by test
Kerry sat silent in the shadows. He had been in only one fight before. In the tenth grade, a boy named Stan Sparkman had clipped his jaw. They had danced around each other a while, both waving their fists, a small crowd cheering, then Stan Sparkman had uppercut him. The punch had chipped the front face of a lower molar. Kerry never had it capped. Now in the darkness of his seat, he ran his tongue over the rough edges. Over the smooth half, then the rough.
"How did you get in here?"
"Hon, I just want to talk." His voice was low, stilted.
"I'm not saying anything till you tell me how you got in here. You broke in, didn't you?"
"I didn't break in."
"Breaking and entering is against the law. I can have you arrested."
"I didn't break in. I got a key from downstairs."
"Goddammit, they gave you a key? How can they give you a key?"
"Listen, just calm down. All I want is to talk. Why won't you talk with me?"
Kerry stared at Wayne's jacket looking for the bulge of a gun. If Wayne pulled a gun, Kerry was going out the window. He was going out the window and jumping off the balcony. So what if he sprained an ankle? He wasn't going to win any fight with a gun.
"Wayne, no. I'm tired and you're drunk."
"I am not."
"Call me tomorrow."
"I'm not drunk."
"Yes, you are."
Wayne rubbed his forehead and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Kerry. He placed his hand on the curve of Sharon's foot. At work, Buddy sometimes had to throw out drunks. Three things to know about dealing with drunks, Buddy said. First thing is don't talk. Second is if you're sure there's going to be a fightabsolutely surethen throw the first punch. And third, don't stop winging until the other guy can't get up.
"I'm not drunk," Wayne said. "I'm not drunk." Sharon glanced at Kerry. Then Wayne turned and saw him. "Who is this guy?" Wayne stood. "Who are you?"
Kerry stood, too, his back peeling wet off the chair's vinyl. He clenched his fists. He watched Wayne's hands.
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"Get out of here, Wayne," Sharon said.
Wayne started toward Kerry, but stopped. "What the hell are you doing here with my wife?"
"Hey," Kerry said.
"Hey nothing, jerk." Wayne rolled his shoulders. His neck was thick. "This guy's just a kid," he said. "What the hell are you doing with this kid?"
"Wayne, it's none of your business," Sharon said.
"The hell it isn't. You're my wife."
"You mean ex," Kerry said.
"I mean wife, punk."
One more step and Kerry would swing. He wasn't sure where on Wayne's face he should hit. His jaw? His nose? An emptiness hung in Kerry's gut. Earlier tonight, Sharon had said that she was divorced. Had she lied? Or was Wayne lying now? The air conditioner blew cold on Kerry's back.
Sharon stood and pushed Wayne in the chest. "Get out," she said. "You have no right to comment on what I do, how I sleep, who I sleep with." She slapped him hard across the face.
He stepped back and adjusted his glasses. "I just wanted to talk," he said.
"You come in here when you have no right to. You wake me up, you violate my privacy. I'm up here trying to learn a trade so I can support myself and our daughter, and you come breaking in here wanting to talk about some damn pleasure trip to Cancun. You wouldn't even ask me except that your girlfriend stiffed you."
"That's not true." Wayne smoothed his hand over his cheek. "That's not true."
"On top of that, you try to tell me how to live my personal life. Just who the hell do you think you are, Wayne?"
Wayne looked at the door. "Can't you step out in to the hall and talk with me alone for a minute?"
"I'm in my nightgown. I'm not going out there where everyone can see my tits."
Kerry stepped close behind Sharon. She smelled good, a strong musk smell. He wanted to hit Wayne. Wayne's glasses were black circles glinting yellow flecks of light. His forehead was creased with sweat.
"Damn," Wayne said and started for the door.
"Go into the bathroom," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"Just do as I say." She pushed him and he bumped into the bed, his hand catching the mattress for balance.
Kerry started to follow, but didn't. He waited for a sign from her, a couple of words, a nod, something to tell him what to do. But she didn't even look at him. She disappeared with Wayne behind the closet partition. The bathroom door creaked open, a light came on, then the door clicked shut.
It was quiet. Kerry was just standing there. Then he turned on the lamp
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over the end table. Did she want him to leave or stay? From the bathroom there were muffled voices. Wayne's voice was low and slurred. Sharon's was shrill at first, then soft. Kerry opened the door to the hallway. No one was outside. The ice machine at the end hummed, then crinkled as ice slid down. How could he just leave? What if she needed his help? He turned on the room's overhead light and walked back in. In the covers of the bed he found his shirt, wrinkled. The sheets were cool with sweat. An hour ago, just an hour ago, he had been with her on that bed. Inside her. He had to do something. He was supposed to do something. He turned on the televisionjust the picture, not the sound. A basketball game was on. The Knicks were playing the Lakers.
There was a slap in the bathroom. He walked round the closet partition and listened for Sharon's voice. Nothing. A black skirt and navy blazer, pressed and covered with plastic, hung in the closet. He started to call out for her, but then she was talking, soft and smooth.
He shut the door to the hallway, then opened it. Better to have it open, he thought. He walked back to the drapes and opened them all the way. The moon high in the north had the same purplish-white glow as the streetlamps. Its light tinged silver the leading edge of some horizon clouds. In the corner of the drapes he found his other sock and put it on. Then he sat down in the chair and waited. He was waiting for Wayne.
There were two more slaps in the bathroom. Sharon's voice turned shrill. Then someone was crying, either crying or laughing. Kerry couldn't tell. Again he walked around the partition and again he waited until Sharon's voice came through soft before walking back.
On the television the players flashed up and down the court, their bodies colliding on rebounds, their sweat glistening in the lights during foul shots. Why had she told him that she was divorced? How did Wayne find out she was here? In this room? A man walked by the door and looked in. The man was fat and had gray sideburns and a dark suit with no tie. Kerry stared hard at him until he moved down the hall.
Kerry slipped off his shirt and studied his own chest in the mirror. It was milk-white with brown freckles. His chest was thintoo thin. Long veins ran across his biceps and forearms, but the muscles were soft. When he had first come to Amarillo, he had gotten on with the caliché pits west of town. He had ridden on the back of a gravel truck with some Mexicans shoveling spillover and coughing in the thick white dust. The work was hard and hothe was always scrambling to keep upbut the pay was fair and the Mexicans made the days go fast with their stories and their teasing. At first, he had been scared that he wouldn't make it, that he would collapse in the dust and heat. But after a couple of weeks, he proved to himself that he could make it. It was then that he started worrying about something elsewhether he could keep doing it, day in, day out, week after week. So one morning, the morning of a day he was sure he
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could make through, Kerry decided to quit. He finished eating breakfast, took off his work clothes, and went back to bed.
Kerry wrapped his shirt around his hand and imagined his arm extended and connecting with Wayne's forehead, sweat and blood spewing, Wayne falling back off the bed. He turned the chair toward the partition and flexed his arms. This was how Wayne would see him when he came out. Kerry imagined himself hitting Wayne again, this time Wayne falling through the window, out onto the balcony, then over the white stucco railing a
nd into darkness. Tomorrow night he would tell this story to Buddy. He would make a big breakfast tomorrow. Early. If there were any eggs in the refrigerator he would scramble them with salsa. Then he would buy a newspaper and check the want ads for jobs. Next month, Buddy was quitting the Hut. Got an oil field job, Buddy said, a real job where you sweat and you work hard and you can barely lift your arms at the end of the day.
Kerry was quitting too. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he was going to quit.
The bathroom door opened. Kerry stood. Better to be standing, he thought. He clenched the shirt around his fist. He was ready to fight now. In the mirror he saw Wayne come out first. Wayne's face was flushed. Kerry took a small step forward, but then Wayne slipped out the door into the hallway. Was that it? Wasn't Wayne coming back? Kerry started to call out for him, but didn't.
Sharon shut the door, fastened the chain, and turned off the overhead light. Quietly she walked around the partition. Kerry watched her eyes to see if she was surprised that he had stayed. There was no change. She really didn't look at him.
"Where's Wayne?" He was still clenching the shirt.
She didn't say anything. Her cheeks were not red. She had not been slapped. She slid by him to the end table and turned off the lamp. Then she pulled off her nightgown. In the light of the television, her skin was gray.
"Where's Wayne?" he asked again.
"How long are you going to watch that?"
"Is Wayne coming back?"
"No," she said.
"How can you be sure?"
"I'm sure." She slipped into bed and pulled the sheets around her.
"How did he know you were here?"
She didn't say anything. She reached over and checked the alarm on her clock. Then she disconnected the phone from the wall.
"How did he know?" Kerry asked again.
"I told youmaybe one of his friends saw me. I don't know. Turn that off, will you?"
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"I told youmaybe one of his friends saw me. I don't know. Turn that off, will you?"
Kerry clicked off the television. At first, the room was black, but then Kerry could see herher legs, her shouldersin the curve of sheets. She was lying on her side, facing the window, her back to his side of the bed. He unrolled his shirt and slipped it on. "Are you still married?"
"Kerry, I'm really tired."
"Are you still married?"
"Yes."
"Why did you tell me you were divorced?"
She didn't say anything.
"I want to know why you told me you were divorced."
She sat up in bed, her back against the headboard, the sheets twisted around her thighs. Then she slowly lit a cigarette. She blew out the match and tossed it in the tray. "If I had told you I was married, would you have come up here?"
"You wanted me up here, didn't you? You wanted me up here when he came?"
She didn't say anything for a while. Cigarette smoke hung green and dry in the light from the window. "Is that what you think?"
"I'm leaving," he said.
"Kerry, why are you leaving?"
He tucked in his shirt.
She smiled. "Kerry, why are you leaving?"
"I'm going to find him," he said. "I was ready to fight."
She started laughing, a shrill laugh, and he had to fumble with the chain before getting the door open. He slammed it behind him. The hallway was empty. Ice crinkled in the machine. He started for the stairwell, then decided that Wayne had taken the elevator. Better to retrace Wayne's steps, he thought. The elevator doors opened and closed in a windless rush. Downstairs, the lobby was deserted, just the desk clerk reading a magazine. Kerry checked the lobby's bathroom. The white porcelain on the sinks and urinals was hard and bright. No one was there. When Kerry came back into the lobby, the desk clerk asked if he needed help.
"No," he said. He stopped at the cigarette machine. He did not know where to go. He didn't even know what kind of car that Wayne drove. The carpet was red shag. A black grill gate was closed across the entrance to the Camelot.
"Are you a guest here tonight?" the desk clerk asked.
"No," he said.
"Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave. The lounge is closed."
Kerry stared hard at him. The desk clerk was young. He wore a red blazer and black silk tie. "Go to hell," Kerry said and stepped outside into the dark silent wind.
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Duck Hunting
by Yesim Atil
Mehmet sits in the back seat of the '68 Corvair. All his mother has to do is hold the steering wheel straight on the crushed seashell road and try to see around Mehmet's father, who is sitting on the hood. They are driving by Dardenelles Channel in Bandirma, and although the village is just below Istanbul, there are no more houses along the channel. They head west and all the car windows are open. Through his mother's sunglasses Mehmet watches the fading maple leaves. The dark glasses turn the gray morning brown and leave the bright yellow leaves in midair, flickering like sunlight through lace curtains.
Occasionally, Mehmet sees mud huts in front of which boys smaller than himself sell fish. Mehmet takes off the glasses to watch. They wave at the car and yell, ''Cheap shad!" His mother repeats the phrase. His father waves back with the barrel of his gun and Mehmet watches it blend with the dark sky. It is early morning and the Marmara sea air blows cold in the windows. Just beyond the trees on their right side he can see the water. On their left, the lake is still and reflects nothing on its surface. They are driving, Mehmet hopes, to the point where the sea joins the lake. The fish which breed there could be kept in any aquarium. Mehmet wants to combine his saltwater fish with the freshwater ones and someday have a giant wall of glass full of many fish.
All around them marsh grass leans with dew as if under water Mehmet sticks his tongue out to taste the salt in the air. His mother leans her head out the window, keeps it there for a long time, trying to see the road. The uncovered parts of her hair fly in the air, the moist sea wind glittering in each strand. Mehmet's mother has cotton in her ears and she doesn't respond to the shots. When they go over bumps, the blue dots on his mother's scarf blend together; the beads of water in her hair break into one another as if the shots are hitting her. Mehmet jumps high in the back seat to signal each blast for his mother. For a long time it is fun and Mehmet makes scared faces to go along with the jumps, then he is bored. He leans back in the seat, sips Coca-Cola through a straw. He counts seven ducks as they fall into the marsh grass. First they spin with the blast as if in some sort of fancy flight, then fall, brown and heavy like stones. There will be too many for dinner tonight. This is easy hunting. They will simply pick up the ducks on the way back, his father tossing them into the trunk by their heads. In the trunk and in the air ducks are brown and colorless. Mehmet
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knows that in the white porcelain sink in the back yard the ducks will glow bright green and blue. When his father plucks them, some of the feathers will blow out of the water and swirl over his head. That is Mehmet's favorite part and he will clap for the show. Then, his father will dance in circles around the sink, his black hair gleaming with duck feathers.
Mehmet watches the back of his father's jacket. It is pressed into little roads on the glass. When he shoots, it is like an earthquakethe road crumbles, the whole earth shakes. More ducks fall. He counts ten. "The whole neighborhood is going to eat ducks," his mother says. Mehmet thinks about delivering duck. When you bring gifts people are happy. He will give them the ducks and they will pat him on the head.
