If Wishes Were Horses

by Matlock, Curtiss Ann

  She raked her hands through her hair, while Johnny told the attendant to fill it up. With a bit of a grin at Etta, he said, “I guess I can afford to go around with a full tank now, thanks to your horse.”

  His gaze lingered on hers and then moved all over her face, while a smoky expression slipped into his eyes, before he jerked them away and leaned out the window to tell the attendant to check the oil.

  Now it was a little awkward, neither of them able to look at the other, while their bodies seemed to radiate desire for touch. Etta felt this, felt her body leaning toward Johnny, as she looked through the back window at Little Gus. She was fairly certain Johnny felt it, too. It did not seem that she could feel something so strongly, and Johnny not feel it.

  The next instant Johnny said, “He’s settled down now that’s he’s tired,” and as he spoke, he reached for Etta’s hand, entwined his fingers through hers.

  “Yes,” Etta agreed, gazing down at their hands.

  Just then a car came speeding into the gas station, braking with a squeal of tires on the opposite side of the gas pumps. Etta and Johnny both looked that way. A black car, Etta saw, a Buick convertible, with white seats, and two women in the front. The car looked familiar.

  Recognition came over Etta like a cold splash of water. She instantly sat back against the seat, jerking her hand from Johnny’s and barely even realizing, wanting to hide, even casting her eyes about, as if looking for a place of shelter.

  Corinne Salyer. Etta had seen Corinne drive that car on numerous occasions. Fleetingly she thought she might duck down in the seat, if Corinne got out. Then it came to her that Corinne would not expect to see Etta in this unfamiliar truck, was not likely to pay the truck any attention at all. And what further drew Etta out was hearing sharply spoken words.

  Peering cautiously at the car, she saw Corinne was behind the wheel and her mother, Amy Salyer, sat on the passenger side. They appeared to be arguing.

  Her eyes glued to the car, Etta turned down the radio. Johnny cast her a puzzled look. He started to speak, and she waved him quiet.

  The women’s angry voices came in snatches: “That’s not true, Mama.” “You and your father . . . humiliate . . . married" “Rest . . . Oh, good Lord . . .

  The next second Amy Salyer turned, and her door flew open. “You don’t know any of it, what I have to put up with your father flyin’ around with that piece of trash . . . and then you . . . You both hate me.” Then a woman’s legs swung out, feet in dainty black open-toed shoes. Head bent, with a rose-colored pillbox hat over silvery hair. “I’ve tried with you, and your father, but you two never have appreciated any of it!”

  “Mother, get back in the car.” Corrine’s voice was commanding.

  Then Amy Salyer got back in the car, more or less collapsing on the seat, crying.

  The attendant came to get his money, cast a frown at the convertible, and said, “I see all kinds of stuff in this job.”

  Johnny pocketed his change and gave Etta a curious look.

  She said, “That’s her—the woman Roy died with. The young one with the brown hair. That’s her mother with her, the woman who was gettin’ out.”

  He turned his head to the car, then swung his gaze back to Etta. She sat back in the seat and looked straight ahead and fought a ridiculous surge of shame. The harsh voices, murmuring now, continued from the Buick.

  After several seconds, Johnny started the engine, but no sooner was he pulling away from the pumps than the convertible started forward, too. Johnny had to brake to keep from hitting it. The convertible lunged ahead and squealed tires as it pulled onto the street, Corinne’s dark curls flying all over her head. Etta wondered how Amy Salyer managed to keep her hat on.

  “Well,” Johnny offered, “she isn’t much of a driver.”

  “She no doubt has other talents,” Etta said, feeling great sadness.

  Then she took hold of herself. She was not going to let the appearance of Corinne spoil a very special evening, she thought. And since she wasn’t moving away, likely she would see Corrine from time to time in the future—a thought that made her sick to her stomach—and she might as well get used to it.

  Johnny put his arm up on the back of the seat, as if in invitation, and Etta returned to the hollow of his shoulder and tried to return to the sensual lethargy she had been experiencing, where there existed only herself and Johnny. It helped that he slipped his hand down her arm.

  Etta kept peeking through her lids, seeing the trunk of the Buick and the two women’s heads ahead of them, as if to torment. At last, at the edge of town, the convertible pulled rapidly ahead and was swallowed up in the darkness. Etta breathed a deep, lovely sigh and enjoyed feeling the warmth of Johnny against her side and the sensation of his rough hand on her arm.

  Timidly, hesitantly, she brought her hand to his stomach, a very flat, hard stomach, and encircled him with her arm and thought of how it would feel if he were naked. Tormenting herself now, she thought.

  Some ten minutes later, Johnny braked. Etta opened her eyes. There was the convertible again, ahead, its rear shining brightly in the truck’s headlights. It veered sharply left, over the line, then came back. Johnny said something under his breath, quickly removed his arm, and downshifted.

  “Good heavens . . . what is she doin’?” Etta said.

  “Looks like they’re havin’ a fight.”

  More exactly, Amy Salyer was attacking Corinne, beating her with her patent leather purse that caught the gleam of Johnny’s headlights every time she raised it. Corinne put up a defending hand, and the Buick went all over the road, and it all kept unfolding like a moving picture rolling ahead of them. Amy Salyer lunged at Corinne, flailing at her head and arms, and Etta heard a scream. The Buick went off the road, came back on, then went off and, rather gently, it drove down the embankment, its headlights flitting like a moth on the siderails of a bridge, brush, and trees, just before it seemed to drop headfirst off the earth.

  As Johnny pulled off the road and came to a stop, Etta breathlessly leaned forward and peered out the windshield at the red taillights of the Buick poking the air. OhmyGod . . . oh, my, God, Etta thought.

  Johnny eased the pickup forward over the clumpy grass. Etta looked behind to check Little Gus, who was thumping around in an effort to remain standing.

  Johnny’s headlights hit the convertible. The car had not gone into the creek, but had been stopped by a tree, which seemed to have smacked the convertible right between the eyes.

  “Stay here,” Johnny said, as he got out of the truck.

  She came right after him, folding her arms around herself, peering into the shadowy light. Closer, and she heard the hiss of steam coming from the Buick.

  The driver door swung open, and Corinne got out. Her dark hair shone silvery in the dim light of the truck headlights. She wore a dark, tight skirt and reached out to the car for support. Her face came up, white and ghostly, eyes like a frightened deer.

  “Ma’ am, are you all right?” Johnny said, his voice slicing into the night.

  Etta stopped where she was, unwilling for Corinne to see her.

  “I . . . my mother . . ." Grasping the car, Corinne hurried around the rear of it, calling, “Mama? Mama . . ."

  Johnny went forward to help get Amy Salyer out of the car. Etta, with her arms still wrapped around herself, hung back. As Corinne and Johnny brought Amy Salyer across the sloped grass, she stepped backward. She had the urge to move into the darkness, but reached the truck and held her ground behind the opened door, watching the three people come forward. Apparently the elder Salyer woman was not seriously injured, as she tried to hit both Johnny and Corinne with her purse and screamed at them that she was not going to any hospital.

  “I’d be best dead,” she yelled.

  Then Corinne looked up and saw Etta standing within the open passenger door of the truck. She said, “Oh, my God."

  Etta said, “Not exactly.”

  Another moment of staring, and then Etta
moved quickly out of the way for Johnny to bring Amy Salyer, who had slumped against him, around to the seat.

  Corinne came behind, her head down. Etta stared at her, then she pulled herself together and wet a gingham napkin to put on Amy Salyer’s head. Mrs. Salyer did not have a wound, but Etta could think of nothing else of a soothing nature to do. The elder Salyer’s previous frenzy appeared to be fading. She had turned limp as a dishrag, although she kept on talking, murmuring now, something about needing pills.

  “Does your mother have medicine?” Etta asked Corinne, feeling worried about an imminent heart attack or stroke. “She’s asking for her pills.”

  Corinne tiredly shook her head, pushed her hair from her face. “That’s her problem. She’s taken too many of her little pills.”

  Etta noticed Corinne’s smeared red lipstick. Apparently the woman had a propensity for it.

  Corinne’s eyes lit on Etta’s, and she said flatly, “My mother has . . . episodes. She’s windin’ down now. A little late, but better than never.”

  The two of them gazed at each other, and Etta, looking into the other woman’s eyes, felt a knowledge fall on her which explained everything between her and Roy and this woman and herself. It was not something she could put into words, and not something she appreciated in that moment, either.

  Overwhelmed, she averted her eyes, poured cool water into an enamel cup, and extended it to Corinne. “Why don’t you sit on the running board,” she said. There seemed nothing else to do but accept the dark situation handed to them by the busybody forces that brought such things about.

  Corinne sank down, very elegantly even there on the dirty running board. Etta saw Corinne’s hands around the enamel cup were white and tender, and shaking. Looking at them she thought: the hands that pleasured my own husband. She glanced at her own hands, darker, capable, with blunt nails.

  Between sips, Corinne felt it necessary to tell them that she had been taking her mother to her aunt’s in Wichita Falls, for a rest. Her mother had been suffering increasing episodes of depression and hysteria, which sometimes led to her overdosing on her medication and becoming quite erratic. “Aunt Joan is the only one who can seem to handle her and get her back on track,” she said.

  In between these enlightenments, which Etta felt she could have lived without, Amy Salyer kept up her muttering. With all of it, Etta experienced flashbacks to her own childhood and had to attempt to regulate her breathing and act totally rational, as Johnny was looking at her, and Corinne seemed to be looking at her, too.

  No other car came. There was nothing to do but drive the two women back to the gas station at the very least, as Corinne also vetoed the hospital, and this produced quite a discussion. Amy Salyer had begun to cry, and Corinne was not inclined to ride squished in the cab of the pickup truck with her mother.

  “We simply can’t all go the distance in that tiny space, and with that horse looking on from behind,” Corinne said, giving a wave of her hand. “Mother and I will wait here, if you will kindly send help.”

  Johnny rubbed the back of his neck and whispered, “That old lady might kill her.”

  Etta, gazing at the two and finding them pitiful, wondered if they would kill each other. “I think I’d better wait here, and you can take them to Chickasha. Maybe you could just drop them at that all-night gas station.”

  “No,” Johnny said tersely. “I’m not leavin’ you here.”

  * * * *

  Ten minutes and a lot of wrangling later, Johnny found himself behind the wheel, wondering exactly how he had gotten there, heading in the opposite direction of home, with Etta squeezed against him, the dark-headed woman on the far side, and her slight, silver-haired mother sitting slumped on her lap. The older woman had passed out and snored gently the entire trip back to the big house in Chickasha where Johnny had driven Etta on that first day, and Johnny wondered bleakly how he managed to get into these sorts of situations.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  “We got to get up and get dressed,” Latrice said to Obie. “Those two are goin’ to be here soon.”

  She slipped out of bed and put on her robe before turning on the lamp. There was enough light for Obie to catch a glimpse of her body; in the low light she knew she looked very good, and she thought this was enough for him. When she switched on the lamp, she looked down and saw him grinning at her.

  “Get up . . . get yourself dressed,” she said, trying for sternness but feeling a weakness inside from the way he looked at her.

  Obie grabbed her arm, but she shook him off and slipped into the bathroom to dress, tossing over her shoulder, “I want you dressed when I come out.”

  A moment later, his voice came through the bathroom door. “You gonna marry me, Miss Latrice?”

  She didn’t answer. She buttoned her dress and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Quickly and adeptly, she pinned her hair in place. She looked again at her reflection and saw evidence on her face of passion. She didn’t think either Etta or Johnny would notice, however, taken up with themselves as they were.

  She was annoyed with herself; she had been rash in letting passion so carry her away. The Bible teachings were not high concepts—they were good sense, and she was stepping over the line into foolishness that would cause all sorts of unwelcome complications.

  Straightening herself, she jerked open the bathroom door. Obie was now sitting on the bed, his shirt on but not buttoned, putting on his socks. His fumbling got on her nerves.

  “Will you hurry up. Johnny and Etta are liable to come any minute.”

  Obie looked surprised at her tone. Then he seemed to make an effort to comply. Latrice didn’t know what irritated her more—his lingering, or his trying to comply when she fussed at him. She left him and went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She thought the coffee would make everything seem natural. She was so nervous, though, that she kept dropping things.

  At last Obie came out of the bedroom. He was still tucking in his shirt. She looked at him, then finished making the coffee. He came up behind her, stood very close so that she could not move. He just stood there, quiet yet unrelenting, and of a sudden Latrice felt herself melting.

  His arms came around her, and he pulled her back against him. His body was rock hard. He put his lips next to her ear and whispered, “How was it?”

  Latrice sucked in a breath. “It was fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “It was . . . unexpected,” she said finally, and both of them laughed.

  “So . . ." he asked her. “Are you gonna marry me?”

  She turned, and he stepped back, giving her room, his eyes intent upon her.

  “I’ve gone my life without marryin’,” she said. “I don’t see that we can right things by making another terrible mistake.” She paused, then added, “You can keep comin’ around if you want.”

  The disappointment that crossed his features made her feel bad, but she remained firm. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent to look her straight in the eyes. “At my age, I know a man can’t get everythin’ in this world. But I also know that ain’t no reason to give up.”

  Latrice shook her head and shoved at him, beating at him with her hands because she was so touched and felt she might give in. “Go on. Get out of here before they show up. I don’t like everyone knowin’ my business.”

  She shooed him out the door, stood on the porch, and watched his taillights disappear down the dirt road to his cottage. She thought of his cottage. It was poor, the kitchen one from about a hundred years ago. She did not think she wanted to marry him and go to that. And likely if she married him, he would change into a man who thought he could tell her what to do.

  Yet, now that he was gone she felt a distinct loneliness and absurd longing for him to return and sit with her and talk with her. Maybe what she liked best was that he listened to her talk.

  Then she recalled what she had shared with him in her feather bed. Obie had in fact greatly amazed her with his capab
ilities.

  She saw headlights flicker up on the highway, and a moment later she heard a vehicle pulling into the drive. She ducked back into the house to look around and make certain there was no telltale evidence left about.

  * * * *

  When Johnny pulled the truck into the yard at the back door, Etta was again leaning against his shoulder, feigning sleep and wishing she could stay there forever resting in his musky male warmth, trying to stretch the seconds of bliss in which reality had no place.

  Johnny stopped the truck and sat there with the engine running, his foot keeping the clutch pressed in for long seconds, until he simply let up and the truck gave a lurch and died. Etta remained against his shoulder. His hand stroked her neck, and his thumb began the delicious circles.

  At last, stirred into reaction, Etta raised her head and looked at him. The dashlight shone silvery on his features, dark and rugged, before he quite suddenly brought his lips down onto hers. They pressed fiercely, his tongue forced entry, and desire came charging up Etta’s chest. Tears of yearning for something she knew she could not have sprang into her eyes. She grasped him and he grasped her, all heavy breathing and urgent kissing and pounding desire.

  The next instant, Johnny went still as stone. Her belly was pressed against him, she realized, and the baby inside kicking. Etta took in a deep breath, watched Johnny pull back and look down at her pregnant belly. Slowly she, too, looked downward.

  For a long minute they sat thus, both gazing at the mound, while Elvis sang softly from the radio.

  Then Johnny very hesitantly put his hand on Etta’s belly. Placing her own hand over his, she guided him to the spot where the baby poked her foot. The foot drew back and kicked, and Johnny jumped, and Etta had to grab his hand to keep him from pulling away.