The Hard Blue Sky

by Shirley Ann Grau

  I came real close to getting stuck on her, he told himself. And he answered himself: What else was going to happen, shut up in a boat with her like that.

  “God-damn bitch,” he said aloud.

  The bartender heard him and leaned over in his direction. “Who that?”

  “Girl I used to know.”

  “Good looker?”

  “Man,” Inky said, “you’d dream about this one for a piece of strange.”

  The bartender chipped a sliver of ice and dropped it into Inky’s water.

  “Only she was fooling,” Inky said.

  “Huh?”

  “She wasn’t all that fond of her husband.”

  “Never are,” the bartender said.

  “Hey, Petie, hey!” somebody shouted in the room.

  “She wasn’t having anything to do,” Inky said, “not with anybody.” Man, she lay herself out on the deck, smearing oil all over herself. And you’d see her put it on and rub it all over and turn around and take off her bra. And you could tell by the way her back moved that she was rubbing it in her breasts—she’d rub herself all over and squirm because it was so good. She didn’t need a man nor anybody else.

  And Inky turned around and leaning back on the bar, began to watch the room.

  Julius was waving at him. Inky nodded back.

  Julius came up to him. “I been calling you. You gone deaf?”

  “I didn’t hear nothing.”

  “Sure I call you. I say: ‘Petie, hey.’ ” Julius stopped and began to grin. A little grin that began at the corner of his mouth and kept spreading until it turned into a laugh and he had to bend over and slap his knees. “That ain’t your name!”

  “What?”

  “Petie.”

  “No,” Inky said.

  A girl passed within arm reach. Julius patted her behind. She spun around. And glared at Inky for a minute.

  “Look, lady,” he said, “it wasn’t me.”

  Julius chuckled. Her eyes swung over to him and hung still for a minute. Then she began to giggle as she backed safely away.

  “How’d you keep from getting your ears flattened?”

  Julius waved his fat pink hands. “Me? Nobody going to take old Julius serious. Not no young man, he ain’t going to get mad.”

  “I take you serious,” Inky said. “I wouldn’t let you get in ten feet of any woman of mine.”

  The little hands folded together solemnly. And Julius pursed his lips.

  Inky worked away at his bottle steadily, not slugging himself all at once so that he would turn groggy. He was working himself into a beautiful glow. He hadn’t had a good drunk like this in months.

  “You getting a load there, man,” Hector said.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” Inky said.

  “Long as you ain’t a mean drunk.”

  “Me?” Inky said. “Who’s drunk?”

  “Okay,” Hector said.

  Cecile came up and rubbed her chin on his shoulder. “How’s he making out?” she asked Hector as if Inky weren’t there.

  Inky said: “Ask me.”

  Those light-colored eyes of hers crinkled up in a grin. “How you doing?”

  “Just great,” he said. “Just plain great.”

  “Yea, I can see … you sure you don’t want to dance?”

  “How many times I got to tell everybody …”

  “Okay,” Hector said.

  “If you do,” Cecile said, “there’s them around wouldn’t find it any great trouble.”

  “Yea,” Inky said. “I noticed one eying me for size.”

  Cecile laughed, out loud. “He don’t need us,” she said. “And I got to dance, me,” Cecile pulled at Hector’s arm. “Can’t keep still.”

  They sidled away through the crowd. Inky went on drinking, carefully, building his glow.

  That one girl, the one he had noticed, kept finding excuses to walk back and forth in front of him, never looking at him, but always looking him over. Inky tried to catch her eye, but she was far too quick.

  She was good-looking: dark hair, dark eyes, and dark olive skin. There’d be Negro blood in her somewhere, Inky thought. She was wearing an orange dress—bright orange, the color of life-jackets—cut very full, so that it was always moving around her, always swirling, as if she were just stepping out of it.

  One of the neon signs began flickering. Lacy Livaudais shook it, hard as he could. Steve, the other bartender, went over too, and tapped it with his fingernail. Nothing happened. So they both shrugged and forgot it.

  The uncertain light made Inky’s eyes twitch and burn. A tear went dripping down his left cheek. “Jesus,” he said softly. He started outside, remembered and reached back for his bottle and took it along.

  It was a hot night, moonless, with stars so bright and low that you’d think they were caught in the trees. It was still too, all you could hear was the high singing of mosquitoes and the little sucking sound of the surf, not fifteen feet away. The steps of the porch went down into the sand.

  It’ll go in a hurricane, Inky thought.

  But what about the whole island, he wondered. There wasn’t any height or real-looking substance to it. The wind and the Gulf together could lift it right off and scatter it all up and down the coast in a million billion pieces. But it hadn’t gone—and nobody remembered to count the hurricanes that had passed while people were living here.

  It made you dizzy, Inky thought, all the generations that had lived here and all the wind that had blown over them. … It was thoughts you never had unless you had a few drinks too.

  Inky scratched his head and half sat on the railing. Over in the far corner of the porch on a little wicker settee a couple was necking. They did not seem to notice him.

  The Gulf had turned black. Where’d the porpoises go, the ones that he had seen playing in the afternoon. Maybe some bigger fish was chasing them. He tried to remember. Maybe a barracuda.

  The screen door opened behind him, but he did not bother.

  “Man, you are a foxy one,” a woman’s voice said, “don’t even leave his bottle out on the bar while he’s gone.”

  The words and the voice registered slowly. When he looked there was only the back of the bright orange dress.

  Son of a bitch, he told himself. And went back inside to the bar.

  His glass was still there. And standing next to it was the tall thin boy he had met on the beach. Inky said: “You know anything that eats a porpoise?”

  “Huh?” Perique just stared.

  “Nothing,” Inky said and felt his ears go hot, “I was just talking.”

  “What eats what?”

  The ice was melted. Inky leaned across the bar. “I need some of this, might need a chaser.” And to Perique he said: “I was just talking crazy. Forget it.”

  “Sure,” Perique said.

  There was a girl with him too, Inky had noticed her trim form. And now he noticed her face, and shook his head and looked again. “I sure do keep running into you.”

  Annie said: “You look like you having a good time.”

  “Come on,” Perique said, “have a dance with me.”

  “Quit ordering me around,” Annie snapped. “I didn’t come with you.”

  “Who’d you come with?” Inky asked.

  “Nobody,” she said, “I’m big enough to find my way home.”

  Inky took another sip out of his bottle. “I guess you can if you want to.”

  She turned away from him, abruptly. “Let’s try one,” she said to Perique.

  The girl in orange kept crossing back and forth.

  She was alone too. Or at least, she was never alone. But she was never long with any one man.

  The dress was cut low in back. You could see the two little points of her shoulder blades.

  Inky finished his bottle. Lacy asked: “You want another?”

  “Hell,” Inky said, “I don’t want to pass out.”

  “You got work to do yet tonight?” He scratched his bald s
kull through the felt cap.

  “Maybe,” Inky said.

  A big brown hard-shelled beetle bumbled into his shirt and hung there. Inky flicked it down to the floor.

  “Hey,” Lacy said, “don’t step on that. It’s a stink bug.”

  “Get me a drink,” Inky said.

  “A bottle?”

  He shook his head.

  “Man, you losing ground,” Lacy said.

  The girl passed back again. Her legs were a little too thin. She was getting rid of her dancing partner.

  “I got to get home,” she was telling him. “I got to sleep sometime.”

  He was tugging at her arm, a thin wiry fellow. “C’mon, no? Best dancer in the place.”

  She pulled away. “Where I leave my purse?”

  It was down at the far end of the bar. As she headed to it, Inky tossed off his drink and ducked out the door. He moved into the dark clump of little trees to the left of the building. Then he squatted down on the ground to rest. His head was singing, just a little.

  She came out, finally, brushing back her hair with one hand. She came down the steps, and then stopped and took off her shoes. She giggled softly to herself as she walked along, holding them one in each hand.

  Inky got to his feet very slowly.

  “I’m coming,” she said, “don’t hurry me!”

  How can she see me, Inky thought, unless she’s got eyes like a cat. But he stepped out and touched her arm. She jumped back, gasping.

  Inky stood looking after her, trying to understand, shaking his head slowly. “Wha’s the matter,” he asked her. “Wha’s the matter?”

  She took a couple more steps back until she brushed against a hackberry. The swirling skirts caught up on the heavy thorns.

  Inky still hadn’t moved. Something was wrong. And he was trying to understand, drunkenly. And then he noticed the other shadow, just down the path a little. Or maybe he heard the very faint click of the switch-blade knife.

  He was too drunk. And fighting with a knife wasn’t one of the things he wanted to do sober. So he didn’t move.

  The girl in the orange dress was keeping very still. You could hear her heavy breathing. You could tell she loved a fight.

  Inky tried to stop his head swinging, tried to hold it still so he could see better. He used both hands finally, propped them one on each side of his chin.

  The man had taken a step out into the white crushed-shell path. You couldn’t see the knife, but he’d be holding it low.

  The woman began carefully pulling her dress off the thorns.

  “Jesus,” Inky said softly.

  “Who you looking for?” the shadow said.

  Inky rubbed at his eyes, and shuffled his feet on the ground, trying to be sure of his balance. For a second the red neon of the beer signs caught and reflected something. Button, Inky told himself. Or the blade.

  He rubbed furiously at his eyes, trying to clear his head. He moved his shoulders: they felt stiff.

  The woman still hadn’t got her dress free. She was half bent over, twisted to one side, and she was working gently at each one. Calmly, as if she’d been out for a walk on a Saturday noonday.

  “Son of a bitch,” Inky whispered.

  The man came out into the center of the path. A step or two closer. He wasn’t hurrying, but he was coming.

  And then there was somebody calling him. “Inky … Inky … ” A soft little call. “Inky …” For a second he was not sure. He cocked his head, listening.

  When the girl turned up at his side, he did not recognize her in the dark. “I been looking for you,” she said.

  He opened his mouth to answer and then closed it again.

  She glanced up the path, as if seeing for the first time. “George?”

  “What you come busting in for?”

  “Whose busting?” She giggled. “I got as much right here as you,” she said. “I got a right to meet my date, no?”

  “What you coming here for?”

  She just giggled. Inky went back to rubbing his eyes.

  “Everybody real loaded,” she said. And she slipped her arm into Inky’s. “So dark you can’t see much. …”

  She turned him around, and they crossed in front of the Rendezvous and began to walk up the beach. “Let’s go over to my porch,” she said loudly.

  They felt the other eyes following them down the beach. Inky stumbled in the sand. The girl laughed. “You real drunk. …”

  They walked down the beach, almost half a mile. Inky felt the soft sound of the surf in one ear, and in the other the soft murmuring sound of the land life.

  They turned inland. “This whole island’s full of the god-damn paths.”

  “Sort of,” she said.

  They crossed under some twisted oak trees and were starting across a little meadow.

  “Wait a minute,” Inky said, “now wait a minute.”

  There was some kind of small flower underfoot. You could see them faintly in the dark.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. And he squinted at her face. “Be god damned,” he said. “Annie.”

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Thanks, kid.” He would not move. “That was a real fine job.”

  “You know the way back to the boat?”

  “Which boat?”

  “Yours.”

  “Thought you said we were heading for your house.”

  She giggled nervously. “I was just talking,” she gestured, “for them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well,” she said, and paused for a minute, “my papa wouldn’t like that.”

  “He’s got a new wife,” Inky said, “he won’t notice.”

  You could feel her stiffen in the dark as the hurt got to her. She began to walk away.

  He stumbled after her. “Sorry, honey,” he said. “I’m drunk or I wouldn’t say that.”

  She stopped but didn’t answer.

  “Show me the way back to the boat,” he said.

  HIS ARM THROUGH HERS was heavy and sometimes it seemed she was dragging him along. Now and then she had to stop for breath. He didn’t say a word the whole time.

  Once she said: “Watch where you step.” And he didn’t even seem to hear her.

  They passed the Arcenaux store where a little light was still burning by the back door. Philomene always left that for Julius so he wouldn’t trip when he came in.

  Annie looked at the light when they went plodding past, the little glow behind the drawn shade. Philomene, now, Annie thought, she was a patient wife. What did they have to say, she wondered, on the nights when Julius stayed home.

  Inky tripped again.

  “That was a root,” she said. “Pick up your feet.”

  They came to the wharf and there was the bay black and still with little points of stars reflecting, and the outlines of the luggers. And one tall mast.

  “Come on,” Annie said, “we’re almost there.”

  Their feet were like hammers on the boards. They must be waking everybody on this side of the island, Annie thought, and she tried to move slower.

  A couple of cats, who had been prowling around on a lugger, jumped over the side and scooted away between their legs.

  “What the hell was that?” Inky said.

  “Nothing. Cats.”

  If he fell in, Annie thought, what would happen? And she held on to his arm a little tighter.

  We’d both drown … she thought. He wouldn’t let go, and we’d both drown and in the morning, they’d find us, and they wonder what we were doing to fall in. …

  And because she’d had a couple of drinks too, and the whole world was shimmering and sad, she began to cry. Not sob, but cry. The tears were pouring down her face. Then, quick as they began, they stopped.

  “Can you get aboard?”

  He stepped slowly and carefully over the lifelines. “Can’t go falling in the water.”

  He’d been thinking that too. Or maybe he could tell what she was thinking. … “No,” she sa
id.

  She followed him on the deck. “Can you manage?”

  He sat down for a moment on the carriage roof. “Don’t worry, honey, I made it a lot drunker than this.”

  “I’ll go light the lamp.” The matches were by the stove, and the lamp right above. The light and the recent tears hurt her eyes and she stepped back. It was just a little pool of light—just a kerosene lamp—and she could stand on the edge of it.

  “You can come on now,” she said.

  He swung himself down the hatch, not bothering with the little ladder.

  “You did that the hard way.”

  “Never bother with ladders, honey,” he said; “they really trip you.”

  He was leaning against the little icebox and fingering it as if he had never seen it before. Suddenly he tapped it sharply. “Let’s have a drink.”

  “I had enough,” Annie said.

  He didn’t seem to hear. He got two paper cups from a holder on the wall, found a bottle in one of the cabinets and poured a couple of drinks. “Even got ice.” He got a couple of cubes and dropped them in.

  “We so fucking fancy,” he said and hesitated, looking around. “How come?” He pointed unsteadily to the lamp. “We got electricity.”

  “Didn’t know where the main switch was,” she admitted.

  “Knew I wouldn’t leave it on, huh?” Inky grinned. “Smart girl, smart like a schoolteacher …”

  “This is lots of light,” Annie said.

  “Sure … but it’s there, right there, under the ladder, see?”

  “It’s a nice boat,” Annie said, “but I got to go home.”

  She wanted to leave, but the passageway was narrow and he was standing in the middle. She could have pushed by, he didn’t seem in any mood to stop her, but all of a sudden she didn’t want to touch him.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  There were two bunks, one on each side. She hesitated for just a minute. She felt strange sitting on a bed. … There’s nowhere else, she told herself.

  He handed her the cup, and then sat down on the opposite bunk. She felt relieved, and, way down, a little disappointed.

  He did not say anything. There was just the very small sound of the almost still water against the hull. And a couple of night birds.

  The lamp smoked for an instant, then cleared. The cubes of ice bumped against the paper cup she held in her hand. And the silence bothered her. She could feel herself breathing it in. Almost like being under water, and drowning.