The Thing I Didn't Know I Didn't Know (Russel Middlebrook: The Futon Years Book 1) by Brent Hartinger Read Free Book Online Page B

when I was back up in one of the lifeguard chairs again, a woman with white hair, sort of a bowl cut, came up and stood next to me. I was totally expecting her to fawn and dote, like all the other women had so far.
    But she just looked up at me and smiled.
    "You!" I said.
    It was the lady from the lake, the woman I'd saved. She was shorter than I am, but lean and fit, maybe a little wide in the rear. Her face was tan with freckles, and wrinkled, but not leathery. She was wearing clothes now—blue jeans and a purple pull-over. She actually looked great.
    "Are you okay?" I said. "Did you go to the hospital?"
    She kept smiling. "I did, and I'm just fine, thanks to you. I had something called a shallow water blackout—apparently quite common in, ahem , older folks. Anyway, everything was fine, so they called a taxi to take me home. But I wanted to come back here and thank you."
    Ordinarily, when someone tries to talk to you when you're sitting in one of the lifeguard's chairs, you're supposed to tell them to go talk to the office. But I wasn't about to say that to her.
    "You don't have to thank me," I said, embarrassed (but secretly proud).
    "Of course I do," she said. "You saved my life."
    "No," I said.
    "How exactly do you figure?"
    "Well, yeah, okay, I did, but it's just part of my job."
    "That doesn't matter. You still saved my life. And I wanted to thank you by having you over for dinner."
    "Dinner?"
    "Tomorrow night? You can bring whoever you want—another lifeguard? Or a friend. Or two? Or maybe a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?"
    She was telling me I could bring a boyfriend to dinner at her place? Part of me was a little offended, thinking, Why would she assume I was gay? But even as I thought this, I knew that's not what it was. She was just a cool Seattleite who didn't want to make any assumptions. You could tell that from her whole demeanor.
    "I'd be happy to come to dinner," I said. "But I think it'll just be me."
     
    *   *   *
     
    Her name was Vernie Rose, and she lived on Queen Anne Hill, which is one of the older (and more expensive) parts of town.
    I had absolutely no idea what to expect, but I wasn't nervous exactly. At one point, I wondered if maybe she was an older woman who got her kicks by seducing young guys, like Stifler's Mom in American Pie , or maybe Mrs. Robinson in that old movie The Graduate . Or maybe she'd be a crazy eccentric, like Kathy Griffin, or the two wacky aunts on Sabrina the Teen-Aged Witch , and she'd end up giving my life meaning by introducing me to fine wine and the art of rumba dancing.
    Her house was small, a green Victorian with beige trim and a red door. But unlike most of the others on the block, its paint was chipped and faded. There was a widow's watch on the second floor, and for the first time I wondered if Vernie was married. I suspected she wasn't, but I wasn't sure why.
    "Russel!" she said when she answered the door, excited, but not creepily so. "Come in, come in." She was wearing an oversized dark green shirt—a cross between a button-down and a smock—and she had her short hair pulled back. At least she wasn't in a push-up bra. And it's not like she was wearing a kimono or a turban.
    The house itself had hardwood floors and dried flowers and lots of bookshelves. Something smelled good from the kitchen—fish with dill?—but it was also clear she had a cat.
    I complimented her on her house, and she thanked me. Then she said, "So. What's your drink?"
    "My what?"
    "Your drink! Everyone has a drink. It's part of who you are, it defines you. One's drink is very important, because it helps tell other people who you are."
    "I don't..."
    "Oh, of course you do! What do you order when you go out to a bar with your friends?"
    "Um, I don't really go out to bars."
    Behind cat-eye glasses, she glared at me, hard.
    "A beer?" I said.
    She shook her head. "Nope. That's what you order because you're too poor to afford your real drink."
    "What if I really like beer?"
    "You