Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift

Total miles driven: Given my decision, I’m holding steady at 1,844.9, now that I’ve determined how far from Limon I drove before hitting the snowplow.

Gas usage Sunday, December 18, 2011: None by me.

Addendum: I just now read what Sheila Renfro wrote in this space yesterday. I think it’s pretty funny how she was yelling at me in writing for trying to see her words. I guess she doesn’t understand that this is my logbook and my data, so of course I would be proprietary (I love the word “proprietary”) about it.

I should also say one other thing. She wrote that I need to get over the fact that I peed the bed. I could get past that. But I also peed in the overnight nurse’s shoes. It’s much worse than Sheila Renfro made it out to be. But I’m trying to get past that, too. In general, Sheila Renfro makes a good point. She just didn’t make it with the level of precision I would prefer.

At 10:24 a.m., after Sheila Renfro has put away the breakfast food, collected the mail, and done a sweep of the rooms, she tells me that she would like to take me on a walk through Cheyenne Wells. Snow still sits deep on the ground, but the sun is out and there is little wind.

“How far do you think you can go?” she asks. “A couple of blocks?”

“I think so,” I say.

I’m walking all right, but I do get short of breath. One of my lungs collapsed in the accident, and while the doctors did manage to repair it, I’ll have to keep exercising to get my wind back.

Sheila Renfro leaves a note on the door to tell prospective lodgers that she will be back in an hour. We set out across the highway into the middle of the small town. At South First Street, we turn left, and Sheila points to a large redbrick building in front of us.

“That’s the county courthouse,” she says. “Let’s go over there.”

Cheyenne Wells seems like a pleasant town, and Sheila Renfro seems like a well-regarded resident. She is greeted by name at the lumberyard and outside a bar. Three cars honk at her, and she waves to all of them.

“You know everybody,” I say.

“I should. I’ve lived here all my life. There’s only a little more than a thousand people here. It’s not hard to know them.”

“There are more than a hundred thousand people in Billings,” I say.

“Too many.”

“I don’t know them all.”

“I should think not.”

“My father might have, though. He was very popular.”

“Really? You made him sound kind of mean.”

“He was sometimes.” I feel defensive about my father, even though Sheila Renfro is only reacting to what I’ve told her. “He was a complicated person. But people loved him.”

“Edward, let’s sit down,” Sheila Renfro says. She guides us to a bench outside the courthouse. “I’d like to talk to you.”

I ease myself onto the wooden bench. It has a sturdy back, which is good, as that allows me to keep from putting too much stress on my ribs.

“Do you like me?” Sheila Renfro asks me.

“Of course I do.”

“Why do you like me?”

This question flummoxes me. Where do I start? “You’re nice, and you’ve been friendly to me.”

“That’s true.”

“You’ve been very helpful since I got hurt.”

“That’s also true. Do you like anything else?”

“You’re pretty.” My cheeks flush with warmth, and I’m embarrassed.

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“You smell good.”

“Thank you again.”

“That’s about it,” I say. That’s not even close to it. I don’t like to lie, but I’m too embarrassed to say anything more.

Sheila Renfro takes my left hand in her right hand. She is wearing gloves. I am not.

“I want to tell you something,” she says.

“OK.”

“Do you remember last night when I said that you and I are more alike than your mother knows?”

“Yes.”

“I want to tell you what I meant.”

“OK.”

“When I was in school, a lot of the other kids didn’t like me. They called me names like ‘tard.’ Do you know what that means?”

“Retard.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not a retard, Sheila Renfro.”

“No, I’m not. And neither are you.”

“No one has ever called me a tard. I got called a spaz a lot.”

“Well,” she says, “you’re not one of those, either. What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t have any friends, and that was hard when I was a kid. My daddy used to tell me all the time that I was a special girl, and it would take a special person to see me for who I am.”

I like Sheila Renfro’s daddy, even if he is in the ground. “That’s nice,” I say.

“Yes. But I’ve been waiting a long time, and I haven’t found that person. I don’t like to think that my daddy was wrong about something, but so far, he is.”

“Yes. I understand.” I keep looking down at my hand in Sheila Renfro’s. She notices this.

“Does this bother you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

I have an answer that flummoxes us both. “No.”

I don’t make sense anymore.

“I’m sorry about fighting with your mother,” Sheila Renfro says, and she grips my hand tight. “I know she loves you, like my daddy loved me. I know she’s worried about my intentions. I like you, Edward. I want to learn more about you. I want to see where this goes.”

My mind is scattered. I put my other hand over the top of hers and squeeze, and when she looks at me, I smile and look away.

“Why do you like me?” I ask.

“Because you have good taste in football teams.” She laughs, but when I don’t, she stops.

“You’re kind,” she says. “You give to other people. You were so good with Kyle, and he worships you. I think you can tell a lot about a person from how he treats children. You’re a special man, Edward. That’s why I like you.”

I like her, too, and it makes me feel warm inside to hear her say these things. But I’m flummoxed by the idea of this going somewhere. In a few days, I will have to go back to Billings, where my life is. This isn’t going somewhere. I’m going somewhere.

And I’m not ready to do that yet.

Sheila Renfro asks me to keep holding her hand as we walk back to the motel. I do as she requests.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” she asks.

“No.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

That’s an unanswerable question. I tell her about my one disastrous venture into online dating, when Joy Annette wigged out (I love the slang phrase “wigged out”) on me after I told her we couldn’t have sex on our first date. She ended up writing me a series of increasingly bizarre e-mails, until I unplugged my account. Since then, I’ve been fearful of trying to date someone again.

“Have you ever had sex?” Sheila Renfro asks. I’m taken aback by this.

“No.”

“Really?”

“How could I have sex if I didn’t have a girlfriend?”

Sheila Renfro laughs. “There are people in the world who don’t consider a boyfriend or a girlfriend a necessity for sex, Edward.”

This perplexes me, until I remember Kyle and Jersey Shore . Those guidos would have sex at the drop of their pants.

I just made a joke where I take a common phrase—“the drop of a hat”—and turn it into something fresh and new by referencing the droopy trousers of the guidos on Jersey Shore .

I’m pretty funny sometimes.

We have a lunch of spaghetti—my favorite—in Sheila Renfro’s cottage.

After her interrogation of me earlier, I feel bold enough to ask my own questions.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”