“Oh…uh, no, I’m okay.” Dazed, I tried to take it all in. Through a partially opened door, I glimpsed Joe’s bedroom: a mattress on the floor, a tangle of sheets and blankets wadded at the bottom, clothes scattered on the floor. Underwear. Socks. Paint-smeared jeans.
There was a metallic clatter, and pain shot through my foot—I had stubbed my toe on a toolbox lying in the middle of the floor.
“So what are you in the mood for?” Joe asked blithely. “Whoops, before you answer that, let me see what I have.” He opened the fridge and I smothered a scream. Mold-covered, graying Chinese food boxes. An orange, so old it was no longer round, had sunken in on its own weight. A few grease-stained paper bags held God-knew-what.
“Some of this stuff doesn’t look too good,” Joe murmured, tossing the Chinese food cartons into the huge trash can. I leaped out of the way. My bladder ached after all day on the boat, but I would kill myself before going into his bathroom.
“Do you live alone, Joe?” I squeaked, wondering if there was someone else to blame for this horror.
“Oh, sure. This is my mom’s house, really, but she moved off Cape when she got remarried a couple years ago, so it’s just me.” He closed the fridge and put his arms around me. “So, okay, it’s messy, but what do you think?”
Disgusting. Repellant. Abhorrent. Unhealthful. “Oh, well, I think it’s got potential.” I swallowed and forced a smile.
“That’s just it, isn’t it? It’s got potential! One of these days I’ll finish it up. But right now, you know what I’d really like to do?”
“Move?”
He threw back his golden head and laughed. “No, not move. Be with my Millie.” He kissed me, and I was too numb with shock to resist or respond. Taking my hand, he started to lead me to the bedroom. I planted my heels like a mule and stopped. There was no way on earth I was going to lie down in this house.
“You know what?” I said, scrabbling for a distraction. “Um, I—I’d like to see the back. Is that a deck out there?”
“Yup. Sure, let’s go outside.”
Bravo, Millie. At least the smell wasn’t so pervasive out on the deck. I sucked in the pine-scented air and looked around. Joe’s scrubby little yard was enclosed by bayberry, cedars and dwarfed oak trees. I stared down at that yard as if it were a lifeboat and I was standing on the deck of the Titanic.
“So, Millie,” Joe whispered, kissing me on the neck from behind. “Seen enough? Want to go back inside?”
“No!” I whirled around. “I mean, um, let’s go down into the yard. It’s cute.” Looking a little confused, Joe nonetheless followed me down the rickety stairs. Just tell him that you don’t feel like fooling around. Tell him you want to go home and shower. Tell him his house is disgusting. But somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to say any of those things.
In the deepening evening, in the relative privacy of the yard, we could hear the sounds of his neighbors, but we really couldn’t see anything. And nobody could see us.
“Let’s go to bed, honey,” my honey said, wrapping his arms around me. He gave me another world-class kiss, one that I would have enjoyed greatly had I not been so focused on my escape.
“Joe,” I murmured against his mouth.
“Hmm?”
“I’ve never, you know…” He was kissing my neck.
“Never what?”
“I’ve never made love outside.”
He pulled back to look at me, a grin crossing his face. “We can fix that.”
Just fix it fast, I thought. I wanted desperately to be in my own house, in my immaculate bathroom, showering off the salt and whale spit.
Joe’s hands slipped under my shirt and neatly removed it. Amazingly, as much as his hands knew what they were doing, as beautiful as he was, as long as I had wanted him, I found myself faking it. A few minutes later, we were lying on a small patch of grass under a cedar, and all I could think was hurry up. Finally, he moaned into my neck and sagged against me, rolling over so I was snuggled against his side. Okay, let’s go home, I thought.
“God, Millie, that was fantastic,” Joe murmured.
“Mmm.” Wondering how much longer it would be till he took me home, I stroked his silky hair for a minute, then turned my head. I shrieked, unbelieving. Joe jumped.
“What? What?”
“Jesus, Joe!” I shrilled, leaping to my feet and grabbing my shirt against me. “Shit!”
Clearly evident in our post-coital resting place was an unmistakably healthy crop of poison ivy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE NEXT DAY, ITCHY, STINGING, prickling, burning welts covered my back, arms, neck and half of my ass. Mercifully, my female parts were spared, and so were my legs. My face, however, swelled red, tight and aching, a victim of sunburn on the boat. The rest of it was Cape Cod’s national flower, poison ivy.
Joe had driven me home, sheepishly apologetic. Even in my distress, I hadn’t wanted to wash off at his filthy house. I was furious—not just at him, but at both of us. But yes, at him. It was his yard, after all. Granted, I could’ve paid more attention, but my focus had been on escaping the grime of his house. He should have seen where he was rolling me, right? It was…thoughtless. He was just caught up in the moment, I argued with myself. Isn’t that a good thing?
“I’m sorry, Mil,” he’d said, pulling into my driveway. “I’m immune to poison ivy, so I guess I just don’t notice it.”
Of course he was immune. I was not, I soon discovered. Despite a long, hot shower, the welts came home to roost on Saturday night. For the first time in my life, I’d been stupid enough to get poison ivy.
There was no way I could go to work. On Sunday morning, I phoned Juanita, who kindly arranged for coverage at the clinic for Monday. Then I called myself in a prescription of prednisone, which my mom picked up for me, as I was loath to show my face in public. Joe called me and I lied, telling him I think I got lucky and didn’t get anything. He crooned about our day together, and while I was glad that he was happy, I also felt a little irritated. After all, I’d been seasick, terrified, horrified, disgusted, itchy. Not my best day.
At least it was Sunday and I could hide here at home. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. Did my face look more like an enormous slice of salami or a blotchy Marlon Brando? Brando won. I was very Island of Dr. Moreau. I couldn’t sit, as my entire back was tender, itchy and sore all at once. I could lie on my stomach, but if I tried to read or watch TV, my neck started to ache. I vacuumed my house and washed the floors, wanting more than ever to be in a nice, clean environment after visiting Joe yesterday.
In a Benadryl fog, I soaked in an oatmeal soap bath, and it was as disgusting as it sounds. Now I was slimy, itchy and welt-covered. The steroids would take a day or two to work, and by Sunday evening, I’d only had four doses. I changed into a roomy old Notre Dame T-shirt that Sam had sent me a thousand years ago and some scrub bottoms. Digger was very sympathetic, wagging gently and looking at me with his sweet brown eyes. It was one of those times when animals prove vastly superior to humans. I stroked his pretty head and gazed back.
“Good puppy,” I said, grateful for his presence.
The itching began in full strength. Little razor-sharp flashes of hurt, followed by almost psychotic itching, raced up and down my back and arms. Thank God my nether regions were unaffected, or I truly would have been suicidal. I rubbed my arms gently, then a little harder. Oooh. The itch flashed into a blaze of heat. “Distract yourself,” I said, pacing around my small home. Flash! Youch! Don’t scratch. “Don’t scratch,” I repeated out loud, reciting the instructions I gave at least twice daily at the clinic. “Scratching will inflame the area and just make it feel worse.”
Standing between the dining room and kitchen, I leaned against the door frame. I rubbed—gently, gently—back and forth. The flames of itch leaped in exhilaration. Oh, man, that felt good! Just one scratch to make the itching go away. The skin on my back sang in searing joy. I stopped, satisfied for two entire seconds, and then my entire torso crawled in a wave of fresh, stronger itchiness. Oh, screw it. Don’t scratch, be damned. This was agony.
I stomped into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer. Knife? No, too sharp. Didn’t want to draw blood. Spatula? No. Whisk? Ineffective. Aha! Pasta fork! A plastic pasta fork, with those lovely little prongs for grabbing spaghetti. Blessed utensil! I grabbed it and slammed the drawer shut, then reached back and went to work. Ooooh. Aaahhh. Oh, Mommy. I scratched maniacally, the razor flashes subdued by the hurt-so-good reaming. Leaning my hot, blotchy, swollen face against the coolness of the fridge, I raked my back in a delirium of Benadryl to near orgasmic satisfaction.
So deeply satisfying was this activity that I didn’t notice the noise of a truck pulling into my driveway. Luckily, my dog did and began his frenzied barking. Jumping away from the fridge, I dashed to the window to peek out.
Shit! It was Joe! He got out of his truck with a bouquet of flowers and headed for my door.
It was still bright enough outside that I hadn’t turned on the lights. Pretend you’re not home! Before my mind had even formulated that thought, I was crouched on my living-room floor in front of the wing chair. Joe knocked. Digger’s barking became joyful as he jumped up on the back door.
“Millie?” Joe’s voice came to me easily through the open windows.
Please, God, let the door be locked. My car was in the driveway, so he obviously assumed (correctly) that I was home.
“Mil?” Joe knocked again. “Digger, where’s Millie?”
Digger didn’t answer but began to whine and tremble. My legs, too, began to tremble as I squatted. I eased into the kneeling position. My back, now thoroughly ravaged, convulsed in a massive itch-pain, and I couldn’t help a little gasp.
“Millie? You home?”
Go away! But no. Joe’s work boots thumped on the back deck as he went to peer in the kitchen window. I inched around the chair slightly, trying to keep it between us. If Joe saw me like this—
He left. I waited to hear his truck door open and close, but I wasn’t that lucky. Couldn’t the guy take a hint? I crawled frantically into the dining room to sneak a peak out the window. He was walking around to the front door, causing Digger to have a brand-new fit. Lurking in the safety of the dining room, I pressed my throbbing back against the wall like a POW escaping from an enemy camp, waiting for the searchlight to pass over.
“Millie?”
Go home! My arms, jealous of the attention my back had received, cried out for the pasta fork. I rubbed them gingerly. Thump, thump, thump went the work boots. Joe, not easily deterred, was coming to the kitchen door again! Damn it! I power-crawled back into the living room and crouched again in front of my chair. Digger, now tired of barking at Joe, thought I was playing a game. Wagging, his ears pricked, he trotted over and licked my inflamed face vigorously.
“No,” I whispered. The hall carpet called to me seductively, inviting me to take off my shirt and writhe around on its scratchy nubbiness. Digger barked once.
“Guess she’s not home, hey, Digger?” Joe said. There was a rustle, then, finally, blessedly, his footsteps sounded off the deck. His truck started a minute later, and he was gone.
“Thank God!” I exclaimed, clambering up from the floor. Now, what had I done with that lovely pasta fork?
Not a minute later, I heard the truck pull into the driveway. “Jesus! What is wrong with him?” I hissed over Digger’s barking. I catapulted into the bathroom before Joe could reach the back door. The window in there was frosted, so I would be safe. It was also getting darker, so that was in my favor, too.
“Millie?”
Not Joe! Sam! I didn’t have to hide from Sam. I walked into the kitchen. Sam stood in the doorway, holding a bag.
“Hey, Millie. I stopped by the clinic and they said you were sick.”
“Look at me!” I flicked on the light and Sam’s eyes widened.
“Oh, Millie…Oh, Mil.”
“It’s poison ivy.”
He did try not to laugh, for a minute, anyway. And then he couldn’t help himself. His laughs progressed to wheezes, and he leaned in the doorway, helpless, tears running down his face. As I stood there watching him, finally the humor of my situation hit me, and I joined in.
“I hope you’re here to scratch me,” I said finally, wiping my eyes.
“Uh, no,” he answered. “But I did bring you some ice cream. And a movie.”
Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, my favorite. And a nice romantic comedy. Sweet Sam.
“There are flowers on your porch, you know,” Sam said, sticking the ice cream in the freezer.
“Right. Would you grab them?” I asked, retrieving the Ben & Jerry’s and prying off the lid. Sam picked up the flowers. I watched, shoveling in cool, deep, dark deliciousness right from the carton, as he put them in a vase.
“Want some ice cream?” I asked around a spoonful.
“No, it’s all for you. What I want is to know how you, of all people, got poison ivy.”
“The gods are punishing me for making fun of the tourists all summer,” I answered, sitting gingerly at the counter. “Mmm. This ice cream is so good, I might bathe in it.”
“So, how did you get the poison ivy?” Sam helped himself to a beer and sat down with me.
“Oh, I really couldn’t tell you.”
“Come on, kiddo.”
“Nope.”
“Please?”
“Never.”
“Well, then,” Sam said, grinning, “I’ll have to use my police training and guess. Someone brought you flowers, and I’m guessing it was Joe. An apology, perhaps? You. Joe. Poison ivy. I’d have to guess you were fooling around outside. Millie, Millie.” He shook his head regretfully.