was wrapped with a pink towel. She wore a long, paisley robe and pink slippers. Clint stepped on the brake.
'What does she want?' Mary asked.
'Guess we'll find out.'
'Let's not. Let's get moving.'
'We'd better wait and see what…'
'She'll want us to take her somewhere. know it. We haven't got time. Every minute…'
'Yeah' Lifting his foot off the pedal, he shook his head at the approaching woman and saw a look of despair crumple her face.
'Wait!' she called. 'Don't go!'
Mary squeezed his thigh. 'Do you want to get home to your wife and daughter or don't you?'
Clint backed up and swung the rear of the BMW into the cross street, retracing his course. The woman was running, waving one arm, the baby jostling against her chest, the colorful robe open below its sash and flapping behind her. Her legs were very pale. Her pubic hair was a heavy black thicket, startling to see but not arousing. Disturbing, pathetic, and vaguely repulsive because somehow it reminded Clint of Holocaust pictures. 'No?' she yelled. 'Wait!'
He didn't wait. He forced his eyes away from the woman and sped the car forward, leaving her behind. Then he muttered, 'Shit.'
'Don't worry,' Mary said. 'It couldn't have been anything that urgent or she would've gone to the cops. That's what they're for, to help people.'
Good point, Clint thought. It made him feel better. Though not much.
'I just wish knew what she wanted.'
'A ride. Either that or money. She would've given us some kind of a sob story and we'd still be sitting there listening to her.'
'You're probably right.'
'I know I'm right.'
But Clint wished he had waited, let the woman say her piece.
It would not have been the smart thing to do; speeding away had been the smart thing. He hardly needed a total stranger to be robbing time from him - time that he owed Sheila and Barbara. Lose a minute listening to some distraught woman, and maybe you end up on the wrong side of a crash that blocked your road. Stupid. But he wished he had risked it. He wished he had stayed hear out the woman, then done whatever he could to help her. Not the smart thing to do, but the right thing. He felt a little bit sick inside.
Ashamed. Not only ashamed of himself for fleeing from the stranger, but for allowing Mary to talk him out of doing what he knew was right. Was he so used to letting Sheila and Barbara have their ways that he'd forgotten how to stand up to a woman? Of course, mine're usually right about stuff. The thought made him start to smile, but a terrible sadness suddenly swept through him. If they're not okay…
***
Stanley savored the job of uncovering Sheila. He took his time at it, scooping up double handfuls of debris, firing away a chunk of this, a slab of that, a broken beam, a section of fallen wall. Though he simply tossed the smaller obstacles aside, he lifted each large piece, carried it a few paces, and set it down carefully. Slow work. Exciting work. When Sheila had asked if he could go any faster, he'd explained, 'It's awfully precarious up here. don't want to start an avalanche.'
'I know you're doing the best you can.'
He was doing the best he could - to remove the material silently. Let Sheila think he was taking great care to prevent her from being injured by falling rubble; his actual purpose was to maintain the secrecy of his project. There would be awful clamor if he started hurling the big stuff aside. Though remnants of walls protected him from being seen by anyone who might pass in front of the house, loud noise might draw attention. The last thing he wanted was an intrusion - a nosy neighbor coming along to investigate or help. Sheila's mine. He had cleared away rubble all the way down to floor level before she began to appear. Low and out of reach. The bathtub had apparently dropped
'What does she want?' Mary asked.
'Guess we'll find out.'
'Let's not. Let's get moving.'
'We'd better wait and see what…'
'She'll want us to take her somewhere. know it. We haven't got time. Every minute…'
'Yeah' Lifting his foot off the pedal, he shook his head at the approaching woman and saw a look of despair crumple her face.
'Wait!' she called. 'Don't go!'
Mary squeezed his thigh. 'Do you want to get home to your wife and daughter or don't you?'
Clint backed up and swung the rear of the BMW into the cross street, retracing his course. The woman was running, waving one arm, the baby jostling against her chest, the colorful robe open below its sash and flapping behind her. Her legs were very pale. Her pubic hair was a heavy black thicket, startling to see but not arousing. Disturbing, pathetic, and vaguely repulsive because somehow it reminded Clint of Holocaust pictures. 'No?' she yelled. 'Wait!'
He didn't wait. He forced his eyes away from the woman and sped the car forward, leaving her behind. Then he muttered, 'Shit.'
'Don't worry,' Mary said. 'It couldn't have been anything that urgent or she would've gone to the cops. That's what they're for, to help people.'
Good point, Clint thought. It made him feel better. Though not much.
'I just wish knew what she wanted.'
'A ride. Either that or money. She would've given us some kind of a sob story and we'd still be sitting there listening to her.'
'You're probably right.'
'I know I'm right.'
But Clint wished he had waited, let the woman say her piece.
It would not have been the smart thing to do; speeding away had been the smart thing. He hardly needed a total stranger to be robbing time from him - time that he owed Sheila and Barbara. Lose a minute listening to some distraught woman, and maybe you end up on the wrong side of a crash that blocked your road. Stupid. But he wished he had risked it. He wished he had stayed hear out the woman, then done whatever he could to help her. Not the smart thing to do, but the right thing. He felt a little bit sick inside.
Ashamed. Not only ashamed of himself for fleeing from the stranger, but for allowing Mary to talk him out of doing what he knew was right. Was he so used to letting Sheila and Barbara have their ways that he'd forgotten how to stand up to a woman? Of course, mine're usually right about stuff. The thought made him start to smile, but a terrible sadness suddenly swept through him. If they're not okay…
***
Stanley savored the job of uncovering Sheila. He took his time at it, scooping up double handfuls of debris, firing away a chunk of this, a slab of that, a broken beam, a section of fallen wall. Though he simply tossed the smaller obstacles aside, he lifted each large piece, carried it a few paces, and set it down carefully. Slow work. Exciting work. When Sheila had asked if he could go any faster, he'd explained, 'It's awfully precarious up here. don't want to start an avalanche.'
'I know you're doing the best you can.'
He was doing the best he could - to remove the material silently. Let Sheila think he was taking great care to prevent her from being injured by falling rubble; his actual purpose was to maintain the secrecy of his project. There would be awful clamor if he started hurling the big stuff aside. Though remnants of walls protected him from being seen by anyone who might pass in front of the house, loud noise might draw attention. The last thing he wanted was an intrusion - a nosy neighbor coming along to investigate or help. Sheila's mine. He had cleared away rubble all the way down to floor level before she began to appear. Low and out of reach. The bathtub had apparently dropped
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