The Last Picture Show

  She only glimpsed them as the car passed between her house and the next, and all she saw really was the glint of spring sunset on Jacy’s gold hair. She did not even see Sonny’s face, did not know whether he looked happy or glum to be with Jacy, but the glimpse ruined her content. For a moment or two she had to hold onto the clothesline—it was as if she had been struck a numbing blow across her thighs. Her legs felt so unsteady that she could hardly move down the line to the next stiff pair of pants. Sonny had never mentioned Jacy to her: she had glimpsed the very beginning of something. Duane and Jacy might have broken up. As she dragged the sheets off the line she felt a sudden panic, silly but nonetheless terrifying. She was sure that Sonny was in love with Jacy and would never come to her house again. She would have wept, but the dread that seized her was too dry. It was as if she had suddenly been faced with her own end, an end too dry and commonplace to cry about. When all the clothes were piled in the basket she stood in the yard a minute, under the empty lines, her only comfort the soft evening air. She could not stand the thought of going into the tight, hot kitchen, where Herman was eating black-eyed peas, but the next moment a thought came to her and she grabbed the clothes basket and hurried in. Herman had finished the peas and was eating a bowlful of yellow canned peaches, one of his favorite desserts.

  “Herman,” she asked, “have Duane and Jacy broken up? I thought I saw her go by just now with someone else in the car.”

  The coach looked up with mild interest. “Hope so,” he said. “Nothin’ I’d like better than to see them two bust up. I might get a couple of good baseball games out of Duane if they would.”

  Ruth took heart and took out the ironing board and sprinkler bottle. Life came back into her legs; she decided the spasm of dread had been irrational. Even so, considering it calmly, it was clear that in time she was bound to be hurt, and badly so. She was twenty years older than him, and he would not keep wanting her forever. Sooner or later he would leave and she would have to get over him, but she was so relieved to know that it was going to be later—not for a week, at least, and perhaps not for a month or even a year—that she resolved not to care. As she ironed she indulged herself in the pleasant fantasy that she was in Sonny’s room, doing the ironing for him. She nursed a strong secret wish to go to his room sometime, to be with him where he lived rather than where Herman lived.

  The coach finished his peaches and lay on the couch for a couple of hours, watching television while Ruth finished ironing. When the late news came on he turned the set off: news bored him. He straggled lazily into the bedroom to undress, and found that Ruth was there ahead of him, sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing hand lotion into her hands. She had her shoes off and was barefooted. It seemed to the coach that she looked younger than a woman her age ought to look: her ankles were slim, and even her face looked young. He didn’t know it, but she had managed to sustain her favorite fantasy all the way to the bedroom and was pretending to herself that she was undressing in Sonny’s room. All the coach knew was that she irritated him. She went to the closet to hang up her dress and even the lightness of her walk irritated him. He sat down in the rocker to pull off his sweaty socks, remembering that she had mentioned Jacy and Duane.

  “Who was it you seen with Jacy?” he asked, stirred by his dislike of the girl.

  “I didn’t get a good look at the boy,” Ruth said, a little surprised. “It was Sonny Crawford I think.”

  The coach grunted. He stood up, emptied his pockets onto the dresser, and pitched his pants through the bathroom door in the general direction of the dirty-clothes hamper. It was a warm night and the room seemed a little close to him. He threw up a window and stood in front of it a minute, idly scratching his testicles and enjoying the nice south breeze.

  After a minute he stretched out on the bed, but for some reason he couldn’t get Jacy Farrow off his mind. It was little twats like her that ruined young athletes, so far as he was concerned. If it hadn’t been for her, Duane would have come out for track and they might have won a track championship. As he lay on his back, still scratching himself, he thought how nice it would be to hump a little rich girl like her until she got so sick of it she would never want to see another boy, much less bother one. That would be a smart piece of coaching, but hard to bring off.

  While his thoughts were running in that direction he happened to glance over and notice Ruth—or at least he noticed half of her. She was undressing behind the closet door, but the strong breeze had blown the door open a bit wider than usual and Ruth was half exposed, the line of the door bisecting her body. The coach saw one leg, one breast, one shoulder and the side of her head as she turned and reached into the closet to take her gown off the hook. Ordinarily the sight of Ruth’s body gave him a feeling of mild distaste: his own mother had stood five-eleven and had worked just as hard as men worked nearly every day of her life. Nothing seemed more pathetic to him than a skinny woman, Ruth especially, but when he glanced at the closet he was not thinking of Ruth at all but of Jacy Farrow. He was thinking that if he ever got Jacy into the right corner he would pay back all the little pusses who had kept his boys stirred up over the years. The thought of administering such a lesson had him a little excited—his underwear developed a sizable hump. Ruth stepped out from behind the door, lowering the gown over her body, and the coach looked at her again. Something told him he would never get Jacy into the right corner, but Ruth was right there and she was just like a girl anyway. She had kept him stirred up at one time—if she hadn’t he would have stayed a bachelor and had the money to take some real hunting trips. He could have gone to Alaska, even. She deserved a prod as much as Jacy; no woman who had done a proper day’s work moved as lightly as she moved.

  Ruth’s mind was still elsewhere—she was unaware of the state her husband was in. It was not a state she had expected him to be in again. She sat down on the bed with her back to him and rubbed her calves a minute before stretching out. While she was sitting there the springs squeaked and Herman got out of bed; she supposed he had forgotten to go to the bathroom.

  “Turn off the light in there, please, when you’re done,” she said. Light from the bathroom made a bright patch on the floor of the darkened bedroom.

  Then she turned to lie down and noticed with a start that Herman was not headed for the bathroom at all. He was at the dresser, his underwear bulging out ludicrously. The sight stunned her, as it always had: all their married life Herman had announced his arousal by going to the dresser and rummaging in the sock drawer until he found the prophylactics. While she watched he found a package and strode into the bathroom to make himself ready.

  She knew that she was supposed to use the time while he was in the bathroom to prepare herself for wifely service, but she suddenly felt as if her whole body had become stiff as a plank. She had been thinking how nice it would be to spend a whole night in Sonny’s room, but when confronted with Herman’s intention all thought seemed to leave her. She merely lay on the bed, not thinking at all.

  When Herman came out he switched off the bathroom light, so that the bedroom was dark. He lay down heavily and without hesitation rolled himself onto Ruth, only to roll back a moment later, chagrined.

  “What the hell?” he said. “You done asleep?”

  In her paralysis Ruth had forgotten to do what she was supposed to do on such occasions: lift her nightgown and spread her legs. Those two actions were all that Herman required of her in the way of sexual cooperation. She raised her hips off the bed and pulled up the gown, and when he was satisfied that the obstruction had been removed the coach rolled back onto her and after a couple of badly aimed thrusts, made connection. Once he struck the place he went at it athletically.

  Ruth clenched her fists at her sides. Her chest and abdomen felt crushed, but it crossed her mind that she had crushed herself. What was crushing her was the weight of all the food she had fed Herman through the years, all the steaks, all the black-eyed peas, all the canned peaches. It was particularly the cann
ed peaches: she had never until that moment realized how much she hated them. It seemed to her that pyramids of cans of slimy peaches piled on her abdomen. After a moment the weight became intolerable and she moved a little, to try and ease it. She moved from side to side and stretched her legs, to try and escape it. Herman sweated easily and his sweat was already dripping down her ribs, but what bothered her was the weight of the cans. As she kept moving, trying to lighten the weight, she became aware of a distant pleasure. She began to writhe a little, in order to adjust the weight of the pyramid and intensify the pleasure—she flexed her legs and raised the lower part of her body a little, trying to get the weight right on the throbbing nerve.

  Her movements annoyed the coach a great deal. When he started he had not even been thinking of her, but of Jacy, and thinking of Jacy had been very enjoyable. At first Ruth had acted perfectly decent, but just when it was getting nicest she began to writhe and wiggle and even started going up and down against him. The coach was too surprised and outraged to speak, and anyway he had got to the point where he needed to hold onto Jacy in his mind. He tried to beat Ruth down with his body, so she would be still again, but his efforts had the opposite effect: the harder he tried the more she moved. He couldn’t slow her down at all, and he couldn’t stop himself.

  For a minute, with pounding heartbeats, they were running a hundred-yard dash with each other on equal terms. Neither knew how close the tape was, neither was sure of victory, but the coach crossed first. He recaptured Jacy for a second and desperately burst across, gasping with exhaustion and pleasure. Ruth was just at the turn. The weight was terribly sharp for a moment and then the coach’s heavy surge burst the pyramid and left her gasping, free of all weight.

  For his part the coach wanted badly to be gone on his side of the bed. Quickly he withdrew, but to his amazement and shame Ruth would not let him. She grasped him, put him back, would not have him leave, and he was too tired and surprised to fight. Except for the working of their lungs the two were still. In time, when their breath became quieter, the room was totally silent. The coach did not try again to withdraw, for fear he couldn’t. When he did in the natural fashion he quickly rolled onto his side of the bed.

  Ruth was away, in a misty, drowsy country, but even there she felt a little worried and a little sad. She had not meant it and could not understand how she had done it, given Herman something she thought was only for Sonny. It was as if her body had betrayed a trust and responded to the very man who had neglected it most. Perhaps she was not safe, not even from Herman. Hearing his exhausted breathing in her ear she had had a moment of sympathy for him as a person. She had felt for him a little bit. Perhaps she was no longer safe from anyone?

  The coach knew good and well he wasn’t safe. His body wanted to sleep, but his mind was far too agitated. He would never have imagined his own wife would grasp him: it was something worse than shameless. He didn’t want to remain in the same bed with her and considered going to the couch. Still, Ruth was the one who had beslimed the bed: she ought to go. The messiness of the female body had never been more offensive to him. If he even moved his leg he touched a wet spot. Disgusted, he got up and went in the bathroom to clean himself. The bright light made him blink.

  When he came back to the bed, Ruth was dozing. She knew he was offended, but it didn’t touch her. She felt pleasantly sleepy and had overcome her mild distress at being suddenly accessible. If Herman was going to insist on his connubial rights, then all the better that she could finally enjoy it.

  The coach stood over her in the dark, mad, but vaguely uneasy too. He had never dreamed Ruth had such wildness in her, and he was not sure how to get at her.

  “Ain’t you gonna change them sheets?” he asked sourly.

  “Hum? No. Why?” she asked drowsily.

  “Well by God,” he said, walking distractedly around the bed. “You’re a fine one, ain’t you. If my mother was alive and knew how you acted she’d have your hide. I’ve always heard women got nasty in their old age but I never thought it would happen to no wife of mine.”

  “Didn’t you like it, Herman?” Ruth asked, still sleepily. She was near enough asleep that she could be a little mean.

  With a grunt the coach lay down and turned his back on her. Like it! It was a fine come-off. What could a man say to a damn woman?

  CHAPTER XIV

  “KEEP AN EYE on them corks, Billy,” Sam the Lion said, getting to his feet. “I’ve got to go water the grass a little.”

  The corks bobbed undisturbed in the brown water of a large stock tank, and Billy, also undisturbed, sat by the water’s edge, watching them. Sonny was stretched out on his stomach in the Bermuda grass along the base of the tank dam. The May sun on his back was so warm that it made him drowsy, and he was almost asleep, content to leave Billy in full charge of the three fishing poles.

  Sam the Lion took a long time to water the grass, but he finally came back, grumbling and buttoning his pants.

  “Be nice to be able to piss,” he said. “If I last another year I’ll be dribblin’ it on my shoes. I’d almost be willing to be young again if I could take a real piss. Looks like we ain’t gonna catch much today.”

  “We never do,” Sonny said. Once every year or two the pretty spring weather would tempt Sam the Lion to get out and, as he put it, get a little scenery. The rest of the time he was content to get his scenery from the pretty calendars the local foodstore put out.

  When the urge for the outdoors came on him he would get Billy and the three fishing poles, enlist Sonny as a driver, and take the boys year after year to the same tank, perhaps the worst stocked fishing tank in the whole county. Once in a while they caught a perch or two, but always such undernourished specimens that old Marston refused to cook them.

  “Hell, Sam, you wouldn’t have nothing but two ounces of fried bones if I did cook them,” he maintained.

  Sam the Lion didn’t much care, and neither did the boys. Billy loved to sit on the bank and watch the rings in the water or the dragonflies that skimmed along the surface. He was always surprised and a little disconcerted when Sam the Lion grabbed one of the poles and actually pulled up a fish. When he looked into the water he saw no fish, and he was never really sure where they came from.

  After a while Sonny got tired of dozing and got up and walked along the tank dam a little way. It was a beautiful afternoon, a good day not to be doing anything—the sky was very blue and the pastures were green with spring grass and mesquite. In a moment he himself had the urge to water the grass in the way that Sam had, and he walked to the edge of the dam to do it. He felt warm and well and was faintly pleased by the spurt of his own water, even stretching himself a little to see if he could send a stream all the way to the foot of the dam. He didn’t quite make it, but it was a high sloping dam and he came close enough to be fully content with his own range.

  It was only as he turned around and was buttoning himself that he noticed that Sam the Lion had observed his little game. It embarrassed him just a little, but it did something much stranger to Sam the Lion. Sam began to snort, always a sign that something was affecting him powerfully, and then he began to laugh his loud, solid, rich laugh, something he did so rarely that both boys were startled. He sat by the water laughing, running his hands through his hair. Tears began to run down his face so freely that Sonny was not sure what was happening, whether Sam was laughing or crying. He pulled his handkerchief out of his hip pocket and began to wipe his face but no sooner had he done that than he burst out cussing and got up and stomped around furiously on the Bermuda grass.

  “Goddammit! Goddammit!” he cursed. “I don’t want to be old. It don’t fit me!”

  Then, seeing that the boys were scared, he became embarrassed and sat back down, still sniffing and snorting. He looked at the water and blew his nose and for a minute tried to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But both boys continued to stare at him and he gave it up and tried to explain.

  “I’ll tell
you what it was, son,” he said, looking at Sonny a little ruefully. “Seein’ you pissing off the dam reminded me of something. I used to own this land you know. It’s been right at fifty years since the first time I watered a horse at this tank. Reason I always drag you all out here probably—I’m just as sentimental as anybody else when it comes to old times. What you reminded me of happened twenty years ago—I brought a young lady swimming here. It was after my boys were already dead, my wife had lost her mind. Me and this young lady were pretty crazy, I guess. She had all the spirit in the world, and we had some times. We come out here swimmin’ one day without no bathin’ suits and after we got out of the water I walked off up there to piss. She was always on the lookout for something funny and she offered to bet me a silver dollar I couldn’t stand on the top of the dam and piss into the water. I took the bet and gave it a try but I never came no closer than you did. The lady’s still got the silver dollar.”

  He was quiet, looking at the water.

  Sonny had never known Sam the Lion except as an old man, and he was surprised and a little awed by the story. He wanted to ask who the woman was, but he didn’t have the nerve.

  “What became of the lady?” he asked.

  “Oh, she growed up,” Sam the Lion said, a tone of regret in his voice. “She was just a girl then, really.”

  “How come you never married her?”

  “She was done married,” Sam said gravely. “She and her husband were young and miserable with one another, but so many young married folks are that way that I figured they’d work out of it in time. I thought they’d get comfortable when they got a little older but it didn’t turn out that way.”

  “Is growin’ up always miserable?” Sonny said. “Nobody seems to enjoy it much.”

  “Oh, it ain’t necessarily miserable,” Sam replied. “About eighty per cent of the time, I guess.”