Lizabeth noticed it was no longer "Mr. Hallahan." She supposed that was okay. Matt didn't seem to mind the familiarity, and the boys needed to have male friends. She would have preferred someone without a tattoo advocating sex with the animal kingdom, but she wasn't in the mood to quibble. She stared at her fork, wondering if she had the strength to pick it up. "Soccer? That sounds like fun," she said absently. "I could use some exercise." She could use some exercise in the year 2000. Anything before that was going to be a major imposition. Not to worry, she thought. Soccer was at least a half hour away. Right now she had more immediate problems. She needed to figure out a way to eat her meat. Cutting and chewing seemed like insurmountable obstacles.

"Something wrong with the meat?" Elsie asked Lizabeth. "You keep staring at it."

"It's fine, but I'm thinking of becoming a vegetarian. I'm worried about my cholesterol."

"Don't be a ninny," Elsie said. "You're nothing but skin and bones, and you have bags under your eyes. You need meat. How do you think I've kept my looks all these years? I eat right. Except for that time when I tried living in the old people's home. Worst food I've ever seen. Everything got squeezed through a strainer."

"Yuck!" Jason said. "Like baby food." He accidentally tipped over his milk, and it spread, like a flash flood, across the table.

Elsie jumped to her feet and ran for a kitchen towel. Lizabeth mopped up milk with her napkin. And Ferguson seized upon the opportunity to run off with the remainder of the pot roast.

"Ferguson's got the pot roast!" Billy shouted. He reached out for the dog, caught his elbow on the gravy boat, and the gravy boat slid into Matt's plate and smashed, dumping a cup and a half of semi-congealed gravy into Matt's lap.

"Oh, gross," Jason said. "One time Ferguson got sick and made a mess on the rug and it looked just like that."

Elsie watched the pot roast disappear around the corner. "There goes tomorrow's lunch," she said. "Damned if you don't have to be on your toes in this house."

"I guess we should postpone the soccer game until tomorrow," Matt said. "If I play soccer in these clothes, I'll have every dog in the neighborhood following me."

Lizabeth leaned back in her chair and managed a weak smile. She was saved. God bless Ferguson.

There were four bedrooms on the top floor of the old Victorian. Lizabeth had chosen a back bedroom for herself and had meagerly furnished it with a double bed and a secondhand oak dresser. One window looked out at the side yard, the view partially obscured by a mature stand of Douglas fir trees that served as a privacy fence. The other window in Lizabeth's room overlooked the backyard, which was, for the most part, packed dirt. Ferguson had littered the yard with punctured footballs, soccer balls, half-chewed baseballs, and a few mangled shoes. A redwood picnic table and two benches had been left by the previous owner.

The table was seldom used for picnics, since Lizabeth didn't have a grill. Instead, it served as the collection point for half-filled jars of soap bubbles, used boxes of crayons, a handful of Matchbox cars, empty juice glasses, plastic water pistols, and whatever other flotsam accumulated from two boys at play. Since the yard was dominated by several large trees, it was continuously cast in shade. By moonlight the yard seemed solemn and spooky, and usually only Bob the Cat ventured into its black shadows.

This evening a human form picked its way around the footballs, soccer balls, and baseballs. He cursed when he stepped on a shoe and stood still for a minute to get his bearings. He moved back a few feet and took a handful of small stones from his coat pocket.

As Lizabeth pulled herself up from the drowse of sleep, she thought it must be sleeting. She lay absolutely still, very quietly listening to the "tik tik tik" of something hitting against her window-pane, and realized, as she became more awake, that it was summer and sleet wasn't possible. It almost sounded as if someone was throwing stones at her window! There was a brief stab of alarm and then she relaxed. Matt. The thought brought a smile to her lips. Poor guy was really smitten with her. Another stone pinged on the glass and Lizabeth swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was two in the morning, and obviously Matt hadn't been able to sleep. She imagined him thrashing around in his bed, feverish with pent-up passion. And now he was here! What was she supposed to do with him? She could hardly invite him up to her bedroom. Maybe he would want to take her back to his apartment. Maybe he wouldn't be able to wait that long. Maybe he'd drag her off into the bushes or lay her out on the picnic table. She hated to admit it, but the picnic table sounded incredibly erotic. She rolled her eyes in the dark bedroom and groaned. What was wrong with her? She was a mother, and mothers didn't go around rutting on picnic tables. Lord, what would her children think? What about Elsie? Lizabeth, she told herself, you're getting weird. That's what happens when you've had a whole lifetime of sexual deprivation. Lizabeth pulled the curtain aside and squinted into the darkness. "Anybody out there?" she called.

There was the distinct rustle of clothing in the darkness below her. A flashlight clicked on and Lizabeth was temporarily blinded as the light played across her face. The intruder held the flashlight aloft, redirecting the beam onto himself, and Lizabeth was treated to a solid minute of full frontal male nudity. The man was wearing a paper-bag mask, a striped tie, and docksiders. "Matt?" Lizabeth whispered. No, of course not. Matt was blond. Then again, blonds might not be blond all over. She stifled a hysterical giggle and dialed the police.

Ten minutes later a black-and-white cruiser pulled up to the house and two policemen met Lizabeth at the door. The taller of the two men looked Lizabeth over. "You the lady who saw the flasher? Can you give us a description?"


"He was pretty ordinary. Not too fat. Not too thin. Average height. I didn't get to see his face, but I'd guess he was in his twenties or early thirties. No chest hair…"

Elsie stomped down the stairs in her robe and nightgown. "What's going on here?"

"I thought I was hearing sleet," Lizabeth said, "but it was actually a flasher throwing stones at my window."

Elsie's eyes got wide. "You mean he stood there with no clothes on? Buck naked?"

"He was wearing a tie," Lizabeth said. "And shoes."

"Shoot. I always miss the good stuff," Elsie said. "It isn't fair. I never get to see any naked men."

"This is my Aunt Elsie," Lizabeth explained to the policemen. "She's spending the summer with me."

"Maybe he'll come back," the cop said to Elsie. "You might get another crack at it."

The possibility of that happening made Lizabeth uncomfortable. She didn't like having a naked man skulking around in her yard. "You don't really think hell come back, do you? Maybe you should stake out my house."

"We don't usually stake out for flashers. If he threatened you, or if there was indication of violence…"

Lizabeth shook her head. "No. He just stood there."

Matt rang the doorbell again and looked at his watch. Seven-thirty. The curtains were still drawn and there was no sign of life in Lizabeth's house. It was hard to believe they weren't up yet. Seven-thirty seemed like the middle of the afternoon when you were used to getting up at five every day. He set the bag of doughnuts and the gallon of paint on the porch and walked around the house. Lizabeth's bedroom was in the back. "Lizabeth!" he called in an exaggerated whisper. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called again. There was no response. Her curtain remained closed. He gathered a few stones and tossed them one by one at her window.

Lizabeth woke up with a start. A stone pinged against her windowpane, and her heart jumped to her throat. He was back! She reached for the phone beside her bed and dialed the police, then waited, like a frightened fugitive, while the stones continued to tap on the glass. Five minutes passed on her digital clock. It seemed like five hours. Someone was forcefully knocking on her front door. Lizabeth crept to the stairs and saw the flashing red light of the cruiser pulsing behind her living room curtains.

Jason shuffled from his room, rubbing his eyes. "There's a police car in front of our house."

Elsie flung her bedroom door open. "Did he come back? Did I miss him again?"

Everyone trooped downstairs and stood behind Lizabeth as she opened the door.

It was Officer Dooley. "We caught your flasher," he said. "We were just going off duty when the call came in. My partner has him cuffed in the cruiser."


"I want to see him," Elsie said. "I want to see what a real pervert looks like."

"Me too," Jason said, following after Elsie. "What's a pervert?"

Lizabeth grabbed a raincoat from the hall closet and ran after Jason. "Jason Kane! You come back here," she yelled, struggling into the raincoat. "You stay away from the pervert! Don't you dare go near that police car!"

Elsie pressed her nose against the cruiser window. "That isn't a pervert," she said disgustedly. "That's Matt."

Lizabeth looked through the window at Matt. "What are you doing in there?"

"I've been arrested."

"Omigod."

"We caught him red-handed," Dooley said. "He was throwing stones at your window."

"I was supposed to come over first thing in the morning to work on her bathroom," Matt said. "She wouldn't answer her door, so I went around back and tried to wake her up by throwing stones at her window."

Lizabeth groaned. "I thought you were a flasher."

Matt grinned at her. "Wishful thinking."