by Kent Haruf
I ran into a nail, he said.
There was a white scar the shape of a quarter moon beside his eye.
I have a scar too, she said. She opened the blanket and put her shirt neck down for him to see.
SOME AFTERNOONS HE BROUGHT CRACKERS AND CHEESE from his grandfather’s house together with a thermos of coffee. He also brought them books, though he read more than she did. For some time now he’d been checking books out of the old limestone-block Carnegie Library on the corner of Ash Street, where the librarian was a thin unhappy woman who took care of her invalid mother when she wasn’t at work and who during the day conducted the library as if it were a church. He had found the shelves of books he liked and brought the books home every two weeks, summer and winter, and now he took to bringing them to the shed to read lying on the floor beside her.
She took more and more to the practice of daydreaming and wishing, more so now in the absence of her father and in the new desolation that filled the house since her mother had turned so sad and lonely. An hour might go by in the shed with little or no talking, and then watching him read she would eventually begin to tease him, tickling his cheek with a piece of thread, blowing thinly in his ear, until he would put his book down and push her, and then they would begin to push back and forth and to wrestle, and once it happened that she rolled on top of him, and while her face was so close above his she dropped her head suddenly and kissed him on the mouth, and they both stopped and stared, and she kissed him again. Then she rolled off.
What did you do that for?
I felt like it, she said.
AND ONCE HER LITTLE SISTER OPENED THE DOOR OF THE shed in the afternoon, late in that week of Christmas vacation, and found them reading on the floor with the blankets over them. What are you doing?
Shut the door, Dena said.
The little girl stepped inside and shut the door and stood looking at them. What are you doing there on the floor?
Nothing.
Let me under too.
You have to be quiet.
Why?
Because I said so. Because we’re reading.
All right. I will. Let me in.
She crawled under the blanket with them.
No, you have to be over here, Dena said. This is my place next to him.
So for a while the two sisters and the boy lay on the floor under the blankets, reading books in the dim candlelight, with the sun falling down outside in the alley, the three of them softly talking a little, drinking coffee from a thermos, and what was happening in the houses they’d come from seemed, for that short time, of little importance.
28
WHEN RAYMOND CAME UP TO THE HOUSE IN THE AFTERNOON of New Year’s Day after feeding in the winter pasture, shoving hay and protein pellets onto the frozen ground in front of the shaggy milling cattle, he removed his overshoes and canvas coveralls at the kitchen door and went back through the house to shave and wash up, then mounted the stairs to his bedroom and put on dark slacks and the new blue wool shirt Victoria had given him for Christmas. When he came downstairs into the kitchen, Victoria was cooking chicken and dumplings in a big blued pot for their holiday dinner and Katie was standing on a chair at the table stirring flour and water in a red bowl. Each had a white dish towel tied about her waist, and Victoria’s heavy black hair was pulled away from her face and her cheeks were flushed from the cooking.
She turned to look at him from the stove. You’re all dressed up, she said.
I put on your shirt.
I see that. It looks good on you. It looks just right.
So what can I do? he said. What else needs to be done here to get ready for dinner?
You could set the table.
So he spread a white tablecloth over the formal walnut table out in the dining room, where it was centered under the overhead light, and got down the old rosebud china his mother had received as a wedding gift so many years ago and arranged the plates and glasses and silverware about the table. The low afternoon sun streamed in onto the dishes from the unshaded windows. The sunlight was brilliant in the glassware.
Victoria came into the room to see how he was faring and looked closely at the table. Is somebody else coming? she said.
He looked at her briefly and turned to peer out the window toward the horse barn and corrals beyond the graveled drive. I guess you could say there is, he said.
Who is it?
It’s somebody I met.
Somebody you met?
You met her too.
Her? A woman’s coming to dinner?
It’s a woman from the hospital.
What’s her name?
Her name is Linda May. She was working nights when I was in the room there with my leg.
The middle-aged woman with short dark hair?
That sounds about right. Yes, I guess that would have to be her.
Victoria looked at the dishes and glasses ranged in order on the white tablecloth. Why didn’t you tell me?
Raymond stood with his back to her. I don’t rightly know, he said. I guess I was kind of scared to. I didn’t know what you’d think of it.
It’s your house, she said. You can do what you want.
Now that ain’t right, he said. Don’t say that. This here is your house as much as it is mine. It’s been that way for a good while.
I thought it was.
Well it is. He turned to face her. I can tell you that much.
But I don’t understand you not telling me about somebody coming for dinner.
Oh hell, honey, can’t you lay it to an old man’s mistake? An old man that don’t know how to do something he’s never done before?
He stood before her in the new blue shirt, with an expression on his face she had never seen or even imagined. She moved up beside him and put her hand on his arm. I’m sorry, she said. It’ll be all right. It’s just fine. I’m glad you asked her.
Thank you, he said. I hoped you wouldn’t take no offense. I just got the idea to ask her to dinner, that’s all it was. I never saw the harm in it.
There isn’t any, Victoria said. What time did you tell her to come?
Raymond looked at his watch. About a half hour from now.
Did you tell her how to find us out here?
She told me she already knew. She’d been asking around about us, she said.
Oh?
That’s what she told me.
THAT AFTERNOON SHE DROVE UP TO THE HOGWIRE FENCING in front of the house in a ten-year-old cream-colored Ford convertible. She got out and surveyed the gray house and the patches of dirty snow and the three leafless stunted elm trees in the side yard, then came up through the wire gate onto the screened porch. Before she could knock, Raymond opened the door. Come in, he said, come in.
I see I got the right place.
Yes ma’am.
Now you’ll have to call me Linda today, she said. You have to remember that.
You better come in. It’s cold out here.
She entered the kitchen and looked across the room at the girl holding her child at the stove.
This here is Victoria Roubideaux and little Katie.
Yes. I remember them from when you were in the hospital. How do you do.
Victoria stepped forward and they shook hands. Linda May tried to touch Katie but the little girl turned away, pointing her face into her mother’s shoulder.
She’ll be more friendly after a while.
Let me take your coat, Raymond said.
He hung it next to his coveralls and his canvas work jacket on the peg beside the door. Linda May wore black slacks and a red sweater and there were bright silver hoops suspended from her ears. Something sure smells good, she said.
It’s just about ready, Victoria said. Why don’t you go ahead and be seated and I’ll bring it in.
Is there anything I can do to help?
I don’t think so.
Raymond led his guest into the dining room.
What a beautiful table, she said. It all look
s so pretty.
This table was my mother’s table. It’s been in that same spot for as long as I can remember.
May I look at it?
Well, how do you mean?
Just underneath, at the table itself.
It’s going to be kind of dusty under there.
She lifted the white cloth and examined the polished surface and then peered below at its massive center pedestal. Why, this must be real walnut, she said. An antique.
It’s old anyhow, Raymond said. Older than me even. Why don’t you sit here.
He pulled out a chair and held it for her and she sat down.
Thank you, she said.
I’ll be right back.
He went into the kitchen, where Victoria was dishing food at the stove. What’s next? he said.
Will you take Katie in and get her settled?
Course I will. Come on, little darlin. Are you ready for some dinner? He bent over to pick her up, then leaned back to take in her round dark eyes that were exactly like her mother’s, and brushed the shiny black hair out of her face. He carried her into the dining room and sat her on a wooden box on the chair opposite Linda May. The little girl looked across the table at her, then picked up her napkin and studied it with great interest.
Victoria came in with the steaming bowl of chicken and dumplings and another of mashed potatoes and went back for a plate of hot rolls and a dish of green beans flavored with bacon. Raymond stood at the head of the table until she sat down and then took the seat across from her, with Linda May and Katie on either side.
Would you say grace? Victoria said.
Raymond appeared startled. What?
Would you say grace, please?
He glanced at Linda May and back at Victoria. I suppose I could take a run at it. It’s been a hell of a long time, though. He dropped his iron-gray head. His cheeks were chafed red and his white forehead shone. Lord, he said. What we’re going to do here, we’re just going to say thank you for this food on the table. And for the hands that prepared it for us. He paused for a long time. They all looked up at him. He went on. And for this bright day outside we’re having. He paused again. Amen, he said. Now do you think we can eat, Victoria?
Yes, she said, and passed Linda May the chicken and dumplings.
LINDA MAY DID MUCH OF THE TALKING WHILE VICTORIA and Raymond listened and answered her questions. Victoria tended to the little girl. After dinner they helped her clear the table, then she took Katie back to the downstairs bedroom they’d been sharing since Raymond had moved up to his old room again, and she put the little girl into bed and lay down with her and read to her until she was asleep, and afterward lay in the darkened room listening through the opened door to Raymond and the woman talking.
They’d already done the dishes together at the kitchen sink and had retired to the parlor. Around them the old flowered wallpaper, stained in places and darkened in one corner from some long-ago rain, was dim and gray. When Linda May entered the room she’d seated herself in Raymond’s chair and he had looked at her and hesitated, then he sat in the chair that had always been his brother’s.
My, she said, that was a wonderful dinner.
That was Victoria’s doing. We never taught her any of that.
Yes. She looked through the doorway into the dining room. The ceiling light made a bright glare over the white tablecloth. I don’t know how you two stand it out here, she said. It’s lonely, don’t you think?
I’ve always been out here, Raymond said. I don’t know how it’d be other places. There’s a neighbor a mile and a half down the road if you need something.
A farmer like you?
Well, I wouldn’t say we was farmers exactly.
What would you say?
I guess you’d have to call us ranchers. We raise cattle. Poverty-stuck old cattle ranchers, more like it.
You make it sound like you’re close to starving.
We’ve done that a time or two. Or pretty near to it.
How big a ranch do you have?
How much land?
Yes.
Well, we have about three sections. All counted.
How much is that? I don’t know what a section is.
There would be six hundred forty acres to a section. It’s mostly grass pasture, what we have. We put up a lot of brome hay every summer but we don’t do any real farming. Well, I keep saying we. I mean me now. I haven’t figured out what I’ll do about haying next summer.
How will you manage?
I’ll think of something. Hire somebody I expect.
It must be terribly hard without your brother here anymore.
It’s not the same. It’s not anything like it. Harold and me, we was together all our lives.
You just have to go on, don’t you.
He looked at her. People always say that, he said. I say as much myself. I don’t know what it means, though. He looked out the window behind her where the night had fallen. The yardlight had come on and there were long shadows in the yard.
She sat watching him. I was surprised to see you come into the tavern the other night, she said.
No, it ain’t like me, he said. I was surprised to be there myself.
Do you think you might come in again?
I imagine it’s possible.
I hope you do.
She sat with one foot folded up under her in his big recliner chair. Her red sweater looked very bright against her dark hair.
And I want to thank you again for inviting me to dinner today, she said.
Well, yes, ma’am. Like I say, Victoria is the one that did all that.
But you’re the one who asked me. I’ve lived in this area long enough to know quite a few people, but I don’t think I’ve ever been invited into one of these old ranch houses before.
Our grandfather homesteaded this place. Him and our grandmother. They come out in eighty-three from Ohio. But where do you come from yourself, can I ask you that?
From Cedar Rapids.
Iowa.
Yes. I was ready for a change.
Don’t they have good hospitals back there?
Oh, sure. Of course they do. But my life kind of fell apart, so I thought I’d come out here. I thought I’d start over, try out life in the mountains. But I only got this far and kind of broke down. I think I may go on to Denver yet, though.
When do you reckon on doing that?
I don’t know. I guess it depends. I’ve only been here a year.
Sometimes a year can be a long time, Raymond said.
Sometimes it can be too long, she said.
WHEN LINDA MAY WAS GETTING READY TO LEAVE, VICTORIA came out from the bedroom to say good night. They stood in the kitchen and Raymond took down Linda May’s coat and held it as she put it on, then he walked her out through the wire gate to her car. Outside in the cold air everything seemed brittle and the ground was frozen down as hard as iron.
Thank you again, she said. You make sure you come into town one of these days.
Be careful out there on that road, he said.
She got into her convertible and turned the key, and the engine turned over but wouldn’t catch. When she tried again it only whined and clicked. She rolled the window down. It’s not going to start, she said.
Sounds like it’s your battery. Is it a old one?
I don’t know. The battery was in it when I bought the car a year ago.
I better give you a push. Let me get my coat.
He went back into the house and pulled his coat and hat from the pegs in the kitchen. Victoria was putting the clean dishes up in the high cupboards. What’s wrong? she said.
I need to give her a push.
You better stay warm out there.
He walked back out past the Ford, where Linda May was still sitting behind the wheel, and crossed the rutted gravel to the garage and climbed into his pickup. He let it run for a minute, then pulled it behind her car and got out to see how the two bumpers would meet. When he walked up to the side
of the car and opened the door, she was shivering and hugging herself.
Are you all right? he said.
It’s really cold.
You want to go back in the house?
No. Let’s go ahead.
You know what to do, don’t you?
Pop the clutch once we get going, she said.
And have the key turned on. But don’t try it till I get you out on the county road where we can go a little faster.
He shut the door and got back in his pickup and eased it forward. The bumpers touched and he pushed her slowly out the drive onto the lane and then onto the dark road, his headlights shining very bright on the rear of her car. He went faster, the gravel kicked up under the fenders, and with a lurch her car leapt forward and she pulled away and her headlights and taillights came on. She sped up, the dust was boiling under them from the dry road, and he followed her for half a mile to be sure she was all right, then he slowed and stopped and watched the red taillights going away in the dark.
Victoria was sitting at the kitchen table when he came inside. She had made a fresh pot of coffee. He took off his coat and hat, and she stood up when she saw his face was so dark and red.
Why you’re just freezing, she said.
It must be down around zero out there. He cupped his ears with his hands. It’s going to turn off pretty cold tonight.
I made you a pot of coffee.
Did you, honey? I thought you’d be in bed by now.
I wanted to make sure you got back all right.
Were you worried?
I just wanted to be sure, she said. Were you able to get her car started?
Yes. She’s gone on toward town. Well, I expect she’s almost back to her own home by this time.
29
ON A BRIGHT COLD DAY IN JANUARY ROSE TYLER PARKED unannounced in front of the trailer and got her purse and notebook and walked up the snow-muddied path to the faded trailer house. Dead stalks of cheatgrass and redroot stuck up through the snow beside the path like ragged stands of tiny gray trees. The plank porch had been swept clean, that much had been done. She knocked on the metal door and waited. She knocked again. She looked out into the empty street. Nothing was moving. She turned to knock once more and waited a while longer. She had started down the steps when the door opened behind her.