Nox County

Cynthia had the house in good order now. The rooms were all cleaned, polished, floors mopped or vacuumed. She was folding the last load of laundry when the phone rang.

"Mr. McMahon's residence."

"Cynthia?" said the cheery voice.

"Good morning, Ms. Cuthbert."

"Emily," she reminded. "Please call me Emily."

"Of course. Emily it is."

"How's he doing?"

"He's sleeping." He head turned to the doorway to his bedroom. "Been sleeping almost nonstop for a day."

"Oh yes, he does that. Works himself into total exhaustion painting and painting. Doesn't stop 'til he's done with whatever project's caught his fancy. Then, when he's done, he sleeps. Sometimes for days, it seems. Then it starts all over again."

"Well, he must be done."

"Good, he'll need to be rested," said Emily. "For tonight."

"What's tonight?"

"He's getting a visitor. To take care of his other . . . you know . . . needs."

Cynthia hear the embarrassment in her voice, and she knew Emily was blushing. She smiled and pushed the point.

"His needs?"

"You know, his . . . ." She cleared her throat. "He's a man, right? With needs?"

Cynthia's smile got wider. She was enjoying this, enjoying Emily's discomfort.

"So how do you take care of these? These needs, as you call them."

The voice was cheery again. "Oh, that's simple. We contact this company, an escort agency, and we retain their services. Kind of like a . . . ." Emily stopped. "Like a prostitute?" "Oh no, it's nothing like that. More like . . . I don't know . . . companionship?"

"And what time will this companionship be arriving?"

"Seven o'clock."

"And you need me to do what exactly?"

"Well, if you could stay somewhere for the weekend, that would probably help. Give them some time . . . uh . . . well, some time alone."

Cynthia paused. She didn't know where she'd stay.

"And you need to have him awake, of course. Shaved up, cleaned up. You know, ready to meet visitors."

"I suppose I could do that," she said. A thought occurred to her. "Emily?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been doing this for him? For Sean. How long have you been arranging for his companionship?"

"Oh, this is the first time."

"Then why now?"

Emily paused before answering. "Truth be told, dearie, he probably hasn't been intimate with a woman in ages. Since before his Holly got sick. Roger thought he'd need it, and we know he won't leave the house anytime soon to get it on his own." The conversation ended on that note, and they said their goodbyes.

Cynthia thought back to yesterday, to the bathtub. Now she understood the look in his eyes, the curiosity and the need. Holy shit, she thought, I couldn't live without sex for a year or more.

This led to two more thoughts. First, he had lived without sex for more than a year. Instead, he had thrown his obvious obsession for painting into caring for his wife and ignored all of his own needs. Second, she didn't know if she'd ever be able to sacrifice so much for another person. Sure, she'd loved David, but when he wasn't enough, she'd sought what she needed elsewhere. Without a thought of anyone but herself, she'd gone out and taken what she wanted without regard to the man she thought she loved.

What the hell was wrong with her?

* * *

"Get up, Timmy," he heard his mother say. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was back in his bedroom, the bedroom he'd grown up in.

Little had changed, he noticed. Pearl Jam and Smashing Pumpkin posters still covered the walls. His bedspread and comforter were the same striped bedding bought years ago at Sears Roebuck. And his mother still woke him up when she'd decided he'd slept long enough.

"Morning, Mom," he said.

"Get up," she said again. "I've got your lunch ready. It'll get cold if you don't hurry." She turned and left. He got out of bed, swinging his long legs to the floor and kneading the cramped muscles of his back. He looked around again. Welcome to it, he thought. He pulled on a pair of pants and a t-shirt and went down to the kitchen.

He sat at the table and his mother placed a plate in front of him. Grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup, just like when he was a kid.

"So what's the problem?" she said, sitting across from him and dunking her sandwich in the soup.

He didn't want to talk about it, so he ate instead.

After a few more minutes of silence, she repeated the question. When he again didn't answer, staring instead into his soup, she said, "I called her this morning. Aimee. I called her."

He looked at his mother. "What did she tell you?"

"She didn't," his mother replied. She fixed him with a glare. "She said to ask you." He looked back into his soup. "What did you do, Tim."

"Messed up," he murmured.

"Messed up missed a birthday? Messed up spending too much time with the guys?"

He looked back at her, saw her eyes narrow as she took in the look of shame on his face. "Messed up with another woman and got caught." When he said nothing, she continued.

"Who was the other woman?"

"No one."

"Is it serious? This other woman? You in love with her?"

"No."

"Did you tell Aimee that?" He shook his head. "You need to tell her then. Tell her it's over and beg her to forgive you."

"You don't understand."

"I understand better than you think I do." He voice softened and she took a bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly. When she swallowed, she said, "Your father had an affair once."

His head shot up and his eyes locked on hers.

She nodded. "A long time ago, when you were a little boy. She was a friend of ours. Her and her husband. Real good friends. And I caught him--caught them, actually--in the bedroom one day. Doing things I'd never wanted to do." She blushed at the thoughts and turned, staring out the window. "I moved out, swore I'd never come back. Took you with me, too. But I went back to him."

She turned back and looked at him. "Everyone makes mistakes, you know. Even your father. God knows I made enough of them, too. Just not like that." She smiled. "Oh, I thought about it from time to time. God knows I thought about it." She turned back to him, the smile fading. "But I didn't act on them. I had a husband. And a child. A family. So I swallowed my pride and took him back."

"Did you still love him?"

"Of course, dear. That's why I took him back."

"So you put it behind you?"

She shook her head. "It's not that easy. Sure I still loved him. And I wanted to be a family again. But some of the trust was gone. You know, if he was late from work, I'd wonder. Maybe not consciously, not always. But the later he'd get, the more I'd wonder where he was. If he was with someone else. And I'd get almost sick sometimes."

"Then it was worth it?"

She reached across the table and placed her hand atop his. "Were you happy? Growing up, were you happy?"

He nodded.

"Then it was worth it."

After a few minutes, he looked back down at his soup, no longer hungry. "I don't think it's going to be that easy," he said.

"Why not?"

He paused, wondering whether he should tell her.

"Timothy, tell me."

"Because there was more than one, Mom."

"How many more than one? How many were there?"

He said nothing. He wasn't sure.

His mother's language shocked him. "You stupid bastard. What have you done to her?"

She jerked his food away and put the dishes in the sink with a crash. He cringed at the noise, and she stormed from the room and walked down the hallway, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Elizabeth found the house with no problem. She knocked on the front door and waited. A moment later, the door opened.

"Ms. McMahon?" she said. This is going to be one of those, she thought. Husband watches while wife experiences the other side. Could be worse; this woman was at least very pretty.

The woman chuckled. "No," she replied, looking Elizabeth up and down. "Just the housekeeper."

Elizabeth was surprised. This woman had to be the sexiest housekeeper she'd ever seen. She had brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, high cheekbones, straight nose perfectly proportioned to her face, and round, expressive eyes. She was nearly as tall as Elizabeth, around five feet six inches, and slim. Her legs were smooth and well tanned, her breasts firm and pointing up. Elizabeth guessed her for late twenties.

"Come in," the housekeeper said. She held out her hand. "I'm Cynthia."

"Elizabeth," she said, stepping into the house and shaking the proffered hand.

"Make yourself comfortable and I'll go get him."

Elizabeth watched the woman walk to the end of a long hallway, open a door, and disappear behind. A moment later she re-appeared, pulling a man out by the hand.

He was short, only an inch or so taller than Cynthia, and thin. His clothes, jeans and a t-shirt that said "ARSENAL" were baggy, his feet bare. He had graying curly hair, was clean shaven, and pale. Very pale. If not for a slight reddening of the cheeks he'd have looked like a ghost.

"Come on," Cynthia said, "you have a guest." "Elizabeth," Cynthia said stopping before her and pulling the man closer, "this is Sean. Sean, this is Elizabeth."

He raised his head and looked into her eyes. Shyly at first, but soon he was gazing into her with the deepest, darkest eyes she'd ever seen. They were like coal, and they started traveling her body. "My God," he said, "you're lovely." He had an accent. It sounded like My Gawd, yer low-vly. Scotsman? Irish maybe?

His eyes traveled over her from top to bottom. It didn't seem like desire, though. He seemed to be appraising her. He reached a hand out and placed it on her hip, turning her to the side. Her hips followed the hand, her eyes looking at Cynthia. Cynthia's bemused expression told her nothing.

"You're perfect," he said, rolling the arrs slightly. He circled her now, and she looked back to Cynthia.

"Well," Cynthia said, "it seems you two will be getting along fine then. I'll just be running along. I'll see you two on Sunday."

"What?" he said.

"I said-- "

"I heard what you said, but where are you going? For two days?"

Elizabeth heard panic in his voice, and she watched Cynthia's face go soft.

"Sean, do you know why Elizabeth is here?"

He shook his head.

"Emily and Mr. Hollister thought you needed some time alone. With a woman."

His look was blank, not understanding, and Elizabeth felt awkward.

"But I've got you," he said.

"Not for that, honey." She took his hand in both of hers and spoke to him softly. "I'm just hear to cook and clean. You need someone to . . . something more. You need to-- "

"How will I reach you if I need you?"

"There's plenty of food in the fridge, your laundry's all clean. You're not going to need me, okay?"

He looked unsure. "Listen, I'll leave my cell number on the fridge. Any problems arise, you give me a call. Okay?"

He nodded, clearly not happy about this.

Cynthia smiled from him to Elizabeth, her eyes looking Elizabeth up and down. "I don't think you'll be needing me though." She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. "You have fun now."

Cynthia went to the kitchen, and a minute later Elizabeth heard a door close and the garage door open. A car started, and the door closed again.

She turned back to Sean. He was again looking her up and down, his right hand moving in front of him. She took the hand in hers and he froze.

"What do you want to do?"

He looked back to her eyes, not seeming to understand the question. She had heard Cynthia mention that somebody named Emily--and a Mr. Hollister--had decided he needed a woman. Ergo, she decided, he hadn't hired her and had no idea what she was there for, which was most definitely a first.

"Do you understand why I'm here?" He shook his head. "I'm here for you, for your needs. Do you understand?" He said nothing. She reached out and brushed a finger against his cheek. "Sean, I'm yours for the weekend. To do with as you wish. Anything you wish."

"Anything?"

"Well," she said, leaning over and pecking him on the cheek, "almost anything. No Greek and no groups. Other than that, anything you wish."

He smiled. "Splendid." He turned his back on her and strode down the hallway. "This way," he called over his shoulder.

She followed him down the hallway and through the door. It was a studio of some kind, and she saw paintings lined up against the walls.

"Would you sit there, please?" He motioned to a straight-backed chair, and she sat in it. "Now get comfortable. This could take awhile at first." She did.

She saw him lower the angle of an easel and pick up a large sketch pad, some pencils, and an eraser.

"So why don't you tell me about yourself," he said to her. And he started to draw.

* * * Aimee had cried for most of the day and night. By Friday night, she was cried out and lonely. Not just alone, she realized. She was used to being alone while Tim worked evenings. But now she was lonely as well, knowing he wouldn't be coming back any time soon.

She hadn't answered her phone in a day and a half, so she picked it up and flipped it open. She had twelve messages. Eight were from Tim, one each from her mother-in-law and David, and two from Alan Bridges, the principal at school.

She listened to the first few from Tim. They were the same. Honey, I'm sorry. Can't we just talk about it. I miss you. Please forgive me. After listening to this for the third time, she erased the remainder of his messages.

She listened to David's message. "Aimee, this is David. David Holloway. I'm just wondering what you're doing tonight. Nothing dirty or anything. I just wanted to talk. Give me a call if you're interested." He left his number, and she wrote it down.

She dreaded the next one, but decided to listen anyway. "Aimee dear, this is Dorothy." Aimee cringed at the anger in her voice, knowing for sure what was coming next. The rest of the message surprised her, though. "Tim told me what he's done. I just want to tell you how sorry I am. And if you need anything from me--and I mean anything--please call me. I just . . . ." She heard quiet crying as the message ended. She was surprised. He'd told her?

The next two messages were from her boss. "Ms. Rogers, this is Mr. Bridges. Please phone when you have a moment." Why did teachers always have to do that? Talk to each other like they were in front of the children? The next message was more of the same.

She looked at the clock. Seven thirty. What the hell, she thought, and dialed him up. He answered on the second ring and, after brief chat over the fact that summer was ending, told her about a faculty meeting the following Wednesday. She said she'd be there and looked back down at the list. She decided to phone David.

"Hello?"

"Catching you at a bad time?"

"Aimee," he said, recognizing her voice. "No, no, just give me a sec." She heard some rustling, then he was back on the phone. "How you doing?" She heard concern in his voice.

"Not so hot," she said. "We fought yesterday. I confronted him. He denied it, of course. At first." She paused, not sure whether to tell him and decided what the hell. "I threw him out."

"Are you okay?" She said nothing. "You want to have a drink? Nothing frisky. Scout's honor. Just a drink."

She wasn't sure. She wasn't really attracted to him. Sure, there was that one time. But that wasn't attraction so much as need. She didn't want to repeat it, didn't trust herself if she did. He seemed to be reading her mind. "Listen, I know what it's like. What you're going through. That house is suddenly pretty big and awfully quiet, isn't it?" She nodded into the phone. "And I know you need someone to talk to because I need someone to talk to. Someone who knows this."

She agreed to meet him for dinner.

A half hour later she walked through the doors of Cucine Bella, what passed for a trendy restaurant in Armitage. He was standing at the short bar and gave her a wave when she saw him.

She walked over and he leaned in and hugged her. It wasn't intimate, she sensed, more brotherly. "I'm glad you could make it," he said. She sat and ordered a glass of wine from the bartender. David remained standing behind her.

"You look good," he said.

"I look like shit," she said, appreciating the compliment. "I've been crying for two days. My eyes are red, cheeks all puffy."

"Nonsense. You look great."

The hostess tapped him on the shoulder and they were led to a table in the far corner. When they were seated, he looked at her again.

"How did it go."

She told him. All of it, right down to the last detail. He cringed at the part about Cynthia's underwear, but smiled broadly when she told about using them to crunch his balls. "Priceless," he said. When she was done, he just stared at her, his lips smiling, but his eyes sad.

"I wasn't nearly so smooth in my confrontation," he said.

"You miss her?"

He thought for a moment. "I don't really know. I mean, look at me. Middle-aged workaholic with no life, no prospect of a life anytime soon."

"Oh come on, don't sell yourself short. You're a cute guy. You'll have no problem with the dating scene."

"I don't know. It's all so different now. Different than when I was dating."

"How? Boy meets girl, boy likes girl, boy asks girl out, boy plays his cards right--and is patient--boy gets lucky. Everything goes well, boy will keep getting lucky, right?"

He smiled. "You make it sound so simple." She said nothing. It wasn't that simple, and she knew it. It was hard to find someone you clicked with. At least for women it was hard. Men were different.

"You know, maybe you shouldn't be so picky."

"How so?"

She sipped her wine and smiled. "If you're just looking to get lucky, that should be no problem. I mean, what is it you're looking for?"

"I don't know. I mean, it hasn't really been that long, but . . . ."

"But you're already feeling alone in the world."

He nodded. "I mean, well, I got lucky last night, okay?" She nodded. She was surprised, but not jealous. "But afterwards, on the way home and pretty much all day, I regretted it. Felt . . . I'm not sure . . . guilty or something. Like it was empty. Don't get me wrong. It was nice while it was happening, but I just don't think that . . . that . . . ."

The waitress approached and they placed their order. David swigged the rest of his drink and ordered another of those, as well. When the waitress left, Aimee looked at him.

"Finish your thought."

"Where was I?"

"Last night was fun, but . . . ."

He thought before speaking. "One night stands just don't seem to be for me."

This was a first, she thought. A guy not out to fuck everything that moves.

After a few minutes, David broke the silence. "Why do you think he did it?"

She looked at him, raising her eyebrows.

"Tim. Why'd he cheat on you? Do you think he wanted more than you were willing to give? Maybe something you'd never do?"

She thought for a minute before answering. "No, I don't think it was that. I think Tim wants a mother. As a wife, that is. That's what caused the problem. I didn't really understand that until yesterday. So I tried to give him everything. The things he did with the others. But he was . . . I don't know . . . shocked. And disgusted. Like he couldn't believe any wife of his would do those things. Sure he could do them. He wanted to do them. He just couldn't stand the thought of doing them with me. With the future mother of his children."

David's nodding stopped. He was looking over her shoulder, his lips pressing tighter. She turned around and looked. Cynthia Holloway was walking into the dining room with another woman, a tall blonde. She saw them, and Aimee saw her eyes narrow and her body go rigid. The blonde bumped into her, then turned and looked. She saw David and smiled, waving. David waved back. Aimee watched Cynthia say something to the blonde, who took a seat. Cynthia placed her purse on their table and approached David and Aimee.