GREENFIELD LAKE
After I had spent a couple of nights alone in Rooster’s house, Cleo came to the front door in her nightgown on a Saturday night, slightly intoxicated, carrying four cans of beer in plastic rings, and woke me up. I answered the door in a robe. We sat side by side, on my folks’ old couch, and drank beer and listened to jazz. She said she hated jazz. We got into an argument about jazz. The argument persisted until I walked Cleo back over to her house, me in my robe and she in her nightgown. It was that kind of street. No one else was around. Argo lumbered along side and plopped himself in the hole in front of Cleo’s house. He stayed there when I returned home. He didn’t come when I called. I went home and listened to jazz—Let’s hear it for jazz. The following Monday in the office she swore that I had knocked on her door in my robe in the middle of the night. She didn’t remember all that jazz. I knew I was in trouble. She made the mistake of telling the receptionist that I had accosted her in her house.
“Did you show up half naked on Cleo’s front porch in the middle of the night?” Miss Brooks questioned me in Cleo’s presence.
“Hold on!” I flashed, and told the real story. Cleo was shocked by the face to face confrontation, and she couldn’t refute my story. “You drink too much,” I added. She retreated to her office. I thought I was dead meat. I didn’t know that blackouts were a real problem for her. Her grief over Rooster and the fact that it may have been difficult to get someone else to move in there, kept her at bay.
Brad’s office was directly next to the shrink’s. Fred was middle aged and cheerful in a melancholy sort of way. His windows overlooked the school across the way. He seemed to spend most of his time looking out the window at the young people constantly coming and going. Every so often he would shut his door for an hour, when a client would come by, which wasn’t very often. There were a couple dozen different offices in the building, most dealing with a walk-in clientele of sorts. No one seemed to do very much business. I figured that Fred did a trade off for rent.
Tinkerbell had her office in the basement, a muscular therapist. She was short and a bit boyish in a cute sort of way. Her voice was another of those husky Southern horns that seemed to dissolve all feminine characteristics after the age of forty. She was attractive in her own way with a taut small-breasted body and a loose mind that wasn’t quite sure of itself. It didn’t take long for her to hear about my thwarting of Cleopatra. I was a bit uncertain if I was to be set up and dismembered again, the way it happened at school. She showed up at Cleopatra’s that afternoon. The ladies invited me for a bike ride around the lake, with the dog. I went for the ride, careful to follow any instructions that Cleo gave. Argo ran like a thoroughbred around the Lake. He stopped at selected trees and bathed in choice algae-covered puddles. We stopped and waited on Cleo’s cue, while he did his business. Then Argo would race ahead with Cleo, Tinkerbell and me in hot pursuit, until his next stop. It soon became evident that Tinkerbell was there as mediator. No great discussion went on, just a leisurely bike ride around the Lake. On the home stretch we stopped at a fountain. Argo smiled and romped in the pool while the fountain splashed down upon his big red back. Cleo took off her shoes and walked in the water. I had been given a reprieve.
When we arrived back at the ranch, Tinkerbell came over for a visit. She talked and I listened. We sat at the cafe table in the kitchen, looking out on the lush green lawn pock marked with holes. We drank some beers.