Whoa....

Fred was wakened by a loud and persistent banging above his head. Pulling himself upright he gazed sleepily out the back window of the Toyota into the huge, red face of Flora Luckinbill. He closed his eyes again and gave his head a shake. It was a frightening sight. Then he sniffed, blinked and threw open the car door, his mother dancing out of its way with surprising agility for a woman of her girth.

"So, she came to her senses and threw you out, did she?" enquired Flora, loudly.

Fred slammed the car door shut. "No. I fell asleep there. I woke up in the middle of the night... ON THE COUCH," he emphasized, "and came home to find you’d locked the screen doors," he complained.

What began as an amused chuckle somewhere deep inside Flora slowly increased in turbulence and volume until it erupted in a series of quaking guffaws, punctuated by helpless coughing and wheezing. "You silly ass," she exclaimed, as soon as she could catch her breath. "Don’t you know she phoned? She called... said you’d fallen asleep on her couch... and she didn’t want to wake you... poor thing," she chuckled. "I told her to keep you... just as long as she wants... and do with you what she pleases."

Fred stared. Then he snorted, turned and marched toward the house, his mother’s laughter ringing in his ears. Here he’d tried to do the decent thing and wound up spending half the night cramped into the back seat of his Toyota for nothing. How was he to know Myrtle had phoned? He was asleep! He stepped into the house and slammed the door behind him. By now, Myrtle was probably up and wondering where he was, he thought. He strode into the bathroom and slammed that door behind him as well.

When he emerged from the house forty minutes later, he noticed his car had been moved and his mother’s truck was gone. He snorted again, realizing it was Sunday and his mother had probably been on her way to church when she found him. He climbed into his car and headed back to Myrtle’s, silently rehearsing a variety of possible explanations for his disappearance as he drove slowly down the road.

Myrtle was indeed up and somewhat perplexed that she couldn’t find Fred anywhere in her house. After lifting the crumpled blanket on the couch to make double sure he wasn’t under there, she had checked the bathroom and even her bedroom, thinking he might have sleepily wandered in there while she was in the kitchen turning on the coffee-maker. Finally realizing he just wasn’t in the house, she stood in the kitchen mentally debating whether to make breakfast for one, or for two, in case he returned. Fortunately, before she made a decision, she heard a tentative tapping at her back door. There was Fred, wearing a look of contrite bewilderment. Myrtle threw her arms around his collar and pulled him inside.

"What happened, Fred? Where did you go?"

He placed his arms around her waist and blushed. All his rehearsed words instantly vanished from his mind. "I woke up... it was late... I thought... I thought... I mean, it seemed like I should go home," he finished feebly.

"Oh," she said, not sure what else to say. After enduring a rather unpleasant phone call to Fred’s loud and unappreciative mother, Myrtle thought it was a just a shame that he hadn’t stayed put, but she knew he had no way of knowing what had transpired, so she smiled, grasped his hand and pulled him farther into the house. "You haven’t had breakfast yet, have you? What would you like?" she continued, without waiting for a reply to the first question.

Fred allowed himself to be led to the kitchen, then he said, "no... I didn’t take the time to eat, and besides, Mother doesn’t like me to cook in her kitchen...." his voice sort of trailed off.

Myrtle cheerfully led him to the kitchen table, where he plopped down onto a chair, feeling a little irritable that he couldn’t really whine to Myrtle about spending part of the night in his car, or about his nasty mother and the way she woke him. It just didn’t seem like the thing to do, and he would have felt a little foolish, although it would have been nice to get it off his chest. Of course, it didn’t occur to him that Myrtle was harbouring her own thoughts about his mother which she felt she couldn’t speak.

"Do you like French toast, Fred?" Myrtle asked, smiling.

"Sorry?" he mumbled, shaking himself awake. "Oh... um... yes," he said, before she could repeat the question.

"Would you like bacon with your French toast?" she asked.

"That’d be great," he replied gratefully, starting to feel a little better as Myrtle’s smile and the laugh crinkles beside her eye warmed him a little. He sighed and watched as she placed several slices of side bacon into a frying pan.

He felt even better after the hearty breakfast and some small talk about the weather and window curtains. He didn’t even mind wiping the dishes as Myrtle washed, and he grinned happily as Myrtle collected up some rags and sponges and threw them into a plastic bucket. She added a tape measure, a small bottle of vinegar and a box of baking soda, and handed the bucket to Fred with a smile. Then she picked up her sponge mop and a small step ladder and motioned toward two bulging shopping bags in the corner.

"We’ll put these in your car, and I’ll come back for those while you get the car warmed up," she said, in an instructional tone.

Fred simply nodded and followed Myrtle to the door, realizing only after he was in the driver’s seat that it was precious little warming up his car needed. He should have helped her with those bags, he chastised himself, but it was too late, because there was Myrtle back with them, putting them into the trunk. He shrugged and smiled sheepishly as Myrtle climbed in beside him. He decided to say nothing about it and just drive. And so they headed for Fred's new apartment.