by Kent Haruf
When wasn’t I?
I’m pregnant, aren’t I?
He looked in her face. That was a accident. I didn’t mean to do that.
It still happened.
You could of done something yourself too, you know, he said. It wasn’t just up to me.
I know. I’ve thought about that a lot.
He looked into her face, her dark eyes. You seem different some way now. You’ve changed.
I’m pregnant, she said. I am different.
It’s more than that, he said. But you’re not sorry, are you?
About the baby?
Yeah.
No, she said. I’m not sorry about the baby.
You going to let me kiss you, then?
She didn’t say anything, she didn’t refuse. And so he began to kiss her and caress her once more and after a while he lay on top of her, holding himself up, and after a while longer he came inside and began to move slowly, and in truth it seemed to be all right. But still she was worried.
Later, they lay in bed quietly. The room was not a very big one. He had nailed a couple of posters on the walls for decoration. There was one window which had a shade pulled down over it and outside the window was the noise of nighttime Denver traffic.
Still later they got up from bed and he called on the phone for pizza and the delivery boy brought it and he paid the boy and made a little joke which made the boy laugh, and after he was gone they ate the pizza together in the front room and watched what there was on television until midnight. The next morning he got up early and went to work. And then she was lonely as soon as he left the apartment and she didn’t know what to do with herself.
McPherons.
Three hours after dark they stopped the pickup at the curb in front of Maggie Jones’s house and got out in the cold and went up onto the porch. When she came to the door she was still in her school clothes, a long skirt and sweater, but she had taken her shoes off and was in her stocking feet. What is it? she said. Will you come in?
They got as far as the front hall. Then they began to speak, almost at the same time.
She never come home today, Harold said. We been driving all over these streets looking for her.
We don’t even know where to start looking, Raymond said.
We been driving the streets more than three hours, looking everywhere we could think of.
You’re talking about Victoria, of course, Maggie said.
There don’t seem to be any friend we could talk to, Raymond said. Least we don’t know of one.
She didn’t come home on the bus after school this evening?
No.
Has she not come home like this before?
No. This is the first.
Something must of happened to her, Harold said. She must of got taken off or something.
Watch what you say, Raymond said. We don’t know that. I’m not going to think that yet.
Yes, Maggie said, that’s right. Let me make some calls first. You want to come in and sit down?
They entered her living room as they would some courtroom or church sanctuary and looked around cautiously and finally chose to sit on the davenport. Maggie went back to the kitchen to the phone. They could hear her talking. They sat holding their hats between their knees, just waiting until she came back into the room.
I called two or three girls in her class, she said, and finally called Alberta Willis. She said she’d given Victoria a note from a boy waiting in a car out in the parking lot. I asked her if she knew what was in the note. She said it was private, it wasn’t to her. But did you read it? I asked her.
Yes. But just once, she said.
Tell me please. What did it say?
Mrs. Jones, it didn’t say anything. Only come see me in the parking lot, and then his name. Dwayne.
Do you know him? I said.
No. But he’s from Norka. Only he doesn’t live there no more. Nobody knows where he lives.
And did Victoria go out to him in the parking lot, like the note said?
Yes, she went out to him. I tried to tell her not to. I warned her.
And did you not see her after that?
No. I didn’t see her again after that at all.
So, Maggie said to the McPherons. I think she must have gone with him. With this boy.
The old brothers looked at her for a considerable time without speaking, watching her, their faces sad and tired.
You know him yourself at all? Harold said finally.
No, she said. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the boy. The kids know him somewhat. He was at some of the dances last year, this past summer particularly. That’s when Victoria met him. She told me a little about that. But she wouldn’t ever tell me his name. This is the first I’ve heard any part of his name.
Did that girl on the phone know the rest of it?
No.
They stared at her again for a time, waiting for anything more.
So she isn’t hurt, Harold said. Or lost.
No, I don’t think so.
She isn’t lost, Raymond said. That’s all we know. We don’t know about hurt.
Oh, I want to believe she is all right, Maggie said. Let us think that.
What brought her to leave though? Raymond said. Can you tell me that. You think we did something to her?
Of course not, Maggie Jones said.
Don’t you?
No, she said. Not for a minute.
Harold looked slowly around the room. I don’t think we did anything to her, he said. I can’t think of anything we might of did. He looked at Maggie. I been trying to think, he said.
Of course not, she said. I know you didn’t.
Harold nodded. He looked around again and stood up. I reckon we might as well go on home, he said. What else is there to do. He put his old work hat on again.
Raymond still sat as before. You think this here is the one? he said. That give her the baby?
Yes, Maggie said. I think it must be.
Raymond studied her for a moment. Then he said, Oh. He paused. Well. I’m getting old. I’m slow on the uptake. And then he couldn’t think what more there might be to say. He stood up beside his brother. He looked past Maggie, out across the room. I reckon we can go, he said. We thank you for your kindly help, Maggie Jones.
They went out of her house into the cold again and drove off. At home they put on their canvas coveralls and went out in the dark, carrying a lantern to the calf shed where they’d penned up a heifer they’d noticed was showing springy. She was one of the two-year-olds. They’d noticed her bag had begun to show tight too. So they had brought her into the three-sided shed next to the work corrals the day before.
Now when they stepped through the gate, holding the lantern aloft under the pole roof, they could see she wasn’t right. She faced them across the bright straw and frozen ground, humped up, her tail lifted straight out, her eyes wide and nervous. She took a couple of quick jittery steps. Then they saw that the calf bed was pushed out of her, hanging against her back legs, high up beneath her tail, and there was one pink hoof protruded from the prolapsed uterus. The heifer stepped away, taking painful little steps, humped up, moving toward the back wall, the hoof of her unborn calf sticking out from behind her as though it were mounted in dirty burlap.
They got a rope around the heifer’s neck, made a quick halter of it and snugged her tight to the shed wall. Then Harold took off his mittens and pushed at the hoof for a long time until he was able to move it back inside, and then he went inside with his hand and felt of her and tried to position the calf’s head between the two front feet as it was supposed to be, but the head wasn’t right and the calf would not come. The little heifer was worn out now. Her head hung down and her back was humped. She stood and moaned. There was nothing to do but use the calf chain. They put the loops inside the heifer over the unborn calf’s legs above the hocks, then fit the U-shaped piece against the heifer’s hindquarters, and began to jack the calf out. Ratcheting it out of her. The
heifer was pulled against the rope around her neck and head and she moaned in harsh pants and once raised her head to bawl, her eyes rolled back to white in terror. Then the calf’s head came out with the front legs and suddenly the whole calf dropped heavily, slick and wet, and they caught it and wiped its nose clean and checked its mouth for air passage. They put the calf down in the straw. For the next hour, while the heifer stood panting and groaning they cleaned the prolapsed uterus and pushed it back inside of her and then sewed her up with heavy thread. Afterward they shot her with penicillin and stood the calf up and pointed it toward the heifer’s bag. The heifer sniffed at the calf and roused a little and began to lick at it. The calf bumped at her and started to suck.
By now it was after midnight. It was cold and bleak outside the shed and utterly quiet. Overhead, the stars in the unclouded sky looked as cold and arctic as ice.
They came back into the house without yet removing their canvas coveralls and sat spent and bloody at the wood table in the kitchen.
You think she’s going to be all right? Raymond said.
She’s young. She’s strong and healthy. But you don’t ever know what might could happen. You can’t tell.
No. You can’t tell. You don’t know how she is. You don’t even know where he might of took her for sure.
He might of landed her in Pueblo or Walsenburg. Or some other place besides Denver. You can’t never tell.
I’m going to hope she’s all right, Raymond said.
I hope it, said Harold.
They went upstairs. They lay down in bed in the dark and could not sleep but lay awake across the hall from each other, thinking about her, and felt how the house was changed now, how it seemed all of a sudden so lonesome and empty.
Guthrie.
Lloyd Crowder called him early in the evening. You better come down here. It looks like they’re going to try to blindside you. You better bring your grade book and any papers you have.
Who is? Guthrie said.
The Beckmans.
He went out of the house and got in his pickup and drove across town to the district office next to the high school and when he went in he saw them immediately. They were sitting in the third row of the public chairs off to the far side. Beckman, his wife, and the boy. They turned and looked at him when he entered. He took a seat at the back. The school board members were ranged about the table at the front of the room, each with his name tag facing the public. There were framed pictures of outstanding seniors from the years past on the walls behind them. They had already gotten beyond the minutes of the previous meeting and the approval of the bills and the various items of communication and were now finishing discussion of the budget. The superintendent was taking them through each step. They voted on matters, if that was called for by regulation, and it was going smoothly, all cut and dried since they’d prepared for it earlier in executive session. Then the board chairman called for public concerns.
A thin woman stood up and began to complain about the school buses. I’d like to put a plea out there, she said. My kids used to get on at seven and off at four, now it’s six-thirty and four forty-five. The bus driver gets disgusted and starts driving slow, that’s what it is. What happens is those kids, all their cussing and getting out of their seats. Well, all their language is cussing. If we took that away from them they wouldn’t have a thing to say.
The board chairman said, Safety is the big concern. Isn’t that right. That’s what we have to think about.
I’ll tell you, the woman said, one time the bus finally had to pull over. The driver had to stop and she come back in the row and said to this girl, You been yelling at the top of your lungs all morning, now go ahead and yell. And the girl did too. Can you believe that? Well, my daughter didn’t appreciate her yelling at the top of her lungs. I don’t think she should have to put up with that.
Riding the bus is a privilege, the board chairman said, till they violate the rules. Isn’t that right? He looked at the superintendent.
Yes, the superintendent said. After three misbehaviors they’re off.
Then somebody better learn how to count to three, the woman said.
Yes ma’am, the chairman said. You need to come in and talk to the principal about this. About your concern here.
I already did that.
Did you, he said. Maybe you can talk to him again. I appreciate you coming here tonight. He looked around the room. Anything else? he said.
Mrs. Beckman rose up and said, Yes, there’s something else. And I can see somebody called him to be here already. She looked at Guthrie. I don’t care if he is here, I’m going to say it. He hates my boy. He flunked him this past semester. Failed him out of American history. You know that can’t be right.
Ma’am, what are you talking about? the chairman said. What is this?
I’m telling you. First he fights him in the hall over that little slut. Then he keeps him out of the basketball tournament which might cost him his scholarship to Phillips Junior College, and then he flunks him for the whole semester, that’s what I’m talking about. I want to hear what you’re going to do about it.
The board chairman looked at the superintendent. The superintendent looked at Lloyd Crowder who was sitting off to the side at another table. The board chairman turned to the principal now. Can you give us some background on this, Lloyd?
He don’t need to, Mrs. Beckman said. I just told you.
Yes ma’am, said the chairman. But we’d like to hear from the principal too.
Crowder stood up and explained in some detail what each party in the dispute had done, and remarked on the five-day suspension the boy had been given.
Is Mr. Guthrie here? the chairman said.
That’s him sitting back there, Mrs. Beckman said.
I see him now, the chairman said. Mr. Guthrie, would you care to say anything?
You’ve already heard it, Guthrie said. Russell hasn’t done the work required of him. I told him that several times. That he needed to improve or he wouldn’t pass the course. He didn’t, so I gave him a failing grade.
You hear him? Mrs. Beckman said. That’s exactly the lie he keeps telling everybody. Are you going to sit there and have him lie to you like that too?
I have the grade book if you think you have to see it, Guthrie said. But I’d prefer not to show it in public. I’m not even sure it’s legal to do that.
Let him show it, Mrs. Beckman cried. I hope he does. Then everybody can just see what he’s been doing to Russell here. He makes it all up anyhow.
The board chairman looked at her for a moment. Now ma’am, he said. I’ll tell you something. We don’t like to interfere too much with what a teacher does in his own classroom.
Well you better interfere. Guthrie there, is a liar and a son of a bitch.
Ma’am, you can’t talk that way in here. You better bring this up with the superintendent if you have a complaint to make, and we’ll talk about it in executive session. We can’t decide all this in public this a-way.
I see now, she said. You’re just like the rest. We voted you in and you turn out like this.
Ma’am, that’s my word on it. For now.
Can he graduate then?
Not without American history. I don’t believe so.
Can he at least cross the stage and pick up a blank diploma?
Maybe. But I expect he’ll have to take the class in the summer for what he failed. For the time being, he better take the rest of American history with somebody else individual. Isn’t that right, superintendent?
Yes. That can be arranged.
That’s right, the chairman said. That can be arranged. He looked out at them. Mr. Beckman, you haven’t said anything. You got something to add to this?
You goddamn right I do, Beckman said. He stood up. We aren’t done with this. I’ll tell you that right now. You can be goddamn sure of that much. I’ll go to the law if I have to. Do you think I won’t?
Victoria Roubideaux.
For a while
in Denver she took a job. It wasn’t much of a job, only working part-time at a gas station convenience store on Wadsworth Boulevard a mile from the apartment, working at night for others when they called in. She had gone in for the interview and the little man with his white shirt, the manager, had walked her through the store and said, Where would you stock the Vienna sausage and the sardines? and she had said, The shelves with the canned foods, and he said, No, next to the crackers. You want them to buy both of them at the same time. There’s a reason for what we do here.
He wanted to know when she was due to have the baby and in answer to this question she had told him a lie. She said the baby was coming later than was true, that she was expecting to deliver at the end of May. You still sick a lot? he said.
No, she said. I was at first.
This is just part-time, he said. With little notice. Just when we want you, if we need you to come in. Whenever somebody calls in claiming they’re sick. All right. You still want it?
Yes.
All right. We’ll train you starting tomorrow.
She went in and trained for parts of three days with the woman on the afternoon shift and then a night with the woman on the night shift, and then she waited a week and a half for the first call. When it came it was at suppertime on Monday, and Dwayne was tired and didn’t want to drive her to work. She said she would walk. She got up from the table to leave, and that shamed him so that he drove her after all and neither one of them said anything to the other on the way. She worked through the night without incident and in the morning when she got off her shift she took the bus home since it was past the time Dwayne was due to start his shift at Gates. Upstairs in the apartment she found a note from him on the table saying, See you tonight I’m not mad anymore are you, written like that other note a month ago with a pencil on a scrap of paper in a slanted child’s scrawl.
Two weeks later, the third time she was called, she was working behind the counter and a man came in at one-thirty in the morning when she was the only one in the store. He loitered in the aisles picking up different things, putting them back. A skinny man with a badly wrinkled face, with lank brown hair. Then he came up to the counter with nothing in his hand to buy and said, I guess you know Doris, don’t you?
