Reprisal

He drew deeply on his cigarette, his sixth for the day, his first after a lunch of eight ounces of tuna salad, a cold potato sliced and smeared with mustard, and a medium-sized peach. The same lunch he brought every day and ate right here at his desk. He kept rigorous track of his nutrition, and balanced it carefully. His fourth cup of coffee cooled on the desk. He allowed himself a dozen cups a day. Excessive, he knew, but he'd found he couldn't function well on less. He smoked too much too. Twenty cigarettes a day—opened a fresh pack of Kool Lights every morning and finished the last just before bed. Coffee and cigarettes—he wanted to give them up, but not yet. He couldn't give up everything. But maybe in a few years, when he was more confident about his level of control, he'd try to get off tobacco.

He watched Lisl and wondered again at the type of man with whom she chose to spend her precious time. Here was one of the most brilliant women he had ever met wasting her lunch hours dallying with a common laborer—one with a ponytail, no less. A mismatch if he ever saw one. What could they possibly have in common? What could a man like that possibly have to say to interest a mind like hers?

It plagued him. What could they talk about, day after day, week after week? What ?

The most frustrating aspect of the question was knowing that he would never have the answer. To obtain that he would either have to eavesdrop on them or join them, or ask Lisl directly what they talked about. None of which he could do. It simply wasn't in him.

Another question: Why on earth was he wasting his own time pondering such an inconsequential imponderable? What did it matter what Lisl and her big gardener friend discussed at lunch? He had better things to do.

And yet… they looked so relaxed together. Ev wished he could be so relaxed with people. Not even people—he'd settle for just one other person in the world with whom he could sit down and feel perfectly at ease discussing the secrets of the universe and the inconsequentials of daily existence.

Someone like Lisl. So soft, so beautiful. Maybe she wasn't beautiful in the accepted modern sense, but her golden blond hair was thick and silky smooth—he wished she'd wear it down and loose instead of twisted into that French braid she favored—and her smile so bright and warm. She was small-breasted and carrying too many pounds for her frame, but Ev wasn't impressed by exteriors. Appearances meant nothing. It was the i

What did that handyman see when he looked at her? Everett sincerely doubted the other man was attracted to Lisl for her mind. He didn't know him, of course, but it seemed that the groundskeeper possessed neither the values nor the depth of character that would set him in pursuit of a woman's mind.

So what was his angle?

Were they sexually intimate? Was that what it was all about? Pleasures of the flesh? Well, there was nothing wrong with that, as long as it didn't interfere with Lisl's future. Tragic if she were drawn away from her career. A brilliant mind such as hers did not belong at home all day changing diapers.

And of what concern was any of this to Everett Sanders?

Because I want to be where they are.

Wouldn't that be wonderful. To have her as a friend, a confidante, a sharer. To have almost anyone to share even a few hours. Because, Everett knew and freely admitted to himself, he was lonely. And although loneliness was far better than other problems he had known in the past, it could be a terrible burden at times, a constant gnawing ache in his soul.

Lunches with Lisl, silly chitchat with Lisl. It was more than he could hope for.

More than he would hope for.

The whole idea was ridiculous. Even if it were feasible, even if it were possible, he couldn't allow it. He couldn't permit himself to become involved in an emotional relationship. Emotions were too unpredictable, too difficult to control. And he couldn't let any area in his life slip -from his control. Because if one area broke free, others might break loose and follow. And then his whole life might slip free from the iron grip in which he clutched it.

So let Lisl Whitman dawdle with her groundskeeper friend and/or lover. It was none of his business. It was her life and he had no right to think he should control it. It took all his resolve to control his own.

Besides, he should have been reading instead of wasting time at the window like this. Especially on a Wednesday. He had the weekly meeting tonight so he had to do his daily page quota on this week's novel earlier in the day. It was Daddy by Loup Durand. A few years old, but someone had recommended it to him as a thriller with a twist. And indeed it did have a twist. More than one. He was enjoying it immensely.

Everett had come to find fiction a welcome relief from the constraints of working with numbers all day, so years ago he had resolved to read one novel a week. And he did. He started a new novel every Sunday. Faithfully. Daddy was 377 pages long. So, to finish the novel in a week he had to read 53.85 pages a day. This was Wednesday, which meant that he had to reach page 216 before he slept tonight. Actually, he was a little ahead of the game today because he had gone past his daily page increment last night and continued to the end of the chapter. That wasn't a bad idea in itself, but he didn't like breaking his own rules.

He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another immediately. He allowed himself two in a row after lunch. He opened the book to the top of page 181. Thirty-five to go. He settled himself at his desk and began reading.

THREE

Will glanced at his watch. Almost quitting time, but he wanted to get this tractor-mower ru

He looked across the gently rolling field of the lower campus where the soccer and football teams were practicing on the freshly mown grass. Keeping the campus pruned and trimmed was an endless task, but Will loved it. Never thought he'd end up a groundskeeper—not with his background and education—but he had to admit it had its rewards. He found a very real satisfaction in doing simple labor with his hands. Weeding, edging, pruning, doing motor maintenance, it didn't matter. While his hands were busy, his mind was left free to roam. And roam it did. It occurred to him that he had done more heavy-duty thinking in the last few years than he had done in his entire life, and that was pushing half a century.

But still he hadn't found any answers. Only more questions.

Back to the tractor. The old John Deere was one of the crew's workhorses and it had been kicking up all week, coughing, sputtering, stalling. He thought he'd heard something that sounded like a bad wire. He'd replaced it. Now came the test.

The engine started on the first turn of the key. Will listened carefully. He could tell a lot about an engine just from the way it sounded. It was a knack he'd discovered back when he began fooling around with cars as a teenager.

"Hey, Willie! Sounds great!"

Will looked up and saw Joe Bob Hawkins, the foreman of the grounds crew, standing over him. He was younger than Will—about forty or so—but his receding red hair and big, burly barrel-chested physique made him seem older.

"Bad wire," Will told him.

"You got that magic touch, I tell ya. Ain't never seen a body could fix an engine the way you do. Y'all got a degree in motor medicine or something?"

"You got it, Joe Bob. I'm an M.D.—a motor doctor."

"That you are, guy," he said with a laugh, "that you are. Tell you what. You stow that thing in the garage and then join me in my office. I'll buy you a TGIF snort of sour mash."