The Outside Lands

by Hannah Kohler

  Mrs. Dewey placed a wan look on Jeannie. “Right away?”

  “Right away,” said Lee.

  Spit gathered in Jeannie’s mouth; she swallowed.

  “He’s got to report to the draft board in two weeks,” said Mrs. Dewey.

  “The next letter in your mailbox with a stamp like that will be an exemption,” said Lee.

  “Don’t worry,” said Jeannie; and, rash with sympathy for the older woman, who suddenly looked feeble in her swamping pearls and outsize wing collar, she reached her hand across the table.

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Dewey. She took Jeannie’s hand, pressing it with cold, strong fingers. “You’re doing a good thing.” Jeannie squeezed back, her chest flushing warm, and glanced at Lee, who was fixing Mrs. Dewey with an expectant look.

  Mrs. Dewey sensed Lee’s scrutiny; she let go of Jeannie and patted at the pockets of the coat that hung on the back of her chair. “Here.” She drew out a fat, cream-colored envelope. “It’s all there.”

  Lee smiled, took the envelope and stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans, and turned for the waiter. “Check, please.”

  The waiter placed the check on the table and stacked their empty cups and tumblers, his dark fingers working to gather the torn sugar packets.

  They stood from their chairs, Mrs. Dewey’s hands trembling over her coat buttons. Jeannie fastened her purse and looked up to see Mrs. Dewey staring at something behind her, something indecipherable at her lips. She turned to follow the older woman’s gaze, and saw the waiter’s back retreating into the kitchen.

  “Looks like that one’s safe,” said Mrs. Dewey, her face drawing into an unpleasant smile. “Safe and happy as a clam, bussing tables and taking tips.” She hoisted her purse over her shoulder and pushed her way out of the cafe, disappearing into the traffic on the sidewalk.

  “I don’t know why he doesn’t just tell the draft board he’s gay and be done with it,” said Lee as they headed for Lombard. They walked fast, Jeannie buzzed on a mix of anxiety and elation, the way she used to feel when she and Nancy skipped out of high school at recess to smoke cigarettes on the beach.

  “You think he’s a homosexual?”

  “Come on, the guy’s never had a girlfriend and he wants to work with panties?”

  “He’s certainly a mommy’s boy.”

  “Rich, white, and dumb. Recipe for a happy life.” Lee quickened her pace, like she wanted to keep Jeannie at her heels.

  Jeannie half ran to catch her. “What’s in the envelope?”

  “Money,” said Lee, striding.

  “How much?”

  “A lot.” Lee turned her head to give Jeannie a brief smile.

  Jeannie caught her arm; Lee slowed. “I thought this was about doing the right thing,” said Jeannie. “Not making money.”

  Lee shrugged. “It’s a donation. For the cause.”

  “It didn’t look like a donation. It looked like a fee.”

  “Who do you think’s paying for the buses? And the posters? In any case, we only ask the ones who can afford it. It doesn’t mean anything to her. She’s a merry-widow millionaire!” They stopped at an intersection; Lee took Jeannie’s face in her warm hands. “Trust me,” she said.

  It was still light when Jeannie returned to Noe. As she walked up the sidewalk, she saw Charlie standing at Cynthia’s window, his palm on the glass, watching her approach. He wouldn’t speak to her as she carried him back to their apartment, just put his pale face on her shoulder and closed his eyes. That evening, she watched him as he squatted in the bathtub, pudgy and solemn, guiding his boat through the bubbles, and imagined all the things she would do to stop him coming to harm.

  “I’ve had a hell of a day,” said Billy, un-nooseing his necktie as Jeannie switched off the television set.

  “You want a drink?” said Jeannie. She opened Dorothy’s old bar cabinet (still too grand for the room—however much Dorothy insisted, it had never made itself at home) and removed a bottle of Canadian Club.

  “Please,” he said.

  She poured an inch into a dusty tumbler.

  Billy paced, touching the photographs on the fireplace. “Well, I didn’t get it,” he said. He picked up their wedding photograph, rubbed its face with his sleeve, set it down, and turned to Jeannie.

  “Didn’t get what?” She handed him his drink.

  “The fellowship.”

  “The fellowship?”

  “The damn fellowship, Jeannie. You remember? The one I’ve been slaving for, for months.”

  “I’m sorry, of course I remember.” She’d been so consumed with her own crusades and disobediences, she’d forgotten Billy’s struggles.

  “Fairchild gave it to Gibb,” said Billy. He tipped back the liquor, a wince tightening his face, and Jeannie wondered if he actually liked the stuff.

  “Oh, honey.” She thought to step toward him; but something in the way he was standing—the tension in his body—stopped her.

  “‘Not enough clinical experience.’” Billy turned the words out of his mouth like they tasted bad. “Four years living in a hospital, feeling sicker than most of the damn patients, and it’s not enough?” He shook his head, his face gripped in an expression of disgust. His suit was creased; he was gray-skinned and bruise-eyed, as though the hospital had left its dirty fingerprints on him.

  “Have you talked to your father about it?” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

  Billy clenched his jaw. “What the hell has it got to do with him?” he said. He turned away. “This place is a mess.”

  Jeannie swallowed the rebuke. “Here,” she said, bringing the bottle and pouring him one, two more swigs. He rubbed his chin and swilled the glass, staring as if searching for something under the roll of the liquor.

  “I’m working so hard just to stand still,” he said. He set his tumbler on the coffee table with a knock, and dropped onto the couch. “My father thinks it’s so damn easy—get your fellowship, publish, climb the ladder. In his day you just had to go to Stanford and drink at the Pacific-Union, and soon enough they’d make you chief.” He kicked off his shoes; his socks showed sweat at the toes.

  “It’s hard on you,” said Jeannie, sitting beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder. He moved his hand to grip hers, and squeezed.

  “At least I have you,” he said. He sighed; then, remembering something, he checked his watch. “Damn it. I wanted to catch the news.”

  “I watched a little,” said Jeannie. “They’re saying it’s the worst month yet for casualties.”

  “Hmm.” Billy leaned for his drink.

  “I can’t stop thinking about Kip, out there.”

  “He’ll be all right. He’s artillery. He’s practically in the rear.”

  “But kids like him are dying. And we’re still sending them, more and more of them. Can you imagine? If it were Charlie?”

  “Every generation has its war. My grandfather’s, it was World War One. My father’s, World War Two. Then Korea. This one’s ours.”

  But you missed this one, thought Jeannie. But she said, “You get people coming to you? To get exempted?”

  “From the draft? Sometimes.”

  “And you help them?”

  “If they’re sick, I’ll write that they’re sick, yes.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  “I heard that—I heard some doctors send letters. To say boys are medically unfit. To save them from the draft.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I saw it in a newspaper, maybe.”

  “Well, that’s a goddamn stupid thing to do. Not to mention criminal. And unethical and immoral.” Billy finished his drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “But—”

  “Look,” said Billy. “These boys are being asked to serve their country. They owe it to their country to do it.” He pulled off his socks and clenched his soft, white toes. “I tell you, a lot of them a
re better off going over there than staying here. Take Kip. If he stayed here, Lord knows what trouble he’d be getting into. The Marines will be the making of him. You watch.”

  Panic climbed over Jeannie; and she realized how idiotic it had been for her to believe she could argue him around. She watched her husband as he sniffed hard and exhaled; and for the first time in weeks—maybe months—she really saw him: the weakening hairline; the wrinkles at his eyes; the baby fold of fat beneath his chin. His collar was missing a button: the kind of detail a wife should have fixed. She put her palm to his cheek and turned his head toward her and, gently, pushed her lips against his. They kissed—like they used to kiss, in his Chevy, pulled up by the park, before they were married. She traveled her hand down his chest; but he held it still, fretting at her nails with a rough finger. He took his lips from hers and sat back against the pillows.

  “I don’t know what else I can do,” he said. His face was strained red. “I try, but I’m not enough.” Billy looked straight into her, a sharp candor in his face, like he was seeing her stripped bare, could spy the dress-up clothes crowded at her feet—and here it was, the question she dreaded, forming on his mouth, but when the words came, they weren’t what she expected. “Am I enough?”

  “What a question,” she said, moistening her mouth. “Come here.” Jeannie drew his head into her lap and stroked his hair, following the eddy of a cowlick at the back of his head—the same one Charlie had—and felt tender with sympathy for him. “You’re enough,” she said. Billy breathed, and his body relaxed, and Jeannie saw herself, solid and calm on the couch, the mothering wife, the angel at the hearth. They stayed that way for a little while, listening to the smothered noise of the television set upstairs, the lift and drop of their matched breath. Jeannie, wondering if Billy was asleep, glanced down to see his eyelashes cut a blink. She imagined Mrs. Dewey staring at her son’s face, watching his skin-and-tissue vulnerability, his soul made flesh; and feeling safe in their quiet affection, she decided to try again.

  “I met up with somebody today,” she murmured. “A woman.”

  Billy shifted in her lap. “Who?”

  “I’ve known her a little while.” Here was the opportunity—with Billy’s hours and Dorothy’s dinner invites, it wouldn’t come around again soon enough. “Her son got called up by the draft board,” she said. “She’s worried. Real worried.”

  Billy sat to look at her.

  “He’s only a kid,” said Jeannie. Billy was frowning. “He’s—very delicate. Has a delicate heart. Not a medical problem, exactly, but—he won’t survive it. I wondered if—”

  “If what?”

  “If there was anything you could do?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Could you help him? Write a letter for him?”

  Disbelief pleated Billy’s forehead. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Jeannie flushed. “No, I just—” She breathed in, exhaling in a sigh. “You should have seen her, Billy,” she said. “She was so—desperate.”

  Billy dropped his head. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” His voice was a murmur. “I—”

  Billy held up his hand. “I hope to God you didn’t tell her I would do this.” He was loud now; Jeannie wondered if their neighbors could hear.

  “Of course not.” Her words had the strange, uneven ring of a lie; she hoped Billy hadn’t heard it too.

  Billy studied the carpet, then flicked Jeannie a look of contempt. He laughed—a hard, drained laugh—and shook his head. “God.”

  “What?”

  “Is this what this was all about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The drinks, the kiss, the whole good wife act?”

  His words, salted with truth, stung. “I don’t—”

  Billy bent to pull on his socks and shoved his feet into his shoes. “I’m going out,” he said.

  “Billy.”

  “Don’t wait up for me.”

  Jeannie heard him stride the hallway and slam the front door. There was a pause—he was buttoning his jacket, or checking for his wallet—then the tap of feet down the steps to the street and a cry as Charlie, moved from his sleep, discovered he was alone in the dark.

  Jeannie shushed her son back to sleep, then returned to the living room. She sat, letting tears wet her face, her throat hum with sadness, until the building fell quiet—the television set upstairs switched off, the traffic outside dead. Jeannie heard her own blubbed breaths, and her skin crept with self-dislike.

  She waited for hours for Billy to return, switching television networks and searching his backlog of newspapers for articles that would make her afraid—stories of American bases under siege, lost helicopters, burned villages. Billy didn’t return. He was probably at the hospital, sleeping in one of the cots they kept for residents; perhaps he was dozing in his car.

  As the clock turned one, Jeannie was taken by a thought, and she went to the medical bag that was lying on its belly in the hallway. She parsed through Billy’s things—a stethoscope, a pair of medical gloves, several ink-bleeding pens, a half pack of Fruit Stripe gum—until she found what she wanted. She went to her bedroom, pulled her old Smith Corona from under the bed, and carried it to the kitchen table. She sat and hauled up the copy of Principles of Internal Medicine that sat, massive and Delphic, in the middle of the table, surrounded by drifts of paper. Even though Billy had passed his boards weeks ago, she still hadn’t reclaimed the space; and as she took the book in her hands, helped the cover open and ran her finger over the fine paper, her forehead kinked as she deciphered the type, it was as though she were him, puzzling late into the night over a difficult illness.

  She turned to “Diseases of the Organs” and flipped the pages, wavering over the blood and the lungs before settling on the heart. She fed a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter, and rolled it into place. She was rusty—stuck keys, chewed paper—and balled the first two attempts into the pocket of her dress; but the knack returned, and she drummed out the words, carefully pulling the paper from the machine. She pressed her finger to the ink, then slid the paper into a magazine, packed the typewriter into its case, shut off the lights, and headed for bed.

  She woke to the sound of the telephone ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Jeannie. Did I wake you?”

  “It’s all right.” She glanced at the alarm clock—nearly six. “Charlie will be awake soon.”

  “I’m sorry I stormed out last night.” Billy breathed into the receiver. “I just—I’m under a lot of pressure at the moment.”

  “I know.”

  “I came to the hospital,” said Billy. “Not such a bad thing, it turns out. They needed the extra hands.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you’re trying to help. But, Jeannie—you have to stay out of things like this. You could get into a lot of trouble.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry.”

  “Leave the do-gooding to Mrs. Harper Senior, hey?” Jeannie heard the smile in his voice. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “’Bye, honey.”

  Jeannie replaced the receiver; then she picked it up again and dialed Mrs. Moon’s number.

  “Yes?” It was Walter Moon, Mrs. Moon’s nephew, with the burned arms and the flat stare; she knew she had woken him, and a part of her was pleased.

  “It’s Jeannie. Is she there?” Things between Lee and her mother were bad, and more and more often, Lee was crashing at Mrs. Moon’s.

  “What the hell? What time is it?”

  “I need to talk to her.”

  “At six o’clock in the fucking morning?”

  “Can you just get her?”

  “She’s not here. She’ll be here later.”

  “Tell her to come see me. Today.”

  “Jesus Christ. Okay.” Jeannie set down the receiver and heard the rattle of Charlie’s toy rabbit as her son stirred in his bed.

  She came later than usual, when darkness had closed in on t
he street. Charlie was long asleep, and Jeannie was standing in the kitchen, worrying at the casserole on the stove. The knock on the door was slight enough to seem imaginary—but the shadow told Jeannie it was her.

  Jeannie opened the door. “It’s late.”

  Lee smiled; her eyes were wide and dark.

  “You’re high,” said Jeannie.

  “Are you going to let me in?”

  Jeannie stepped aside to let Lee pass, easing the door shut behind them. Lee dropped a light kiss on Jeannie’s mouth, then slipped off her sandals and carried her naked feet toward Jeannie’s bedroom. She usually came Mondays and Thursdays, when Billy worked late at the hospital; it was Wednesday. Jeannie checked her wristwatch.

  “He’ll be home soon,” she said.

  “Has he phoned yet?” Lee called from the bedroom. Billy’s habit—romantic, practical, habitual—of telephoning before leaving the hospital.

  Jeannie followed her into the bedroom and closed the door. “Not yet,” she said, standing with her back against the door.

  “There’s time,” said Lee. She took Jeannie by the hip. Her mouth was warm on Jeannie’s neck; her scent of oranges and cigarettes; the sound of her breath. Her lips went to Jeannie’s, her tongue light and slow in her mouth; and Jeannie’s body filled with heat. She closed her eyes, moved her palm under Lee’s blouse, the cotton grainy at her knuckles—over the warmth of her stomach; the ridge of her rib cage; the swell and weight of her breasts. Sweat pooled at the base of Jeannie’s back, and she was burning. Lee’s fingers went to Jeannie’s dress, finding the ease and drag of the zipper; and the air was at Jeannie’s throat, her stomach, her thighs—the heft of fabric dropping to the floor. Lee knelt, unclasping and rolling Jeannie’s stockings down one leg, then the other; undoing her garter belt, letting it fall; pushing Jeannie’s panties down, down to her thighs, to her feet, and now Jeannie was naked, standing in a heap of nylon and cotton, the air clean against her skin.