I had just left Geneva’s Ace Hardware with a box of six ant traps to corral an influx of those tiny mongrels resembling black raindrops with legs. On my way to what I’ll always think of as Mel’s Diner for breakfast, I heard someone call, “Nice morning for a walk.”
Looking over, I saw a well-dressed woman with short, dark hair behind the wheel of a white SUV taking up two diagonal parking spaces.
“It is,” I answered, thinking, no, not really, because there’s a 100% chance of rain within the hour.
“Must be nice walking downtown,” she said.
“Umm, I like it,” I replied, flummoxed, bewildered and walking only because I didn’t have a car.
“How wonderful it must be to live downtown.”
“My car is getting serviced,” I said, then grudgingly added, “We used to live in Geneva, but not now.”
“Oh, I live in the country. Where do you live?”
“In the country, like you,” I said.
“Where?”
I paused. “Do I know you?” I asked, as she looked normal, but what kind of person would stop to talk to me, something unusual even if, especially if, she knew me.
“No.”
This was getting weird, but she was dressed for going to The Little Traveler to meet flower club friends for lunch.
“Campton Hills,” I revealed, not giving her my address because she might have cohorts waiting to ransack the place before I got home, not knowing our blind, deaf, 8-pound miniature poodle was patrolling the kitchen by running into cabinets, walls and the dishwasher to make sure they didn’t tip over.
“We lived in Geneva for 30 years before moving, and we’re moving back soon.”
What was I doing? I never talk to strangers, much less reveal personal history, even at weddings, funerals and dinner parties where I’m supposed to know and like people! I sound like my wife, who never met a stranger after their first two minutes of conversation.
“Do you have a plan?” she queried.
Yeah, I considered saying, to get to Mel’s and order breakfast before the rain starts.
“No,” I lied, because the plan was to move out of our son’s house when he got engaged and/or married and move into a condo near the library. But then she’d want to know what condo and send her cohorts over to spy on our movements after we moved in so they could rob our apartment of my valuable handwritten first drafts that – ha! so there! – I throw away so my desk won’t be more cluttered than it is, which is pretty darn cluttered.
“Well, I better get to breakfast,” I said, actually kind of sorry I was breaking up with her. She probably was truly interested in finding out what I knew about a town known for its friendly citizens – other than this one.
She said something like, “Nice talking with you,” or maybe I said it, but it wasn’t really, what with being paranoid she was someone she wasn’t. Or was she?
Then I asked myself, WWTD (What Would Tia – my wife – Do)?
Tia would have chatted for 10 minutes, gone to Buttermilk with her for breakfast and followed up with a walk along the river. Then she would have settled the woman in the same condo complex as where we’ll eventually live and have her over regularly for tea.
I apologize to you, anonymous, nice (probably) person who wasn’t (probably) going to burgle our home, that you stopped me instead of Tia, who is much more than my better half. She’s my much better everything.
• Rick Holinger’s writing has appeared in more than 100 literary journals. He holds a Ph.D. from UIC and facilitates the Night Writers Workshop sponsored by the Geneva Library. His poetry book “North of Crivitz” and essay collection “Kangaroo Rabbits and Galvanized Fences” are available at local bookstores, Amazon or richardholinger.net. Contact him at editorial@kcchronicle.com.
