It had been 15 years since her Harold had passed away, and Marge had gotten used to being alone.
Of course, she had lady friends, and some male acquaintances, but at 66 years old, she had removed sex from her life, except the occasional fantasy about Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise.
Harold had been the only man, except for a brief fling with his Best Man right after he passed. She chalked that up to grieving, and they had found comfort in each other, although he felt so guilty afterwards that they stopped it after 2 dates.
Like so many women in their sixties nowadays, she didn't act or dress the part. Since she worked in a Department store, with her employee's discount, she was able to keep up with fashion trends.
Her grey hair, down to her shoulders, was a sandy brown mix, and it haloed her deep blue eyes, large and bright. She stayed fit with visits to the health club at least three times a week, jogging, or swimming, keeping her 5'3, 115 pounds frame in shape. Her lady friends swore she could pass for fifty but she knew they were flattering her.
And it was at work that she became aware of Tom.
He had started out in the stock room, off-loading deliveries from the trucks that came and went. He wasn't her type, meaning not fantasy material. He was tall, thin, and scruffy, with a head of curly hair that needed brushing and trimming, an equally scraggy beard, and the saddest brown eyes she ever saw. And he was 19.
At first, she would find herself staring when she went into the back, seeking him out, and watching him, wondering why he held her attention so strongly.
Once, they made eye-contact, and both stared, until Tom finally nodded and mouthed, "Hi." After that, she made sure to say hi first, and she would feel a rush of excitement when he was in the area.
"What a silly old biddy," she would think. "He could be your grandson."
She hadn't seen him in a week, hoping he didn't find other work, then she was summoned into Personnel.
"Marge," the Associate Manager started.
"Oh Dear," she thought, "I'm gonna be laid off!"
"We have hired some new trainees, and there is no training program beginning for a while. We hoped we could assign someone to trail you, learn from our more experienced staff."
Much relieved, she sighed. "It would be my pleasure, Joe."
"Good! We have a few, but I thought I'd match you up with a male, if that's okay. If I put him with one of the men, I just know I'd find them smoking something in the loading dock during breaks."
"That would be fine with me, I gave up the whacky weed a long time ago!" she realized she had shown a youthful indiscretion, and tried to laugh it off. Of course, Joe would never have believed that Marge was that outrageous, back when. He laughed, heartily.
He buzzed his secretary and said, "Send Tom in."
Marge's heart jumped, and she turned at the click of the door.
There he stood, in white shirt and red company issued tie, beard neat, hair much shorter, looking as if he felt as out of place as he looked. When he saw Marge, he perked up immediately.
"Tom, this is Marge Norwood, Marge, meet Tom Willis." Joe went on, explaining to both what was expected, with both glancing at each other, smiling, but not acknowledging familiarity.
Ten minute later, they stood in the Shoe department, and Marge said, "I almost didn't recognize you. Look at you!"
Tom blushed and shuffled his feet, like a kid. "Yeah, I know, real sad, huh?"
"Not at all! I was gonna say you clean up real nice!"
"Thanks, I was glad to see you when I walked in. Everybody says you're the best, so I guess I got lucky."
"Who's everybody," she asked.
"All the guys in the back, they say you're the only one who doesn't come in all bitchy and taking it out on us." "It's good to know my claim to fame is for not being a bitch!" and she laughed.
The next few days were new and exciting for both: Him for his new job, and her for her new friend.
She actually began to think of him as a friend, and she looked forward to work each day. Though most of their conversations were work-related, they learned more about each other.
She told him about her only child, a daughter, Linda, who was forty, married, with no kids. That they lived on the west coast and rarely visited.
Tom was single, and 19, and seemed shocked that Marge had a 40 year old child, but was too polite to delve deeper.
He lived in a furnished apartment, more like just a room with hot plate, and a shared bath. His beat-up Jeep Cherokee sat rusted and filthy, seemingly loaded with junk. Marge chalked it up to a youthful desire to keep all his "stuff" close by.
After two weeks, he was reassigned to another Salesperson, but their lunch breaks coincided, so they still talked. Marge felt comfortable with him and after a while, she saw how ratty his slacks were, from constant wear. She didn't say anything, but later led him to the men's section, into the clearance racks, where she had stashed a paid of Black Dockers that were his size, she figured. The hems had unraveled, and she said, "These usually go for $45, new, but they are 60% off, plus your employee discount and you can get then for about $15."
He was surprised, and embarrassed. It was hard to explain to this lady who was being so nice to him.
"Marge, listen, what I tell you, you gotta promise not to tell, I'll get fired."
She stared, all ears.
"I lost that room, the guy needed it for his cousin, he said. I offered more money, but he just wanted me out."
"I don't mean to pry, Tommy, I'm sorry, but where are you living?"
"Since, Sunday, in my car. I go to the gym early each morning to shower, but my clothes are in boxes, in his garage, so I don't have much in the car, and I've been looking for someplace else. But, thanks for thinking of me when you saw the pants... and for letting me know my attire is lacking, before Personnel tells me."
With their break over, they went their separate ways, but Marge couldn't get the thought of Tommy sleeping in that car. The weather wasn't too bad, in April, but what about safety? And comfort? And, for God's sake, a bathroom?
She waited for him when their shift ended, and said, "Do you have plans for dinner?"
"I'll probably pick up some KFC, I guess."
"Oh, no you won't, you're coming with me. You need a good meal in you; you're even skinnier than when I met you."
Tom began to protest, but Marge wouldn't hear it.
"No arguments. I mean it, come on, you can give me a lift, I hate those buses anyway."
They spoke little as they rode. Tommy had to clear space for her, what with the passenger seat being his night table.
It was a nice neighborhood where she lived, middle class all the way, lots of families based on the toys and bikes on the lawns, much like many of the Foster homes where Tom had stayed, after his mom died, and his dad was doing time for car theft.
Her house was nice, two story, wood framed, nice porch, driveway to the garage in the back. She unlocked the door and led him in. Very homey, comfortable, but in need of work.
She made tea for them as she shuffled about, talking about anything, preparing a salad, and reheating meat loaf, with noodles and gravy.
Tommy ate hungrily, and only hesitated for a second when she offered more. She smiled over her tea cup as she watched him. Earlier, she had a thought, but was unsure. Now, she knew.
"Tom, I have a proposition."
He looked up, having finished, but still hungry.
"This place is way too big and I live here alone."
"Oh, no! No way! Look, Marge, I appreciate your dinner and your offer, but I gotta do this on my own. I don't like to be beholding to anybody. I got in this mess on my own, and I can get out of it."
She just stared. She had been expecting his rejection, but not his adamance.
"Okay, look, you do what you want, but I'm not offering a free ride. Look around this place. The yard, leaking faucets, some walls are peeling. The handy man I used, got rehired by his regular job. I've got four empty bedrooms, one in the back that has a private entrance. The offer, if you let me finish, was until you found a place, you got the back bedroom. You could come and go as you pleased. No drugs, and no wild parties, I'm too old for that noise."
"In exchange, I would expect a few hours a week, doing things around here that need doing. You'd have your own apartment, really. Private bath. Cooking privileges, if you want. You're a nice kid, Tom, but when someone offers something, hear them out before you decide. And by accepting a hand, it doesn't mean you're weak, or a disgrace to some macho code of ethics!"
He could feel her anger, the fire in her eyes, and he was sorry. And said so. "You're right, and I'm just in a foul mood, the way things have fallen... I'm sorry I jumped down your throat."
"Okay, then, forget it. We won't mention it again."
"You... you mean it's too late now?"
She smiled. "It's never too late. And you can store those boxes in the garage. It's dry and fairly clean. Deal?"
They shook hands, and both felt better because of it.
He stayed that night. She gave him fresh sheets, and extra pillows. The room was great! A large armoire on one side, dresser-drawers on the other. Twin sized bed. Even a small color TV!
In the morning, she tapped on his door to make sure he was up. He had already showered and ready for work. She had coffee made, and they had toast and juice, as if they'd know each other for years.
That was Friday, so both were off Saturday, and Marge made a list of things that needed to be done.
Saturday, they were both up early, with Tom, fixing the side screen door that was hanging by one screw, while Marge whipped up a big breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and melon slices.
