July 7th

by Jill McCorkle

  “I’ll lie down and die before I move from my home,” she always says, and Ernie doesn’t pressure her, though it would be for her own good, though that lot of hers right there on Main Street would bring in quite a lot of money, good place for a doctor’s office, straight shot to the hospital. Of course, that would mean getting the old house back from his daughter, but they ought to be out some place like Oakwood Village where there are lots of young couples and children for Petie Rose to play with anyway. Ah, but he can wait. After all, he waited years to have what he’s got right now, years and years of hard work, which is why he’s working late right now, why he works late lots of nights. He’s a long way from Injun Street, but he can’t ever get too far away, and the way to get further and further away is to make more money. There was no reason that he should ever be reminded of it again. There’s no reason to be reminded now. The circle that he runs with now is mostly comprised of people who came to Marshboro long after he made it off of Injun Street, doctors, businessmen and such that don’t even know that Injun Street exists. It’s only people like his mother-in-law and brother-in-law and even Kate sometimes who will bring something up about his background. Over the years, Kate has learned not to do that, but not Harold Weeks.

  Ernie is fifty now, fifty years old and just finally coming in to what he has always deserved: a fine new Williamsburg home in the best neighborhood in town, two cars, his maroon BMW and Kate’s blue Audi, the colors matching perfectly with the Williamsburg tones of his house, a pool where little Petie Rose can come and play, instead of having to go to that cheap YMCA like Harold and Juanita Weeks’ children, and most importantly a circle of friends who can recognize his class, a circle of friends who enjoy a cocktail party, getting all dressed up and sipping the finest wines and liquors, sometimes getting a little wild, but maintaining some semblance of dignity, unlike someone like Harold Weeks who merely belts down shots and gets stumbling drunk and says things that are crude and unacceptable. Hell, he’s got everything going for him and a fifty-year-old man ought to have even more, make hay while the sun shines, make up for lost years before he gets old and decrepit and starts imagining things, like his mother-in-law who on this very day will turn eighty-three years old. How in the hell has she lingered this long?

  Tick tick tick. He watches the second hand going around the brand new oak encased schoolhouse clock that Kate picked out for his office. Two o’clock. He’s been watching clocks for way too long, counting hours, days, years, decades that would separate him from Injun Street. He would sit in school, watching the big old Seth Thomas clocks, thinking that things would be better at three when the school bell rang. He’s always waited for something better to happen and it always has, by dammit, and he’s made it happen, he’s made it all happen, by himself, and he’ll keep right on doing it.

  Now he watches little Janie Morris out there typing away, typing up the new land proposal that he has drawn up for a new business area downtown. She volunteered to work late; of course, she is getting overtime and to a secretary, that’s a lot of money, Ernie supposes. She’ll probably go out and buy herself another cute little outfit, new shoes, things like that. He can sympathize, indeed, with somebody less fortunate working their buns off for a washing machine or a color T.V. He’s been there, years ago he was there. Yes, she’s going to work out just fine, only been here a week and already those files are neat as a pin, can type like hell, too. A young single girl trying to make good, and she acts like she’s real interested in business, too, says she wants to get her real estate license. Now, there’s a girl with sense, getting in the right place at the right time, putting herself in the position where she would meet all of the upper-middle-class housewives who have decided to work. Ernie took on one of the young doctor’s wives just the other day. Yes, he sees a lot of potential in Janie Morris, and that name fits her, Janie, fits her petite little self and those little fingers rapidly typing up a deal that could be worth thousands and thousands. It’s a shame that his daughter Rose never showed such promise; all Rose ever wanted to do was teach art. Imagine, teaching art—no future in that. Ernie supposes that Rose figured that she didn’t have to worry, since her Daddy was making it so big and had agreed to take her husband into the business, and God only knows what Pete would be doing otherwise, probably still working as assistant branch manager over at Federal Trust. And Corky Revels; there isn’t a prayer for her, working at that coffee shop, not even trying to go off to school, and she even came from a fairly decent background, at least until a few years ago.

  The second hand is ticking in rhythm with Janie’s fingers, in rhythm with the way that she swings her leg back and forth, just her toes keeping that little spectator pump from clattering onto that solid heart pine floor. His eyes follow her leg with every tick, the foot swinging back and forth, the little pump holding onto those toes, connected to that slender ankle, the little muscular calf, sturdy hips, slim waist, that low cut silky blouse. Tick tick. This girl’s got the right potential all right, little heavy on the makeup, could brush up on her English, groom herself on the right topics so that she could make some comment on world affairs, Dow Jones, music, literature, wines, all of the cocktail topics. Kate has done it though she makes an occasional faux pas, but he bets this girl will be perfect someday. He’s seeing the raw workings, the lump of coal that can be squeezed and pressed into a perfect diamond, a woman like Dr. Miller’s little wife, Nancy. God, what a dish.

  He can just see Janie Morris throw back that curly head and shudder when he told her all about what he hopes to do in the future when he gets all the rest of that land along I-95. “You’re some businessman,” she had said, and had taken a sip of coffee, a tiny little delicate sip, her pinky even lifted. He hears those words over and over, sees the admiration in her eyes, hears it in her voice, sees that little foot swinging with every tick tick tick. He doesn’t quite know what is coming over him, this surge of power, this tightening in his groin.

  “Wow, that’s some complicated stuff.” Janie slumps in and leans against the doorway, stretches her back from side to side, like Kate’s cat Booty, who has just had her ninth litter of kittens by some old prowling torn. Booty is a full-blooded Persian, papers, two hundred dollars worth of cat, and every time she’s been knocked up by some stray tomcat. “Sorry it took me so long but I like to be real careful.” She stretches again and she does look like Booty, a purring kitten, like Nancy Miller.

  “I’m real pleased with your work, Janie,” he says, now aware of her perfume; nice brand, too, he’s smelled it before at a cocktail party. “You know I’m certain that there’s a place for you in this business.”

  “Wow, do you really think so?” She steps closer, got to get her to stop saying “wow.” He can’t get his mind off of Booty, that night that one of those toms sat outside of his bedroom window, making the call. Kate had slept through it, but he hadn’t. He had heard every screeching Mmmmrrrreeeeoooowwww! To cats that is passion in its rare and true form, and at the time what did Booty care that her old torn didn’t come from good lines? Maybe she saw potential in him; maybe she felt such a strong attraction that it didn’t matter at all.

  “I really think so,” he says and leans forward, his hands folded on his desk. “Hope I haven’t kept you from anything tonight.”

  “No, no plans and I can really use the money.”

  “Or anybody? A pretty smart young girl like you has got to have somebody.”

  “Well, there is one person, but you know, no strings.”

  “Play the field, huh?” Ernie sits back in his chair and props up his feet. “Have a seat, unless of course you’re in a rush.” He motions to the chair in front of his desk.

  “Actually, I’m wide awake. Once I sit up this late, I sort of get my second wind.” She smiles and those little dimples seem to sparkle on that young lineless face.

  “Yes, you will be my protégée.” He places his fingertips together and works them in and out, bending his knuckles.

  “What i
s that?” She looks embarrassed that she would have to ask.

  “It’s a French word.” He leans closer now, sweat gathering suddenly where his thick salt and pepper hair is parted and styled. “It means that I will take you into my care and help to further your career in the real estate business.”

  “Really, you mean it?” Now she has jumped up and run around the desk, standing there in her stocking feet like a helpless little child. “Oh, Mr. Stubbs, nobody has ever been as nice to me as you have this past week.” She leans down and kisses him on the cheek and just the brush of her lips, the trace of Dentyne on her breath, brings the tightening back and before he even knows what he is doing, he grabs hold of those little hands and kisses them, nibbles the thumb, got to get her to change that nail color, something more subdued, sophisticated.

  “Mr. Stubbs.” She backs up, those hazel eyes widening. “I hardly know you.”

  “But you want to, don’t you?” Ernie stands up and it is like he has no control, it is like the ticking has exploded into a surge of power, the power that he has been deprived of all of those years that he was working his way from Injun Street. “I mean look at this office, my business, you want that. Don’t you think about how you want this?”

  “It’s crossed my mind, yes, but you’re married.” Now Janie Morris looks frightened and he didn’t want to frighten her. It’s his strength and power, too much for her to grasp.

  “I’m sorry, sorry,” he says and steps closer to her again. “I just lost control. You are so perfect, so attractive.”

  “But we just met the first of this week. I haven’t even gotten my first paycheck.” Now her voice has softened.

  “You’re right. I don’t know what happened to me. I’m under so much pressure. Can you imagine how much pressure is involved in a big business? Can you?” He goes back to his chair and puts his head in his hands.

  “Oh yes, I’m sure there is.” She is creeping closer, like a cat, he can see those stocking feet from where he is peeking through his hands. He’s got to slow down, got to take things slowly; he hasn’t come all the way from Injun Street to blow it all on one woman. How do all of those men do it? How do they so easily have a little fling, something to tell the boys on a deep sea fishing trip when Ted Miller takes out his big boat. Even Ted Miller has stories to tell about women and brief flings, and he’s got that beautiful wife at home, never suspecting a thing; or what about old Dave Foster and all of his escapades on his business trips when he’s got Helena, one helluva Helena is what all the men say. Hell, Ernie Stubbs can handle it. It’s like old Dave Foster said one day on the golf course, “It doesn’t mean you don’t love your wife, just means you want to spice up your appetite a little bit; even a hot dog tastes good if you’ve eaten steak for every single night for the past seven years.” Damn right, and as far as Kate is concerned, Ernie figures he’s had meatloaf for twenty-nine years. Now Janie Morris’ little hands are on his shoulders. He could reach his arms around the chair, grab her, flip her over onto his lap and take her with force. No, he’s got to go slowly, make it all happen slowly. “I’m sorry if I made you angry, Mr. Stubbs.” He lets her talk, makes no response. Now her fingers are working in and out of his neck, massaging the muscles and it feels so good. “Can I still be your whatever?”

  “Protégée?” he murmurs.

  “Yes, protégée.” He shrugs, her fingers still working over his shoulders. Tick tick tick—something is going to happen and those little paws on his neck feel so good. It’s just like when he was a child over on Injun Street and had to work all those summers cropping tobacco. He rode every day on the truck with this black girl, a young black girl, with round firm breasts showing through her thin cotton blouses. He sat right in front of her and she was so intrigued by that straight silky hair that she just had to touch it, had to plait it, and those times he had thought about asking her to stop because it felt so good to him, but it felt too good to make her; he was like putty and even imagined throwing her down on the bed of that truck and climbing on top of that warm brown skin; of course he never did, he never would have even kissed a black girl. “You’re gonna get cooties,” his Mama said one day when he came home and she saw that plait in his hair, and he remembered those words, but once those black nimble fingers worked their way up and down his head, he was helpless. That girl could have plaited his whole head and he wouldn’t have stopped her. MMMrrreeeeoooowwwww!

  “Can I, Mr. Stubbs, still be your protégée? I’m a hard worker!”

  “Well see,” he whispers, making the words linger in what he supposes is a suave sexy voice.

  “Really, I’ll work hard. I know I can do it.” She’s weakening, every tick, weakening, just about to do anything. God, when is that deep sea fishing trip planned? Two weeks? He will have to check his calendar, but not now, no, not right this second, tick of a second.

  The bells above the door ring and it makes Harold lurch forward. He turns around just in time to see this kid with a shaved head stagger in, a duffel bag clenched in his hand. It’s him; it’s the person returning to the scene. Harold’s face is white now, and the pounding in his head is getting worse by the second. The kid keeps walking, his head cocked to one side like a confused dog while he looks at Harold. “Don’t come any closer!” Harold jumps up and holds his hands out in front of him.

  The kid stops, cocks his head to the other side, then rolls his head forward and all around. He stands there staring at Harold, opening his mouth like he’s going to say something and then closing it back, shaking his head from side to side. “Want some water.”

  “The police are on their way,” Harold whispers. “They’ll be here any second.”

  “Huh?” Sam Swett is confused now. He reaches into his bag and pulls out the empty bottle that has been slapping against his typewriter. “Can put water in this or throw it away.” He stands for a minute staring at the bottle, and then leans over the counter to toss it in the trashcan. “Two points,” he mumbles and then is silent. “Goddamn.” He puts his hands up over his face, rubs his eyes but he can’t wipe away what he just saw, that fat man, blue in the face. He peeps through his fingers and feels his stomach starting to churn again. “They got murder and rape and robbery, murder.” He turns away, his fingers spaced in front of his eyes and there’s that big hairy man. He picks up his bag and starts walking backwards to the door, can’t take his eyes off that man. “Didn’t see it,” he says. “No, no, didn’t see.”

  “Hey, you don’t think I did this?” Harold moves toward the boy. “This man was my friend. I wouldn’t kill him.”

  “No, no, you wouldn’t kill him.” Sam Swett shakes his head and keeps backing up.

  “Who the hell are you anyway? Where’d you come from?”

  “I was in a truck.”

  “That don’t answer my question.” Now Harold is mad. Charles Husky is dead and here’s this strange-looking kid that’s all drugged up.

  “Asked him to use the bathroom, had to vomit, sent me outside to vomit.” He is leaning against the glass door.

  “And that’s why you did it?” Harold yanks the bag out of his hand and steps back, puts his hand down in the bag without taking his eyes off of this freak. He gets his hand down there and pulls out a pair of underwear.

  “That’s my clean pair,” the boy mumbles, and Harold throws them down and steps on them, a big black footprint right on the crotch.

  “What the hell?” Harold glances down for just a second. “A typewriter and a couple of bottles of booze?”

  “I drink bourbon, drink straight bourbon.”

  “Hell, I can read, got you some Jim Beam, damn, got you some Wild Turkey. What’d you do, bump off a booze store, too?”

  “Bought it.”

  “Like hell. You grabbed what you could. If you had had the time or money, would have bought yourself a fifth of something and saved some money.”

  “Couldn’t decide.”

  “Shit, tell it to the cops. You move one step and I’ll kill you.”r />
  “They got bars where a fella can pick a fight, and if you want you can spend the night behind bars.”

  “You ain’t gonna pick a fight with me!” Harold grabs him up by the collar of that nasty green shirt and shakes him.

  “No, no, not gonna pick a fight.”

  “So why the hell did you do that?” Harold presses that boy’s head up against the door. “Couldn’t decide what booze to buy but you decide to kill a man.” He wraps his hand around the boy’s neck and pulls him over to the counter, pushes him down on his knees right there beside Charles, the Saran Wrap still bunched around Charles’ neck.

  “I didn’t.” Sam Swett closes his eyes and turns away, feels like he’s going to choke. He went outside, vomited a couple of times, took a little nap; things are clearing up. The trucker left him and he was looking at M&Ms and then he felt sick and then he left and then he came back and saw this big man with the dirty fingernails squatted over here with the dead man. It is hard to focus his eyes with his head turned this way, with this man shaking him so hard that he can almost hear his brain sloshing up against his skull. “Drink bourbon, not that shit.” He points to the countertop where there is a bottle of wine, doesn’t drink wine, spilled wine all over his prom date. She called him a jerk and got put on restriction. “I thought you were a nice boy,” that girl’s Mama said; girl didn’t say she drank all but what was on her dress.

  Harold stops shaking and glances over at the half-empty bottle of T.J. Swann Easy Nights. Charles Husky didn’t drink at all, never touched a drop. Somebody’s been drinking that nasty nigger wine. Harold lets go of the boy’s neck and can’t help but look at Charles again. That boy crawls off to the other side of the counter with his head turned away and Harold follows, yanks him up on his feet. “Breathe, boy,” Harold says and braces himself for what is to come.