by K. L. Cook
Two weeks after Thanksgiving, on a clear, chilly afternoon, she heard a car turning the corner, but she didn’t look up at first. She had trained herself to wait before she looked, as if the waiting would lessen the disappointment, and when she did look, she saw the dark green Chevy, Mrs. Letig’s car, rounding the corner. She darted behind the warehouse where she couldn’t be seen, but when the car got closer, she could see it was John. Of course it was John, of course it would be the Chevy. The truck had flipped three times, the windshield shattered, the front end squashed like an accordion. She had driven with Manny and Joannie to see it at the junkyard, where it sat propped on blocks, like a county-fair spectacle. Bloodstains were still on the seats. It had been hosed down, but the stains had not come out. She expected Manny to make some bad joke, but he seemed as shaken by the sight as she was.
When John pulled up, she opened the door and got in, hunching down onto the floorboard.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked immediately.
“No,” she said.
He put his forehead on the steering wheel. He stayed that way for a long time, with the car engine idling. She didn’t know what she should do. Get out? Stay there?
“John, I’m sorry—”
“No,” he said sharply, lifting his head. “Don’t talk.”
“But—”
“I mean it. Don’t say anything.”
Okay, she thought, okay. So this is how it will be.
Without looking at her, he shifted into drive, pressed the accelerator. She studied him. His hair was oily, and it shot out in different directions. He must not have washed or even combed it for days. His face had a small layer of bristles that covered the three raised scars on his cheeks. The scars were purplish red now but no longer scabbed over. Only a few dimpled dots of abrasions were left on his forehead and chin. Under his eyes were faint, green-yellow shadows. He didn’t smile. He squinted ahead. New wrinkles seemed to have sprouted around his eyes and the corners of his lips—a network of faint, crosshatched lines. Grief lines, she thought.
He wore his brown leather jacket, a flannel shirt, and a T-shirt under it. His knuckles seemed unusually white on the steering wheel, and the sight of them made her feel suddenly afraid. He was not going fast, and she could see the familiar landscape of trees and houses and buildings and poles that she was accustomed to seeing from the floorboard of his truck, though because the car sat lower to the ground, she saw more roof lines than usual. She felt the shift from asphalt to gravel, and then, a couple of miles later, he turned and parked behind the abandoned barn.
He did not say a word to her, did not even look at her, just shifted into park, turned off the car, and got out. She rose from the floorboard and watched him walk to the barn and go in, the door left open behind him. She cautiously followed him inside. He had turned on the kerosene lamp. Now he stood by the window, smoking a cigarette.
“John,” she said, like a question, but he ignored her.
No words.
She approached him slowly and touched his arm. He turned around, didn’t say anything. He didn’t seem angry, but there was a coiled look about him and that inscrutable blank stare. His face was swollen, his eyes dead in the lamplight, as if he had been punched several times and resigned himself without complaint to the beating. It was chilly in the barn, not cold, but when she removed her jacket, goose bumps rose on her arms. He stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill and then reached over and pulled off her skirt and her panties.
He pressed her down on the pallet and then took off his own pants and underwear. He took a condom from his shirt pocket. He began to slip it on, but then it got tangled or torn or something, and he flung it into the corner. He lay down over her and held her arms against the pallet with his hands and opened her legs with his knees. He pressed against her, breathed heavily. And then, in a sudden painful thrust, he was inside her.
“John,” she whimpered, “please.”
No response. He kept thrusting. Tears creased her eyelashes, but she made no sound. He let go of her arms and pressed his body tightly against her. He was heavy, and she could hardly breathe. He began to shake as he kept moving his hips roughly, pushing more deeply and then drawing almost all the way out, and then plunging fully into her. He pressed his cheek hard against her face. She could feel the bristles where he had not shaved and the raised texture of the scars. Then she felt his tears, hot on her cheeks.
“John,” she whispered again.
The motion of his body continued. And then a choked, guttural cry issued from his throat, a painful, ugly sound, one she had never heard from him before. Abruptly, he pulled out of her, lifted above her on all fours, and she felt the wet heat on her stomach. He leaned back on his knees, covered his face with his hands so she couldn’t see his expression. And then he rose without looking at her. He dressed quickly, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, flicked the lighter, and the flame leapt before his face. He inhaled, the orange tip brightening. And then he grabbed his coat and walked to the car.
She strained to hold back her tears. She breathed deeply, but even the sound of her breath seemed offensive to her now. She closed her eyes and tried to remember other times they had been here, a time, not long ago, when she had believed that they loved each other. She realized how terrible she had been to think that they could run away together, how awful and deceitful she was, even to herself, how she had deliberately plotted to bring grief to so many people.
Now she could feel tears spilling down the sides of her face, and she felt even angrier with herself. What in the hell are you crying for? she thought. You don’t deserve these tears.
She heard the engine start. She was afraid for a minute that he was going to leave her there. It was dark and cold now, and she didn’t want to walk all the way home. Not just because of the dark. She didn’t want to have to explain a further delay. It was already past the time she was expected home. She quickly slipped on the rest of her clothes, grabbed her socks and shoes, and ran to the door of the barn. The car lights were off. He sat behind the steering wheel, staring blankly ahead. He did not even seem to see her. She turned off the lamp, grabbed her coat, and shut the barn door behind her. She ran to the passenger side, opened the door, and slid quietly inside the car.
They sat in silence for a long minute. Finally she said, “John.”
He didn’t look at her, didn’t even seem to register her presence.
“John,” she said quietly, “are you ready to go?”
He put the car in reverse, and without looking at her or even looking behind him, he backed the car out so fast that the ground moved violently beneath them.
“Lights,” she said softly. He pulled the knob, and two thin beams shone ahead. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes seemed to be on the road, but she wasn’t sure he saw it.
When they hit the main street, she crouched down on the floorboard as she had grown accustomed to doing in the truck, and she watched him. He still had that same expressionless stare she had seen first at the funeral and ever since he’d picked her up, a blankness that seemed to her dangerous because she didn’t know how to read it. He sped up, and she wondered if he would deliberately wreck the car, if he was determined to kill them both. It would be what we deserve, she thought.
She watched the trees and buildings and houses and telephone poles and streetlamps blur. Despite the speed and his apparent recklessness, the drive seemed to take forever, and when she looked above her, the trees and sky also seemed strange, foreign. He’d gone too far. Where was he going? He turned twice but barely braked, the tires squealed; and she found herself holding on tightly to the door handle, bracing herself hard against the dash.
When he finally stopped, the car jerked forward and then back. She lost her balance and slid, her head tapping the glove box. It hurt, but she was relieved that at least he’d stopped. He did not turn off the engine, did not say a word. She rose from the floorboard and discovered that they were in front of her house. She scrunched back
down onto the floorboard, alarmed.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
“What do I say?” she asked.
He didn’t respond, just stared ahead. She sat up, opened the door.
“John,” she said, thinking at that moment that she would, most likely, never see him again.
Before she could say anything else, he pulled away. The door shut by itself, nearly knocking her over. The back wheels spewed pellets of cold gravel onto her jeans and over her shoes. She watched the red taillights receding. Her stomach knotted. She turned, reluctantly, toward her house. An amber glow blossomed in the living room. Her father’s truck was not in the driveway, but the old Ford, the one Manny now drove, was, and she could see her brother in the window, staring out at her.
35
Telling
She walked toward the porch, her face congested with dread. He stood at the window, fingering his small mustache. She knew he’d start in on her with the doggedness of an interrogator: Where have you been? Why did Letig drive off so fast? What’s going on? She was in trouble. She was in a lot of trouble. It was her fault. She was to blame. Even if her father wasn’t there, it would only be a matter of time before Manny would tell him, just to see his rage, just to increase her grief, everybody’s grief.
But before she reached the porch, he opened the door. His face was not twisted into the taunting mask she had imagined. His forehead instead was furrowed with worry; his mouth twitched anxiously, like her father’s.
“Laura,” he said gently, “are you okay?”
She was so surprised that she tripped on the steps. He caught her, then helped her into the house, took her coat, and sat her on the couch.
“Where is everybody?” she asked.
“They went to get the Christmas tree. What’s wrong? What happened?”
There was no accusation in his voice, only urgent concern. He was worried. She almost wished he would accuse her. His tenderness made her feel vulnerable. And when she tried to speak, her voice cracked, and then the flood of tears came. She covered her face with her hands. He sat beside her and put his arm around her.
“Hey,” he said softly and then again, “Hey.” After a moment, he asked, “Were you baby-sitting for the Letigs today? Dad didn’t say anything about that. What’s wrong, Laura?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t tell anyone. It’s terrible. It’s a terrible thing.” She put her face back in her hands. She wanted to hide.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You can tell me.”
“You’ll tell Dad.”
“No, I won’t.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed.
He drew her hands away from her face, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “Tell me,” he said. “Maybe I can help.”
“No one can help. It’s all my fault.”
He stood up. “You weren’t baby-sitting today, were you?”
She shook her head and watched the truth dawn on him.
“Whoa!”
He handed her a handkerchief and then brought her a glass of water. He started to say something, hesitated, then asked quietly, “Did he hurt you?”
“Yes,” she said, and then, “No.” And then, “I deserved it.”
She didn’t know how to explain this night, only that it was complicated and painful and must have been somehow necessary. There was no way she could ever describe it.
“I’m terrible,” she said. “I’m a horrible person.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am,” she said and then lowered her head back into her hands, ashamed to look at him.
She felt Manny’s hand on her shoulder. “It’s over, isn’t it?” he asked.
Then they heard the front door open. They hadn’t even heard her father’s truck in the driveway. The sound was so sudden that they both jumped up. She dropped the glass, but miraculously it didn’t break.
“Manny, give me a hand with the tree,” her father called.
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
Her father went back outside, leaving the door open behind him. A cold draft swept through the house.
“You can’t tell,” she whispered.
“I won’t.”
“How do I know you won’t?”
“Joannie and I are getting married.”
“What?”
“She’s pregnant. About two months now. After New Year’s, we’re going to tell Dad and her parents. You’re the only one who knows. Joannie would kill me if she knew I had told anyone. That’s your collateral.”
“What?”
“That’s how you know I won’t tell.” He squeezed her hand, assuring her.
And then her father and Rich and Gene were on the porch. The tree filled the doorway, so huge and thick and tall that it seemed, despite their tugging and prodding and complicated maneuvering, fallen needles spraying the floor, that there was no way, even with the whole family helping, that they could pull it through.
36
Mrs. Letig in Grief
Mrs. Letig answered the door in a dark green floor-length robe, her hair wrapped in a blue towel. She wore no makeup. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, her nose red, her cheeks blotchy. Laura had not seen Mrs. Letig since the funeral, and she had not seen her face that day except for that one terrible moment when she had lifted her veil. Mrs. Letig had called this afternoon to ask if Laura could watch Willie. Laura didn’t want to, had told her father, who gave her the message, that she couldn’t, that she was going to the library with Marlene to prepare for a debate in her history class, but he was angry with her, said that she could cancel whatever she was doing with Marlene, that the Letigs needed their help and, by God, they would do what they could. She was surprised by his anger. He even called Mrs. Letig back himself and said Laura would be there, that he’d bring her over. Reluctantly, Laura agreed. She rode over on her bike, worried. She felt relieved that the Letigs’ car was not in the driveway. She wouldn’t have to see John.
“Am I too early?” Laura asked nervously.
“No,” Mrs. Letig said, staring blankly at her. “Come in.”
Laura stepped across the threshold. Mrs. Letig shut the door behind her. The house was a mess, unfolded clothes piled on the furniture and Willie’s toys scattered all over. Two plates of partially eaten lasagna sat on the coffee table, the fork tines buried in the congealed cheese, beside several glasses with syrupy residue in the bottom, water stains underneath. Laura had never seen their house this way.
“Where’s Willie?” she asked.
“With Mrs. Langston across the street. I’ll go over and get him soon,” she said. She stared at Laura for an interminable minute and then sighed heavily.
“I could go over and get him for you now,” Laura said, eager to leave.
“No, no, no,” she said. “I want you to stay here with me. Besides, we never had that talk. I want to talk with you.” She patted Laura’s shoulder, then hooked her arm inside Laura’s. “Don’t you want to talk with me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, listen to you. You are so polite,” she said, releasing Laura and then stepping past her. “You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am.’”
“Mrs. Letig—”
“Anne,” she corrected. She turned back to Laura and adjusted the towel on her head. “Call me Anne, please.”
“We don’t have to talk right now,” Laura said. “I know you’re upset.”
“You do, do you?”
“Well…I mean,” Laura stuttered. “I mean—”
“No!” She spoke sharply, pointing her finger at Laura. “Let’s not talk about that. Please.”
“I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Letig grabbed Laura’s hand, squeezed it, and then leaned in close to her and smiled again. “I want to talk about you. We never had the opportunity, and I promised you.”
Laura didn’t know what to say. She felt
uneasy. She was supposed to be here to baby-sit, but Mrs. Letig seemed in no hurry to get Willie.
“Just for a little bit,” Mrs. Letig said, releasing Laura’s hand. “Why don’t you come on into the bedroom. We can talk while I dress.”
“I can just wait out here for you,” she said, not moving.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” She pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of her robe, wiped her eyes and nose. “I don’t have time to dress and then talk with you later.”
“Where’s Mr. Letig?” she asked.
She did not want to see him, not in this house, not with his wife there, not after what happened. But she felt she needed to know if he might be coming back. She needed to prepare for it.
“John’s out. You don’t have to worry about him, honey. He won’t be coming back anytime soon. It’s just us girls,” Mrs. Letig said, grabbing Laura’s hand again. “Come on, dear. Come in here with me.”
Mrs. Letig led Laura into the bedroom. Her dresses, slips, bras, and stockings lay scattered on the bed and floor. The top of John’s dresser was completely empty. Something had happened.
“You sit on the bed there. I’m going to have a glass of wine. Would you like one, Laura?” Mrs. Letig smiled with her mouth but not her eyes, and there was a rise in the pitch of her voice.
“No, ma’am.”
“You are too polite. Now, come on. How old are you? Seventeen?”
“Almost. My birthday’s in a couple of weeks.”
“So only sixteen. That’s right. I know Zeeke, though. He wouldn’t mind if you have a little glass of wine. Or maybe a beer.”