No Signature by William Bell Page B

long black hair caught behind with an elastic band, big dark eyes and a great bod. She wore faded jeans, running shoes split along the soles and acheckered bush shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing tanned forearms.
    “Hi,” I managed as we shook hands. Her hands were strong and rough.
    Sharon turned back to the old man. “You look a little the worse for wear,” she commented, and the old man gave her a guilty look. “How about some tea?”
    “Sounds great.”
    She led us through the back door into a small kitchen. The old man and I sat down at a painted wooden table while Sharon put the kettle on and got the tea ready.
    “You like tea, Steve?” she asked over her shoulder.
    “Call me Wick, please. Yeah, tea’s fine.”
    She turned. “What did you—”
    “It’s his nickname,” the old man explained. “He likes it better than his real name.”
    Sharon smiled, melting away my resentment at the old man for speaking for me. “Well, sometime you’ll have to tell me where you picked up a handle like that. Anyway,” she said to the old man, “I’ve missed you.”
    “Me too.”
    I got the impression that if I hadn’t been there they’d have been in the sack instead of going on about how long it had been since they’d seen each other. Luckily, the whistling kettle interrupted this fascinating conversation.
    Sharon brought the cups, tea pot, milk and sugar to the table and sat down beside the old man.
    “Your show—” she began.
    The old man held up his hand. “Sorry, Sharon, can we talk about that later?”
    “Sure. Yeah.” She sipped her tea, frowning.
    “What show?” I asked Sharon.
    The old man frowned. “Nothin.”
    We made small talk while we sipped our tea, then the old man asked if anybody minded if he had a snooze. Nobody minded—as if we were going to say anything—so he left the kitchen.
    “What’s happening, Sharon? What’s this about a show?”
    “You any good at chopping wood, Wick?” Sharon asked.
    I knew she didn’t want to say anything more. “Oh, I guess I could manage.” Which was a lie. I had never chopped wood in my life. We didn’t have too much call for chopping in a condo in Etobicoke.
    Sharon took me out back and stood there watching while I fumbled around, pretending I knew what I was doing. After all, I thought, how hard can it be if she can do it? Well, it wasn’t hard, but there were a few tricks to make it easy, like using the splitting axe’s weight instead of driving it down with full force and burying the head in the chopping block and sending the pieces of wood rocketing away on either side like they were shot from a cannon. Like using a wedge on the logs that had big knot holes in them.
    The thing was, Sharon explained it in a way that didn’t make me feel like a loser. She went back into the house and left me to the job.
    I kept at it for quite a while. It felt good to use my muscles again after a few days doing nothing. It felt even better to be hitting something. I was hot and sweating and I felt loose, like I could go all day. ButSharon called me in for supper, thanked me for my help, and put a steaming plate of spaghetti in front of me.
    The old man didn’t join us. We ate in silence, concentrating on the food while cowboy music moaned and complained from the radio on the windowsill. As we did the dishes Sharon told me she worked in the maintenance section of the steel plant in town. She had been laid off a week ago, temporarily, she hoped. Then she asked me about school and my wrestling and all that stuff. I told her about how I got my name, about the upcoming tournament. I liked being with her, to tell the truth. She was one attractive woman. Maybe the old man isn’t such a wimp after all, I thought.
    We watched TV for a while and I went to bed early. Sharon made up the couch for me in the living room and I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

EIGHTEEN
    T HE NEXT MORNING I WOKE UP to the howl of opera music. Oh god, not her