by K. L. Cook
She expected her mother to say good night, but she didn’t utter a sound, just retreated to the bathroom and then her bedroom, the door closing abruptly behind her. Another sign, Laura thought, but of what? In bed, the sadness from before was replaced now by a grateful warmth, the familiar pleasure of the journey finally ended, of returning home, of being home. Still, she felt unsettled, as if this weekend had been trying to warn her of something but she’d not been listening carefully. She tried to recall all that had happened. The fall from the horse, the movie, which seemed, now that she considered it, all about exile and return. Her mother’s disappearance into the barn where Uncle Unser’s ghost still seemed to reside, her mother crying in the shadows with the dog, the sense of there being invisible barriers between her mother and the rest of the family. Laura felt darkness, glass, and a quietly hostile silence that no one else seemed to register. She believed she was on the verge of understanding something, as if she could almost grasp how a puzzle fit together. But the darkness and the breathing of her brothers in the room enveloped her, pressing down, and the sculpted contours of her mattress held her like a soft hand and urged her to sleep.
9
Inversion
At four o’clock on Saturday afternoon, Laura rode her bicycle over to the Letigs’ and parked it in the backyard. Jack and Willie answered the door and lunged against her, almost knocking her over with their hugs. Willie unlocked himself from her legs and ran down the hall, shouting, “She’s here, she’s here!”
John emerged from the bedroom, wearing his brown work boots, a pair of tight jeans, cuffed at the bottom, and a faded red-and-black-plaid shirt with silver snap buttons, his pack of Lucky Strikes poking out the top of his pocket. He didn’t have pomade on, so his blond hair seemed longer, lighter, shaggy.
“Put the boys to bed early. I wore them out this morning. They should sleep hard.”
He looked at her knowingly, and at the door he quickly touched her hand so that it seemed an accident. She knew it wasn’t.
While he was gone, she and the boys played checkers and Parcheesi, but the boys yawned through supper. Jack complained that his ear hurt, but he seemed fine after she read them two long stories from the Letigs’ copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. She put them to bed by seven-thirty, and they were conked out by eight, sleeping hard, as he’d said they would. John returned about nine-thirty.
“Boys asleep?”
“Yeah, they were exhausted.”
“I thought they’d be.”
He drew the curtains and then kissed her right there in the living room. He’d had a few beers and something stronger. She could smell it on him.
“Be careful,” she whispered and stepped back, looking toward the boys’ bedroom.
He grabbed her hand, led her to his bedroom, and pulled down the white shades. He didn’t speak. He put one arm around her waist, the other around her shoulders, drew her up to him, and kissed her again. She put her head against his chest, and they danced slowly in tight circles. She was excited, but nervous, too, her stomach like taffy, stretched loose, about to break.
“What about the boys?” she whispered. He didn’t answer. “What about the boys?” she asked again.
He unwrapped his arm from her waist and leaned over and locked the bedroom door. Then he was kissing her again. He seemed too quiet and intense, and she worried about the liquor on his breath. His face was nestled in her neck, and the heat from his mouth felt good, his tongue fluttering in the hollow of her throat. Then, without warning, he lifted her up, his arms clenched around her legs, his face suddenly buried in her stomach.
“Hey!” She gasped. “Be careful.”
He made a low growling sound and laid her on the bed, undid his shirt snaps, which clicked like castanets, and let his shirt fall to the floor. He stretched over her, his mouth moving to hers and then down her throat. He unbuttoned the top button on the front of her dress, kissed below her collarbone, and then unbuttoned the second one. She placed her hand on his to slow him down, but he was insistent as he unbuttoned another and then another until her torso was exposed, and he kissed her ribs and the top of her chest. He reached under her back, deftly unsnapped her bra, and moved his hands over both breasts, placing one of them in his mouth, then the other one, sucking gently at first, but then harder. She tried to guide him back up, slow him down by easing his mouth to her mouth. She was nervous. It felt good, but scary, too. He kissed her stomach, moving his face in slow circles, his mustache tickling. Then he put his hands under the skirt of her dress, moved them over her thighs and across her panties and along the sides of her ribs.
“Hey,” she whispered, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He lifted her dress up and touched her again, then moved his mouth in circles around the insides of her thighs and her stomach.
“John,” she whispered and sat up, reached around his shoulders, but his face was between her legs. He eased her back down with his arms and extended them over her stomach and chest, his hands on her breasts, squeezing. She felt light-headed, dizzy, dizzy. She tugged on his arms, trying to draw him up again. This was happening too fast, though she didn’t know what exactly was happening. He suddenly pulled down her panties, breathed heavily. Her head spun, she felt disoriented, confused, and then just as suddenly he was gone. She opened her eyes, and the rest of his clothes were off, which scared her. She pushed him away.
“Hey,” she whispered and closed her legs. He pushed her thighs apart. “Hey,” she said again and shook her head.
He took her hand and moved it to him, and she knew he expected something, but she didn’t know what to do. Then his hand was on hers, moving up and down, and she tried to follow his motion, but he seemed dissatisfied, annoyed, and soon he was on top of her, pressing himself against her stomach, moving back and forth. She could feel him under her ribs, slightly painful, his skin hot against her, and suddenly it was wet hot between them. He continued for a long minute after that, and then lay down upon her with all his weight.
He was heavy, maybe asleep. She couldn’t breathe very well. She didn’t know whether or not to disturb him. She pressed her arms under his shoulders and lifted a little so she could breathe more easily. Then she heard a knock. He didn’t move. She listened. Another knock.
“Daddy.”
She nudged John.
“Huh,” he said.
“Daddy, are you home?” It was Jack.
“Yes, son.” His voice sounded loud in the room, and strange, as if he were drugged. She realized this was the first thing he’d said since they’d entered the bedroom. “Go on back to bed.”
“Daddy, I had an accident.”
“Go to the bathroom then,” he said irritably.
“Is Laura still here?”
She and John looked at each other, alarmed. “No,” he said.
“I saw her bicycle outside the window.”
He didn’t answer. Seemed stumped, in fact. She felt panicky, a wild bird caught in a cage. John was still on top of her. She shivered beneath him.
“She walked home,” he said. “Now you go on to the bathroom, son. I’ll be there in a minute to help you.”
He rose. “Stay here,” he whispered. He looked around, then leaned down and whispered, “No. In here.”
He opened the closet door. She searched at the end of the bed for her panties and finally found them on the floor. She moved quickly toward the thicker darkness of the closet.
He shut the door, except for a crack, and then she heard the bedroom door open and saw a thin stream of light from the bathroom. She slipped on her panties, redid her bra, and then felt the wetness on her stomach. She crouched down and waited among the dresses and slips and hatboxes of Mrs. Letig. It smelled of perfume in here. Too closed in, too intimate and claustrophobic. He had another private life. She knew it, of course, but now she could sense it, smell it. She reached out and clutched one of Mrs. Letig’s winter dresses. She ran her hand down the long sleeve, the material silky but thick. She half expected to
find Mrs. Letig’s hand at the end of the sleeve. The reality of this woman was almost too much to bear. It made her feel suddenly ashamed and lonely. Tears welled hotly in her eyes, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.
What will happen? Her bottom lip quivered; she bit it. This is dangerous.
He’d said that, and he was right. And then, unexpectedly, she thought of that woman her father had brought home a couple of years ago, not long after her mother left. The dark hallway, Laura watching, exchanging looks with the woman. The woman seemed—was she remembering right?—to be a girl. And now Laura was that girl in some weird, inverted way.
John came back into the room, shut the door. It was very dark. She couldn’t see now. He opened the closet door and whispered for her. She didn’t answer at first. He moved into the closet with her, pulled the door shut.
“Where are you?” he whispered.
“Here.” She held out her hand in the darkness and felt his face.
“Ouch.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him, put his lips to her ear. “You have to go home now,” he said.
“How?”
“Wait here for a few minutes. Then I’ll come get you. You have to walk. I’ll bring your bicycle over in the morning.”
“Okay.” Her throat got tighter; tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Shhhh,” he whispered. “It’s okay.” Her face was against his chest, and she could feel his skin wet from her tears. There was a long pause before he said, “It’s okay, honey.”
“This is terrible,” she whispered.
“No, no, it isn’t. Don’t think that.”
“But—”
“No,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not. Now wait until I come back.”
When he returned, he whispered, “Come with me.”
They tiptoed through the bedroom and living room to the back porch, where he’d left her shoes. He opened the door and nudged her outside. She felt slighted.
“Go down the alley,” he said.
“When will I see you?” she asked, and it seemed to come out as a childish plea. She felt stupid.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Go on. Hurry up.”
10
The Trestle
She didn’t go straight home. How could she? Her father would be expecting her soon. But she couldn’t go back in that house, talk to him, not even the smallest exchange of words. Not yet. He’d know, wouldn’t he? She walked north to the railroad tracks. There was a train that ran from Amarillo, up through Dalhart, and on to Denver. Outside, it had cooled, but not too much, and there was plenty of light from the three-quarter moon and the stars. She walked along the tracks and stopped where they crossed a trestle, the Waskalanti Creek running below. Not much water now, even after all the snow had melted, just a thin stream with rocks, sharp and jagged, glinting in the moonlight. She walked out over the bridge, as she and Manny and Gloria used to do before Gloria got married. She sat on the rail and dangled her legs over the side. Then she leaned back between the rails on the wooden ties and looked at the dark sky overhead. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
She wished there was someone she could talk to. She thought of Gloria, still in West Germany, her last letter said. She might be coming home this summer for a visit. Their father wanted her to. He had forgiven her now, wanted her to come back. He wanted to see his grandchildren. There was another child now besides Julie—a boy, Carroll. Maybe Gloria would understand. But Laura couldn’t tell her. She could tell no one. She’d promised. And she didn’t know what Gloria would say. Her husband was older than she was, not that much younger than John, in fact, but it was different, and Laura wondered how much Gloria had changed. Now that she was married and had kids, would she be less understanding, feel she had to protect Laura, as if she’d never been young before? Gloria might even tell their father. Even though Laura wanted to tell someone, in order to make it real, it wasn’t worth it, and yes, John was right, it was far too risky. He could go to jail, he said. Though did anyone really believe that?
She heard the howl of a coyote. It seemed to be far off, but it startled her. She knew that the coyotes wouldn’t bother her, that they weren’t really so dangerous, except when they ran in packs. But they made her nervous anyway. There had been an incident once in Charnelle where a coyote grabbed a baby, tried to carry it off but was stopped, the baby unhurt except for a nip mark on its foot, and the rabies shots later. That howl made her think of what happened to their dog Greta.
Lying on the trestle, her eyes still tightly closed, she tried to remember what her mother looked like that day. She wore a pale blue smock that was stained from dirt and blood, and her ash blond hair, laced with silver strands, was pulled back in a scraggly bun that had come loose from all the commotion, long strands falling like scythes down the sides of her face. Her mother sat there on that stump so long, just staring, thinking, waiting, that hard and silent beauty of hers. Then not much later, she left, toting that ragged brown suitcase to the bus station and away from them. No explanation, no letter, no postcard. Nothing. Just gone. Disappeared.
Where was her mother now? Laura hadn’t thought seriously about her in so long. Strange, how you get used to it. For the whole first year after she left, Laura could never imagine not thinking about her mother. Where was she now? Did she still think of them? Was she coming back? Was she dead? All those impossible questions. Her mother maybe in some strange man’s room, doing what Laura had done tonight—more, certainly. She could see that now, the possibility of it. She understood that her mother was not just her mother, was not just her father’s wife. Did her mother have another child? Enough time had elapsed, and she was still young enough. But wasn’t it children, wasn’t it them, that she’d run away from?
Laura rolled over on the track and felt the splintery wood against her face. She looked between the ties and could see the thin creek below her, hear it gurgling softly. The white rocks hard, pointy, but shimmering in the moonlight. If she tried, she might be able to fit between these ties. She used to be able to. But she wasn’t skinny enough anymore. She’d fleshed out; her breasts and hips would get in the way now. She could toss herself over. It seemed pretty easy, really. You just had to have the nerve to do it, or the stupidity. A boy a year older than Gloria, Danny Lincoln, had done it a few years ago, broken his neck and went into a coma, and he died a week later. Why had he done it? Manny figured he was drunk, but no one else did. His girlfriend had dumped him. It had always puzzled Laura, but right here, right now, in the dark, the water below, she could see how it might happen. She could feel in her own blood the pull, like that one time at Palo Duro Canyon, standing on the edge, that crazy voice inside her head that whispered jump, jump, jump.
Headlights shone far away and then suddenly closer and closer. She moved quickly to the end of the bridge. She didn’t want to be caught on the tracks over the water; there was an ordinance against it, ever since Danny Lincoln fell—or jumped.
The car stopped, and a man stepped out. She couldn’t tell who it was, because the car lights were in her eyes. She looked to her left and right, saw an opening where she might run. He came closer, a flashlight in his hands.
“Laura?” It was Jimmy Cransburgh. “Laura Tate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, approaching slowly, the flashlight on her face.
“Just walking home.”
“From where?”
She paused for a moment, unsure how to answer. “Baby-sitting.”
“Baby-sitting who?”
“The Letig boys.”
“Kind of out of the way, aren’t you?”
He was right. Her house was east of the Letigs’ house, not north. She had gone a good mile out of the way.
“Just wanted to walk,” she said.
“Were you on the bridge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know there’s
a law against that?”
“No, sir,” she said. Plead ignorance rather than guilt, Manny always advocated.
Mr. Cransburgh didn’t answer for the longest time, just shone his flashlight over the bridge and then into the trickle of water below and then back to her face. She couldn’t move, felt frozen, her head throbbing with panic.
“Why don’t you let me drive you home?”
She put her hand out against the light so she could see. It took her a second to find her voice. “I can walk.”
“I think you better let me drive you home,” he said and shut off the light. “Come on. Hop in.”
In the car, she wondered if he could tell what she’d done. He didn’t say anything. But why would he? When they were almost to her house, she asked if he’d let her out at the end of her street.
“I should drop you off at your house.”
“No, that’s okay.”
He glanced at her in his rearview and then nodded. “Listen,” he said lightly. “Why don’t we just not say anything about this to your father?”
She exhaled, suddenly relieved. “Thank you, Mr. Cransburgh.”
He stopped at the corner.
“Stay away from the bridge, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
She thanked him and closed the door, and he stayed parked there as she walked down the street to her front porch, and then he drove past her house.
Manny was gone. Gene and Rich were asleep. Her father was reading in his chair. He wore his flannel pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt, and his reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose. He was thinking about opening up his own welding shop, and he’d checked out library books, now scattered over the coffee table, on how to run a small business.
“You’re back late,” he said, looking at her over the black rims of his glasses. “I didn’t hear you put your bike away.”