Jake was scarcely aware that he’d fallen asleep. He’d been thinking about the night in early May when Mary Hairl was admitted for the second time in as many months. She’d made sure her father and the kids were fed before she finally, reluctantly, agreed to call the doctor, who’d met them within the hour in the emergency room. Steve had stayed at home to look after Tannie, and when Jake and Mary Hairl left house, both the kids were doing their homework. She’d been in excruciating pain for much of the day, and he’d handed her over to the charge nurse that night with the blessed sense that at least now she’d get relief. Her suffering only reminded Jake how ineffectual he was in the face of her illness. He’d stayed with her until 9:00, watching the drip in her IV line, waiting for the medication to take effect. He’d kept an eye on the clock, willing the hands to move, and when she’d finally fallen asleep, he’d fled the premises.
He retrieved his truck from the hospital parking lot in Santa Maria and headed straight for the Blue Moon, the only place in Serena Station where a fella could buy a beer. It had been raining intermittently. The May evening was chilly, and he cranked up the heat until the cab felt like an incubator. The roads were dark, and the lighted houses in Serena Station seemed as isolated as campfires. He needed to drink. He needed to unwind in an atmosphere that carried no suggestion of blood, suffering, or impending loss.
The Moon was close to empty. Tom Padgett sat at the bar, nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, chatting with Violet Sullivan and the bartender, BW McPhee. BW was a stocky fellow, barrel-chested and tough, who doubled as a bouncer when the occasion arose. Jake took a stool at the bar, glancing idly at the two sitting four stools down. Violet’s eyes were puffy with tears and her hair was disheveled. Clearly something had gone on. Tom was trying to talk her out of whatever funk she was in. Jake was inclined to ignore Violet, minding his own business, but while BW uncapped his bottle of Blatz, he told him she and Foley had gotten into a shoving match that ended with her slapping him square across the face. Foley had gone berserk, overturning a table and breaking a chair. BW’d given him one minute to clear out or he was calling the police.
By the time Jake arrived, Foley was gone. While Padgett’s comments were too low to hear, Violet’s responses were audible. She was talking about her money in a tone that was half braggadocio and half aggrieved. He’d heard the claim before, usually when Foley’d just popped her one and she was threatening to leave. He didn’t know if it was true or not, the bit about her personal funds. She never mentioned an amount, and it struck him as odd that she didn’t simply take the cash and get on with it.
For a while, Padgett dropped a steady stream of coins into the jukebox, and he and Violet danced. The dress she wore was an emerald green, cut low in the back. Behind the bar, BW was watching them as they moved around the floor. Now and then Jake would turn, looking over his shoulder, following their progress with a shake of his head. He and BW exchanged glances.
“That’s what got Foley raging in the first place, her dancing with him,” BW remarked.
“Just about anything sets him off. Piece of shit,” Jake said.
BW studied him. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about Mary Hairl.”
“Not especially. No offense.”
“None taken. You tell her we’re thinkin’ about her, Emily and me.”
“I’ll do that.”
“How’s that beer coming?”
“I’m fine for the moment.”
Violet and Padgett settled at the bar again, but he’d no more than sat down than he glanced at his watch, startled at the time. Jake watched as he threw some bills on the bar and said his good-nights. Once the door shut behind him, Violet turned her head, looking down the bar in Jake’s direction. He made a point of looking the other way to avoid her gaze. She was the type who went to bars intent on conversation, while he was the type who went in hopes of being left alone. Dimly he was conscious of her crossing the room behind him, heading for the ladies’ room. He ordered another beer and was in the process of lighting a cigarette when she appeared at his side. Her hair was now combed and her green eyes assessed him with curiosity. She was holding a cigarette and, well-mannered fella that he was, he extended his match. By then the flame was burning so close to his fingers, he was forced to drop it and strike another one for her. She eased onto the stool next to his. “You want company?”
“No.”
“That’s funny. You look like a man who could use a friend.”
He had no reply to that. Jake probably hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words with Violet in the six years he’d known her. There’d been that business about the dog, but that was about as far as it went. He’d heard the rumors about her. The whole town of Serena Station buzzed with stories about the Sullivans—Foley’s drinking, the fisticuffs, her screwing around. Quite the happy little pair. Jake despised Foley. Any man who raised a hand to woman or child was the lowest of the low. Violet, he wasn’t sure about. Mary Hairl seemed to like her, but his wife was a good-hearted soul, who’d put out a bowl of scraps for any stray cat that wandered up on the porch. He put Violet in that camp—hungry, wary, and needy. “You still mad about the dog?”
“I got my money. Not that it was mine for long,” she said. “How’s Mary Hairl?”
“He just asked me that,” Jake said, indicating BW with a wave of his cigarette.
“What’d you tell him?”
“Said I didn’t want to talk about it, thanks all the same.”
“Because it’s painful.”
“Because it’s nobody’s business.” He was quiet for a moment and then surprised himself by going on. “They’ve got her on a drip. Morphine, most likely. The doctor won’t tell me anything and what he says to her, she keeps to herself. She doesn’t want me to worry.”
Violet said, “Well, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It has nothing to do with you.” He glanced off across the room. He could feel tears sting his eyes. He’d made a point of not discussing his wife’s illness. Acquaintances would ask, but he tended to cut them short. He didn’t like the idea of exposing the intimate details of Mary Hairl’s condition. He couldn’t talk particulars with her father, even if he’d known. Hairl had been a surly son of a bitch ever since his wife died. He was burdened enough as it was, knowing he was on the verge of losing his only child. Which left who? Jake certainly couldn’t talk about her sickness with the kids. Both he and Mary Hairl had agreed early on to spare them. Steve, at sixteen, was aware of what was happening, but he kept himself detached. Tannie was mercifully oblivious, which left Jake on his own.
Violet studied him. “How’re you holding up? You don’t look so hot yourself.”
He lifted his beer bottle. “This helps.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” she said, and clinked her wineglass against his bottle. “Why is it men are always trying to prove how tough they are? Situation like yours, what harm would it do to talk about it?”
“What for? I live with it from day to day. Last thing I need is talk on top of that.”
“You sound just like me. Too proud to admit when you’re hurting. I can sit here in tears and everybody thinks it’s just something I do. You’re the first guy ever offered to have a decent conversation.”
“I don’t call this a conversation.”
“But there’s hope of one,” she said.
“What about Padgett? He was talking to you.”
“He’s about as popular as me. People think I’m a whore and he’s a fool. Gives us something in common.”
“Is that true?”
“What, about him or me?”
“I couldn’t care less about him. What’s the deal on you?”
She smiled. “It’s like that song about the Whiffenpoofs…. What the hell’s a Whiffenpoof? You ever ask yourself that?”
“What song?”
“The duet Bing Crosby and Bob Hope sang in Road to Bali.” She started to sing a fragment in a voice that was surprisingly sweet. “‘Damned from
here to eternity. Lord have mercy on such as we.’” Her smile was weary. “That’s the deal on me. Damned.”
“Because of Foley?”
“Everything wrong in my life is because of him.”
“I thought you liked tussling with him. You do it often enough.”
“Tussling? Well, I guess that’s one way to put it. Foley pounds the shit out of me on a regular basis and I got the black eyes to prove it, but does anybody ask how I’m doing? He could knock me to the floor and nobody’d offer me a hand. I don’t want pity, but once in a while I’d like to think someone gives a shit.” She stopped and then smirked. “Listen to me. I sound like a victim. Nobody likes a victim, least of all me.”
“Why do you put up with it? That’s what I don’t get.”
“What choice do I have? I can’t leave him. He’s threatened to kill me and I know he’d do it for sure. Foley’s a psychopath. Besides, if I left what would become of Daisy?”
“You could take her with you.”
“And do what? I got married at fifteen and never held a job in my life. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“What about that money you’re always talking about.”
“I’m biding my time. I figure I’ve got one shot and I’m not about to blow it. Anyway, Daisy’s crazy about her daddy.”
“Most girls are crazy about their daddies. I’m sure she’s crazy about you, too. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Daisy’s crazier than most. She thinks Foley hung the moon, so why should I get in the way? Sometimes I think they’d be better off without me. I mean, it’s one thing if I leave, but take away his little girl? He’d rip my heart out, if he hadn’t already done it.”
Jake shook his head. “He doesn’t deserve either one of you.”
“No fooling.”
“So what’d you see in him?”
“He was a sweet guy when the two of us hooked up. It’s the alcohol does him in. Sober, he’s not all that bad. Well, some bad, but not as horrible as you’d think. Of course, he says he’s forced to drink to put up with the likes of me.”
“What’s he have to put up with? You’re a beautiful woman. I can’t picture any big hardship living with you.”
“I’m a pain.”
“How’s that?”
“I got a reputation as a party girl for one thing. According to him, I don’t do anything right and that sets him off. No matter what I do, he’s never satisfied. After work, he walks in the door and starts in on me. Either the house is a mess or his dinner’s not hot enough or I forgot to take the dirty clothes to the Laundromat again. He wants to know where I’ve been, wants to know who I talked to, and where I was every time he tried to call me during the day. I’m thinking, what am I, his slave? I’m entitled to a life. I try to keep my mouth shut, but he lays into me and I have to fight back. How else can I hang on to my self-respect?”
“There’s bound to be a way out.”
“Well, if there is I’d sure like to hear it.” She put out her cigarette. “You have any change?”
“What for?” he asked, but he was already digging in his pants pocket, coming up with a handful of coins.
She took a nickel and slid off the stool. He watched her cross to the jukebox, where she inserted the coin and punched in a number. After a moment, he heard the opening strains of Nat King Cole singing “Pretend.”
She came back to him, holding out a hand. “Come on. Let’s dance. I love this song.”
“I don’t dance.”
“Yes, you do.” She looked over at the bartender. “BW, tell the man he has to dance with me. It’s time to lighten up the mood.”
Jake felt himself smiling as she tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the tiny bare spot between tables that served as a dance floor. She slid into his arms, ignoring the awkward back-and-forth rocking motion that was the only kind of dancing he knew. She sang against his neck, her smoky wine breath tickling his ear. He could smell violets and soap and the same kind of shampoo Mary Hairl had used before she got so sick. Over Violet’s shoulder, he could see BW busy himself behind the bar, studiously ignoring what was going on. Jake had never much cared for music, but he could see now how it might have the power to make you forget. If there was one thing Jake needed, it was the blessedness of forgetting, even for a little while.
At midnight, BW started turning off lights. “Sorry about that, folks,” he said, as though the bar were filled with people. His tone was bored, but Jake could hear the underlying irritation. BW didn’t want to be a party to what was going on. Jake went up to the bar and paid the tab, peeling off bills and adding a generous tip, in part to remind the man of his place.
BW said, “You driving her home?”
“I might, if it’s any of your business.”
“I know you mean well, but you don’t know what you’re getting into when it comes to her. Ask Padgett. He’ll tell you the same thing.”
“Thanks, BW, but I don’t believe I asked for your advice.”
“I’m saying this as a friend.”
“I don’t need that kind of friend. Your job is to tend bar. I can look after myself, but thanks all the same.”
“Don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.”
Jake helped Violet into her raincoat and held the door for her. As they emerged from the bar, the air seemed as fresh as a florist’s shop. The May rain had passed, leaving a mist in the air. The blacktop was damp, looking shiny in places where shallow puddles had formed. He opened the truck door on the passenger side and handed her in. There were no lights in the parking lot, except for the reflected blue from the sign for the Blue Moon, the neon pulsing and blinking. Jake got in on his side and sat, watching the light, fascinated, not really sure what came next. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t strayed occasionally in the course of his marriage, but he was never sure what he was getting into and that lent a sick thrill to the proceedings.
Violet said, “This is like a time-out. It doesn’t count for anything. I like Mary Hairl.”
“Me, too,” he said. He kept his hands on the steering wheel as though he might actually start the car and drive away.
BW turned the neon sign off and moments later, he came out of the rear door, locked it, and walked to his car.
Jake knew both their faces must have flashed with white as BW passed, his headlights raking across the front of Jake’s truck.
And then he was gone.
Violet was drunk and Jake’d had too much to drink himself, but he needed a friend, someone to feel close to for just this one night. Blindly he held a hand out and she took it. They made love. The leather seat was surprisingly commodious. The night was growing cold, and through the open window he could smell the orange blossoms from the orchard nearby. The scent was so dense he could scarcely breathe. He could hear crickets and frogs, and then the night became dead quiet except for the rustling of clothes and his harsh, rasping breath. He felt as though he’d had to run for miles just to get to her.
13
Downstairs, Chet Cramer introduced me to his son-in-law and then excused himself. Winston Smith was the same heavyset salesman I’d seen earlier, and I wondered if his sales pitch had been successful. Probably not, given his energy level, which seemed low if not depressed. We sat in his cubicle, my back to the glass partition that looked out onto the floor. Winston’s desk was arranged so he could keep an eye out for customers without appearing inattentive.
At close range, the word “corpulent” was more appropriate than “heavyset” in capturing his girth. He looked as though a simple walk to his car would leave him wheezing and short of breath. There was no ashtray in sight, but I smelled the cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes and breath. Under his chin, a second chin bulged, leaving his shirt collar so taut it might choke him to death if he bent to tie his shoes. He still had most of his hair, which he wore long and curly on top, brushed back in a style I hadn’t seen since the days when Elvis Presley got his start.
I’d scarc
ely sat down when his telephone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and picked up. “This is Winston Smith.” And then, with caution, “What’s up?”
I had no way of knowing who was on the other end of the line, but he flicked a quick look in my direction and angled his body for privacy. “Hang on a sec.” He put the caller on hold. “Let me take care of this and I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing.”
He left the cubicle. I watched line one blink red until he picked up the call from a nearby phone. On the wall across from me, his sales manuals were lined up on a built-in credenza. In a prominent position, there was a color photograph of a bride and groom on what I assumed was their wedding day. I crossed and picked up the framed photo for closer scrutiny. Winston must have been in his midtwenties, slim, handsome, curly-haired, and boyish, his tuxedo contributing an air of casual elegance. At his side, a hefty Kathy Cramer was squeezed into a wedding dress so tight it must have hurt to breathe. Above the sweetheart neckline, her breasts were plumped like two homemade yeast rolls that had risen and were ready to pop in the oven. In the years since that day, the two had reversed roles. Now she was trim, an exercise addict, while he’d apparently surrendered all hope of getting into shape. What was up with that? I kept thinking about Tannie’s offhand remark, that Winston knew more about Violet than he’d admitted.
I replaced the photo and took my seat again mere moments before he returned, murmuring, “Sorry about that.” He sat down again, but something in his manner had shifted. “My wife,” he said, by way of explanation. “She called while I was with a customer and I had to put her off. Don’t want to do that twice.”
“No problem. I had a chat with her earlier and she showed me the house. Nice place.”
“Should be for the price we paid,” he said with a quick forced smile.
“You play golf?”
He shook his head. “She’s the golfer. I keep my nose to the grindstone. If you notice me limp, it’s from dragging my ball and chain.” He laughed when he said it and I smiled in response, thinking, Ding, ding, ding, ding.
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