Where he now crossed his ankles and smiled at her, murmuring, “So.”
She said, “So.”
“Nobody knows where we are.” “Right,” she said.
“We’re—” he made a broad gesture. “Hidden away.”
“Hidden away,” she said.
“Just the two of us.”
“Just us, right.”
“Strip,” he said.
She looked at him, looked into his innocent, ice blue eyes.
“Want to play a game?”
“A game,” she said.
“Let’s play charades.”
“Okay.”
“You start,” he said. “No, you start.”
“I’m really sick of starting all the time,” he said. “I start the car and I start—” he seemed confused. “The car.”
They laughed.
He got up and went to the bathroom door. “I know—wait a minute. I’ll come out and you tell me who I am.”
She waited. He staggered through the door. He was a very funny, very good-natured young man. It was what she loved about him.
“Here I come,” he sang.
She sang back, “I’m ready when you are.”
When he danced out of the bathroom, he lost his balance and stumbled onto the bed. As he bounced there, she laughed, holding her sides and leaning against the door.
“One more time,” he said, then paused and put one finger over his lips. “Shhhhh. It’s necessary to be very quiet.”
She said, “Right. Shhhh.”
“I don’t guess you could tell who it was from the first time.”
She shook her head. She was laughing too hard to speak.
“Sure?”
“Stumbly?” she said. “Stumbly.”
“Isn’t that one of the Seven Dwarfs?”
“Stumbly,” he said, looking around. He seemed out of breath, but of course it was the champagne. “Hey, how do I know? I never even met Sleeping Beauty.”
“Snow White,” she said.
He said, “Right,” and threw himself onto the bed, bouncing again, lying flat on his back with his legs and arms outspread. She let herself slide down against the door, and her dizziness felt good, as though she were floating in deep space, held up by clouds.
He’d come off the bed. “Okay, let’s try again.”
“Snow White,” she said.
He laughed. “Now watch. You’ll know who it is.”
Again he went into the bathroom.
“I’m ready,” she said.
He peeked out at her, held one finger to his lips again. “Shhhh.”
“Shhhh,” she said.
Once more he was gone. She made herself comfortable against the door, letting her legs out and folding her arms. It seemed to her now that in all the three years with Dorsey she had never had such a lighthearted time. Everything with Dorsey had been freighted with his drive to make it big, his determination to live out some daydream he’d had when he was thirteen. Married to him, traveling with him, watching him pretend to be single and listening to him complain at night about bad bookings, stupid sidemen, the road, and the teen hops where kids asked over and over for the cheap radio stuff—living with all this, she had never felt the kind of uncomplicated pleasure-in-the-moment that she had experienced from the beginning with Howard, who was quite unlike Dorsey in all the important ways. Oddly enough, for all Dorsey’s rock-band outrageousness and all his talk of personal freedom, she felt much less constrained around Howard, who was a plumber’s apprentice and had no musical or artistic talent whatsoever. From the beginning, she’d felt comfortable with him, as though he were a younger brother she’d grown up with. The fact that he was younger wasn’t as important, finally, as the fact that he made her feel like laughing all the time, and was wonderfully devoid of the kinds of anxiety that always plagued Dorsey. Worries about health, about the world situation, the environment, the future. The trouble, finally, was that Dorsey had never learned how to have fun, how to let go and just see what happened.
Dorsey would never have allowed this, for instance, getting tight and being a sort of spectacle to the other guests at the hotel. She remembered that Howard had stopped someone in the hall—a squat-looking, balding man in a blue bathing suit with a towel wrapped around his neck and shower clogs under one arm—and, with a voice soaked in portent, announced that all the moons were unfavorable. Somehow he’d managed it with such good-natured goofiness that the man had simply smiled and walked on.
“Hey,” She said now. “What’re you doing in there?”
“I’m transforming,” he said. “You won’t believe it.”
“I’m getting sleepy.”
“Guess who this is,” he said.
“I’m waiting.”
When he came out this time, he had removed his shirt, and his shoes and socks. He came slowly, bending down to peer in all directions, looking very suspicious and wary. “Well?” he said, barely able to keep his feet.
“I don’t know. Not Stumbly?”
“No,” he said. “Look close.” And he paraded past her again.
“God, I can’t get it.”
“Groucho. Ever see him walk? Groucho Marx. Look.”
“Oh.”
“Okay,” he said, smiling, straightening with exaggerated dignity. “I’d like to see you try it.”
“I want to see you do Stumbly again.”
“Hey,” he said. “You think your mother likes me as much as she liked old Dorsey?”
“Better,” she said.
“Can’t understand how a lady could like somebody like that.”
“She liked his hands,” Lisa said. “Isn’t that silly? I think that’s just so silly. She liked his beautiful hands.”
“Do I have beautiful hands?” he wanted to know.
“Beautiful,” she said.
“Okay. Try this one.” He lurched into the bathroom again.
“Howard?” she said. “My mother likes you a lot.”
“She thinks you’re robbing the cradle.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”
“True.”
“That’s just dumb. If anything, she’s jealous.”
“Of my hands?”
“I think she likes your tush, in fact.”
“Well, that’s nice to know, anyway.”
She said, “Hey, what’s taking so long?”
He said, “Just wait.”
“I’m getting dizzy and sleepy.”
“Wait.”
When he appeared again, he had crossed his eyes and was clutching an imaginary something to his chest. She laughed. “Harpo.”
“No.”
“Stumbly.”
“There’s no such thing as Stumbly.”
“Okay,” she said, laughing, delighting in him. “Who then?”
“How could you say Harpo?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Harpo,” he said. “Jeez.”
“All right, who is it, then?”
“It’s my uncle Mark.”
“I never met your uncle Mark.”
“Never met Stumbly, either.”
She laughed again. “You win.”
“No,” he said. “Who’s this?” And he went back into the bathroom.
She waited, a little impatiently now. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and she didn’t want to get too sleepy. In fact, there was a heavy, buzzing sensation in her ears when she closed her eyes.
“Boo,” he said. He had mussed his hair and made it stand on end, and he was wearing his shirt like a cape around his neck. He went through the pantomime motions of lighting a cigarette, and then she saw that he meant her to understand it was dope, not tobacco. He fake-puffed, rolled his eyes, breathed with a thick, throaty rasping, and held his index finger and thumb in the pose of passing a joint. “Well?” he said.
“I’m thinking.”
“This is no ordinary cigarette.”
“I can’t think of his name. The Supreme Court
guy.”
“Wrong,” he said, smoothing his hair down. He went back into the bathroom, but then leaned out, holding on to the frame, and smiled at her. “You know what you get when you cross a doctor with a ground hog?”
“A court date,” she said, laughing.
“Somebody told you,” he said.
“Is that it?”
“Six more weeks of golf,” he said.
“I don’t get it. Tell me another one.”
“You know what you get if you mix rock ‘n’ roll and Dorsey?” His eyebrows went up. He seemed to be taking great delight in the question. “You get stumbly.”
“Howard,” she said.
He disappeared into the bathroom again.
“Hey,” she called, getting to her feet. This time he leaned out the door, bending low, so that he was looking at her from a horizontal angle. He tipped an imaginary hat and said, “You slept with Dorsey before you got married, huh. That’s the stumbly truth, sort of.”
“Stop talking about Dorsey,” she said. “Stop that.”
He grinned at her. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you went out and met him while we were engaged. I mean, you know. Talking to him on the phone and stuff. You and old Dorsey maybe decided to play a little for old time’s sake. A little stumbly on the side?”
“What?” she said to him. “What?”
He lifted his chin slightly, as if to challenge her.
“Look,” she said, “This isn’t funny. I know you don’t mean it but it’s not in the least bit amusing.”
He had disappeared past the frame.
“Howard,” she said.
Now he let himself fall out of the frame, catching himself at the last possible second with one hand. Again, he tipped an imaginary hat. “Dorsey has beautiful hands, and you made some rock ‘n’ roll behind my back.”
“Howard, stop this.”
He was laughing; he had pulled himself up and was out of sight again. She moved toward the bed, so that she could see into where he was. But now he came out, walking unsteadily, carrying his folded shirt and pants.
“Howard,” she said.
He turned to her, his face an impassive, confident mask. “Wait,” he said.
“Howard, say you’re sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” he said.
“I mean it,” she told him.
He went to the bed and dropped down on it again, clasped his hands behind his head, and seemed to wait for her to speak. But he spoke first. “Strip.”
“What?”
“Go ahead. Strip for me.”
She said nothing.
“Come on. Dance—turn me on a little.”
“Look,” she said.
“Hey—look,” he said. “I mean it. I really want you to.” His face was bright and innocent-looking and friendly, as if he were a child asking for candy. She had a moment of doubting that she could have heard everything quite exactly.
“Honey,” she said. “You’re teasing me.”
He crossed his legs. “I’m not teasing—come on, this is our honeymoon, right? I’ve been waiting for this.”
“You—” she began.
“Look, what’s the situation here,” he said. “You’re not like this, Howard, now stop it.” “Well,” he said. “Maybe I am teasing.”
“Don’t tease like that anymore,” she told him. “I don’t like it.”
“Aren’t you drunk?” he said. He was lying there staring at her. “Didn’t you strip for Dorsey?”
She turned, started fumbling with the door. “Hey,” he said.
She couldn’t get the door to work; at some point she’d put the chain on. He got off the bed and came up behind her. She was crying. He wrapped his arms around her, was holding her, kissing the back of her neck. “Let go of me,” she said.
“Don’t be mad.”
“Let go of me, Howard.”
He stepped back. She pulled the hair away from her face, feeling sour now—sodden and dizzy and alone. She was leaning against the door, crying, and he simply stood there with that open-faced boy’s expression, staring at her. “Hey,” he said. “I was just teasing you.”
“Teasing,” she said. “Teasing. Right. Jesus Christ.”
“I was teasing. Didn’t you know I was teasing?”
She looked at him.
“Hey,” he said. “Come on.” He took hold of her elbow, was leading her back into the room, and she had an eerie, frightful moment of sensing that he considered himself to be in a kind of mastery over her. She resisted, pulled away from him. “Don’t touch me.”
“Hey,” he said not unkindly. “I said I was sorry.”
“You said those horrible things—”
He sat down on the bed and locked his hands between his knees. “Let’s start over, okay? This is supposed to be a honeymoon night.”
She stood there.
“We were having so much fun. Weren’t we? Weren’t we having fun?”
It was impossible to return his gaze. Impossible to look into those blue boy’s eyes.
“I got drunk, okay? I went too far.”
“I don’t feel good,” she said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Want me to go for you?”
“No.” She was crying, holding it in, moving toward the bathroom door. The light in that little tiled space looked like refuge. He stood and moved in front of her, reaching to hold the door open. “Oh, hey,” he said. “I’ve got one.”
She halted, sniffled, felt the closeness of the room.
“Do you have to go really bad?”
“I just want to be alone for a while,” she said.
“You don’t have to go?”
“Howard, for God’s sake.”
“Well, no—but look. I’ve got one more. You’ve got to see it. It’s funny. Stay here.”
“I don’t want to play anymore,” she told him.
“Yeah, but wait’ll you see this one.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, crying. “Please.”
“You’ll see,” he told her, turning his bright, happy expression away, moving into the bathroom ahead of her and hunching down, working himself up somehow.
“Oh, please,” she said, crying, watching him with his back turned there in the bright light of the bathroom.
“Wait, now,” he said. “Let me think a minute. I’ll have one in a minute.” He wavered slightly and brought his hands up to his face. “It’ll be funny,” he said. “Don’t look. I’m thinking.”
“Just let’s go to sleep,” she told him.
“Let me concentrate,” he said. “Jesus. I promise you’ll like it and laugh.”
She waited, feeling a deeper and deeper sense of revulsion. It was the champagne, of course; she’d had so much of it and they were both drunk, and people said and did things when they’d had too much. She was trying to keep this clear in her mind, feeling the sickness start in her and watching him in his bent, agitated posture. He turned slightly and regarded her. “Don’t stare,” he said. “I can’t concentrate if you stare.”
“What are you doing?” she asked him. But she had barely spoken; the words had issued forth from her like a breath.
“I had it a minute ago,” he said, hunching his shoulders, shifting slightly, running his hands through his hair. Watching this, she had an unpleasant thought, which arrived almost idly in the boozy haze and irritation of the moment, but which quickly blossomed into a fright more profound than she could have dreamed—and which some part of her struggled with a deep shudder to blot out—that he looked like one of those scarily adept comedians on television, the ones who faced themselves away from the camera and gyrated a moment, then whirled around and were changed, had become the semblance of someone else, spoke in an accent or with a different voice, or had donned a mask or assumed a contorted facial expression, looking like anyone at all but themselves.
OLD WEST
1950
Don’t let my age or my clothes fool you. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve
read all the books and tried all the counsels of the flesh, too. I’ve been up and I’ve been down and I’ve lived to see the story of my own coming of age in the Old West find its way into the general mind, if you will. In late middle age, for a while, I entertained on the vaudeville stage, telling that story. It’s easy to look past an old man now, I know. But in those days I was pretty good. The Old West was my subject. I had that one story I liked to tell, about Shane coming into our troubled mountain valley. You know the story. Well, I was the one, the witness. The little boy. I had come from there, from that big sky, those tremendous spaces, and I had seen it all. And yet the reason I could tell the story well enough to work in vaudeville with it was that I no longer quite believed it.
What I have to tell now is about that curious fact.
I’ve never revealed any of this before. Back then, I couldn’t have, because it might’ve threatened my livelihood; and later I didn’t because—well, just because. But the fact is, he came back to the valley twelve, thirteen years later. Joe Starrett was dead of the cholera, and though Mother and I were still living on the place, there really wasn’t much to recommend it anymore. You couldn’t get corn or much of anything green to grow. That part of the world was indeed cattle country and for all the bravery of the homesteaders, people had begun to see this at last.
We’d buried Joe Starrett out behind the barn, and Mother didn’t want to leave him there, wouldn’t move to town. Town, by the way, hadn’t really changed, either: the center of it was still Grafton’s one all-purpose building—though, because it was the site of the big gunfight, it had somewhat of the aspect of a museum about it now, Grafton having left the bullet hole in the wall and marked out the stains of blood on the dusty floor. But it was still the center of activity, still served as the saloon and general store, and lately, on Sundays, it had even become a place of worship.
The Stories of Richard Bausch Page 30