Just A Memory Away. Helen Myers R.

the mess they’d left behind. She had to pass several of their so-called “cleared sites” on her way to and from work, and they more accurately resembled the aftereffects of a forest fire—or worse.

      The skinny man’s sailor’s cap nearly fell off as he threw back his head and groaned to the ceiling. In the background the jukebox switched from a mournful country-andwestern ballad to a bawdy rock-and-roll tune. “Could we skip the environmentalist lecture for once?” He had to all but shout to be heard above the pulsating music. “You wouldn’t have so much time to stand on a soapbox if you got yourself a life!”

      His declaration was nothing new, but it still didn’t bother her. “I have a life.”

      “You live m an aluminum hot-dog wrapper, you collect garbage, and you commune with terrorist reptiles, rude birds, and neurotic flea-breeding strays.”

      She eyed him mildly. “To each his own. Do I criticize your customers?”

      “Never you mind them. They pay my taxes. What you’re doing isn’t normal. Look at you. You’re young, kinda cute in a short sort of way.”

      “How many times do I have to tell you that five-five isn’t short, it’s average.”

      “Sure, sure, and to a penguin you’re a giant. Well, you’d be five-six if you didn’t have that mop weighing you down.”

      As he added the mug of draft beer to the rest, Frankie blew her thick, shaggy bangs out of her eyes, and gave him a benign look. “Now don’t let your insecurities get the best of you. I heard all about your disorder on one of those talk shows last week.”

      “I have a disorder?”

      With tongue in cheek, she swept up her tray. “In a manner of speaking. You’re one of those people who find the easiest way to ignore your own shortcomings is to point out someone else’s.”

      “Who gets to ignore ‘em? Me? Ha!” The retired chief petty officer’s finger shook as he pointed at her. “I have news for you, Miss Mouth. Estelle keeps a list of my shortcomings on the refrigerator! Disorder, nothing. You’re looking at a persecuted man.”

      With a playful “Aw,” Frankie left to deliver the drinks. She performed an abbreviated rendition of the Lambada to maneuver between the tables, secretly admitting to herself that she really didn’t mind Benny’s nagging. In fact she’d now been in Slocum Springs longer than she’d stayed anywhere since inheriting the Silver Duck from her grandfather five years ago. If Benny had been anything less than a sweetheart, she would have been long gone by now.

      Nevertheless, his comments did linger in her mind, and it was what she was thinking about as she left the club an hour later. While driving home she concluded that regardless of how patiently she’d tried, she hadn’t yet succeeded in making people appreciate, or at least respect, her philosophy of life.

      “Tough cookies,” she announced, tired of the subject.

      She was twenty-seven years old, for pity’s sake. If her ideas didn’t come close to what the rest of the world practiced—

      “Aaah!”

      She hit the brakes, and hoped Petunia had enough left in her to respond. In the last second, she closed her eyes, convinced she was about to flatten the naked man standing in the middle of the road with her ancient truck.

      Either the purple pickup’s brakes were in better shape than she’d believed, or she owed her guardian angel another debt of gratitude. In any case, Petunia squealed to a halt—inches away from the streaker.

      Frankie stared at him. He blinked back at her.

      “Well, now…what do we have here?”

      This couldn’t be an April Fools’ prank, because it was months late. It couldn’t be a Halloween prank because it was months too early. The guy wasn’t wearing some sort of a costume, either; he was honestly naked—save for the handful of cottonwood and oak leaves he held unsteadily in front of his privates.

      “Glory be.” This wasn’t some joke one of her mischievous customers had decided to pull on her. A person would deserve an Academy Award to fake that look of shock and fear.

      Oh, yes, he was real, and that kept her from bursting into relieved, giddy laughter. Still, he did look funny in a bizarre, incredible sort of way. And how ironic that on the very evening Benny had lectured her again about her love life, she should get this dubious… offering.

      As he hesitantly rounded to her side of the car, she rolled down her window. “Um…Adam, I presume?”

      “You know me?”

       Oh, brother. Maybe you jumped to one too many conclusions, Jonesy.

      “That was a joke,” she told him. When he made no response, she decided he might simply be slow. “The leaves and all?” She gestured to his minute ensemble.

      His blue eyes remained blank. “Can you help me?”

      “I really don’t think-”

      It was as he began looking around that she had a clear view of the other side of his face and spotted the blood streaking down his right temple. With a gasp, Frankie downshifted and secured her emergency brake. Careful not to knock him off-balance, she nudged him out of the way with her door, and eased out of the truck. Now that she was closer, she could see that he was shaking like a paint mixing machine, which left him none too steady on his feet.

      “Holy hiccups, what happened?” she cried, grasping his upper arms to steady him.

      “I—I’m not sure. I woke up, and… I don’t know.”

      “Where do you come from?”

      He looked around again and pointed over Petunia’s hood. Since there wasn’t a streetlight in sight, all that she could see out there was the ravine dropping off from the shoulder, and the black-on-black shadow indicating the woods beyond.

      “Uh-huh.” The smell of being set up returned stronger than before. “Who are you?”

      He tried to answer. She could tell by the way his facial muscles tightened and he broke out in a sweat. But in the end he simply gave her a confused look.

      “Adam?”

      She should have suffered whiplash from the way her skepticism switched to concern. Without thinking, she reached up to touch his bruised face. “You poor man. You don’t have a clue, do you?”

      “No. Do you?”

      She shook her head. “But don’t worry,” she added quickly. “We’ll find out in no time at all. First let’s get you settled in my truck, and after that I’ll go check out the ditch. Surely something’s there that will tell us what we want to know.”

      If he agreed, he kept that to himself, and merely stood there looking as if whatever would come from her mouth had to be the gospel. Frankie decided it was one thing for Lambchop to take on that expression when she had to leave for work; it was another to have a grown man doing it.

      With more questions than answers as to what she was dealing with, she helped him around to the passenger side of the truck. It wasn’t easy. He had to be at least six feet, maybe a bit more, and he had a sturdy build. No doubt his mother—or wife, she amended, embarrassed at how neatly she’d almost avoided that thought—had made sure he didn’t skip too many meals. At the same time, he was well toned. Taut. She tried not to let her gaze wander to places the leaves only began to cover, but who could help noticing?

      Once she opened the door, she reached inside for the blanket kept behind the seat. “Here you go. This might itch a bit. It’s Maury’s and he tends to shed, but it’s all I have.”

      The stranger looked over her shoulder as if waiting for someone to protest his having the covering. “I can share.”

      What was she dealing with, here? Once again Frankie eyed him with suspicion. When she still saw no