Something Is Out There

by Richard Bausch

  “What’re you doing here?” she says.

  “Who’s the cowboy?” Sean wants to know. “He looks like Disco Bill.”

  The cowboy has gotten into the red car and is already backing out of his space. Jenny glances back at him and then rights herself, smoothing her denim skirt in her lap. “Try not to be such a teenager, Sean.”

  “Where were you going?” Walker asks her.

  “Nowhere. God. I walked Bill to his car.”

  “Oh, God,” Sean says, laughing. “That’s freakish. His name is Bill. It’s Bill. Oh, God. I totally got it right on the nose.”

  “Who’s Disco Bill?” she says, trying to look over the seat at him. There’s a shine across her forehead. “Some cartoon character you watch on TV all day?”

  “I called it,” Sean laughs. “Disco Bill. That guy’s Disco Bill. It’s perfect. Oh, ha—perfect.”

  She turns back around, folding her arms and staring out the windshield. Walker has come to the corner, and is waiting to turn. He looks over at her, at the side of her face. “So who is Bill,” he says.

  “A friend I met working in the antiques store, okay?” There’s a brittleness in her voice. “Is that okay with you? I mean, do I have your permission to make a friend?”

  Sean is still congratulating himself behind them. “I so totally called it. I got it. I freakin’ called it. Disco freakin’ Bill.”

  “Who the hell is Disco Bill?” Jenny says. “And shut up.”

  “I made it up. That’s what I’m telling you. Disco Bill. I made it up and the guy’s name is Bill. It’s too good.”

  “Shut up, Sean,” Walker says. “Christ.”

  Jenny pushes the hair back from her flawless face. “I swear, it’s exhausting. Everything’s a joke with him.”

  Walker makes the turn, and drives for a time without looking at her and without speaking. The image of her reaction at the sight of the truck plays across the surface of his mind, and then sinks into him.

  “Those were actual cowboy boots,” Sean says. “Right?”

  She gazes out the passenger window and doesn’t answer.

  “Who is he, really?” Walker says, watching the road.

  “He’s just a guy,” Jenny says. “He works across the street. In the computer store.”

  “Well, and he’s so dressed for that,” Sean says.

  “Sean, please. Really. I’m not in the mood.”

  The traffic is heavy going out of town, too. They sit behind a smoking charter bus. The truck’s engine begins to shake, idling roughly, as though it might stall.

  “Hey, but you do need cowboy boots in a computer store, right? I mean you gotta look the part,” says Sean.

  They are all silent for a moment.

  “Does he have a medallion on his chest? I didn’t look—”

  “Sean—if you—”

  “It really needs a medallion.”

  “Why’re you—” She turns and glares at him, then shakes her head and faces front, apparently having decided that whatever she was going to say is pointless.

  “Really,” Sean says. “I know what the fashion-conscious geek is wearing these days in the computer stores.”

  The traffic moves a little, and as Walker edges the truck forward, it stalls. He restarts it, gives it gas, and a cloud of exhaust billows out behind them.

  “You’re welcome,” Sean says as someone behind them honks a horn. “We aim to please.”

  “Is this one going to break down, too, now?” Jenny says.

  “It needs a tune-up,” says Walker, grinding the gears. “Everything falls apart at once.”

  They’re moving again. And now some cool air comes in the window.

  “Let’s get a movie,” Sean says, lying back in the well behind them.

  Walker looks over his shoulder at the boy, then glances at Jenny. Her hair is blowing across her face, but he can see that she’s crying. What the hell? She looks out the window. The traffic is thinning out a little now, and he picks up speed. They’re quiet again. Walker takes the back road toward the Highpoint house, and as he approaches a country store, pulls into the lot and stops.

  “What,” Sean says.

  “Anybody want something cold to drink?”

  “I’m dying,” Sean says.

  Walker opens his door and steps from the truck, holding the seat up for Sean to climb out. “Here.” He gives Sean a ten-dollar bill. “I want a mineral water.” He looks in at Jenny. “You want anything?”

  She shakes her head.

  Sean is staring at her now, though she’s looking down, and her dark hair hides her face.

  “Go on,” Walker says to him.

  “I’m going to get a couple hot dogs, too. It’s my God-given right.”

  “Help yourself, Sean.” Walker says. “Jesus, you can be annoying.”

  The boy starts across the lot, jumping and fake-shooting an imaginary basketball, watching his own shadow on the asphalt. Walker gets back into the truck. Next to him in the seat, his sister-in-law wipes the tears from her eyes and sniffles. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  He’s quiet, expecting her to go on. He wants to reach over and put his hand on her face.

  She dips into her purse and brings out a handkerchief. The makeup around her eyes has run down her cheeks. She sniffles again. “I bet I look like a raccoon.”

  “You’re fine. What’s going on, Jenny?” The moment feels dreamlike, fantastic. He feels rage climbing his spine about the computer store cowboy, and understands that the rage is for himself, and not his brother. All this surges in him, and stops his speech.

  She turns the rearview mirror and tries to get the mascara off.

  “Were you getting into his car?”

  She frowns at herself, wiping the dark makeup from her eyes.

  “God,” Walker begins. He might start crying himself.

  And now she turns to him. “I wasn’t getting into his car.” And the crying starts again. “God—I’ve got to quit this before Sean—” She stops, sniffles, wipes at her eyes again.

  He watches her. There’s more, but she’s clearly holding back whatever it is. “Jesus Christ,” he says.

  “What?” she says. “It’s been a bad day. Leave me alone.”

  He draws in air and hears himself ask, “Is that guy somebody important to you?” His own voice sounds terribly thin to him, someone else’s voice.

  She sits back, clutching the handkerchief; her eyes are wild. She’s looking out at the lot, where three men are crossing. One of them is talking and the other two are laughing. It’s a joke. Walker has a moment of seeing this as separated out from everything else he has ever seen or observed in his life. He knows that he’ll never forget it as long as he lives: three men laughing at a joke walking across a parking lot and it was when Jenny sat next to him, crying because he caught her with the computer salesman. He can’t breathe, thinking this, watching the men move on by. His sister-in-law says, “You mean Disco Bill? He’s a friend. Okay? It’s just that Sean—everything’s a comedy act to Sean, that’s all. I just get tired of it.”

  They’re quiet a moment.

  “You don’t have to run to Max with it, you know? The guy’s just a friend.”

  “You acted so weird seeing us.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You were upset. I saw it, Jenny.”

  “What do you want me to tell you? You want me to say something that isn’t true? I’m not having a good day. God! Sean gets on my nerves, okay?”

  “Me, too.” Walker says. And when she doesn’t respond he says, “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life. Movies, magazines, dreams, just watching people in the street.”

  She says, “Oh, Walker.”

  He’s astonished at the soft worry in her voice, the obvious wish to believe him. “Really,” he says.

  “You’re sweet.” She wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands.

  “I mean it,” he says. “I’m not being sweet.”


  She glances at him, then leans over and peers at herself in the rearview mirror again, wiping the makeup from her cheeks. “I’ll be all right.”

  “You can tell me,” he hears himself say. He gazes at the smoothness of the backs of her hands. Something is about to change forever. He wants to kiss her.

  “Walker—really.”

  “Tell me,” he says. “Come on.” It’s as though there’s no one else in the world, as though they have no history, no established pattern of speech and gestures between them. He puts his arms around her and hears himself say her name. “Jenny.”

  She pulls away. “Don’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She lets her head rest on the seat back and regards him. Then she touches his chest. “I’m such an idiot,” she says. “Don’t apologize.”

  He can’t speak.

  “It’ll be all right. I’m tired of the work on the boat. I never see him.”

  “But you love him.” The words sound ridiculous. He feels like a kid. He wants her to say she doesn’t love him anymore; he wants her to say it’s not Max now, but Walker. He listens to her voice in his imagination say You. You.

  But she sighs and seems to laugh a little. “I don’t know anything anymore,” she says. “Can we just not talk about it now? Trust me, everything’s the same.”

  He looks out at the facade of the store, and sees Sean coming back with his hot dogs and the drinks.

  “I think I’d like something to drink,” Jenny says.

  “You can have my water,” says Walker. He feels the words as meaning that she can have anything she wants that he can humanly give her, no matter what anyone—brothers, mothers, family, friends, and strangers—has to say about it.

  “I wasn’t talking about water,” she says, and gives forth a little laugh.

  “Will you take my water?” He feels the oddness of wanting the situation to go on, her tears, her trouble, this instance. He doesn’t want to let go of it.

  “Water’s all we can get for now, right?”

  “I could go in and get some beer,” he says.

  “You’re sweet. There’s plenty at the house if I want it.”

  “You can have my water.” He gets out of the truck and heads across the lot to meet Sean, who is about to drop the bottle of mineral water. Walker takes it, and then stands blocking the boy’s way to the truck. “Cut the smart remarks, okay?” He can’t keep the shaking out of his voice.

  “I’m just kidding her.”

  “Well, it’s not funny—so quit it.”

  The ride to the house is quiet. Sean sulks in the back. Jenny looks out the passenger window, and then tries the radio for a while. Nothing of interest is on. She turns it off. Walker grips the wheel. When they pull up in front of the house, he gets out and moves to help her down from the truck, but she has already made the step down and is holding the seat back for Sean, who gets into the front. She closes the door on him.

  “See you both later.”

  “We’ll be through in an hour,” Walker tells her. She has already started for the house, and she simply moves one hand away from her side, waving slightly without looking back.

  He and Sean go to Pumphries, a recreation center near St. Catherine’s Catholic Church. The court is in the shade of tall oaks and sycamores, and the baskets have chain nets that clang when the ball hits the rim. Walker can’t concentrate. Few of his shots go in, and the shooting around becomes a series of misses and chasing the ball. Sean is irritable and sullen, and they do not speak much. Walker loses two games of Horse and another of 21 to the boy. There’s a puddle of stagnant water at one end of the court and with one of his misses the ball rolls there and splashes in. The stink of it is on his hands when he drops Sean at the river house and heads to Highpoint Terrace to pick up Jenny and take her back to the car dealership. She’s been waiting for him. She walks out to the truck as he pulls up. “Go ahead and get in,” he tells her. “I’ve gotta wash my hands.” In the kitchen, alone, he looks through the window over the sink, hearing the power saw: Max cutting another rib for the hull. Max is out there in the noise with the shade and the sunlight falling through the leaves. The wood chips fly, white in the brightness. Walker discovers himself feeling sorry for him, as if he has betrayed him.

  In the truck, Jenny sits with her hands folded in her lap. Walker gets in and looks over at her. “Why don’t you tell him how you feel?”

  She seems annoyed at the question. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please?”

  He backs out, one arm on the back of the seat, near her shoulder. When he shifts gears and heads out of the neighborhood, she sniffles.

  “You okay?” he says.

  “Fine.”

  She says nothing else. Just sits looking out at the passing houses and streets. It’s as if, with time to plan her response, she has gained a kind of cold equilibrium. When they get to the dealership, she thanks him, opening the door.

  “He and I have to see some people about a bid,” he says. “Kitchen cabinets.”

  She looks back at him. “Great.”

  “If you want to talk,” he manages to say.

  She reaches over and touches his arm. “Thank you.”

  He nods, and watches her go into the dealership. She doesn’t look back.

  At the Highpoint house, Max is still working. Walker honks the horn and waits. There’s the sound of the power sander. He leans on the horn, holds it down. Then listens. The power sander is off. But then the saw starts up. He gets out of the truck, fuming, and stands half into it, still leaning on the horn. When he stops now, there’s silence, and he leans on it again. Max comes from the house, putting on a clean shirt, his body gleaming with sweat. Walker lets the horn go and climbs in again. “You stink. Great. We’ll get this bid all right.”

  Max gets in on the passenger side, buttoning the shirt. “Just drive. Christ. You couldn’t come around back and get me? What is it—forty feet?”

  “You should’ve been waiting for me. Showered and ready, goddamn it.”

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Max says. “Jesus.”

  The house they are going to is in Harbor Town, past the turnoff to their mother’s river house, and on, to Mud Island. They cross the bridge with the enormous, silver-looking pyramid on the left, reflecting the sun and too bright to look at directly. The road winds to the right and along the river. They turn into Harbor Town, and go over the first little bridge there. The buildings here are very close together, with very little lawn space, and shade trees line the road. The house they are going to is a tall, narrow place with two verandas, one above the other, and a lot of windows. Walker parks the truck and gets out, and Max reaches into the glove box to get the clipboard and pencil. His blue shirt hangs on him, with dark splotches.

  “You look like you just got out of a pond,” Walker tells him.

  “It’s a hot day. Shut up.”

  “You ought to pay more attention to things.”

  “What?” Max stops and looks at him.

  “You heard me.”

  “Hey, just keep your end up, you know?”

  Walker starts to move off. “I’m not just talking about the goddamn business.”

  “Okay.” His brother takes his arm at the elbow. “Then what? Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Walker pulls his arm away and goes on.

  “What the hell’re you talking about? What’s got into you? You’ve been moping around for weeks. Everybody’s noticed it.”

  “Jenny,” Walker says. “Has Jenny noticed it?”

  “What about Jenny, cowboy?”

  “Why ‘cowboy’?”

  “Do you want to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about?”

  He doesn’t answer. They go along the walk, which leads through a row of forsythia bushes to an atriumlike structure, at one end of which, perhaps twenty yards away, is a wrought-iron door. A tall skinny man with big round green eyes stands there waiting, holding the door open. There’s something abo
ut his face. “Hot enough for you?” he says. Walker realizes that he’s wearing makeup; it’s adhering to his hairline, a bad job of it, as if it were slapped on by somebody not interested in getting it right.

  “Plenty hot,” says Max, who, if he has noticed, is keeping it to himself.

  “Name’s Ron Podrup,” the man says.

  Max and Walker introduce themselves. They step past him, into the cool shade of the front room, which is refrigerator cold. A woman sits there, at the edge of the couch, hands folded over her knees. Walker bows slightly, seeing her, and then he sees that she’s been crying. She stands, and looks him up and down. She has a thin, lined face with deep-socketed eyes, and a down-turning mouth. Her hair is parted in the middle of the top of her head and combed straight down either side, and her ears stick out of it—they give her whole countenance a vaguely goofy look. “You’re the workmen?” she says.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Max says, coming up beside Walker.

  “May Podrup.” She offers her hand, and they shake, and then her tall husband leads them to the kitchen. “We’re actors,” he says. “Community theater. Dress rehearsal.”

  “Excuse me?” Max says.

  “The makeup.” The man indicates his long face. “She wasn’t really crying.”

  “I’m sorry?” Max says.

  “They’re actors,” Walker tells him, with barely suppressed anger. It seems to him that building the boat has robbed his brother of the ability to see anything else at all.

  Podrup straightens, clears his throat. “Well, anyway. Here’s what we’d like done.”

  “Should I go get the calculator, dearest?” she says.

  He turns to look at her. “Why, no.”

  “Do you need me here, then, dearest?”

  There’s an edge to her voice. It’s as if she’s having fun with it, standing there with a faint smile playing at the corners of the bitter-looking mouth. It’s a smile. Her very white teeth show. It changes her entire appearance; she’s actually quite pretty. Walker has a moment of wishing he could feel anything for anyone other than what he does feel, and for whom. It slices through him like a blade. She goes on: “Or will you go it alone on this one?”