Thunder was crashing and rain was beating hard upon the tile roofing when I snapped out of my deep sleep. I looked around and momentarily tried to recall where I was. Paper was strewn all around me. When I sat up, more spilled off the bed onto the floor. The single bulb of the overhead light flickered uncertainly, made a valiant effort to revive and then simply died. Almost immediately, there were several sharp raps on my interior door. The door knocking startled me more than the thunder. I had forgotten all about the woman who owned the place. The noisy crashes of thunder and flashing lightening and finally the electric power outage must have frightened her.
“Joseph—Joe are you in there?” her voice quavered. This woman was really frightened.
My landlady and housemate, Mrs. Reilly, was a relatively well off widow who must have been somewhere in her late fifties or early sixties. My impression of her, during the few times I had actually seen her, was that she was very fragile—and most probably—a total ditz. She was not much more than five feet tall and could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds in a lead lined dressing gown. During one of our few conversations, she had informed me that she was a vegetarian and a health food addict. I knew that she took more supplements than Bayer has aspirins. She only wore clothes that were white, lavender or lilac and always with a single strand of cultured pearls. Her shoes invariably were white low heels. When she went outside on a sunny day, she wore white gloves—on a cloudy day, black gloves. Her thin curly brown dyed hair was always neatly coiffed and seemed to suggest that she was expecting a date or important company or perhaps getting ready to go to church. The few words that we had exchanged had been stiffly formal but always quite pleasant. We respected each other’s privacy—at least until now.
“Joe, Joe…” tears seemed imminent.
“Yeah, I’m here er …” What the hell was her first name again? “I’ll be right there.”
I struggled in the dark to my interior door, the one I used only when I needed to shower in the larger bathroom across the hall, and opened it. Mrs. Reilly was standing in the corridor shaking. She was holding a molded yellow rubber nine-volt, high intensity lantern. The bright light almost blinded me as I swung open the door and took its full blast in my face. I blinked a few times. Then, she was in my arms.
“I’m so sorry, but these kind of intense electrical storms still terrify me,” she mumbled into the bottom of my chest. “My home in Michigan burned to the ground when I was a little girl during a lightning storm just like this. My youngest brother, Seth, died in that fire.”
Florida in the late summer and fall would not be my first choice as a place to be if you want to avoid thunder and lightning storms—to say nothing of the crazy hurricanes.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “We’ll be fine Mrs. Reilly. With that thousand-watt beacon you have, we’ll be able to find lost ships at sea. We’ll be the heroes of Clearwater Beach. They’ll write heroic stories about us for years to come. The storm will pass soon.” Prophetic me—the lights flickered on again, off again and then held. Power restored. “I’m sorry Mrs. Reilly; I’ve forgotten your first name. I don’t see you often. And I guess the storm has frightened me too.”
It sounded lame, but the truth was that I always entered my room through the exterior door on the garage side of the house. The room had its own en suite washroom—which was the typical real estate hyperbole to describe a toilet and a sink and shower in a four by five foot closet. I was away from the place as much as possible. And when I was home, I rarely remembered that Mrs. Reilly might be haunting the other rooms of the house. The property management guy had told me that she was harmless, just a little off the wall and quickly losing whatever marbles remained. I didn’t bother her, she didn’t bother me. The only time I invaded her space was when she went out gardening or to do her morning walk. Then, I would sneak across the hall wrapped in a towel and take my morning shower in the larger bathroom. It was a functional arrangement.
“My name is Phyllis Reilly. You weren’t home last night,” said Mrs. Reilly, who had finally backed away from me and was trying unsuccessfully to turn off her mega-watt flashlight. Her peevish tone had just enough accusation in it to somehow make me feel guilty.
“No ma'am. I’ve met a very nice young lady, and I spent the evening with her. I guess I’ll have to move out soon because I’ll want to spend more time with her in the future.”
“Why would you do that?” the tiny woman asked plaintively looking up at me. Phyllis Reilly’s eyes were penetrating black dots.
“Well ma’am … you mean spend time with her or move out?”
“Don’t call me ma’am. My name is Phyllis or Mrs. Reilly.”
“Yes ma’am … er … Mrs. Reilly,” I said realizing that maybe the woman wasn’t as weak-minded as I had been lead to believe.
“Alright, so again, why would you move out?”
“Well, the property management guy, Mr. Franklin I think his name was; he told me that I could not have guests when I took the room and I haven’t. But that was because I really didn’t know anyone here when I arrived. Now, well that I’ve met Mia—that’s my friend’s name—now it’s a different story.”
“I’m happy that you have met someone female. I was getting worried that you were a bit you know, light in the loafers—some kind of a fancy boy. In any case, that management gentleman is an idiot. He had no business telling you such a thing. This is my home; I still make the rules.”
Mrs. Reilly’s recuperative abilities were amazing—from quivering violet to a very much together middle-aged woman in a flash. I briefly wondered if perhaps Mrs. Phyllis Reilly had simply been looking for a good hug. But the way she had been shaking—even an incredibly talented actress could not have pulled that one off. Could she?
“I took him at face value,” I said weakly.
Mrs. Reilly looked at me in disbelief. Who is the ditz now?
The thunder had ceased, and the heavy downpour had moved off taking the muggy late afternoon humidity with it. The golden sun was just beginning to shine through the weakening vestiges of cloud. The air was pure with the cool fresh fragrance of the gulf and the late spring blossoms. The evening looked promising in more ways than one.
“In fact Joe—I can call you Joe correct?”—I nodded agreement—“I was about to ask you to watch my home for me as my sister, April, up north—the last one still alive besides me—has become ill. Our family seems to die young. Some families are like that. Anyway, I would like to visit with her before she passes on. If you respect my home as much as you have thus far, and you wish to have a female guest, I would not object. I intend to fly out in a day or so. Would you be willing to look after things while I am gone?”
“Certainly,” I replied—an answer to my need to be with Mia from the thin lips of Mrs. Phyllis Reilly. I could have kissed her. She may have liked that.
“Thank you Joe. We need not tell anyone of my fear of electrical storms.”
Who was there to tell? “No ma'am—Phyllis. Thank you. I promise that I will make sure everything is A-okay here while you are away.”
“If your guest visits before I leave, I would like to meet her. That is, if you would care to introduce her to me. Is she a Christian girl? Does she take her vitamins and eat properly?”
“Yes, Mrs. Reilly, I think she eats the right stuff. I’d like you to meet her, and I’m sure she would like to meet you also,” I replied respectfully. I deliberately avoided any direct response to the Christian girl part of Mrs. Reilly’s query. I was remembering my previous night of sexual athletics with Mia in the motel room. Nothing in that fond, fresh memory invoked in my experience the notion of Christianity unless you count—it is better to give than to receive. I also thought it wise to neglect telling Mrs. Reilly about Mia’s past as a stripper and an escort. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Let the lady believe whatever she wanted.
Mrs. Reilly nodded quickly and with a light sniffle turned and left as quickly as I had ever seen her move. I stepped into the hallway and sai
d thanks again. She was still trying to turn off her lantern when I closed the door. I smiled as I thought about my good fortune. Sometimes you can’t lose.
It was almost seven thirty, and I still had not done a thing about trying to meet Langdon’s criteria of finding a new scrap of evidence. Then I remembered that I was supposed to have called Frank three hours earlier—oops.
“Talk to me. But I’m not here. Leave your number.”
Succinct—“Frank, it’s Joe—big storm here—sorry I missed you—call me,” Two can play at terse.
I decided to tidy up a bit and then walk down the beach to meet Mia at nine. She could drive me back here and pick up her straw luggage and go home, or she could meet Mrs. Reilly and stay for a while. Forever, if I had my way.
Before I left the house a half an hour later, I went around and knocked on the front door. Mrs. Reilly greeted me as if nothing at all had happened earlier. I told her that I intended to return shortly, and my friend, Mia, might be with me. If we weren’t too late, would she still like to meet her?
“I certainly would Joseph, and thank you for telling me where you are going. I’ll stay up until eleven. After that, I would prefer to meet your lady friend at another time.”
“Is there anything I can bring in for you Mrs. Reilly?” I said before I left. I felt as if I was talking to my mother again.
“I’d love a Snickers bar.”
“Really? I said, “I can do that.”
Sometimes, Life Is Excellent