If Wishes Were Horses (29 page)

As Johnny pulled off the road and came to a stop, Etta breathlessly leaned forward and peered out the windshield at the red taillights of the Buick poking the air.
OhmyGod
. . .
oh, my, God
, Etta thought.

Johnny eased the pickup forward over the clumpy grass. Etta looked behind to check Little Gus, who was thumping around in an effort to remain standing.

Johnny’s headlights hit the convertible. The car had not gone into the creek, but had been stopped by a tree, which seemed to have smacked the convertible right between the eyes.

“Stay here,” Johnny said, as he got out of the truck.

She came right after him, folding her arms around herself, peering into the shadowy light. Closer, and she heard the hiss of steam coming from the Buick.

The driver door swung open, and Corinne got out. Her dark hair shone silvery in the dim light of the truck headlights. She wore a dark, tight skirt and reached out to the car for support. Her face came up, white and ghostly, eyes like a frightened deer.

“Ma’ am, are you all right?” Johnny said, his voice slicing into the night.

Etta stopped where she was, unwilling for Corinne to see her.

“I . . . my mother . . ." Grasping the car, Corinne hurried around the rear of it, calling, “Mama? Mama . . ."

Johnny went forward to help get Amy Salyer out of the car. Etta, with her arms still wrapped around herself, hung back. As Corinne and Johnny brought Amy Salyer across the sloped grass, she stepped backward. She had the urge to move into the darkness, but reached the truck and held her ground behind the opened door, watching the three people come forward. Apparently the elder Salyer woman was not seriously injured, as she tried to hit both Johnny and Corinne with her purse and screamed at them that she was not going to any hospital.

“I’d be best dead,” she yelled.

Then Corinne looked up and saw Etta standing within the open passenger door of the truck. She said, “Oh, my God."

Etta said, “Not exactly.”

Another moment of staring, and then Etta moved quickly out of the way for Johnny to bring Amy Salyer, who had slumped against him, around to the seat.

Corinne came behind, her head down. Etta stared at her, then she pulled herself together and wet a gingham napkin to put on Amy Salyer’s head. Mrs. Salyer did not have a wound, but Etta could think of nothing else of a soothing nature to do. The elder Salyer’s previous frenzy appeared to be fading. She had turned limp as a dishrag, although she kept on talking, murmuring now, something about needing pills.

“Does your mother have medicine?” Etta asked Corinne, feeling worried about an imminent heart attack or stroke. “She’s asking for her pills.”

Corinne tiredly shook her head, pushed her hair from her face. “That’s her problem. She’s taken too many of her little pills.”

Etta noticed Corinne’s smeared red lipstick. Apparently the woman had a propensity for it.

Corinne’s eyes lit on Etta’s, and she said flatly, “My mother has . . . episodes. She’s windin’ down now. A little late, but better than never.”

The two of them gazed at each other, and Etta, looking into the other woman’s eyes, felt a knowledge fall on her which explained everything between her and Roy and this woman and herself. It was not something she could put into words, and not something she appreciated in that moment, either.

Overwhelmed, she averted her eyes, poured cool water into an enamel cup, and extended it to Corinne. “Why don’t you sit on the running board,” she said. There seemed nothing else to do but accept the dark situation handed to them by the busybody forces that brought such things about.

Corinne sank down, very elegantly even there on the dirty running board. Etta saw Corinne’s hands around the enamel cup were white and tender, and shaking. Looking at them she thought: the hands that pleasured my own husband. She glanced at her own hands, darker, capable, with blunt nails.

Between sips, Corinne felt it necessary to tell them that she had been taking her mother to her aunt’s in Wichita Falls, for a rest. Her mother had been suffering increasing episodes of depression and hysteria, which sometimes led to her overdosing on her medication and becoming quite erratic. “Aunt Joan is the only one who can seem to handle her and get her back on track,” she said.

In between these enlightenments, which Etta felt she could have lived without, Amy Salyer kept up her muttering. With all of it, Etta experienced flashbacks to her own childhood and had to attempt to regulate her breathing and act totally rational, as Johnny was looking at her, and Corinne seemed to be looking at her, too.

No other car came. There was nothing to do but drive the two women back to the gas station at the very least, as Corinne also vetoed the hospital, and this produced quite a discussion. Amy Salyer had begun to cry, and Corinne was not inclined to ride squished in the cab of the pickup truck with her mother.

“We simply can’t all go the distance in that tiny space, and with that horse looking on from behind,” Corinne said, giving a wave of her hand. “Mother and I will wait here, if you will kindly send help.”

Johnny rubbed the back of his neck and whispered, “That old lady might kill her.”

Etta, gazing at the two and finding them pitiful, wondered if they would kill each other. “I think I’d better wait here, and you can take them to Chickasha. Maybe you could just drop them at that all-night gas station.”

“No,” Johnny said tersely. “I’m not leavin’ you here.”

Ten minutes and a lot of wrangling later, Johnny found himself behind the wheel, wondering exactly how he had gotten there, heading in the opposite direction of home, with Etta squeezed against him, the dark-headed woman on the far side, and her slight, silver-haired mother sitting slumped on her lap. The older woman had passed out and snored gently the entire trip back to the big house in Chickasha where Johnny had driven Etta on that first day, and Johnny wondered bleakly how he managed to get into these sorts of situations.

“We got to get up and get dressed,” Latrice said to Obie. “Those two are goin’ to be here soon.”

She slipped out of bed and put on her robe before turning on the lamp. There was enough light for Obie to catch a glimpse of her body; in the low light she knew she looked very good, and she thought this was enough for him. When she switched on the lamp, she looked down and saw him grinning at her.

“Get up . . . get yourself dressed,” she said, trying for sternness but feeling a weakness inside from the way he looked at her.

Obie grabbed her arm, but she shook him off and slipped into the bathroom to dress, tossing over her shoulder, “I want you dressed when I come out.”

A moment later, his voice came through the bathroom door. “You gonna marry me, Miss Latrice?”

She didn’t answer. She buttoned her dress and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Quickly and adeptly, she pinned her hair in place. She looked again at her reflection and saw evidence on her face of passion. She didn’t think either Etta or Johnny would notice, however, taken up with themselves as they were.

She was annoyed with herself; she had been rash in letting passion so carry her away. The Bible teachings were not high concepts—they were good sense, and she was stepping over the line into foolishness that would cause all sorts of unwelcome complications.

Straightening herself, she jerked open the bathroom door. Obie was now sitting on the bed, his shirt on but not buttoned, putting on his socks. His fumbling got on her nerves.

“Will you hurry up. Johnny and Etta are liable to come any minute.”

Obie looked surprised at her tone. Then he seemed to make an effort to comply. Latrice didn’t know what irritated her more—his lingering, or his trying to comply when she fussed at him. She left him and went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She thought the coffee would make everything seem natural. She was so nervous, though, that she kept dropping things.

At last Obie came out of the bedroom. He was still tucking in his shirt. She looked at him, then finished making the coffee. He came up behind her, stood very close so that she could not move. He just stood there, quiet yet unrelenting, and of a sudden Latrice felt herself melting.

His arms came around her, and he pulled her back against him. His body was rock hard. He put his lips next to her ear and whispered, “How was it?”

Latrice sucked in a breath. “It was fine.”

“Fine?”

“It was . . . unexpected,” she said finally, and both of them laughed.

“So . . ." he asked her. “Are you gonna marry me?”

She turned, and he stepped back, giving her room, his eyes intent upon her.

“I’ve gone my life without marryin’,” she said. “I don’t see that we can right things by making another terrible mistake.” She paused, then added, “You can keep comin’ around if you want.”

The disappointment that crossed his features made her feel bad, but she remained firm. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent to look her straight in the eyes. “At my age, I know a man can’t get everythin’ in this world. But I also know that ain’t no reason to give up.”

Latrice shook her head and shoved at him, beating at him with her hands because she was so touched and felt she might give in. “Go on. Get out of here before they show up. I don’t like everyone knowin’ my business.”

She shooed him out the door, stood on the porch, and watched his taillights disappear down the dirt road to his cottage. She thought of his cottage. It was poor, the kitchen one from about a hundred years ago. She did not think she wanted to marry him and go to that. And likely if she married him, he would change into a man who thought he could tell her what to do.

Yet, now that he was gone she felt a distinct loneliness and absurd longing for him to return and sit with her and talk with her. Maybe what she liked best was that he listened to her talk.

Then she recalled what she had shared with him in her feather bed. Obie had in fact greatly amazed her with his capabilities.

She saw headlights flicker up on the highway, and a moment later she heard a vehicle pulling into the drive. She ducked back into the house to look around and make certain there was no telltale evidence left about.

When Johnny pulled the truck into the yard at the back door, Etta was again leaning against his shoulder, feigning sleep and wishing she could stay there forever resting in his musky male warmth, trying to stretch the seconds of bliss in which reality had no place.

Johnny stopped the truck and sat there with the engine running, his foot keeping the clutch pressed in for long seconds, until he simply let up and the truck gave a lurch and died. Etta remained against his shoulder. His hand stroked her neck, and his thumb began the delicious circles.

At last, stirred into reaction, Etta raised her head and looked at him. The dashlight shone silvery on his features, dark and rugged, before he quite suddenly brought his lips down onto hers. They pressed fiercely, his tongue forced entry, and desire came charging up Etta’s chest. Tears of yearning for something she knew she could not have sprang into her eyes. She grasped him and he grasped her, all heavy breathing and urgent kissing and pounding desire.

The next instant, Johnny went still as stone. Her belly was pressed against him, she realized, and the baby inside kicking. Etta took in a deep breath, watched Johnny pull back and look down at her pregnant belly. Slowly she, too, looked downward.

For a long minute they sat thus, both gazing at the mound, while Elvis sang softly from the radio.

Then Johnny very hesitantly put his hand on Etta’s belly. Placing her own hand over his, she guided him to the spot where the baby poked her foot. The foot drew back and kicked, and Johnny jumped, and Etta had to grab his hand to keep him from pulling away.

Another kick and Johnny whispered with awe, “She’s strong.”

His eyes, filled with a mixture of sadness and wonder, came up to hers. She was a little surprised by his wonder. Surely he had been around many a pregnant horse.

And then again they were both gazing down at Etta’s belly, which sat there between them, an elemental barrier.

Johnny said, “We’d better go in before Miss Latrice comes out.”

Etta watched him slip from the truck and come around the hood. She felt tears choking her throat and held them back with all her might.

He did not enter the kitchen but stood in the door and bade both Etta and Latrice good night. Etta watched through the screen, as he got back into his truck. Then she closed the door and turned to Latrice, who waved her to sit and brought forth a steaming cup of cola.

“Okay. Tell me all about it,” Latrice said.

Etta attempted to give a synopsis of the happenings of the day and evening, although it ended up being a very brief synopsis as she was tired and in such a fog of emotion that she really did not want to reveal to Latrice. Her feelings about Johnny were her own, dear and confusing, and there existed the enormous possibility of being misunderstood about all of it.

About the incident with Corinne and her mother, Etta concluded, “I know now that Roy was drawn to her for the same reasons that he was drawn to me. Whatever we are, we are each the product of crazy mothers. She is worse off than me, though,” she said. “She can’t manage to keep her lipstick from smearing all over her face.”

Etta went up to bed, complacent in the way exhaustion brings, and wanting only to hang on to the vibrant tender feelings regarding Johnny. She fell into her feelings like she fell into her feather pillow, completely and gratefully, letting them surround her, comfort her, and choke her all up at the same time.

Latrice was sitting in her rocker and listening to the radio and musing over life in general, when Johnny came to give her the winnings from her bets. She saw his face peering cautiously in the window before he opened the door.

“You are not a very adept Peeping Tom,” she told him. He still had not learned to recognize her sarcasm and quickly defended himself. “I wasn’t tryin’ to peep, no ma’am. I thought I should check to make sure Etta was gone, before I gave you your money. I thought you wanted it that way.’’