats best for you. Your wifes been dead eighteen years! Myhusbands been dead three, and Im ready to move on. Your wifesbeen gone eighteen years, and youre still stuck in denial. Grow up,Morris, grow up. I dont have time to wait. My clocks ticking. Good-bye, Morris.

She moves to the door so quietly, so carefully, you can tell shesstorming out, and she closes the door so silently, so tenderly, you cantell shes slamming it so hard the floor shakes. Then shes gone, andhe sorts her things out of the pile. The cup is broken, and he gets heranother one from the cupboard. Having gotten everythingstraightened out and put right, though, he discovers that he can put

the cup of pens and pencils and the box with her manuscript on theshelf at the end of the room, by her old Underwood. He walks backto the table, looking at it standing bare there in the kitchen. It feelslike a beginning. His name isnt Morris.

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He fixes a drink, his second in two days, and he sits in his readingchair a long time, but the only thing hes reading is his footprints

coming here, and the tea leaves leading away into the future. After along time, she comes and kneels by his side, and he doesnt look to-ward her, not wanting to see that she isnt there. He knows she isntthere, thats not what matters, what matters is that shes there. Hedoesnt look, but he knows her hands are folded into her prim lap,feet under her on the floor. She doesnt speak, but he knows whatshes saying. Shes sayingno, not that one, but another one, somewhere, sometime. Theres one for you, Morry. Shes sayingIm so sorry I had to go. Shes

sayingits ok, dont cry, its ok.

aturday morning. Scratch the routine. Hell sleep late. He was upuntil the wee hours, listening to her not talking to him, crying, re-

membering, saying goodbye finally, after all these years, and hellsleep late. At one, he gets up, gets dressed, goes out to the waterfrontfor his walk. But his routines gone today, already, and he doesnt

much feel like walking, and he sits on the bench by the statue, handsin his pockets. He watches her watch the horizon, waiting, waiting.Give it up, he says to her, when theres no one else around. Dontlive your life like that. He doesnt know where to go from here.

S

He hears skates on the concrete, coming to him from his left, andhe looks that way. Tuesday again, and she does that same swirlyroundy-round thing that lands her on the bench so neatly. The heatsgone now, and shes not as hot, and shes wearing a long-sleeved teeshirt, and spandex pants like that other womans. She grins at him, abig open grin, says Yo, like it means something, like it means a lot.Yo, he tells her.

So howd your date with the dragon lady go? and hes a littleconfused, he doesnt remember ever telling her about the dragonlady, but he did tell Willy, and he supposes thats the same thing.

Uh, not well? he offers, before he realizes shes probably talking

about the first date. She laughs, easily, naturally. Hey, he asks her,Do you have any idea what happened to Willys face? He wont tellus, he just has this silly story about a bar brawl, and she laughs again.

Yeah, right, bar brawl! More like a cat-fight, and he lost. Yeah, I

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know what happened to him. I happened to him. I told him, nofunny stuff, no, like, groping or anything, right? and Sunday night hes

like, all over me, and Im like, Dude, its our third date, get a grip,and hes all You mean like this? and he puts his hand right here, likethis, just sort of grabs, and Im like Oh, no, you did notjust do that,and pow powPOW, just like that, left left RIGHT, and he goes downlike a sack of potatoes, and I get my phone out, and hes getting uplike hes gonna try again, and Im like Dude, I just dialed 9-1 on thisphone. I got one digit to go! and hes standing there looking at melike hes still thinking about it, and Im like Heres the question

youve got to ask yourself: Do I feel lucky? Well, punk, do you?and he just leaves. I havent seen him since.

Theres a gleam in her eyes that makes it pretty clear how muchshe enjoyed the whole thing, and just why she might want to see himagain. He feels nothing but admiration. Not only does she draw a linein the sand and stick to it, not only does she defend herself againstthose who wont stick to it, but she can pretty accurately quote one

of the most misquoted lines in all of moviedom. Feeling a little fool-ish, like a dinosaur playing mammal, he offers her his fist, like hesseen Willy and the parts-runners do, and she pounds it like they do,an immense smile on her pretty face.

He turns back to the water, wondering what hes feeling, and ashort moment goes by. So anyway, she says, Tell me about thedragon lady. Did you have to beat her up? Well, no, but he camepretty close, somewhere there in his mind. Still not sure what hesfeeling, he turns to Tuesday.

If I tell you my name, my real name, will you have coffee withme? He has no idea where that came from, but its got her attention.

Its not Morris? her eyes searching his, flicking left right leftright.

Nope.What is it?

Oh, no! Its not that easy, young lady, nowhere near that easy. Yougotta say youll have coffee with me.

Ok, she says easily, looking in his eyes. Ill have coffee with you,right now, right there in that Starbucks, if you tell me your name.

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All right, but hold your laughter until the end of the performance,please. It gets worse as it goes on. You ready? and she nods, like he

was asking her. He was asking himself. The last person he told hisname to except officials who had to know was her.Mordecai, he says. She starts to giggle, but he stifles her with a

stern look. Please, Miss, we have a ways to go. Please hold your guf-faws until the very end, and she nods at him.

Nicodemus, and she has to clap her hands over mouth, to holdthe laughter in.

Alistair, and she doubles over at the waist, all the way down onto

her lap, and back up. She looks at him over her hands, giggling sohard shes got tears in her eyes. She cant say anything, she just nodsat him to go ahead with the recital.

Carrol, and she hardly laughs any more than she has been.Maybe his timings off. Hes trying hard to make a joke of this wholething.

Carruthers, and she knows hes done now, because thats the last

name on his name tag at the store. Morry Carruthers, it says.Laughing, she gets up and leads the way to the Starbucks across thewalk.

Isnt that a lovely saddle to put on a defenseless baby? he asksher as they cross the street.

They get ordered and collected and sat down and she tells himOk, tell me about the dragon lady, and he actually can. That leadsto the other one, the one whos stopped haunting him now, and be-come just a memory, the sweetest and most central memory in him,but nothing more, and now hell have to use her name again, becausenow there are so many women in his mind, shell need her own nameback. But not now, he cant say that now, and he talks about herwithout her name until the Starbucks people start looking dirty looksat them.

Then they go to his place for pastrami sandwiches, and they laugh

and talk and carry on for the rest of the day. Shes looking throughher huge record collection. Shes never seen so much vinyl in all herlife, and Morry, surprised that she knows how, lets her run the oldturntable. Theres music in his place again. She knows most of this

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music, speaking knowledgeably about the bands and the members ofthem, and he sits in comfort on the old couch, coffee at his elbow,

listening to her go on. She tells him about her studies at the univer-sity, working toward her masters in music history.He finds himself wanting the same things he wanted from

Caroline, but without any degree of angst. She said she told Willy nohanky-panky, though, and, afraid of her pow powPOW, he keeps hishands to himself. Hes pretty sure therell be other times.

As they go down the stairs, he stops her with his fingertips. Theystand there a long long time, and she seems content to wait, watching

him. Finally, he whispers in the echoes of the stairwell.Steffi, he says, crying slow silent tears. Her name was Steffi.

eekdays, Morry walks to work, striding like a teenager, hishead held like a horse on parade. Willy makes a show of

checking his face for bruises, saying things like You gotta watch her,Boss, shes got a wicked right! but theres a wide grin in the back of

his eyes, and what he really means is Congratulations, Boss! Wel-come back to life! Sometimes she swirls in on Mercurys own skates,bringing him a treat for his lunch or a book she thought hed like, orsometimes just a kiss she found among her own that shes pretty suremust be his, and she gives it to him across the counter. Every timeshe comes in, Willy cowers behind his raised hands, but the smilesthere for her, too. He apologized to her, stammering like a little boycaught stealing candy, his eyes on his toes, blinking hard, and shehugged his shoulders one-armed, saying Just dont ever forget, Willy,thats all. Theres nothing wrong with him that a good dose of grow-ing up wont fix, a process Tuesday seems to have shaken into motionfor him.

W

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The Dinosaur and the Dragon Lady -- a novella