Corrine fills the camp icebox with beer, cold fried chicken, and potato salad and then loads three jugs of water into the back of the truck. Potter packs a fifth of bourbon, a flashlight, two emergency flares, and his service revolver in the truck’s glove box. Corrine adds her pocket pistol. Potter tucks a couple of rubbers into his wallet. Corrine shoves her diaphragm, some spermicidal cream, and a wad of tissues into her purse.
While Potter feeds Alice, Corrine stands at the foot of their bed and considers a little black chiffon negligee she used to wear before the baby. It might fit, but it seems ridiculous to bring such a garment on a camping trip. After dressing in a cardigan and a swingy red A-line skirt that falls just below her knees—Potter loves this skirt—she digs around in the closet for her black heels, which she can at least wear for the drive. She sets her boots next to her overnight bag. At the last moment Corrine removes her panties, choosing instead to wear beneath her skirt only a pair of black stockings and garter belt. In nearly thirty years of living, Corrine has not once left the house without her underwear. It is delicious. She puts on her new eyeglasses, takes them off, and squints at the mirror on the dresser. She puts them back on and steps into the living room. Ta-da! She throws one arm in the air.
Potter’s eyes widen. He laughs a little and holds his arms out to her. Whoa! Baby, you look just like a librarian.
Corrine’s arm falls to her side. Thank you very much.
No, Corrie! Honey, I meant—
But Alice begins to wail, toddling toward her mother and holding her arms up like a tiny robber caught in the sheriff’s headlights. As his wife shoves past him, Potter touches the sleeve of her sweater lightly. Soft, he says, but she doesn’t hear him. Instead she goes to work soothing the baby while he stands in the doorway, one hand still reaching for his wife.
They kiss the baby and pat her and speak to her as if they are leaving on a freighter bound for Cameroon, then hand her off to her granddaddy with a page of instructions. Prestige glances at the list, folds it in half, and slides it into his shirt pocket. All-righty, then, he says. Have a great time. Don’t hurry back.
They take the new highway north toward Notrees, driving past the man camps that have sprung up in the coliseum parking lot while people wait for more houses to be built. At the family camps, which are spread out on dirt lots behind the coliseum, skinny, dust-smeared kids play and fight and sprawl in the dust. Corrine watches them and chews on her thumbnail. Most of them probably aren’t even enrolled in school. That’s a scandal, she says. Shameful.
How come? Potter is fiddling with his new headlights, turning them on, turning them off, then back on. People have to make a living.
It’s shameful that we’ve got people living in tents in the middle of dirt lots, Potter. Those companies ought to be doing better by them.
I think they’re probably doing the best they can, under the circumstances. There are a lot of people coming here, real fast.
Oh, bullshit. Those oil companies don’t care about these people, and you’re kidding yourself if you think different. Besides—she digs around in her purse for a lipstick and compact—doesn’t it bother you what they’re doing to the land out here?
Potter punches the gas pedal. It would bother me a lot more if I couldn’t put food on the table for you and Alice, if I couldn’t put a little something away in case our daughter wants to go to college, like her mama did.
Corrine swipes a rich red lipstick across her bottom lip then checks her teeth in the mirror. She thinks about the panties she is not wearing. The leather seat is delightful against the backs of her knees. Be careful, she says. We do not want to get into an accident.
All right, Corrine. Potter turns on the radio and they light cigarettes. Wisps of smoke drift out their windows as they pass pickup trucks with their beds stuffed full of men. Some will look you right in the eye. Others avert their gaze, as if they might be on the run from something—the law, the mob, wives and babies back home in Gulf Shores or Jackson or some other dismal little town with scarce work and few prospects.
They drive past rolls of barbed wire and piles of steel beams lying next to the road. A quarter mile ahead, a truck pulls over and two women jump out the back. They stand on the shoulder waving madly for a minute or two, and when another truck pulls over, they climb in. The men cheer. Corrine frowns and tucks her hands behind her knees. The lining of her skirt is sticking to her ass cheeks, and her thighs are sweaty. What is Alice doing right now? she wonders. Probably jumping up and down on her grandfather’s stomach. He’ll be sore for days.
By the time they reach Mentone, the sun burns at the edge of the earth. They pull over at a picnic table on an escarpment just above the shallow, sluggish Pecos. It’s been a dry year, and you couldn’t drown in there if you tried. Diffuse sunlight turns the water the color of mesquite bark and cirrus clouds blush overhead. They take turns stomping out into the brush to pee, Corrine tottering through the scrub, high heels sinking in the sand, as she claps loudly to scare off snakes. She knows it is foolish not to have already changed into her boots, but then, when she staggers out from behind a copse of mesquites, skirt swinging around her knees, Potter whistles.
Hello, Mrs. Shepard, he says. Girl of my dreams.
For the first time all day, maybe the first time in weeks, Corrine’s face breaks into a wide grin. Hello, Mr. Shepard.
After a quiet supper of fried chicken and beer, they continue north. Night has come all the way in, but natural gas flares burn on both sides of the highway. Potter says that some nights the companies flare off so much gas a person can drive all the way from Odessa to El Paso without once turning on his headlights. They are dependable as West Texas sunshine, he says.
Wish they smelled better, Corrine says. Wish I knew what was in there.
When they turn off the highway and start toward the peaks, he switches off the headlamps and they drive along a dirt road in the dark. Flares flicker in the distance. He glances at his wife. Her eyes shine in the gaslight, a freckle on her cheek turns gold, and he begins to sing quietly. Frankie was a good girl, everybody knows. She paid one hundred dollars for Albert’s suit of clothes. He’s her man, and he did her wrong. When he reaches across the cab and touches his wife on the knee, she jumps. They have not touched each other, not so much as a pat, since they handed the baby off to her father hours earlier.
Corrine lays her hand on top of his and gently rubs his knuckle. Are you trying to flirt with me?
Potter laughs. Yeah, maybe, a little bit.
Well, she breathes deeply. All right.
Abruptly, he turns onto another dirt road and heads for open desert. They bump along for a few minutes, their heads like fishing bobbers, as Potter peers down access roads on either side of them that are barely wider than the truck. Corrine leans forward and looks through the windshield. Where are we going?
I used to know a little rise up this way. Good place to watch the moon and stars come out. You want to stop and get out of the truck for a little bit?
All right.
A few minutes later, he pulls up next to a mesquite forest. This looks like a good place.
They sit on the tailgate for a few minutes, feet dangling while they smoke and watch a few stars come out. A smiling moon hangs just above the earth’s edge, and they can see the Burlington Northern rolling across the desert, though it is too far away for the train’s whistle to be louder than a moan. Potter jumps up and reaches through the passenger window, and Corrine hears him open the glove box. We going to shoot each other? she says.
Ha, ha. Funny lady. He returns with the bourbon and leans next to her on the tailgate, the bottle wedged between his thighs. He kicks at some dirt. There are a dozen things Potter might say to Corrine right now, and she thinks, not for the first time, that maybe she should have married Walter Hendrickson, the local boy who grew up to write country songs, and get paid to do it.
I wish you could be happy staying at home, Potter says.
Corrine stand
s up and takes several long strides away from the truck. When she turns, her face is a fury. Well fuck you, Potter.
Potter looks as if he’d like to take off running into the scrub. Maybe she’ll get lucky and he’ll fall into an abandoned well, or a rattlesnake den.
I’m going to tell you something, Potter. The only thing I hate more than being home with Alice all day long is feeling guilty about not wanting to do it. Corrine’s voice breaks and she pushes her fist against her mouth. She is trying not to cry, and this makes her even angrier.
He unscrews the cap on the bourbon and takes a long swallow, then another. Somewhere in the brush a bobwhite begins to sing. Bob White! Not quiet! Come again, some other night. Another answers, Bob White, Bob White. Hooey, hooey, hooey. Falling stars tumble across the sky—there, then quickly gone. He holds the bottle out to her, but Corrine shakes her head and lights another cigarette. He watches her smoke for a few minutes and then stands up and sets the bottle down on the tailgate. He takes his wife by the shoulders. Corrine is a tall, curvy lady, but she is still almost a foot shorter than her husband. He ducks down and looks directly into her beautiful eyes. Corrine, I’m sorry.
If he had just declared himself a Soviet spy, she could not have been more surprised. She never says she’s sorry to anybody for anything, it’s one of her character flaws, but Potter doesn’t exactly fall over himself dishing out apologies either.
Corrine touches his face, her hand large and warm against his cheek. It has been months since she’s touched him like this.
Potter, when you were flying planes over Japan, I taught English all day and then I drove out to the fields with a bunch of other women and helped load cattle onto freight trains. I was worn out every night—and I mean tired, Potter, all the way down to the bone. Even my tits hurt at the end of the day. But I also felt strong. And then all you men came home and we were just supposed to get knocked up as soon as possible and slink back into the kitchen like a bunch of old cows headed back to the barn. And maybe that’s all right. I guess plenty of women are just pleased as punch by the whole arrangement, or maybe they just bitch less than I do. Corrine pushes herself off the tailgate and takes a few steps into the desert. She turns and faces her husband. I love Alice. She’s the best thing you and me ever did together. But hear me, Potter. I am losing my everloving mind.
She walks back over to him, and they stand side by side next to the tailgate. Some of the gas flares have gone out and the sky has again filled with stars. Corrine stands stiffly next to her husband. Her back is straight as always, but her hands are trembling.
As soon as we get home, he says, we’ll start looking for somebody to watch Alice, one of those oil-field widows you can’t stop reminding me about.
Well, finally. Thank you. She stubs out her cigarette on the truck’s bumper. Can I ask you for something else?
Honey, if the principal asks me—and you know he will—I will assure him that we talked about it and agreed you should go back to work.
She laughs bitterly and rolls her eyes. He’s right, of course. She will need her husband’s permission, and even then they might not hire her. The thought of it makes Corrine want to spit, or break a bottle over somebody’s head. Not that, Potter. I want you to talk to me.
Talk?
Like you used to, before Alice. Like we’re new to each other.
She watches his face carefully, thinking that he could not look less enthusiastic if she had asked him to remove one of his own teeth with a pair of pliers.
Oh, for Christ’s sake. Never mind. Corrine flips her cigarette toward a creosote, sits down with a thud on the tailgate, and kicks her legs back and forth.
Potter walks around the truck a few times. After his third revolution around the truck, he stops and stands in front of his wife. Gently, he stops her legs from swinging. Mrs. Shepard, would you care to have a drink with me?
Yes. I believe I will. Corrine picks up the bottle, screws the cap off, and takes a couple of long pulls. A bit of bourbon dribbles down her throat.
She has a lovely neck, long and slim and lightly freckled. He touches her throat with one finger, marveling aloud at the softness of her skin, a new line that traverses her throat. Did I ever tell you what a beautiful neck you have?
Not lately.
Yes. He leans over and touches the tip of his tongue to the bourbon that glistens on her clavicle. Beautiful word, that. Clavicle.
Corrine leans into him and looks up at the stars. Do you think somebody might see us out here?
Nah, we’ll see them coming from ten miles off.
Wife and husband face each other. Talk, she thinks.
Let me taste you, he says, and presses his lips against her mouth. Beautiful lady with her new glasses and her hair up in a knot. Sweet Corrine with the warm bourbon mouth.
Corrine begins to take off her glasses.
Keep them on. Please.
She looks at him for several seconds and then takes another sip of bourbon, her throat moving a bit as she swallows. We might get carried away and forget to look for headlights.
Maybe you need another little sip of bourbon, he says. Liquid courage.
Again she drinks. She hands the bottle back to her husband. To courage.
Courage, he says. He sets the bottle down and takes her hand, pressing it first against his heart and then against the front of his jeans. You couldn’t be making this any harder.
She giggles and he pulls her legs gently apart, running the flat of his hand along her stocking, his eyes widening when his finger finds her bare skin.
Why don’t you stand up, Corrine, and show me those black stockings?
She walks out onto the plain, her face and hair lit by the moon, black heels and a half smile, fingers pulling gently at her skirt.
Jesus, honey. Come here. He sets her on the tailgate, the backs of her knees bumping lightly against the steel, and he pulls her to the edge of the tailgate. Lean back, Corrine.
* * *
Jon hasn’t had a cigarette since he was overseas, and he promised himself he wouldn’t ever do it again, but when he pulls the smoke into his lungs he can feel his chest expanding, growing larger, and it is so goddamned good, it is such a fucking relief, he thinks he might cry. What do you say to a man who is dying in your arms? Do not be afraid. You are not alone.
The album stops playing. Jon and Corrine listen to the click as the stylus lifts from the platter and settles into its stand.
He says, Corrine, would you like to listen for a little longer?
To the music? she asks.
Yes.
Will you turn the album over?
When Jon tries to stand up, he stumbles in the dark and falls against Corrine’s shoulder. He tries to right himself, but she grabs his shirt and pulls him to her, as if he is a child who slipped and fell off a fishing dock, or she is a ship about to go down, or they are poor swimmers in rough seas. Corrine takes his hand and presses it to her face and after a pause, he does the same. They sit together and watch the last of the stars go out. Sun’s coming up soon, one of them says. Better get home.
* * *
On the drive home the next afternoon Corrine takes Potter’s warm hand from the gearshift and presses it gently against her skirt, then guides it up and under, past a tiny bruise on her right knee, to rest on her bare inner thigh. They are worn out and hung over and sore as hell—and they never did make it to the mountains. Corrine crooks her neck and sticks her head out the window, trying to see herself in the rearview mirror. When they get home, all their problems will still be there. They will still be a young man and a young woman with the worst war of their lives just a few years behind them, with worries and fears and a little girl to feed and love. They will fight over money and sex, and whose turn it is to mow the yard, wash the dishes, pay the bills. In a few years, Corrine will threaten to tear it all down when she falls in love with the social studies teacher, and a few years after that, Potter will do something similar. And each time they will g
rit their teeth and wait to love each other again, and when they do, it will be a wonder. On this morning, Corrine’s hair blows wild about the truck’s cab, and a slight rash marks her lovely throat. Honey, he says, you could not be more beautiful.
Debra Ann
Jesse’s stories are so much better than hers. He was in the army and he served overseas. When he came home to eastern Tennessee, he tells her, he kept his discharge papers in the front pocket of his shirt for a time, as if somebody might demand to see them, as if maybe just coming home alive made him a criminal. He said they fixed his teeth when he joined the service and after his mama saw him for the first time, she started to cover her mouth when she laughed, her big hands marked with scratches, knuckles twisted and raw, scarred from hammers and meat hooks and industrial sewing machines.
At the welcome home party, Jesse stood in his family’s trailer and watched people smile and shake hands. He tried to keep them on his right side, but he still missed a lot of what they said. He nodded and grinned and let them fill his cup, and when somebody asked where Jesse had been, he said, Hell if I know, I never did learn to pronounce the name, and he thought about the two boys he had killed. The aunts talked about picking cotton or working in textile mills. The uncles talked about driving to eastern Kentucky for jobs in the mine, their eyes going soft when they saw Jesse watching them. You picked a hell of a time to come back to Belden Hollow, they said. There ain’t nothing going on here.
And then here came his cousin Travis, pulling into the yard in a brand-new Ford F-150 that he bought in Texas. Paid cash for it, too, he said. He wore new boots and had a new nickname—Boomer, he said, because he nearly blew himself to kingdom come his first week on the job.
Because she’s a kid, and a girl, Jesse doesn’t tell Debra Ann what his cousin said to him next. You don’t need to know jack shit about petroleum. Just do what they tell you and collect your pay every Friday. Three hundred a week, and all the West Texas pussy you can handle. Pack your rubbers, brother. Get ready to party.
Valentine Page 17