FACT is the car needs to be sold in a hurry, and Leo sends Toni out to do it. Toni is smart and has personality. She used to sell children's encyclopedias door to door. She signed him up, even though he didn't have kids. Afterward, Leo asked her for a date, and the date led to this. This deal has to be cash, and it has to be done tonight. Tomorrow somebody they owe might slap a lien on the car. Monday they'll be in court, home free—but word on them went out yesterday, when their lawyer mailed the letters of intention. The hearing on Monday is nothing to worry about, the lawyer has said. They'll be asked some questions, and they'll sign some papers, and that's it. But sell the convertible, he said—today, tonight. They can hold onto the little car, Leo's car, no problem. But they go into court with that big convertible, the court will take it, and that's that.
Toni dresses up. It's four o'clock in the afternoon. Leo worries the lots will close. But Toni takes her time dressing. She puts on a new white blouse, wide lacy cuffs, the new two-piece suit, new heels. She transfers the stuff from her straw purse into the new patent-leather handbag. She studies the lizard makeup pouch and puts that in too. Toni has been two hours on her hair and face. Leo stands in the bedroom doorway and taps his lips with his knuckles, watching.
"You're making me nervous," she says. "I wish you wouldn't just stand," she says. "So tell me how I look."
"You look fine," he says. "You look great. I'd buy a car from you anytime."
"But you don't have money," she says, peering into the mirror. She pats her hair, frowns. "And your credit's lousy. You're nothing," she says. "Teasing," she says and looks at him in the mirror. "Don't be serious," she says. "It has to be done, so I'll do it. You take it out, you'd be lucky to get three, four hundred and we both know it. Honey, you'd be lucky if you didn't have to pay them. " She gives her a hair a final pat, gums her lips, blots the lipstick with a tissue. She turns away from the mirror and picks up her purse. "I'll have to have dinner or something, I told you that already, that's the way they work, I know them. But don't worry, I'll get out of it," she says. "I can handle it."
"Jesus," Leo says, "did you have to say that?"
She looks at him steadily. "Wish me luck," she says.
"Luck," he says. "You have the pink slip?" he says.
She nods. He follows her through the house, a tall woman with a small high bust, broad hips and thighs. He scratches a pimple on his neck. "You're sure?" he says. "Make sure. You have to have the pink slip."
"I have the pink slip," she says.
"Make sure."
She starts to say something, instead looks at herself in the front window and then shakes her head.
"At least call," he says. "Let me know what's going on."
"I'll call," she says. "Kiss, kiss. Here," she says and points to the corner of her mouth. "Careful," she says.
He holds the door for her. "Where are you going to try first?" he says. She moves past him and onto the porch.
Ernest Williams looks from across the street. In his Bermuda shorts, stomach hanging, he looks at Leo and Toni as he directs a spray onto his begonias. Once, last winter, during the holidays, when Toni and the kids were visiting his mother's, Leo brought a woman home. Nine o'clock the next morning, a cold foggy Saturday, Leo walked the woman to the car, surprised Ernest Williams on the sidewalk with a newspaper in his hand. Fog drifted, Ernest Williams stared, then slapped the paper against his leg, hard.
Leo recalls that slap, hunches his shoulders, says, "You have someplace in mind first?"
"I'll just go down the line," she says. "The first lot, then I'll just go down the line."
"Open at nine hundred," he says. "Then come down. Nine hundred is low bluebook, even on a cash deal."
"I know where to start," she says.
Ernest Williams turns the hose in their direction. He stares at them through the spray of water. Leo has an urge to cry out a confession.
"Just making sure," he says.
"Okay, okay," she says. "I'm off."
It's her car, they call it her car, and that makes it all the worse. They bought it new that summer three years ago. She wanted something to do after the kids started school, so she went back selling. He was working six days a week in the fiber-glass plant. For a while they didn't know how to spend the money. Then they put a thousand on the convertible and doubled and tripled the payments until in a year they had it paid. Earlier, while she was dressing, he took the jack and spare from the trunk and emptied the glove compartment of pencils, matchbooks, Blue Chip stamps. Then he washed it and vacuumed inside. The red hood and fenders shine.
"Good luck," he says and touches her elbow.
She nods. He sees she is already gone, already negotiating.
"Things are going to be different!" he calls to her as she reaches the driveway. "We start over Monday. I mean it."
Ernest Williams looks at them and turns his head and spits. She gets into the car and lights a cigarette.
"This time next week!" Leo calls again. "Ancient history!"
He waves as she backs into the street. She changes gear and starts ahead. She accelerates and the tires give a little scream.
In the kitchen Leo pours Scotch and carries the drink to the backyard. The kids are at his mother's. There was a letter three days ago, his name penciled on the outside of the dirty envelope, the only letter all summer not demanding payment in full. We are having fun, the letter said. We like Grandma. We have a new dog called Mr. Six. He is nice. We love him. Good-bye.
He goes for another drink. He adds ice and sees that his hand trembles. He holds the hand over the sink. He looks at the hand for a while, sets down the glass, and holds out the other hand. Then he picks up the glass and goes back outside to sit on the steps. He recalls when he was a kid his dad pointing at a fine house, a tall white house surrounded by apple trees and a high white rail fence. "That's Finch," his dad said admiringly. "He's been in bankruptcy at least twice. Look at that house." But bankruptcy is a company collapsing utterly, executives cutting their wrists and throwing themselves from windows, thousands of men on the street.
Leo and Toni still had furniture. Leo and Toni had furniture and Toni and the kids had clothes. Those things were exempt. What else? Bicycles for the kids, but these he had sent to his mother's for safekeeping. The portable air-conditioner and the appliances, new washer and dryer, trucks came for those things weeks ago. What else did they have? This and that, nothing mainly, stuff that wore out or fell to pieces long ago. But there were some big parties back there, some fine travel. To Reno and Tahoe, at eighty with the top down and the radio playing. Food, that was one of the big items. They gorged on food. He figures thousands on luxury items alone. Toni would go to the grocery and put in everything she saw. "I had to do without when I was a kid," she says. "These kids are not going to do without," as if he'd been insisting they should. She joins all the book clubs. "We never had books around when I was a kid," she says as she tears open the heavy packages. They enroll in the record clubs for something to play on the new stereo. They sign up for it all. Even a pedigreed terrier named Ginger. He paid two hundred and found her run over in the street a week later. They buy what they want. If they can't pay, they charge. They sign up.
His undershirt is wet; he can feel the sweat rolling from his underarms. He sits on the step with the empty glass in his hand and watches the shadows fill up the yard. He stretches, wipes his face. He listens to the traffic on the highway and considers whether he should go to the basement, stand on the utility sink, and hang himself with his belt. He understands he is willing to be dead.
Inside he makes a large drink and he turns the TV on and he fixes something to eat. He sits at the table with chili and crackers and watches something about a blind detective. He clears the table. He washes the pan and the bowl, dries these things and puts them away, then allows himself a look at the clock.
It's after nine. She's been gone nearly five hours.
He pours Scotch, adds water, carries the drink to the living room. He sits on the
couch but finds his shoulders so stiff they won't let him lean back. He stares at the screen and sips, and soon he goes for another drink. He sits again. A news program begins—it's ten o'clock—and he says, "God, what in God's name has gone wrong?" and goes to the kitchen to return with more Scotch. He sits, he closes his eyes, and opens them when he hears the telephone ringing-
"I wanted to call," she says.
"Where are you?" he says. He hears piano music, and his heart moves.
"I don't know," she says. "Someplace. We're having a drink, then we're going someplace else for dinner. I'm with the sales manager. He's crude, but he's all right. He bought the car. I have to go now. I was on my way to the ladies and saw the phone."
"Did somebody buy the car?" Leo says. He looks out the kitchen window to the place in the drive where she always parks.
"I told you," she says. "I have to go now."
"Wait, wait a minute, for Christ's sake," he says. "Did somebody buy the car or not?"
"He had his checkbook out when I left," she says. "I have to go now. I have to go to the bathroom."
"Wait!" he yells. The line goes dead. He listens to the dial tone. "Jesus Christ," he says as he stands with the receiver in his hand.
He circles the kitchen and goes back to the living room. He sits. He gets up. In the bathroom he brushes his teeth very carefully. Then he uses dental floss. He washes his face and goes back to the kitchen. He looks at the clock and takes a clean glass from a set that has a hand of playing cards painted on each glass. He fills the glass with ice. He stares for a while at the glass he left in the sink.
He sits against one end of the couch and puts his legs up at the other end. He looks at the screen, realizes he can't make out what the people are saying. He turns the empty glass in his hand and considers biting off the rim. He shivers for a time and thinks of going to bed, though he knows he will dream of a large woman with gray hair. In the dream he is always leaning over tying his shoelaces. When he straightens up, she looks at him, and he bends to tie again. He looks at his hand. It makes a fist as he watches. The telephone is ringing.
"Where are you, honey?" he says slowly, gently.
"We're at this restaurant," she says, her voice strong, bright.
"Honey, which restaurant?" he says. He puts the heel of his hand against his eye and pushes.
"Downtown someplace," she says. "I think it's New Jimmy's. Excuse me," she says to someone off the line, "is this place New Jimmy's? This is New Jimmy's, Leo," she says to him. "Everything is all right, we're almost finished, then he's going to bring me home."
"Honey?" he says. He holds the receiver against his ear and rocks back and forth, eyes closed. "Honey?"
"I have to go," she says. "I wanted to call. Anyway, guess how much?"
"Honey," he says.
"Six and a quarter," she says. "I have it in my purse. He said there's no market for convertibles. I guess we're born lucky," she says and laughs. "I told him everything. I think I had to."
"Honey," Leo says.
"What?" she says.
"Please, honey," Leo says.
"He said he sympathizes," she says. "But he would have said anything." She laughs again. "He said personally he'd rather be classified a robber or a rapist than a bankrupt. He's nice enough, though," she says.
"Come home," Leo says. "Take a cab and come home."
"I can't," she says. "I told you, we're halfway through dinner."
"I'll come for you," he says.
"No," she says. "I said we're just finishing. I told you, it's part of the deal. They're out for all they can get. But don't worry, we're about to leave. I'll be home in a little while." She hangs up.
In a few minutes he calls New Jimmy's. A man answers. "New Jimmy's has closed for the evening," the man says.
"I'd like to talk to my wife," Leo says.
"Does she work here?" the man asks. "Who is she?"
"She's a customer," Leo says. "She's with someone. A business person."
"Would I know her?" the man says. "What is her name?"
"I don't think you know her," Leo says.
"That's all right," Leo says. "That's all right. I see her now."
"Thank you for calling New Jimmy's," the man says.
Leo hurries to the window. A car he doesn't recognize slows in front of the house, then picks up speed. He waits. Two, three hours later, the telephone rings again. There is no one at the other end when he picks up the receiver. There is only a dial tone.
"I'm right here!" Leo screams into the receiver.
Near dawn he hears footsteps on the porch. He gets up from the couch. The set hums, the screen glows. He opens the door. She bumps the wall coming in. She grins. Her face is puffy, as if she's been sleeping under sedation. She works her lips, ducks heavily and sways as he cocks his fist.
"Go ahead," she says thickly. She stands there swaying. Then she makes a noise and lunges, catches his shirt, tears it down the front. "Bankrupt!" she screams. She twists loose, grabs and tears his undershirt at the neck. "You son of a bitch," she says, clawing.
He squeezes her wrists, then lets go, steps back, looking for something heavy. She stumbles as she heads for the bedroom. "Bankrupt," she mutters. He hears her fall on the bed and groan.
He waits awhile, then splashes water on his face and goes to the bedroom. He turns the lights on, looks at her, and begins to take her clothes off. He pulls and pushes her from side to side undressing her. She says something in her sleep and moves her hand. He takes off her underpants, looks at them closely under the light, and throws them into a corner. He turns back the covers and rolls her in, naked. Then he opens her purse. He is reading the check when he hears the car come into the drive.
He looks through the front curtain and sees the convertible in the drive, its motor running smoothly, the headlamps burning, and he closes and opens his eyes. He sees a tall man come around in front of the car and up to the front porch. The man lays something on the porch and starts back to the car. He wears a white linen suit.
Leo turns on the porch light and opens the door cautiously. Her makeup pouch lies on the top step. The man looks at Leo across the front of the car, and then gets back inside and releases the handbrake.
"Wait!" Leo calls and starts down the steps. The man brakes the car as Leo walks in front of the lights. The car creaks against the brake. Leo tries to pull the two pieces of his shirt together, tries to bunch it all into his trousers.
"What is it you want?" the man says. "Look," the man says, "I have to go. No offense. I buy and sell cars, right? The lady left her makeup. She's a fine lady, very refined. What is it?"
Leo leans against the door and looks at the man. The man takes his hands off the wheel and puts them back. He drops the gear into reverse and the car moves backward a little.
"I want to tell you," Leo says and wets his lips.
The light in Ernest Williams' bedroom goes on. The shade rolls up.
Leo shakes his head, tucks in his shirt again. He steps back from the car. "Monday," he says.
"Monday," the man says and watches for sudden movement.
Leo nods slowly.
"Well, goodnight," the man says and coughs. "Take it easy, hear? Monday, that's right. Okay, then." He takes his foot off the brake, puts it on again after he has rolled back two or three feet. "Hey, one question. Between friends, are these actual miles?" The man waits, then clears his throat. "Okay, look, it doesn't matter either way," the man says. "I have to go. Take it easy." He backs into the street, pulls away quickly, and turns the corner without stopping.
Leo tucks at his shirt and goes back in the house. He locks the front door and checks it. Then he goes to the bedroom and locks that door and turns back the covers. He looks at her before he flicks the light. He takes off his clothes, folds them carefully on the floor, and gets in beside her. He lies on his back for a time and pulls the hair on his stomach, considering. He looks at the bedroom door, outlined now in the faint outside light. Presently he reache
s out his hand and touches her hip. She does not move. He turns on his side and puts his hand on her hip. He runs his fingers over her hip and feels the stretch marks there. They are like roads, and he traces them in her flesh. He runs his fingers back and forth, first one, then another. They run everywhere in her flesh, dozens, perhaps hundreds of them. He remembers waking up the morning after they bought the car, seeing it, there in the drive, in the sun, gleaming.
LESLIE MARMON SILKO (1948- )
Born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, of mixed ancestry—by her own description Laguna Pueblo, Mexican, and white—Leslie Marmon Silko grew up on the Laguna Pueblo Reservation, where members of her family had lived for generations, and where she learned traditional stories and legends from female relatives. Silko's first published book is the collection Laguna Woman: Poems (1974) which draws richly upon her tribal ancestry.
Silko has lived and taught in Arizona and Alaska as well as in New Mexico, where she currently resides. Her much-acclaimed novel Ceremony, the story of a Native American of mixed ancestry who is a veteran of World War II, was published in 1977; her miscellany Storyteller, drawing upon Native American myths, and combining poetry, family history, fiction, and photographs, was published in 1981. Silko's correspondence with the poet James Wright was edited after Wright's death by his widow Anne Wright under the title The Delicacy and Strength of Lace (1986).
"Yellow Woman" is a representative of Leslie Marmon Silko's seemingly effortless synthesis of realism and fantasy. Taken from Storyteller, it has the air of a mystery; the reader, like the adventurous protagonist, comes to knowledge only by degrees, and then not fully. Is the romantic abductor merely a cattle-rustler, or is he a mountain spirit? Can he, perhaps, be both?
Yellow Woman
I
MY thigh clung to his with dampness, and I watched the sun rising up through the tamaracks and willows. The small brown water birds came to the river and hopped across the mud, leaving brown scratches in the alkali-white crust. They bathed in the river silently. I could hear the water, almost at our feet where the narrow fast channel bubbled and washed green ragged moss and fern leaves.
The Oxford Book of American Short Stories Page 68
