Recycling Emotions

Eventually Rose's voice became quiet. He looked over and saw that she was wiping at tears that had slipped down her cheeks.

"What the...."

Frank rose from his chair and spun around.

"Gram! Are you okay?" Betty asked, as she glared angrily at Frank.

"I'm fine dear, just got caught in some remembering," Rose said. "Here, be a dear and show Mister," she looked down at the paper, "well, I haven't even filled out his paperwork."

"It's okay Gram, I'll take care of Mister Moretti, and you go rest. I can smell the stew and I'll call you when the cornbread's ready," Betty said. She helped her grandmother rise. Rose kissed her on the cheek, and headed toward her downstairs bedroom.

Betty sat down and stared at Frank. "I knew you'd be here. Do you plan on paying cash or credit?" Betty asked.

"Credit," he said. He had never given Rose his card, so it was still clenched between his fingers. He passed it to Betty, who quickly wrote down the information she needed and passed it back to him. She asked him to sign the slip, which he did. After she was done, she gave him a copy and slipped the original into the desk drawer.

"Did Gram tell you which room you were staying in?"

"Yes, she did. Up the stairs, to the right, and to the right again -- a room with a private bath and a balcony," he answered. He rose and grabbed his bags. "I'm sorry about earlier today and please take all the time you need in diagnosing the car."

"I will, and it's okay. Supper is at six. I doubt Gram will join us, but you're welcome to eat either with me in the kitchen, or in the dining room. Gram doesn't allow eating in the bedrooms, though I often tell the guests, what Grandma doesn't know won't hurt her."

Frank chuckled. "Spoken like a true granddaughter."

He left the room, feeling more at ease in Betty's presence. Upstairs he found his room, shut the door and placed his suitcase on the bed. He peeled off his coat and shoes, loosened his tie and sat down on the edge of the bed.

His back hurt; he chalked it up to old age. He rubbed the tightness in his lower muscles and grimaced. The idea of a hot shower pulled him out of his old man musings and he headed toward the private bath.

On his way he saw out of the window the small black terrier running around in circles, lapping at various puddles of rainwater. A mop of red hair, blowing in the wind caught his attention. Betty stood outside, her coat wrapped tight around her, her hair flying in the breeze.

He thought of Rose and what she had revealed concerning Betty. She was a strong woman, who had been the ideal -- Daddy's girl. Yet, every Sunday, she became the Princess her mother longed for. Frank grinned.

Betty waited patiently for her Grandmother's dog to do its business. As she stood outside, she thought of Frank and his apology. She and the boys had diagnosed the car and yet she hadn't shared that information with him. Why not? The fix would be easy, and he could come back at the end of the week and pick up the Kurtis. "It's the salt," she told herself, "you can't drive a car like that on these roads."

"Come on Sammy," Betty called, and immediately the little dog came running. Once inside, the ball of fur ran toward the living room, where it would curl up into a ball and sleep under the couch.

Betty bounded up the stairs, and took a left; her thoughts drifted to Frank as she walked down the hall and opened the door at the end. Her room hadn't changed too much over the years. Her mother and father had built the four bedroom, four and a half bath, brick home, hoping to fill it with children. Sadly for them, and for Betty, she was the only child born to John and Mary Miller.

After the deaths of her parents, and then the death of her grandfather, Rose moved in. Betty insisted that her grandmother take up residence in her parents' old room, the largest of the four bedrooms, and the one with the biggest bathroom. Gram had complained that it was too big, but in truth she loved it and was often found spending her days resting in front of the bay window that overlooked the backyard.

Betty pulled her shirt out of her pants and unbuttoned it. She kicked off her shoes and rolled her shoulders. Her pants were the next thing to go, followed by her socks, and the white T-shirt she'd worn under her work shirt. All of these were gathered up and tossed in a clothes hamper. She then headed to the bathroom, where water was soon drawn for her bath, and steam curled against the ceiling.

A loud knock made her jump.

Betty turned off the water, dropped in some dissolving fragrance balls and pulled on her robe. She tied it tight around her waist, before opening the door to her bedroom door. "Yes?"

Frank stood there. "Your guest room has no towels," he told her.

"Shit," she covered her mouth, "sorry."

He smiled. "I've heard worse," he winked.

She grinned. "One sec, I'll get you one of mine. Come on in."

Frank was surprised by the offer, but welcomed it. This was the feminine side of Betty that people rarely got to see, or so he assumed.

He followed her in and glanced around her bedroom, as she disappeared around the corner, into what he guessed to be her bathroom. The bed's headboard was centered against the North wall, and a large hope chest rested against the foot of the Queen sized mattress, which was covered in a quilt that appeared to be homemade.

A dresser, antique like that of the bed and bedside tables, rested against the East wall. A small table, with two chairs, was placed in front of a window that would capture the morning light. A sliding door opened to a balcony much like his, but hers framed the West view of the Miller property. The décor was simple, yet elegant. He wondered if she had allowed her mother to decorate her room. It certainly had a woman's touch, not a gear-head's.

He smiled at the term she'd used on herself.

Betty walked back into the room, and handed Frank a large stack of towels varying in size. All were a crisp white and smelled of freshly laundered cotton. He took a deep breath and thanked her for them. "I bet you look great with your hair down," he told her.

Betty blinked back her surprise at his sudden confession.

Frank blushed. "I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from. I saw you outside and your pony tail was whipping around and you kept pulling it and tightening it."

"It's a hassle," she admitted. "I've been thinking of getting it cut."

His eyes grew wide. "Oh God Betty, don't do that!"

She again was stunned, but only smiled. "Don't worry. I've been thinking about it since I was ten. It only gets the occasionally trimming, so it stays the length it is."

"And how long is it, once it is out of the ponytail and brushed out?" Frank inquired.

"Long enough to be a hassle; now you need to head out, I need to take my bath and cook that cornbread." Betty shooed him out the door.

When Frank returned to his room, he couldn't help but think of the young woman down the hall. Without her shop uniform on, she looked very much a lady. He could hardly believe there was a woman under the dirt he'd seen earlier. No wonder her mother had loved the Sabbath.

Under the comforting heat and pelting spray of the shower water, Frank's thoughts drifted over his own history. He had heard Rose's voice as she spoke of the past. It was obvious that the old woman had loved her daughter, her son-in-law and her husband. Though she hadn't touched on that fact, Frank could sense it.

He thought of his wife Diane, and how lost he had been when she died. It had been the summer of their twentieth year as husband and wife. He had been 40, and she 38. The car accident had been the other driver's fault, and only he and their daughter had survived. His daughter, Abby, had been sixteen at the time, and now she was twenty-nine. Time was slipping away from him.

Frank washed away the tension in his body, and the memories went along with it. When he exited the shower he pushed all thoughts of his loss away and chose instead to focus on the future, Abby's future and the future of his grandchild.

He towel-dried himself, trimmed his goatee, and shaved his face, so that he looked freshly scrubbed. A splash of his favorite cologne filled his palm and landed expertly against his skin. A quick swipe of his comb made his hair lie in waves along his scalp. His reflection was that of a handsome older man, and yet Frank could see the signs of age.

With a shake of his head, and a mental chastising of his thoughts, thoughts that had lingered on Betty, he quickly dressed. Down the stairs he went, in hopes to sample the food he'd smelled upon first entering the home.

Betty watched the water slip away. Her bath and quick shower to wash her hair was over; the soft hint of lavender kissed her skin, and she felt more ready to face her houseguest. As she listened to the gurgling of the pipes drawing the water down into the sewer system, Betty wondered what Frank, the Floridian, classic car owning, environmentalist would say if he knew she wasted gallons of water on a bath, then wasted more by taking a shower afterward.

She giggled at the look she imagined him to wear. His eyes would bug out, his jaws slacken and he'd struggle to control the reprimand forming on his tongue.

With a soft sigh, she brushed out her hair, and allowed the red tendrils to hang free. She then dried herself off, and pulled on a long skirt over her panties and a peasant blouse hid her bra. A pair of thick pink socks, the same color as the top, hugged her feet, and kept her toes warm. She hurried down the stairs, eager to get the cornbread started before Frank arrived at the dinner table.

Betty skidded to a stop, just inside the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Frank turned and smiled. "I saw the cornmeal, read the recipe card and figured I'd get started."

"You can make cornbread?"

His left eyebrow rose. "Yes, I can make cornbread."

"Humph."

"What, a man can't cook?" he asked.

Betty shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know...can they?"

"Sit down, Mouth and I'll show you."

Betty laughed. "Mouth?"

"Yep, same thing I call my kid whenever she gives me lip," he confessed.

"How old is your kid?" Betty asked, before heading over to the cabinet to pull out some dishes and cups for their meal.

"She's not a kid anymore. She's in her late twenties and has a kid all her own. He's ten, Jake."

"And your wife, she didn't want to make the trip to Tree Huggers Anonymous?" Betty pulled some tea out of the refrigerator.

"Abby passed away thirteen years ago, an auto accident."

Betty turned around. "I'm sorry," she said, before placing the tea on the table.

The silence was awkward, but Frank quickly eased it. "It's okay, it was a long time ago and I know she's in a much better place."

Betty rolled her eyes. "That's what they all say," she muttered. She poured them both a glass of the ice-cold beverage and took a seat at the table. "Sorry," she apologized again.

"It's okay. We've both experienced loss and I'm sure we'll both experience it again someday," Frank told her, before he poured the cornbread batter into her grandmother's muffin tins.

When he closed the oven door, he took a seat across from Betty and drank his tea. "You clean up pretty good for a girl," he told her, after lowering his glass.

She chuckled. "You don't look too bad either for an environmentalist."

"Do you know many?" He teased.

"Can't say that I do, but if this thing in Philadelphia really takes off like they're hoping, well you'll see a lot of changes take place in how we operate businesses, and some folks will most likely lose their jobs," Betty told him.

"It won't be overnight, folks will have time to adjust. Change takes time Betty."

"Perhaps," she softly conceded.

They sat quietly together, before Betty heard Sammy barking and scratching at something in one of the other rooms. She quickly rose to her feet and went in search of the dog. Frank followed close behind.

Sammy was pushing against Rose's bedroom door, so Betty let him in. She moved to close it, and stopped when she noticed her grandmother's bed being empty. "Gram?" she called, before stepping fully into the room.

The terrier was licking at her grandmother's hand, which hung loosely over the armrest of her chair. "Oh Gram," Betty whispered. She darted over to the chair, but knew that there was no life in the old woman.

Frank's shoulders sagged as he listened to the soft gentle sobs of the young woman. He closed the door and headed toward the study. A phone sat on the corner of the desk, alongside a phone book. He picked up the latter and thumbed through, eventually reaching the local police department.

An officer arrived an hour later, as did all three of Betty's employees. Frank stood back as they embraced the young woman. The bread had been forgotten and when Frank did remember it, it was too late; the smell of burnt baked goods filled the house. It went ignored, as did the aroma of Rose's famous beef stew.

Betty apologized to Frank countless times and offered to have one of the boys take him into the city. He declined, and promised that he would be fine. He would take care of himself, and if she needed him for anything, he would be up in his room.

The county coroner came, and soon Betty was left alone standing in her grandmother's bedroom.

When morning arrived, Frank went through his usual absolutions, and wandered downstairs. The sound of the dog pushing an empty food bowl around made him wonder where Betty was. He quickly rummaged through the cabinets and found the terrier some food.

Betty was found sleeping in the center of her grandmother's bed. He stared down at her and wondered how he could help. He reached out and stroked her hair, moving one of her thick crimson curls off to the side. She rolled onto her back and sighed.

Frank studied her. Her face was pale, and the delicate skin under her eyes seemed dark. It was obvious she had not slept well. She still wore the same skirt and blouse from the night before, though one of the pink socks had been tugged off sometime during the night.

She took a deep breath. The rise and fall of her chest caught Frank's attention. She was a very nice shapely woman. Her breasts were slightly larger than one of his hands, and he could almost imagine himself palming the tender globes.

The blouse she wore had scooted up her torso, and left her belly exposed. It was flat and cream-colored. There were a few freckles, which showed him she wore a bikini in the summer, allowing the sun to kiss her flesh.

His gaze traveled farther.

As Frank drank her in, Betty opened her eyes. She watched him as he looked at her belly, and then her hips and crotch. She felt her skin grow warm under his assessment. She should have been horrified that he was taking such liberties with her person, but she wasn't. Last night was horrific enough for her.

She whimpered softly, and rolled away from Frank's gaze.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," he told her.

"It's okay. I should get up anyway. I need to head to the funeral home and take care of things," Betty said. She sat up and curled her legs under. "Again, I'm really sorry about all of this."

"I don't think you have much control in any of it," he told her.

"I guess not. I just --- I'm just sorry."

He reached out and stroked her hair. "So am I," he whispered.

She turned her face into his caress, closed her eyes and breathed deep.

Frank pulled his hand away and stood up. "I can take you into town, if you need me to." He shifted awkwardly on his feet.

"No, I'd rather you didn't. Just make yourself at home. I'll handle this - - unfortunately, I'm an expert," Betty confessed.

"Isn't there someone who can help? If I remember you mentioned an uncle yesterday."

Betty frowned in confusion, and then dawning lifted her eyes to his. "Uncle John. He's not my uncle; he's just a guy that we all seem to go to when we need advice. He's everybody's Uncle John."

"Ah, no relation to your dad, John?"

"None at all. Gram was my last living relative," Betty told him. The impact of the words seemed to slam into both of them at the same time.

Frank opened his arms and Betty willingly crawled into them. She wept hard and long. All the while he rubbed her back and stroked her hair. He tried to ignore the scent of skin, or the feel of her body pressed against his. She held him like she would a father, and he thought of her like he would a lover. He closed his eyes and tried to think of the circumstances in which she was now living.

She was alone.

The day was a blur to Betty, but she knew that Frank was around; she'd caught sight off him off and on during the hours following her arrangements with the funeral home. Her house was full of various members of the community bringing her their condolences. She noticed that the dog was never underfoot, and she knew Frank had a hand in that. She made a promise to thank him, when she next saw him.

When she closed the door and turned off the porch light, it was after shedding tears with her grandmother's oldest and dearest friend. Betty leaned against the wood and closed her eyes. Her nostrils flared at the sudden aroma of baked bread. Her brow furrowed as she pushed herself toward the kitchen.

"You really made bread?" she asked Frank.

"No, but there was a loaf in one of the bags that someone dropped off, so I decided to warm it up. Have a seat; I also warmed up some of the soup, which another member of the community left you."

Sammy walked up and pressed himself to her feet. She bent down and scratched him behind the ears. "Thanks for everything," she told Frank.

"No problem. It's the least I can do."

"I appreciate you doing all this," she said. "Tuesday's the funeral."

"I figured it would be," he told her. "I wish I could be here, but I have to head out in the morning. You understand, don't you?"

Betty smiled. "Of course and don't worry your car will be waiting for you when you come back through."

"There's no rush on the car, Betty." He reached out and stroked the back of her hand. She turned it over and allowed his to rest against her palm. He trailed his finger across the crevices of her soft skin and listened to her breath become lodged in her throat. Frank glanced up and saw her eyes staring back at his. He pulled away, and scooted back from the table.

"I'll get us something to drink. Tea, all right with you?" he asked.

"Yeah, thanks."

Betty watched him move around the kitchen as if he had always been a part of it. He moved from each cabinet and drawer, pulling out what he needed, and not once did he look bemused or befuddled. It was obvious that over the last 24 hours, Frank had familiarized himself with her home. She smiled at the thought of him wandering around and doing what he could to make her life easier.

"Your wife was so lucky," she said without hesitation.

Frank laughed. "If she were still around, she'd argue with you."

"Nah, I can tell you don't mind helping others, and this thing, this thing with the college, the Earth Week thing. I bet you were asked, and not once hesitated, did you?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I work in one of the most beautiful states in the world; my office has a breathtaking view of the ocean and though it may take years, maybe thousands of them, it seems like such a waste to at least not try to protect our most precious resources and spectacular views. The very air we breathe is at stake!"

Betty laughed softly.

Frank blushed.

"I know there is always room for improvement," Betty told him.

The two of them ate, mostly in silence, until both pushed their bowls away and Betty offered to clean up. Frank denied her the privilege, and shooed her off to the living room. It was getting late, the sun had long ago set and 920 WKVA played one of her grandmother's favorite songs, Dean Martin'sEverybody Loves Somebody.