by Larry Brown
But I won’t have to see her after tonight. I won’t put up with any more shit from her. I don’t have to. I’m not married anymore. I won’t be again.
“How’s that sound?” she says.
“I guess it sounds all right,” I say.
“Listen, baby, I’m gonna make up for everything tonight. I mean, everything.”
“Well, okay,” I say. She’s convinced me. There’s only one thing. I don’t want her to pick me up here, at my mother’s. “Where do you live?”
“I can come get you,” she says.
“No. I’d rather you wouldn’t,” I say. “Listen. I’ve got a friend who’ll give me a ride out to your house. You staying in the house?”
“Hell yes,” she says. “I’m not gonna give it to my ex.”
“I’ll just get somebody to carry me out there, then. Where do you live?”
She tells me. I say I’ll be there by seven. I feel a lot better about everything when I hang up the phone.
“You sure this is it?” I say to my friend.
The boy I’m riding with looks at the mailbox.
“That’s the number. One hundred Willow Lane. Hell, Gary, there ain’t nothing but rich people live up in here.”
“Well damn,” I say. “This is the address she gave me.”
“Well, this is it then,” my friend says. “You want me to wait on you?”
“I don’t know. You might ought to.”
“We’ll just pull up in here and see if this is it.”
We drive up a blacktopped lane to a house designed like a Swiss chalet. I guess that it’s over four thousand square feet under this roof. It has big dormers and split shingles and massive columns of rough wood on the porch. There is a pool full of blue water in the backyard. The Lincoln I’ve been riding in and nuzzling her knockers in is parked in the drive.
“Hell. That’s her car,” I say. “I guess this is it.”
She comes to the kitchen window and pushes the curtains aside.
“This is it,” I say, when I see her. “I just didn’t know it was this fancy.”
“You better hang onto her,” my friend says.
“Yeah. Maybe so. Well, thanks for the ride, Bobby. Let me give you some on the gas.”
“Get outa here,” he says.
I start pulling five dollars out of my billfold, but my friend leans across me and opens the door. “Get your butt outa here,” he says. “Put that money back up.”
“Hell, Bobby,” I say. “It’s a long way out here.”
“I may need a ride from you sometime.”
“You better take it.”
“Go on. I’ll see you later.”
I get out, sticking the money back in my billfold, waving to my friend backing out of the driveway. The headlights retreat, swords of light through the motes of dust that hang and fall until he swings out and grabs low and peels away with a faint stench and high squeal of rubber. I listen to him hit the gears, to the little barks of rubber until he is gone. For a moment I wonder what I’m doing here. On another man’s concrete. Another man’s ride. Everything about this house is elegant. It’s hard to believe this woman comes out of this place. But there she is, opening the door. I go up to her. She kisses me.
“Come on in,” she says.
It’s a dream room. High, vaulted ceilings, enclosed beams. Rams, bucks, bear heads mounted over the fireplace, and it of massive river stones. Carpet that covers my toes. I don’t know what to say. I know now she wasn’t lying about the contractor and the real estate. Or the kids. Two beautiful little girls are seated on the thick carpet in their nightgowns, one about two, the other about four. Dark hair like her, shy smiles.
“Hi,” I say. They look up at me, smile, look down. They have toys, trucks, Sylvester the Cat on the floor. The remnants of their suppers are on paper plates beside them. Potato chips. Gnawed hamburger buns. They whisper things to each other and cast quick glances at me while they pretend not to watch.
“I’ll be ready in just a minute, Gary,” she says.
I look around. “Yeah. Okay,” I say. I’m watching the little girls. They’ve taken my interest. They’re so precious. I know they cannot comprehend what has happened to their daddy. I feel myself to be an intruder in this house, a homewrecker. The husband, the father, could come home and kill me this minute with a shotgun. Nothing would be said. No jury would convict the man. I don’t belong here.
She has gone somewhere. I sit on the couch. The girls play with their trucks and croon softly to each other little songs without words, melodies made up in their own fantastic little minds. They move smooth as eels, boneless, their little arms and legs dimpled with fat.
“I’m ready,” she says. I look around. She has her purse. She seems brisk, efficient. She has her keys. It’s like she’s suddenly decided to stop slumming. She has on trim black slacks, gold toeless shoes with low heels, a short mink jacket. Diamonds glitter in the lobes of her ears. Her breasts hang heavy and full in the lowcut shirt, and I know that tonight she will deny me nothing. She’s smiling. She takes my arm as I stand up and she kisses me again. The children watch this puzzle in soundless wonder, this strange man kissing Mommy.
“Okay, girls, we’ll be back after while,” she says. They don’t look up, don’t appear to hear. “Sherry?” she says. “We’re gone.” She must be talking to somebody else in the house, somebody I can’t see, the babysitter, I guess. “Sherry?” she says. “Did you hear me?”
“Let’s go,” she says to me, and she starts toward the door. She’s searching for a key on her key ring.
“Bye, girls,” I say. The oldest one gives me a solemn look, a dignified nod.
“Stay in here, now,” she says. “Don’t mess with the stove.” We’re halfway out the door when it hits me.
“Wait a minute,” I say. She’s locking the door, locking the children into the house. I hear the lock click. “Where’s your babysitter?”
“They’re all right,” she says. “We won’t be gone long anyway. Not over a few hours.”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “You gonna leave them alone? Here?”
I’ve got my hand on her arm, I’m turning her to look at me in the lighted carport. She looks down at my hand and then up at me, surprised. She steps away.
“Well, it’s not gonna hurt anything. They’ll be all right.”
“All right?” I say. “They’re just little kids. I thought you said you had a babysitter.”
“I couldn’t get one,” she says. “Now come on. Let’s go. They’ve stayed by themselves before.” She’s going toward the car. I stand watching her dumbly, like a dumbass, like the dumbass I am.
“What if something happens, though?” I say. “What if the fucking house was to catch on fire?”
She stops and looks back. She holds her face up slightly, puts one hand on her hip. “Do you want to go or not?” she says.
“You told me last night the babysitter had your number so she could get ahold of you,” I say. Then I realize. She’s never had a babysitter. They’ve been locked up in this house the whole weekend, these children.
“Do you want to go or not?” she says.
I look through the curtains on the door. The girls have been watching it, but now they look back down at their toys. The youngest one gets up and walks away, out of sight. The oldest rolls her truck. I look at the woman standing by the door of a new Lincoln, waiting to carry me to a Holiday Inn. She’s ready now, finally. And so am I.
“Come here,” I say.
“What?”
“I said come here.”
“Why? Get in, let’s go.”
I go around the hood after her, slowly. Her face changes.
“What is it?” she says. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Come here,” I say, and I know my face has changed, too.
“Hey,” she says. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”
I know what I’m doing. I have my hands on her now, and she can’t pull awa
y. She probably thinks I’m going to kill her, but I’m not. I’m going to keep my hands open this time, and not use my fists. I don’t want to scare the little girls with blood. They would be frightened, and might remember it for the rest of their lives.
LEAVING TOWN
Her name was Myra and I could smell whiskey on her breath. She was nervous, but these days, you don’t know who to let in your house. She’d seen my ad in the paper, she said, and wanted some new doors hung. We talked on the porch for a while and then she let me in.
It looked like she didn’t have anything to do but keep her house clean. She gnawed her fingernails the whole time I was figuring the estimate. She kept opening and closing the top of her robe, like a nervous habit. Both the doors had been kicked out of their locks. The wood was splintered. She needed two new doors, some trim. Maybe two new locks. She wanted new linoleum in her dining room. I gave her a price for the labor and went on home, but I didn’t think I’d get the job.
He was a polite young man. His name was Richard. He seemed to be very understanding when I explained that Harold had kicked the doors in. Of course I didn’t tell him everything. All I wanted was to forget about Harold, and every time I looked at the doors I thought about him.
I tried to talk to him a little. I told him that I was divorced now and that it was a lot different when you’re used to two salaries and then have to live on just one. I told him I didn’t want to pay a whole lot for the work. He said the doors would run about forty dollars apiece. I had no idea they would be that high.
He had very nice-looking hands. They looked like strong hands, but gentle. I doubted if they’d ever been used to slap somebody, or to break down a door.
He didn’t talk much. He was one of those quiet people who intrigue you because they keep so much inside. Maybe he was just shy. I thought the price he gave me was twenty or thirty dollars too high. I told him I’d think about it. But I needed the work done.
After he left, I fixed myself another drink and looked at the doors. They were those hollow-core things, they wouldn’t keep out anybody who wanted in bad enough. I kept thinking about Richard. I wondered what it would be like to kiss him. I could imagine how it would be. How warm his hands would be. My life is halfway or more than halfway over. There’s not much time left for things like that. I don’t know why I even thought about it. He had the bluest eyes and they looked so sad. Maybe that was the reason. Whatever it was, I decided to call him back and let him do the work. I couldn’t stand to look at those doors any longer.
I was feeding Tracey when she called. Betty was reading one of her police detective magazines. The phone rang three or four times. Betty acted like she didn’t hear it. I got up with Tracey and went and answered it.
I was surprised that she called back. She’d already talked like I was too high. But people don’t know what carpentry work is worth. You have to have a thousand dollars’ worth of tools to even start.
She sounded like she was a little drunk. I guess she was lonely. When I was over there, she’d look at the doors and just shake her head. But I’d given her a reasonable price. It was cheaper than anybody else would have done it for. I didn’t tell her that. She wouldn’t have believed it.
I told her I could start the next night. She hadn’t understood that I was going to do it at night. I had told her, though. She just hadn’t been listening. She said she thought I was in business for myself. I told her I was, at night. I told her I had to work my other job in the daytime. Then she wanted to know all about that. She just wanted somebody to talk to. Tracey was going to sleep in my lap. I asked Betty if she’d take her but she wouldn’t even look up. She was still reading her magazine.
She wanted to know didn’t I get tired of working all the time, at night and on weekends. Hell, who wouldn’t? I told her, sure, I got tired of it, but I needed the money. That was all I told her then. I didn’t want to tell her about Tracey. I didn’t want to tell her all my personal business.
She sat there for a while and didn’t say anything. Then she wanted to know if there was any way I could come down on the price. That pissed me off. She wanted to know if that was the very least I could do it for. At first I told her I didn’t see any way I could, but I needed the money. Hell, I have to put gas in my truck and all. . . .
I told her I’d cut it twenty more dollars but that was it. I told her if she couldn’t live with that, she’d just have to find somebody else to do it. And I told her that if she found somebody cheaper, she wouldn’t be satisfied with it.
I had to tell her a couple of times that I’d be there the next night. I told her I had to go by the building supply and get the doors. She wanted to talk some more, but I told her I had to put my baby to bed. Finally I got away from her. I wasn’t really looking forward to going back.
I got up with Tracey and Betty wanted to know who that was on the phone. I told her a lady I was going to do some work for. Then she wanted to know what kind of work and how old a lady and was she married or divorced and what did she look like. I told her, Hell, normal, I guess, to let me put Tracey to bed.
She started crying when I laid her down and I had to stay in there with her and pet her a while. I guess her legs hurt. She finally went to sleep. Betty won’t even get up with her at night. I have to. It doesn’t matter if I’ve worked twelve hours or fourteen hours. She can’t even hear an alarm clock. You can let one go off and hold it right in her ear. She won’t even move.
She was smoking the last cigarette I had when I went back in the living room. She said that kid hated her and I told her she just didn’t have any patience with her. I picked up the empty pack and asked her if she had any more. She said she was out. I just looked at her. She’ll sit in the house all day long and won’t walk a half block to the store and get some, then smoke mine until she makes me run out. Then I have to go.
I got my jacket and told her I guessed I’d have to go get some. She told me to bring her some beer back. I told her I didn’t have enough money to buy any beer. I wanted some too but I was almost broke. She told me to just write a check. She says that shit all the time. I told her we had enough to pay that doctor bill and that was it. Then she said something about the saw I bought. It was eighty-nine dollars. But good saws cost good money. And if I don’t have a saw, I don’t have a job.
She wanted to know when I was going to marry her. I told her I didn’t know.
I went by the building supply the next day, after I got off from work. I priced the locks, but they were almost twenty dollars apiece. I decided to see if I could use the old locks on her doors and save her that much anyway. I signed for the doors and the trim, the linoleum.
I didn’t want to go straight over there. I wanted to go home for a few minutes and see Tracey and get Betty to fix me something to eat. I’d asked Leon to let me borrow ten dollars until Friday, so I stopped at the store and got a six-pack of beer. You can’t just go through life doing without everything.
I loaded up my sawhorses and left the linoleum in the carport. Tracey was sitting on the floor, wanting me to pick her up. I set the sack on the table and told Betty I’d brought her some beer. She was reading another magazine so I played with Tracey for a while. Then I got her building blocks and set her down with them and got one of the beers out of the sack. Dirty clothes were piled up everywhere. She won’t wash until we don’t have anything to wear. I lit a cigarette and just watched her. She didn’t know I was in the room. I drank about half my beer. I had a lot of shit going through my head.
Finally I asked her if she could fix me something to eat before I went over there. I told her it would probably be late when I got back. I told her I was hungry.
She asked me what I wanted. I told her I didn’t care, a sandwich, anything. She said she didn’t know of anything we had to eat. She said I could go in there and look.
I told her I wanted some supper. She didn’t look back up, and I thought, Work your ass off all day and come home and have to put up with some shit like this.
>
I sat there a while and then I got up and made out like I was going to the kitchen. She wasn’t watching me anyway. She had her magazine up in front of her face, picking at the buttons on her blouse. I bent down behind the couch. I peeked over her shoulder to see what she was reading. THE LAUNDROMAT AXE MURDERER WOULDN’T COME CLEAN. I don’t know how she can stand to read that shit. She gets so deep into it, she’ll get her nails in her mouth. I got up on my knees right behind her. She was nibbling her bottom lip. I was just trying to have a little fun.
She jumped about two feet high when I went boo in her ear. Turned around and slammed her magazine down. She was pissed. Bad pissed.
I told her I was just playing with her. She told me to just go on and leave. Said I was always hollering about saving money. Why didn’t I go out and make some? Instead of worrying the hell out of her?
I got up in her face, said let me tell you one goddamn thing. You lay around here on your ass all day long and don’t do nothing. Won’t clean the house up. Won’t even wash Tracey’s face. I told her if I could go out and work at night, she could fix me something to eat.
She said there wasn’t anything to eat.
I said by God she could buy something.
She said give her some money and she might.
I told her I gave her money, and she spent it on those stupid fucking magazines.
She whispered to me. Hateful. If I was so damn unhappy then why didn’t I just leave? Just pack up and go right now?
I didn’t answer. I picked up Tracey and she put her arms around my neck. We went into the kitchen. I looked in the refrigerator. There was some old bacon, and a half cup of chili in a Tupperware bowl, and a quart of milk, and a little brown hamburger meat, and one hot dog. I found some Rice Krispies under the counter. I fixed two bowls and ate with Tracey. I washed her hands and her face.