Numbers Don't Lie by Terry Bisson Page A

cleared the horizon, I got off the hood and dropped to my knees. I was just about to pop the question, when I heard a beep beep .
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    â€œBuzzer,” said Candy.
    â€œSounds like a beeper.”
    â€œIt is. Buzzer loaned me his beeper,” she said, reaching down to her waist and cutting it off.
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œYou know what for.”
    There are no phones up on Squirrel Ridge, so we high-tailed it down the mountain with the SUs howling and the exhaust barking, alternately. Candy’s big fear was alerting Gaithers, who was on duty that night, so we rolled into the parking lot of Squirrel Ridge, the nursing home, with the lights off. I stayed with the P1800 while Candy slipped in through a side door.
    She was back in half an hour. “Well?” I prompted.
    â€œDaddy hit Buzzer,” she said (or I thought she said) as we drove out of the lot as quietly as possible. “It’s cool, though. Buzzer didn’t say anything to Gaithers. This time. I figure we’ve got one more strike. Three and we’re out.”
    â€œWhere’d he hit him this time?”
    â€œNot hit,” she said. “Bit.”
    â€œBut your daddy doesn’t have any teeth!”
    Candy shrugged. “Seems he does now.”
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    And that was it for what I had hoped would be one of the biggest evenings of my life. My proposal, with its acceptance, with all the privileges that entails—none of it was to be. Not that night. Candy needed her sleep since she had to leave early in the morning for the annual statewide all-day Parks Department meeting in Montgomery. She dropped me off at Hoppy’s Good Gulf and I took a long walk, which is almost as good as a cold shower. It takes only twenty minutes to cover every street in downtown Huntsville. Then I went back to the office, cutting through the corner lot. In the light of the full Moon, the beaded seat cushion looked almost new. The top rows of beads were complete, and there were only a few missing on the lower section. I resisted the urge to kick it.
    There were two messages on Whipper Will’s ancient reel-to-reel answering machine. The first was just heavy breathing. A random sexual harassment call, I figured. Or a wrong number. Or maybe an old enemy of Whipper Will’s; most of Whipper Will’s enemies were old.
    The second message was from Candy. She had beaten me home. “This is going to be an all-day conference tomorrow,” she said. “I won’t get home till late. I gave your number to Buzzer, just in case. You know what I mean. When I get home, we’ll take care of our unfinished business .” She signed off with a loud smooching sound. For some reason, I found it depressing.
    It was midnight but I couldn’t sleep. I kept having these horrible thoughts. I opened a Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Coke and spread my Corcoran’s out on the window ledge, overlooking the empty street. Was there ever a downtown as quiet as downtown Huntsville? I tried to imagine what it had looked like before the Bypass had bled away all the business. I must have fallen right to sleep, for had a nightmare about downtown streets crowded with newlyweds walking hand in hand. And all the newlyweds were old. And all the newlyweds had teeth.
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    The next morning, I woke up thinking about the beaded seat cushion. I decided I needed another picture for Wu, to make it a before-and-after. After my morning ablutions in the Good Gulf men’s room, I found Hoppy in the repair bay, fixing the front brakes on yet another Taurus. “Whipper Will’s Yank,” he said.
    â€œRight,” I said. I asked to borrow the Polaroid again.
    â€œIt’s in the wrecker.”
    â€œThe wrecker’s locked.”
    â€œYou have the key,” Hoppy said. “Your men’s room key. One key does everything around here. Keeps life simple. ’Nuff