The Man in the Smiling Mask

He took a breath, and his face mask slipped, skewing to the right. "No. I told you to follow me, and you did. You were very ... uh ... suggestible. Come on, Canna. It's only two blocks. I'll drive you home." He turned again and took a few more steps, but sensed right away that she wasn't following.

"Suggestible." She let her spoken word float around them for a moment. "That wasn't a psych test, was it?"

He sighed deeply and the mask slipped a little more. "No, that was not a psych test. That was a hypnotic induction. But you ... I mean, it didn't go the way I ... I mean ..." He seemed to stall, and he stood there, silent, staring down at his feet. Finally, he seemed to find some courage and he met her eyes again. "Canna, please. It's raining harder. I'll just drive you home, I promise. It's only two blocks!" He didn't turn this time, just took a few shuffling steps sideways in the direction he wanted them to go; but again, she remained planted to the same spot, and he paused, shoulders slumped, defeated.

"If you have a car, why do you take the bus?" she asked.

Angry now, he reached up and tore the sodden mask from his face, turning it into a ball of wet papier mache. "Why do you THINK I take the bus!?"

She overcame the urge to take a step back away from him and held her ground. Despite her resolve, when she spoke the next question, it was a plaintive whine. "Wally, have you been stalking me?"

"Stalking you!? Of course not! It was just ... just ..." And he stopped, quiet and still for the longest time. She refused to say another word, anxious to hear what he had to say. At last, he looked up and met her gaze, and he nodded. "It was just something that probably looked that way. In point of fact, I see now that, despite my intentions, you have every right to feel the way you do. Canna, I am so, so sorry. I've acted horribly. Let me call you a cab." He reached for his cell phone and almost dropped the box.

"What intentions?" she asked.

He blinked water out of his eyes. "What?"

"Despite your intentions, you said. What WERE your intentions? Why did you make that hypno-tape recording thingy for me?"

"I DIDN'T make it for you!" he pleaded. "It's part of my series of standard inductions! If you remember, it didn't use any names! It was a generic recording I made for a graduate course I taught last year. I have a couple dozen saved on my computer." He tried to calm himself. "You were crying. You were in pain because of your mother's death! I'm a professional, and I thought I could help you! Plus, I like you! That much should be obvious! I couldn't bear to think that you ..."

"Oh, good grief!" she said, stamping her small foot, splashing in the puddle she didn't realize she'd been standing in. "You silly idiot!"

"What?" He was genuinely flustered.

"I was crying because I'd just inadvertently clobbered a guy with my umbrella! And, crying reminded me that I was sad. And, I was sad because I'd just lost my job, even though I knew it was coming because I was the next person in line to be laid off. And, that reminded me that I wouldn't be able to pay my rent. And that's because my Mom and I used to split the rent, but she's not with us anymore. So, I was thinking about Momma when you asked me why I was crying, and that's what I said. In other words, I cry a lot. Some girls are just criers. Get used to it! Now, where's this little bungalow of yours?" She waved her arm in a gesture that conveyed "Let's get on with it!" and finally began moving in his direction.

He splashed away toward the west, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure she was actually following this time. "You mean, after thinking that I was some kind of psycho-whacko stalker, you're still following me home?" he said loudly over his shoulder.

She remained three paces behind him. "If you murder me with an axe, I swear I'll never speak to you again!"

Five minutes later, they were mounting the front steps of a very nice home. It wasn't as large as the mansions she'd seen near the bus stop, but it was still pretty imposing, and one of the biggest private homes she had ever been to. She had no idea how old the place was, but it was certainly built in the old southern style, with very tall windows and a covered front porch that wrapped around the sides of the structure.

Wally dumped the box and satchel on the porch floor and fished a key out of his pocket. "Just a second," he urged, before dashing inside. She followed him with her eyes and watched as he tapped at a security alarm panel, then reemerged, dripping rain from every part of himself.

"I should drive you home," he muttered solemnly.

"That would be ... prudent," she responded, without emotion. But the emotion was still there, of course, bounding around inside her; and before he could react to her answer, she blurted out: "That first time on the bus ... the time you introduced yourself ... you remember that, right?"

His countenance had stiffened with her first words, but it softened now. "Yes, of course I do."

"How did that happen? You weren't following me then, were you?"

"No! Of course not! I've never followed you! My car was in the shop, and I took the bus up to NOU. I was part of a guest lecture series, a one-time thing in a huge lecture hall with four seats blocked off between students for distancing. On the way back, I had to connect to another bus. You got on after I did, and we just happened to sit across from each other. The next day, I couldn't stop thinking about you; and so, on a whim, I took the bus up to Delgado and then got on the same one back as the day before, and there you were again. It just sort of became a part of my day after that."

"Oh." She thought awhile as another clap of thunder swam laps around the neighborhood. Staring almost pleadingly up at him, she asked: "That's not really stalking, is it?"

"Well, I'd never really thought about in that term before, but I can certainly understand how you might choose to draw that conclusion."

"I choose not to," she stated, nodding her head to emphasize it. "Um ... draw that conclusion, I mean. Although the alternative is just a wee bit far-fetched."

"What alternative?"

"Me, you big oaf! That a guy that lives in a house here ... in this neighborhood ... in a house like this ... would get all mushy about a girl from Gert Town, and he'd never even seen her face!"

He gave a single dismissive grunt. "I've seen your eyes," she stated flatly.

"Oh Pul-Eze! My eyes?!"

And there it was. That boyish smile. The sight of it hit her with knee-weakening force. "I would really love to see your face, Canna," he told her softly. "But you have the most expressive eyes I've ever seen. Ever. On anyone. And, when you talk, you say things! Plus, you don't think a guy can just fall for a part of you ... the part of you he sees?"

Like your lips, she didn't say, but then mumbled: "My eyes are not the body parts guys glance at, if they glance at all."

His eyes began to flick south, but he clenched them shut before they did so. "Oh, no you don't!" he announced. "You almost made me look, but I refuse to debase myself any further with you tonight!"

At that, she lowered her gaze, grateful that the mask hid her grin, and wondering if it was also hiding her blush. She didn't trust herself to say anything further.

"Can you come inside for a little while?" he asked hopefully. "We can at least dry out a little before I drive you home. There's something I'd like to show you."

She followed him inside, trying hard not to rubberneck, but failing miserably. The high ceilings, the typically southern wallpaper, the tall doors with their half-circle transom windows, the antique hall stand (where he draped his jacket and her sweater), the rack that was designed to hold her dripping umbrella, it was all like something out of an old historical novel.

But a black cat with bright tortoiseshell yellow-orange markings was suddenly tangled between her feet, rubbing rapturously against her legs, purring loudly. She bent down and pet it. "And who do we have here?"

"Ah, you've found Beau! Don't let him bully you!"

"Beau?" She gave him a questioning look, grinning.

"My best friend gave him to me as a housewarming gift when I moved in here six months ago. He told me that he'd picked him up at an animal shelter. Named after General Beauregard, he said. Beau, for short."

The mask hid her laughing smile. "Oh, I see. Your best friend, huh?"

They were in the kitchen now, and he was rifling through a folder of papers he had picked up. "Yeah. Probably not very politically correct, huh? Naming him after a Confederate General." He pulled out a few papers from the file. "You see, ever since we were in grammar school, we've played little jokes on each other. Last year, I set him up for a blind date, a double-date; and as a joke, I talked my little sister into going. The joke was on me, though! He married her a few months ago. Now, he's my brother-in-law." He chuckled while she walked to a chair, only to find herself with a lapful of cat as soon as she sat down.

"Joke was on you, huh?" she asked pointedly.

He finally caught on to her tone of voice. "What? The joke wasn't on me?"

"Oh, yes; I'm sure it was. I'm willing to bet your friend and your sister had been seeing each other long before that date. You're ... uh ... sort of gullible."

He was suddenly intensely alert. "What? Why?"

"You can't name your cat 'Beau' after General Beauregard. Bo Derek, maybe."

"Say what?"

"It's a calico, Wally. You can't have a male calico cat. A calico is always female."

He blinked and thought about it for a while. "I ... I thought it was a breed."

"Nope. Color variation. It could be any of several breeds. But always a female." She scratched the feline behind the ears. "Don't worry, Bo. Us girls will stick together." The cat seemed to purr louder.

"He told me it had been neutered!"

As if to prove the point, the animal jumped down, sauntered over to a corner, sat, lifted one of its hind legs into the perfect vertical, and began licking itself in a most unladylike manner. Canna tried desperately to keep from laughing, but failed. "Neutered doesn't look like that. Girls look like that."

Wally mumbled curses toward his unseen friend, mixing in one or two for his sister, as well, then seemed to want to get to the matter at hand. "I need you to look at these, please," he told her, spreading the papers out on the counter. After she joined him, he continued. "This is a receipt for a vaccination for the last virus, and this one is the booster." He tapped each in order. "This is a negative test for the new virus in December; and this was another negative in March. This is the paperwork for one of the new trial vaccines put together at Johns Hopkins. I got the shots at Tulane. And this one ..." he patted it rather proudly with the palm of his right hand, "... shows that I'm positive for antibodies but negative for the disease, and it's from just last month." He stood back, waiting for her to connect the dots in her head. He didn't get the reaction he'd hoped.

"My God. Is this what rich people do to get a date in our new society?"

"Uh ... I'm just trying to be safe. And anybody can get tested."

She barked a single laugh. "So easy to say!" Then she took a deep breath. "I've had three part-time jobs in the past three months. And, during that time, as what's left of our city's economy has fallen apart, I've lost them all, one by one." She leaned forward and slapped one of the forms. "Without insurance, this test costs a hundred and fifty bucks. This one is two twenty-five. The vaccine for the first virus is an even hundred. The booster is another hundred. They might as well be thousands, as far as I'm concerned. I used to live with my Mom, but I was evicted after she passed. I found a new place, but I still can't pay my rent. The only way I can afford food is to use a friend's membership to buy Ramen by the case when it goes on sale! And I have no IDEA how to apply for a vaccine study!"

He plopped down on a bar stool and held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay! I'm sorry!" He looked almost infinitely sad, and she suddenly regretted her tirade. "Look," he continued with a plaintive sigh, "I was only trying to show you that I'm safe ... that you are safe here, with me and in my house. I wanted to put you at ease, and I was going to try to coax that mask off so I could finally, finally see your face; but once again, I've botched things so badly that ..."

But he was struck mute when she reached up and slowly worked the elastic bands of the paper medical face mask over the tops of her ears, finally pulling it away and looking up at him meekly. "Satisfied?"

And there it was again. That smile. You'd think she'd get used to it, but it still did the same amazing things to her.

"Infinitely," he answered, after taking a deep, grinning breath. "Will you stay for dinner? Please?"

She responded before she even thought about it. "Sure." And then she lowered her eyes, blushing, trying to find something else to say. "I could cook you some Ramen noodles." Oh, God! What was she doing?

His mood was joyous. Quickly, he scraped all of the papers together and stuffed them back into the folder. "No," he told her gaily, "I know just the thing! I have the ingredients for stroganoff! My Mom's recipe. It'll be great! No kidding!" He turned back toward her. "But thanks for the offer!" And to emphasize that, he reached toward her hand, which was resting on the top of the counter in front of her.

Immediately, she snatched it away before he could touch her. The reaction had been so automatic! In the age of pandemic, nobody touched! Touches were reserved for spouses and lovers. Touches were something that kids did with their parents. Instant regret washed over her like a wave, and she forced herself to reach back toward him.

"Oh, Wally, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do that."

But he had turned away from her, acting as if nothing had happened at all. "Your dress is wet from the rain. And I'm soaked, of course. Let me get you a towel."

Her emotions were spiking all over the place: happiness, curiosity, anger, humor, longing, and now depression. She watched him retreat to an area back beyond the kitchen. These older homes, which had originally been built before there was indoor plumbing, often had additions tacked on to the first story to make room for a bathroom and laundry room. He thought he was safely beyond her range of hearing, but she could still make out his low, grumbling words as he chided himself: "How fuckin' dumb could you get, tryin' to touch her like that, you goddam fool!"

And when he walked back into the room, she was able to add yet another feeling to the list on the emotional roller coaster. Because he had removed his shirt, and he was naked from the waist up. Somehow, she was able to stifle the gasp, but she couldn't seem to make any other sound, either. Holy crap, he was built! There was a bath towel over his shoulders, but it didn't hide the fact that they were very broad and muscular. He had a fairly well-defined six pack, and his right bicep flexed slightly as he handed her another, matching towel. She took it from him silently, automatically, and he turned back away from her again as he used his towel to vigorously rub his hair dry. She'd always been enthralled by his bright red hair, and she found herself questioning why the hair on his chest and back was blonde. She wondered if it was soft. It certainly looked soft.

"Would you like to freshen up?" he asked her. "The bathroom is right back there. There's a shower, if you'd like. Or, there's a tub in both the bathrooms upstairs."

Her thoughts had left her reeling. "Maybe I will," she said resolutely. Sure. Why not? She was twenty years old. She was an adult. She could do whatever she wanted! "If I put my dress in your dryer, could I borrow a robe?" She regretted saying the words as soon as they left her lips, but they had sparked a recurrence of that smile on his face, and she couldn't very well retract them and risk its loss.

"Absolutely!" he gushed. "Go on back, and I'll bring you one."

She walked back the way she'd seen him go, the cat tagging along only as far as the bathroom. It was a modern, well-decorated room, with a double sink and a huge walk-in shower stall with a clear glass door. She frowned when she noticed that the bathroom door had no lock, but she screwed up her courage and stripped out of the dress, which was soaked in its lower half. She toed off her drenched sandals, then peeled down her panties, which were also damp (she hoped just from the rain). She refused to sniff them, but decided to rinse them out anyway and wring them hand-dry. The bra was dry, but it didn't make sense to just wear that under a robe.

The showerhead was one of those things that was directly overhead, and it sprinkled water straight down like a rainstorm, only deliciously hot. Since keeping her hair dry wasn't an option, she used the shampoo from the bottle sitting on the stall floor. Even though she tried to keep one eye on that unlocked door through the clear shower enclosure, she still couldn't suppress a little "Eek" when she saw it crack open; but only his arm entered the space, dropping a bundle of cloth on the floor just inside.

"I brought you two," his voice told her. "I hope one of them fits."

After using one of the plush towels, she swiped the fog from the mirror. "What in the hell are you doing, girl?" she asked the reflection. "Just look at you! OF COURSE, he's going to expect sex!"

On a whim, she looked through a couple of the larger cabinet drawers, and sure enough, she found a hair dryer. It only took a few minutes to put herself into some sort of acceptable shape. Finally, she examined the two robes. They were both obviously his, and they were huge. The first one, of soft, white terrycloth, left her with an immense amount of material dragging the ground, and it had sleeves that fell half a foot past her fingertips. There was no way she'd be able to walk around in that thing! The other was of heavy satin material, and the hem hit her just above the knees. The sleeves were too long, but she found that a single fold upward made the garment wearable. There were no buttons, but she cinched the belt tight and studied the reflection. Sort of exotic, but acceptable.

She hadn't used a clothes dryer that didn't take quarters in a long time, and she had to study the buttons on the computer-like console for a minute. Finally, after tossing in everything, including the bra, she set the thing in motion; and, carrying her sandals, she walked back into the kitchen.

"What kind of robe IS this?"

He was standing at a chopping block at one end of the counter. He was barefoot, and was now sporting a pair of Dockers and a collared, short sleeved knit shirt. He was chopping an onion, but he stopped and stared, open-mouth, for ten long seconds; long enough to make her blush and look down at her bare knees.

"Holy cow, Canna," he said in an awed voice. "You're ... uh ... You look ... great!"

She took a breath. "I'm sorry, Wally. I'm really shy. I shouldn't have ..."

"It's a smoking jacket," he interrupted, saving her from verbalizing further. "My friend, Rob ... I guess I should call him my brother-in-law now ... he gave it to me for my last birthday, along with a box of Cuban cigars. I smoked half of one and threw up. It was pretty spectacular. I gave him the rest of the box."

"So, he got back his expensive cigars, but you got to keep this nifty smoking jacket," she paraphrased.

"If I knew this is what it was destined for, I'd have valued it more highly."

Again, she blushed. She watched as he resumed chopping, but then she noticed his tablet computer sitting on the counter, the oversized earphones still attached. Walking over to it, she couldn't help staring at it, thinking.