by Kent Haruf
I might try, he said.
Good, she said. Now why don’t you tell me about them.
Victoria Roubideaux and Katie?
That’s right. They seem to mean a great deal to you.
Well yes, they do. They mean just about everything to me.
He began to talk to Linda May about the girl and her child, and he told her how it was that they had come to live with him and his brother in the country two and a half years ago, and after a while a table was vacated and they sat down across from each other and he allowed her to buy him a drink, though he insisted on buying the next round himself. He sat there in his hat and winter coat until the place closed, talking to this woman. He had never done such a thing before in his life.
It was late when he drove into the graveled drive and stopped at the gate in front of the old gray house. The temperature had fallen to zero and a pale half-sided moon was coming up in the eastern sky. He got out of the pickup and walked up the sidewalk onto the porch. Inside, the house felt empty and quiet. He hung his coat on its peg and went into the bathroom, then climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He turned the light on and everything there seemed quiet and desolate too. He looked around and finally sat down on the bed and pulled his boots off. He got undressed and put on his flannel striped pajamas and lay awake under the heavy blankets in the cold room, unable to sleep yet, thinking about the woman at the bar and about the old man and the boy, and he began to remember the time his brother was courting the woman in town and how that turned out. The moonlight was showing in the room, silver on the wall, and after a while he went to sleep, and in his sleep he dreamed of Victoria and Katie, knocking at the door of some house he didn’t recognize situated in some town he had never seen before in his life.
25
THERE WAS SNOW FALLING WHEN THEY CAME OUTSIDE Holt County Social Services at the rear of the courthouse in the evening. They had been in the long conference room for an hour, attending a class in the practice of parenthood, while Joy Rae and Richie played with the scarred tedious brightly colored toys in the waiting room and read the little broken-backed books, and during the hour they were all inside it had begun to snow. It was snowing hard now, piling up in the gutters along the street curbs and blowing up against the dark brick walls of the courthouse.
When they came outside, the children were wearing the cheap coats that were too big for them they had bought at the racks at the thrift store, and Betty had on an old calf-length red wool winter coat that was fastened in front with big safety pins. Luther wore only a thin black windbreaker, but he was warm even in that.
Hoo doggie, he said when they stepped out the door. Look at this snow.
We better hurry, Betty said. These kids is going to get cold.
They walked out away from the old high redbrick courthouse. Above them the tiled roof was obscured by the falling snow. They crossed Boston, and, as yet, there were no tracks in the street from any passing cars. The snow came down thickly under the corner streetlight and they went on. The children scuffed their feet, making long dragging marks, and began to fall behind.
Betty turned to look at them. You kids, come on now, she said. Hurry up. Catch up with us.
You ain’t allowed to talk that way, Luther said. You suppose to be nice to them.
I am. I don’t want them to catch cold. We never should of took them out here in this.
How was we going to know it would come on snowing while we was in there in that room?
Well, they ain’t suppose to be out in something like this. Come on.
The children kicked and scuffed along the sidewalks. The atmosphere in the silent town seemed all blue around them. The snow muffled any sound and no one else was out walking. A single car went by, without noise or commotion, a block away, moving at the intersection, stately and quiet as a ship sailing on some silent ghostly sea. They crossed Chicago, then turned up Detroit toward home.
At the trailer they climbed the snow-filled steps and entered the house and removed their shoes at the door and walked out into the room in their stockings. Richie’s had gathered in damp wads around his toes, and his thin heels were scarlet.
You kids get on to bed now and get warm, Luther said. Tomorrow’s school.
Here, Betty said. What was you just telling me about how to talk to these kids right? That teacher said you got to ask them what they want, not just say it.
Oh, yeah, Luther said. Joy Rae, honey, you want anything? You want you a bedtime snack before you go off to sleep?
I want some hot chocolate, Joy Rae said.
What about you, Richie?
I want some pop.
Is he suppose to have pop at night?
I don’t know what he can have, Betty said. She never said nothing about no pop. You just suppose to ask him.
I asked him. He said he wants pop.
What kind of pop?
What kind of pop you want, Richie? You want strawberry? We got black cherry.
Strawberry, Richie said.
Betty brought the drinks and they sat down at the kitchen table. Luther took a package of lasagna from the freezer and put it in the microwave, and it came out steaming and he set it on the table, and Betty got down paper plates left over from a birthday party and they began to eat.
When they were finished, Luther and Betty walked the children back to their bedrooms and left the door open at Richie’s room so he could see the light in the hall. Then Luther went into his and Betty’s room, and he undressed and got into bed in his underwear and stretched out. The bed sagged and complained under his weight. Dear, he called, ain’t you coming to bed?
In a minute, Betty said. But she had stayed in the front room and was sitting on the couch now, watching the snow falling in the front yard and out in Detroit Street. After a while she took up the phone, set it in her lap, and made a call to a house in Phillips. A woman answered.
I’d like to speak to Donna, please, Betty said. I want to talk to Donna Jean.
Who’s calling? the woman said.
This is her mother.
Who?
Her mother. This is Betty Wallace.
You, the woman said. You’re not supposed to call here. Don’t you know that?
I want to talk to her. I ain’t going to do nothing.
It’s against the regulations.
I won’t hurt her. I wouldn’t hurt her for nothing in the world.
Listen to me. You want me to put her on the phone and have her tell you herself you’re not her mother anymore? Is that what you want me to do?
I am too her mother, Betty said. You ain’t suppose to say something like that to me. I’m always going to be her mother. I give birth to her, out of my own self.
Oh no, the woman said. That’s not what the court order says. I’m her mother now. And don’t you ever call here again. I’ll call the police. I got enough trouble on account of her without you making it worse.
What kind of trouble? Is something the matter with Donna?
That’s none of your business. The Lord will guide me. I don’t need any help from you. The woman hung up.
Betty put the receiver down and sat motionless on the couch, and presently she began to cry.
Outside the trailer house the snow continued to fall. It fell thickly in the yard and in the street in front and it kept falling until midnight, then it began to diminish and by one o’clock it had stopped altogether. The sky cleared and the cold brilliant stars came out.
Betty woke then, lying on the couch. It was cold in the room and she rose and walked back to their bedroom and pulled off her thin dress and stepped out of her underwear and unfastened her bra. She put on a tattered yellow nightgown and lay down beside Luther in the sagging bed. Shivering and cold, she pulled the blankets up and moved closer to him. Then she began to remember what the woman had said to her. How her voice had been. You want me to put her on the phone and have her tell you herself you’re not her mother anymore. Betty lay in bed beside Luther, remembering. Soon she bega
n to cry again. She cried quietly for a long time and at last fell asleep against his great warm wide bare back.
26
CHRISTMAS EVE OBSERVANCE WAS GENERAL IN HOLT. There were candlelight services at the local churches and family gatherings in the front rooms of the houses overlooking the quiet streets, and out on the east side of town on US Highway 34 the bartender Monroe kept the Chute Bar and Grill open until two o’clock in the morning.
Hoyt Raines was sitting in a back booth with a middle-aged divorcée named Laverne Griffith, a fleshy maroon-haired woman twenty years his senior. She was buying and they were sitting close together on the same side of the booth, their drinks before them next to the ashtray on the scarred wooden table.
The Chute had been decorated for the season. Loops of red and green lights were festooned above the bar and silver tassels hung from the mirror. A half-dozen men were sitting at the bar, drinking and talking, and an old woman was asleep with her head in her arms at a far table. From the jukebox Elvis Presley was singing I’ll have a blue Christmas without you. A man who had been at the bar earlier had put in enough quarters to play the same song eight times over, but then had gone outside and driven off in the night in his pickup.
One of men at the bar turned to look balefully at the jukebox. He turned back to the bartender. Can’t you do something about that?
What do you want me to do about it?
Well, can’t you turn it off or something?
It’ll stop pretty soon by itself. It’s Christmas. You got to enjoy yourself.
I’m trying to. But I’m sick of that goddamn thing.
It’ll run out pretty quick now. Forget it. Let me get you another drink.
Are you buying?
I could.
Make it a double then.
I said it was Christmas. I never said it was old home week.
The man looked at him. What in hell’s that suppose to mean?
I don’t know. It just come to me. Let’s say it means I’ll get you a single drink.
I’m waiting.
You know what? Monroe said. You ought to cheer up. You’re starting to make everyone around here feel bad.
I can’t help it. It’s the way I am.
Well try, for christsake.
In the back booth Hoyt had circled his arm around Laverne Griffith. She picked a cigarette from the pack on the table and put it in her mouth, and he reached the lighter with his free hand and took it and lit it for her. She blew a cloud of smoke and squinted her eyes shut and rubbed them, then she opened her eyes again, blinking, and stared unhappily across the table.
You all right? Hoyt said.
No, I’m not all right. I’m sad and blue.
Why don’t you and me go over to your place when they close up here. That’ll make you feel better.
She inhaled and blew a long thin stream of smoke away from her face. I’ve been down that old road before, she said. I know where it comes out.
Not with me, you haven’t.
She turned to stare at him. His face was only inches away, his cap pushed back on his thick head of hair. You think you’re that much different?
I’m like nothing you ever knew before, Hoyt said.
What makes you so different?
I’ll show you. I’ll give you a little demonstration.
I’m not talking about that, she said. That’s available to a woman anytime. What about in the morning when we wake up?
I’ll make you breakfast.
What if I don’t eat breakfast.
I’ll make one you will.
She smoked again and looked out into the room. It doesn’t close here for two more hours, she said. She turned and lifted her face toward him. You can give me a kiss anyhow.
AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT MONROE CALLED: MERRY Christmas, you sons of bitches. Merry Christmas, everybody. The men at the bar shook hands and one of them said they should wake the woman sleeping at the far table and ask her if she could guess what day it was.
Let her sleep, one of the others said. She’s better off sleeping. Here, he said to Monroe, give me one of those decorations. Monroe took down a piece of silver tassel from the bar mirror and the man walked over to the woman and leaned over and draped it across her head and shoulders. How’s that look? he said. The woman groaned and sighed, but didn’t wake.
In the booth, Hoyt and Laverne kissed a long time at the announcement that it was Christmas. Oh hell, she said finally. Let’s get out of here. We might as well go back to my place. They stood up out of the booth.
Monroe called: You two have yourself a merry little Christmas now. Drive careful.
Hoyt waved at him and they went outside. It was very cold in the parking lot, the air dry and hard on their faces. They got into her car and she drove them along the ice-rutted empty streets to her apartment on the second floor of a house on Chicago Street, a block south of the grain elevators. They walked around to the back of the house in the frozen grass and he followed her up the plank stairs that were built up outside the house, climbing to a little porch that was roofed over with tin above the landing. She found her key in her purse and unlocked the door. Inside, the apartment was stifling hot but neat and tidy, with almost no furniture. She locked the door and he at once turned her around and began to kiss her face. Jesus Christ, she said, shoving him back, let me get my coat off first. I have to use the bathroom.
Where’s your bedroom at? Hoyt said.
Back there.
She went through the kitchen, and he walked a few steps across the room and entered the bedroom. There was a red comforter over the bed and a mirrored dresser against the bare wall. The mirror reflected the room at an odd angle, including a little closet with a naked lightbulb hanging from a cord. He switched on the lamp beside the bed and got out of his clothes, then dropped them on the floor and got in bed and pulled the cover up. He stretched out comfortably looking at the ceiling and put his hands under his head.
Laverne stepped into the room. Well, why don’t you make yourself at home?
I’m just waiting on you.
You didn’t wait long.
Come on to bed.
Don’t look at me, she said.
What?
Don’t watch me. She turned her back and removed her blouse and her slacks and hung them in the little closet and stood in the doorway facing away from him, and took off her black bra and black silky underwear. Are you looking?
No.
Yes you are.
I’m just doing what you want me to.
Like hell. Shut your eyes.
He looked at her and shut his eyes and she turned toward the bed. She was very pale and soft-looking, with a thick stomach and large fallen breasts and heavy legs, and she seemed saddened in the dim light. She crossed to the bed and crawled in under the covers. She switched off the bedside lamp.
You have to be nice to me, she said. I don’t like to be hurt.
I’m not going to hurt you.
Kiss me first.
He raised up on his side and put one hand to her face and kissed her, then he kissed her again and she lay back quietly and closed her eyes, and beneath the sheet he began to move his hand over her flattened breasts and across her soft stomach, and she said nothing more to him but seemed content just to breathe, and he went on kissing and after a while he lay on her and began to move.
When he was finished he saw that she had gone to sleep beneath him. Laverne, he said. Darlin. Hey. He looked into her sleeping face and rolled off and lay back beside her under the warm covers, and soon was asleep himself.
THE NEXT DAY HE GOT UP LATE AND MADE A BREAKFAST of eggs and coffee and buttered toast, and he sprinkled paprika on the eggs and arranged everything on a large white plate and brought all of it to her in the bedroom. She sat up with the blankets drawn around her shoulders, her maroon hair all matted and disheveled, but she seemed to be cheered now in the morning. What have you got here? she said.
Didn’t I say I’d make you breakfast?
27
IN THE WEEK BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR’S they passed the long afternoons in the shed beside the alley. It was very cold in the shed and the sunlight came in only thinly from the single window. They lit candles on the table and the back shelf, and they had the blankets. For greater warmth they took to lying beside each other on the carpet in the patch of sunlight that fell in through the window.
They lay under the blankets on their backs and talked. Frequently now she talked about her mother. He recalled a memory of his own mother, how she once wore a sleeveless red blouse in the summertime, sitting in the shade on the back porch of a little house in Brush Colorado, and how she was wearing shorts and would stretch her toes in the dirt below the porch step. There was red polish on the nails of her toes and the dirt was soft like powder.
In return, she remembered how her father picked her up one time when she was a little girl and carried her on his shoulders, ducking through a doorway into the kitchen. Her mother was making white flour gravy at the stove, and she turned and smiled, looking at them both. Then her father said something funny, but she couldn’t recall what it was. It had made her mother laugh, she remembered that.
ONE AFTERNOON THEY WERE LYING ON THE FLOOR IN THE shed when she turned toward him and looked at his face in the weak sunlight. What happened to you here?
Where?
This little curved scar.