A repost of an old romance story with a fresh edit.
Chapter 3
While Chris floated on his dinosaur pool toy, Sam drowned in self-incrimination. 'Why did I do that?'
When they'd left Sharon's house to pick up the repair parts, he had every intention of returning to replace the ball cock and be done. However, he couldn't face her after that... assault?
'What-the-hell was that? Oh yeah, my Respectful Employee training called it SEXUAL HARASSMENT; so much for my high moral standards. The first woman that flirts with me, I verbally rape! She must think I'm crazy, or a pervert, a crazy pervert! But she started it, didn’t she?
Damn it, so what. She didn't ask to get pushed against the wall and humiliated. I stepped so far over the line I was in another state -- an altered state. That's it! That's my plea. Judge, I need counseling. My toilet fetish drove me mad. May God have mercy on my sewer soul.'
"... DAD!" Chris’s splash finally rained through his clouded thoughts.
"Yeah, Chris, what's up?"
"You know those dinosaurs that use their heads to ram into other dinosaurs?"
Dads know everything when you're seven, and Sam cherished this brief time of infallibility. "Well, I don't know them personally but I've heard of 'em."
"What are they called?"
"Bumpasauruses."
"No they're not."
"Boneheadasauruses."
"Come on. Stop kidding."
"The ones in Israel were called Oymyheadisaurs."
Chris sat there, arms crossed, wearing his "get real" face.
"To tell you the truth, Chris, I don't know. We'll look it up later."
"Are you coming in?"
Sam stood and stretched, and then placed his hand to his ear, as if to listen closely. In the foreboding rhythm from Jaws, he chanted, "BUMM, bumm... BUMM, bumm... BUMM, bumm... What's that?" He pointed into the water next to Chris. "Shark!" and cannonballed into a game of shark tag, thereby officially postponing his pretrial potty-defense preparations.
***
After sundown, it was time to settle in for the night. Chris soaked in the tub to be ready for Church in the morning. Sam brooded in the den, composing his apology to Sharon.
The doorbell chimed.
Tim Clayton, his closest neighbor from a mile down the road, stood squinting in the porch light with a large manila envelope tucked under his arm.
"Hi Tim, c'mon in. How ya been? I haven’t seen you in a while."
"Hiya Sam, I can't stay. Just wanted to drop off this package. I found it on my garage floor with the rest of the mail when I got home. I hope it isn't important, because I've been away on business and the postmark is over a month old. It was sent certified! Frank must have forged your signature. He's gotta be drinking again."
Frank, the town Postmaster, had a problem keeping the deliveries straight when life's potholes bounced him off the sobriety wagon. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor fog of brain stayed this boozer from his appointed rounds -- and when he was drinking, he never missed a round at "O'Brian's Pub".
"Thanks for dropping it off, Tim."
"Seeya later."
"Have a good night."
Sam didn't feel the door when he closed it. He didn't see the porch light go out when he turned off the switch, or hear Tim's BMW roar away. His physical senses were numbed by the handwriting on the package. It was Jan's.
"DAD, I'M READY!"
The shout from upstairs startled him back from the shock. "I'll be right there,” he said, setting down the parcel and stumbling up the stairs.
While Chris lay half-asleep, another chapter of the Hadley Boys "Mystery of Sunset Mountain" was absently read aloud. After prayers and kisses, Sam went back to the den, where his own mystery waited.
In a rare moment of weakness, Sam unlocked his desk drawer and extracted the bottle of Scotch -- a present from a client. Pouring three fingers, he downed it like a shot and enjoyed the burn. Waiting to be under the influence, he snapped in an Allman Brothers CD and played the comforting music from his youth. The bluesy strains fit the occasion.
His left-hand lay on the envelope, as he tried to guess the contents purpose, deathly afraid whatever it was would break his heart. A letter bomb for the soul.
