A Garden of Earthly Delights (21 page)

Lowry liked it that Clara struck up conversations with people they met, he said it wasn't healthy for a girl her age, a growing girl like her, to talk with only him. “Sooner we get you where you're going the better, kid.”

Clara heard this clearly. Clara heard the statement beneath
Sooner I can get rid of you the better.
But she pretended not to hear, just laughed. There was a high breathy laugh you heard on the radio, a feminine way of laughing. And twining her hair strangers said was the prettiest hair around her fingers in a way she'd seen Nancy do, in the days when Nancy had been younger, prettier; and Carleton Walpole had liked to look at her.

Clara had heard the two of them in the night lots of times, on their mattress in a corner of whatever room in whatever tar-paper shanty or cabin or unit, Nancy whimpering and moaning and Carleton panting, grunting hard, and groaning too like somebody was raking his back he could not bear it, yet had to bear it.
Going at it
was the expression Rosalie had used.
Going at it like dogs in heat
Rosalie had said of such behavior spitting in disgust.

Clara said to Lowry she'd known a girl once up in Jersey, had a baby that was born dead and guess who the daddy was?

Lowry, lighting a Camel and shaking the match out, tossing the match onto the floor, looked at her with a mean-playful smile saying, “Her own daddy. Right?”

Clara felt her face burn. Goddamn: she'd meant to shock Lowry and she never could.

“Are babies like that always born dead? That's some kind of curse?”

Lowry shrugged. He had a way of dismissing Clara's willfully naive questions the way you'd dismiss the prattling of a baby.

“If you believe in curses, kid, that'd be one of them.”

Did she believe in curses, no she did not. For some folks maybe but not for her. She figured that God had more important things to care about than Clara Walpole.

“Where're we going, Lowry? You got to tell me.”

“Where's who going? You, or me?”

Clara hesitated. She knew this was a tricky question.

“Both. I guess.”

“Naw, kid. I told you, you got to make your mind up what to do.” Lowry paused in his eating, and wiped his mouth on a napkin in a way that maddened Clara, made her want to tear the napkin from his fingers. “Happens that I'm going to where I'm going day after tomorrow, sweetheart.” He paused after saying this.

Clara stared at her plate. Oh, she'd been so hungry!—and so happy eating this gristly hamburger with ketchup and mustard both, and greasy french fries, sugary coleslaw. Even the stale bun was delicious. Now she wanted to push her plate away like Carleton used to do with the heel of his hand, signaling he'd had enough and had not liked what he'd had.

“ ‘Day after tomorrow.' What's that mean …”

Clara felt her lips go into a pout. She'd have gone
all eyes
leaning over the sticky tabletop but Lowry just returned to his eating.

A damn pig, he was. Men were. Hear them eating, chewing; hear them guzzling beer; hear them belching. Enough to make you sick.

It was true, sometimes Clara ate a lot, herself. Nancy used to tease her, try to shame her. Sometimes Clara was ravenous with
hunger, ate and ate till her belly swelled tight against the elastic band of her underwear; not that she ate as much as Lowry, but she ate as long, and sometimes longer. And she drank from his beer, if nobody was watching to scold saying she was underage. Sometimes in a sad mood, or her head aching from the day's drive, Clara chewed food without tasting it and felt it settle into her stomach like a hard little knot and even Lowry's beer left a bad taste in her mouth; this was one of those times when she felt like laying her head down on her arms, and crying.

Lowry signaled the waitress: another beer. Might've been sitting in the damn booth alone for all the notice he gave Clara.

“Fucker.”

Clara mumbled biting her lip. Lowry could hear, or choose not to hear.

One thing Clara knew, they were headed north. Wished she had a map to see where they were, where they'd come from and speculate where they were going. She had only a vague sense of geography from some faded old map hanging down a blackboard at some school in a place now forgotten but she knew that Carolina and Virginia were still
south
but Pennsylvania was getting to be
north.
She wondered if they would pass through Kentucky, or if they were going some different way, and would not. She'd told Lowry about Kentucky and he had seemed more interested than he usually was in her talk. Actually asking her questions like where her father's people were from? and her mother's?—but Clara was vague. Asking had her relatives worked the mines?—and Clara asked what kind of mines? She didn't know. What she knew was Pearl's stories of being courted by Carleton Walpole, her wedding when she was only just fifteen (“Maybe Ma wasn't old enough to be served beer in some damn old tavern but she was old enough to be married”) and the wonderful snapshots Pearl had had, that Nancy had denied she'd tossed away. Clara's eyes filled with tears of indignation thinking of that bitch Nancy taking Pearl's place and showing poor Pearl no respect.

Lowry had asked why Clara's mother had died, and Clara had to say she didn't know. “Pa told us it was her time. That's all he'd say over and over. ‘It was your ma's time.' ”

Now Clara said, shoving her plate from her, “I'm gonna pay you back for all this, soon as I can. I don't take no charity.”

Lowry smiled at her, picking his teeth with a toothpick.

“Sure.”

“I am! Goddamn you, I'll get a job and pay it back.”

“You will, will you? Where?”

“Anywhere I can.”

“So what's your skill, sweetheart? Name one.”

“Name one? Name a dozen: I can pick fuckin green beans, I can pick fuckin tomatoes, I can pick fuckin strawberries, I can pick fuckin lettuce—”

Lowry laughed, relenting. “All right, kid. Any other skill?”

“I can take care of a baby. I can clean house. I can cook, sort of. I could be a waitress, I bet. I could …” Clara paused, thinking a sly dirty thought:
I could lay down on my back and spread my legs. Be a whore.

This word Clara had not uttered aloud, for fear of getting her face slapped by someone. But she'd heard it plenty of times. Had no idea how it was spelled but it was pronounced
ho'
and always with an intonation of contempt.

Lowry saw her cat eyes going flat and calculating and must've known exactly what she was thinking.

“Best thing for you's to get married soon as you can. A girl with hair your color, and trusting as you are …” Lowry made a gesture signaling there's no help for such a one.

“Married! Shit, I ain't gonna get married, ever.” Clara spoke vehemently, bravely. “You just end up having babies. Whoever you married don't give a damn for you once you get pregnant.
He's
tomcatting around, and never home.”

Clara made herself laugh scornfully. She felt a stab of love for Lowry, a sensation of desperate helplessness like drowning. At the base of her spine was a cold numb place into which all her blood ran leaving her sickened, faint. She loved this man for his handsome face and his strong arms and the way he'd protected her, saving her from harm; but she was coming to hate him for the way he didn't give a damn for her really, she was just some stray mutt he'd found along the roadside and pitied, and would get rid of as soon as he could. He meant to do the decent thing by her, she guessed. And
she hated him for that, too. She hated him for how, in any public place, his eyes could move about alert and restless and affable and his mouth shape itself into a smile, that easy smile of a man who knows he's attractive to women, and to men, too; and forgetting her who stared at him so avidly it was like a flame in the air between them, of which he took no notice. She hated knowing that Lowry could toss a few coins on the table of this booth for the waitress and stroll outside to his car whistling and if Clara didn't trot after him, damn if he wouldn't drive away without her. And no looking back.

Clara asked, pouting, “What kind of a job d'you have, where you're going?” It wasn't for the first time, and she guessed he would not answer.

Lowry just shrugged. That look in his face like he's getting bored.

“Why couldn't I be with you, Lowry? I could cook for you some. I could clean house for you. What women do …” Clara spoke clumsily, her tongue too big for her mouth.

“Clara, you're just a child.”

“Fuck! I am not a child.”

“I can't be dragging you around with me. You're underage.”

“Don't you like me?”

“Oh, Christ—”

“Don't you think I'm—pretty?”

“No.”

“Hell you don't! You do.”

But Clara was shaken, uncertain. Lowry was looking like a man who could walk out on her any minute.

“There's lots of pretty girls. Damn good-looking women. A man can have his fair share, and more. That's not it.”

Then what is?
Clara wondered. She wondered why, if Lowry felt like this about her now, he'd ever looked at her the way he had back in that tavern, after she'd left LeRoy. Maybe he'd thought she was older than she was, maybe he hadn't looked at her close. And now he'd looked too close. She trembled with rage, suddenly.

“You better listen to me, mister!”

“Yeah? Says who?”

“I can love a man like any grown woman. I can do things for a man like any woman. I can! You got to let me prove it.”

Lowry smiled at her, amused. But he was looking at her with interest, as if seeing her for the first time.

Clara said, “I don't want no damn old picker's life. No more, it ain't gonna kill
me.
I want more things than just babies, I'll show you.”

“I bet you will.”

“I will! Even if I can't name it yet, I want it.”

“Going to steal it?”

“If nobody gives me what I want, I'll steal it. I want somethin— I'm gonna get it.”

“Calm down, kid. You're talking kind of loud.”

Clara's heart was pounding furiously and out of her rage came something like joy. She knew now, from the way in which Lowry was watching her, with a certain wariness, as you'd watch a coiled snake, that she would discover what she wanted; and she would get it.

“First I got to learn how—how things are.” Her words were plaintive suddenly, her voice was almost apologetic.

Without a word Lowry slid out of the booth, tossing a handful of coins onto the table. He was halfway out the restaurant door before Clara caught up with him flush-faced and craven, yet without his having seen she'd pocketed one of the silver quarters he'd left behind in his improvident generosity.

I can steal. I will. If you make me.

After that, things changed between them.

He was more respectful, Clara thought. But he didn't touch her as he had, the way you'd touch a child, or animal. He did seem wary of her. More frequently he spoke of
getting to where he was going.

Each night they'd slept in the car. Clara fell into a doze while Lowry was driving, sometimes she crawled dazed with exhaustion into the backseat and slept, waking to discover the car stilled, in darkness like the darkness at the bottom of a deep pond, and only after some minutes of disorientation would Clara realize that Lowry was asleep in the front seat, his breath wetly audible. Clara would
listen to him breathe, scarcely breathing herself. So many years of sleeping in the same room with her family, now she was sleeping almost-alone, and almost-lonely; for Lowry kept himself from her, at nighttime. She had believed that he would love her in that way she'd been warned men and boys would wish to love her, yet he had not, and would not.
Don't touch me like that, Clara. You're underage.
He'd spoken sharply, he meant it.