My house is the last in the block, in fact, it is the last house of the street. Here the paving stops and the street turns into a dirt road. No wonder then that there is hardly any traffic. From here the dirt road runs along the wheat fields that start just east of my home.
Standing in front of the mailbox one could see a mile toward the east, but only about five blocks toward the city. There the street disappeared down towards the river. Tooday the mailbox had yielded one piece of junk mail, something to be thrown away.
I adjusted my sunglasses, which had shifted as usual when I bent down to make sure there was no mail hidden in the back of the mailbox. I loved my glasses. Maybe I was vain, but what if I was. At twenty-two I was entitled to have a quirk. There were dozens of glasses in my room, a choice of several for each occasion.
Today was Mom's day to cook and I savored the smells wafting from the kitchen. I almost started salivating just thinking of Mom's special chicken curry that she served with a sambbl dish of small cut green onions, some Earl Grey chutney and a few slices of hard boiled egg on the side.
My thoughts of lunch were interrupted by the sound of a car approaching on my go-nowhere road. It was still at least three blocks away but it definitely was coming my way. It sounded like a brand new car, very quiet. I would not have heard it if it was not for the fact that I have such good ears.
The car made a U-turn on the dirt road and slowly advanced to my driveway. There was a slight pause of hesitation before the driver stopped out and shut off the engine. The footsteps coming up the driveway belonged to a man without a doubt. I knew little about him so far, but what I knew I liked. He had not slammed the car door, as most men would have done, he had shut it like one shuts a door in ones home. I pictured him as kind and considerate.
His footsteps were even and solid, there was neither arrogance nor hesitation. Judging by his walk I pegged him at about thirty. Naturally, he wouldn't be able to see me until he rounded the lilac bushes at the end of the driveway. But it was only when he reached the first porch step that he spoke.
"Hi," he started, "I am completely lost. Maybe you can help me by giving me some directions?"
I liked his voice immediately, it was a warm voice hinting of kindness and consideration, of happiness and humor, but it also told of authority and command. It was the kind of pleasant voice that a girl like me could listen to for hours, walking together in the park, or sitting next to each other on a porch swing.
Oh, my God, I thought to myself, you don't want to be seen in these old rags. Wait, don't run away, answer him first and make him stay. Then change into something colorful and sexy.
"You came to the right place," I answered him. "We have more answers than questions and we will share some with you if you are patient. But first give me a minute or two, I was just going to change for lunch into something more apropos."
He chuckled and waited while I raced upstairs, stepped out of my housecoat and slipped into my favorite slinky mini that fit me like a glove and showed as much of my slim figure as if I wore nothing at all. A girl never knows when Mister Right comes along, and I wanted to be prepared.
I almost missed a step as I raced back down. I should mention that he had a good view of the stairs, and me, as I rushed up and down. I gave him my best smile and giggled a bit, the kind of girlie giggle that men seem to like so much.
"I am so glad you are such a patient man. You see, my Mom and I always eat together, we set a nice table like in a restaurant, and we dress for lunch and dinner. I'll get Mom now."
I could almost feel his eyes following me and I gave him an extra hip wiggle to enjoy. Mom was finishing the curry, stirring vigorously. She had heard the goings on and had waited for her turn, as I knew she would.
"Come into the kitchen so I can talk to you, young man," she hollered toward the front door, nearly busting my eardrums. For a second I wondered if he would. I was relieved when I heard him coming up the porch steps and then hesitantly entering the living room.
"You should listen when Mom talks to you," she told him. "I asked you to join me in the kitchen, not take up residence in the living room. Now come in here so I can talk to you." That was typical MOM, directing traffic, telling strangers what to do. Would she also insist that he share lunch with us? She might, I thought. In fact, I hoped so.
"Which big city you come from, young fellow," Mom questioned. "Probably some big city in the East, I reckon. Never mind. Sit down and tell me who you are and what you need."
"I am sorry; I didn't want to interrupt your lunch preparations. The name is Walt Benson. All I need is some directions. Or maybe I could use your phone, my cell phone is dead," hr stammered.
"OK," Mom replied. "I'll answer all your questions in a moment while we are having lunch. I am almost done," she added. Then she turned to me.
"What are you waiting for, Lura. Get busy and set the table. And thanks for changing. But why didn't you change your glasses? These don't go with your dress."
I hurried upstairs again to get my matching glasses. I hoped Mom would explain about my wearing my sunshades even in the house. She had done so, I heard just the end of it as I returned down the stairs.
"That girl and her glasses are so funny. She must have dozens of them. Some of her friends joke that they make her look sophisticated. They also joke that she probably wears them in bed at night. But that's just a joke. She does take them off at night, or when she takes a shower, or when she cooks, or when she swims in our backyard pool."
The stranger was still waiting patiently, listening to Mom's prattle and watching her as she finished the Chicken Curry, and then ladled the rice into the rice bowl. So he missed the three linen place mats appearing on the table, at once followed by three plates.
Mom brought the rice bowl to the table first and I heard her ladling a good portion onto the stranger's plate. I had my back to him, getting the silverware, when I heard him taking in a good-sized breath in order to talk do Mom. He never got the first word out. Mom was faster.
"You'll like the curry, it's a bit hot but has such good flavor, and there is plenty more."
While all this had been going on I had distributed the silverware. Mom set down and waited for me to set out the prepared sambol dishes. It was when I was finished that the stranger finally found his voice and addressed Mom.
