by Billie Letts
Caney heard several months later she’d sold her book and moved to California to try to peddle it to the movies.
Before Naomi, he’d been visited from time to time by a prostitute from Ft. Smith, her phone number passed along to him by a trucker whose pockets were filled with such numbers.
A plain-looking woman named Lou, she had always complained about the long drive required to make a “house call” to the Honk, for which she demanded Caney pay, in addition to her minimum fee of twenty-five dollars, thirty cents a mile for driving expenses. And she insisted on per diem—a grilled cheese sandwich and onion rings.
But their relationship ended when Caney discovered that Lou was leaving her four-year-old son sleeping in the car while she was inside the Honk conducting business.
There had been one other woman Caney had seen a few times, a former classmate named Linda whose marriage of nine years dissolved when her husband left her for a teenage girl. Linda, in her bitterness, had turned to drink, the result being that her nights with Caney had become long drunken hours during which she devised fantastic schemes for luring her wayward husband back.
Beyond those dismal involvements, Caney had had only one other encounter, that with a nurse in the VA hospital in Kansas City on the night he arrived there.
She had been making her rounds of the ward he shared with nineteen other men when she’d found him crying. At first, she offered him medication for pain, but she discovered she didn’t have a pill for what he was feeling.
She stood beside him as, sobbing, he talked of all that had died in him in Vietnam—his youth, his legs, his manhood. Then, moving quietly, she had pulled the thin white curtain around his bed, and taken from her pocket a bottle of lotion that smelled of peppermint.
She began to work the lotion in small, tight circles across his chest, his shoulders, down onto his belly, his skin warming to her touch. Then, when she slid her hand beneath the drawstring of his pajamas, he had tried to look away, but she wouldn’t let him.
Smiling, she had leaned close, so close he could feel her moist breath on his face, as, without hurry, her sweet urgings proved to him he was still alive.
But now, Vena Takes Horse had slipped into his life,filling his days and nights with something new, something untouched by Vietnam.
The regulars had come to expect Caney’s occasional bouts of moodiness, days and nights when he grew surly or silent, when he had little interest in their stories, when he snapped at them for complaining about their food or stubbing out their cigarettes in the remains of their eggs, when he grumbled about them tying up the phone or spilling coffee on his newspaper.
They had never taken offense, though. Instead they had excused his sudden fits of peevishness because he was one of their own, returned to them with the scar of battle pinned to the breast of a uniform… a uniform tailored to fit a body reshaped by war.
But this new Caney had them baffled.
What was happening, they wondered, when he began to laugh at their jokes, when he encouraged their exaggerations about the car deals they’d made and their lies about the feats of coon hounds they’d raised?
Why, they questioned, was he always smiling and when had he started whistling the song that was B7 on the jukebox? And why wasn’t he upset when they tracked in mud and why didn’t he get mad when they complained that the beans were too salty, the liver too dry?
At first, they figured it was the weather. Spring had descended on them almost overnight. Sidewalks were lined with jonquils, yards brightened by flowering tulip trees, the countryside alive with blooming dogwoods.
Some credited Caney’s improved humor to the upturn in his business. The Honk was seldom empty and sometimes so crowded at noon, customers had to wait for tables.
But they never guessed that the changes they were seeing in Caney had anything to do with a woman because they tended to agree with Bilbo, who said, “It’s a shame, but I don’t believe the boy’s equipment is in working order.”
When Hamp Rothrock came through the door, MollyO waved him to a table in the corner where their conversation was less likely to be overheard.
“Thanks for coming, Hamp,” she said. “I know you’re busy with the farm since your daddy’s sick.”
“Oh, I’m not that busy. Besides, I had to come into town anyway to go by the feed store.”
MollyO fidgeted with an earring while she tried to decide how to start, but Hamp jumped in and made it easy.
“My mom said she saw Brenda in Doc Warner’s office last week.”
“Yeah, she’s been home for a while now.”
“Is she okay?”
“No, Hamp. To tell you the truth, she’s not doing too good.”
“What is it?” Hamp said, his voice edged with alarm. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Well, she lost the baby.”
“Oh, I’m sure sorry to hear that.”
“She’ll get over it, I suppose. Just going to take her some time.”
“She gonna be here long?”
“I think she might be, but…”
“Is her husband with her?” Hamp asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“No, she didn’t get married. That fell through.”
Hamp glanced away, hoping MollyO couldn’t read his expression.
“But I’m worried about her, Hamp. Real worried. She’s okay physically, but she seems so sad. So depressed.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Well, that’s why I called. I was thinking that maybe if you could go by and see her…”
“She wants to see me?” he asked, unable to conceal his excitement.
“She might.”
“But she didn’t say she wanted to.”
“She’s not saying much of anything these days, at least not to me. But I think she might talk to you. You’re about the only friend she has left here.”
“You know I’d love to see her.”
“Now, I can’t say just how she’ll react ’cause she’s in such bad shape. Hamp, she has no interest in anything. Not even music.”
“Brenda? I can’t image Brenda without her music.”
“I know. That’s what worries me. But you two used to play together and—”
“Oh, mostly just school stuff. And a few weddings. But we never got any real work except for a couple of dances at the Elks Lodge.”
“You still play the guitar?”
“I play at church now and then.”
“Well, I was thinking that if you took your guitar with you, she might pick a few tunes. Maybe she’d start thinking about writing again.”
“She used to write such great songs. I always knew she was gonna make it. She had so much talent.”
“Hamp, I think you’d be good for Brenda right now. You might be able to bring her out of it.”
“You think it would be okay if I went by this evening?”
“This evening would be great.”
“About seven? Seven-thirty?”
“Good. I’m gonna work late tonight, leave you two alone so you can visit.”
“Okay then,” Hamp said as he scooted his chair back and stood to leave.
“Just one more thing.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Let’s not tell her this was my idea.”
“Sure, if you say so.”
“I think it’s best,” MollyO said. “She’s not too crazy about my ideas these days.”
Bui had written only a few lines before the pen began to slide in his hand. While he used his shirttail to dry his sweaty palm and fingers, he tried to decide what to say next. Though he had practiced the letter in his head for many days, putting the words on paper carried a risk, the risk that she would not hear his heart speaking.
Biting at his lip, he picked up his pen again.
I know the months ahead will be hard for you there, but do not listen to those who will speak to you of shame. And when they look at you with hard eyes to make you smaller, do not think of guilt. Guil
t does not belong to you, Nguyet, or to the baby you carry, a baby who will laugh with the sound of your laughter… see the beauty of the world with your eyes.
I want you and our child here with me, a child made of your body and my love. How could you think I would not want you both?
Bui paused when he heard the front door of the church rattle against the wind.
Do you not know that any part of you is precious to me? Do you not believe that without you, my life is nothing?
Come to America, Nguyet, and we will make for our child a good life… and for ourselves, a new beginning.
After he folded the letter around the money he was sending, Bui went to the window and pulled the curtain aside to stare at the moon, knowing that in a few hours it would shine on another part of the world. And he wondered if Nguyet would look at it and think of him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
WHEN LIFE SAW CANEY unlock the front door, he grabbed the notebook off the seat beside him, then scooted out of his pickup where he’d been waiting for nearly an hour. He knew MollyO and the morning coffee drinkers wouldn’t be far behind him, so if he was going to have any time alone with Caney, he’d have to hurry.
He’d been carrying the book around with him for the past three days while he tried to decide what to do. At first, MollyO had teased him about going back to school, but when she pressed him about what was in the book, he’d felt the color burn in his face as he lied.
“Morning, Life,” Caney said. “See you’re still working on your taxes.”
“No, this ain’t tax stuff.” Life slid onto his regular stool and put the notebook on the counter in front of him. “Nothing like that.”
“Oh, I thought I heard you tell MollyO—”
“Well, I did, but I wasn’t truthful with her about that.”
“How come?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Caney. See, this here’s real private.” Life patted the black notebook tenderly. “I never showed it to nobody before. But I’d like you to take a look at it.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.” Life pushed the book across the counter to Caney. “I need another man’s opinion, a man I can trust.”
“I don’t know, Life. If it’s something that secret…”
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, Caney. I feel like I’m doing the right thing here.”
“But—”
“You’d be doing me a real favor if you’d read it,” Life said.
“Well, okay.”
Caney opened the notebook which was filled with at least an inch of loose-leaf paper. On the first page there were two long paragraphs. One written in pencil, one in pen, they were separated from each other by several blank lines. Each paragraph was dated—the first March 4, 1941, the second, March 5.
Grinning, Caney said, “I never figured you to be one to keep a diary, Life,” but when he began to read, his grin quickly faded. And as his eyes moved down the page, they widened in surprise.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke.”
“This is hot stuff, Life.” Caney turned the page where the next entry was dated March 6. After he read that, he riffled through all the pages, watching decades fly by until he came to the final entry written on November 10, 1983.
“What are you going to do with this?” Caney asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Well, I don’t know a damned thing about writing, but I think you’re pretty good. You’ve got a wild imagination, I’ll say that for you, but if you’re thinking about trying to get this published, I’d change this guy’s name to Bob or Bill. Something like that. You use your own name, everybody’ll know—”
“I didn’t write it.”
Caney looked puzzled. “Who did?”
“Reba.”
“Oh, come on.” Caney smiled, seeing the humor, but he could tell from the look on Life’s face that he was serious as death. He was telling the truth.
“Reba?!” Caney shook his head, as much from astonishment as to shake loose the image of Mrs. Life Halstead.
Reba… a short, heavy woman who went to the Holy Ghost Tabernacle and spoke in tongues. Reba… a hardworking farm wife who made the best peach cobbler in the county and milked their Holsteins every morning before breakfast. Reba… a quiet, shy grandmother who wore loose brown dresses and sensible shoes.
Caney slammed the notebook closed and shoved it across the counter. He felt like a kid who’s just been caught peeking in his neighbor’s bathroom window.
“I found it in her dresser drawer the day after she was buried.”
“You didn’t know about this till then? That she was keeping a record of every time you two had sex?”
“We didn’t have sex, Caney. We made love.”
“You sure as hell did!”
“Reba was the only woman I was ever with,” Life said, fighting tears.
“From what I just read, she was enough.”
“Yes, she was. She truly was.” Life pulled out a hand-kerchief and wiped the corners of his eyes. “But she’s gone now and… Caney, I think you know how I feel about MollyO.”
“I guess I do.”
“Well, here’s what I’m wondering. Do you think I should show this to her?”
“To MollyO?”
“Yeah. I been thinking that she might be a little more interested in me if she saw what Reba had to say.”
“You mean kind of like providing references?”
“Something like that.”
“You want my honest opinion, Life?”
“I do, Caney.”
“Okay. I think if you show her this…”
Caney looked out the window as MollyO parked her Ford out front.
“Uh-oh. Here she is,” Caney warned.
“Go on. You think if I show her this…”
“We’d better talk about this later, Life. She’s gonna walk in here in just a second.”
“We have time, Caney! Now, what did you start to say?”
“Here she comes.”
“Dammit!” Life slapped the counter. “If I ever get to finish one conversation in this place, I’ll—”
“Morning, Life. Caney.”
“How you doing?” Caney asked.
“Great. Just great. Spring is here and love is in the air.”
Life and Caney exchanged guilty glances.
“Hamp Rothrock went by to see Brenda last night. Still there when I got home, sitting beside her on the couch. Now I could be wrong, I suppose, but she seemed happy to be with him. ’Course, she wouldn’t want me to think she was happy, but I could tell. He stayed till almost eleven. And after I went to bed, I heard her in the living room playing her guitar.”
As MollyO went behind the counter to put her purse away, she said, “Why, Life, you don’t even have a cup of coffee.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, his face pulled into a pout.
“Caney, where’s Vena?”
“She took the gelding out. Said she might ride to the lake.”
“Well, you made a smart decision not to go with her.”
“Yeah.” Caney rolled to the window. The sky was cloudless, the sun bright, the countryside greening. “Real smart.”
When MollyO handed Life his coffee, she said, “I see you’re still carrying that notebook around with you.”
“Uh…”
“But you’re not fooling me.”
“I’m not?” Life laid a protective hand across the book.
“Those aren’t farm accounts. That thing’s full of love letters, I’d bet.”
“Well, you could be right,” he said. “You sure could be right.”
The newspaper usually came about the time Soldier and Quinton showed up for their morning coffee, but today Big Fib Fry, the carrier, was running late.
“Suppose he’s been picked up by another UFO?” Quinton asked.
“Guess he’s gettin’ on right friendly terms with those aliens. They’ve
had him… what? Four or five times now?”
“Yeah, but you notice ever’ time they get him, they let him go real fast.”
“Hell, wouldn’t you?”
“From what I hear, Big Fib’s got more on his mind right now than aliens,” Wanda Sue said from her perch at the counter.
“What’s that?”
“I hear he’s carrying on with the wife of one of our city councilmen. But don’t ask me who, ’cause I ain’t gonna repeat it.”
“Now I admire that,” Soldier said. “A woman who don’t pass on gossip.”
While Wanda Sue pulled off her glasses and used a napkin to clean them, Soldier winked at Quinton as he took out his pocket watch.
“But I will tell you this, the woman in question’s at least ten years older than Big Fib.”
“Paper here yet?” Caney asked as he came out of the kitchen.
“Nope.”
“Guess Fib got beamed up again,” Caney said.
“Huh-uh.” Wanda Sue shook her head. “He’s stopped off at his girlfriend’s.”
“Who’s his girlfriend?”
“She’s not telling.”
“No, but I will tell you this. She’s going to Houston next month to get a face lift.”
“Well, here comes the fishing king.”
As Hooks Red Eagle climbed out of his battered pickup, MollyO filled a cup with coffee and took it to Soldier and Quinton’s table.
“You get ’em today, Hooks?” Soldier asked when the door opened.
“Caught a couple of decent catfish. They go twenty, twenty-two pounds. Saw an old boy in a johnboat pull in crappie as long as my arm.”
“Lake’s warming up.”
“Man, that water’s smooth as glass today. No wind. Beautiful. Just beautiful.”
“I’ll bet it is,” Caney said.
“Say,” Hooks said, “I heard old man Spence died last night.”
“That right?”
“She lives right next door to the Spence place,” Wanda Sue said with authority.
“Who does?”
“The woman in question.”
“Hell, Wanda Sue. Ain’t but one house next door, and that’s Frances and Luter’s place.”
