“I need to be by myself tonight,” I say. “I need to have time to think.”
He lets out breath. “I’m thinking you’re making a big mistake by doing this. I’m thinking you’d better think again about what you’re doing. Claire?”
I can’t answer. I don’t know what I want to say. I turn and begin to tuck in the edges of the blanket. He stares at me a minute longer and then I see him raise his shoulders. “Suit yourself then. I could give a fuck less what you do,” he says. He turns and walks down the hall scratching his neck.
This morning I read in the paper that services for Susan Miller are to be held in Chapel of the Pines, Summit, at two o’clock the next afternoon. Also, that police have taken statements from three people who saw her get into the green Chevrolet. But they still have no license number for the car. They are getting warmer, though, and the investigation is continuing. I sit for a long while holding the paper, thinking, then I call to make an appointment at the hairdresser’s.
I sit under the dryer with a magazine on my lap and let Millie do my nails.
“I’m going to a funeral tomorrow,” I say after we have talked a bit about a girl who no longer works there.
Millie looks up at me and then back at my fingers. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Kane. I’m real sorry.”
“It’s a young girl’s funeral,” I say.
“That’s the worst kind. My sister died when I was a girl, and I’m still not over it to this day. Who died?” she says after a minute.
“A girl. We weren’t all that close, you know, but still.”
“Too bad. I’m real sorry. But we’ll get you fixed up for it, don’t worry. How’s that look?”
“That looks … fine. Millie, did you ever wish you were somebody else, or else just nobody, nothing, nothing at all?”
She looks at me. “I can’t say I ever felt that, no. No, if I was somebody else I’d be afraid I might not like who I was.” She holds my fingers and seems to think about something for a minute. “I don’t know, I just don’t know.… Let me have your other hand now, Mrs. Kane.”
At eleven o’clock that night I make another bed on the sofa and this time Stuart only looks at me, rolls his tongue behind his lips, and goes down the hall to the bedroom. In the night I wake and listen to the wind slamming the gate against the fence. I don’t want to be awake, and I lie for a long while with my eyes closed. Finally I get up and go down the hall with my pillow. The light is burning in our bedroom and Stuart is on his back with his mouth open, breathing heavily. I go into Dean’s room and get into bed with him. In his sleep he moves over to give me space. I lie there for a minute and then hold him, my face against his hair.
“What is it, Mama?” he says.
“Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep. It’s nothing, it’s all right.”
I get up when I hear Stuart’s alarm, put on coffee and prepare breakfast while he shaves.
He appears in the kitchen doorway, towel over his bare shoulder, appraising.
“Here’s coffee,” I say. “Eggs will be ready in a minute.”
He nods.
I wake Dean and the three of us have breakfast. Once or twice Stuart looks at me as if he wants to say something, but each time I ask Dean if he wants more milk, more toast, etc.
“I’ll call you today,” Stuart says as he opens the door.
“I don’t think I’ll be home today,” I say quickly. “I have a lot of things to do today. In fact, I may be late for dinner.”
“All right. Sure.” He moves his briefcase from one hand to the other. “Maybe we’ll go out for dinner tonight? How would you like that?” He keeps looking at me. He’s forgotten about the girl already. “Are you all right?”
I move to straighten his tie, then drop my hand. He wants to kiss me goodbye. I move back a step. “Have a nice day then,” he says finally. He turns and goes down the walk to his car.
I dress carefully. I try on a hat that I haven’t worn in several years and look at myself in the mirror. Then I remove the hat, apply a light makeup, and write a note for Dean.
Honey, Mommy has things to do this afternoon, but will be home later. You are to stay in the house or in the back/yard until one of us comes home.
Love
I look at the word “Love” and then I underline it. As I am writing the note I realize I don’t know whether back yard is one word or two. I have never considered it before. I think about it and then I draw a line and make two words of it.
I stop for gas and ask directions to Summit. Barry, a forty-year-old mechanic with a moustache, comes out from the restroom and leans against the front fender while the other man, Lewis, puts the hose into the tank and begins to slowly wash the windshield.
“Summit,” Barry says, looking at me and smoothing a finger down each side of his moustache. “There’s no best way to get to Summit, Mrs. Kane. It’s about a two-, two-and-a-half-hour drive each way. Across the mountains. It’s quite a drive for a woman. Summit? What’s in Summit, Mrs. Kane?”
“I have business,” I say, vaguely uneasy. Lewis has gone to wait on another customer.
“Ah. Well, if I wasn’t tied up there –” he gestures with his thumb toward the bay – “I’d offer to drive you to Summit and back again. Road’s not all that good. I mean it’s good enough, there’s just a lot of curves and so on.”
“I’ll be all right. But thank you.” He leans against the fender. I can feel his eyes as I open my purse.
Barry takes the credit card. “Don’t drive it at night,” he says. “It’s not all that good a road, like I said. And while I’d be willing to bet you wouldn’t have car trouble with this, I know this car, you can never be sure about blowouts and things like that. Just to be on the safe side I’d better check these tires.” He taps one of the front tires with his shoe. “We’ll run it onto the hoist. Won’t take long.”
“No, no, it’s all right. Really, I can’t take any more time. The tires look fine to me.”
“Only takes a minute,” he says. “Be on the safe side.”
“I said no. No! They look fine to me. I have to go now. Barry.…”
“Mrs. Kane?”
“I have to go now.”
I sign something. He gives me the receipt, the card, some stamps. I put everything into my purse. “You take it easy,” he says. “Be seeing you.”
As I wait to pull into the traffic, I look back and see him watching. I close my eyes, then open them. He waves.
I turn at the first light, then turn again and drive until I come to the highway and read the sign: SUMMIT 117 MILES. It is ten-thirty and warm.
The highway skirts the edge of town, then passes through farm country, through fields of oats and sugar beets and apple orchards, with here and there a small herd of cattle grazing in open pastures. Then everything changes, the farms become fewer and fewer, more like shacks now than houses, and stands of timber replace the orchards. All at once I’m in the mountains and on the right, far below, I catch glimpses of the Naches River.
In a little while I see a green pickup truck behind me, and it stays behind me for miles. I keep slowing at the wrong times, hoping it will pass, and then increasing my speed, again at the wrong times. I grip the wheel until my fingers hurt. Then on a clear stretch he does pass, but he drives along beside for a minute, a crew-cut man in a blue workshirt in his early thirties, and we look at each other. Then he waves, toots the horn twice, and pulls ahead of me.
I slow down and find a place, a dirt road off of the shoulder. I pull over and turn off the ignition. I can hear the river somewhere down below the trees. Ahead of me the dirt road goes into the trees. Then I hear the pickup returning.
I start the engine just as the truck pulls up behind me. I lock the doors and roll up the windows. Perspiration breaks on my face and arms as I put the car in gear, but there is no place to drive.
“You all right?” the man says as he comes up to the car. “Hello. Hello in there.” He raps the glass. “You okay?” He leans his a
rms on the door and brings his face close to the window.
I stare at him and can’t find any words.
“After I passed I slowed up some,” he says. “But when I didn’t see you in the mirror I pulled off and waited a couple of minutes. When you still didn’t show I thought I’d better drive back and check. Is everything all right? How come you’re locked up in there?”
I shake my head.
“Come on, roll down your window. Hey, are you sure you’re okay? You know it’s not good for a woman to be batting around the country by herself.” He shakes his head and looks at the highway, then back at me. “Now come on, roll down the window, how about it? We can’t talk this way.”
“Please, I have to go.”
“Open the door, all right?” he says, as if he isn’t listening. “At least roll the window down. You’re going to smother in there.” He looks at my breasts and legs. The skirt has pulled up over my knees. His eyes linger on my legs, but I sit still, afraid to move.
“I want to smother,” I say. “I am smothering, can’t you see?
“What in the hell?” he says and moves back from the door. He turns and walks back to his truck. Then, in the side mirror, I watch him returning, and I close my eyes.
“You don’t want me to follow you toward Summit or anything? I don’t mind. I got some extra time this morning,” he says.
I shake my head.
He hesitates and then shrugs. “Okay, lady, have it your way then,” he says. “Okay.”
I wait until he has reached the highway, and then I back out. He shifts gears and pulls away slowly, looking back at me in his rearview mirror. I stop the car on the shoulder and put my head on the wheel.
The casket is closed and covered with floral sprays. The organ begins soon after I take a seat near the back of the chapel. People begin to file in and find chairs, some middle-aged and older people, but most of them in their early twenties or even younger. They are people who look uncomfortable in their suits and ties, sport coats and slacks, their dark dresses and leather gloves. One boy in flared pants and a yellow short-sleeved shirt takes the chair next to mine and begins to bite his lips. A door opens at one side of the chapel and I look up and for a minute the parking lot reminds me of a meadow. But then the sun flashes on car windows. The family enters in a group and moves into a curtained area off to the side. Chairs creak as they settle themselves. In a few minutes a slim, blond man in a dark suit stands and asks us to bow our heads. He speaks a brief prayer for us, the living, and when he finishes he asks us to pray in silence for the soul of Susan Miller, departed. I close my eyes and remember her picture in the newspaper and on television. I see her leaving the theater and getting into the green Chevrolet. Then I imagine her journey down the river, the nude body hitting rocks, caught at by branches, the body floating and turning, her hair streaming in the water. Then the hands and hair catching in the overhanging branches, holding, until four men come along to stare at her. I can see a man who is drunk (Stuart?) take her by the wrist. Does anyone here know about that? What if these people knew that? I look around at the other faces. There is a connection to be made of these things, these events, these faces, if I can find it. My head aches with the effort to find it.
He talks about Susan Miller’s gifts: cheerfulness and beauty, grace and enthusiasm. From behind the closed curtain someone clears his throat, someone else sobs. The organ music begins. The service is over.
Along with the others I file slowly past the casket. Then I move out onto the front steps and into the bright, hot afternoon light. A middle-aged woman who limps as she goes down the stairs ahead of me reaches the sidewalk and looks around, her eyes falling on me. “Well, they got him,” she says. “If that’s any consolation. They arrested him this morning. I heard it on the radio before I came. A guy right here in town. A longhair, you might have guessed.” We move a few steps down the hot sidewalk. People are starting cars. I put out my hand and hold on to a parking meter. Sunlight glances off polished hoods and fenders. My head swims. “He’s admitted having relations with her that night, but he says he didn’t kill her.” She snorts. “They’ll put him on probation and then turn him loose.”
“He might not have acted alone,” I say. “They’ll have to be sure. He might be covering up for someone, a brother, or some friends.”
“I have known that child since she was a little girl,” the woman goes on, and her lips tremble. “She used to come over and I’d bake cookies for her and let her eat them in front of the TV.” She looks off and begins shaking her head as the tears roll down her cheeks.
Stuart sits at the table with a drink in front of him. His eyes are red and for a minute I think he has been crying. He looks at me and doesn’t say anything. For a wild instant I feel something has happened to Dean, and my heart turns.
“Where is he?” I say. “Where is Dean?”
“Outside,” he says.
“Stuart, I’m so afraid, so afraid,” I say, leaning against the door.
“What are you afraid of, Claire? Tell me, honey, and maybe I can help. I’d like to help, just try me. That’s what husbands are for.”
“I can’t explain,” I say. “I’m just afraid. I feel like, I feel like, I feel like.…”
He drains his glass and stands up, not taking his eyes from me. “I think I know what you need, honey. Let me play doctor, okay? Just take it easy now.” He reaches an arm around my waist and with his other hand begins to unbutton my jacket, then my blouse. “First things first,” he says, trying to joke.
“Not now, please,” I say.
“Not now, please,” he says, teasing. “Please nothing.” Then he steps behind me and locks an arm around my waist. One of his hands slips under my brassiere.
“Stop, stop, stop,” I say. I stamp on his toes.
And then I am lifted up and then falling. I sit on the floor looking up at him and my neck hurts and my skirt is over my knees. He leans down and says, “You go to hell then, do you hear, bitch? I hope your cunt drops off before I touch it again.” He sobs once and I realize he can’t help it, he can’t help himself either. I feel a rush of pity for him as he heads for the living room.
He didn’t sleep at home last night.
This morning, flowers, red and yellow chrysanthemums. I am drinking coffee when the doorbell rings.
“Mrs. Kane?” the young man says, holding his box of flowers.
I nod and pull the robe tighter at my throat.
“The man who called, he said you’d know.” The boy looks at my robe, open at the throat, and touches his cap. He stands with his legs apart, feet firmly planted on the top step. “Have a nice day,” he says.
A little later the telephone rings and Stuart says, “Honey, how are you? I’ll be home early, I love you. Did you hear me? I love you, I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you. Goodbye, I have to run now.”
I put the flowers into a vase in the center of the dining room table and then I move my things into the extra bedroom.
Last night, around midnight, Stuart breaks the lock on my door. He does it just to show me that he can, I suppose, for he doesn’t do anything when the door springs open except stand there in his underwear looking surprised and foolish while the anger slips from his face. He shuts the door slowly, and a few minutes later I hear him in the kitchen prying open a tray of ice cubes.
I’m in bed when he calls today to tell me that he’s asked his mother to come stay with us for a few days. I wait a minute, thinking about this, and then hang up while he is still talking. But in a little while I dial his number at work. When he finally comes on the line I say, “It doesn’t matter, Stuart. Really, I tell you it doesn’t matter one way or the other.”
“I love you,” he says.
He says something else and I listen and nod slowly. I feel sleepy. Then I wake up and say, “For God’s sake, Stuart, she was only a child.”
A Small, Good Thing
SATURDAY AFTERNOON SHE DROVE to the bakery in the shopping center. After
looking through a loose-leaf binder with photographs of cakes taped onto the pages, she ordered chocolate, the child’s favorite. The cake she chose was decorated with a spaceship and launching pad under a sprinkling of white stars, and a planet made of red frosting at the other end. His name, SCOTTY, would be in green letters beneath the planet. The baker, who was an older man with a thick neck, listened without saying anything when she told him the child would be eight years old next Monday. The baker wore a white apron that looked like a smock. Straps cut under his arms, went around in back and then to the front again, where they were secured under his heavy waist. He wiped his hands on his apron as he listened to her. He kept his eyes down on the photographs and let her talk. He let her take her time. He’d just come to work and he’d be there all night, baking, and he was in no real hurry.
She gave the baker her name, Ann Weiss, and her telephone number. The cake would be ready on Monday morning, just out of the oven, in plenty of time for the child’s party that afternoon. The baker was not jolly. There were no pleasantries between them, just the minimum exchange of words, the necessary information. He made her feel uncomfortable, and she didn’t like that. While he was bent over the counter with the pencil in his hand, she studied his coarse features and wondered if he’d ever done anything else with his life besides be a baker. She was a mother and thirty-three years old, and it seemed to her that everyone, especially someone the baker’s age – a man old enough to be her father – must have children who’d gone through this special time of cakes and birthday parties. There must be that between them, she thought. But he was abrupt with her – not rude, just abrupt. She gave up trying to make friends with him. She looked into the back of the bakery and could see a long, heavy wooden table with aluminum pie pans stacked at one end; and beside the table a metal container filled with empty racks. There was an enormous oven. A radio was playing country-western music.
The baker finished printing the information on the special order card and closed up the binder. He looked at her and said, “Monday morning.” She thanked him and drove home.