Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

The Swami's Arrow
The Swami's Arrow
The Swami's Arrow
Ebook421 pages6 hours

The Swami's Arrow

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Col. Tyler French, recently retired from the army and divorced from his wife in California, comes east and buys a concrete house on a Carolina barrier island in the early 1990s. He hires a summer girl to help him make it livable, and negotiates with the local backhoe operator to build a seawall to protect it against beach erosion. A history professor neighbor befriends Tyler and introduces him to the small, isolated beach community, the center of which is a lowlife bar owned by the backhoe man. As Tyler and the girl work together, he learns she has run away and is hiding from her oppressive preacher husband. A friendship blossoms into much more, but the husband tracks her and takes her away while a hurricane bears down on the island, leaving Tyler distraught and in danger.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherRalph Bowden
Release dateJul 19, 2018
ISBN9780463640913
The Swami's Arrow
Author

Ralph Bowden

Ralph Bowden has entertained himself by writing mostly fiction for almost 30 years, through and following careers as an electrical engineer in the aerospace industry, a history professor, a home builder, an alternative energy consultant, an instructional designer, and a technical writer. Twenty-six novels, four story collections, a volume of collected short fiction, and a three-act play reside, mostly unread, on his hard drive. He likes all of his word children. Realistically, some of them are probably flawed and maybe even terrible. Others might entertain readers besides himself, but Ralph hasn't the time or ego drive to promote and sell, nor the stomach for collecting rejection letters. Self-publishing avoids all that and is quick. If somebody finds and likes what he has written, fine. If not, the world will go on (or not) just the same.

Read more from Ralph Bowden

Related to The Swami's Arrow

Related ebooks

Action & Adventure Fiction For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for The Swami's Arrow

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    The Swami's Arrow - Ralph Bowden

    Chapter 1, May, 1995

    Tyler French walked along the top of the concrete seawall, checking over the property. He paused at a crack and scrambled down to inspect the wall’s exposed footing.

    Three people walked along the beach toward him, a young man and woman, and an older man, tall and craggy, with longer hair than Tyler’s gray brush cut.

    Good evening, the older man said, removing his pipe to speak. You’re not thinking of buying this place, are you?

    I just did.

    Really? Well! Congratulations, I guess. It’s been on the market three years.

    I know.

    I’m Arthur Bennett, and this is my son Keith and daughter-in-law Cathy. We’re neighbors, six houses down, though I’m only a summer person.

    Tyler French. He shook all three hands.

    Are you here just for the summer? Keith asked.

    No, I’m moving my stuff in to stay. That U-Haul truck out front has everything I own.

    Is there family? Cathy asked.

    Just me. My son and two daughters are grown, and on the west coast.

    That’s a big house, Arthur observed.

    Yes it is. And solid. That’s why I bought it.

    It needs to be solid, where it is. Too bad you can’t move it back fifty or a hundred feet.

    I like where it is. That’s part of the reason I bought it too.

    Well as long as you can keep the seawall together. Arthur knocked his pipe out on the seawall base. The ocean has given it and your house some beatings, over the years. They’ve come through in remarkably good shape, certainly compared to the rest of the places out here. That break in the wall, though, and the erosion, are new. The beach used to be much wider and flatter here, even a couple years ago. Now you can only walk by when the tide’s out and the surf’s down, like this evening. Most of the time, the swash slides right up to it. Did they say anything about insurance?

    Oh, it would be prohibitive. I know that. But I don’t believe in insurance. Life is risk and challenge; give them up and you die.

    This place should keep you very alive then. I’ve always admired its forthrightness. The old man who built it must have wanted to make a statement, something like, ‘all right, nature stops here.’ So he had the whole thing poured out of concrete, on massive piers down deep into the highest dune around, and put it only forty feet back from the seawall. Fort-like, it’s the end of the line, buffering all the wimpy little places back the other way from the wide open dunes.

    Tyler looked out over the dunes, stretching on to the end of Whigbee Island, half a mile to the northeast. You’d think if anything was to be swept away, the dunes would go first.

    Arthur looked too. They do retreat, and shift, and adjust themselves to the whims of wind and surf. Your place, though, it takes a stand, once and for all, defiant. Maybe that’s why the sea has specially targeted this part of the beach and worn it away so much: it senses a challenge too.

    The sea will have a battle on its hands with me here. I don’t intend to be worn away for a while yet. Mrs. Jackson, the agent, wasn’t sure how long this place has been here, and the deed gives no indication. It dates from the war years, doesn’t it?

    Yes. I started coming out here in the late fifties. This was the only place that survived Carol. The second owners told me the original owner, Admiral Farnsworth, was a decorated naval hero from the first war. He had it built in 1942, with that second story balcony and tower so he could keep a watch on submarine activity out in the shipping lanes. He used to keep a light up there too. It was the closest thing to a lighthouse along this whole sweep of coast between Myrtle Beach and Wilmington. And Whigbee Island is the closest thing to a cape. What brings you here? Have you ties on Whigbee?

    No. I just retired, loaded everything in that truck, and headed east. Twenty years in California were enough. I had to get out. When I found the ocean again yesterday morning, I stopped, looked around, saw this place, and bought it.

    Just like that? You sound like a man of decision. I suspect there’s lots of good stories behind it all. Surely you won’t try to move in tonight. What do you say, Keith, can this man have a drink on the Pelican Nest this evening?

    You bet. A meal on the house too. Best fresh shrimp and crab this side of Charleston.

    Keith runs the Pelican Nest down on the pier, Arthur explained. Be our guest. He looked at his watch. Say eight o’clock?

    Well thank you, I’ll need to . . .

    Don’t bother to change or anything, Keith interrupted. It’s a laid back sort of place, and probably not too full tonight. The season has started, but things aren’t really frantic for another couple weeks, late May, early June, usually. Come as you are.

    All right. Thanks.

    They turned and left, while Tyler continued his inspection. He paced out the property boundaries, checking them against the deed as well as he could through the sea oats, weeds, prickly brush and shrubs. Everything was in order; at least nothing seemed to be encroaching on either side.

    He had checked the outside of the house for cracks in the concrete before signing anything. There were none. This builder must have known his stuff. The stucco finish was in good shape. Wood window frames needed attention – scraping, paint, caulking. None appeared to be rotted out, though. Mrs. Jackson said the last owners had major reconstruction done, including replacing all the windows, when they bought the place in 1975. The dune on which the house stood showed no sign of erosion; if anything, sand had drifted against the house some, particularly on the northeast.

    Then he tried his keys in the various locks. On the front, toward the beach, the lock was hopelessly crusted. None of the three keys would even enter, much less turn. On the back, driveway side, one key fit, and, after some work, opened the door on its creaky hinges into a kind of utility room with a washing machine hook up. This is how Mrs. Jackson had showed him in yesterday. He went up three steps to the kitchen. The rusty sink and unremodeled metal counter fit with the damp, closed-house smell.

    A large living room stretched the full width along the front, with big windows for an unrestricted ocean view. Amazingly, none were broken out, though some were cracked. A dining room along the southwest, and a bedroom and bathroom completed the downstairs. Tyler went up the wooden stairs, which creaked some, but felt solid.

    A huge bedroom stretched across over the living room with similar windows and double doors, which opened onto the balcony. Tyler worked with the lock and stepped out. The surf was not more than thirty yards away. The height and onshore breeze in his face added presence and distinction to the sound. More than on the beach, you could hear every nuance in the crash of individual breakers as the water came and went. It would be a mighty roar indeed when the surf was up.

    Circular stairs led up from one corner of the bedroom to the tower, which provided a view in all directions. The beach faced southeast. To the northeast, beyond the high dunes and the point of Whigbee Island, a narrow inlet isolated the next barrier island, low, roadless, and uninhabited. Behind it, due north, a protected bay opened out.

    To the northwest stretched miles of dull brown tidal marsh between Whigbee Island and the mainland. Various creeks and drainageways, some of which were navigable even now at low tide, cut through the marsh. The setting sun bounced off these twisting ribbons. A couple fishing boats were tied up back there, and now sat on the mud, leaning.

    Southwest, in the middle of the island, the lowest, narrowest part, was the town of Whigbee Beach, a strip of a few convenience stores, a gas station, a fishing pier, and the motel where Tyler had stayed last night. Beyond, the island broadened out again, with a few cross streets and lots of small rental cottages.

    Houses on the upper part of the island, between town and his place, were spaced out and mostly owner-occupied. Those dating from the last decade or two were lavish and pretentious, two story, and on higher posts. But Whigbee had fewer of such places than the other islands Tyler had checked yesterday. Nor did Whigbee have any of their high rise condominiums.

    That was why Whigbee had appealed to him immediately. The developers had not taken over. This was not just a homogeneous upscale suburb transported to the beach. There was a residual seediness here, variety, and heritage, at least forty years of it – and much more in this house. Perhaps the island was too small to be developed. It was only two miles long; both ends were visible from the tower. Whigbee was also farther off the beaten track. The only link with the outside world, and the mainland golf courses which seemed to be the chief local attraction, was a causeway across the marsh, six miles long – Tyler had clocked it on the way out. At the mainland end, a narrow drawbridge spanned the intracoastal waterway.

    Satisfied that all was in order, Tyler descended again, went out to the truck in his driveway, and began unloading his station wagon, coupled behind. He would need it to drive down to the Pelican Nest.

    Chapter 2

    "I never thought that place would sell. He must have picked it up for a song." Arthur filled his pipe while Keith totaled up bills with a calculator. They sat at a table along the southwest windows of the Pelican Nest with a view of the beach, now mostly in shadow.

    Whatever he paid, it’s money down the drain, Keith remarked without looking up. Remember how wide the beach used to be there when you brought us out here as kids? If the ocean has a mind to change the coastline, you don’t buy something in its path. He must not know this area. What’s your guess? You’re a connoisseur of people. I’d say retired military, and probably stubborn as hell.

    That would be my guess too. The carriage and bearing, the stocky, ramrod look, and the haircut all suggest the military, a man of action, and – as he himself says it – risk and challenge. But even I can’t always tell. Whoever he is, I’m looking forward to the story. Will you be able to join us?

    I can’t. The kitchen routine is all screwed up since Jane left, and I’ve got a new girl coming in tonight to break in on the tables. I’ll give her yours to practice on. Oh, there she is, he checked his watch, five minutes early. That’s a good sign.

    Keith got up. Arthur glanced over at the new waitress. She was blond, probably bleached, not homely, certainly, but nothing remarkable. He tamped his pipe, lit it, and sat back, looking out across ocean interrupted only by the lights of a distant freighter.

    A few minutes later, Keith brought the new girl over to map out her territorial tables and review the waitressing routines. Arthur peered discreetly through his shaggy eyebrows, watching how she responded to Keith’s instructions. He frowned and pursed his lips as if something bothered him about what he saw.

    Tyler French appeared at the door and looked around. He spotted Arthur and headed across the room.

    Good evening again, Arthur hailed him. This is the smoking section. I hope you don’t mind.

    Not at all. I’ll join you. There’s hardly anyplace in California where you can light up any more without being looked at. Tyler pulled out his chair and sat.

    Yes, I know that look; like you had just farted, or something.

    Tyler chuckled. Well, actually, the things I smoke are pretty bad. He pulled out his pack of stogies.

    Not to worry, as they say. This is the old country. And those turds can’t be any worse than the ground up goat droppings I smoke. Or dead fish. The evening was warm. All the windows were open and a breeze brought in the pier smells.

    Tyler used an old chrome zippo to light up, and Arthur continued,

    All right, now what’ll you have? I spend most of the summer here and know the wine list pretty well – all two bottles of it. Keith doesn’t keep much. You can get the standard mixed drinks, of course, and scotch, that sort of thing.

    I’ll have a beer.

    Excellent. I know what he’s got in that department. Arthur rattled off the list. I’m a working class beer drinker myself. Hey Keith, he called over, can your new lady get us a couple brews?

    Keith brought her over. Dad, Mr. French, this is Linda. Don’t give her too hard a time right at first.

    Linda took their order competently. She knew the slightly giddy and flirtatious manner that was expected of her and produced it. Again, Arthur studied her for a few seconds as she walked back to the bar and his forehead furrowed. Then he turned to Tyler, who was looking out the window down the beach.

    OK, now what’s this about simply loading everything up and heading east. Start at the beginning. What were you doing in California?

    Managing defense department munitions contracts. Mostly keeping missile manufacturers in line, cost wise, and protecting DOD interests. Damn desk job, nothing but paperwork and personnel problems.

    Civilian position?

    Yes.

    But you were military, I take it?

    Until 1975, yes. I retired then in the big post-Vietnam wind-down when it looked as if my chances of making another grade were slim. Colonel would have to do.

    Army, then?

    Yes. Artillery.

    Let me guess; you enlisted for the Korean War?

    Right. 1950, after two years of college and ROTC.

    Damn! Arthur rubbed his hands together. Somebody who was out there doing the history I tell students about. They think of me as a fossil, and they’re right. My bones were always dead, though. I existed through all those years, but didn’t really live except vicariously, through books and newspapers. How would you like a guest lectureship: chair of war stories?

    I don’t do war stories. I’ve been bored by too many. Besides, focusing on the past cheats the present and future. I may be sixty-four, but I’ve still got some living to do.

    Well said, Colonel French! I’ll drink to that. Linda had just arrived with their beer mugs and coasters.

    Where do you teach? Tyler asked.

    Chapel Hill, UNC, until next year when I retire – at sixty-five – and go emeritus. No half pay or VA benefits, unfortunately, but then I can’t claim to have done my country much real service.

    I think I have. Cynical young people would probably disagree, but I believed in what I was doing. Most of the time, at least. Of course I saw a lot of inefficiency, indecision, and lack of leadership in the military, but over the long haul, I believe in it. Were you in service?

    No. Medical disability. A conveniently noisy heart valve, which they finally fixed in 1975, after all the excitement was over.

    I should say international events of the past few years have been pretty exciting.

    Arthur leaned back and puffed his pipe. I should say! And I’m glad to have witnessed it, though again, it would have been better to participate. I always wanted to do the foreign service in some capacity, but got plugged into a cushy spot at the university early, and then family demands kept me down on the farm.

    I’m afraid my family didn’t see much of me – which was probably a good thing. As soon as I was around regularly, my wife and I found we were totally incompatible. We finally divorced last January. That’s how I was free to pull up and come east.

    East is home?

    Essentially, yes. I grew up in Pennsylvania.

    And your plans for new challenges now include?

    For the time being, I’ll have my hands full with that house. The seawall needs work, and I expect the plumbing and utilities may too. The window frames need scraping and painting and glazing.

    Dinner? Linda was standing there ready to take their order.

    Ah, my dear, Arthur apologized, we have been too engrossed to consider the matter. Bring us another round, and we promise to buckle down to essential decision-making.

    They did not, though. Tyler told of his plans to do some serious scientific star gazing, and setting up short wave equipment to listen in on the world. Arthur spoke briefly of his wife’s illness and death two years before, and his own retirement plans, moving to Washington to be near the major sources for some book writing projects. Linda had a few other customers to deal with and left Arthur and Tyler alone for a long time. Finally, she came back, even though their menus still lay unopened.

    Would you boys like to decide what you want, or just have me bring you something to eat?

    Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn . . . what I eat, that is. Your choice would surely suit me fine. But I know the shrimp platter is reliable, and Keith tells me the catch was good today.

    Thank you, Rhett. Colonel French?

    Tyler seemed to notice Linda for the first time as she said his name. He didn’t smile or respond in any way positively, but he did at least look at her.

    I’ll have the same.

    When she was gone, Arthur remarked, Did you catch that? I think she may actually have read a book or two. She’s new. Keith just brought her on this evening, but something tells me she’s older or brighter than you might think to look at her.

    Humph. Possibly, Tyler grunted, without interest.

    I take it you’re not a member of the FFFW?

    What that?

    The Fine Feminine Flesh Watchers.

    Not really. In my experience – which has been limited, thank God – that sort of thing only leads to trouble.

    You sound a trifle soured on women generally.

    I guess you could say that.

    Really? Even the post-liberation types?

    Them especially. I guess I’m old fashioned. My daughters certainly tell me I am. They say I’m hopelessly patriarchal, and lump everything in under that rubric. Well I’m sorry, but I’ve seen nothing in sixty-four years to change my opinion of women. Their function, as far as I can see it, is to procreate, and everything else they become involved with is essentially subordinated and distorted to that end. If you want something to run smoothly, if you want things that matter to happen in an orderly way, keep women out of it.

    You’re close to your daughters, then? Arthur asked, with a smirk.

    They don’t think so. They blame our supposedly dysfunctional family life and all their imagined current problems on me. They’d bill me for their psychiatrists if they could. They, and my ex-wife, were really good reasons for leaving California. Those women sit around and analyze things to death, and always conclude that whatever bad happens in their lives was my fault somehow.

    How about your son? I believe you mentioned . . .

    Oh, Chad’s a mess too; might as well be a woman himself. He’s tried all the new age stuff, and twelve-stepped his way out of more bad habits than I ever knew a person could have. I don’t know what’s wrong with people these days! No discipline, no will to just get out there and do things, rather than wallowing in all this psychological crap. But I’ll tell you one thing: this parasitical, self-indulgent attitude that’s sapping our will, it’s dragging our country down as sure as it destroyed Rome.

    Well, I hate to say it – and don’t ever let on to my liberal colleagues – but as one old goat to another, I think you’re right. I don’t know about women, though. I rather like them, as a race. Cathy – that’s Keith’s wife – she’s a peach of a girl, and really sharp. And my daughter Sarah is upward bound in the State Department. Competent as hell. I never tire of studying women and trying to figure them out. Maybe it’s just chronic lechery, I don’t know. But then I’ve been on a coed campus for more than thirty years, and had lots to look at. You probably haven’t had the opportunity to enjoy that diversion. You’ll get plenty in another month when the summer people arrive in force, and the ladies frolic about in next to nothing all over the beach. If there’s a spark of dirty old man in you the beach scene here will fan it into a flame.

    Nope. Not me. Long over the hill in that department. The farther I can get from women generally, the better I . . .

    Linda arrived with their heaps of shrimp at that point. She surely heard these last lines, but made no comment. Arthur and Tyler talked on into politics, demilitarization, the danger of re-emergent nationalism and fascism. Their points of view were somewhat different, enough to make a good discussion, but not enough to block good communication. Finally they wound back down to Whigbee Island and more practical things.

    Are there any good plumbers out here? Tyler asked. I’m probably going to need help reactivating the pipes. They’ve been drained and open to salt air for three years.

    That may be a problem. There is a guy, Ray somebody, who claims to be a plumber. But in fact he’s got a boat and fishes most of the time. We haven’t had much luck with him at our place. He’s all there is, as far as I know. Has the local market by the balls.

    I know somebody who can do plumbing. They hadn’t noticed Linda, who had returned, and, as she waited for an opportune moment to ask the obligatory ‘Is everything all right?’ had overheard the conversation. I’ll probably see him tomorrow.

    Tyler’s eyes narrowed, and he considered a minute. His look reeked of suspicion, but after an embarrassing few seconds he growled, Tell him to come around tomorrow afternoon.

    That’s the Farnsworth place, Arthur added, far upper end of the island. Does your friend know the area?

    He’ll be there. Can I get you gentlemen anything else? Dessert? How about some ice cream? Another beer to go with it?

    They declined and she took the plates away. Tyler and Arthur talked on in a cloud of mingled cigar and pipe smoke. It turned out they were both chess players, though they came at the game from different philosophies. To Arthur, it was a cultural, intellectual thing, an exercise in class dynamics. To Tyler, it was competitive tactics and strategy, technical, and straight out of the classic military manuals.

    Finally, about ten thirty, Tyler said he should be going. I’ve got a lot of work lined up tomorrow and need to recharge. With luck, this will be my last night in the motel.

    I’ll stop around in the morning and see how you’re getting on. My back’s unreliable, but I could help with the little stuff.

    You’re welcome to stop by, but I work best by myself. There’s nothing in that truck I can’t handle. I packed it myself, and I’ll unpack it the same way. You know how old duffers are about doing things their own way.

    Arthur smiled broadly. Sure do. I’ll come around, but promise not to help or stay more than five minutes.

    Chapter 3

    Tyler had just brought in the last box, emptying the U-Haul, when a small pickup truck drove in his driveway from the road.

    A young man in jeans and a tee shirt got out. He was small and dark, and looked Latin American.

    Colonel French? Tyler nodded. I’m Jim Garcia. I understand you need plumbing help.

    Yes. This place has been empty for three years. The water company was just here and read the meter. I need to turn the water on.

    Right. He pulled out a tool box. First we need to check the drains inside. There may be some traps removed, and we don’t want to turn on anything before replacing them.

    An hour and a half later, Tyler had water in every fixture. Jim had replaced a few washers and a corroded sink trap, and shown Tyler how to clean out the rust that was sure to collect in the toilet ball cock valves. The electric company came and set the meter while he was there, and Jim went ahead and checked the circuits too. He did electrical work as well as plumbing. The old refrigerator came on, when plugged in, and the electric stove. The upper element was out in the water heater and Jim replaced it. His bill was only $55. Tyler was pleased and impressed. This was a good man to know. Jim had no business card, though, and no phone.

    If you need anything, just tell Linda, he said, as he got back in his truck. She knows where to find me.

    Tyler went back inside to start organizing and shifting his stuff around. He had a bed, desk, and kitchen table and chairs, but little furniture otherwise. Most of the U-Haul had been crammed with boxes of books and papers, now stacked mostly in the dining room and downstairs bedroom. The house had lots of space. Before really moving in, though, it needed cleaning. Sand was everywhere. The musty old carpet on the living room floor was saturated with it. He didn’t have a vacuum cleaner. Should he get one and try to suck the sand out, or just pull up the carpet and toss it?

    The whole issue of cleaning, gathering some furniture, and setting up a household began to weigh on him. Here he was with a big house, a permanent residence, which he would need to clean, decorate, and furnish, at least minimally. He wasn’t interested in a lot of entertaining, but he wasn’t a hermit, either, and needed a decent place. Domestic organization was not the kind of challenge he relished, though, at least not right now. He went down to the seawall to smoke a stogie and watch the surf.

    Colonel French?

    He turned to see Linda, standing beside the front corner of his house.

    Did Jim find you all right?

    Yes. He tossed the butt into the surf below.

    How’s the moving in going?

    He looked at her through narrowed eyes for a second before admitting, the truck’s empty.

    I’ll bet the place needs cleaning before you can get organized. There must be sand everywhere.

    There is. Damn carpet is full of it.

    It’s going to be a constant problem. Sealing the cracks will help some, but this isn’t a good place for carpet, no matter how tight your house is.

    I’d been thinking of ripping it out.

    That’s the best thing to do. What’s the floor under it?

    I don’t know. Tyler got up from the seawall and walked up to the open double doors in the front of his living room. Linda came in behind him.

    Oh, this is on a slab. I’d pull the carpet up and paint the concrete. They’ve got some excellent epoxy deck paints these days that look good and are practical and easy to sweep out.

    Really? Would that be a big job? I wonder how this carpet is fixed down?

    Linda kicked it with her foot. It didn’t slide. I’ll bet it’s cemented. That’s the way they put down this indoor/outdoor mat, at least on concrete.

    They talked more about techniques for cleaning carpet glue off and preparing the surface for paint, the possibility of cracks in the slab that would need to be repaired or sealed first, and the way to weather-and-sand strip the doors. Linda was obviously knowledgeable about these kinds of practical things, and Tyler, who wasn’t, gradually opened up, and found himself giving her a tour of the house, soliciting suggestions. Neither of them strayed from this very limited common ground.

    What’s on the floor upstairs? Linda asked, when they had finished considering the downstairs interior walls, which were dark and dingy wood paneling.

    I haven’t noticed. Tyler led her up the stairs, and they continued their tour there. They looked at the floors, the built-in light fixtures, which were rusty, the bathroom tiles, which were also in sad shape, and finally the front windows, several of which were cracked.

    It looks like I need some glass work. And these doors are warped. I hadn’t noticed last night. He opened the door and stepped out on the balcony. Linda followed, leaned against the rail and put her foot up. Neither of them said anything for some minutes as they looked out at the ocean. Finally, Linda broke the silence.

    Well, I’d better go. I’m due at the Nest at five and it’s quarter of. She turned, and he followed her down and out the door to the driveway, where an old brown Toyota was parked behind the truck.

    You seem to know something about houses, Tyler finally observed as she got in.

    Yeah.

    Nothing more. You couldn’t say she was pushy.

    Do you know anybody who can give me a hand with all this? I’ve got a lot to do.

    I’m free during the day before five. I’ve done cleaning, stripping, painting, glazing, caulking, that sort of thing. Eight dollars an hour.

    Oh, uh, that sounds all right. I’ve got to take this truck up to Wilmington and turn it in tomorrow. How about the day after, Friday?

    OK. What time?

    Eight too early?

    That’s fine, I’ll see you then. Do you have a vacuum?

    No.

    I’ll borrow one.

    She started the car and backed out, leaving Tyler standing there. When she was gone, he shook his head, in a puzzled sort of way, and walked back in. It was time to clean up and dig out some fresh clothes. Arthur had stopped by this morning to invite him over to dinner and a chess game.

    Chapter 4

    "I can handle the seawall and the outside, but all this damn domestic stuff, furniture, painting and decorating, that kind of thing, all those details . . . "

    . . . that you left to your wife, over the years, Arthur continued, and never thought about. See, women do have a role other than procreation.

    Cathy set down Tyler’s plate with cherry pie and drew herself up straight. I should hope so! Was there ever any question?

    Colonel French here has, ah, a limited view of . . .

    Well now that’s not really so, Tyler protested, in deference to Cathy and her hospitality. I just think that women’s fundamental biological function – and I have all the respect in the world for it, don’t get me wrong – but it has always seemed to me that it kind of infects everything about women, everything they do. This is only natural, and I don’t hold it against them . . .

    As long as they know their place, right? Arthur leaned back and rested his case with a few pipe puffs. Cathy wasn’t satisfied though.

    "Sure, just like testosterone infects everything about men. Of course! I don’t hold that against them either. Where would we be without duels, rapes, prizefights, wars and all the things that have so enriched human experience over the centuries?"

    Beware, Colonel French, Cathy was a prize student of mine once, and is hopelessly tainted with a liberal view of the past. She’s a worthy opponent.

    All right, truce. I’m outnumbered, Tyler chuckled. Certainly, I appreciate women when it comes to setting up a household, whether that’s a function of their nest-building urge or not. I’ll admit, I have come to rely on it. But all that sort of thing should be kept in perspective. It shouldn’t interfere with higher priorities.

    That is to say, what you want to do, right? Cathy had sat down at the table, perpendicular to the chess board, straddling the third chair to eat her pie and give Tyler a good-humored hard time, even though he was a new acquaintance and her father-in-law’s age. Men! They’re all alike.

    And all right in their place, of course. Thank you for that rook, Colonel French. Arthur made a move and took Tyler’s piece.

    Has your husband told you anything about this Linda, the new waitress? Tyler asked Cathy.

    New waitress? No, why?

    Tyler related the afternoon with Jim, the plumber, and then briefly recounted Linda’s visit.

    I can’t figure it out, exactly. I suppose she came around looking for work, but I wouldn’t have known it. She never said why she was there. I finally made the offer.

    Of what? Arthur asked.

    I asked if she knew anybody who could help me out with all this household stuff. Only then did she admit that she had some experience, was available, and at a reasonable hourly rate.

    Oh, so you’ve hired her, then?

    I guess so. She says she’ll be there at eight Friday morning with a vacuum cleaner ready to work. We’ll see.

    And you don’t know anything about her?

    Only that she seems to be knowledgeable about a lot of practical household details, cleaning, repainting, carpets, caulking, that sort of thing. She said nothing else about herself, where she lived, what she was doing here or anything.

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1