BARE HUNTER

It was still early in the day after dropping Timmy off, so I called Sharon on a whim, hoping she wasn’t tied up.

“Ted? Hi! All done with your kiddo already?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think I reached my expiration date and he wanted to go home and play with his toys.”

“Cute. Well, if you aren’t doing anything else this afternoon, do you want to make yourself useful?” she teased.

“Sure. What did you need?”

“I got the great idea this morning to paint my living room. I did well until it came time for the borders. How are you with a brush? Ugh, there is so much left to do. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You got a ladder and everything else you need?” I asked.

“Uh, nope. I’ve been standing on chairs,” she confessed sheepishly.

“Shame on you. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that’s dangerous? You could fall and break a hip.”

“Hey, is that a remark about my age, Sonny?” she joked back.

“I’ll stop by my place and pick up a step ladder. Standing on chairs? Shame on you," I joked, "Give me your address.”

“215 Albany Street here in Ellenville.”

“You aren’t that far from me,” I said. “Give me a half hour.”

I unloaded the groceries from the car, hoping everything was still fresh, after the three-hour wait in the car at Burger King. I cleaned the ketchup off my mustache and brushed the burger out of my teeth before loading the step ladder into the back storage space of my car and heading over to her house. It was a nice one-story on a quiet lane. Tulips and Daffodils surrounded the border gardens. I noticed a few lilac bushes beginning to sprout, and a climbing rose spiraled up a trellis on the side of a one-car garage. She must be a gardener, from the looks of the yard. That was good to know in case I needed to find gifts for her later in our relationship.

If indeed we ended up in one.

She stepped out onto the front porch, paintbrush in hand, wearing black yoga pants and a halter top streaked with pale apricot paint. I had never seen her wear anything but sedate work clothes, and wow. Just. Wow. Her smile looked like a warm hug and I wanted to say, “Screw the painting, let’s hit the bedroom.” It was a little too early in our getting to know each other phase for that, though. God, she looked good.

“What’s that goofy smile for?” she asked.

“I was just thinking that I’ve never seen you without your work uniform on. You look amazing.”

“My work uniform?”

“Yeah, your skirts and high-necked blouses. You always look so prim and proper.”

“That’s to keep the office wolves at bay. It works. Usually,” she laughed as she led me and my ladder inside, allowing me a sneak peek at her perfect rear end as she walked in front of me.

“Your place is so nice. I need to do something with mine. I probably shouldn’t use it for a changing room and a place to sleep,” I moaned.

“Hey, what’s that saying? Give a woman groceries, and she’ll make you a meal. Give a woman a house and she’ll turn it into a home. Maybe you should let me help you. When I moved in, this place was a disaster. Mold, cobwebs, holes in walls, you name it. The bathroom was disgusting, and the kitchen smelled like dead rats. It took a year just to get the smells out.”

“That makes the house even more amazing. You have an artistic touch. I might take you up on helping me.”

“First, I need you to help me peel the masking tape off the borders, then, we can try not to mess up the woodwork. Here, take a brush,” she said, pulling one out of a pack.

We slowly worked our way around the base of the walls, and then I set the ladder up and worked around the top, trying not to smudge the ceiling paint. She was working her way up the entryway to the kitchen as I was finishing the top border.

She set her brush down and asked if I minded taking a couple of steaks out to the garage and starting up her grille. “I took out some steaks when you called. Hope that suits you. There’s propane left in the cylinder and the grill is clean.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said and took the pan with the thawing steaks out to the little garage, which she had set up with a table and chairs next to the grille. She followed me out with a bowl of fresh salad and place settings. After the steaks were finished, she went back inside and returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. We barely spoke while painting, and I had so much to ask her.

“It’s kind of cozy in here, next to the grille,” I began.

“I thought you’d like it. You seem like an outdoorsy kind of guy.”

“I am, actually. I am a runner. Ran in high school and never stopped.”

“That explains why you’re in such good shape. I should start exercising. But, honestly, I’m too lazy and like to eat. Whatever happens to my body from here on out is anyone’s guess,” she said with a throaty chuckle.

Her laughter was like medicine to my wounded soul. We sat, sipping wine, as the rain gently fell outside the garage and pattered on the roof. I asked, “Does talking about your marriage bother you?”

“Sometimes. Depends on how my day is going. I have trouble sleeping sometimes, thinking he found me and will break in. Occasionally, I have flashbacks to the worst of it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Nightmares are the worst. You aren’t sure if you’re awake and they’re real. I hate them.”

“I know you were in the military. Are they from your time in the service?” she asked.

“God, yes. Every stinkin’ night, it seems. I’m taking a couple of different pills, but they don’t seem to be going away.”

“Are the nightmares something you can talk about?” she asked, looking concerned and leaning into me.

“No. probably not ever. They sent me to a shrink when I mustered out. I couldn’t even tell her,” I confessed.

“Keeping it in is worse for you than the actual incident, at least that’s what I’ve been told,” she advised.

“Not this one. Trust me. It’s not pretty.”

“Let’s talk about something more fun. What year did you graduate high school?”

“2002. I joined the Marines as soon as I graduated. Like a lot of guys in my school, 9/11 hit me hard. I wanted revenge.”

“I was in the middle of my nightmare during 9/11; running, hiding, trying to keep away from, you know, him,” she shared quietly, instinctively crossing her arms in a protective gesture, then taking a sip of wine.

“I wish I’d been there for you,” I said impulsively.

“I wish you had been too,” she said, not phased at all by my crazy thought.

“When it was happening, no one, and I mean no one, wanted to help me. They were all afraid of the backlash from my husband if they let me stay with them or helped me move away. It wasn’t until I ended up in the hospital that I could call a friend from out of state and ask for help.”

“What happened?”

“He broke my arm and my jaw. I was lying there in the hospital feeling sorry for myself when I realized it was the luckiest break I’d ever had...no pun intended,” she laughed.

“What do you mean?”

“I was free. He wasn’t allowed to stay with me 24/7. I asked a nurse if I was allowed to make a phone call. She looked at me like I had four heads and said, ‘Sure, have at it.’ I called a friend from high school who had moved to Syracuse and asked for help.”

” That’s incredible. How did you slip out of the hospital without him knowing?”

“My girlfriend and her husband stayed in the waiting room until visiting hours were over and saw my husband leave. They hustled me out of the hospital behind the nurses’ backs and brought me to their house to heal. Her husband had a friend with properties in Cortland and we decided it was safer for me to move where I didn’t have ties.”

“Real cloak and dagger stuff. That would make a good book.”

“Well, I’m afraid someone else will have to write it. It’s been ten years with no word from him and I don’t want to write a book and stir up a hornet’s nest.”

“I don’t blame you. If you have trouble sleeping at night, call me or text me. I’ll be happy to keep you company.”

“I appreciate the offer and I might take you up on it. As long as you can handle 3 AM calls.”

“That’s my witching hour too. I always seem to wake up from nightmares around that time.”

“Same goes for you. If you can’t get back to sleep, text me. I know what it’s like, and I’ll be there for you.”

It was 10 PM and the wine bottle was empty, the propane was running low, and we were both yawning. I helped carry the dinner dishes inside and scrubbed down the grille while she washed dishes. I finally called it a night at around 11.

“This has been the best day I’ve had in a long time,” I said. “Hanging with my little guy this afternoon and being with you tonight. Everything was perfect. Thank you.”