Mendocino and Other Stories by Ann Packer Page B

feels like some kind of dreadful nanny, chirpy and upbeat. She decides that after she's put the groceries away she'll hide out in her and Luke's bedroom for an hour or two. Not for the first time since Winch's arrival, she thinks it's too bad he couldn't have shown up next year, when, if all goes according to plan, their penny-pinching will have paid off and they'll have bought a house—with a guest room. Having Winch camped out in the living room is just one more reminder that they're still living like students.
    “What do you think about those shoes?” Winch says. He's still sitting on the steps.
    Sarah turns from the door. “Excuse me?”
    Winch points at a pair of hightop sneakers dangling from the phone line.
    “I think,” Sarah says, “that someone's feet must be cold.” But as she goes into the house she thinks, Why'd I say that? She's been wondering about the shoes, too—ever since they appeared, last spring. She's noticed a few other pairs around town.
    THROUGH THE LIVING room window Luke can see Winch sprawled on the couch, wearing his—Luke's—headphones. Winch is grooving to the music; Luke watches as his feet wiggle, as his arms beat time on his thighs.
    Luke backs off the porch and down the steps, undetected. He makes his way around the house, looking in windows, until he sees Sarah lying on their bed, her arms crossed over her chest, staring into space.
    He taps on the window and her body jerks out of position—both feet lifting off the bed, her arms flailing out in front of her. Immediately, she's raising the window.
    “Don't ever do that again,” she says. “Jesus, you scared me.”
    “Sorry.” He waits to see whether he's instigated a bad mood, but she seems OK. “What're you doing?”
    “Oh, nothing,” she says. “Avoiding you-know-who.”
    “Me, too.”
    “He was locked out again. Sitting on the porch when I got home like some dopey-eyed stray.”
    “The guy is hopeless,” Luke says. This feels vaguely disloyal, but he no longer cares. Whatever he's owed Winch has long been repaid. He looks at Sarah, standing in the lighted window, and gets a brilliant idea. “Can you slide the screen up?”
    “You're going to climb in? Wearing your suit? You'll get it all dirty.”
    “No,” he says, “you're going to climb out. I'll help you. Then we'll sneak out for dinner.”
    “Oh, Luke,” Sarah says. “We can't do that. He's our guest.”
    Luke stares at Sarah. He wishes he could be certain that she's not just trying to avoid messing up her clothes. “Fine,” he says. “I'm going around.”
    WINCH IS IN the kitchen, his hand halfway into a box of Ritz crackers, when he hears Luke at the front door. Luke calls, “Hi, honey, I'm home,” as he does nearly every time he enters the house: even if Sarah's not home and he knows it, even if Sarah's with him.
    Winch grabs a handful of crackers and, hearing Luke's step, shoves them into his breast pocket. He puts the cracker box back and is at the sink, filling a glass with water, when Luke comes in. “Hi, honey,” Winch says.
    “What's up,” says Luke. He pulls a beer from the refrigerator, twists off the top, and begins to drink. Winch would really love a beer, but Luke doesn't offer—maybe because Winch has the water.
    “I said what's shakin',” Luke says. “What'd you do today?”
    Winch thinks. Luke's after what job and apartment progress Winch made, but the answer is none: he went to see about a room in a house that turned out to be on a street with four pairs of sneakers hanging from wires, which was weird in and of itself; and then the people were nice but not quite right—the girl kept talking about group meals and schedules and the two guys were classic, wearing ironed shirts and sure to be uptight about stereos and shampoo and stuff. And Winch did nothing about a job today—wasn't into it. “Oh, I saw this cool exhibit,” he says. “On State Street. This whole place was painted black and then there was furniture in