Eventide

by Kent Haruf

  She just gets in the way.

  You heard me.

  She went out and the three of them made peanut-butter crackers in the kitchen standing at the counter, and she found a single clean glass in the cupboard and they each drank milk from it, taking turns, and when they were finished she said: Let’s go outside.

  It’s cold outside, DJ said.

  It’s not that cold.

  What about me? said Emma.

  You can stay in here and watch TV.

  I don’t want to watch TV.

  You can’t come with us. Come on, she said. Let’s go if we’re going.

  IT WAS COLD AND ALREADY TURNING DARK IN THE SHED at the back of the alley. They lifted the latch and went inside and lit the candles. The candles cast a soft yellow light over the shelf at back and on the flowered carpet and it reached faintly into the chill dark corners. They sat down at the table opposite each other and draped old blankets over their coats.

  I went last, she said.

  I don’t think so.

  Yes, I did.

  I thought I went last.

  No, it was me.

  He took up the dice and tossed them out on the board, then counted the moves and advanced his man seven places.

  There, she said. You owe me five hundred dollars.

  Let me see it.

  She showed him the card with the details printed on the back, showing the figures in dollars if someone landed on the property.

  All right, he said. He removed the rubber band from his bundle of pink and green and yellow money and counted the bills out on the table and handed them to her. When did she start smoking? he said. I didn’t know she smoked.

  Who?

  Your mom.

  She just started. She stinks up the house with them.

  You ought to get some of her cigarettes sometime.

  What for?

  So we could smoke out here.

  I don’t want to. She looked across at him and then down at the board and gathered up the dice and rolled and went forward nine squares.

  Count again, he said.

  It’s right.

  You just missed me.

  I know. I’m going to buy it. How much is it?

  He looked among the cards and found the right one. Four hundred dollars, he said.

  She counted out the money and he put it in the bank. Go ahead, she said.

  He rolled. He moved his man around the corner and took out two hundred dollars from the bank.

  You want to buy it?

  I don’t have enough money.

  You want to borrow some from the bank? You could mortgage.

  I don’t like to mortgage.

  What are you going to do then? Make up your mind.

  I’m thinking about it. He looked across at her. Isn’t your dad ever coming back?

  I don’t know. Maybe. But I might go up there.

  Alaska?

  Why not?

  I’d like to go to Alaska, he said.

  It’s cold, she said. But it’s different up there.

  What do you mean?

  It is. It’s not like down here. My dad says you have to know what you’re doing up there. You’ll freeze if you don’t. And they have Kodiak bears up there.

  Are you going to roll or not?

  She rolled and counted out her moves.

  You landed on me this time.

  I know that. How much?

  Two hundred dollars.

  Is that all? That’s easy. She tossed the bills across to him. They floated out onto the board like yellow leaves and he took them up.

  It gets dark all winter up there, he said. It hardly ever gets light up there in the wintertime.

  Not all winter, it doesn’t.

  Most of it, he said. For about four months.

  I don’t care, she said. I might go anyway. It’s your turn.

  IN THE AFTERNOONS THEY WENT TO THE SHED AFTER school and sat and talked and played board games and contests of cards, and they lit the candles and wrapped up in blankets. And late one afternoon at the end of November they came back into the house in the cold early dark, and her mother was sitting with a man in the kitchen. They were drinking beer from green bottles and smoking cigarettes out of the same pack. Mary Wells had put on lipstick for the first time in weeks and half of the cigarettes in the ashtray were stained from her red mouth. She heard them come in at the front door. Come out here, Dena, she called. I want you to meet someone.

  They came into the room and Mary Wells said: This is Bob Jeter. This is a friend of mine I want you to meet.

  Bob Jeter had a thin face and a dark mustache and dark goatee. His blond hair was much lighter than his beard and she could see his pink scalp shining through his hair under the kitchen light.

  Your mother didn’t tell me you were such a beautiful young lady, he said.

  She looked at him.

  Aren’t you going to say hello? her mother said.

  Hello.

  And who’s this? Bob Jeter said.

  This is our neighbor, DJ Kephart.

  DJ. Well DJ, how are things at the radio station?

  The boy glanced at him and looked away. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Okay, Mary Wells said. That’ll do. You two can go out now.

  When they were out in the living room DJ whispered: Who’s that?

  I don’t know, she said. I never saw him before. I don’t know who he is.

  IN THE EVENING AFTER SUPPER, AFTER BOB JETER HAD left the house, Dena said to her mother: What’s that man doing here?

  Her mother looked tired now. The bright glassy-eyed look she’d had before was gone. He’s a friend of mine, she said.

  What’s he want here?

  He’s a friend, like I said. He’s a vice president at the bank. He makes loans to people. I was talking to him the other day about our circumstances since your father isn’t coming back.

  He might come back.

  I doubt it. I don’t know anybody who even wants him to.

  I want him to come back.

  Do you?

  Yes.

  Maybe he will then. But tell me what you thought of Mr. Jeter.

  I don’t see why he had to stay for supper. Doesn’t he have his own house?

  Yes. He has his own house. Of course he has his own house. He has a very nice house.

  LATER THAT NIGHT WHEN SHE WANTED TO CALL HER father, before she got on the phone, her mother said: If you get ahold of him, you tell him I had a friend here today. Tell your father that.

  I’m not going to say that.

  You are, or else you won’t talk to him at all.

  Mom, I don’t want to.

  Tell him I had somebody visiting here this afternoon. He’s not the only one who knows people. That’s something he ought to know, up there in hotshot Alaska.

  22

  THE PUBLIC DEFENDER ASSIGNED TO HIM WAS A YOUNG woman with red hair. She was three years out of law school and she’d been in possession of his police record for no more than an hour when she came to the Holt County Courthouse on the morning of the docket day to consult with him. She was carrying a stack of files under her arm, and they met in a little bare conference room down the hall from the courtroom, with a sheriff’s deputy waiting outside the door guarding another inmate. Hoyt was wearing his orange jailhouse coveralls and he looked pale and seedy after a month of confinement. She set her files on the table and sat down across the table from him.

  Hoyt watched her flip through his police record. You’re about like the rest of them, ain’t you, he said. You want to know what I want, bitch? My number one priority is to get the fuck out of this goddamn place.

  She looked at him closely for the first time. You can’t talk like that in here, she said. Not to me you can’t.

  What’s wrong with the way I talk?

  You know exactly what’s wrong with it.

  Hell, he said. I was just getting a little excited there. I’m out of the custom of having any com
pany. He grinned at her. I’ll try to contain myself.

  She stared at him. Do that, she said. She closed his file. So, I don’t expect you want to go to trial. Do you.

  I don’t know. You tell me.

  I don’t think you do.

  Why’s that now? I got things I might want to say. I have a right to be heard.

  You’re certain of that?

  Why wouldn’t I be?

  Because your case probably wouldn’t go to trial for two months. Maybe longer. Depending on when it could be heard. Which means in the interim you’d go back to jail. You don’t have bail money, do you?

  No, I don’t have no bail money. Where would I get money? They’ve had me locked up for twenty-nine days.

  Then you don’t want to go to trial.

  I said I didn’t.

  When did you say that?

  I’m saying it now, Hoyt said. How old are you anyway?

  What?

  How old a woman are you? You’re pretty good-looking for a lawyer.

  She stared across the table at him. She took up a pen and began tapping it on the table. Listen. Mr. Raines.

  Yes ma’am, he said. You got my entire attention. He grinned at her and leaned forward.

  You know what, she said, I don’t think I do. Because you need to stop playing these stupid games. I don’t need this from you. I’ve got seven other cases to deal with this morning besides yours. You keep this up and we don’t get this resolved today, I’ll see you next month and you can go back downstairs and sit in jail till then. Now do you think you heard that?

  Hell. He sat up straight and pulled down the cuffs of his coveralls onto his thin wrists. Take it easy, will you? You’re all strung up here. I never meant nothing. You’re just a good-looking woman, that’s all I’m saying. I haven’t even seen a woman for a month.

  That’s only one of your problems, isn’t it.

  Yeah, he said. But not for long. Soon as I get out of here I’ll take care of it.

  She studied the expression on his face. She thought of saying something to him but then just shook her head. All right, she said. I’ve already spoken to the district attorney and I’ve negotiated the option of two plea agreements on your behalf.

  What am I pleaing to?

  What do you plead?

  Yeah. What do I plead.

  You plead guilty to a charge of misdemeanor child abuse. As stated in the police report. With the stipulation that there would be no additional jail time. You agree to have no more contact with the two children and to stay away from their parents’ house. Do you accept all of these conditions?

  You think I want to go back to that place after all the trouble they got me into?

  That’s not what I asked you.

  All right, yes, I accept them. Yes, I’m not going back there again and I won’t contact those kids no more. Does that suit you? What else have you got to say?

  Before you’re released the judge will set a period of probation.

  How long is that going to be?

  A year, maybe two. That’s one possibility. The positive for you in this option is that you’ll be getting out of jail today. The negative is that if you violate your probation you’ll potentially receive a flat jail sentence because of it. Do you understand what I’ve said so far?

  Yeah. What else?

  Then there’s the other possibility. The charge could be reduced to attempt to commit child abuse. If you accept this option you leave the sentencing to the judge. The positive here for you is that if you violate your probation you’d probably have less jail time in the future. The negative is that you might not get out of jail today. Depending on what sentence the judge hands down.

  She stopped and looked at him.

  What? he said.

  You understand what I’ve just told you.

  It’s not that difficult. I got it.

  Which option do you want me to negotiate?

  I already said what I want. I want out of jail today.

  Then you enter a plea of guilty. And you sign this form I’ll give you.

  I have to sign something?

  You need to commit yourself before we go into court.

  She removed two sheets of paper from his file and turned the top sheet so they could both see it, then leaned over and began to read each section aloud, looking up at him frequently as she went through them. The Advisement Per Colorado Rule of Criminal Procedure, Rules Five and Eleven, Plea of Guilty stated his rights and the terms he would agree to in waiving his right to a trial, made sure that he understood the elements of the offense, that he was entering a guilty plea voluntarily, and that he wasn’t under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

  Those are the terms, she said. If you understand the terms and agree to them, you sign it.

  What’s that other paper you’ve got there?

  Standard Conditions.

  What’s that?

  It’s a list of conditions you’ll be expected to adhere to while you’re on probation.

  Like what?

  She read through these aloud too. Sixteen conditions saying he would not violate any law or harass any prosecution witness, that he’d maintain a permanent residence, that he wouldn’t leave the state of Colorado without permission, that he’d get a job or at least try to get one, that he wouldn’t use alcohol to excess or other dangerous drug.

  I don’t have to sign that?

  No, there’s nothing here to sign. This is simply for your information, so you can make an informed decision. You only have to know about it and understand it.

  Okay.

  Then you’re ready to sign this form of Advisement?

  If it gets me out of here, I’ll sign anything.

  No. Now wait a minute, she said. You’re not signing just anything. You have to understand exactly what you’re signing.

  I understand that. Give me your pen.

  You’re sure.

  You want me to sign this thing, don’t you.

  That’s entirely up to you.

  You going to let me use that pen or not? I don’t have one of my own. They’re afraid I’m going to stab somebody.

  She handed him the pen and he looked at her and then ducked his head over the paper and printed and signed his name on the two lines and wrote the date beside them. There you go, he said. He pushed the paper across the table.

  She took up both sheets of paper and put them in his folder.

  What am I suppose to do now?

  You wait with the sheriff’s deputy in the courtroom until you’re called.

  She rose from the table and took her stack of case files under her arm and went out the door. He watched her leave, looking at her skirt and legs. The deputy waiting outside in the hallway came in, accompanied by the second inmate, and put the cuffs on Hoyt’s wrists again and walked the two of them down the wide corridor to the courtroom to wait for their cases to come up. The second inmate wore shackles on his ankles in addition to his handcuffs, and shuffled along slowly.

  There were several people in the courtroom already, sitting and talking. The deputy led Hoyt and the other inmate to a bench near the back, and they sat and watched as more people entered and filed into the rows of benches.

  After a while Hoyt leaned toward the sheriff’s deputy. I got to take a piss, he said.

  How come you never thought of that earlier?

  I never had any reason to think of it earlier.

  Get up then, the deputy said. Let’s go. You too, he said to the other inmate. Before they get this thing started.

  How come I got to go?

  Because I said so. I ain’t about to leave you here.

  They went out into the corridor past the lawyers talking to clients and past other people standing in groups below the tall narrow windows. They went down the wooden stairway to the main floor, the other inmate turning sideways taking one step at a time, then the deputy led them into the public rest room behind the staircase. Try not to piss yourself, he said to Hoyt.

 
; Ain’t you going to unzip me? Hoyt said. I know you been wanting to.

  I wouldn’t touch you with a goddamn cow prod, you sorry son of a bitch.

  You’re missing your chance here.

  I’m going to tell you something, Raines. Not everybody in Holt County thinks you’re real cute.

  There’s some that do. Some of these women I could name.

  Nobody I know of.

  You don’t know the right ones.

  That must be it. Now hurry the fuck up there.

  The other man used the urinal too and they went back upstairs to the courtroom and sat down and waited. The D.A. came in and the young red-haired public defender took her place opposite him at the table in front of the benches where some of the other lawyers were already seated. The bailiff came in and checked the thermostat, tapping the little cage with his finger and peering at it before he sat down. Finally the clerk entered from a side door and called: All rise, and the judge came in, a short heavy dark-haired man in a black robe, and everybody stood until he was seated behind his high desk, then the clerk said: Be seated, and the judge called the first case.

  Hoyt’s case came about an hour later. He sat beside the sheriff’s deputy, barely able to stay awake, while various Holt County defendants rose as their names were called and stood at the lectern between the lawyers’ tables and listened to the judge. A boy came forward and the judge motioned for him to take his cap off. The boy removed his cap. The judge asked him if he had acquired auto insurance since the last time he’d appeared in court. The boy said he had and held up a paper. All right, you can go, the judge said. A woman in jeans and a pink shirt was next and her lawyer rose beside her and told the court that one of the causes of her current stress was in custody in Greeley now and that she herself was ready to go to jail today at five o’clock. The judge sentenced the woman to seven days in the county jail and ordered that she abstain from alcohol for two years and informed her that she was to serve one year of supervised probation and do forty-eight hours of public service. When he finished speaking the woman turned and went out into the hall with two girlfriends. Her face had turned red and she had already begun to cry. Her friends put their arms around her waist and whispered softly to her whatever encouragement they could think of.