“Say, Betty,” said Patrice in a tiny quiet voice, “I only know in a general way what happens. I wish somebody would tell me the details.”
“You mean you’ve never done it?”
Betty’s voice was too loud, but fortunately Curly Jay had a sneezing fit at the same time, covering her.
“Shhhhh.”
“Sorry, I just couldn’t believe it.”
“I’m scared to because, you know. For the reason you said you might elope.”
“Let’s go out and have a cup of coffee somewhere and I’ll explain it all.”
“Would you?”
“My god, somebody has to.”
On Saturday, Patrice walked into town with Pokey. He went to the center to punch on the speed bag. She went to Henry’s to meet Betty. There she was, already drinking her cup of coffee. Betty was wearing a beige felt hat like a plump cake, with a cute feather. It perched on her dark permed curls. Her coat was rose colored with white rabbit-fur trim. Eye-catching. Her wide, round, merry face was avid and her lips puckered over her cup. She blew daintily to cool the coffee. Patrice asked for tea. She didn’t drink coffee on the weekends. If possible, she napped in the afternoons.
“So,” said Betty. “Nobody’s never told you?”
“No,” said Patrice.
That wasn’t exactly true. Actually she’d always known what happened. She lived around animals wild and tame. Once, she’d watched minks mate in the rushes by a slough. She’d seen all sorts of things. She’d been trapped in the car with Bucky and his friends and knew what they were trying to do. Her mother had talked to her about these matters, but all in Chippewa, so she had a good idea of what happened, in Chippewa. But she wanted to know how it happened in English, because she needed to know the words for what might happen in case it happened with somebody who didn’t speak Indian. She understood there were several ways it could happen, but not how that would be negotiated. It seemed strange, her having been a waterjack, that she didn’t know. But she understood the fact that she didn’t know might have been obvious to Jack Malloy. It might have been the reason he hired her. Sometimes she suspected it might have been Jack’s job to mess with her, but he’d flinched when she smashed his arm. She was too strong.
Betty looked around carefully. The cafe was full, but not crowded. They were in a corner. Nobody would hear what she said. She told Patrice what an erection was. Patrice already knew. She tried not to think of Bucky and his friends. Betty told her how to get away from men she didn’t like, who had erections. Again, that was nothing new. She told Patrice how to pretend to drop something, how to accidentally brush against a man, if she did like him and wanted to see if he liked her.
“Pretend you have something in your eye, and you can’t see where your hand goes. Or bend over to pick something up by his feet. Brush your hand against it as you stand up. Oops! Then you smile at him, if you like what you felt. He knows. But if you didn’t like what you felt, you get the hell away from him.”
“Right,” said Patrice. She thought of Bucky, now with his one crossed eye.
“Once you touch it, even by accident, they might grab you. So you have to be ready. Then if you do like it, and you want to try it, you find a private spot. In fall or early spring, out in the woods. In summer, you might get ticks. It isn’t very attractive to be pulling ticks off to have sex.”
“No.”
“So it’s better if there’s a barn or a bed or he has a car.”
“No car,” said Patrice, but Betty was oblivious, and spoke with a clinical practicality, describing positions that made Patrice drop her face into her hands, laughing.
“Don’t laugh! That’s the way to get your hoo-ha.”
“What?”
“Hoo-ha.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“It makes you feel like you’re floating off. You are a kid, my goodness.”
Betty went into such detail about the hoo-ha that Patrice’s face grew flushed and hot. Her mother hadn’t said a word about this, even in Chippewa. And button. Which button? Must be the other one, below the belly button. See, she thought, this is why I needed to talk to Betty.
“Whatever happens, I don’t want to get in a family way. How do you stop that?”
“The rubber, but they don’t like them. Or maybe you don’t have one handy and you still want to do it. You will be okay if you just have sex the week after your monthly ends. Just that week, you’re safe. It’s what me and Norbert do. And of course we have his old jalopy. We go parking on the weekends. Way out on the section roads. Who are you going to have sex with?”
“I just wanted the information in case, but I don’t have a plan.”
“That’s not what your friends think.”
“They’re so irritating.”
“All the same, sounds like you could try with either guy. The only thing is getting rid of them after, if you don’t like it.”
Patrice looked completely mystified.
“I know. It’s supposed to be you only do the deed if you are planning on forever. Getting married. But my aunt told me that if you are serious try it out first. It’s no good to have to do it with one person all your life if it isn’t any good. This is what my aunt said. Why be stuck with a dud?”
“You’re so right!”
Patrice was even more impressed with Betty. She asked if she’d like a pastry, and Betty took her up on it. They each had a maple long john. As Betty put her lips around the frosted roll to take a bite, she met Patrice’s eyes and started laughing so hard she almost choked. She put her pastry down.
“Oh my gosh, that reminded me!”
“Of? Oh . . .”
Betty was lapping the frosting off the top and sides of the pastry. Her tongue was thick and pale pink.
Patrice looked around, disturbed. What Betty seemed to imply had never occurred to her.
“And men can do it to women, too. It’s like licking jelly out of a bismarck bun, a straight shot to hoo-ha.”
“How do you know all this? Your aunt?”
“No,” said Betty modestly. “Experience.”
Patrice was a bit repelled, then completely awed.
“Now, don’t tell anyone I told you.”
“I wouldn’t tell for anything.”
Betty looked up and smiled at someone behind Patrice.
“Hi there, Hay Stack. Or I mean, sorry, Mr. Barnes.”
“Hi to you, Betty. And hello, Patrice.”
Patrice turned in her chair. Just the way Barnes said hello made her feel uncomfortable, like the air was pressing down on her. And embarrassed. What if he’d heard their conversation? And how much worse would it be if she tried him out and he was a dud?
“Hello, Mr. Barnes,” she said in a neutral voice.
He took a step backward, gave a weak smile, and turned away.
After he left, a welcome refill on coffee and tea.
“The thing is,” said Betty, leaning close to Patrice, staring at her in a weird way, her mouth smeared with frosting, “men want it so bad they will pay for it. Know what I’m saying?”
“Not exactly. . . .”
“They come up here and tell women they’ll get married down in the Cities, let’s go. Then down in the Cities they ditch the woman, sell her to someone who puts them out for sex.”
“Puts them out . . . ?”
“On the street, looking for trade, getting men to pay them for sex. But then giving the money to the pimp.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know nothing! A pimp is someone who owns the lady. Takes the money she got paid for having sex, see?”
“No. I don’t see,” said Patrice flatly. But she did see. Jack would have tampered with her slightly, just enough so that when somebody else came along she’d have that shame, then more shame, until she got lost in shame and wasn’t herself.
“Okay,” said Betty, uncomfortable. “I was making that up.”
“Of course,” said Patrice. She leaned a
way from Betty. Not wanting to be disturbed. This had now gone too far. Wanting to get back to the beginning of the conversation. Where she could try out sex and get rid of men.
“Were you pulling my leg about the hoo-has, the you-know-whats?”
“No. I wasn’t making those up.”
“Good,” said Patrice.
She pulled her maple long john into pieces and couldn’t finish it. The cream filling oozed out onto her plate. She had to cover it up with her napkin just to drink her tea.
Edith, Psychic Dog
Harry Roy, retired army medic, World War II and Korea, saw a person sleeping by the highway about an hour after dawn, and pressed the brakes. His old Studebaker rumbled to a stop. The sleeper was on the edge of the shallow ditch, in frozen weeds. He walked back to the crumpled form, bent down, and adjusted the person’s woolen seaman’s cap. An Indian with chapped cheeks and a pointed feminine chin. As he took the hand he knew for sure that he was holding a woman’s hand. Delicate bone structure, ragged nails, bits of red lacquer. The pulse was weak and rapid. He thought of bringing her to the hospital. But he knew the hospital all too well. They might treat her like a drunk and after she warmed up just throw her out onto the street. He cradled her head, put his arm underneath her knees, and picked her up. Just bones, much too light. She was breathing all right and didn’t smell of liquor. He carried her to his car, managed to hold her steady with one arm as he opened the back door. He tried to fold her inside. He couldn’t be completely gentle about it, had to pull and shove. She was limp now, and he was worried. But her pulse seemed steadier than before and she was still breathing properly. He decided to bring her home.
Harry lived with an ordinary-looking smart brown dog, named Edith. As happens when one person lives with one dog, the dog became psychic. By the time Harry stopped the car, Edith knew Harry had picked someone up on the road. She waited silently, alert, in the driveway. Came close when Harry stopped the car and stood by him as he leaned into the back of the car. He pulled out the other human, staggered a bit as he drew her into his arms, righted himself, and began to walk. Because of the way Harry held the woman, Edith was prepared to guard her. She put her nose to the woman’s leg. The woman had slept in the clothing of a man who cooked with grease, she had slept in snow and wild mint, near the carcass of a skunk, had recently been in town and before that out on the water. There was no harm in her, but she was confused, in despair, and might choose to sleep forever. Edith accepted all that. When Harry brought the woman into the house, Edith followed. She stood at attention, her ears flared forward, as he laid her on the sofa that Edith herself often claimed after Harry slept. It was a long soft couch and the woman was short. Edith didn’t mind sharing.
Before opening her eyes, Vera detected a man. She kept her eyes closed, tried to keep her heart from breaking out of her chest. There was a food smell. Her head turned to follow the smell.
“Open your mouth.”
A man’s voice, which made her tremble, but the voice was kind.
“I’m a medic. Can you manage a little soup?”
She mustn’t open her eyes, but couldn’t help opening her mouth. She was fed a miraculous soup filled with bits of tender meat, carrots, onions, barley. The man tipped some water between her lips and put a piece of bread in her hands. She kept her eyes shut, but slowly ate the bread. Gradually, as the food made its way into her body, she felt the strangeness of being on the other side of things. As if she’d passed through the guts of a tornado. She was still shaken inside, down to the marrow. After the food, her body ached for sleep so she slept and slept. Every time she woke, she kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to know what was out there.
Harry drew a bath, led her to the bathroom, because she still wouldn’t open her eyes.
“Here,” he said when she entered. “This is the sink.” He put her hand on the porcelain. “Right next to it’s the throne. Then over here’s the tub.”
He lowered the tips of her fingers into the water.
“And here’s the lock,” he said, bringing her back to the door. He placed her hand on the small metal bolt.
He shut the door behind him. Vera slid the bolt shut and groped her way over to the toilet. She peed for a full minute, then took off her clothing, felt her way to the tub and slipped into the hot water. The beauty of the sensation was so intense that fear dropped away. It felt like a kind of birth. She opened her eyes. Sunlight through a foggy window. A green plant on a shelf. The dim delicious fall air. She was a new baby—skin frail as paper, arms weak as milk, brain forming shapes into thought.
The next morning, she heard the man laughing. “Edith, you must have played your cards right. She let you keep her feet warm.”
Edith played her cards perfectly. She followed the woman. Settled near the woman. Understood from her scent that unspeakable things had happened to her and might happen again. The level upon which the woman was afraid had nothing to do with Edith, but it did have to do with Harry. She trembled when he came into the room, tried to hide it, put her hands under the blanket.
It was bad, but nothing Harry hadn’t seen before. The twitchiness, shaking, jumpy eyes, bad dreams, sudden welling of tears but no sobs, the attempt to hide her fear. He sat in the room with her, reading his detective novels from the library, playing records. She wouldn’t say which songs she liked. He liked cowboy music but thought he should stick to music without words. Calm music. No Kitty Wells. No Hank. And none of his upbeat Andrews Sisters and other big-band music from the war. He had a few old records his mother had listened to, ripply music, soothing. Sometimes her eyes rolled back and she began to flail as though she was shoving someone away. Touching her made it worse. Even Edith couldn’t help. He’d put on the Debussy and wait.
The Hungry Man
The snow had come down in the night, heavily, covering everything. Millie knew the moment she opened her eyes. The air inside was different, filled with a cold radiance. It was a struggle to leave her bed beside the radiator. And she would miss the comforting nearness of her teakettle. But she had to pack. She had to leave. She had to wear the felt-lined zipper galoshes with fur trim. So unattractive. The heavy coat, which her mother had arranged for her to buy at a price she could afford, was a disappointment. It was a tweed coat with a quilted brown lining. Warm, but the tweed was woven with disturbingly random speckles of red wool. She had to counter everything with her new outfit of strict black and white lines.
She remembered that they’d nicknamed her Checks the last time. Would they now call her Stripes?
Her mother had also bought Millie a set of woolen long johns. But she didn’t think she’d wear them. Still, just before she left, she stuffed them into her bag.
Outside, she practically needed sunglasses against the glare. Sound was muffled. At first, it felt like she was under miles of clear water. Then the shuffling of wheels and footsteps on the snow became normal. The first snow, even though it meant more and more snow, always lifted Millie’s spirits. The bus was warm, and nearly empty, which was a relief. As she walked from her stop, her eyes got used to the brilliant world. When she entered the train station it was like a green drape fell across her vision. Blinded, she had to stop right out of the revolving door and someone bumped into Millie before her eyes adjusted. She strongly disliked being jostled by strangers. After she recovered, she took care to walk with a special alertness, dodging people in advance, yet keeping an even pace, until she reached the ticket window. That exchange went smoothly, at least. It was one of those days where she didn’t even like walking down the stairs to the platform because it was almost impossible to not touch someone in the process of boarding the train. She held on tightly to her suitcase and focused on what it held. Her suitcase contained an onionskin copy of the study. Her advisor had the other copy. Several years of hard work had gone into the study and she had not had time to have it copied in the administrative office. The very fragility of its existence made her tense. Her father would meet her in Rugby, sam
e as before. She would feel better once there was someone who respected the importance of the study. Who would help to guard it. For that reason, she’d asked her father to bring Thomas Wazhashk.
Millie was unaware that as she traveled along the snow followed in her wake like a vast whirling cape. The wind came up as they neared the flat Red River Valley and continued on through Fargo. Its force increased, kicking up ground blizzards that the train struck through easily, but which brought most car travel to a halt so that, when she finally and at last reached her destination, Millie had to wait until the train station was nearly empty before Louie and Thomas showed up. Her father immediately hugged her, throwing her into confusion.
“Oh, Checks,” he said. “So glad you come here to help!”
Thomas shook her hand, which was reassuring. The men were exhausted, having shoveled themselves out several times along the way. As it was impossible to leave that night, the stationmaster allowed them to sleep on the benches with a few other stranded travelers. Millie tried to settle in, using her suitcase for a pillow.
“That don’t look comfortable,” said her father. “Take my jacket for a pillow.”
“I don’t want the report in my suitcase to get lost,” said Millie. “Or stolen or anything. It contains my only copy.”
“How about I get that rope from your car and tie the suitcase to me and Millie?” said Thomas.
The Night Watchman Page 24
