Semi-Tough
Page 23
"Hell, I don't know what would happen," she said. "We might just laugh ourselves to death, I don't know. See. What we'd have to do is this: take a totally different view of each other as individuals."
"Do we get to wear costumes?" I said.
She said, "Damn it, I'm serious. You haven't got anybody else to fool around with, and I certainly don't. You don't enjoy talking to anybody but me, and I don't enjoy talking to anybody but you. Not in any length. Of course, we'd have to try very hard not to think about the seventh grade or anything."
She stopped again in the corridor.
"Aw, you know what, Billy C.? I do love you. I genuinely do. I was thinking the other night that all these years when the three of us have been together, that it was always old Eighty-eight for sex and smart-ass, and it was always old Twenty-three for sweetness and understanding," she said.
I sort of frowned at her and glanced down at my young Scotch.
"I wonder if my luggage has gone to Puerto Rico as usual," I said casually.
Barb continued.
"The thing about it is, you love me too," she said. "You always have. I know that. You know that. Everybody knows that. Can I tell you something? I have caught myself wondering why it was I could never really like any of those Cissy Walfords you kept bringing around. I think I know now that it wasn't just because they were empty-headed bitches, it was because they were with you. I never wanted anybody to be with you, except me. I always thought that you and Shake were both my own private property, and that was hardly fair to you because if the two of you were sharing me, then old Eighty-eight certainly had all the best of it in terms of getting laid."
I think two nuns were walking by in the corridor when Barb said the next thing.
"And you know what I suddenly thought this morning?" she said. "I was pining for you, I really was — for all the stuff you mean to me, in so many ways — and I thought, Christ-o-mighty, what if Billy C. on top of everything else is a great fuck!"
In the taxi and later on when we stopped by Clarke's to get something to eat, during all that time, I tried to explain to Barb why her grand scheme was such a bad one. And why, even if Shake Tiller did become a stoned monk — or whatever — which might detain him for a while; why, even so, her plan probably wouldn't turn out to be anything more than a waste of time.
It could even affect our friendship, I said.
But Barb kept on arguing.
"All you have to do is pretend I'm a brand new wool," she said.
"But you're Barbara Jane Bookman from Fort Worth," I said. "Your mother is planning a big debutante party and sending you off to school."
Barb pressed her leg against mine beneath the table in the back of Clarke's and whispered to me, kind of huskily:
"You can call me Miss Earthquake, fellow. Where you from? Des Moines?"
Well, I can't truthfully say that I know what my intentions were, but I finally agreed at least to play the game. Two or three days ago, we started dating, I guess you could call it.
It was pretty funny at first. We explored some new restaurants in some curious parts of town. She even got me to a Broadway show.
We did a lot of lines. Like I would say I'd just as soon hold T.J. Lambert's hand as hers. And she would say she knew she could never mean as much to me as Martha Nell Burch or Amelia Simcox, but if she could only have me in showers after workouts, that would be enough.
It was just last night that Barbara Jane managed to write the ending to this book, in a manner of speaking.
Are you listening close, Jim Tom?
Tell Crazy Iris to get her face out of your lap and pay attention. It's semi-touching, is what it is.
What happened was, Barb and me had decided to stay home so she could show me how she could fix one of my favorite meals, which is the chicken-fried steak, cream gravy and biscuits that we au know and love from Herb's Cafe.
She just missed taking it as good as they used to at Herb's, but of course the meal she fixed was a whole lot better than the food we sometimes pay a surly Frenchman forty dollars for.
We had a few drinks before and after, and then we plunged into some Irish, coffee. And mainly we just sat here on the sofa and kind of half-watched television and half-read magazine^
After a while, for some reason, I found myself looking at Barb. And afte*-a while, she looked over at me. And we just slouched there, looking at each other.
Finally, Barb said, "Hey, don't say anything funny, O.K.?"
I shrugged and smiled.
She kept on locking at me like I had never quite seen her look at me before. I can't exactly describe the look except that it was tenderly solemn, if that makes sense. Her lips kind of were parted and the whole thing made my eyes blur.
I put my hand over the back of her streaked butterscotch hair and kind of caressed it. And I gently squeezed the back of her neck. She kind of slid over nearer to me.
I almost said something then. Something smart-ass about how subtle we were with our indicators.
But what I did instead was, I hauled off and took it upon myself to kiss her like I most likely have kissed a lot of Cissy Walfords the first time out of the blocks.
And then I kissed her again the same way.
She turned around then and laid across me, facing up to me, with her legs stretched out on the sofa. She blinked at me and sort of quivered, and she softly rubbed her hand on my shoulder and my cheek and over my mouth.
We kissed again very seriously and held onto each other like we were in the back seat of a car out in the woods on a cold night and the windows were fogging up.
"Say, uh, whatever your name is," I said quietly. "I think this deal might work out."
And Barbara Jane said, "It sure as hell might. I'll be a sumbitch."
Table of Contents
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE