Homebody by Orson Scott Card Page B

suit. But at this closing there would be a woman he had kissed yesterday afternoon, and maybe yesterday’s workclothes and a jacket bought when Bruce Springsteen was singing “Born in the U.S.A.” on every radio station wouldn’t make the right impression.
    Then again, it was the man in the workclothes that she had kissed.
    This is how it starts, he told himself. You start trying to guess how she wants you to dress, and pretty soon you bring her home so she can tell you herself every morning, but never until after you’ve put the clothes on yourself, at which point she can say, “You’re wearing that?” Am I really ready for this?
    More to the point, am I really ready to say that I never want it again? Despite all his grief, all the pain, all the loneliness, wasn’t the time with his ex-wife better than the time alone? Not every woman took away your child to go die in the road. Cindy was the kind of woman he should have been looking for the first time around. It wasn’t marriage that had failed him, nor was it Don Larkwho had failed at marriage. The only thing he needed to change was the person he partnered with. And why not try to impress Cindy? Why not try to look nice for her?
    He found his suitbag and unzipped it. His court-appearance suit. Only he hadn’t needed it for a couple of years and even if it didn’t need to be cleaned, it sure needed a good pressing. And what would he do for a white shirt? He’d been putting off taking his nice shirts to the cleaner because where would he put them when they came back? Even if he got them folded, they’d suffer, jammed into a bag.
    He rezipped the suitbag. Instead he pulled out a cleanish t-shirt and a pair of briefs that didn’t have any particular odor and headed outside.
    He stopped and locked the deadbolt, then paused to think. If he locked the door, she could still get out the way she came in. Whatever the route was, she probably couldn’t get any of his really expensive equipment out of the house that way. Nobody invited her here anyway, did they?
    Halfway to his truck, he had second thoughts. She was already inside when he put on the locks, hadn’t she said that? And just because she was squatting in his house didn’t make her unworthy of normal human decency.
    Back up on the porch, he unlocked the door and, leaning in, shouted up the stairs. “Hey! You! Whatever your name is! I’m heading for McDonald’s to pee and get breakfast. Time to go.”He’d feed her, then drop her off somewhere and head on out to the truck stop to get a shower.
    She came to the top of the stairs. She looked even more forlorn in what must have been a spring frock in some bygone age, but now was faded, limp, sad. Like her hair. Like her tired expression. But she must already have been awake, to appear so quickly when he called to her.
    “You go on. I’m fine.”
    “Look, when I lock the deadbolt, you can’t get out unless you break through one of the windows.”
    She seemed distracted. “Really, I’m fine.” He wondered if she was in a condition to understand what he was saying to her. Did she have some stash of drugs somewhere? Was she exposing him to the risk of arrest for having that sort of thing on his property? Don’t be absurd, he told himself. It’s not the homeless who are dealing and using.
    His own full bladder reminded him of one excellent reason why she should leave the house right now. “What, do you pee in the sink or something? The water’s not hooked up yet, the toilets don’t flush. Haven’t you noticed this?”
    Her face darkened. A flush of anger? Or embarrassment? She walked out of view.
    Don stepped farther inside the house, to the foot of the stairs. He shouldn’t have spoken so crudely to her. Would he ever have spoken so bluntly to Cindy? “Look, I’m sorry.” The way Don was raised, you didn’t talk about toilet things withladies. When had he stopped following that rule? “When you’ve had a kid you learn to talk about bodily