Nicole Young: Love Me If You Must

Well, it wouldn’t be my first night going to bed hungry.

Thinking of bed reminded me that I had yet to bring in my suitcase, cot, and sleeping bag. One quick trip to the car should do it.

I bounded out the front door and down the steps. I slowed at the feel of the uneven sidewalk beneath me, and picked my way carefully across the shadows. The streetlight directly in front of the house sent a pale glow over the hardtop of my inherited classic auto—a teal ’66 Buick Electra 225 Coupe that had been Grandma’s pride and joy.

The chill of the October night raised goose bumps on my arms. I glanced up to enjoy the sight of a quarter moon shining through the uppermost branches of the maple across the street. I sent a silent chorus of thanksgiving heavenward, grateful for the celestial night-light. I thought back to the years I’d endured with no glimpse of the moon at all. But that time was past. I’d regained my right to moon-gaze if I wanted.

A movement caught my eye. I squinted toward the white-sided house hidden beneath the maple. A downstairs curtain fell back into place.

The Neighborhood Watch must be on duty. Every small town could boast of those nosy, yet essential, residents. It seemed in Rawlings at least, my watchdog was located directly across the street. I hoped the person wasn’t too curious. I intended only to do my work, then move on. There was no time to answer questions, head off rumors, or get involved in neighborhood affairs.

At the corner, a pair of headlights bounced across the railroad tracks that split the sleepy village down the middle. The vehicle narrowly missed the back end of Granny’s “Deucey,” as she’d fondly called her beloved Electra.

I gulped. One scratch on Deucey, and Grandma was sure to haunt me to the grave. Wisdom dictated that I pull the vehicle around back.

I sank into the cold vinyl of the front seat and dreamed of the day I’d be brave enough to trade this lowrider in for an SUV. I wheeled down the driveway I shared with the house next door and parked in front of my very own two-car detached garage. I’d check tomorrow to see if a garage door opener had been installed or if I’d have to add that major perk to my list of must-haves.

The slam of my car door echoed through the stillness. I headed around to Deucey’s cavernous trunk and started to unload the essentials. In the distance came the pleasant sound of a train whistle.

I sighed in contentment. Certainly I’d made the right decision moving to Rawlings. I broke into a song, keeping the volume beneath my usual bellow, so as not to become a plague to the neighbors.

Things couldn’t be more perfect. I could almost smell the ink on the bank check . . . almost see the smile on the nice thirty-something mommy’s face as I congratulated her on a charming new home.

Then I’d take that week in Cancun. Or maybe a month.

A rustle of leaves sounded in the blackness beyond the garage.

“Who’s there?” I called, tensing.

“Your neighbor in the yellow house around the corner. Hi.” The sound of the gentle masculine voice helped me locate its owner among the shadows near the picket fence marking my rear property line.

The neighbors sure were friendly around here. This was my second greeting of the day. The last town I’d lived in, only the children had a smile for me. The grown-ups all looked the other way when they saw me coming. News of my past had somehow made the circuit even before I’d moved in. Must have been that prying realtor who’d somehow managed to finagle every detail out of me, all while selling me the wreck she’d called “an absolute dollhouse.” Of course, I had forgiven the gossip-hound the moment I’d pocketed the fifty thousand from the sale of that property.

“Hi there.” I prodded my way through crunching leaves toward the form.

“Careful. The ground’s uneven.”

And such caring neighbors. If these people got any more polite, I might actually consider settling down here.

At the fence, I held out my hand to the stranger. “If you’re the neighbor in the yellow house, then I’m the one in the haunted house.”

I liked how the man’s face got all crinkly when he smiled, the creases deepened from shadows cast by far-off streetlights. He seemed to be a few years older than me, thirty-five to forty-ish, in my estimation. Not handsome really, just easy to look at.

He took my hand in return. At the warmth of his skin, I realized I’d been shivering. I pulled my fingers away and rubbed my upper arms.

“Cold tonight,” I said.

“Here, put my coat on.” Without waiting for my consent, he took off his jacket and leaned over the fence to wrap it around my shoulders. His body heat still emanated from the fabric as I pulled it close.

The chill disappeared immediately. I meant to thank him, but a noise, growing louder by the moment, held me in frozen bewilderment. The approaching rumble shook the earth under my feet. Even the fence vibrated. Suddenly a head-splitting shriek cut through the air.

Wooooo! Woo-woo! Wooooooo!

The blast of the train whistle sent my hands flying to cover my ears. I stared across the yard in horror as three engines and at least a million freight cars vibrated their way through my once-quiet neighborhood.

My stupidity was drilled into me with each deafening lurch of metal grinding metal. I hadn’t dared ask the real estate agent if the train tracks were still active. What if she’d said yes? Then I would have had to walk away from the deal of the century. But, come on, did they even use trains anymore?

“Welcome to Rawlings,” my new neighbor shouted over the din.

I gave him a weak smile. No sense trying to answer until the calamity passed. A flashing light marked the last car. I watched as it disappeared from sight.

“Tell me that only happens once a month,” I said, wrapping the leather of his jacket more tightly about my shoulders now that both hands were free again.

“I wish I could say the thing only came through once a day, but—” he sighed—“once an hour is more accurate.”

I straightened, indignant. “Once an hour! I’ve been here since three p.m. and this is the first I knew that Rawlings had trains!”

“It all averages out,” he said with a shrug. “By the way”—he reached over the fence and touched my hand again—“I’m Brad Walters. Officer Brad, the kids call me.”

My hand turned clammy in his. “Officer? As in police officer?”

“That’s right. One dedicated boy in blue at your service.”

I was sure his smile was meant to charm, but I could only see the leers that had spread viciously across the faces of other wearers of blue. Officer Brad’s gentle voice, asking me if I’d like some tomatoes he’d gleaned from the garden before the freeze, was masked by the cruel memory of clubs raking across bars.

I pulled away from him and mumbled a good night as I headed toward the back porch.

“Wait!” came his voice from behind me.

I stopped, breathing deeply to collect myself.

I turned to face him.

“My jacket,” he said, smiling. “I need it for my shift.”

I wore his uniform. I whipped the leather off my shoulders and carried it back to him, dangling it between two fingers like used facial tissue.

The officer’s hand wrapped my wrist as he collected his pilfered coat.

“You never told me your name.” He said it softly, like a guy might say, “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

I could only stare at him, asking myself why I was still standing there by the fence, letting him touch me . . . asking myself what it might be like if he leaned over and kissed me with those lips that weren’t all that handsome but housed the kindest voice.

“I’ve got to run.” I sprinted toward my house, glad to have escaped before I blurted out my name, giving the officer the two words that, when entered into his police computer, would once again make me the outcast of the neighborhood.