Whites

by Norman Rush

  “Remember to take the milk when you go,” Frank said. He was improvising. He wanted to give everything in the house away, he felt so good.

  “You must always listen to your sister,” he said to the small girls.

  He felt like talking to Christie. “You can always learn something, am I right? These peas. I always mangle them when I string them, you know? I learned something.”

  “It’s past time they were home in bed,” Christie said grimly, over his shoulder.

  Frank said, “For sure. Time to get going. Better hurry. They get interested and they lose track of time. My fault, because I dozed off in the living room.” The two younger sisters went out, one carrying the milk.

  Christie retreated to the kitchen doorway. Frank said, “If you want to talk about anything, we can. Maybe you’d like to apologize for charging in the way you did.” Christie was self-absorbed. Would he say anything before he left? Frank let himself feel slightly sorry for Christie. He could patronize Christie. He wanted to hurt Christie, but he could afford to be understanding.

  Frank wanted Moitse out fast. He was avoiding looking directly at her. She might reveal something. She was still a child, smart as she was. She was enjoying her victory. He motioned her to go. Christie could turn around and revert to his animal self, the way he’d been in the living room when he thought he had the scent. Moitse left. Frank locked up. He needed two hands to do it.

  Now Christie was leaving. He was hurrying. Frank caught up with him in the breezeway. Christie had the door open already.

  “You owe me an apology,” Frank said. He was playing. He was toying with Christie. He couldn’t let Christie go so easily.

  Christie looked at him. “God is not mocked,” Christie said, pronouncing God as “gaud,” and using his most penetrating tone. “God led me here tonight. I go where He leads me. I am His servant. I have no apology to make. My pride to me is dust and rags. I am God’s man. Good evening to you.”

  The house was filling up with insects. Frank shrugged. He said, “Goodnight, then.”

  Everything was too much. He watched Christie go. He wanted to see him back where he belonged.

  A draft stirred Frank’s bathrobe: out of the folds the condom dropped, like a fallen blossom. It could have happened at any time in the last ten minutes. He stepped on the thing. He felt numb.

  Frank went through the house and tested the locks on the doors and windows. It was a way of decelerating. He had to decelerate.

  He went into the living room to watch Christie’s house go dark again.

  He went into the bathroom, where he took off his bathrobe and reburied it in the hamper. It was a rag and it smelled. He was ashamed. He would lie down and get up later for a shower.

  He lay down on the bed. He felt his pulse slowing. Tears came to his eyes for a while. He was near sleep.

  There was a scraping sound at the window above him, the sound of nails on the flyscreen. He recognized it. He sat up straight. She was back.

  She was back.