The Dating Game. Sandra Field
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you again.’
There was an appreciable pause. Then he said, sounding aggrieved, ‘Fight me off? What are you talking about?’
‘I have some say in who kisses me, that’s what I’m talking about.’
‘Hey, don’t be so uptight—it was no big deal.’
‘You felt like a tidal wave,’ she said shortly. Large and wet and overwhelming.
‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those feminists who charges a guy with assault if he as much as looks at them.’
Refusing to pursue this undoubted red herring, she said, ‘I can hear my son getting home from school; I’ve got to go, Wayne.’
‘What about the movie?’
‘No, thanks,’ she said crisply, and replaced the receiver.
Wayne was not the first of her dates to exercise what she considered liberties with her person and what they plainly considered normal—even expected—behavior. Robert had always told her she was unsophisticated, she thought grimly. Maybe he was right.
There was a loud squeal of brakes and then twin rattles as two bikes were leaned against the fence. Julie smiled to herself. Danny was home, and by the sound of it Scott was with him. A nice boy, Scott Carruthers, she decided thoughtfully. How glad she was that Danny and he had become such fast friends; it had eased the move from the country to the city immeasurably.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Danny cried, almost tumbling in the door in his haste. ‘Scott fell off his bike and he’s bleeding; can you fix him up?’
As Scott limped into the kitchen, any lingering thoughts about the peculiarities of male dating behavior dropped from Julie’s mind. She quickly washed her hands at the sink, assessing the ugly grazes on Scott’s bare knees. ‘Danny, would you get the first-aid kit from the bathroom cupboard?’ she said. ‘That must be hurting, Scott.’
‘Kind of,’ said Scott, sitting down heavily on the nearest chair and scowling at his knees.
No two boys could be more different than Danny and Scott. Even discounting a mother’s natural love for her son, Julie knew Danny was an exceptionally handsome little boy, with his thick blond hair, so like her own, and his big blue eyes, the image of Robert’s. He was shy, tending to be a loner, and she had worried a great deal about uprooting him from the country village that had been his home since he was born. Scott, on the other hand, was a wiry, dark-haired extrovert, passionately fond of soccer and baseball, who had drawn Danny very naturally into a whole circle of new friends and activities.
She knelt down beside Scott, using a sterile gauze pad to pick the dirt from his scraped knees. Although he was being very stoical, she could see the glint of tears in his eyes. She said matter-of-factly, ‘How did you fall off?’
‘He was teaching me how to do wheelies,’ Danny announced. ‘But the bike hit a bump.’
Wheelies involved driving the bicycle on the back wheel only. Julie said, ‘Not on the street, I hope.’
‘Nope,’ Scott said. ‘Ouch, that hurts...my Dad said he’d confiscate my bike if he ever caught me doing wheelies on the street. Confiscate means take away,’ he added, bunching his fists against the pain. ‘My dad’s a lawyer, so he knows lots of big words.’
The lawyer she had consulted to safeguard her interests in the divorce had charged her a great deal of money to do very little; Julie made a non-committal sound and wished Scott had practised his wheelies on grass rather than gravel. ‘We’re nearly done,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I’m hurting you.’
‘Do nurses always hurt people?’ Scott asked pugnaciously.
Julie looked up, startled. There was more behind that question than simple curiosity. But she had no idea what. She said cautiously, ‘They try very hard not to hurt anyone. But sometimes they have to, I guess.’
His scowl was back in full force. ‘You work in a hospital; Danny told me you do.’
‘That’s right.’
‘My mum died in hospital.’
Julie sat back on her heels. Danny had talked a lot about Scott but very little about his parents, she now realized. While there had been mention of a housekeeper—a Mrs Inkpen—Julie had assumed that the mother worked as well as the father, necessitating someone to stay with Scott. ‘I didn’t know that, Scott,’ she said softly. ‘How long ago did it happen?’
Scott looked as though he was regretting his outburst. ‘Two years ago,’ he mumbled.
‘I’m sorry she’s dead; you must miss her.’
‘Sometimes I do, yeah...but my dad always took me to the soccer games, so that’s still okay.’
The scrape on Scott’s other knee was not nearly as dirty. As gently as she could Julie cleaned it up, then applied antibiotic ointment and two new pads. ‘Use this tape, Mum,’ Danny suggested.
The roll of tape had Walt Disney characters printed on it in bright colors. Julie used lots of it and asked, ‘How does that feel?’
As Scott stood up gingerly, Danny interposed, ‘I bet a popsicle’d make him feel better.’
Julie laughed. ‘I bet you’re right. I still have a few chocolate-fudge cookies, too.’
‘We could go over to your place and play in the tree house,’ Danny added.
‘The cookies could be emergency rations,’ Scott said, brightening.
‘As long as you’re home by five-thirty, Danny,’ Julie said, packing two brown paper bags with cookies and juice, then watching as the boys wobbled down the driveway on their bikes.
So Scott had no mother, and Danny no father; maybe that was another reason why the boys had become friends. Even if Scott’s father was a lawyer, he was doing a good job with his son, she thought generously, and went inside to slice the carrots.
The first Saturday night she was free, she might just take herself to see that film Wayne had offered to take her to. Alone.
One thing was sure: she wouldn’t go with Wayne.
* * *
Because Scott had a dentist appointment at four-thirty on Wednesday, Teal left work immediately after court recessed. He hadn’t let Mike say a word all day, and he’d been able to cast more than a reasonable doubt on several of the prosecution’s main points. Which, for a man who had had less than five hours’ sleep, wasn’t bad.
He glanced at his watch. He didn’t have a whole lot of time; the most difficult thing about being a single parent was the inevitable conflict between his work and his son’s needs.
He navigated the traffic with absent-minded skill, and, when he drew up next to the house, honked the horn. The last thing he’d told Scott this morning was to be ready and waiting.
Scott did not appear. Teal leaned on the horn. He and Danny might be in the tree house, in which case they would have to scan the neighborhood, lower the rope ladder that kept enemies at bay, and then slither to the ground, clutching to their chests forked twigs that doubled as guns and slingshots.
But there were no bicycles leaning against the back porch. Impatiently Teal got out of the car, a tall, commanding figure in a pin-striped suit, and scanned the garden himself. ‘Scott?’ he called. ‘Hurry up, we’re going to be late.’
When neither boy appeared, he took the back steps two at a time and let himself in the door, which was firmly locked. There was a note propped on the kitchen table. ‘School got out erly, a pipe berst,’ it said. ‘Gone to Danny’s.’
His son might be a hotshot soccer player. But he was a lousy speller, Teal thought, and rummaged for the scrap of paper bearing Danny’s phone number. He finally located it at the very bottom of the pile and dialed it quickly. A busy signal burred in