hadn’t been since well before Pablo cheated him. I was what Carolyn wasn’t—a woman who could make it just fine without a man. At least that’s what I told myself that night in September. Then I closed my shop early and stepped outside.
Like I said, there he was, this man, as if he’d been waiting all his life, hoping sooner or later I’d come along.
“Cutie.” I tapped him on the chest with my finger. “You looking for someone?”
“I don’t know.” He whispered as if he thought someone else might hear, as if he wanted to tell me something he couldn’t quite manage. “I’m not even sure who I am,” he said, and his voice shook so badly, I was convinced he was telling me the truth. Wherever he’d come from, he was spooked by something. “Please,” he said. “Can you help me?”
That’s when the propane cannons started firing. Blast after blast. He covered his ears, closed his eyes, and shook his head. He clenched his teeth, and his face was a face of anguish. I put my hands on his arms. It was the thing I wanted to do, and I did it.
“Hush, sugar, it’s all right,” I said, and it came to me, this whole other life, as if a curtain parted—Lordy Magordy—and I could see through to the other side. For whatever reason, this man was so much in trouble, so much at loose ends, I knew I could claim him, and he’d let me.
From where I stand now, would I do it again, given the chance? Sometimes you don’t have a choice. That’s what I’ve learned. Sometimes things happen, and there you are.
“You’ve been waiting for me,” I said, and he said yes. “You’re Donnie,” I told him. I grabbed the first name that came to me. “You’re my sweet Donnie. Come on. Let’s go home.”
HE WENT WITH ME , this man I’d just named Donnie, and it suited him, that name, a name I grabbed out of the air because I thought I was doing magic—Houdini, Who-dun-it, my Donnie. Let’s get this straight. He was a sweet-natured man. Granted, he was a little younger than most people would have thought appropriate for a woman my age, but I truly believe that had the circumstances been different—if we’d met each other and dated, courted and wooed and fell in love the way folks do—our life together, preceding the one we were just starting, would have been grand. It’s just that now we were picking up in the middle of things. Very convenient, if you ask me. None of that awkwardness of the beginning, but with all the flash and thrill of first falling in love.
“Why don’t I remember you?” he wanted to know.
“Honey, you remember me,” I said. “I’m Betty.”
I meant to stop it before it went too far. I want that on the record. I fully intended to stop, to take this man to the police, to get him the help he needed, but then he took my hand. A thing as simple as that. He took my hand and he said, “Betty.” He said it like no man had ever said it to me. “Betty,” he said, like I was an angel, and that was enough to make me crazy.
So we went on up the street. The UNT maintenance workers were still firing the propane cannons from the roof of the Language Building, and the grackles were lifting from the trees, dark clouds of them wheeling off and looking for some safer place to stay the night. Every time there was a concussion, Donnie squeezed my hand and I squeezed back, and after a while it was like our hearts were beating together, and we just kept walking down Oak where the street dipped and then, off in the distance, rose again, and at the top of the hill the neon sign outside the CivicTheater glowed red and beyond that the dome of the courthouse sat just below the dusky sky.
I was doing it. I was taking him home the way I’d carried in stray cats when I was a kid and my abuelita said, “Bee-Bee, merciful God, what’s to become of you and your tender heart?”
She told me I’d be a prize for any man smart enough to claim me. I’d be just fool enough to never say no to whatever he
Like I said, there he was, this man, as if he’d been waiting all his life, hoping sooner or later I’d come along.
“Cutie.” I tapped him on the chest with my finger. “You looking for someone?”
“I don’t know.” He whispered as if he thought someone else might hear, as if he wanted to tell me something he couldn’t quite manage. “I’m not even sure who I am,” he said, and his voice shook so badly, I was convinced he was telling me the truth. Wherever he’d come from, he was spooked by something. “Please,” he said. “Can you help me?”
That’s when the propane cannons started firing. Blast after blast. He covered his ears, closed his eyes, and shook his head. He clenched his teeth, and his face was a face of anguish. I put my hands on his arms. It was the thing I wanted to do, and I did it.
“Hush, sugar, it’s all right,” I said, and it came to me, this whole other life, as if a curtain parted—Lordy Magordy—and I could see through to the other side. For whatever reason, this man was so much in trouble, so much at loose ends, I knew I could claim him, and he’d let me.
From where I stand now, would I do it again, given the chance? Sometimes you don’t have a choice. That’s what I’ve learned. Sometimes things happen, and there you are.
“You’ve been waiting for me,” I said, and he said yes. “You’re Donnie,” I told him. I grabbed the first name that came to me. “You’re my sweet Donnie. Come on. Let’s go home.”
HE WENT WITH ME , this man I’d just named Donnie, and it suited him, that name, a name I grabbed out of the air because I thought I was doing magic—Houdini, Who-dun-it, my Donnie. Let’s get this straight. He was a sweet-natured man. Granted, he was a little younger than most people would have thought appropriate for a woman my age, but I truly believe that had the circumstances been different—if we’d met each other and dated, courted and wooed and fell in love the way folks do—our life together, preceding the one we were just starting, would have been grand. It’s just that now we were picking up in the middle of things. Very convenient, if you ask me. None of that awkwardness of the beginning, but with all the flash and thrill of first falling in love.
“Why don’t I remember you?” he wanted to know.
“Honey, you remember me,” I said. “I’m Betty.”
I meant to stop it before it went too far. I want that on the record. I fully intended to stop, to take this man to the police, to get him the help he needed, but then he took my hand. A thing as simple as that. He took my hand and he said, “Betty.” He said it like no man had ever said it to me. “Betty,” he said, like I was an angel, and that was enough to make me crazy.
So we went on up the street. The UNT maintenance workers were still firing the propane cannons from the roof of the Language Building, and the grackles were lifting from the trees, dark clouds of them wheeling off and looking for some safer place to stay the night. Every time there was a concussion, Donnie squeezed my hand and I squeezed back, and after a while it was like our hearts were beating together, and we just kept walking down Oak where the street dipped and then, off in the distance, rose again, and at the top of the hill the neon sign outside the CivicTheater glowed red and beyond that the dome of the courthouse sat just below the dusky sky.
I was doing it. I was taking him home the way I’d carried in stray cats when I was a kid and my abuelita said, “Bee-Bee, merciful God, what’s to become of you and your tender heart?”
She told me I’d be a prize for any man smart enough to claim me. I’d be just fool enough to never say no to whatever he
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