by Mary Lewis

Hank shuffled a few papers on his desk to make them look neat and told Janet to send in his last appointment of the day, who walked in on his long legs. After a handshake, which was one of those vice squeezes from real men, the man set his briefcase down on his desk like he owned it and sat down. This guy had all the assets. Young but not glaringly so, fit but not pumped, his face angled but not chiseled. He smiled like a guy who knew how to use it but didn’t particularly enjoy it.

The man, a Mr. Tad Grosvenor, smacked his hands down on his briefcase. “I heard you do insurance for mountain climbers.” 

He’d cancelled his policy for flying after he sold his Cessna 150.  “It was fun at first, but I’m not going to keep up my license. You can see just so many trees and cornfields before it loses its magic, and you just sit there.” 

Hank shifted in his seat, but managed to control his expression. Someone who had it all, high class lawyer by the look of his briefcase, women after him night and day, trips to Cancun. He should go around in Hank’s shoes for a day. Humdrum job, dumpy body no one wanted to look at, no energy to travel even if he did have the scratch. He wiped his sweaty palms over his thinning hair. Even with all his wealth this paragon of a man had the same problem as Hank. How could that be?

“We can ensure climbers, up to 14,000 feet, but over that the cost goes up.”

“Ha that’s a laugh.  There are 58 peaks over 14,000 feet in Colorado alone.”

Was that a glint from his very white teeth?

Hank pulled a brochure from the file cabinet and handed it to Mr. Grosvenor, who leafed through it briefly.

“Of course I’m not sure that’s going to do it for me.” He put his hands on the edge of the desk and looked down at them.

Oh dear, here it was again, true confessions.

“I’m not sure what will give me the excitement I need.”

He shouldn’t have had that martini at lunch, it was making his forehead bead sweat. It was true, people revealed things to insurance agents they wouldn’t tell a psychologist. He wished he’d known that before he quit being one to get away from needy people.

“How about a policy for hang gliding?” Hank couldn’t resist saying.  

Tad’s well-toned body squirmed in his chair like it belonged to some teenager in the principal’s office. “I’ve already explored the air, maybe I could try SCUBA.”

 Hank couldn’t sit another second. To his credit he did not spring up and march to the window, but made the whole operation slo mo, and he took time to look out over the trees below him. When he turned back to the desk Mr. Lawyer was already standing, half a foot taller than Hank, who’d spent a lifetime trying not to appear to look up at tall people.

They shook hands and Hank said, “I can help you with those plans, but if I may be so bold, as a former psychologist, I can tell you that’s the kind of person you need. Depression, anxiety, can happen to anyone no matter how outwardly successful they are.”

 But it helps if you have a job you hate, a house in the burbs with nothing around it but lawn and neighbors who don’t give a damn about anything except their next trip to the Caribbean, and a wife who spends all her time in Junior League doing good works. 

Mr. Tad slid his brief case off Hank’s desk, nodded with a “Thanks for your help,” and turned towards the door. Hank wondered if he would close it behind him. He did, gently. God, he gave up just like that.

 If there was no way to satisfy this statue of a man, this unhappy demigod who had everything, then what hope for any of us?

“I’m closing down early Janet,” he blurted on his way through the door. Alone in the elevator he ripped his tie off so fast it nearly strangled him. He made it home by 4:00, and surprised Brenda at her computer in the front room.

“Hank, you’re home early.” Her voice trailed away as he stormed up the stairs, desperate to get out of his clothes before his skin split down his back. He shed jacket, shirt, pants, socks and their holders, and all landed on the floor except his pricy jacket. He didn’t have clothing insurance. But he could stomp on the cheaper stuff and did so like he was in some horror movie attacking giant cockroaches, until he heard steps on the stairway and slammed the door.

Brenda knocked. “What on earth are you doing in there?”

Hank dove into the closet, tore his tie rack off the wall and threw the whole mess onto the pile, ties flying out like the limbs of some deranged octopus.

“Hank, what is going on?”

At least Brenda had the sense not to open the door. She’d never seen him like this, nor for that matter had he, a quiet man who never got into an argument, always with a smile and a helping hand.

He found more things to throw, starting with pillows, but he needed something with real substance so he went for the bedside lamp, a figure of a Greek maiden carrying an urn. He didn’t want to break it, so he threw it on the bed where it bounced several times.

 “Hank, are you hurt? What’s wrong with you.” When Brenda’s voice went high he knew she couldn’t stand by. When she flung the door open she gasped at the lamp but rushed straight to the tie rack.

“Oh Hank, all your beautiful ties.” She actually picked the tangled thing up and hugged it.

He grabbed a long skinny one and made a noose out of it. “See, this is what they’re good for. The prettier, the tighter the noose.”

Brenda with her round eyes in her round face screamed at him, “I’ve never seen you like this, you frighten me.”

Naked now except for his briefs, he was breathing hard. “Sorry Brenda, I scare myself too, but I like it.”

He pulled out drawers and dumped them on the floor.

“If you think I’m going to wash any of those…” Her voice low now, coming from the back of her throat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll never have to wash another stitch of mine.”  Hank tore through the pile and found his old pair of cargo pants and the raggy T he used when he mowed the grass, and threw them on. “There, that’s better.”

“You could have done that without the tirade.”  The ruined tie rack dangled from her hand.

A rush of heat surged up through his body and out through his scalp. With Jack Nicholson grin he said, “I needed the tirade, still do.”

But Brenda looked so lost, through this madness he felt a ferocious need to help her somehow. He grabbed her into a big embrace and kissed her on the lips, harder than he’d ever done. “I love you. I’ll clean this up when I get back.”

Then he raced down the stairs and out into the darkened streets.

Actually it was a bright sunny day, full of fragrant smells from summer gardens, kids on bikes, and Mom’s with strollers. All that sweetness and light pulled him back some, and that upset him, so he went back to being mad. Good. He liked that heat boiling out of his skull.

He took big strides down Crimson Court which was such a short cul de sac it only took about fifty, and now he had to decide which way to go on Knight’s Way. Shifting from one foot to the other as he looked up and down the street, he kept hearing that little click Tad had made when he carefully closed the door. How could that have-everything SOB be so apeshit scared of himself?

OK turn right. No wallet, not even a phone, he might as well be naked. Fine, live off the land. But he’d need water sooner or later, especially on such a hot day. Already his throat felt dry. He could go back, but what was he going to say to Brenda? That he forgot his lunch money? At least first get good and sweaty, like he’s letting off steam. What was he talking about, he never let off steam. But that was a real tirade, Brenda called it that. He lifted his chest to align his shoulders over his hip joints.

Back to the big strides, like he really was going somewhere. Swing his arms, yes, create a little wind. If someone was watching they’d think he was power walking. He should have put on some real shoes though, his flip flops were so thin he felt every crack in the sidewalk. 

Knight’s way ran into highway 43 and he turned right again. Easier than crossing traffic. He could put out his thumb, but he’d never done that, and it wasn’t really safe. You didn’t get to size up your ride before it got to you. Besides, what would a ride think of a pudgy guy clomping along. Well, he wasn’t yet forty, could shed a few pounds. He looked down at his legs, still pretty good, especially the calves.

If only he could do a brisk walk around the block, but there weren’t any in the burbs, just dead end cul de sacs, so he only way to go back was to retrace his steps and that felt too much like he’d be going back with his tail between his legs. Every piece of gravel on the shoulder bit into his ridiculous sandals, and trucks passed so close he wondered if they were trying to hit him. One of them smelled like the fields after the farmers spread manure. It pulled off the road ahead of him and someone got out, a woman.

“You going somewhere?” She had to shout from that distance.

He stopped. Maybe this was a good time to turn back. But instead he yelled, “Of course, isn’t everyone?”

His hand searched for a kerchief in the empty pockets in his cargo pants. No way to wipe his sweaty eyebrows.

She stood there waiting. And now it was too long so he started towards her. At least he’d say thanks for stopping. But halfway there this enormous dog jumped out at him like so fast all he could think of to do was mutter “Good dog, you’re such a good dog.”

The woman came running up. “I’m so sorry, he’s never done this before.” She grabbed him by the collar in mid-flight towards his jugular.

“Calm down Killer, and be nice to this man.”

Killer? Hank stood back. But he didn’t run.

“You got insurance on that dog?”

She laughed, “Don’t worry about the name, he’s friendly once he gets to know you.”

“Good dog, Killer.” Loudly, as though he meant it.

She started to walk the dog back to the car. “I can put him in the back, and you can ride up front.”

She wasn’t really that old, younger than he thought at first when she was wrestling with Killer. Arms bronzed all the way up to her shoulders, hair spilling out of a visor hat, blond like the sun had something to do with it. 

He’d take the risk, since Killer would be in the back, but she was taking one too by picking him up. What if he was a serial killer?

Too late he found out that by the back she meant the back seat, not the cargo area, so Killer could poke his muzzle between the front seats and breath on his shoulder, or worse.

“Here, give him this.” He expected some dry nugget, but got a Slim Jim. Lucky dog. “I don’t always give him those, but this’ll seal the deal.”

He peeled it open thinking to give him a piece, but Killer grabbed the whole thing and gobbled it down while he was still trying to break it in half. “I wasn’t really hitchhiking.”

“No one walks on the shoulder out here, what was I to think?”

He leaned against the door after he made sure it was locked, to move away from Killer.

“That lock has never worked, but don’t worry, it won’t fly open.”

This was the second time she’d told him not to worry.

“I’m only going as far as town. But you’re on a longer journey I’m guessing.”

Killer plunged his nose into his shoulder. “You have any more of those treats?”

She handed him one and he did a repeat offering, and then Killer curled up on the back seat. “I was on my way around the block.”

“I’m Carrie, pleased to meet you.” She held out one hand, and he took it briefly so she could put it back on the wheel.

He wanted to tell her not to pick up strangers, but her type never came into his office and he didn’t know how to talk to her. Not like the women looking for life insurance who drag in their thinking-they’re-immortal husbands.

Houses and lawns swept by below him from his high perch. The smell from the cargo bed made him look for the button to close the window, but he couldn’t find it, and he might have put his hand to his nose.

“You ought to smell it when it’s fresh out of the cow.” She tilted her head at him and the sunlight lit the underside of her chin.

“So you’re a farmer?”

“Not really, got this load from one though, it’s for the greenhouse.” 

“You run Green ’n Grow’n?” It had too many apostrophes, but otherwise a solid business.

“Work there.” She made a straight line of her mouth and stared straight ahead.

Had he seen her there before? When he and Brenda came in this spring for perennials?

“I hope you have hail insurance, especially this time of year with storms worse than they used to be.”

“You’re a pretty careful guy, aren’t you?” She glanced at him sideways with a smile.

His life really. But not always. He left her gaze to study the mailboxes on the highway. In high school Brad got him to go out at midnight and pull them down all along 43. No one ever found out who did it.

“Shall I drop you off on the road or in town?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“How about in town? You could take a break at the cafe.”

When she stopped there, he had trouble with the door, and she had to come around.

“Sorry, it only opens from the outside.”

“I suppose your insurance doesn’t cover a fix,” he said, still trapped inside.

She laughed. “This piece of loyalty is twenty years old.” Standing there outside the door, she started to open it but said, “Say, I’ve got a better idea, come with me to the greenhouse, and you can breathe in all that oxygen.”

“You think I need it?”

“Call me clairvoyant.” She didn’t even wait for his response but slammed his door shut and went back to the driver’s side.

Half an hour ago he raged out of the house wanting freedom and now all he wanted was to follow this wild woman who smelled like the earthy, sunny fields.

She pulled up to the back entrance of the greenhouse.

“We mix potting soils here, but you could go in and sit in the atrium if you like.”

Sure, and let her unload all of that by herself? “No, I’ll help out if you have another shovel.”

She squinted at him from under her visor and jumped out. As before she had to open his door, and Killer shot out before Hank could unbuckle his seatbelt. He picked up a shovel sticking out of a pile of dirt and climbed onto the truck bed next to her.

“Doesn’t smell that bad.” He could exaggerate.

“Well-rotted it doesn’t. Bacteria get rid of all the smells.” He scooped up a shovelful and tossed it onto the new pile on the ground. “I bet you didn’t think ‘I’m going to be a manure heaver when I grow up.’”

She planted her shovel into the manure and held the handle like it was Athena’s spear. “Not in the kids’ books for some reason.”

Her arms gleamed golden with sun and sweat, and her muscles moved under her skin. He moved towards the middle as they dug from opposite ends of the pile. They got so close he could have brushed the specks of dirt off her sweaty skin. Little blond tendrils, dark with moisture, scrolled the back of her neck.

Every so often she glanced at him with a smile.

Hank tried again to find his kerchief that wasn’t there so he wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

She looked over, “It’s good to get sweaty I always think, gets the juices going.”

“And the pores cleaned out.” He didn’t say “toxins.”

When they were down to the last bits that only needed a broom, they looked down on the pile on the ground.

“It looks so small,” he said.

“A load always looks bigger on the truck.”

Her shoulder the height of his, gave off heat.

Time to jump down, give her back her shovel and get out of there.

“Next job is mixing the soil, but that can wait.” She passed behind him and jumped down. “C’mon.”

She was already on her way inside by the time he climbed down.

He went to the door and called in, “Actually, I need to be going.”

“Well thanks, that was a big help.”

Killer bounded up to him, sniffing at his pockets. “You’re welcome.”

He let the door close gently, and turned to go, but Killer followed him, so he had to come back. He managed to fill the gap in the doorway with his body so Killer couldn’t get in, and then slammed the door behind him.   

Carrie was doing something with a hose at the far end of the greenhouse.

He called to her, “Had to come back, your dog was following me.

He heard the flow of water through pipes and then the hiss of it coming out a nozzle. “Time to water, plants are on a very strict schedule.”

As he got closer he lifted his face to catch some of the mist. The roof with its skim of algae glowed emerald with the sun passing through it.

“Old building,” he said.

“My grandpa built it.” She moved between long tables filled with small plants.

He followed her. “You know, I could write a policy for already depreciated buildings and you could save a lot of money.”

She stopped and turned the hose off. “Is that what you do?”

He didn’t know what to say. “Yes, until this afternoon.”

She turned the hose on low and held it so long over a big pot of Plumeria, it started to overflow.

“I left before the end of the day.”

“That’s radical.” She drew her fingers along the long smooth leaves.

“No, it really is, for me. And then I went home and tore up all my ties.”

She moved to another big pot and let the water flow. “I never could understand why men put up with them.”

“Then I left my house, with nothing but these manure-shoveling clothes.”

 “You must have known you’d need them.”

She stepped away from the pot and turned the hose to very fine, and directed it to his face.

“Nice and cool.” He backed up.

But she kept up with him, with her gentle spray.

This time he stayed where he was, until he was as drenched as that Plumeria.

Then she did something he’d never seen before. She turned the hose on herself and he watched the bits of dirt trail down her arms and disappear off the ends of her fingers.

He watched the stream of water fall to the gravel floor and then it stopped. When he looked up she was gone, down the aisle between tables, misting plants on the way. Water dripped from his eyebrows and down his legs from his pants, in a soft plopping sounds like big raindrops.

She turned off the wall spigot, disappeared into a storage closet, and emerged with a couple of towels. Halfway back she tossed him one of them, which in his stupor of staring, surprised him so much he barely caught it. As though to show him the next move, she used her towel on her hands and face. Then she tied her hair up somehow, which made her neck look long. 

Hank mopped his brow, briefly, so as not to interrupt his view.

“I need to go get another load.” She threw the towel around her neck and turned towards the door. “Can I take you back?”

Back? Why would she think …? Oh yeah, he’d said he was going around the block.

But she was already at the door. “Come if you like.”

Yes, he really should go back. There was such a mess to clean up, and Brenda would be worried. He followed, drying arms and legs the best he could while walking.

In the pickup he put the towel on the seat, though Carrie said not to bother. They talked plants.

“My wife loves perennials and keeps talking about coming to get more ground cover.”

Carrie looked towards him but only to see out the passenger window as she turned onto the highway. “We’ve got plenty of Vinca and Sedum, my favs.”

When she let him out at Knight’s Way, she had to open the door from the outside again, and this time no problem with Killer racing out. “Thanks for the help.” Like a good neighbor, but her hair was still wet and so was his.

After the short walk home, he found Brenda on the porch steps. She stood up and rushed towards him, “You didn’t even take your phone!”

But she didn’t resist his embrace, and listened to his story, which he told as truly as he could understand. Was he in love with that woman? She asked. He had the sense to say right away, “Of course not.”

“I told you I’d clean up that mess.” He kissed her gently this time, and climbed the stairs. It was too much for now, but he did put back the lamp and one of the drawers. Then he picked up the ruined tie rack, an enormous broken silver spider with ties tangled in its limbs, and went downstairs with the whole mess.

When Brenda tried to untangle the ties, he pulled away from her. “These are mine honey, to do with as I choose.”

“But that aqua turquoise I gave you for your birthday.” Her fingers kept trying to grasp it.

“Sorry honey, it’s gorgeous but I’m not wearing it anymore.” He managed to disentangle it and gave it to her.

Then he marched to the garbage can in the garage and dumped the whole thing in. He spread out on the chaise lounge where the sun filtered through his closed eyelids, and began to let it dry his hair, his shirt, and the empty pockets of his cargo pants.

Mary Lewis has an MFA in creative writing from Augsburg University, an MS in Ecology from the University of Minnesota, and she taught in the Biology Department of Luther College in Decorah, Iowa. She has published stories and essays in journals including Allium, Antigonish Review, Blue Lake Review, Book of Matches, Cleaver Magazine, Litbreak Magazine, North American Review, Persimmon Tree, RiverSedge, r.kv.r.y. quarterly, Sleet Magazine, The Spadina Literary Review, Superstition Review, Toasted Cheese, Wordrunner and The Woven Tale Press. Forthcoming: Evening Street Review, Feels Blind Literary.