He said, "You want me to come by and mow on Sunday?"
"No," she said. "My brother will do it next week."
"Oh."
She looked at him and mocked, "Oh," in a fake-masculine voice. They gazed at each and almost smiled.
"What do you want anyway?" she asked.
"Nothing. I'll tell you later."
"Better be quick. I'm in a hurry, sort of."
"Got a date?" He smiled without wanting to.
It was like a switch had been turned in her mind by an obscure sense of guilt. She looked at him with more interest and even an air of kindness. It was false; she wanted something; but it was better than being tolerated as a familiar intrusion.
"Actually," she said sweetly. "It's kind of good you're here. I need to talk to you about something."
"What's that?"
"Oh just something. Have you eaten dinner?"
"No. And that sure smells good."
"It's just noodles but as long as you're here you may as well eat. I never meant for you to go hungry. Sit down."
At the sink she drained the noodles through a colander and then went back to the stove. From the cupboard she took a jar and handed it to him at the table.
"Open that for me would ya? It's store boughten but I kind of like that brand of sauce."
She took it from him, turned and dumped the contents of the jar into the saucepan with the noodles. She went back to stirring. It was one thing about Angie: she never had been and never would be much of a cook. Eating to her was just something you did to keep from being hungry and she much preferred to do it out. He watched her; there was something endearing in her efforts and something appealing in her movements. Her body churned and wiggled as she worked the spoon, the left hand on her hip, and when she paused her lips pouted and her eyes went serious. From time to time she would glance over and smile at him self-consciously.
Dalrymple lit up a cigarette, and she immediately began to fan the air behind her with her free hand as if shooing away flies that were bothering her butt.
"We have a new rule around here: no smoking."
"I don't live by rules with you."
"Since when?"
"Since you know when."
"Well there's one rule you're gonna have to learn to live by real soon," she said.
"What's that?"
"Just a minute."
She took down two plates and two jelly jars and put them on the table. Then she clattered around in a drawer and came up with two mismatched sets of silverware and dropped them on the table in a heap. Next appeared a loaf of white bread, a tub of margarine and a couple of paper towels. She bustled about with great purpose in her movements and a faint, distant but very handsome frown on her face, which meant she was concentrating.
"I think it's ready," she said.
From the saucepan she spooned out two large portions of the spaghetti stuff and stood there looking pleased with herself.
"I call this Spaghetti Stuff," she said brightly and smiled. "Let's see, what else. Oh! The wine."
"Wine? Where'd you get wine?"
"Roy."
Neither of them was old enough to buy liquor but she had always been good at nurturing associates who could. She poured out two full glasses and finally sat down.
"Well here's to you," she said and took a long sip, her left hand pressed against her chest as if to steady herself. She set her glass down, put on a serious face and said, "It's just this simple, Dal: I need the car."
"What car you talking about?" he said with a full mouth.
"Your car."
"My car!" he said and a bit of sauce flew out of his mouth.
"It was part of our deal, Dal, as you know perfectly well."
"What's wrong with your car?"
"Ka-poot," she said. "Something in the engine. I had to have it towed home. Daddy's gonna see what he can do to sell it for scrap." She shook her head sadly and said, "That poor old VW."
"But Angie I got to have my car for work."
"Me too."
"But I can't afford two cars."
"You'll just have to figure out some way to do it. I can't be left without reliable transportation. Think of Josh. What if I had to rush him to the hospital or the dentist or something."
"The dentist?"
"You never know. He's growing up, Dal."
"How would you know? You don't see him any more than I do. He's always at the day care or your mother's."
"Let's keep this conversation on a civil level, please. There's no reason to shout."
"I ain't shouting," he shouted and remembered then that one of her complaints against him had been his hot temper. He had been trying to improve this aspect of his character ever since the divorce. So he tried to calm himself as they glared at each other over their plates of Spaghetti Stuff.
They both heard it coming. The evening train. A faraway whistle. And the sinister rumbling of the floor and then the walls as it came closer and the tremendous noise and power of it intensified. Soon it was on them, the overwhelming thunder and the steady clicking of the wheels, and they waited in a tense and distressing silence. To speak then would have meant to yell, and they knew better than to try. They both ate a little and waited, glancing up, sitting there like animals caught in a cage during a great storm. Angie shrugged once in apology for the interruption. Then it had passed. The thunder and the shuddering of the tiny house subsided and they heard again the faraway whistle, and they both took deep breaths of relief. But it was as if the passing of the train had taken away their energy to talk anymore and they sat there with their own thoughts for a long time.
"Your supper's getting cold," she said at last.
Dalrymple had lost his appetite. His wonderful afternoon had been ruined. The thought of her getting his car stabbed into his heart with the dismal and mysterious force of despair. She was right though: it had been part of their separation agreement that he would see to it she had "reliable transportation for a period of no less than three years" following the divorce. It had been understood by all that this meant the Camaro if she needed it. He had always thought Volkswagens ran forever, but then Angie had never had any idea how to tend to a car. She had probably let it run out of oil and burnt up the pistons, something stupid.
"I'm sorry, Dal," she said, her voice softer. "I know what that car means to you. I'm not doing this just to be mean. I've been worrying about it for two days, I've been sick over it. But I'm a woman with a child your son, remember and I have to be independent. Think of me, Dal."
He got up quickly and paced a few steps in the narrow kitchen. It was all so familiar; they had had numerous such awkward and at times angry discussions about possessions and arrangements and love and even fidelity in the final months of their marriage. Somehow they always ended in the kitchen where he paced and cursed while she sat at the table and watched him.
He said he'd need some time. She said she could give him a week; Darla could pick her up and drop her off for that long. She said again she was sorry. He said being sorry didn't count for much. She said, "I know that."
Dalrymple stood at the sink and looked through the window at the vacant house next door that was supposed to be haunted by the ghost of a suicide victim. He tried to think of a way out of this, but all he came up with was a heavy feeling, the terrible weight of responsibility that rose from the lingering thought that he had ruined Angie's life when he got her pregnant and still owed her for it, despite her transgressions. He wished he had never come here. All he wanted to do was leave.
"Aren't you gonna finish your supper?"
"I gotta go," he said and hurried from the kitchen.
"Wait a minute," she called. "Didn't you have something to tell me?"
"Never mind," he said. "It's not important."
"Dal, wait," she called again. He heard her chair scrape against the floor, and then she was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. She seemed sad to see him leaving. Her face was sad, full of r
egret and uncertainty.
"You know, Dal, this has nothing to do with love. I still love you. I guess I'll always love you, in some way, after what we went through together. I just don't want to be married to you, that's all. That's all it is."
"Oh. Well that's good to hear," he said sarcastically, and she smirked to show that she understood the sarcasm and perhaps even understood the absurdity of what she had said. They looked at each other for a long moment before he stepped through the door and into the suffocating heat of a Houston evening.
At the carport he raised the hood of the VW. Several engine parts were lying there loose in the well, and a number of important wires dangled free like the rigid tentacles of a dead sea creature. Obviously the mechanic had just given up on it. He slammed the hood and kicked the chrome bumper and once again he saw doom in everything that pertained to his life. He sat in the Camaro for a long while, thinking he'd lay rubber and make a big defiant noise in leaving, but it would just give her cause to laugh at him, yet another mean victory over him. A belch rose from his aggrieved stomach, and he tasted the Spaghetti Stuff again. He let out the clutch and drove away quietly.
11
In the back of the place, boxed in by a little alcove, two construction workers were playing pool quite peaceably. They seemed to be friends and even friendly, their white teeth flashing smiles from time to time. There was only one pool table in Dick's Dive Inn, and its green field, illuminated by a hanging beer sign showing off waterfalls on two sides, glowed with such intensity in the otherwise dark interior that it reminded Dalrymple of a ball diamond as seen from high up in the stands during a night game. The men were scruffy and large, dressed in jeans and tee shirts and heavy boots, and both of them wore gimme caps low above their eyes like the shades of card dealers so that their faces were always in shadow. Down their backs dangled ponytails. As one of them bent over the table, the other stood watching, back in a corner, the cue stick held before him propped on the floor like a lance, and he sipped his beer as he waited to shoot.
That's what Dalrymple wanted: some companionship, friendly conversation over a game of pool. But more than that he wanted a beer, several beers if possible. That's why he was here. After seeing Angie he had driven around for a while trying to decide what to do with himself or to think of someplace to go, sulking about this latest development with Angie and his car until he got depressed and thirsty. He didn't much feel like going home to spend the evening with his parents watching television in that eerie personal silence that always sprang up between them these days when they had to pass time together. Especially now, after what had happened; it would cause so much new tension that all the old disappointments and misunderstanding would simmer up until the silence between them would become unbearable, a tangible discomfort. Such evenings made Dalrymple feel like they were three travelers waiting in a bus terminal, strangers thrown together out of luckless necessity who felt obliged to make conversation while they waited to depart in different directions. It was a kind of non-conversation; it was just extra noise above the noise of the television; talk for the sake of talking.
No. He didn't want to go home. It was Friday night after all and on Friday nights a young man ought to be out on the town. Dalrymple saw this as something kin to the migrating of the birds; a natural urge that rose up in him by instinct and long habit from his high-school days, that halcyon time of football games and movie dates that ended early and abruptly for him when Angie got pregnant. He often felt, and some who knew him would have agreed, that all he had gotten from high school was this habitual and powerful urge to be out carousing on Friday nights.
Dalrymple didn't know quite what was expected of him here in Dick's Dive Inn. He had been in a bar only once and that was with McCleary who handled everything with expertise. McCleary had ordered the beers at the bar and brought them to the table and joked with the barmaid and treated Dalrymple as if he were an old drinking buddy who simply didn't care to leave the table. Dalrymple got so drunk that it embarrassed and worried McCleary, and he had never offered to do it again. So now he was on his own.
And there was also the age thing. What if they carded him?
He could see the barmaid at the bar, talking with a customer. She had glanced around when he came in but didn't seem to be in any kind of a hurry to serve him.
He had chosen a table close to the door in a dark corner, thinking he might appear twenty-one or better if the barmaid couldn't see his face very well. He had worn his jacket and drawn up his tie in the hope that his appearance would make him look like a businessman who just happened to stop in this joint for a quick beer on the way home. He noticed that of the eight or ten people in the place he was the only one wearing a tie. Frankly he dreaded the initial contact. If she asked for identification he had no idea what he would say, and he hated more than anything to be embarrassed in public. He had chosen Dick's, located at the end of a seedy little strip center a few blocks from Angie's house, because he had seen it many times when he used to stop for milk and bread at the 7-11 on the other end of the shopping center. The storefront glass had been blackened and Dick's Dive Inn had been inexpertly painted on the glass in crooked white letters. He thought perhaps it was the kind of place that just wouldn't care if he was of legal age to drink.
Dalrymple lit a cigarette and looked around. Dick's was grimy and small and dark, lit up here and there by a dozen or so beer signs on the walls. There were perhaps ten tables, mostly empty. The two men playing pool had racked the balls and were preparing to start another game. At the bar sat three men, each one hunched over, serious drinkers. At one table sat two men in blue work uniforms hotly discussing the Astros' chances of success. At another sat a middle-aged couple whispering.
All of a sudden the barmaid was standing at his table. She was a chunky gal of about thirty-five wearing outlandish pink hot pants and a white ruffled blouse, loosely buttoned at the top to reveal the upper orbs of an enormous pair of breasts. Her hair was dark and stringy, clipped at the shoulders. A great deal of hard living showed through her made-up face, and on the lower lid of her left eye glowed the lingering blue-black crescent of a bruise. He assumed it had been caused by a punch in the face. She put down a napkin on the table, smiled so warmly at Dalrymple that for a moment he thought perhaps they knew each other, perhaps she had seen him around, and she prepared to take his order.
"What'll it be, my friend?"
She cocked her head to one side, brightened her eyes and smiled again with such friendliness that his heart pumped wonderful relief all through his body. No problem, he thought.
"A beer," he said.
"Okidoke. What kind?"
"Uh. What have you got?"
She seemed startled by the question but said, "You name it we probably got it."
"How's about a Schlitz."
"We got Schlitz, sure. A Schlitz it is then. Bottle or can?"
"Uh. Bottle, I guess."
"Okidoke. A bottle of Schlitz." She gazed at him as if sizing him up for something, but she still offered him such a friendly, almost motherly face to look upon that he wasn't prepared for what she said: "You're so handsome and young-looking, I'll declare, that I'm afraid I'll need to see some kind of I.D. We've had the state liquor boys in here lately. They've tried to close us down once and we don't want 'em to try it again."
He knew the "handsome" bit was a line with her, a politeness that she reserved for such occasions so as not to embarrass away tips. And she seemed like the type who wanted to give you what you wanted, who wanted to cause trouble for no one, who couldn't have cared less about the law when it came to a trivial bottle of beer because she had had a hard life and knew that so much of living was a marginal thing. It was in her eyes, her ugly battered face: enjoy and relax and cause me no trouble and I'll do what I can for you. But it was her job; it was expected of her.
He felt hot blood rise into his face, and he thought of what he had prepared to say about having lost his driver's license and having no other
kind of card on him just then, and he imagined in the same instant that she would change. He saw her ugly battered friendly face going stern and unfriendly with disbelief and derision and self-importance; he saw her turning to the room and shouting something about a deadbeat trying to get over on her. To lie to her would do him no good at all. So he floundered about for something to tell her, and what he said came to him without rehearsal and as a complete surprise:
"Look, ma'am, I found out yesterday I'm gonna be drafted soon . . . and'll probably go to the war . . . and it's been a hard day. . . . and, you know, all I want is a beer."
Her face displayed no emotion, nothing.
"Couldn't you get me a beer?"
It took a moment more and even then the smile rose on her pudgy lips so slowly that at first he wasn't sure it was a smile. But then it formed, and she held it steady as she gazed down at him with her experienced eyes. It was a sweet smile, an accepting smile, a smile that said well at least you didn't try to pull one on me, you didn't lie to me as so many have. Her eyes blinked several times, and this caused him to notice again the nasty blue-black bruise that brought up his sympathy and his contempt and it made of her a woman repellent and appealing all at once. A black eye? What could this nice woman possibly have done to cause a man to throw his fist into her face? Such a friendly face.
She put a hand on the table and leaned against it. She looked at him again in that searching way as if to see for certain that he was telling her the truth. And he saw again that pity which so many had shown him in the past two days.
"I'm sorry "
"All's I want's a beer. Just a beer."
"I'm sorry but . . . drafted?"
"Yes."
"You've been drafted?"
"Yes. Or will be."
She shook her head in contemplation of the thing. She frowned, thinking about it, and raked back her hair.
"You'd think that if I'm old enough to go to the war that I ought to be old enough to drink a beer. Wouldn't you?"
She shook her head again and looked at him as if he had told her something outrageous, which nonetheless touched something inside of her. She smirked noisily and glanced back at the bar as if to see if the bartender were watching. Dalrymple looked too and saw that the man was busy washing glasses.
Memorial Day Page 17