by K. L. Cook
It was dark out, not quite sunrise yet, and no cars, not even the faraway sound of trucks from the highway. She enjoyed this feeling, like a shedding, like an opening up. She thought of the way the rattlers and bull snakes sometimes left long, papery casings in the night for her brothers and her to find the next day. She imagined the snakes slipping away, the new skin wet and vulnerable and free.
She walked over the lawn, skirting the place where the old oak had been, and on out to the middle of the road, where she stood and stared down one end of the street and then the other. Both ends extended farther than she could see at night with only this thin moon and cloud-tangled stars. The ends of the road turned away, bent out of sight, away, away, away into darkness. She stood there and looked at the scattered houses on either side of the street and then at her own small house, where, inside, her brothers and father and she slept, ate, argued, sulked, laughed, dreamed. Where that woman-girl stared at her from her mother’s bed. Where her mother was before she disappeared.
No, not disappeared. Before she left.
It seemed so small, this place, too small to contain all their lives. She thought about the other houses with their own lives cramped too tightly inside. And the road extended into darkness, the black night high above, the cicadas buzzing.
She felt no fear, not even the cold threat of being caught.
Who cares?
She closed her eyes and, with her arms out, started to spin slowly, then faster and faster until she staggered and fell on the dusty road. It didn’t hurt, and she just stayed there for a while, with the acrid taste of dust in her mouth. Then she stretched out on her back and felt the still-warm gravel beneath, sticking like shards into her body, but even that didn’t hurt. She stared up at the black sky, traced the constellations with her fingers, and just as the first light of sunrise began its promise, she heard—or rather felt—a sound emanating from her body, a low, vibrating whistle that seemed in tune with the cicadas and the wind and the breathing of the night and the warm road.
She closed her eyes and listened, stayed calmly there as she heard and could almost taste a deep, pressured thrumming inside her head. A tingly heat spread through her neck and chest and stomach and arms and down through her thighs and calves and toes. It seemed as if a shade were slowly being lifted over her closed eyelids.
She opened her eyes and could see headlights, like two pale animals loping around the curve. It was her father’s truck, she knew, and she wondered, without worry or fear, what he would do if she stayed right where she was.
Will he see me in time? Will he run over me?
It made her smile to think about it. She imagined that anxious twitch he got around the corners of his mouth when he was confused or worried or sad. She didn’t feel afraid, just curious, as the truck zigzagged slowly down the street, still pretty far in the distance. She wished he was gone, would disappear himself for a while, maybe forever, let her stay here like this and let the sun rise fully on her, transforming the world and the house and everything she could smell and hear and see and feel and taste into light and blistering heat. She didn’t want to share this feeling. She didn’t want to have to explain herself to him or to anyone, just as now she didn’t want explanations from him.
As the beams closed in, she rose quickly and felt again that she was gliding as she grabbed her gown. She slipped through the door, into bed, and pulled the sheet up and over her face so that it floated for a couple of seconds before shrouding her. The dust from her body created a layer of fine grit on the bottom sheet.
She closed her eyes and tried to recall the thrumming, coax it back. She breathed slowly, listening to her breath, her heartbeat. She heard her father’s truck crunch in the driveway, the rattle of the engine as it died, the front door creak open, then click shut.
Almost there, yes, close, just out of reach.
Her father opened her door. He paused before whispering, “Laura, honey, was that you?”
She didn’t answer. She was far away now, far away. She could almost feel it again, the thrum and radiating heat, and she wanted to let it spread through her body. Was this what her mother had felt as she left, this buzz and heat, this pulsing in her own body? Was this what had pulled her, like a compulsion, from the house and to the bus station and away from them forever? Did she find a small, private part of herself where there wasn’t room for anyone else? Laura could almost understand that. It seemed sad and mysterious—and even beautiful.
“Are you awake?” her father whispered worriedly, nudging her shoulder. “Why aren’t you all at Mrs. Ambling’s?”
She could smell the cigarettes and sweet rum on his breath. Her eyes blurred hotly. Still she didn’t answer. That feeling, that thrumming, was slipping from her now, drifting too quickly away. She could almost see it, like a brightly colored balloon—rising, rising, and then riding on the wind, growing smaller and smaller until it was barely visible, merely a colored dot in the distance, insignificant.
And then not even there.
26
We’ll See
You’ve thought it all through, have you?” he asked after she explained her plan.
He’d picked her up behind the warehouse a little before five, minutes before a rainstorm. They drove through the downpour, and once in the barn they made love urgently in a way that reminded her of the loose abandon of Galveston. As they held each other afterward, she realized that the last time they’d made love while it was raining had been in the tent at Lake Meredith. How different this was from that time, how different they both were, how strange to think it was only a few months ago. She remembered her own fear and pain then, how out of control she felt, how odd they seemed to each other. And now it was easy between them, as if it always had been, and she longed not only for the intensity but also for the quietness after they made love, the world slowly coming back into focus, the whistled breathing of John, his face pressed against her shoulder, his arms enclosing her. Listening to the rain pound against the barn, they’d dressed and then lain on the pallet next to each other in the light of the kerosene lamps. Trying to disguise her nervousness, her eagerness, she’d told him about her plan.
“What do you think?” she asked, biting a hangnail.
“Impressive,” he said, but he wasn’t smiling.
“Do you love me?” she asked and then immediately wished she hadn’t. That wasn’t the right question. Not at all. Not now. It exposed her neediness.
“You know I do.”
It would have been nice to hear the words, but at least he didn’t deny it. “We could do it,” she said. “We could.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
She couldn’t quite read his reaction. The stakes were high, she knew that. Higher for him than for her. She had expected him to argue with her, to play devil’s advocate. She had readied herself for a fight; she had prepared herself to persuade him. But he said nothing. He just turned away, walked to the window, and opened the curtain slightly to expose the rain-smeared glass. He reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. He drew one out and put it in his mouth, but he didn’t light it. She followed him to the window, wrapped her arms around his chest, pressed her face against his back.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She sidled in front of him, pulled the unlit cigarette from his mouth and laid it on the windowsill. Standing on her toes, she kissed his neck and then looked at him. His eyes seemed glassy, his lips not as red as they usually were, too dry and cracked. She felt suddenly sorry for him.
“Come here,” she said, taking his hand. “Come with me.”
She led him to the mattress and coaxed him to lie down again. He laced his hands behind his head. She stared at him for a long time, until he grew uncomfortable and closed his eyes. She leaned down and gently kissed his lips and then his neck. She ran her fingers along his collarbone and through the tuft of hair rising out of the top of his shirt.
“John.”
“We
’ll see,” he said.
He smiled, but it wasn’t a genuine smile, just something to appease her. She pressed her body against his, looped her leg over his hips.
“John,” she said optimistically, “we can do it.”
She lay on top of him, kissed him until he began to respond. She wanted to show him what he could expect. She wanted him to see the possibilities.
27
Go Ahead
The next week John failed once to show up at the arranged time, and the day when he did pick her up behind the warehouse, he seemed distracted, hurried, impatient. She tried to get him to tell her what he was thinking, but he just kept saying, “We’ll see,” like she was a child who could be put off indefinitely. She intentionally stood him up the next Monday; she wanted him to know what it was like to be left there waiting. He had not called to find out why she wasn’t there. She wondered if he had even shown up.
By that following Thursday, when he picked her up, she was itching for a fight. She did not say a word in the truck, felt in fact humiliated, livid about having to scrunch down on the floorboard yet again. When they arrived at the barn, he lit the lamp, and she stripped quickly and angrily and then lay on the pallet.
“What’s the matter?” John asked.
“Nothing. Go ahead,” she said. She opened her legs and stared un-blinking at him, her lips pursed.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Go ahead if you want to. I’m not stopping you.”
“Are you mad at me, Laura?” he asked, surprised.
She just stared at him. He shook his head slowly and moved toward the pallet, as if he could repair the damage he’d already done.
“Laura, what is the matter?”
“You don’t want to know,” she said, sitting up.
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Tell me.”
“How is this going to end?” she demanded.
“What end? What are you talking about?”
“This. Us.”
He sighed as he lifted his eyebrows, pretended he didn’t have any idea what she was talking about, that he was not a mind reader. She knew that look. She’d used it herself. She wasn’t buying this act. He damn well knew what she was talking about.
“I just want to know,” she said flatly. “How is it going to end?”
“It’s not ending. Nothing’s ending.” He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and started to light it. This irritated her even more.
“Just answer me,” she said, more insistently. She stood up but made no attempt to cover herself. She wanted him to look at her. “Answer me!”
“Jesus! We only have an hour.”
“And that time can be better spent screwing me!” she shouted.
“Laura!” The lit cigarette fell from his mouth, and he had to stamp it out. “Damn it!”
“Well,” she barked, “that’s all this is, isn’t it?”
“No! No, not at all.” He put his hand out to her. She crossed her arms. Kept them there, didn’t move. “My God,” he said, “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“It’s been over two weeks since we talked about leaving. You said, ‘We’ll see.’”
“I did not say that.”
“You damn well did too. You said, ‘We’ll see.’ What does that mean? ‘We’ll see.’ I want to know. I don’t see anything.”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“Bullshit!” she shouted.
“Quit talking like that.”
“You’re not my father. Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Please, then,” he said, reaching out to her again. She stepped away. He picked up her shirt, handed it to her. “Just calm down. Here, put your clothes on, and we’ll talk.”
She slapped his hand away. “You don’t want to go with me, do you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to say. It’s obvious.”
“That’s not true,” he said.
“Then what is? What is true? You say you want to be with me. But you’re never gonna leave here, are you? You’re just stringing me along.”
“Stop it! That’s enough! It’s just not possible right now. There are other people to consider here, you know.”
“I know it as well as you do.” She grabbed her clothes, turned her back to him, and quickly began dressing.
“I don’t think you do. It’s very complicated. I have a wife. I have kids. I have a job. If I leave, all that’s over. Over. I can never come back. Never. You don’t understand how much—”
She whirled around, snapping, “Just take me home.”
“Laura—”
“Take me home!”
She didn’t need his explanations, didn’t need him treating her like some selfish, petulant girl. Not now. She grabbed her socks and shoes and headed for the barn door.
“Come back here.”
“I want to go home.”
“You’re the one who said you wanted to talk.”
“Not anymore. Just take me home.”
“Okay, then!” he shouted. “Fine! If that’s what you want, fine!”
He started the truck and backed out, but it made her sick just being on the floorboard again. She’d had enough of that. “I changed my mind. I wanna walk.”
“It’s three miles to your house.”
“I don’t care.”
“Just let me take you to the warehouse.”
“I don’t want to go to the warehouse. I’m sick of that damn warehouse.”
“It’s safer that way.”
“Yeah, the secret place where you drop off your little slut.”
“Goddamn it, shut up!”
“Let me out.”
“No.”
She opened the door. The bleached dirt of the road scared her momentarily.
“Laura, what in the hell are you—”
She was stepping out and then rolling, off the dirt road into the grass, but then she landed, surprisingly, on her feet, like a cat. She was grateful for this bit of grace. He stopped the truck, hurtled out, and stood at the tail-gate, calling to her, “Jesus Christ! Are you okay?”
She just stared at him.
“Get in!”
“Forget it,” she said.
“Get in!”
She didn’t answer him, just walked on ahead of him, past the truck.
He opened his door. She heard it but didn’t look back. He eased the truck up beside her. “Please, Laura,” he called through the window. “Just get in the truck. Please.” She kept on walking. He stopped, and she could hear him getting out again. He stalked behind her. “Laura, goddamn it, get your ass in the truck!”
She said nothing, kept going.
“Is that the way you want it? Is it? Then fine. Walk, then, you little—”
She wheeled around, facing him. He stopped himself. She dared him. She wanted him to say whatever it was he was going to say. When he didn’t, she turned around and began walking again. A few seconds later, a rock flew to the side of her, wide, not close, not even really aimed at her, she knew, just meant to provoke her. It hit the road, skipped three times in the dust, as if across a pond. She didn’t even flinch. Didn’t turn around.
The engine gunned, and then the gravel chomped under the tires. He roared past her, dust billowing in her face.
“Go on!” she yelled. “Just get the hell out of here!”
She squinted against the dust, tried not to inhale the opaque cloud.
28
Lurching
That night she went to bed thrilled with the excitement of her rage.
She did not sleep, nor did she want to sleep. About eleven she got up, changed into her clothes, and slipped out the back door. It was warm still, only a slight breeze blowing, with no clouds. The moon three-quarters full, bright gold, and stars everywhere. Fay woke when Laura opened the door and approached her, growling at first, but when she saw who it was, she put her head against Laura’s
legs. Laura petted the dog for a long time, reliving what had happened with John, alternately proud and ashamed of her behavior. Fay fell asleep in the dirt by the porch, and Laura wandered around the yard, looked at the foundation her father had been laying for his new workshop. And then she walked down the alley, but the dogs started barking at her, so she went back for her bike.
She pedaled down the alley and then out onto the streets, north to the Waskalanti Creek, racing by the trestle where Danny Lincoln had broken his neck and where she and John had made love at the end of the summer, off the road, under the canopy of trees. She pedaled over to the bus station, which was just off the town square at the intersection of the highways. She circled it three times, stopped and looked off to the highway leading northwest, toward Denver, and then pedaled to the one leading southeast toward Amarillo and stood there trying to imagine the direction her mother had gone, imagining what she must have been looking ahead to.
Staring down the dark highways, she wondered for the first time if her mother’s disappearance and her own affair with John were linked, if the one had caused the other. Would she have been at the Armory on New Year’s Eve had her mother still been here? Would she have been so able—or willing—to deceive her family had her mother been here? Her mother was always so quiet, so secretive herself, really, but she also seemed to have a direct pipeline to other people’s secrets. She even said many times that there were no secrets and had seemed to know what would happen with Gloria before everybody else did. Laura’s father, on the other hand, was less suspecting, though you’d think he’d be more wary, given what had happened with Gloria and then his wife. Laura was sure she could not have hidden what she was up to had her mother been here. There would have been no Lake Meredith. No idyll in Galveston. And she wondered if John would have been so bold himself. It was one thing to dupe his gullible friend Zeeke, but Laura’s mother was, in her hard and silent mystery, more formidable than her father. Her mother’s absence had opened up this space for the Letigs to enter her life. And look where that had brought her. To this foolishness! She suddenly felt a hot surge of rage at her mother, something she could never remember feeling before; she couldn’t understand the anger her father and Manny felt when her mother left. She could not bring herself to completely blame her mother. She had only felt empty and confused and inarticulately sad, and later, resigned. And then somehow she’d turned it around in her mind so that she was sometimes happy that her mother had left, had transformed her into a hero, courageously doing the unthinkable, reinventing herself, as if her disappearance were something to be honored and admired—like some damn American myth that Mr. Sparling nattered on about in his lectures. How stupid! It was all so stupid. The woman had abandoned her family. No explanation, no nothing. What was there to admire in that? What? she wondered. Maybe her mother was dead now. Maybe she ran off and killed herself, just like Uncle Unser. Maybe that’s what she was plotting in Aunt Velma’s barn on Easter. Well, what did it matter now? She was as good as dead to them anyway.