RSS 2.0 FeedToo Hot in Tucson
Buck wiped his face with a hand towel already wet with sweat. "Damn it, Hazel, whose idea was it to retire in Tucson?"
"Don't look at me," said Hazel.
They were sprawled in lawn chairs on the back porch of their house in the desert foothills. The view from the porch, which was on the shady side of the house, was up Pima Canyon. The rolling desert in the foreground, then rising canyon walls, and finally mountains - this view was breathtaking; but for several weeks the panorama had baked in unrelenting waves of heat. The canyon seemed to undulate dizzily as if responding to volcanic pressures. Buck, a tall, handsome man with graying hair and an air of muscular energy about him, hiked three days a week in the canyon, but the brutal heat had put a stop to that.
"Who'd think they'd ask us to shut off the air conditioners," said Buck. "Main bearing froze up in one of the generators. You'd think the guys at the power plant'd have enough brains to keep it greased. Damn, no air conditioning in this inferno."
"Well, if you're going to put men in charge..." Hazel mused.
"Right. I seem to remember a black cloud over your sewing machine when the motor burned up because...let's see, what was the reason?"
"Oh, yes," sighed Hazel, "I forgot to oil it. Point well taken. At least I can say it wasn't my idea to retire out here."
"You didn't object, though."
"Good thing, too." She glanced at her wilted pansies. "If I'd objected, you'd have really been hot - under the collar that is. As things stand now, it's too hot to wear a collar."
"You were always a hot number, Hazel. At the moment, you're too hot to handle. Even if I had the energy to get up from this chair."
"I'm too hot to touch, forget handling."
"Think of it, Hazel, if we'd retired near Madison, we could be teaching Shakespeare and Chaucer in air conditioned rooms - at least a day or two a week."
"I'm going inside for a glass of ice water. That is if the ice hasn't melted in the freezer. You want a glass?"
"You're reading my mind."
"Ha! That's never been a problem."
She stood, facing the canyon. He looked at her through half-open eyes. She was as straight and slender as she had always been. Even with her sweaty hair plastered to the back of her neck, and her thin, soggy dress clinging to her sweaty thighs, he saw nothing but elegance. She moved across the porch with an easy grace and disappeared into the house.
Buck shifted in his chair, his eyes shut, waiting for the cool water. The screen door slammed, and he heard her soft approach. "The cold tap's running at 110 degrees. I nearly died of thirst waiting for the ice to cool my water. Here, I brought a pitcher and a glass for you."
"Thanks. You know, you're not a bad old broad."
"What I hate most," she stamped her foot against the floor, "is lookin' at my burned-up pansies. Wish I had the gumption to pull 'em out by the roots and get 'em out of my sight."
"This is really my goof, Hazel. You wanted to buy that property in Wisconsin. I wish I'd listened to you."
"If it will soothe your conscience any," she said, "I saw on TV last night that it's been a hundred degrees or more in Rhinelander for thirteen days straight. The water level in Big Lake St. Germaine is down two feet. The fish are too lazy to go for bait."
"At least they got shade up there." He refilled his glass. "You're right, though, the pansies are a bad bet for Tucson. You're going to have to learn to love cactus."
"Yeah, I guess," said Hazel. "Speaking of gardening, there's Ms. Cutie Pants with her watering can. Still trying to keep that orange tree alive."
Ms. Cutie Pants was their neighbor, Margie, a woman of maybe forty. Buck could tell she was making the most of her good looks and sultry demeanor. Margie's husband, Bob, was a salesman and out of town two weeks of every month. She usually dressed for maximum exposure, and consistently chose to display herself when Buck was on the back porch. A couple of times she'd gotten him over to her place to help with some problem that seemed to him more contrived than real. He was as susceptible as any man to the mysteries of seduction. He also realized she was lonely, Bob being gone so much.
"Some women are blessed with good genes," said Hazel. "Feast your eyes on all that pulchritude."
Buck opened his lids, half way. "So, is it reassurance you're wanting? Okay, here it is. Hazel, you've got elegance. Me, I'll take grace over ersatz carnality any day. So relax, it's too hot for anxiety." He let his eyes slide shut.
"Can't say as I feel all that elegant with sweat dripping from every pore. Would you say I'm oozing elegance? You do raise an interesting question, though. Is there more substance in style than in flesh? One of the big questions, you know. Worthy of a mind like yours."
"You and your metaphysics," he muttered.
That night, as they lay in bed, the temperature had dropped to ninety-four. The windows were open in hope of a breeze, but it was a vain hope. The sheets were damp. In the distance a coyote howled under the full moon.
"Buck, I don't like coyotes. I want my mama."
"Go to sleep, Hazel. I'll protect you."
Shortly after the coyote howled again, the phone rang, and Buck answered. "Hello."
"Oh Buck, this is Margie, you neighbor to the north." She was whispering into the phone.
Buck turned to Hazel. "It's Cutie Pants."
Hazel switched on the light and propped her self on one elbow, female antennae quivering.
"What is it, Margie? You sound frightened," he said.
"I'm sure there's a prowler outside my house. I don't know what to do. I'm so scared."
Buck was a big man and imagined himself to be a rough man as well. He thought, "If Hazel needed help and I weren't around, I hope somebody would help her."
"You stay inside, Margie. Call the police. I'll be there in a couple of minutes." He hung up the phone, pulled on his sandals, and felt in the drawer for the flashlight.
"What's going on?" said Hazel.
"Margie thinks there's a prowler outside her house. I'm going over there."
"Why doesn't she just wait for the police?"
"I'm going. Be right back, unless..."
"Buck the hero!"
He got his keys and made sure the front and back doors were locked. The night was moonlit and beautiful, except that the hot sand burned his toes, and he thought about rattlesnakes - nocturnal hunters. As he approached Margie's back door he stopped and listened then quietly checked both sides of the house. Nothing. When he came around to the front, he saw her shadowy figure through the open door, standing in the soft moonlight filtering through the screen.
Prowler my ass. Maybe I underrated carnality...volcanic pressures stirring...all right...chance of a...I could...then there's Hazel.
"Oh, Buck, you can see for yourself..." She took a step closer to the door and into the light. "The door's not locked. Come to me. It won't take us long. I don't cling, honest I don't."
My God, all that need!
Walking home in the dark, he was could barely make out the thorny cactus. Think of it, what a beautiful woman...and all that neglect.
In the bedroom, Hazel propped herself up again, and said, "Well?"
He looked at his wife, "You know, Hazel, of all the women I could have married, you've probably turned out to be the best of the bunch."
"Thanks for the beautiful thought, but aren't you going to tell me what happened?"
"Well, yeah, I got over there and checked around the house. There was no prowler. When I came around in front, Margie was just inside the screen door, feeling a little silly, I suppose, for dragging me out of bed. I did what I could to put her mind at rest and told her she needed a good night's sleep. Then I came on home, and here I am. Hazel, you're not thinking that...? No, I know you better than that." He looked at her still propped up on her elbow, still sweaty. "If it weren't so damned hot..."
"Turn off the light, Buck. I just felt a breeze."
Dennis Beard spends his days reading fiction, writing stories, and trying to keep his wife's computerized embroidery machine running. The reading these days is mostly 19th century Russian novels. The writing includes essays such as An Ideological Lamentation.
He thinks stories ought to reflect the unpredictability of life, both the serendipitous and the maddening. Unexpected things happen, and people respond in ways surprising to themselves. The joyful, the melancholy, the placid, the chaotic, love, and animosity are part of living ─ he tries to reflect all of these in his stories.
Dennis was raised in central Illinois, but has lived most of his life in and around Chicago. He has been published in The Journal (a Northwestern University publication), Further Persons Imperfect (an anthology), Shotgun Sports Magazine, and Quilters Newsletter Magazine. His e-mail address: Dennis Beard