Just My Joe. Joan Elliott Pickart
work very hard for my paycheck and... No, forget it. I’m not justifying myself and my existence to you. You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I know every word you said in your crummy speech, lady.”
“Well, excuse me to hell and back for making a living, Mr. Dillon, for keeping a roof over my head and food on my table.”
“Hell, I can’t get through to you, make you understand. I’m wasting my breath.”
“Oh, yes, do save your breath. I’m sure it takes an extra dose to be so full of hot air.” Polly executed an indignant little sniff. “You talk the talk, but do you walk the walk?”
“Meaning?”
“Does the lack of a wedding ring on your hand indicate that you’re single?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re a single man, who has probably been teaching for a dozen years, or more. I imagine that adds up to what would be considered a sizable salary in this particular neighborhood.
“You arrive at Abraham Lincoln high every morning with your holier-than-thou attitude. But at day’s end? What part of town do you drive home to, Joe? What cushy, comfortable section of Tucson do you live in?”
Polly stomped off the curb and around to the driver’s side of her van, pulling her keys from her pocket as she went
“Well, that question is easy enough to answer,” Joe said, coming up behind her.
Polly unlocked the door. “Do tell.”
“What a convenient coincidence. You’re parked in front of the house I rent. This is the cushy part of Tucson where I reside, Ms. Chapman. I talk the talk and, by damn, I walk the walk.”
Polly opened her mouth with every intention of telling Joe that his sense of humor left a lot to be desired. She snapped her mouth closed again in the next instant, as the thought struck her that maybe he wasn’t kidding about her being parked in front of his house.
She moved to the left to enable her to see the structure in question clearly, her eyes widening.
The house was a small wood frame with several different-colored shingles on the roof. It was obviously old, but appeared well cared for. It was painted beige with dark brown trim, had a narrow porch that held two lawn chairs, and the minuscule front yard was covered in dark brown-colored gravel.
It was, without a doubt, Polly decided, the most tended-to looking house on the block, but that still didn’t mean it was where Joe Dillon lived. It just didn’t make one iota of sense for a man with his income to live in this high-crime part of town.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Joe said.
“I’m thinking it over,” Polly said, still staring at the house. “I simply can’t get a grip on why you would choose to live...well, in the ghetto if you don’t have to.”
She looked at Joe, a puzzled expression on her face.
“The career day you organized at the school,” she continued, “is proof that you want your students to have hopes and dreams of a better life. You were attempting to show them that there are ways to get out of this environment. Why, Joe? Why would you intentionally remain here if you aren’t forced to?”
Polly shifted her gaze back to the house. “No, I’m not certain I believe that you live here. There’s no rhyme or reason for it.”
“Come on,” Joe said. “I’ll prove it to you.”
“Don’t you have classes to teach?”
“The career day assembly will last all morning. I’ll be back at the school in time for my next scheduled class. Are you coming?”
“Why not?” Polly said, throwing up her hands. “So far my day has been totally bizarre. What’s one more layer on the cake?”
“Cake and ice cream,” Jazzy said, “and a bottle of beer.”
“That’s a gross combination, Jazzy,” Polly said.
“Polly want a cracker?” the bird said.
“Oh, hush,” she said.
“I suppose I’d better hold on to this cage and not put it in the van,” Joe said. “After all, this mound of feathers is worth thousands of dollars.”
“Don’t start that again,” Polly said, frowning. “I’m not the one who determined the monetary worth of champion-line macaws.”
“No, you’re just the one who baby-sits them while the owners are in Europe for six months.” Joe moved past her and started toward the house. “What a terrific contribution to society you make, Ms. Chapman.”
Polly sighed and followed Joe up the cracked, cement sidewalk leading to the little house.
On the porch, Joe raised one eyebrow and cocked his head toward the black metal mailbox mounted next to the door. The name Dillon was spelled out on the front of the mailbox in white, stick-on letters. He removed some keys from his pocket.
“All right,” Polly said. “That’s enough. I believe that you live here. I can’t fathom why you do, but I’ll concede that this is your house.”
“Don’t you want a tour of the mansion?”
“I’m not in the habit of entering the homes of strange men I don’t even know,” she said, with a little sniff. “And you, sir, are very strange.”
Joe chuckled despite his determination not to. A funny shiver Buttered down Polly’s spine at the sound of the deep, masculine rumble. The smile that had touched Joe’s lips disappeared in the next second.
“Like I said, you just don’t get it,” he said. “How can I relate to my students, really understand them, if I don’t live in the reality of their world?”
He narrowed his eyes as he looked directly at Polly.
“You?” he said. “You function in a sphere of wealth, cater to the rich, who indulge themselves in such nonsense as expensive birds for pets.
“You rose above what were obviously humble beginnings, then turned your back on your reality, instead of giving something back. Am I even close to getting through to you, Polly?”
“You’re coming across loud and clear,” she said. “You’re a judgmental, narrow-minded man, with a mind-set that isn’t open for any kind of discussion. You pass censure on people you don’t even know, having no clue as to their personal circumstances.”
“I...”
“Guess what, Joe Dillon? I don’t like you. You might be the most blatantly sexy man I’ve ever met, but big macho deal. Give me the bird, Joe.”
“What?” Joe said, with a burst of laughter.
“You know what I mean,” Polly said, snatching the heavy cage from Joe’s hand. “I’m leaving. Now. I suppose I should be polite and say it was a pleasure to meet you, but it wasn’t. This entire experience has been grim. Goodbye, Mr. Dillon.”
Joe frowned as Polly left the porch and started down the sidewalk, heading for the van.
“Polly, wait,” he said.
“No!”
Joe watched as Polly maneuvered the van carefully out of the tight parking space. He had a smile and a wave ready to execute if Polly should glance back in his direction.
But she didn’t.
And within minutes she had chugged out of his view in the rattling vehicle.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, Joe sank onto one of the lawn chairs and dragged both hands down his face.
Lord, he was jerk, he thought, in self-disgust. Yes, he believed in what he was doing