All Adither: A gossipy green

You can find the first part of this story, Greener Grass, in my right sidebar, under I Like To Write.

*****

Angel Telkowsky let herself into her house and stood, for a moment, in the doorway, enjoying the hush. The morning newspaper was scattered across her coffee table and an empty, unwashed mug sat in the sink. She knew, that upstairs, clothes were strewn across her bedroom floor. She tried not to think about them. A little clutter was healthy. She was working on ignoring it.

She removed her earrings, stepped out of her heels and unclasped her bra, pulling it through her sleeve. She left them all in a neat stack on the stairway and padded into the kitchen.

She poured a glass of cold Chardonnay, plugged her cell phone into its charger and, going to her laptop, turned on music that filtered through speakers mounted unobtrusively near the dining room ceiling. Bon Iver, an indie group she'd been listening to recently, played.

Angel'd had a long day. She'd been trying to convince a group of doctors out in Fredonia to buy Nomaxa, a new anti-depressant different from older drugs in that they boasted no sexual side effects. If anything, Nomaxa gave the libido a boost. Or this was how she'd been instructed to detail it.

Her potential client, a fifty-something, balding physician who was the director of the Fredonia Medical Centerwas playing hard to get. She knew he was playing. By now, she could tell when someone was going to start prescribing, but was stringing her along, fitting in one more free lunch before capitulating.

In this case, Jason Budd was holding out for another happy hour, another attempted grope under a dark table, before giving his approval.

So, whatever. He could squeeze her knee and lick the lip gloss off her martini glass if it made him feel good. If it'd get her this commission. She hadn't sold enough lately. Many doctors, especially in this economy, were prescribing generics, weren't yet sure about Nomaxa.

Shrieks and whoops came from across the green expanse between houses. The Marks and Bergstrom kids, she knew. They were always out there together, one big whirling tumble of children, eating ice cream sandwiches and hanging upside down from their play structure like sloths.

Normally Angel didn't mind them. In fact, she often enjoyed the sounds of the kids having a good time. But then one would get hurt and start wailing. Or a few would begin an argument that escalated into shrill, passionate yelps so annoying Angel had to shut her windows. And that day she was tired. She wasn't in the mood for any of it.

She was leaning against the counter, flipping through her new Vanity Fair, when the doorbell rang.

It startled her. It was too early for Michael to pick her up.

She stood on tiptoe and glanced out the peep hole.

Craig Bergstrom stood there, hands in the pockets of his shorts, taking in the wrought iron bench and vase of irises on her porch.

When she swung the door open, he said, "You seem like you'd live in a condo. Why are you way out here in suburbia with us?"

He was right, of course. She should've bought a condo downtown.

"What can I do for you, Craig?" she asked. She knew she sounded weary and not at all happy about the intrusion.

"Yeah," he said, jingling coins and glancing at her breasts. He looked up at the door frame, than back at her breasts. Then into her face. He pulled a handful of purple flowers out of his pocket and Angel had no choice but to take them. His fingers were cool as they grazed hers, his nails on the long side. He said, "The kids picked these. I'm really sorry."

"Oh," she shrugged. "I don't care. They've been here since I moved in."

Craig peered around her, into the house. "Well, they're pretty anyway. And those rugrats have to learn not to take other people's stuff."

"So why didn't you have your kids bring them back?" Angel said. "If you're trying to teach them a lesson."

He chuckled. His chuckle was nervous. "Good point," he said.

"Really," she said. "No worries. Thanks, Craig." She moved to close the door, but Craig stopped it with his foot.

She reacted by laughing. Not a scornful laugh, but an actual full-blown guffaw of amusement. "What else?" she said, composing herself, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I have some juicy neighborhood news for you," Craig said.

She rolled her eyes. She truly wanted to turn him away, then, to tell him she didn't do neighborhood gossip. But her curiosity got the best of her. She didn't spend much time with these people, but she had lived among them for four years now, had seen the pink and blue balloons affixed to mailboxes when a new baby arrived, had caught glimpses of family barbeques and heard snippets of husbands and wives arguing.

Angel reopened the door, wider this time. But Craig stepped over to the bench and sat, slouching comfortably with one foot outstretched.

She glanced longingly at her glass of chardonnay on the counter. If she wanted it, she had no choice but to offer Craig one.

He accepted without hesitation.

When they were seated on the porch, Angel trying not to graze Craig with her naked knees, he said, "You know Tamara? Across the way?"

"Of course."

"She's gone. Took off about a week ago. Left Dave and the kids to fend for themselves."

Angel asked, "Is she coming back?"

"No one knows!" He threw his hand up so raucously that wine sloshed over the edge of his glass. He apologized and used the hem of his t-shirt to mop off the rectangle of bare bench between them.

They sat, awkwardly quiet, listening to the kids' shouts. An oil truck rumbled down the horseshoe of a road that connected her driveway with the Marks' and the Bergstrom's.

She turned the news of Tamara's defection over in her mind like a thin glass sphere--gingerly, luxuriously. It was smooth and fragile and a warmth that had nothing to do with chardonnay blossomed through Angel's chest. She doubted it would last. Tamara would miss her children too much. But, God, how intriguing. How absolutely fascinating. "And Dave?" she said. "How is he doing?"

Craig tipped his glass back and, just before taking a drink, said, "As well as he can be, I guess. He has a sitter helping him out.

Angel nodded, she looked toward Dave's house, but he wasn't in sight.

"I'm watching the kids," Craig said. "Dave's working late."

He worked late quite a bit, she knew. He was often pulling into the garage the same time Angel was heading out for the night.

"Keep me posted," she said. "Will you?"

Clearly happy that she'd appreciated the gossip, Craig grinned and said, "Sure will."