by Anne Tyler
The wind bit at his face and his bare hands. It was very dark, without a moon, but he could see the white clouds swimming rapidly past the house tops. And before he had even reached the front gate, the cold had begun to seep in all over. He didn’t care. He was glad to get out in the fresh air after the long, stuffy day, and he was glad to be going to Shelley’s, although he couldn’t say why. There were times when even Shelley’s shyness and her slowness seemed to be exactly what he needed. And he would like the way she greeted him at the door, with her face so formal.
He hurried on, making his arms hang loosely instead of huddling them close to his body, because the cold air still felt good. A twig from one of the trees along the sidewalk stung across his face. He ducked and then turned in, whistling now, to climb the long steps to Shelley’s house.
She answered almost as soon as he knocked. He saw the outline of her behind the mesh curtain, running in order to let him in quickly. The minute the door was open she tugged at his arm with both hands and said, “Get in, Ben Joe, aren’t you frozen?”
He nodded, smiling at her, and stepped inside so that she could shut the door behind him.
“Come on in,” she said, “come in. I declare, I think you’re just frozen stiff and silent. Take off your coat, now. That’s right.”
She took the coat from him and smiled into his eyes. It had been a long time since he had seen her looking so pretty. Her hair was down, the way she had worn it when she was in high school, and it was well brushed and shining. There was something besides lipstick on her face—rouge, he thought—that made her look excited and bright-eyed, and she was watching him with that half-scared expression.
“I sure am glad to see you,” he said suddenly.
“Well, thank the Lord you’ve said something. I thought maybe you were going to be speechless all evening.”
She took a hanger from the closet for his coat, and Ben Joe went into the living room. A fire had been lit in the fireplace, a tall fire that roared out and glinted on the bare wood floor. The thought of having to go out again, away from all this warmth, was depressing. But as soon as Shelley came into the living room he turned and said, “Do you want to go somewhere?”
“Oh, I don’t care. What do you want to do?”
“Well, anything you want to.”
“No, you say.”
He spread his hands helplessly. “You say,” he said.
“I really don’t have a preference in this world, Ben Joe.”
“You must have.”
“Oh …” She put her hands together and stared into the fire. “I hate to be the one to say,” she said finally.
The fire light kept moving and flickering on her face. And her hair just brushed the top of her collar. Something about her—the expectant way she stood, the dress-up navy dress with its spotless white collar—reminded him of a night he thought he had forgotten, back when his sisters were still very young. Joanne had thrown a barbecue party, with what seemed like millions of couples, and had suggested offhandedly that anyone in the family could have some barbecue with them if they wanted to. At the time Jenny was no more than eleven, but she was just beginning to notice boys and had started reading beauty magazines. The night of the barbecue the whole house reeked of some heavy-scented bath oil and no one knew why; but then down the stairs came Jenny, wearing a white puff-sleeved dress, with her hair perfectly combed and a thick envelope of perfume encircling her wherever she moved. She had come down and sat quietly on the lawn with the older couples, who were in sloppy Bermudas and T shirts, and she hadn’t spoken unless spoken to, but all evening she watched the party with that same happy, frightened look. He had wanted to cry for her, without knowing why—or at least hug her. He wanted to hug Shelley now, but she had awakened from her staring into the fire and was watching him.
“What’re you thinking about?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I tell you. One thing I do know about New York is that when they have dates they like as not never set foot in a movie house or a skating rink. The girls just serve them cocktails in their apartments. So I have bought some bourbon, in case that’s what you’re used to doing. Is that all right?”
“It’s a wonderful idea,” Ben Joe said.
She ran out to the kitchen immediately; for some reason she didn’t seem to be in slow motion tonight. Ben Joe sat down on the couch and relaxed happily against the cushions. The fire was slowly drawing the cold out of him, leaving him warm and comfortable. He could hear glasses tinkling in the kitchen.
“I’ve put you some ice and a little water,” Shelley said when she came in again.
“That’s perfect.”
She had brought the bottle in on a tray, and next to it stood their two glasses, her own very pale. When Ben Joe picked his glass up, she watched his face carefully to see if he liked it, and smiled when he nodded to her.
“Just right,” he said.
“I’m glad.”
She picked up her own glass and, after turning over in her mind the problem of where to sit, chose a spot next to Ben Joe on the couch, settling there so delicately that her drink hardly wavered in its glass.
“Is it you that’s going to talk?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t know.”
“I think it is.”
“Why?”
“Oh …” She took a sip of her drink and began turning her glass around, smiling into it. “When you come in slow and smiling, likely something is on your mind. Also if you’re too much the other way. And then me, I’m not in a real talky mood myself. So I figured it would be you to talk.”
“Maybe so.” He slid down, so that his feet were under the coffee table and his weight was upon the small of his back, and scratched the top of his head. “I’m thinking about it,” he explained when she laughed.
“Well, tell me what you did with your day.”
“My day. Lord. Nothing to speak of. It was Sunday. We all got the Sunday blues. Got them so bad that Susannah’s up in the attic hunting squirrels with a B-B gun now. Nobody went out. Me, I slept and then I read the funny papers twice through, and then I finished a murder mystery and peeled potatoes for Gram. It’s been a God-awful day, considering.”
He sat up straighter and took a swallow of his drink.
“You know,” he said, “except for an occasional Sunday, they don’t make days like they used to. I mean, they don’t make them whole any more. You noticed?”
He looked over at Shelley, but she only shook her head, puzzled.
“Oh, well, what I mean is, the days seem to come in pieces now. They used to be in blocks—all one solid color to them. Sometimes whole weeks would be in blocks. Someone could say, ‘What’s this week been like?’ and right off the bat you could say, ‘Oh, lousy. My father won’t let me have the car because he caught me scratching off in front of Stacy’s café the other day.’ Or it would be a great week, for another reason just that clear-cut. It’s not that way any more.”
“Well …” Shelley said. She was trying, but in the end she gave up and said, “I reckon I never did notice that, Ben Joe.”
“No, I guess not.”
“You tell me about the pieces, then.”
“All right.”
He settled back again and thought a minute. “What I’m mainly wondering,” he said, “is whether Mom ever looks at the bank records. I’ve never actually seen her do it. She’s real funny that way. Sometimes I think Jenny is the one who manages the family now, as if Mom weren’t there. Jenny tells her what’s going on but only to keep her informed, not to ask her for any decisions. So maybe she doesn’t know anything about the bank books.”
“What difference does it make if she does?” Shelley asked.
“Well, I took some money out when I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what she’d do if she knew. I’m worried about it.”
He drained the last of his drink an
d then balanced the glass on his knee. It made a cold, dark ring in the fabric of his trousers. “I don’t know why it’s always so hard deciding which side I’m on,” he said.
“Let me pour you another drink, Ben Joe.”
“Also, I found out Joanne’s asking for a divorce,” Ben Joe said. He watched Shelley’s hands as she poured his bourbon; they were long, thin hands that seemed uncertain about what they were touching. “She says she just left Gary, not even telling him about it. The lawyer’s getting in touch with him now. Sometimes I’m hoping Gary’ll say no, she can’t have the divorce, and Joanne will leave Sandhill and go back and be happy in Kansas again. But most times I’m hoping she’ll get divorced and stay with us. That Gary, I don’t know whether I like him or not. Well, hell, I’ve never even seen him. Except in this blurred snapshot Joanne sent us of him holding Carol when she was just newborn. There was all kinds of excitement when Carol was born. The girls went around calling each other ‘Aunt’—even Tessie—and Mom was ‘Grandma’ for I don’t know how long. Then they forgot about it. But Gary sent out these birth announcements that say there’s a new product on the market, giving the name of the manufacturers—that’s the parents—and all.”
“I think that’s nice,” Shelley said.
“Well. It just seems funny in our particular family, is all. Like that sentimental kind of letter he wrote us after Joanne called to say they were married. It began, ‘Dear Mom,’ in this unreadable handwriting, and Mom looked at the greeting and then at the closing to see what stranger was calling her Mom and she said, ‘Who’s Gary?’ It wasn’t till she’d read the letter that she figured it out. No, that’s a nice idea but it doesn’t fit, somehow, and I kind of hope he’ll give Joanne the divorce.” He sat up straight again and stared into the fire. “Why can’t they all just let me take care of them? My sisters are so separate. I’d be happy to take care of them.”
“I know,” Shelley said comfortingly.
He smiled at her. She was sitting very straight and still, almost touching him, and listening completely to what he said. Anyone else he knew would be getting restless by now.
“You talk,” he said.
“I got nothing to say, Ben Joe.”
“Neither do I, seems like.” He bent to untie his shoelaces and slip the shoes off. Then he swung his legs up and settled his feet on the coffee table. “Tomorrow we’re going to see Jamie Dower,” he said. “He’s eighty-four. How do you reckon it would feel to be eighty-four? Do you think you’d realize you were that old? I don’t realize I’m twenty-five. I keep thinking I’m about eighteen or so. I don’t even know if Gram realizes how old she is. Somehow I think not, or she wouldn’t still be making a fuss about bygone things. Still keeping up the old war with Mom. She never did like her much. Grandpa, now, he thought Mom was wonderful. Said she had backbone. First time she came to visit here before she and Dad got married, she came down to breakfast saying she was thirsty and Grandpa poured her a glass of water. Only it turned out not to be water but moonshine, that clear kind that comes out of a Mason jar. Mom was right surprised but she drank it anyway, without coughing, and Grandpa said, ‘Honey, you’re no Yankee,’ and loved her like a daughter ever since. But Gram, she said all it proved was that she was no lady. Oh, hell, I’m getting off the subject. Whatever the subject was.”
“It’s all right,” Shelley said. “Don’t you worry, Ben Joe.”
“Me? I’m not worried.”
“Well. Anyway, it’s all right.”
She looked sad, and Ben Joe didn’t know why. He didn’t know what to do about it. He put one arm along the back of the couch behind her, not actually touching her but just protecting her, and looked at her face to see what was bothering her. There were lots of things he might do; he might say something funny and make her laugh, for instance. But for some reason he didn’t. He pulled his hand in tighter, around the curve of her shoulder, and then leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
“Nothing’s worrying me,” he said.
She turned her face full toward him, and he put his other arm around her and kissed her mouth that was as familiar as if he had been kissing her only last night instead of almost seven years ago. Even the taste of her lipstick was the same—like strawberries. And she had the same way of hugging him; the minute she hugged him she stopped seeming scared and became soft and warm, first kissing him and then gently laying her cheek against his as if he were a child to be comforted. For a minute he relaxed against her, but then he began to feel a crick in his neck. He sat up straight again and cleared his throat.
“Um …”he said. He leaned forward a little, with his elbows on his knees. “I forgot about Horner,” he said.
“What?”
“Horner. I forgot about him.”
“Oh.”
He lit a cigarette and puffed on it a few times before he looked at her again. “Have you got an ash tray?” he asked her.
“I’ll get you one.” She stood up and crossed to the desk. She was the kind of person who rumpled easily; her hair was fluffed now and her lipstick was a little blurred. When she came back with the ash tray she said, “We’re not engaged, after all. I just go out with him some.”
“Well, still.”
“Of course, I like him and all …”
“Oh, sure. Sure, he looked like a nice person.”
“He is. He’s real nice, he really is.”
“Where did you meet up with him?” he asked.
“At my aunt’s house. She used to know his family.”
“That’s right. Joanne said he was from around Sandhill. I don’t know where she met up with him.”
“At a basketball game,” said Shelley, “when Joanne was still in high school.”
“How you know that?”
“Oh, John’s told me all about his past.” She settled back against the cushions, smiling a little now.
“His past? Does that include just meeting a girl at a basketball game? He must have been pretty thorough.”
“Oh, no, he dated her a while. But he felt—” She stopped, and looked into her half-empty glass.
“He felt what?”
“Oh, now I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.”
“Come on, Shelley.”
She kept on staring at her drink, pressing the corners of her mouth down. Finally she said, “Well, I suppose he just met her at … at one of those ages when girls are in a sort of, urn, wild stage. I mean, rebellious. That’s what I mean. Rebellious stage.”
Ben Joe sat up straighter.
“Now, Ben Joe, I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”
“Who does he think he—”
“Ben Joe, I know he didn’t mean to carry tales. He wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, never mind.” He sat back again. “She was kind of a flirt in high school,” he said. “The way she dressed and all. I suppose if you just met her a couple of times you’d think she really was wild.”
“But—” Shelley looked down in her drink again. “Well, yes, Ben Joe, I’m sure that’s what he meant. You want another drink?”
“No.”
“There’s lots more.”
“No. People who just look at them on the surface, they’ve got no right to say what my sisters are like.”
“I know that.”
“Okay.”
She was still watching him, trying to tell if he was feeling better. He looked back at her blankly.
“Ben Joe,” she said finally, “have you got a girl in New York?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Not one steady girl. No.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m sorry I told you what I just did. I wouldn’t have you worried for anything.”
“I’m not worried.”
“All right.”
She put her hands on his shoulders and he settled down next t
o her again, fitting his head beneath her chin. Against his back he could feel her hands patting him softly, so lightly he could hardly feel it.
“The trouble is,” he said into her collarbone, “I’m reversible.”
The words were muffled. She pulled back a little and looked down at him and said, “What?”
“I don’t guess you’re hardly alive if you’re as reversible as I am. But the irreversible people, they get someplace. Good or bad. Murder is irreversible, for that matter. Even if it’s bad, you can tell you’re getting somewhere definite. But me, I am reversible.”
“You silly,” Shelley said. “You talk like you’re some kind of raincoat, Ben Joe. Don’t get upset, now.”
He was pulled in next to her again, and soothed with the same small pats. Gradually he closed his eyes and let the full weight of his head rest against her chest.
He heard Shelley’s voice beginning above him, faraway and soft, saying, “You were the first person I ever wanted to ask me out. There’d been two other boys asked me out before, but I didn’t like them and I’ve forgotten now where we ever went or what we did. One was that fat little Junior Gerby, who was shorter than me, and the other was Kenny Burke, who was so greasy and hoody back in those days. Though later on he changed. His mama says he’s right nice now. She was always afraid he’d end up in Alcatraz. But when I started thinking about you asking me out, now that you weren’t just a little boy to play roll-a-bat with any more, I’d pray every night for you to ask me. I’d say, ‘Please, God, you let Ben Joe Hawkes ask me out and I will never ask for anything more as long as I live.’ Though I knew at the time it was next to impossible. There were three other girls after you and all of them prettier than me, though you never noticed and were always playing baseball and fiddling with your microscope. I took to shoplifting lipsticks, even if I did have plenty allowance, and trying on all manner of different shades in front of the mirror. Then I figured God was mad at me for it and I buried all my lipsticks in the backyard, where they are to this day.”
He moved his head a little, and she let him settle down again and then began stroking his hair with her hand. Above him the voice went on; he barely listened to the words but just concentrated on the sound, slow and murmuring above him.
