No Story to Tell (18 page)

Sliding deep into the bath, she smiled as the displaced water swelled up and over the sides. Screw Bobby and his water restrictions. Tonight she was going to pamper herself. Sliding even lower, she closed her eyes and felt the warm lapping of tiny waves against her nipples. She set her thoughts free to run wild and they ran at once to Elliot. She searched back through her memory of the time she’d spent with him, looking for evidence that perhaps he’d heard the rumors of Bobby’s alleged unfaithfulness toward her, but nothing presented itself. If he’d been a longtime resident of the valley, he’d have heard for sure, gossip being passed among the locals like colds and flu. But Elliot was still considered an outsider, and as such was kept just outside the most intimate sins of the valley.

The soap in one hand, she raised her left leg upward, admired it and drew it toward her. Elliot was right; she should open a studio. No. She was
going
to open a studio. Her studio. Her very own studio. She would make the suggestion lightly to Bobby this time in order not to upset him. Plant the seed and let it take root. Perhaps, if she went slowly enough, he might even agree to help her get a place set up. Cupping her foot with both hands, she pressed the soap into the hollow of her sole and slid it slowly back and forth in a gentle arc, the motion evoking sensual feelings within her. Gradually she worked the bar over to the top of her foot, massaging her toes and slipping a pinkie deeply between them as she went, slowly spreading them apart until they almost signaled pain. Dropping the soap beneath her, she dipped her leg into the water, found the soap and again began to lather her calf, her knee, her thigh into a bubbly white stocking of silk champagne. Closing her eyes she continued up over the smooth flatness of her stomach, traced a slippery curve over first one breast then the other. Raising the other leg she again began the slippery ascent, the bar of soap settling against her inner thigh where, pressing it tightly against her she slipped it upward and over to the other leg, the pressure catching her with a stifled cry.

The glide of the soap against her skin became Elliot’s lips. Her breath, his voice. Her hands, his. His hands that had obsessed her every waking hour for the last few weeks, haunted her dreams, reaching in and drawing her toward nocturnal ecstasy. The hands that materialized before her in the branches of trees stroking the wind, became the caress of her hair as it kissed her neck. She sucked moist air deep inside her, continuing to run the soap firmly and quickly over her body, then froze. Her eyes flashed open as she attempted to reconcile in her mind the unmistakable roar of Bobby’s truck coming down the driveway.

They sat silent as the truck grumbled its way toward town, the radio providing the entertainment with sketches of static occasionally interrupted by music. The slate sky stretched tight and serious across the valley, darker clouds threatening at the edges and hinting at more snow. Bobby had been right: it was barely the end of October, winter arriving early and with such severity it made one wonder if the earth could ever again find its way into full bloom.

“Heard Gainer’s got himself a new truck. Brand-new ’78 Ford. JJ says it’s decked right out, got all the bells and whistles. Bet Diana’s old man helped him out with it.”

He yanked a cigarette from the pack on the dash, lit it angrily then flicked the dead match into the garbage littering the floor. Taking a forceful drag, he expelled it sharply.

“Shit! Bet that dumb bugger’s mortgaged right to the bloody nuts. Won’t be thinking he’s so damn smart once those peckers at the bank start jerking his chain.”

He smiled at this thought, paused to savor a couple more squinty-eyed pulls from his smoke then continued airing his complaints.

“Any dumb-ass can drive ’round in a new rig if they’re willing to be mortgaged to the hilt. I sure as hell wouldn’t do that. No way those crooked buggers gonna think they’ve got me by the balls. No blee-oody way. Nope. Don’t owe a dime on this here truck and that’s how it’s gonna stay. Man can be damn proud of owning what he owns.”

He stamped this declaration with a heavy fist brought down emphatically on the dash, sealing his words with the dusty print. Snatching his red Finning cap off his black curls, he scratched his head then pulled it back on decisively, as if he’d settled the matter.

“Yeah, Gainer ain’t near so smart as he thinks. Potlicker’ll be kissing ass before he knows what hit him.”

He took another drag, harder, longer, and the cigarette flared viciously. A frozen pothole jarred them off balance, breaking away the ash, which exploded softly across the top of his thigh.

“Shit!” He immediately rubbed the ash into the light beige dress pants, where it refused to disappear but rather transformed into an unsightly gray smudge down the length of his femur. “Shit! Damn, useless, faggot pants. Look at that. Just bloody lovely.”

Pressing harder, he scrubbed his palm against the mark as if he could, by causing enough friction, reverse the damage done. Checking his progress and seeing none, he abandoned his efforts and returned to his former laments even more irritated, as if his trials were a direct consequence of Tom Gainer’s new truck.

“And you know what else? You’ll never believe what color that dumb mother bought. Petey says it’s this real puke green. Uglier than snot, he says.”

Pulling the last bit from his smoke, he tried to open his window to flick it out, but it was stuck, frozen shut. 
H
e jammed the butt into the overflowing ashtray, sending several others out onto the floor. A litany of defenses had jumped to her mind as Bobby spoke, but she’d let them slide away. Tom Gainer was by no means dumb, and everyone, including Bobby and his friends, knew the truck had been purchased with the gains of wise dealings and hard work and not on the back of bank credit as Bobby would have wished. But she held her words and ignored his tirade knowing a confrontation with the truth would do little more than enrage him. She didn’t want him enraged; she wanted his cooperation. Wanted an answer to the questions that prickled in her mind.

“Bobby, do you . . . do you think I’m . . . beautiful?”

Her voice faltered, hesitated with the words, not sure if she wanted to commit herself to the question, and the roar of the engine and rattle of the truck consumed her soft voice. Bobby, talking around a fresh cigarette stuck in between his dry lips continued on, unaware she’d even spoken.

“Paid way too damn much for it, too. JJ says he could’ve got that exact same rig for at least a grand cheaper. I betcha—”

“Bobby, I asked you a question.”

“What?”

“I asked you a question.”

“What?"

She shifted her position, uncomfortable to have gained his full attention. She’d become accustomed to their cursory conversations, both of them applying only nominal resources, instinctively knowing each turn in the dialog, filling in their parts as if on cue, thoughts elsewhere and not sharply required. She took a breath and pushed the words out one behind the other before she could hesitate or think about his response. She wanted to know. Felt that since the question had been raised she needed to ascertain the answer. Needed to uncover the caller’s motive, which seemed to her more important even than his identity. Had it been merely a prank call or was it possible someone actually felt that way about her?

“Well? Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“You heard me, Bobby. Would you describe me that way?”

“What way?”

“Beautiful.” She forced the word out yet again, even though they both knew he was well aware of what she’d said.

He caught the word with a scowl and grunted, uncomfortable at being put on the spot.

“What kind of asinine question is that?”

“It’s not asinine. I was just wondering that’s all, you never—”

“Don’t even bother saying that I never told you that, Vic, ’cause I did and you know it.”

“When?”

“I don’t know when. I told you lots of times. Ain’t my fault if you can’t remember.”

“I remember once, Bobby. No, twice. But it was a long time ago, before we were even married.”

“Yeah, well, you was good-looking then.”

“Then? You thought I was good-looking, then?”

“Course I did. Wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t.”

“But what—” she started then stumbled, fiddled with the zipper of her coat. It surprised her, this sudden nervousness in the face of his verdict, having long believed herself immune to his judgment. “Well, what about now?”

“Now?”

She nodded, forced her eyes to hold his face as he lit his cigarette with agitation.

“Right now? This very bloody minute?”

“Well, no, Bobby. Not exactly right now. Just in general. Now that I’m older and everything.”

“Now?”

She nodded, her eyes fleeing to her hands, which continued fussing back and forth between her coat zipper and the snap closure on her purse. He looked over at her, slid solid eyes over each feature, a frown wrinkling together his brow as he struggled toward a conclusion. He gave a cursory nod, expelling two bursts of smoke from his nostrils as he did so.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you ain’t too bad-looking yet.”

“But, would you say I’m beautiful, Bobby?”

“Blee-oody-hell woman. That’s what I just said. Is that not what I just bloody said?”

She could feel his discomfort at being cornered. Recognized his brewing frustration in the bunching of his shoulders, the defensive angle at which he’d set his jaw, the way his hands gripped the wheel and harassed it back and forth.

“Well, why do you think it is you never tell me that?”

“Tell you what?”

She felt foolish. Knew she was pushing beyond his comfort zone, but she continued anyhow, wanting more than anything to hear the words she longed to hear.

“What we were just talking about, Bobby. That you think I still look nice. Why don’t you ever tell me that?”

It was too much for him: the pressuring, the cornering, the unfamiliar intimacy of the conversation. Even the irregular scratching of the radio combined to form one massive provocation that flew at his face, sending him into a flailing-armed fit.

“I did tell you! I did! What the hell I got to do, woman, tattoo it across my bloody chest? That make you happy? Huh? Or maybe across my forehead. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Tattoo it straight across friggin’ here.” He ripped off his cap and knuckled his forehead hard. “Then every time you look at me you’ll see it. That be good enough for you, Vic? Huh? That work for you?”

He rattled on over this line of attack, amused with his ingenuity, minuscule beads of sweat working onto his reddened face as he notched his way up through several degrees of intensity.

“Problem with them tattoos is that they don’t ever go away. Here you’d be all dried up and wrinkly, and me going round still with this damn tattoo across my bloody forehead. I’ll just tell ’em—”

He attempted his speech several times, but his internal image dissolved him into laughter. He laughed across at her, slapped his leg and actually expected her to join him. She sat stiffly, eyes straight ahead unseeing and ignoring while she waited for him to realize his amusement had not been shared.

“Hey! What the hell’s picking your ass?”

“Nothing. Just forget it.” She tried for flippant, but hurt slipped across the consonants and dripped from the vowels.

“No, I ain’t gonna just forget it. You got a problem, I wanna hear about it.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Yeah, well it feels like a problem to me. Just having a little fun, that’s all. Man, you get your pyramid every friggin’ day of the month or what? Seems you’re always pissy about something.”

This snagged her temper, drew her back into the arena. Not because it was true, but because it was not, being both grossly unfair and a reversing of the truth.

“Not true, Bobby. Not true and you know it.”

“I do, eh?”

“Well, you should.”

“Should I?”

“Yes, you should.”

“And why is that?”

“You’ve been around other guy’s wives. You’ve said yourself you’re glad I’m not like most of them.”

“I said that?”

“Yes. You did. You know you did, Bobby. You’ve said it lots.”

“Yeah, well I’m glad you ain’t like Webber’s wife, that’s for damn sure. Look what happened to him.”

“Webber?”

“Yeah, you know Webber. JJ’s cousin—”

“Of course I know Webber, Bobby. What happened to him?”

“Oh, you know his wife leaving him and all. Own bloody fault, though, I’d say, always flashing her around like a big-titted Barbie doll, yakking about her looks and stuff. Right in front of her, too. Sure as hell didn’t surprise none of us when the bitch up and left the dumb prick. Run straight back home to her mama like a spoiled kid.”

“Bobby, that’s not why Melanie left him—”

“That’s exactly what it was. Just look where she ended up. Goes down to that fancy-ass college, ain’t two months before she’s moved in with some old bugger twice her age . . . Dr. what’s-his-face. Ain’t even a real Dr., just some bloody English teacher. Would’ve never happened if she hadn’t got so hopped up on herself. Still be with Webber minding her own damn business.”