had spent another day and much of the evening driving and hiking up north. Lou, wearing different pleats and suspenders—mercifully sans chapeau—and Lauren, in a hip-hugging short skirt and a fully filled late summer sweater, had romanced their way through another shopping spree, this time in a newly rehabilitated section of Gloucester. I followed them to a small state park where they walked, held hands, picnicked, and kissed. Since I couldn’t enjoy Lou’s happiness, I focused hard on making certain Lauren’s fears were in her head. Unfortunately, I spotted nothing to alleviate the persistent picture of the two of them frolicking and necking. A picture that hadn’t left me in great shape for talking.
“Forgetting to call doesn’t bother me as much as you crawling into a shell, shutting me out again—like the old days.”
“This isn’t the “old days,” Boots. Maybe it’s BWS—bourbon withdrawal syndrome.” Better to discuss that than the way I used to be.
Boots smiled, “You’re being clean?”
“Careful not clean. I’m doing all right. marijuana and beer, no coke and the occasional Turkey.”
“Maybe there is something to your syndrome idea.”
I stood, readying myself for a move to the bedroom, hoping to end all talk. But Boots remained where she was so I sat back down, surprised by a relief rush.
“I don’t think drug withdrawal has much to do with any ‘shell,’“ I said quickly. “I’m not exactly marching to ‘just say no.’ Hell, I’m not even sure ‘shell’ is the right word.” I paused hunting, “‘Distracted’ is more like it.”
Boots shook her head emphatically. “When I brought up buying a television you turned green.”
“It surprised me. I know what you think of the tube.”
“Don’t play dumb,” she snapped. “The conversation was about us, not about televisions.”
“And my distraction is about Lou and Lauren and her imaginary fears, not us. Anyway, if the television was about our relationship, you weren’t exactly Ms. Direct.”
“You’re not the only one who gets the willies about living together.”
Though Boots spoke the words softly, they reverberated inside my head. Loudly.
“It’s time for a real drink,” I said rising. “Do you want anything?”
I half expected shit for scoring whiskey but all I got was, “A glass of white, please.”
I walked into the postage stamp kitchen, poured the Turkey and wine, and started back into the living room. I thought of a funny remark, but kept it to myself. It wasn’t time for funnies. No matter how uptight I was.
I handed Boots her wine, retreated to the glass wall, and stared. Traffic moved slowly due to a concert on the Esplanade.
“Why are you standing there, Matt?” Boots asked.
“Just looking.”
“You don’t have anything to say?”
“Not a heck of a lot. This is coming at me pretty fast.”
“How many months do we have to quibble about interior decorating before it’s apparent we’re really talking about living together?”
I kept my eyes on the trail of headlights. One of our running debates concerned my thirties, forties, fifties taste, versus Boots’ minimalism. “I thought we were discussing aesthetics, not decisions.”
I heard her chair scrape the floor, then felt her hand on my shoulder. “I’m worried, Matt. Everything has been so good between us.”
“Is good between us.” I swung my arm over Boots’ shoulder, pulling her close. “I don’t know how I’d react to living together in the best of times. This stuff with Lou makes it worse.”
“I thought it would help if you got involved.”
“I know you did. I was off the wall about Lauren’s age and kids, but now I’ve had conversations with her about spiritual searchings. She’s even got me spooked, though I haven’t seen anything suspicious. Nothing at all.”
“She’s into spiritualism?”
“Was, not anymore.”
“When?”
“The seventies.”
“So were a lot of people back then.”
“Maybe people you knew. Mine were into sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”
She wiggled out from under my arm. “Two sides of the same damn coin.”
“Lauren still talks the talk. Unseen people pumping her with feelings that aren’t hers. Old New Age gibberish. Next thing you know Lou will be buying free range chickens.”
Boots smiled. “It might help his cholesterol.”
I walked back to the chair and plucked a cigarette from my pack. “I don’t find it funny. The woman says she’s doesn’t have much money, goes on shopping sprees that Lou is likely financing, and you can piss into the Atlantic from her house. The situation stinks, and you wonder why I’m distracted?”
Boots walked over to me, relief flooding her face. “So you’re not getting ready to go AWOL?”
I fought my doubts. “I wouldn’t be here if this was the Army. I’m no fool, Boots, I know a good thing.” Or did I?
Boots smiled though worry flickered in her hazel. “It’s taken both of us a lot of years to recognize a good thing. I just don’t want anything to screw it up.”
“I’m telling you, it’s Lou I’m worried about. I’m watching a guy whose prick is stiffer than it’s been for decades. New clothes, losing weight, smooching in parks, copping feels while they’re walking down the street. He’s wearing a fucking beret.”
Boots tried to hide her pleasure about my description but her laughter lit the room. At least the worry was gone.
“Don’t laugh. After Ian’s suicide attempt I thought Lauren was leading Lou into quicksand. Now I think she’s taking him for a ride.”
“Come on,” Boots said, pulling my arm. “I want to take you for a ride.”
Though I was relieved to stop talking, part of me didn’t want to follow when she silently turned out the living room lamp.
Either I misunderstood Boots’s ride, or she changed directions by the time we sat naked on her bed. Despite the humid night, a teal Egyptian cotton sheet loosely covered the lower half of our bodies. “I think the anger about Lou and Lauren has to do with your own pulling away,” Boots suggested.
“I
