by Jada M Davis
“Eat some more.”
“Had plenty. Think I’ll go on down to the office and see what kind of character Halliday’s found.”
The sun was high in a cloudless sky, but the wind came from nowhere to whip and circle in gusty breaths. The smell of gas was strong. He stood on the front porch, hat in hand, and watched the heat waves lancing over the top of his car. The lawn needed watering, but he knew it would be a waste of time to water it now. The sun would soak up the moisture before it had a chance to soak through the hard crust of the soil.
A stray dog scratched a hole under the chinaberry tree.
A gang of kids, barefoot, came down the street, sticking big toes into the heat bubbles of the asphalt.
He could, from his front porch, see the courthouse and the hotel, over the tops of houses, clear and plain and neat looking. And beyond, as far as the eye could see, oil derricks sprouted in disordered profusion.
A hell of a town, he thought. Shacks and tents and trailer houses, flanking expensive homes. Shacks and tents and trailer houses, with new cars parked in front and good furniture inside.
A hell of a town.
Maybe Catherine had been right. Maybe, taken it all in all, it would be better to resign now. It would be nice to leave this town, this county, this flat forsaken country. Go away. A long way away, where it rained, snowed.
He sighed, put hat on head, and went to the car.
Chapter Six
The train whistle sounded fuzzy and dreamy to Laura Green, the whoo-ooo-ooo, whoo-ooo-ooo, whooooo-oooing lonesomely lonely and by itself.
Like Laura Green.
Something soft rubbed her cheek, and she realized that she was hugging the pillow tight in her arms.
Need a man, a man, a man, she thought. Never had a man, but need one.
She was on her side, her left side, legs doubled up, body in a curve, pillow held tight.
The whoo-ooo-ooo of the train faded away, but later she felt the vibration of the train as it roared into town. The windows rattled.
She pushed the pillow away and rolled over on her back, knees up. Her hands cupped her breasts.
I wonder, she wondered, I wonder what’s wrong with me. Inhibited, probably.
A girl with a body, like this body, and a face, like this face, and legs, like these legs, should have plenty of men.
All that’s necessary, all, is give a look or say a word or wiggle in the right way in the right places at the right time.
But the trouble is that it’s not just a date that’s wanted, or needed. But a man, all of a man, here with me. And unknowing how to go about it and afraid to date because it won’t be just a date.
Is it un-normal to be like this? Are all girls like this? Or do other girls go all the way? Over-sexed? Heard that somewhere or read somewhere.
And how could one know what one wants if one never had it? Maybe, if a man took the place of this pillow, it would be revolting and nasty. But how could one find out?
Try it and see.
What was it Rita had said—“there is no such thing as a nice girl. Any girl can be had by the right man at the right time in the right place...”
Rita should know.
Laura Green reached out for the pillow, her face hot.
The men called her Legs, sometimes, when they talked to other men, never to her face. But she wouldn’t have cared.
“Hey, Laura,” Rita had said one day. “You’d never guess what the guys call you. Legs. Last night my boy friend—you know him—Jerry Maddox. A dream. He’s a driller and, boy, has he got a good-looking boat! Spends money—throws it around like water! Well, we went to the Haven last night and he said, ‘Say, how is Legs these days?’ And I said, ‘Who do you mean?’ And he said, ‘You know, Legs. The gal with the legs.’ And I said, ‘You must mean Laura Green. She’s got the loveliest legs I’ve ever seen.’ And he said, ‘Sure, that’s the one. The tall girl with the brown hair and the body beautiful. She walked down the street the other day,’ he said, ‘and I was standing at the curb. She was between me and the sun and she might just as well have left her dress off, because I could see right through it and the slip, too, if she wore a slip.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s Laura Green, all right....’”
“I had on a slip,” Laura had protested. “It was sheer, I’ll admit, but I thought the dress was thick enough.”
But after that, always after that, she knew her figure was all right, and she walked with a conscious grace.
Still, no men. Somehow, when they talked to her they got scared. Something about her voice froze them.
Well, after all, when your father’s a preacher and most of your life, your young life, was spent in church or going to church or coming from church, what can you expect?
Her hands, cupping her breasts, knees bent, thighs pressed close together, in the darkness in the bed with pillow against cheek and the lonely lonesome whoo-oooooo of a train fading.
Get ready for prayer meeting, Papa said on Wednesdays. Get ready for Sunday School, he said on Sunday mornings. Get ready for church, he said on Sunday nights....
Papa didn’t believe in dates, except with nice young sons of church members. And only then when the date was a “to church and home early date.”
In high school, even then, boys liked her legs and figure. She knew it. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she knew it. And, knowing it, swung her hips when she walked and held her shoulders back to make her breasts push against the full-necked dresses Mama cut down for her.
For some reason, boys thought preachers’ daughters were bad girls. And, in her thoughts, she was bad.
But, one night, a rare night, she walked home with a boy, or the boy walked home with her. From a party. And the boy kissed her, caressed her body with hot hands, until she cried and ran away.
Later, in bed, safe in bed, she was sorry she had run away.
Boys tried dating her, a few found the nerve to call at the house. Papa saw to it that they never came back.
Whose boy are you? Papa always asked.
I’m Lute Bingham’s son, the boy would reply. Or Jesse Smith’s boy, or Flirt Craddock’s son.
Oh, Papa would say. Yes. Mighty fine man, your father, I’ve heard. Tell me, son, are you saved?
Then would follow a dissertation on smoking, drinking, dancing, thinking about girls. Once, and only once, because Mama dared stand up to Papa and order him to stop it, he lectured on the evils of masturbation.
(Laura and the boy looked the word up in the dictionary and never spoke one to the other again.)
Usually, by the time Papa had finished his lecture, it was too late to go anywhere. Or the boy would be too scared to do anything except go home. Laura would cry and stamp her feet, or shut herself in her room and sulk.
Papa sent her to business school after she graduated from high school. There was a depression and she got a job in a café to help pay her way. Papa lost his church and had to take a smaller one in Rockford. And he never got over losing his church, and he became old. Older and kinder and more tolerant.
Laura saved three hundred dollars.
She heard there were plenty of jobs in Breton, and quit school to become a file clerk in an auto-parts store. For thirty dollars a month she rented a garage apartment. The furniture was shabby, but she hung curtains and pictures, and it didn’t look so bad. Papa and Mama came over on the first Sunday and brought her the red leather chair from Papa’s study.
And then she bought the car.
It was a convertible, repainted yellow. Although it was an old model, it was tight and clean.
“I’m telling you the truth,” the salesman had said. “That car’s just like new. Why, you wouldn’t believe it, but that car belonged to an old one-legged school teacher! Old maid, she was, and she never learned to drive. During the winters she’d jack it up in the garage and just go out in the morning and let the motor run a few minutes....”
The salesman was cute. Well, hell, there’re lots of cute men....
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Laura made forty-five dollars a week. She bought dresses on a lay-away plan, plain frocks that suited her figure, and even began payments on a fur coat. On week ends, most week ends, she drove over to see Papa and Mama. At night she drove around town.
Men always whistled at her.
In the convertible, with top down and long hair flying, she was whistle bait. At times she was tempted to make a pick-up, but something inside prevented her.
She read love stories in bed, one after the other, until her eyes burned.
Once, in the summer heat, she went to work wearing nothing but a dress.
It must be psychological.... Exhibitionism, Laura Green thought and fell asleep.
The alarm rang, and she was wide awake without effort. She got out of bed and made coffee, then bathed and dressed.
She drove downtown, without hurrying, and decided to have coffee and a roll.
In the café, seated and waiting for her order, she saw a man eating breakfast with Mr. Halliday. The man was handsome, rumpled and handsome, and he stared at her. Once Mr. Halliday looked up and saw her, and then looked away.
Laura smiled, knowing his embarrassment. He had asked her for a date. Maybe, she thought, I should have gone out with him. His wife must be out of town.
She could feel the young man’s eyes on her, burning into her, as she paid her bill and left the café.
Chapter Seven
Martha Halliday slept late.
The plane trip had been tiring, and last night had been more tiring. She had heard her husband get up, go to the bathroom and become sick, and later heard the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen.
Once, but only once, she considered getting up and having coffee with Ben, but it wasn’t hard to decide against it. After all, when one is considering divorce, it isn’t wise to get too chummy with your husband.
And Martha Halliday was considering divorce.
Those two nights with Richard Feltz had been, well, heavenly, and her conscience didn’t bother her a bit. She wasn’t worried about Ben finding out, either, even though he had stared at Richard a bit peculiarly at the airport.
Not that I have decided to get a divorce, she thought. Not really. I’ll consider it, but not decide for a while. Not until Richard earns more money....
And, she thought, that’s just being sensible. After all, Ben is wealthy. (Not rich, in Martha’s mind, but wealthy.) I have been accustomed to money, a great deal of money, and Richard is only a manager of something at Johnson Tool. If he really gets to be a vice-president, like he said, well....
Martha slept late. And, after sleeping late, she stayed in bed and considered.
After all, she thought, I have grounds for a divorce. I have a reason. Ben and his precious Nora, sweet precious Nora, have been carrying on an affair for goodness knows how long. A fool could see it.
But, she thought, I have been unfaithful.
Yes, she thought, but not until those two nights with Richard. All these years I have been faithful to Ben, and if he had been faithful to me, well....
Martha Halliday got up, let her gown slide to the floor in a heap, and then went to the bathroom for a shower.
Later, in a robe, but barefoot, she went to the kitchen and warmed the coffee Ben had left in the pot.
No servants. And Ben filthy rich—wealthy. But, then, a woman came to clean.
Two cups of coffee, and starting on a third with the first cigarette of the day. And, only then, did she dare think of the odd proposal of Richard’s, made on the plane.
He must have been drunk—he must have been!
“Why sweat it all out?” he’d asked. “Why be conventional? Why don’t we go away together, to Mexico or Brazil?”
“But that takes money,” she had said.
“Forty thousand dollars would last a long time in Mexico or Brazil.”
“Richard!” she had said. “You don’t have forty thousand dollars!”
“No,” he said, “but I could get it. And you could get a few thousand yourself.”
“Well, I must say....”
“Don’t be coy, Martha!” His words were sharp. “You could get a few thousand! Ten, say. That’d make fifty thousand in all, and with fifty thousand....”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. There’s always a forty-thousand-dollar packet in the company safe! Been there for years. The old man keeps it for an emergency. You see, back during the depression, the old man lost a lot of money when the banks failed. Since then he’s kept this forty thousand in the safe.”
“You mean you’d steal?”
“For you.”
“Richard!” She was shocked, but pleased.
“I was joking,” he said.
“Of course you were.”
But was he?
Smoking and drinking coffee, in broad daylight, Martha wasn’t so sure. Suddenly, in a spurt of energy, she snubbed out her cigarette and left the kitchen.
She had considered and now she was sure. She would drop Richard. It had been madness, all of it. A delightful madness, to be sure, but a madness.
Ben was wealthy. Security. Plenty of money and security. No love, no passion.
She smiled and thought, Love and passion can be found.
She heard a noise in the front part of the house and knew it was Ben.
“Where on earth have you been?” she asked.
“Went for a walk.”
“What a way to dress! Want some coffee?”
“No, thanks. Had coffee.”
He went to the phone and dialed a number. In a moment she heard him talking to Chief Bronson.
Something about putting a man named Willa Ree on the police force.
What a name! she thought. Willa is a girl’s name. And Ree, well....
Later, at lunch, she made small talk about her trip.
“How’s your mother?” Ben asked.
“Fine. She’s coming out sometime in the fall.”
“That’s good. Say, who was that guy got off the plane ahead of you last night? Works for Johnson Tool, I think.”
She almost gasped. Could he know something?
“Oh,” she said, “you mean that Feltz man. Richard Feltz, I think.”
His face brightened. “That’s it,” he said.
“I sat by him on the plane,” she ventured, “and he told me an interesting thing.”
“Uh?”
“His boss, old Johnson, keeps forty thousand dollars in the company safe all the time. Mr. Feltz said that back during the depression the old man lost some money in the banks, and so now he keeps the money in a package in the safe. In case there’s another depression, or something.”
“Fool thing to do,” Ben grunted. “Some burglar’ll hear about it some day.”
“That’s what I told Richard—Mr. Feltz.”
“Uh,” Ben grunted.
Nora called after lunch, and had to hear all about the trip. And, then, after having said good-by once, she said, “Martha, why don’t you and Ben drop over tonight?”
“Why, I’d like to.”
“Ben’s probably tired of us, though. He was over last night for drinks and dinner.” Nora hung up.
Martha slammed the receiver on the hook. “Damn her!” she said. And she meant Nora.
Chapter Eight
Willa Ree finished his breakfast and ordered more coffee and a pack of cigarettes. He sat in the booth and watched the customers come and go. The sun looked hot outside, but it was still cool inside the café.
A newsboy came in with papers under his arm. Ree bought one, giving the boy the dime he’d had when he hit town.
The sun was up, way up, and big and glary and blinding when he went outside.
Most of the stores were open. A few cars were parked at the curb. Men leaned against parking meters and watched other men sweep off the walks in front of stores. A heavy truck, loaded with pipe, meshed its gears and groaned along the street. A lone Negro pushed a broom along the curb, stooping n
ow and again to scoop up dirt and glass and paper and deposit them in a wheelbarrow.
A typical boom town, like so many others. Made to order.
Buildings squatty and cheap, fronted with stucco and garish with neon. A courthouse, old as time, and tired, with grass green under planted elms. An oasis where old men gathered to chew tobacco and whittle and spit.
A gang of roughnecks, wearing safety helmets and driller’s boots, climbed aboard a truck, dinner pails clattering.
Willa Ree paid three dollars for a white shirt, and one dollar for a tie. His pants, from the bundle, were cleaned and pressed while he had his shoes shined. He changed clothes in the tailor’s rest room.
He got a shave and a haircut.
“Where’s the City Hall?” he asked the barber.
“West two blocks. New brick building next on the corner. You can’t miss it.”
Cars lined the curb now, and the walks were crowded. The hum of traffic was loud and strident. There was a small crowd knotted around the broken plate-glass window of a jewelry store.
The City Hall wasn’t large, but it was neat and modern and expensive-looking. Three girls worked behind a long counter in the main office.
“You wanta pay your water bill?” a little blonde asked, posing behind advertised breasts.
“I want to see the chief of police,” Ree said.
“Through that door,” the blonde pointed.
A fat desk sergeant looked up. He was bald, and his eyes were buggy. His cheeks and wrinkled chin looked pasty white beneath black bristles.
“The Chief in?”
The sergeant looked at a clock on the wall.
“It might be a while yet.”
“Thanks.”
He left the Hall and walked along a street, past a church, two liquor stores, a laundry, a bakery, and a score of small stores. He walked slowly, stopping to look in shop windows, and whistling softly all the while. Once, while looking in a shop window, he took a wrist watch from his pocket and strapped it on his wrist.
The sign said: “AJAX PRINTERS—Stationers and Publishers.”