Sam McCain - 05 - Everybody's Somebody's Fool by Ed Gorman

She really is. But I’ll always be her little girl, emphasis on “little.””
    “So how do you explain that?” I said, flicking the note she’d kept in her slender fingers.
    “I was going to explain it to you in person but then when you weren’t there—”
    “Chickened out, huh?”
    “Yeah. I’m sorry, Sam.”
    There was a swing on the porch. I took her hand and led her to it and we sat side by side.
    “I keep trying to put it into words, Sam, and I can’t. So you’ll understand, I mean. I was so excited when we were riding around last night—I felt so much better than I had in two years-but then when I got home and went to bed and started thinking of things … I just feel foolish, Sam.
    That’s the best way to put it, I guess.
    Foolish that I got married so young and foolish that I’m back living at home and foolish that I can’t deal with this better. My being sick, I mean.”
    “You’re not sick now.”
    “No, not physically, anyway. But mentally.”
    She tapped her sweet Midwestern head.
    I took her hand. “We’re all foolish.”
    “Oh, Sam, you don’t have to try and make me feel better. I should be doing that for myself.”
    “I’m not kidding. We’re all foolish.
    Foolish with ourselves, foolish with other people. And we’re too tough on ourselves about it. Life’s tough and unfair and it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. So we do and say foolish things because it’s all we know how to do. You’re going through a very rough time—something most people won’t have to face in their whole lifetime—and you’re trying to adjust to it.
    And you’re doing a whole hell of a lot better job of it than I would.”
    She put her head on my shoulder. I liked it. I liked it a lot. The stars had started to come out. We stayed in that position and then we started to swing. Just a little bit. But the rhythm was nice and so was the cool, clean chill on the wind.
    “I’m not going to give up, Linda.”
    “I hope you don’t.”
    “Tomorrow night we’ve got a date.”
    “I’d like that.”
    “And I don’t want any notes left on my door.”
    “There won’t be any.”
    “And I don’t want any
    we-now-interrupt-th-program-messages on Tv to tell me the date’s off, either. When I’m watching professional wrestling, I don’t want some announcer cutting into the match.”
    She laughed softly. “None of those, either.”
    “And I’ll expect you to wear that perfume you were wearing last night.”
    “I promise. I don’t have any other kind of perfume, anyway.”
    “And one other thing.”
    “What’s that, Sam?”
    I kissed her on the mouth. I started to pull back but she held me there, slender fingers against the back of my neck.
    “What I was going to say,” I said finally, “was that I care about you. All of a sudden last night it just happened.”
    The gray gaze got impish, amused. “As I recall, you fall in love pretty
    easily.”
    “I’m not sure I’m falling in love. I don’t know what it is. Except every time I think of you I feel a whole lot better than I have in quite awhile. And I get this really urgent need to see you.”
    She was just about to say something when the front door opened and her mom stuck her head out. I was back in eighth grade again, tense about moms, and hoping I didn’t say anything stupid or unforgivable.
    “Oh, hi, Sam, haven’t seen you in a long time,” said her mom, who looked very much like her daughter. “I didn’t realize you were still here.
    Would you like to stay for supper?”
    “Afraid I can’t, Mrs. Dennehy. I just stopped by to say hi to Linda.”
    She smiled. “Well, say hi to your folks.
    I always see them at mass but that’s about all these days.”
    “I’ll be right in, Mom.”
    “Nice to see you again, Sam.”
    “Nice to see you, too, Mrs. Dennehy.”
    Linda walked me to the edge of the porch. “I wish it were tomorrow night.”
    “I could pick you up later tonight.”
    She took my hand and kissed me on the