Page 27 of Road Refugees

I took a deep breath. “I’m glad you like to work, too. Even when we were allowed to watch TV, I never did. I would rather read. Seed catalogues were the highlight of my week. I was the one who did Monday wash day. I knew that if I put it off to the afternoon, I’d be straddling clothes baskets and washboards while cooking dinner. Or leaving the warm house to hang sopping clothes in the dark.”

Town frowned. “Washboards?”

“Yes, indeed! We believed in refrigerators and computers for the men, but not washing machines. Go figure.”

Town laughed fully. It was a sight to behold, his crooked mouth even crookeder, his handsome face open and trusting. “Well. I’m going to discuss growing magical mushrooms with Crybaby. I’ll need to experiment first, so I know firsthand what I’m talking. If you want—”

I practically leaped from the couch. “Oh, include me! I’d like to be on your testing team!” I tried to calm myself, squeezing my eyes shut and looking at Town again. Yes, he was still laughing. “I’d like to participate in your study. I want to expand my horizons as part of my new life.”

“Sure,” said Town. Linus had risen, and Town was smoothing down the hair I’d ruffled. “I’d like to trip with you.”

“Have you ever done it?”

“No. I was raised a Catholic. I was a choir boy. That didn’t mean you couldn’t get fossilized and hammered on alcohol, though.”

“Oh,” I said, pulling back my hand from the wine bottle as though it’d zapped me.

“Oh! I don’t mean you. Go ahead. Drink.”

I poured another glass. The bottle was already empty. “You don’t drink?” I tried to sound casual.

“Not anymore. I was getting way too mangled every day and night after I got out of the service. Then I met Linus.” He said to Linus in that sappy dog talk way, “Yes, I did! Yes, you are a good boy!”

It was my turn to giggle. “I love the way you are with him.”

He dotted a kiss on Linus’ wet nose. “Well. It involved me opening up and saying this is who I am. I’m a loving but wounded person. I needed someone to accept me as I am.”

“Dogs do that,” I agreed. “Accept you as you are. I had to leave behind a dog I loved. Linus is wonderful.”

And that is sort of the last thing I remember.

I guess I reached that saturation point I always strove for with Orson. Out of habit, I kept lurching toward it now, even with Orson gone.

The rest of the night is a patchwork memory stitched together out of flashes, things that might not have even happened. I remember I had to pee, which is logical after drinking so much. When I opened the bathroom door after, Linus was there waiting for me. He must’ve had his nose pressed to the door because he was standing motionless like a cute stuffed couch, staring unblinking at the door. I cried out with a sudden affection for this button-eyed dog, and I squatted down to take his head in my hands.

Town came forward, exclaiming how cute we were. I remember rising, and my nose was about a foot away from Town’s. I mean, we were close. I hadn’t been that close to a man who wasn’t raping me in years. Even in my besotted state, it made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to say or how to deal with a non-threatening man. It made me almost more nervous than the assailants!

He said, “When I first got Linus, I’d prop myself on his body and fall asleep using him as a pillow. He took the place of my addiction. Now I’m addicted to this wonderful fluffball of joy. He watches YouTube while I drift off, and he turns to look at me with love and thanks in his eyes, then he looks back at the screen. I used to carry a Bowie knife around just out of habit, thinking someone would pop out of the woodwork and attack me. I finally put it away a month after adopting Linus. That’s the big difference he’s made.”

The next thing I knew, I was in Bee’s guest bed. I burst into awareness when the light was already off. I had to sit up and turn on the light just to make sure Town hadn’t slipped in next to me. But of course he hadn’t.

“He’s not a pervert,” I whispered, before switching off the light and passing out.