by Tom Drury
“He runs away every time we make love,” said Cheryl.
“You know who else was like that?” said Louise, and whispered the name of someone they both knew.
“I mean he literally runs away,” said Cheryl. “He puts on tennis shoes and he’s out the door. He goes up around the reservoir, down the graveyard, and back, a total of four or five miles. There’s something I don’t trust about joggers. The blankets are still warm and I hear his soles hitting the pavement. I don’t think it’s normal. And I also happen to think he has a glass eye.”
Louise laughed. “What do you mean?” she said. “You can’t tell?”
“Well, sometimes he gives me a look, and I think, My God, those eyes are glass,” said Cheryl.
“Dan’s eyes seem real,” said Louise.
“He’s all right,” said Cheryl.
“Hi, ladies,” said the gambler with the ponytail. He stood at the table, holding a cigarette near his mouth. “Say, Louise, I’m afraid that bet we made didn’t pan out.”
“I didn’t make a bet,” said Louise.
“Well, I put that ten dollars in for you. But the horse pulled up lame. Isn’t that the way? The race was fixed, too, which is the hell of it. I guess you can’t fix Mother Nature, much as we might like to.”
“How are your fish?” said Louise.
“Last I heard, the tank had stabilized,” said the gambler. “So when’s the big event?”
“Saturday,” said Louise.
He sent a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, took off his baseball cap, and settled it on Louise’s head. “Here’s something blue,” he said, and moved on.
“Who the hell is that?” said Cheryl.
“Larry Longhair,” said Louise. She got up, put money in the jukebox, and played the first and second parts of “Rock Your Baby” by George McRae.
“Remember this?” said Louise.
“I played it when you and Tiny got married,” said Cheryl. “Everyone hated it.”
“No, they didn’t,” said Louise.
“It isn’t a tune for the French horn,” said Cheryl. “I realize that now.”
“You were in the music academy. We assumed you knew what you were doing.”
“It was an interesting experiment,” said Cheryl.
“Much like the marriage itself,” said Louise.
“You know, I miss hanging around and talking,” said Cheryl. “Sometimes I think I’ll get back with Laszlo.”
“What about Jean?”
“Yes, well, that’s the problem,” said Cheryl. She sighed. “I have to tell you. Don’t take this wrong. I mean, it isn’t negative. But the word around town is that you’ve changed.”
“What do you think?”
“Yes, but not how they mean,” said Cheryl.
Louise lowered the visor of the cap and took a drink of beer. “How have I changed?” she said.
“It’s not like you’re repenting or anything,” said Cheryl. “It’s more like, O.K. This is the way.”
Louise nodded. Rod Stewart sang “Maggie May” on the jukebox. “You know what I never liked about that song?” said Cheryl.
“What?”
“Well,” she said, “if it really don’t worry him none, you know, when the morning sun shows her age—why even mention it?”
“This is true,” said Louise.
Louise stayed at her mother’s house the night before the wedding. She lay in her childhood bed, on her side, in the shape of a question mark. At the suggestion of Hey, Teens! magazine, she had climbed a stepladder twenty-three years ago and pressed glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling. Louise had been greatly influenced by Hey, Teens! when she was a teen. She had made and worn easy-to-make clothing that really looked very bad. She had joined the Gary Lewis and the Playboys Fan Club. The stars barely glowed, and she saw them faintly from the corner of her eye.
She fell asleep and dreamed. Louise had simple dreams most of the time. She had little patience for those who would draw her aside and say, “Listen to this dream I had. I was talking on the phone with my cousin, and then it was like I was the phone …” Anyway, in this dream Louise and Dan were driving home at night from Morrisville, and Dan took a steep road that Louise had not known about. They glided up through the country. The sky was like a map of the sky, with concentric rings, big blue planets, names and distances printed in white. The road climbed sharply, and the scenery was lonely—a dark house, black pines—but beautiful in the planetary light.
“Do you take this route very often?” said Louise.
“In fact, I never have,” said Dan, “but I’m familiar enough with the road system to know this will level out up ahead like a hawk’s nest.”
It didn’t, of course. The car went over the crest of the road and dropped into endless dream darkness. Louise woke, breathing hard. She heard a strange smacking noise and went downstairs. It was one-thirty in the morning, and Mary was mopping the walls of the hallway for the reception. She wore a housecoat with the sleeves rolled up. She had never mastered cleaning, and as she flailed the plaster with the cords of the mop, she seemed to be losing ground.
“I wasn’t going to do this,” said Mary. “But I started in with a sponge, and don’t you honestly think the mop does a better job?”
Louise yawned. “You’re paranoid,” she said. But she pitched in, unfolding and setting up three card tables with the distinct and tropical smell of Mary’s basement.
They listened to a talk show on the radio and made their way down Louise’s list. Their work acquired the intent and wordless pace that can be reached only after midnight. Louise chased cobwebs with a cloth-covered broom. Mary sewed the hem of Louise’s dress. Louise taped white ribbons to the lamps. Together they made sandwiches without crusts.
The talk show featured a woman in Rapid City interviewing an agoraphobic. But the guest got nervous and went home halfway through.
“I guess she wasn’t lying,” said Louise.
“You always had the opposite problem,” said Mary. “You never wanted to come home.”
Louise sat in the kitchen curling ribbon with the blade of a scissors. “One time I did,” she said. “I had a flat tire and it was raining and I didn’t have a coat. I remember wishing and wishing I was home. Well, I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t be scared about tomorrow,” said Mary.
“Good night,” said Louise.
“Good night.”
In the morning they made punch—orange juice, grapefruit juice, pineapple juice, and vodka. Sun poured through the kitchen windows. They stood mixing and sampling until they were happy not only with the punch but with the house, the weather, and the lives they had led so far.
Heinz Miller came over shortly after noon. A retired farmer, he lived next door with his wife, Ranae. He wore a short-sleeve white shirt and wine-red slacks.
“Our cable just went out,” he said. “Would you mind if I turn on the ballgame? Got some money on the Twins. It’s the top of the third with one man on and nobody down. Our cable went blank. I thought of you.”
“How much money?” said Mary.
“Three thousand dollars,” said Heinz.
“Good Lord,” said Louise.
“How much?” said Mary.
“Three thousand,” said Louise.
“I know it’s a lot,” said Heinz. “I bet it with those guys at the Lime Bucket.”
“Well, Heinz Miller,” said Mary.
“They used psychology on me,” said Heinz. “They made it sound like I wouldn’t have any money to bet. They said the farm economy is so poor that when a farmer moves into town it’s usually to live in low-class housing. So of course I told them all about the house. Like an ass. ‘We finished the attic.’ ‘We put in a breakfast nook.’ The next thing I knew we were betting three thousand dollars. But I’m going to ask you not to tell Ranae. I believe it’s best she doesn’t know. If she found out, I think she would take my gun and kill me.”
“You have it coming,” said Mary
.
“She really has gotten attached to that gun,” said Heinz. “And she used to hate it. Couldn’t stand to see it. Didn’t even want it in the garage. Then the other day I noticed it was missing from the cupboard by the Drano there, where I keep it. Next thing I know, here comes Ranae walking up the street with the gun in her hand. Well, it turns out she’s been taking it down to the sand pits every afternoon. So I ask her, you know, why the sudden urge to be a sharpshooter. And she says—get this—she says, ‘Heinzie, I’m thinking about doing away with you.’ How’s a fellow supposed to respond to something like that?”
“She walks to the pits every day?” said Mary. “I should start walking. A lot of people walk these days.”
Heinz Miller turned on the ballgame, which was between the Twins and the Tigers. “What do you bet this is fixed,” he muttered, and lit a cigarette. “Doctor said I shouldn’t smoke, so I got some of these low-tar jobbies.”
Louise brought him a cup of punch and took a cigarette. She and Heinz sat on the davenport smoking and watching the ballgame, an ashtray between them. Louise wore a red and white bathrobe, a blue towel around her hair. “Are you coming to my wedding?” she said.
“When is that, honey?” said Heinz.
“Two o’clock,” said Louise.
“That you would have to ask Ranae,” said Heinz.
“You could at least congratulate me,” said Louise.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“How do I pay these men?” said Heinz. “With a check?”
“Hell no, they won’t take a check,” said Mary, who had been listening from the kitchen.
“You wouldn’t think so,” said Louise.
“I can’t watch,” said Heinz. The Tigers had runners on second and third. He turned down the sound and covered his eyes. “What’s happening?”
“The count is three-and-one to Tony Phillips,” said Louise. “And here’s the pitch. Phillips swings. It’s a line drive single to right.”
She went upstairs and dried her hair. Then she sat on the bed, looking at a framed photograph from her first wedding. In the picture she stood alone in a white dress, day lilies in her arms. Her eyes looked hooded and desirous and empty.
She had been stolen not long after this picture was taken. Seven of Tiny’s friends had grabbed her on the church steps after the ceremony. Bride stealing was traditional but rather pointless in the modern era. They put her in a car and drove fast to Overlook Park in Chesley, where everyone settled on a ledge above the river. She still had the lilies in her lap.
Marijuana and a gourdlike bottle of Spañada were handed around. Dusty light seemed to follow the path of the river, and Louise got loaded on two drags of Hawaiian marijuana. She wondered what had happened to the mild grass of high school—gone forever. Then it dawned on her that these men could throw her off the ledge and into the river. This seemed suddenly very likely, and she had the impression that the notion was blooming in all of them. She wondered if by spreading her arms she could fashion wings from the extra fabric in her wedding dress. Maybe it was supposed to have been a kite in the first place. She could glide all the way to St. Louis, or someplace far like that.
Louise got away without much trouble. She retreated from the ledge, carrying the train of her dress, fingertips touching the twigs and leaves that had hooked in there already. She climbed into a car. The doors and trunk were open and the radio was well into that very long Southern song about the bird who would not change. She started the engine and drove away. A cooler bounced from the trunk at the speed bump in the park. In the rear-view mirror she could see bottles and ice tumbling along the pavement.
Now she took the old wedding picture into the closet, where Mary kept a cardboard barrel of coats. When you were in Mary’s house you were never far from a store of old coats. Maybe she knew something no one else did about climate patterns. Louise buried the picture in the coats.
She brushed out her hair and put on her dress. It was yellow with white flowers and a low back. She tied a rose-colored ribbon in her hair, spread her arms, and turned toward the mirror. Her hair was long and brown, and the ribbon made it look coppery.
Henry Hamilton gave Louise away. They walked together down the aisle of the church. He had a bad hip and she had small shoes, so they moved at a slow and stately pace. Henry wore a handsome, deep blue wool suit. It is an unnoted fact of Midwestern life that the old farmer rummaging through pocket T-shirts at Ben Franklin might have a wardrobe like Cary Grant’s at home in the attic. The suit smelled like a trunk with faded steamship stickers.
“You look beautiful,” said Henry.
“No, you do,” said Louise.
The church was plain, but light streamed through the stained glass. Cheryl had done a good job on the flowers, and Louise felt as if she were approaching the edge of a jungle. Pastor Matthews was flanked by the leaves of large plants. Dan and his best man, Deputy Ed Aiken, edged toward the altar as if making their way along a narrow ledge. Dan’s tie was crooked and he had a kind of careless happiness on his face. This is the way of men.
“Dearly beloved,” said Pastor Matthews. “We are here to unite Louise Montrose Darling and Daniel John Norman in the blessings of matrimony. First I have a few announcements I did not get to last Sunday. Shirley Baker is still in the hospital, as are Andy Reichardt and Bill Wheeler. Bill continues to be troubled by that nasty cough but wanted to thank you for your prayers. Marvin and Candace Ross have a new baby, Bethany; mother and daughter are doing fine. And a note comes from Delia Kessler thanking everyone for the kindness extended to her following the death of her grandfather Mort …”
The announcements went on for a while longer, but eventually Louise and Dan got to speak their vows. The pastor raised his hands and Louise felt his palm brush her hair. “With this ring,” said Dan, “I thee wed, and pledge my abiding love.” They kissed. Louise closed her eyes. She could not define what she was feeling but knew no other way to express it than to say that she loved him. So that’s what she said. It occurred to her that you only get glimpses of love, your whole life, just bits and pieces. They kissed again, deeply, unrehearsed. Farina sang a hymn—“O Love That Will Not Let Me Go.”
Afterward, everyone went outside. Cheryl and Laszlo walked beneath the poplar trees while poor Jean waited, counting the fingers of her white gloves. Across the lawn, Louise and Dan stood on the sidewalk, receiving the wishes of the people. It was cool in the shade, and wind moved the branches of trees.
Heinz Miller had been forced to go home when Mary and Louise left for the church, and by then his cable service had been restored. He asked Ranae to take a seat in the living room and told her about the bet he had made. They watched the Twins complete a dull and losing effort, and Ranae wept softly. In her mind’s eye she saw the departure of all that three thousand dollars could buy for their grandchildren. Toys, games, and bicycles went spinning over the horizon. It’s true that the Millers would not have spent the three thousand dollars on their grandchildren, but it gave Ranae a way to measure the loss. The wedding started in the sixth or seventh inning, and Heinz and Ranae did not go. When the game ended, Heinz turned off the television, and they sat in dim light for almost an hour and a half. Three or four times Heinz asked Ranae what she was thinking. Finally she threw a book that hit him on the arm. Then she got up and said, “If you think I’m going to miss the wedding of my friend’s daughter, and now the reception, because of you, well, how wrong you are.”
They dressed silently and walked over to Mary’s house. Heinz was mournful. Ranae was furious at Heinz. They found Louise soaking her feet in a plastic tub at the base of the stairs. She looked wonderful in her yellow dress and bare feet. They hugged her, and Heinz gave her a card with five dollars in it to start them on their way. Mary came over, said how proud she was of her daughter, cried, coughed, blew her nose, and sat down. “By the way, Ranae, I hear from Heinz that you’re walking every day to the sand pits,” she said. “I wou
ld love to go with you.”
“I don’t think I shall be walking anymore,” said Ranae.
“Oh, Ranae,” said Heinz. “You’ll be walking, for God’s sakes. Aren’t you being kind of melodramatic.”
“Shut up, Heinz,” said Ranae.
Sensing the poorness of their own behavior, Heinz and Ranae left the reception after fifteen minutes. They walked across Mary’s grass, through the hedge, and into their yard. The red Impala of the gamblers was in the driveway, and the gamblers themselves were looking in the windows of the house.
Heinz put his hands in his jacket pockets. “Say, get away from there,” he said, in a formal voice.
“This is nice,” called the gambler named Richie.
“Are you aware those milk pails by the piano are antiques?” said Larry Longhair.
“That’s none of your concern,” said Heinz. “Ranae, honey, go inside the house.”
Ranae did so. She got the gun from the cupboard by the sink and loaded it. Her hands were shaking. The gamblers were walking Heinz to the garage. Ranae came down the sidewalk. She raised the gun and fired twice into the sky. She shot out a garage window. The gamblers ran to their car and peeled out of the driveway. Heinz went to Ranae and embraced her. Then something odd happened. One of the bullets that she had shot into the air came down on the sidewalk. Ranae and Heinz looked at each other and hurried into the house.
Louise and Dan went to Solitude Island, in Lake Michigan, for their honeymoon. Although it was May, it snowed almost every day. They stayed in a hotel with gas lighting, narrow rooms, no electricity. Dining was communal in the morning and at supper, and as far as Louise could tell, the only thing people ever talked about was who disliked meat the most. One man who admitted feeding bacon to his dog was asked to leave the table. Louise and Dan had not thought to bring boots and scarves. They kept to themselves and spent a lot of time in bed, with the snow falling on the old hotel. But on the sixth day the weather cleared and the sun came out. They walked through the woods to a cliff by the big lake.
