by Mae Ronan
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I like you better every second.”
We were silent for a moment, and very still. I remained perched on my stool, arms crossed, looking down at the young man with rather a stoney countenance. I would have liked to smile; but I’ll own the thought crossed my mind, as I sat there so quiet, that I didn’t wish to lose his admiration.
Finally he straightened up, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Probably he crushed both of his candy bars in doing so. But he stood like a marble statue, with his head cocked slightly to one side, and that same disarming smile painted upon his handsome face.
“My name is Foster Vine,” he said.
“Good for you.”
“Will you tell me your name?”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to know?”
“Oh – I didn’t say that. I only said, that I liked how you wouldn’t tell me.” But then he began to frown; and he added, “At first.”
“At first?”
“Mm-hmm. The thing is, I like you now – and there’s no getting around it. I know I won’t sleep for a week, if I don’t find out your name.”
“That’s a very strange thing to say, Mr Vine.”
“Not so strange,” he said, with his smile returned. “And call me Foster.”
“Call me Sarah,” I said, almost involuntarily.
“Sarah?”
“Sarah.”
“Sarah what?”
“You have to wait a while, I think, for that.”
His grin only widened at this. He went into his pocket for a candy bar, and threw it to me over the counter. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Well – you will be eventually. Keep that for later.”
One more smile; and then he turned to go. I watched him drive slowly out of the lot. Then I looked down at the candy he had left.
It was a Snickers bar. I took it up in my hand, and found that my earlier prediction was quite true. It was flat as a flapjack.
***
The lot was surrounded by trees. Its floor was of dirt, thick and dusty. There were several battered cars, not much more than rusted frames, strewn about on the left-hand, while on the right there was a small space that began to open up, and then grow wider and wider, upon proceeding into the West.
It was on this empty space that two sets of eyes were fixed, peering out from beneath a pile of rubbish in which they had found refuge. But refuge in such refuse could never last long, hard as the wind did blow, to shift and stir what seemed all the most important parts of the pile, and thereby expose the pale limbs they had sheltered.
Dark red light sifted down through the tree branches, looking like blood; and covered with its sombre hue all those places which really were stained with the crimson stuff. Mostly it had trickled defiantly from the two bodies that had slithered from the basement, and up the steps; across the kitchen, and out the creaking door; over the lot, and under the rubbish. Only a little while before, these red streaks had stood out angrily against the dry brown earth, marking the way of the bleeding persons very clearly; but now the dying light came down, and erased them. Soon it would be dark, and blackness would swallow the red. After that – well, after that it would be morning, and the two bleeding persons hoped very much that they would be dead by then.
***
You should know that one of those bleeding persons was me. I hid beneath that pile of trash, holding the hand of a young woman named Amy Deck, only three short months after I first met Foster Vine.
Perhaps you can guess, that he was the reason I hid there.
II.
Most of July had gone, before I saw Foster again. Still I was working at that station, mostly night-shifts. He came back in the early darkness of a Wednesday morning.
“Hello, Sarah,” he said.
“Hello, Foster.”
“You remember my name!” he exclaimed.
“It’s not a very hard name to remember.”
“Maybe not.”
He turned away from me for a moment. He stepped over to a tall metal rack, and picked up two candy bars. Then he placed them on the counter.
“Here’s the forty cents,” he said. “And five dollars for gas, this time.”
I took the money, and rang his order through. I tossed the receipt, and pushed the candy towards him.
He put one of the bars in his pocket; but passed the other back to me. “That’s for you,” he said.
“You know,” I told him, “it’s very nice of you – but I can spare twenty of my own cents, if I want a candy bar.”
“I’m sure you can. But I wouldn’t have a chance to be a gentleman, then.”
I smiled uncertainly. “Is that what gentlemen do? Give women candy bars in gas stations?”
“That’s what this gentleman does.”
“I see.”
“Do you want more?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t have any more money tonight,” he explained, “but I get paid on Friday. I can take you to a movie, if you like.”
I made him no answer.
“Sarah?”
“What?”
“Do you want to go to a movie with me?”
“I don’t even know you, Foster.”
He laughed. “You see – that’s almost an oxymoron. You can’t say you don’t know me, and then say my name in the same sentence.”
“Knowing your name doesn’t mean I know you.”
“Would you like to?”
From anyone else, probably this turn of conversation would have sent me running from the station. But Foster Vine’s face (perfectly clean this time) was innocent and unassuming; and his eyes were sincere enough.
“I don’t know, Foster,” I answered.
“Come on, now,” he said, good-humouredly. “I want very much to take you to a movie, Sarah. And if you don’t want to go with only me – well, you can bring anyone you like. As many people as you like.”
“I still don’t know.”
“Well – will you think about it?”
He reached for a scrap of paper that lay on the counter, and then took up my ball-point pen. He scratched something down on the paper; and reached for my hand. I started slightly, but did not pull away. He uncurled my fingers, and placed the paper in my palm.
“That’s my telephone number,” he said. “This is Wednesday – and I want to take you out on Friday night. Call me tomorrow.”
He said nothing more; but put the pen exactly where he had found it, and left the station with his solitary candy bar.
I sat up long that night, sitting by the darkened window in my bedroom, and looking out into the billowing waves of grass. In the light of the silver moon, they appeared almost as fields of seaweed, twisting this way and that beneath the weight of an entire ocean.
I was thinking of Foster Vine, of course. I turned my eyes from the window, and looked down at my desk, to see the Snickers bar that Foster had given me. The first one I had kept for a few days, too – but after that it had melted irreparably in the heat of a Georgia summer.
I stared at the candy for a long while. I looked from its familiar wrapper, to the grass outside my window; back and forth, again and again, till finally I grew sleepy. I picked up the candy bar, and pressed it with my fingers, before putting it to bed in a little wooden paper tray at the corner of the desk.
***
I did not work on Thursday. I slept till noon, and then shuffled into the kitchen for a sandwich. After that, I probably would have called Jenny – but still there was a half-melted Snickers bar on my desk, and I wanted to look at it for a while longer, before it disappeared like the last.
I stayed in my room till six, sometimes reading, sometimes dozing. When the front door slammed in the wake of my father’s arrival, I snapped awake, and shielded my eyes for a moment against the golden sun that was assaulting my window.
I glanced at the clock; and then patted my pocket, whe
re Foster Vine’s telephone number lay. I kept to my bed for another hour, debating to no effect the question which had lingered in my mind all day. Would I call him or no? Should I call him or no?
“Sarah!”
“What, Daddy?”
“Are you going in tonight?”
“No, Daddy.”
“Well, I’m going down to Scottie’s. I left some money on the table for your supper.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“Goodnight, honey.”
The front door slammed once more; and I was alone. I took the paper from my pocket, and stared at it for several long minutes. Then I swallowed thickly, got to my feet, and went slowly down the hall to the kitchen.
I picked up the telephone with shaking fingers.
***
Eight o’clock next night, I walked briskly down Main Street with Jenny. Sometimes she turned to speak to me; and sometimes she turned to say a word to Jason, her great hulking meat-headed quarterback. Mostly he answered in grunts, and she swivelled her head away from him with a groan, the sound of which he was humming to himself rather too loudly to notice.
We halted on the sidewalk in front the theatre. Jason leaned his back against the brick wall, and Jenny nestled herself in the crook of his arm, while we stood waiting for Foster.
He came not five minutes later. He walked straight to me, placed a hand on either of my shoulders, and leaned down to kiss my cheek. He smelled of a very pleasant cologne. His short patch of unruly blond hair he had beaten into submission, and combed neatly back from his forehead, with what seemed a dab of oil. He wore a crisp white button-down shirt, which was tucked carefully into his black jeans. It lay open at the neck, and I could see the skin just beneath his throat, so pale in contrast with his brown cheeks.
Jenny moved away from Jason, and looked with wide eyes at Foster. Then she looked back at Jason; and frowned.
Foster nodded politely to my friends, but then turned his attention back to me, and offered me his arm. I took it almost blushingly, and walked with him to the ticket booth, where he paid for our admission. I sneaked a glance back at Jenny, and marked a very discontented expression upon her thickly made-up face.
“I’m glad you called,” Foster said to me, as we took our seats before the movie screen. “I was hoping you would call.”
I turned to look at his face. His blue eyes were gleaming in the light of the screen, and his slick hair was sparkling. He stared at me very seriously.
“Well,” I said quietly, “I’m glad I called, too.”
***
I turned eighteen on August fifth. My father made me breakfast, and gave me a hundred-dollar bill. I spent the day shopping with Jenny. Or, rather – I watched Jenny shop, and strolled along behind her, simply enjoying the feel of the large note in my wallet.
I had seen Foster Vine, every night since we met at the theatre. If I was working, then he stopped by the station, and talked with me through the most lonely parts of my shifts. If I was free, then he came to fetch me in his Nova after he left his uncle’s repair shop, and took me to dinner.
It was no different on my birthday. I parted with Jenny at three o’clock, and returned home to wait for Foster. I put on my best dress, and painted my face lightly. When Foster took my hand at the door, his eyes lit up like little lamps, and he told me I was beautiful.
There wasn’t much hope for me, after that. I sat moonstruck all through dinner, watching Foster’s face over the rim of my glass. He smiled quite as much as usual, and reached to press my hand several times; but he didn’t have much to say.
When he walked me to the door that night, and paused with me at the top of the stoop, I’m sure I expected him to kiss me. I think I even wished he would. But he only patted my cheek with his cool hand, and walked away.
I lay awake all night, wondering what I had done wrong. I called Foster next morning, but he didn’t answer. I tried again in the evening, and had no better luck.
It wasn’t till the next week that I finally heard from him. It was four in the morning, and I had just fallen asleep after returning from the station. I was roused by the sound of the ringing telephone.
I leapt out of bed, and ran to the kitchen to snap up the phone. I held my hand to the mouthpiece, breathing heavily, and peering down the hall to see if my father would come. But it seemed he slept on.
“Hello?” I said.
“Sarah?”
It was Foster’s voice.
“Foster?” I said. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Is it late?”
“Fairly.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t realise.”
“It’s all right.”
“Can I come and get you, Sarah?”
“I only just went to bed.”
“Just for a little while, Sarah?”
“Well – yes, I think.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
I dressed quickly, and sat waiting for twenty minutes in the living room. When I saw the lights of the Nova flash past the window, I hurried outside, and met Foster in the yard. He snatched me up in his arms, and held me tightly to his chest, so tightly that I could scarcely breathe. Then he gripped my chin between his strong fingers, tilted my face towards his, and kissed me hard.
“I missed you, Sarah,” he said.
“Where have you been? I called you, but –”
“I know. I’m sorry about that.”
I watched him carefully for a moment; but his face offered me no hint as to what thoughts were spinning round his brain. He was pale in the white starlight, with his fair hair sticking up all over his head. His jaws were covered with thick stubble, and his eyes appeared bloodshot.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m fine. Just a little family matter is all.”
He stared at me. I found myself squirming slightly under his gaze, so intent was it. He held my hand clutched inside his own.
“You’re very beautiful, Sarah.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, and peered questioningly into his face.
“Will you come with me?” he asked.
“Come where?”
“Can’t you guess?”
I hesitated for a little, with my eyes fastened to his. They shone like silver in the light of the yard, and cut me like razors.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll come.”
He pulled me roughly towards the car, and nearly shoved me inside it. I sat watching the side of his face while he drove; but he never once looked at me.
***
The days which followed mirrored closely the time we had first spent together. The mask of indifference vanished, which Foster had worn on my birthday; and I saw no more of the beastly creature which had manifested itself, and left dark bruises all down my arms and legs, the night he threw me into his car. These unpleasant characters were replaced instead by all of his usual charm – with a considerable amount of amorousness now mixed in. We spent so much time with one another that my father demanded to meet him. He arrived for supper just on time, dressed impeccably, and was flawlessly polite. By the end of the evening, my father was chatting with him about football.
The time continued to pass in this way – till September. That’s when it happened. Of course I should have known, that the beast which had bruised me would surface again. But I was eighteen years old, you see, and had not much more in my head than spaghetti strings.
I was alone at the station, drumming my fingers noisily against the counter, and grimacing at the floor. I had just had another fight with my father. Every day since September had begun, he had spent trying to persuade me to sign up for classes at the community college. I told him I would be signing up late; he told me that late was better than never. So I told him that I didn’t want to. The first time I said it, his face grew red as a beet, and it seemed almost as if steam would come pouring from his ears. But he left me without a word, and did not resume the conversation till the next day. We went back and forth
, back and forth, just as we had before. He ended just as angry, and I ended just as weary.
The evening of September ninth presented the greatest and longest of our battles. We ate supper together in the kitchen, before I left for work. I made to leave; he introduced again that faded subject; and we hollered for thirty minutes. Finally he stormed from the house on his way to Scottie’s, and I hurried to the station, late in my duty of relieving Irene at the register.
It was in this questionable state of mind, then, that Foster Vine found me. I glanced up from my book, and smiled at him. He looked just as he had looked when I met him. His T-shirt stretched over his broad chest, covered with motor oil. His face was painted with lovely streaks of black.
“Hello, Sarah,” he said.
“Hello, Foster.”
“How’s your night?”
“It could be better.”
He crossed his arms, and stood back to appraise me. I sat quiet for a minute or two; but at last began to grow nervous.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.
“I’m sorry you’ve have a bad night,” he said simply.
“It’s not your fault.”
He smiled brightly. “No,” he said. “But what comes next will be.”
III.
The basement was dark when we entered it. I opened my eyes slowly, rubbing the searing spot on my head where he had struck me with a tire iron. I looked all about me, and tried to move; but I was slung over his shoulder, and he held me fast.
“What are you doing?” I shrieked, as I beat my fists against his solid back. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I love you, Sarah,” he answered.
“Let me go, Foster! Let me go!”
“No, no, Sarah. You’re coming down here with Amy.”
“Who?”
“Amy. Amy Deck. She’s right – over – there.”
Brief grunts interspersed his words, as I began to slip, and he hefted me up on his shoulder. Then he paused; and next moment my eyes were blinded with dirty yellow light.
