Twenty-Two
ONE SATURDAY MORNING SONNY CAME IN FROM HIS TOWER and found Duane in the apartment, asleep on the couch. While Sonny was taking a shower he woke up and came groggily into the bathroom.
“How you doin’, buddy,” he said. “It’s a real drive from here to Odessa, especially if you don’t start till after you get off work.”
“Where’s your car?” Sonny asked.
Duane took him downstairs and proudly showed him the car—it was a second-hand Mercury, nice and clean. “Thirty-eight thousand miles on her,” Duane said. “Runs like new. I like to drive it so much I thought I’d run home for the weekend.”
Sonny was a little relieved. For a few minutes he had been worried that Duane’s trip home might have something to do with his relationship with Jacy. Fortunately she was in Dallas that weekend, buying her college clothes.
Duane looked almost the same, except that he was browner. He wore shirts with the sleeves cut completely out, and his shoulders and upper arms were tanned almost black.
“You don’t know what sun is till you live out on that desert,” he said. “Them folks in Odessa don’t even know it’s a desert, they think it’s God’s country.” He smoked a lot more than he had, but he was out of school and not in training, and it was natural.
The poolhall was always full of people on Saturdays. It was almost football season and football was what everybody wanted to talk about. The men were glad to see Duane and asked him what kind of football teams they had way out in West Texas.
“Wish you was back here, Duane,” several said. “We could use a good fullback this year.”
Such talk made Duane feel fine. He had always been very proud of being in the backfield.
When it began to get dark Sonny and he decided to drive to Wichita and drink some beer. They put on fresh Levi’s and clean shirts and drove over in Duane’s Mercury. He insisted that Sonny drive it.
“Handles wonderful,” Sonny said. “Quite a change from that pickup.”
They started the evening at a place called the Panhandle Tavern, out on the Burkburnett highway. It was a good place to drink beer, but then nearly any place was. When they left there they stopped in at the big Pioneer drive-in and watched a steady stream of teen-age boys and girls circling around one another in their cars. Finally they went on to Ohio Street and drank in a big roomy bar the size of a barn. There were a lot of airmen there, dancing, playing shuffleboard, guzzling beer. Duane and Sonny drank and idly watched the dancing.
It was pleasant for a while, and then for some reason it began to go wrong. An edge came into the evening. Sonny felt it long before anything was said. He kept drinking beer, but he didn’t get high, the way he should have. He should have been comfortable with Duane, too—after all, they were best buddies—but somehow he wasn’t comfortable with him at all. The pretty girls on the dance floor reminded both of them of things they didn’t really want to remember.
“Still screwin’ that old lady?” Duane asked casually.
“Yeah, ever now and then,” Sonny said. It seemed to him the best thing to say. Duane hadn’t mentioned Jacy all day, but Sonny knew he must have been thinking about her.
“Seen old Jerry Framingham last week,” he said. “He came through going to Carlsbad with a load of goats. Said he thought you and Jacy had been going together a little.”
“Yeah, we have,” Sonny admitted quickly. “Once in a while we come over here and eat Mexican food or something. She’s been kinda bored, waitin’ for school to start.”
He didn’t look at Duane but he could tell that something was wrong. Instead of looking at Duane he looked around the room. There were jars of pigs’ feet on the bar. Bunches of glum airmen stood around with beer glasses in their hands. There was a jukebox, a Schlitz sign, and a clock that said Lone Star Beer underneath it.
“Way I heard it what you probably been eatin’ is pussy,” Duane said, his voice shaky and strained. “Not old lady Popper’s, either.”
“It ain’t true,” Sonny said. “Whoever told you that didn’t know what he was talkin’ about. Sure, I been goin’ with Jacy, why not?”
He couldn’t keep down a pulse of irritation with Duane for having kept so quiet about the matter all day. He had kept quiet about it too, but then it wasn’t his place to bring it up.
“I never said I blamed you for it,” Duane said. “I don’t blame you much. I just never thought I’d see the day when you’d do me that way. I thought we was still best friends.”
“We are,” Sonny said. “What are you so mad for? I never done nothin’ to you.”
“I guess screwin’ my girl ain’t nothin’ to you,” Duane said stiffly.
“I haven’t screwed her, but she ain’t your girl anymore, anyway. Hell, you don’t even live here anymore.”
“Don’t make no difference,” Duane insisted. He was beginning to seem drunk. “She’s my girl and I don’t care if we did break up. I’m gonna get her back, I’m tellin’ you right now. She’s gonna marry me one of these days, when I get a little more money.”
Sonny was astonished that Duane could be so wrong. He knew Duane must be drunk.
“Why she won’t marry you,” he said. “She’s goin’ off to school. I doubt I’ll ever get to go with her agin myself, once she gets off. I never saw what it could hurt to go with her this summer, though. She’s never gonna marry you.”
“She is, by God,” Duane said. “Don’t tell me she ain’t. She’ll never let you screw her, that’s for sure. Hell, I was just seein’ how honest you was, I knew Jacy wouldn’t let you screw her. You ain’t that good a cocksman. You never even screwed Charlene Duggs, all the time you went with her.”
Sonny didn’t know what to say. He was amazed that Duane would bring up such a matter. It was unfair, and the more he thought about it the madder he felt.
“Course I didn’t,” he said. “You know why? Because you and Jacy had the pickup all the time on Saturday night. Nobody could have screwed her in the time I had left.”
“I could have,” Duane said smugly. “I could have screwed her in five minutes.”
Sonny knew that was true, but because it was true it seemed even more unfair of Duane to bring it up. Suddenly, for the first time in his life, he felt like hitting Duane.
“You know why you could,” he said, almost choking. “The only reason you could have was because you was in the backfield. I was in the fuckin’ line. That’s the only reason Jacy went with you as long as she did, because you was in the backfield.”
“That’s a lie, you chickenshit,” Duane said. “What are you talkin’ about? Me an’ her was in love.”
“You was, she wasn’t,” Sonny said confidently. “Just because you was in the backfield. She likes me as good as she ever liked you. I’ll stay all night with her one of these nights, too—she’s done promised.”
“You won’t either,” Duane said, furious.
“Why shouldn’t I? She’s done told me you couldn’t even do it that time in San Francisco. What about that?”
Duane couldn’t take that. He came out of his chair and slammed Sonny in the face with the beer bottle he had in his hand. It knocked Sonny backward, but he was soon up and at Duane. It was too much to take, saying he couldn’t have screwed Charlene, just because he was in the line. Sonny couldn’t see too well, but it didn’t matter because in a minute they were both rolling on the floor anyway, punching and kicking at one another. The barmaids and the airmen calmly got out of the way and the boys rolled over against the bar, whacking at one another and bonking their beads on the brass footrail. They got up and slugged a minute on their knees but before they could get to their feet the cops were there. The next thing they knew they were out on the curb, each handcuffed to a cop. One of Sonny’s eyes was hurting and he had to hold his hand over it, but otherwise he didn’t feel too bad. He and Duane stood beside one another at the police desk, and to their surprise were no longer particularly mad.
“Don’t know what happened,�
�� Duane said. “Never meant to hit you with that bottle. Reckon we got enough money to pay our fines?”
They did have, barely, and in a few more minutes, without knowing exactly what had taken place, they were on the sidewalk again, walking back up Ohio Street. They walked past the bar where they had had the fight and one of the barmaids waved at them, tolerant, jolly, and apparently amused. It deflated the boys a little bit. Theirs must not have been much of a fight, as fights went on Ohio Street.
“My damn eye sure hurts,” Sonny said. “Run me up by the General Hospital—maybe they can give me a shot or something. It’s a wonder we didn’t tear up that bar.”
“I guess they get worse fights than us in there ever night,” Duane said unhappily. “When it comes to Jacy I guess I’m just crazy.”
By the time they got to the hospital Sonny’s eye had swollen shut and was paining him terribly. The momentary good feeling that he had had at the police station was entirely gone, and he was a little scared. It was nice that he and Duane were not going to be enemies for life, but he was still scared. When a doctor finally took a look at his eye he immediately ordered Sonny a hospital room.
“You’re not leavin’ here tonight,” he said.
“You could lose the sight in that eye if we aren’t careful, and you might lose it even if we are. In the morning we’ll have to have a good look at it.”
“Damn,” Duane said nervously. “Why’d I have to have that bottle in my hand?”
“Aw, they’re always tryin’ to scare you,” Sonny said. “It feels like it’s just swole up.”
Duane was really worried, and it made him so nervous and stiff that Sonny was almost glad when he left. He had a shot that made him sleep, and the next day the eye was hurting so badly that he had several more shots and was just in a sort of daze all day. He knew his father was there some of the time. The day after that he had some kind of operation, and when he woke up his father was there, shaking a little but not too badly. It was the first time they had seen one another since graduation night, when Sonny had reluctantly accepted fifty dollars as a graduation present.
“Son, must have been some fight,” Frank said.
“Oh, just me and Duane. He gone back to Odessa?”
“Yeah, he had to. Tried to see you yesterday, but they wouldn’t let him. He said to tell you he was awful sorry.”
“Well, it’s over now,” Sonny said. “I might have done it to him if I’d been holding a bottle. What’d they say about my eye?”
“They don’t know yet,” Frank said. “You didn’t lose all your sight in it, but I guess you might lose some.”
Sonny found it was not so bad having his father around. Frank didn’t say much, just sat in the room. He seemed comfortable and Sonny was too. There was only one awkward moment in the three days Frank stayed. It came one night when Sonny was eating supper.
“Son,” Frank said, “reckon it would work out if we put the poolhall and the domino hall together? The building’s big enough, ain’t it?”
It was, but the whole idea made Sonny nervous. “I don’t think it would do too well,” he said. “The men who play dominos wouldn’t want a lot of kids in there shooting pool and making racket.”
Frank said that might be so, and didn’t mention it again.
Sonny was in the hospital eight days. He got lonesome, but it was just about as bad when visitors came. Genevieve came one afternoon and brought Billy, who was scared of the hospital and didn’t know whether to sit down or stand up. Sonny was so used to seeing Genevieve in her waitress uniform that she looked strange to him in her regular clothes. She came right out and asked about his eye.
“How is it, really?” she said.
“I don’t know,” Sonny said honestly. “It wouldn’t surprise me if I was one-eyed when they take the bandages off. Duane caught me a good hard lick.”
“Well, it was awful of you two to fight. You knew he joined the army, didn’t you? His mother told me two or three days ago.”
Sonny hadn’t known it, and was very surprised. For the first time he really wondered about his eye. He had always planned to go to the army too, and it occurred to him that if he was one-eyed the army wouldn’t take him. He had never supposed he would be unable to make the army.
The next afternoon the nurse brought in a note.
“A lady’s down in the waiting room,” she said.
The note just said: “May I come in and see you a little while? Ruth.”
Sonny looked at the nurse, who was young and friendly.
“Could you tell her I’m asleep?” he asked.
“Sure I could. But you’re not asleep.”
“If I go to sleep right now will you tell her I’m asleep?”
The nurse did as he asked, but Sonny was blue anyway. He would not have minded seeing Ruth, but he felt bad whenever he thought about her and he was afraid that if she came up something bad might happen. In a way he wanted to see her—indeed, the more he thought about her the more lonesome he became for her—but it seemed like seeing her would only make everything worse.
The next to last day he was there, Jacy came to see him. She wore a sleeveless green dress and looked a little sad. As soon as the nurse left the room she came to the bed and kissed Sonny for a long time. It surprised him and he embarrassed himself a little by getting a hard-on.
“Oh, I was so worried,” Jacy said. “I just had to see you. When do you get out?”
“Tomorrow,” Sonny said. “Why?”
“I want us to get married,” Jacy said, her dewy mouth close to his. “I really do. Whenever you get out, just as soon as you want to.”
Sonny was stunned. “Get married?” he said. He thought he must be having a dream.
“Do you want to?” she asked.
“Oh yeah, yeah,” he said. “But ain’t you goin’ to college?”
“No. I don’t care about that. I love you and that’s more important. My folks won’t like it, but we can run off.”
It was an inspiration she had had as soon as she heard about the fight. Sonny was so dear, to fight for her. Running off with him would make her whole summer, and the fact that she did it even though he only had one eye would knock everyone in Thalia for a loop. It would be a lot wilder than Bobby Sheen and Annie-Annie—they were both rich and healthy. She would be running off with someone poor and sort of mutilated. Of course her folks would catch them and have it annulled, but at least she could show Sonny how much she was willing to sacrifice for him.
Jacy sat on the hospital bed and they kissed some more and talked about how wild it would be being married. Life seemed almost too crazy to be true.
The next day they unbandaged Sonny’s eye. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see anything out of it, it was just that all he could see was fog. It was like being inside a cloud. He could tell when people moved around, but he couldn’t tell who they were until they spoke.
“Could be a lot worse,” the doctor said. “We’ll see how it responds before we do anything else.”
They gave him a black patch to wear over his eye and told him to come back weekly for checkups, but Sonny hardly listened. Marrying Jacy was all he could think of, and he thought about it on the ride back to Thalia, while his father drove.
As soon as they got home Sonny took the extra eye patch the doctor had given him and showed Billy how to wear it. Billy was tickled to death. Because Sonny did it, he thought seeing out of only one eye was a great way to see, and from then on he wore the spare eye patch whenever he went out to sweep the town.
Twenty-Three
JACY WAS DEAD SERIOUS ABOUT GETTING MARRIED: THE DAY after Sonny left the hospital they drove to Wichita and got the license. They had to wait three days, so to be doing something Sonny quit his roughnecking job and arranged for a new job pumping leases, something he could do with one eye. The rest of the time he just stayed around the poolhall thinking about sleeping with Jacy. The prospect helped take his mind off his eye.
Jacy spent the three days
imagining the effect her marriage would have on her parents and on the town. Everybody was curious about Sonny’s eye, which made it absolutely the ideal time to run off with him. Her folks would simply have a fit. Probably they would call the police and have them arrested and torn out of one another’s arms, but at least they would have been married and everyone would know it.
Friday afternoon, when it actually became time for them to run away, she wrote her parents a quick note:
DEAR MAMA AND DADDY—
I know this is going to be a shock to you but I guess it can’t be helped. Sonny and I have gone to Oklahoma to get married—I guess it will be in Altus. Even if he is poor we are in love. I don’t know what to say about college, I guess we’ll just have to talk about that when we get back. We are going to Lake Texoma on our honeymoon and will be home Monday. I guess I will live at the poolhall until we find someplace else to live. Even if you don’t like Sonny now I know you will love him someday.
JACY
She left the note on the cabinet, propped up against a box of crackers. Gene found it when he came in from work three hours later. Lois was in Wichita that day and returned late. When she came in, Gene was pacing the kitchen floor, obviously distressed. He handed her the note.
“Oh, goddamn her,” Lois said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Well, we got to get going,” Gene said. “I want to catch ’em. Even if we can’t get ’em before they marry we can sure as hell get ’em before they go to bed. That way we can get it annulled with no trouble.”
“Why bother?” Lois said. “I suppose we could get it annulled anytime—that’s what money’s for. Why don’t we just let her do the getting out—you know she won’t stay with Sonny ten days. I just hate to think of what she’ll do to him in that length of time. If we don’t get that little bitch off to college she’s going to ruin the whole town.”
Gene was so upset he couldn’t take what Lois said. He turned and slapped her, but it was a light, indecisive slap.
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