“Sounds like your father was a pretty shrewd guy.”
“He was. I keep thinking, though, that I can do the same thing to explain to myself what’s happened. Over here is what I thought John was. And over here is what he actually is. I had fun fooling myself, all right, but now in one day I’ve found out what he actually is and I don’t like it. I don’t want to live with it. Then I wonder if I’m being a perfectionist or something.”
“It’s hard for me to say, looking at it from the outside.”
“I know why he married me. In my own way, I guess I’m just as tough underneath as his mother was. And he needs to have someone strong. He’s got so he depends on strong people. He thinks he’s just a little more acute and sensitive and perceptive than anybody else in the world.”
“Can he make a living?”
“As a sort of pensioner. His uncle will give him a job. A good job. He won’t ever have to worry. I could still go along with the plan. Go back to Rochester with him and buy or build a little house in a very nice section and belong to the Genesee Valley Club and the Rochester Country Club and play a brisk game of backgammon and be that charming young hostess, Mrs. John Carter Gerrold the Second. And now I wonder if in about six months I wouldn’t be ready to spit. It would be fine if I could just… get back in love with him.”
“But you don’t think you can, eh?”
She lit another cigarette. The last of the sun was gone. The lighter flame seemed surprisingly bright against the blue-purple dusk.
“Bill, I’ve always had sort of an instinct about people. And I’ve never been so wrong as with my husband. Right now I wouldn’t want him to—to touch me. It would make me feel creepy. I’m talking too much.”
“Like you said, you won’t see me again.”
She glanced toward him quickly. “No, I won’t.”
Her words were flat and they seemed to open a small trap door in the bottom of his soul. A world where he wouldn’t see her again, ever, suddenly seemed to be a sour place. He told himself he was going too fast. You didn’t fall in love in an afternoon. Or fall out of love. That was for the movies.
And he suddenly thought of a way he could say it to her, a way that wouldn’t be rude. He spoke at once. “Now look, you’re wondering if you can really fall out of love with your husband, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“I guess that’s the question.”
“Well, let’s get hypothetical, then. Could this happen? That I could see you and talk to you a little bit and then see you coming back across the river and get a feeling in my stomach just like Christmas Eve when I was a kid? Could it be possible for me to think of no place on earth I want to be more than just here sitting and talking to you? Is it possible that right now, the way you sit there, your hair so light in the darkness makes my heart keep turning right over, and keeps drying my mouth up? And makes me feel that you’re wasted on a kid like that, and I want you for myself?”
She stood up quickly, facing him, her hands tight on her purse. “No, Bill. That couldn’t happen.”
He stood up too, stood a step from her, looking down into her eyes. “It can be the truest thing you ever heard of,” he said.
“I didn’t want you to say that.”
“I didn’t know I was going to say it until you said that you’d never see me again, and I knew I had to say it quick. You think you’re all mixed up. How about me?”
“Bill, this is…”
He put his hands on her shoulders, leaned slowly toward her lips. She offered them, and there was just enough light for him to see her eyes close as he kissed her. She broke the kiss by spinning away from him. With her back to him, she laughed. It was a very ugly laugh.
“I must be breaking some kind of record. I’ve had this dress off once today. I don’t want you thinking I’m ready to take it off again. It wrinkles so easily.”
He stared at her rigid back. “Honey, you’re trying to hurt me, and you’re just hurting yourself.”
“I’ve got a new question. How cheap can a girl get?”
“Don’t talk that way. It isn’t right for you to say a thing like that.”
“How do you know I don’t always talk this way?”
“Because I know you, Linda. I know you well, as if I’d been with you for years. Now tell me we won’t ever see each other again.”
“We won’t, my friend. I promise you that.”
He took a deep breath. “Maybe we ought to be wandering back to the others.”
She turned, smiled. “Thanks, Bill.” They walked slowly back. Floodlights came on on the far side of the river. She said, “I’ve got to get the car keys back from the Mooney girl.”
“No hurry about that. She isn’t going anywhere.” He opened the door of the pickup, spread a blanket on the running board for her. He sat on his heels near her. It puzzled him a bit. He hadn’t meant to say as much as he did. Once the words started coming, it was as though he couldn’t stop them. Not fair to give her another mess to deal with. Let her get one out of the way first. Pepe’d said that kid husband had slugged her one, up in the store. No matter how upset the kid was, there was no excuse for that. Her lips were still a bit swollen. Guess she was using psychology, with that crack about the dress. Trying to scare the guy off.
He remembered when they had walked downstream, a few hours ago. Had a blanket with them. Looked happy enough. Well, newlyweds were maybe expected to do that sort of thing. It made his neck feel hot to think of the two of them on that blanket. Kid husband didn’t know what he had. Made him feel jealous, too. Crazy jealous. Wanted to bash somebody.
He said, “I should have kept it to myself.”
“It doesn’t matter. In a week you won’t remember what I look like.”
“I won’t ever forget what you look like.”
“Please.”
“I just wanted to set you straight on that, Linda.”
“I’ve probably got the instincts of a tramp. So skip it.”
“You need thinking time. That’s what you need. There’s a hotel in Matamoros that isn’t too bad. You could hole up there and Pepe and I could make a fast trip to Houston. Your tourist card doesn’t run out for quite a while, does it?”
“No, but—”
“And then Pepe and I, we could run you down to Mante. Easy day’s drive from Matamoros and the pickup doesn’t run too bad. The folks would be glad to have you, and there’s plenty of room.”
“No, I—”
“Let me finish. I promise not to get in your hair. I won’t pop off like I did back there on that log. If you get a hankering to go on back to him, why, then you can go right ahead, with no harm done.”
“Bill, that’s sweet of you, but I should at least stay with John until… everything is taken care of. That’s only decent.”
“Guess you’re right about that. But you could come back, couldn’t you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Pepe was sitting on his heels, politely out of earshot. Bill saw the man named Benson come down the road. He knew from the sway of the cocky walk that the man was drunk. But he was not prepared for the brutal kick, for Pepe’s gasp of pain, for the man’s crazy belligerence. He saw the other Mexicans drifting toward Benson and knew that the long boredom of the day had bred violence, knew that not long before there had been blood, and a brutal beating. Benson acted a little crazy.
So he made the joke about the fighting rooster and all the others laughed, because Benson’s attitude was comically like that of one of the strutting birds.
Bill had fought at college, and later in the Navy. He knew that a good bigger man could readily take care of a good smaller man. And the brutality of the kick, the philosophy behind it, sickened him. Linda, to his surprise, preferred to stay.
The butting almost caught him off guard. He gave Benson a chance to turn and come back in. He noted, even as he sucked his stomach away from a whistling hook and used the left to set the man up, that Benson knew what he was doing
. He had no wish to break his hand, so he hit hard at the solid neck just under the ear. Benson tumbled like a doll thrown by a careless child. Bill Danton sucked his knuckles for a moment, watching to see if Benson would get up, then went over and sat on his heels where he had been before.
“Why did you want to stay around?” he asked.
“I was going to take off my shoe and hit him with it if he got you down. I never saw anything so dirty mean in my life, the way he kicked Pepe.”
“Pepe’s just another Mexican,” Bill said softly.
She cocked her head on one side. “Don’t try any of your tests on me, my friend. I’m one-eighth Cherokee. We Indians are a persecuted minority.”
“You know, that’s the first time I’ve really heard you laugh, Linda. Knew just how it was going to sound, too.”
“Not again, Bill!”
“Walk up the road with me. I want to talk just a little bit more. It won’t hurt you to listen.”
“The ferry looks about ready to start back.”
“Pepe will put the truck on. You’re meeting your husband in San Fernando?”
“No, he’s gone on with… the body. Maybe by now he’s got across the river with her.”
“You aren’t planning to take that Buick all the way to Matamoros?”
“I’m a big girl now.”
He spoke to Pepe. Pepe grinned slyly, bobbed his head.
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him which cantina to stay in in Matamoros and that I was driving you there.”
“Now, really, Bill, I’m perfectly capable of—”
“There are plenty of places in the States where I wouldn’t want to see a pretty girl have car trouble and have to stop and try to flag another car.”
“I’ll be perfectly all right!”
“Even driving up those planks? Pretty narrow.”
“Well… maybe that might be…”
“It’s all settled. Come on. Let’s see who’s singing. Sounds nice.”
The blonde twins were in the last car in line. Between songs one of them said, “Come on. Anybody can get in. This time another oldie. ‘Moonlight Bay.’”
They leaned against the car. Linda sang a clear alto part. The lights strung outside the store touched her face. Bill sang along with the three girls. In the shadow of the car he found Linda’s hand. Without interrupting her singing, she tried to pull it away. He held it tightly. And then he saw her smile as she sang, saw her shoulders lift in a tiny shrug. She left her hand in his, curled small. Bill sang in a rusty baritone that he tried to keep as inaudible as possible. There was a magic in the night, and in the old song, and in their voices. Some other tourists joined in, not coming closer, singing at a distance. Magic in having her close to him. Near the end of the song she moved unconsciously closer to him, her shoulder touching his arm. The song ebbed and they all laughed for no reason, and Linda choked off her laughter quickly. He knew that she was remembering the death, and thinking how callous it was to forget so easily.
Headlights went on at the front of the line and they heard motors starting up. The ferry came in and there was no need to shovel at the river bottom to work it close enough. But the planks still had to be used. It took much shouting and advice to get them spaced and blocked to everybody’s satisfaction.
Two cars came off the ferry and went up the road, horns bleating, people shouting from the cars and at the cars. They watched the MG drive aboard, and then the pickup truck. The planks and blocks were heaved aboard and the ferry moved slowly off across the river.
“It ought to move faster now,” Bill said.
“Release my hand, sir. Ain’t fittin’ for a married lady.”
“Sorry.”
“Much obliged.”
They walked down the road. Cars were moving down to take up the spaces vacated. The whole line moved. Bill saw that Benson was having trouble with his car. He couldn’t seem to get it started.
He stopped and said, “Anything I can do?”
Benson was astonishingly cordial. “Hell, no. Should have had the fuel pump replaced before I tried the trip. Help me ease her out of the way and I’ll lock her up. Leave her here and come back mañana with the replacement, if I can find one.”
The car rolled easily on the grade. Benson tucked it in close to the bank, started rolling up the windows. “I guess I was a little crocked when I kicked your pal.”
“You want to watch that. It’s a good way to start looking like a pincushion.”
“Yeah. Fool stunt.”
“Need a ride?”
“No, I’m all fixed up. That you, Mrs. Gerrold? Didn’t see you in the dark. How’s your mother-in-law making it?”
“She died, Mr. Benson, just when we got her to the doctor.”
“That Mooney girl thought she would. Sorry to hear it. Say, here’s the keys to the Buick. I was going to move it down for you. Still will, if you want me to. Guess you want the keys back, don’t you?”
“Please.”
He got out of the car, handed them to her, turned, and locked the doors of the Humber.
Bill and Linda walked to the Buick. Bill moved it down two spaces. Linda said, “Who’s been talking to friend Benson? Dale Carnegie?”
“It’s a little fishy, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know the type. They get sweet as pie just before they pull something raw.”
“Then be careful of him, dear. What am I saying? Dear, indeed.”
“You don’t know how good it sounded.”
“I wonder who he’s riding with, Bill.”
“With the Mooney girl, I’ll give odds. And the Mooney girl’s overage boy friend. You know, he seemed very relieved that you’d take the keys back. Almost too happy about it. And I never saw anybody get taken sober so fast. Want to sing some more?”
“Let’s!” Then she sighed. “But I really shouldn’t.”
“I don’t think it matters too much.”
“But no hand-holding, huh?”
“If you insist.”
They walked toward the music, through the night magic. I, William, take thee, Linda. Rough, maybe, to be a second husband. Second in line. Maybe, after a bad marriage, you did better. He knew they would have met, sooner or later, somehow. And just a few weeks too late. Bless her. Take time, but sooner or later she would know, and it would hit her as hard as it had hit him.
Chapter Twelve
BETTY MOONEY stood in the shallow ditch below the bank, a big frightened girl in a wilted yellow dress. She was horribly conscious of the body ten feet behind her, rigid in the tree shadows. God, what a desperate, miserable mess!
Del Benson had gone to get his car out of the way, leaving her with… it. Gee, he had seemed like such a cute, cute little guy with those big shoulders and the toughie face and that black bristly hair she wanted to feel of. A nice way to unhook from that stupe, Darby Garon. Darby Garon was gone. And the thing up on the bank had a new, evil sort of life for her.
Never liked bodies. Some people seem to be able to take them or leave them. Like undertakers.
An old memory came back and she shivered. That was the summer I was fifteen. Just turned fifteen. Anybody’d take me for eighteen. Well, that Graham girl, right down the road, we kept talking that spring about doing it, and what it would be like, and her big sister had told her how to stay out of trouble, and we would talk until we like to bust about how it would be, doing it with all the different boys we knew, talking about each one and maybe what he’d say, until that spring we giggled ourselves damn near silly, but getting that hot feeling, all sweaty, just thinking about it.
And we kept going over to the old Murphy place near the creek, where the house burned down and they moved away, and there was dry stale hay in the loft, and one day Sally Graham and I, we undressed and we were talking about it and we sort of fooled with each other until we got shy and creepy and funny-acting, and that was, I suppose, why I told Gubby Garfield, that hot day he as
ked me to go swimming, that there was a good hole in the creek near the old Murphy place, and he said he’d never heard of any hole over there, that it wasn’t much above your knees because he’d fished it all and he knew, if anybody knew.
But I told him there certainly was a hole because I’d swum in it, and deep enough for diving, probably. That old car of his had no fenders and boxes to sit on instead of a seat, I remember, and no sides or top, and he called it the strip-tease job. In the little side pocket of the bag where I had the suit and the towel, I had two of the things Sally had stole off her sister, and I was scared and jumpy all the way out there. We changed to our suits off in the bushes, and I couldn’t joke around like always, and then I had to pretend I couldn’t find the swimming hole, while he got sort of mad. And we swam anyway, finally, with our fingers scraping the bottom all the time, and sometimes bumping a knee. It was a real hot day.
Just testing him out, sort of, I said we ought to be swimming without suits on a day so hot, and he gave me a look like he was going to hop in his car and run for cover, so I knew it had to happen a different way. Fifteen he was, too, and I remember that because of our birthdays being so close together.
We swam up the creek a way, like exploring, and he got over being mad that there was no hole to dive in, because he was a good diver. And then that storm came over the hill like a freight train, soaking our clothes before we could get back to them, and it was like it was all planned. Weather changed fast, and I said we ought to go in the Murphy barn and get our clothes dried out. We ran for it, and our teeth were chattering, and he kept yakking about his motor getting all wet. And we went up in the loft on the stale hay and hung the clothes on nails to dry, and he started kissing me, and then he got all jumpy too, and we took off our suits and did it, and he hadn’t ever done it before, but he knew how the little things worked. It didn’t hurt a bit, but it didn’t feel very good either, like I thought it was going to. We talked about doing it, and then we talked about swimming and diving, and then about his car, and then he got so he wanted to do it again and I said no and he said what difference did it make if it happened once anyhow, so I couldn’t see any good argument to tell him, so I let him start doing it again, and I was thinking how silly a damn-fool thing it was to do, and how dopey we’d look there to anybody watching, and then it started to be different than the first time and that fool barn like to tipped up and thrown me right up into the sky. It broke me all in little pieces and stirred up the pieces with a spoon. I came back to earth and he was griping about the way I’d stuck fingernails in him and chewed his shoulder and like to killed him. I knew I certainly couldn’t wait to get back to Sally Graham and tell her we were all wrong about it, because there weren’t any words for how it was, because nobody has ever made up the right words.
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