Tim Wynne-Jones - The Uninvited

As he put the electronic stuff in the car, she chatted away at him, and the next thing she knew, he wasn’t smiling anymore. “If you’re like meeting someone for lunch, I don’t want to horn in, eh?”

“Oh, boo,” she said. “You’re breaking my heart.”

He looked down, scuffed his shoe on the pavement. She had mentioned Iris’s name. Was that what had spooked him? “Do you know Iris?” she asked.

“It’s not that,” he said. “I guess I was just, you know…”

She did know. He has been hoping that it would be just the two of them. So she was right; he did like her. She checked the time on her cell phone. “Hey,” she said. “We’ve got twenty minutes all to ourselves.”

He gazed at her. “Maybe we could just walk?” he said. He nodded toward the end of the block. “Down to the park?”

“Sure.”

So they set off down the street, crossed the road into McGinty Park, and made their way to the river.

“You play hockey?” she asked.

He looked surprised. “Not much anymore. Why?”

“You look like a hockey player. All those muscles. Not that I know any hockey players.”

Cramer pointed at a little scar above his ear. “I got that playing hockey,” he said. “And that ain’t the only one, either.”

“Rough game,” said Mimi.

“Stupid game,” he said.

And Mimi laughed.

They sat on a bench right beside a wide pond. The water was high, well up over the bank. There were toddlers on the other side toddling under the watchful gaze of a small clutch of mothers, most of whom looked to be no older than Mimi.

“This is nice,” said Cramer.

She looked at him. “Oh, yeah? So why are you frowning?”

He looked surprised. “Was I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sorry.” He shrugged, looked out at the pond.

She poked him in the arm. “Come on, tell me. Wazzup?”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. He looked down, saw a stone, and picked it up. Chucked into the pond. One of the toddlers on the other side was drawn to the ripples and started walking toward the water only to be corralled by its mother and given a good hugging.

Mimi laughed. “That was close,” she said. But from the look on Cramer’s face, he hadn’t noticed the little drama.

“Hey,” said Mimi. “Talk to me, former hockey-player person. What’s eating you?”

He looked at her, and she looked back into his crazy blue eyes, knowing, somehow, he was getting up the courage to say something important, maybe even something intimate. Then he looked away, seemed to change gears.

“It’s my mother,” he said.

“Is she sick or something?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m beginning to wonder. But it’s not sick sick, like,” he said. And he tapped his head. “She’s an artist. A painter.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“So she’s not ‘ sick sick’ just arty?”

He rolled his eyes. “Some days,” he said. “Some days, it’s…” He paused. “She has good days and bad days.”

“And today was a bad one?”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah. Really bad.”

“That’s really a coincidence because-”

But Cramer interrupted her. “She’s like on this creative journey?” he said. “She’s got this book called The Artist’s Path?”

“Oh,” said Mimi. “I know it.”

He looked stunned. “You’re kidding me.”

“No,” she said. “Honest.” She had been about to tell him her father was an artist, too, but she was glad she hadn’t. The Artist’s Path, as far as she could tell, was a book for dilettantes and dabblers.

“Wow,” he said, shaking his head, his mouth hanging open a little. “I never met no one-anyone-who ever heard of it or like that.”

She nodded again. “Well, now you have.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Now I have. So, you know what they can be like, eh? Artists?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Big-time.”

“Like it can be kind of, you know…” He waggled his hand in the air, palm down.

She did the same with her hand, and they both laughed.

“Wow,” he said again, and rubbed his head.

His hand was so large, so strong. Mimi looked away. She was feeling just the slightest bit short of breath. Then she noticed her cell phone, still in her hand, and saw that it was nearly noon.

“Listen,” she said. “I’ve got to meet Iris.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” He seemed flustered again and immediately jumped to his feet.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?”

He thought about it, looked pained, she thought, but shook his head. “Hank’ll be waiting for me,” he said, but he didn’t fool her.

“Let’s do this again, Cramer, okay?”

He smiled. “Okay,” he said.

“Cool.”

They walked back to where his car was parked, and he gathered his electronics from the backseat again.

“It was good seeing you,” he said. “It was good to talk to you like that.”

“Same for me,” said Mimi, and reached out to shake his hand. He took it and almost lost the equipment he was cradling.

“Oops!” she said, grabbing some kind of a measuring device before it slipped out of his grasp entirely.

“Thanks, eh,” he said. “And about the coffee-”

“A rain check,” she said.

“Pardon? Oh, right. Yeah. Right.” He chuckled. “They say there’s going to be some rain. Like soon.”

Mimi grinned. “Good,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Like it’s a sign?” She nodded. And he looked as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t think of a thing. Then, with his head bobbing, he started off. He turned and waved. “Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

Then he stopped and came back. “Hey, you still got my number, right?”

“You betcha,” she said, giving him a little salute.

“Well, just phone if you need any help.”

“I will.”

He nodded seriously. “I hope you don’t,” he said. Then he looked horrified. “That’s not what I meant to say. I meant I hope you don’t run into any-”

She cut him off with a laugh. His confusion was endearing. “I knew what you meant, Cramer,” she said. “And I won’t hesitate to call if I need you… uh, need to. Thanks so much.”

He took a deep breath, as if this interchange was burning a great deal of calories and he’d soon have to skate back to the bench to recuperate.

His face got serious again. “And no one’s been bothering you up there?” he said.

“No,” she said. “We seem to be out of the woods.” Then she laughed at the unintended pun.

“All right,” he said. “Good one!” And he gave her a thumbs-up.

She returned the gesture.

And then with a tip of his head, he left, swiveling to look at her again, a few paces down the path. He flashed her a smile.

She sighed. Nice smile, bad teeth or not.

“Hey.”

She turned and there was Iris approaching from up Forster. “Hey, yourself.”

“Who’s the muffin?” said Iris, shielding her eyes to catch the last glimpse of Cramer as he ducked down the alley to PDQ Electronics.

“Mr. Cute Butt,” said Mimi. “A little short on the snappy repartee but nice. Very nice in a hockey-player kind of way.”

“Charm enough for your charm bracelet?” said Iris, and Mimi laughed out loud, a little raucously.

“Who is he?” said Iris.

“Cramer. He’s the one who fixed my computer. I don’t know his last name.”

“I thought Hank Pretty fixed your computer.”

Mimi shook her head, holding open the door to the restaurant for Iris. “Maybe Cramer’s a Pretty, too,” she said.

“There are lots of them around these parts,” said Iris, and then stopped in her tracks. “Cramer, Cramer. Why does that ring a bell?”