In the early afternoon they make the trip to North Conway to see about the mask. Once they are in the sports medicine clinic, the familiarity of the staff is a little embarrassing—Sam’s doctor pops out of his office and wants to talk basketball and not incidentally weigh and measure him. Grown another half inch since the preseason but no more weight—typically running on high and burning calories by the short ton—not that he needs scales and tapes to know that the seemingly ceaseless alteration of his fabric continues.
Deanie hangs back, in her cautious, watchful mode. She is relieved by the matter-of-fact treatment of the staff. The origin of her injury might as well be just another athletic accident as far as these efficient enthusiasts are concerned. Though her still-swollen face is prodded and pressured in the course of examination and the making of the mask, the way they take it for granted she will do whatever she had to do to play again straightens her spine and lightens her mood.
The mask is clear rigid plastic, molded to her face. It does not fit flush to her face but sits upon a perforate footing of cushioning foam that allows for the passage of air over her skin. It is asymmetrical, curving close under her eye socket over the cheekbone, up against the side of her nose and cutting down past the left side of her mouth to the jawline and back to her ear. Held in place by the side of her nose and a piratically cocked y-shaped strap around her head, it is immediately painful. She is assured that when the swelling subsides, all she will feel is a sensation of light pressure.
Though she seems faded by the time they leave the clinic, she doesn’t want to go home and rest. A little aspirin and she’ll be fine, she insists. Back at work, she displays the mask for Reuben. He examines it critically and then gives it back to her with a laugh and a shake of his head. Delighted for her, he gives her a casual, spontaneous hug. Much to his surprise, she stiffens instantaneously and flails into a backward stumble out of his embrace. Face reddening with chagrin, Reuben tries to apologize to her. Like a headlight-stunned animal, she stays fixed in her panic, her mask clutched tightly to her chest.
Reuben in distress retreats to the far side of the garage. Still hangdog, he takes his leave shortly—headed for the farmhouse to punch up drywall.
Hearing the crunch of tires and the beat of an engine outside, Sam slides out from under a sedan in time to see the door slap behind Deanie. He crosses the garage to look out at her. Sonny Lunt is at the pumps, waving her off to wait on himself. She pivots and Sam opens the door for her.
“Where’s your frigging coat? Are you out of your head?”
Ducking under his arm, she drops into the chair behind the desk.
“You want to get sick? You like the bench that much?”
She kicks back and thuds her high-tops on the desk. “Oh Christ! Don’t start on me!”
He throws up his palms in disgusted resignation. Stiff-arming the kettle, he shoves it under the tap in the restroom to fill and thunks it, sloshing, down onto the stove. He punishes the fire with the poker and jams another chunk of wood into the firebox. By then he feels like a total asshole.
When he peeks at her, she is twirling the office chair childishly from side to side, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, her head tilted back so the throat is a long elegant line. He finds himself studying the shape of her bottom, the darker solid fabric that covers her crotch, and his groin is suddenly oppressively heavy. He tries to distract himself with the work at hand.
That’s all there really is between them—rutting in the Mill. He knew when he did it that screwing her was the wrong thing to do but he just had to do it, didn’t he? She had needed a friend, not another stiff dick. It would have been better all around if it hadn’t happened. Now he can’t take it back.
“ ‘This ain’t no disco,’” he mutters, “ ‘this ain’t no foolin’ around.’”
The dry smell of hot tea steams under his nose and he looks up into her face. She holds out the mug of tea she has made him. “Want something to eat?”
He straightens up, accepts a donut from the bag.
“You okay?” he asks, wolfing it and dusting his fingers on his overalls.
“A little tired,” she admits. “I’ll be okay, though. This isn’t exactly hard work, what you got me doing. I bet I could have worked for my old ladies today, no problem. I like the way this place smells. You get high from the fumes?”
Sam laughs.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
Telling her about it, several moments go by before he is aware his hand has fallen to her hip and they are leg to leg. He takes an awkward step back. “Gotta get this finished.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she goes back to the office with her head down, the bad side of her face cocked away from him.
His father returns to spell him for the dinner hour. Leaving her at the house—she’s too whipped for even a feeble display of resistance—he goes back to the garage and stays late, and not just to get the hours. It’s a relief to find her asleep when he finally
