Dead Street

She filled Tacos’ bowl with a big helping of his favorite supper and put it on the floor next to the water dish. The dog never moved. There was a peculiarity in his stance that was hard to define. His eyes seemed to be nailed to mine and the tip of his tail gave a minute twitch.

I said, “Bettie, if I don’t kiss you I’m going to blow up like I swallowed a grenade.”

“Tacos will kill you if you touch me.”

“The hell he will,” I said and reached out for her, but not too far because she came right into my arms the way she used to and when our mouths touched it was like being smothered in fire of the most pleasurable pain possible. It wasn’t a long kiss. It only lasted for the years that had already gone by and absolutely made up for all the wild, crazy wait I’d had to sweat out, never knowing that this would happen.

You can’t sustain moments like that for too long. We just stood there, and even when I closed my eyes I knew whom I had kissed, but it was not to be told. Not yet. And Bettie was seeing that same invisible thing too and squeezed my hands gently.

I said, “Tacos didn’t try to bite me, kitten.”

I looked down at the dog’s head, which came up to my hip, and damned if that big old animal wasn’t wearing a grin as wide as a mile. His heavy tail gave two mighty thumps against the floor and he let out another of those pleased yips.

Very softly, Bettie said, “You’ve made another very good neighbor, Jack.”

I let her words hang in the air, then said, “I’m sorry.”

She answered, “Don’t be.”

“I’ve just gotten here. One day and look at what has happened. You know what I suddenly feel like? A heel is what I feel like, taking advantage of—”

With her forefinger she touched my lips and said, “Do you know what I suddenly feel like?”

There was no way I could answer that question logically.

“I have no memory at all of my younger days. I’ve been told that I was very pretty and bright and had young men constantly try to get... how do you say it?... next to me.”

And as suddenly as she mentioned it, she scowled, a brief flare of memory tugging up some hidden twist of recollection.

“What is it?” I asked.

For a good ten seconds she stood staring off into empty space. It was like a machine grinding away without sound. Wheels were spinning, but not propelling any energy to any of its memory banks.

Blankly, she asked me, “Jack... Jack, what just happened?”

“Something was coming back to you.”

She shook her head and wiped her hand across her eyes.

“From before your accident?” I suggested.

The shake of her head was final. “It was nothing. I can’t remember any of it. Every once in a while it happens like that.”

“Bettie... did that old vet ever get you in to see a psychiatrist when you were with him?”

A shadow of a frown touched her face again and she nodded. “Several times. Why do you ask?”

“Any conclusions on your case?”

“Yes. There has been some sort of brain damage. Nothing life-threatening, but critical enough to cause memory lapse.” She stopped abruptly and took her lower lip between her teeth. “Do we have to talk about that?”

Brain damage — two chilling words. The few amnesia cases I’d encountered over my cop years had been psychosomatic. Yet she seemed to be reacting to bits and scraps as I unintentionally jogged those brain cells, damaged or not....

I ran my hand up her forearm and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Of course not, doll. I was just being curious... and stupid.”

“No... it’s all right. I understand what sort of a curiosity I must be.” She smiled again and I wanted to kiss her again but didn’t push it.

Then she added, “You’re just being a cop, aren’t you? Always asking questions.” She raised her palm and held it to my cheek. “You’re smiling,” she told me.

“You’re pretty,” I told her.

This time she took my hand and drew me into the living room. No one would have ever have thought she was blind. She led me to a large leather-covered chair and eased me into it, then clicked on the TV without any difficulty and sat down on the couch opposite me. The Weather Station came on and we sat watching, or in her case listening, a while. She leaned back against the cushions, stretched her legs out until her toes touched mine and said, “Jack... you are the first real visitor I’ve ever had in my house.”

“That’s what neighbors are for.”

Even if I had had my eyes closed I would have known she was grinning at me. “What’s so funny?” I asked gently.

“It feels so natural, you and me.”

“Why do you suppose?”

“I don’t know.” She paused, then asked, “Do you?”

She couldn’t see what I did, but I nodded. And she knew it, too.

“And you’re not going to tell me, right?”

I said, “Right. And now it’s time to leave. Until tomorrow, anyway.”

But she knew I was hiding something. How do women always seem to know these things?

Chapter Five