Machine Dreams (13 page)

He sat watching her. In just a few minutes, she was sleeping lightly and easily, her breathing regular. He supposed the best thing was just to sit here till Bess came. He had a presentiment then that he might still hurt Katie somehow, be bad luck for her sitting in the room, so he stood and walked out, crossed the hall into the living room. He sat down in one of the seldom used velvet chairs and felt for the first time the total exhaustion of his relief. He touched his hand to his eyes.

There had never been so many goddamn flowers, so many the sides of the box were obscured by deep waxen petals of the lilies and roses, spider fronds of the mums, and she looked as though she were floating on a fat crescent of blossoms that filled that side of the room, leaving scant space to stand close. After everyone sat down, he looked straight ahead at the minister but felt a ripple of movement from the silent flowers, as though the island of color and the body itself moved on an eddy of current. Jesus, would the bastard minister never shut that book, give us some help here, won’t you, and finally he quit with the Scriptures and wandered on, all of them wading in his sonorous performer’s voice as the kid floated placidly on her moon of flowers, delicate alabaster stone
in her white organdy dress. She’d been supposed to wear it in April for Easter, and remembering that fact made him consider what the hell they would all do now, snuck up on like this, to get through the next few weeks. After that he would be able to think of something, things would happen, even small things like a road job in the south of the state so that he could go away and live in a rooming house in Wierton or somewhere and work all day until he couldn’t think except to eat dinner late at a cheap coffee shop and go to sleep—talk to strangers who didn’t know anything about this and so would make remarks about the weather or the front page. Front page of what? Christ, time went on and on. He couldn’t go unless he felt they wanted him to, leave them alone with it, then they could put it somewhere:
she’s your darling, I’m afraid
, but she never had been. Except in how he supposed if he’d got his in the war, she might still be lying in her bed, a sickly little kid whose fingers and wrists swelled. It was like the numbers had got mixed up and Bess had been right to be afraid: somehow after he’d got back from the war, all the numbers changed around and Katie had come out wearing his. All the time had caught up with him, all the floating around since he was a kid younger than her and moving from one household to another; floating around is what it was and there she was now, wearing his number and floating. He saw her on a wide, wide sea, riding the flowers and the words he heard in the room:
at the Rapture the body shall rise, we all shall rise at the Rapture (to be with God in the air), at the Rapture the body shall rise.
But the body only floated, the rug of flowers stirred like a banner from below, so easy, so gentle, and now the whole floor was gently moving, barely but perceptibly moving, he could feel it himself: they were all floating, restful and lulled, moved according to tides he’d experienced before but hadn’t understood. Surely they all felt it; he stood up from his chair as the minister’s voice continued, and far off he heard rifle shots. The shots kept on as though in celebration or ceremony, and as he turned toward the open window he felt Bess near him; she was pulling him, pulling him back, her hand cold on his shoulder, what could she want of him? He tried to ask and her hand became more insistent, shaking, shaking him. Her face was surprisingly young, the face of a young woman, and as he awakened
the face aged in a flash of seconds. She leaned into his field of vision, filling it totally.

“You must be dead tired,” she said. “You’ve fallen asleep here in the chair.”

“Is Katie all right?” His own voice sounded strange to him.

“Yes, and asleep. She woke when I came in and told me about the movie.”

“Hadn’t you better call Reb?”

“No, he’ll be by tomorrow anyway—she really is sleeping. I’m sorry you had such a scare.”

Mitch sat up now and rubbed his eyes. “We lost Katie’s shoes.”

“Those old shoes,” Bess said. “I’m glad they’re lost; they were completely worn out.” She watched his face and realized he didn’t believe her. “I’ve taken Katie’s temperature. She’s not chilled or feverish, she seems to be fine. Now, would you like some tea?”

He nodded and she turned away; he heard the tread of her footsteps in the hall and saw vaguely the young face in the dream. It really had looked like her; he must have seen a photograph.

Scary how time flew by and you couldn’t tell, ever, what would happen. He would get married, he would start thinking of it. Mary Chidester wasn’t the one; he would play the field, no ties to bind, but he would look at things differently.

J
ean stood by the window and watched him park the Nash. The car was too big for the small garage and Gladys insisted Mitch park on the street, just to the right of her sidewalk. Gladys was the only resident of the street whose sidewalk was poured cement instead of haphazard bricks. She’d told Jean how she bargained long and hard for that sidewalk in the ’20s, when the city had pay-off revenues from stills.
I marched myself down to City Hall
, she was fond of saying,
and I told those jerks that my husband was a City worker—and if they weren’t going to pay him well enough that he could own a car like every other Sam Smith, they were going to build me a sidewalk. I sank to my ankles in mud when I got off the bus carrying a baby and two sacks of sewing.
Gladys must have been almost seventeen.
I stood there holding Jewel as I shouted, you bet I did. I tell you, I have a permanent swayback from carrying that baby everywhere I went for nearly three years. There wasn’t any baby carriage in this house, and no baby-sitters.
Andy Curry was lucky to bring home enough for two meals a day. If I hadn’t breast-fed Jewel until she was old enough to ask for it, she would have been as hungry as we were.
Gladys had told the story again just last night, Mitch sitting there as always reading the paper and leaving Jean to listen.

Seemed a long time ago people had things so bad. No one took in sewing anymore, except the poor whites who lived between the feed store and the tracks. Now the war was five years past, people felt rich. The new Nash was wide and high and long; Mitch had bought it even though the concrete company had only been going six months and they were so strapped building the new house. Jean thought surely Gladys would remark how they were staying with her free so Mitch could have luxuries, but she seemed to love the new car and had gone on about it until Mitch was fairly strutting, touching the Nash and showing Gladys how the seats tilted back. Would have been a different story if Jean had gone out and bought a car. Gladys would never sanction foolishness from a woman in anything; despite all her complaints about men, she loved it when they did something crazy.

Still, she’d been kind about helping Jean do a dress over for the New Year’s party. It was the sort of thing Mother would have done if she’d been here, and healthy. Jean had turned slowly as Gladys knelt to pin the hem, and Gladys chattered softly about trivial things. Jean was glad not to answer; she didn’t feel so sad anymore, except when people were unexpectedly kind. It was just over a year since the death; that’s why the last two weeks had been such a strain. A couple of mornings, faced with Christmas vacation from her secretarial job and being alone in the house all day, Jean had actually been sick. Last night she’d stared ahead at the kitchen clock as Gladys folded the wool skirt of the dress, and realized she wanted to drive out to the grave. But Gladys was at work today, doing inventory alone at her dress shop, and Jean would have to borrow the Nash.

If he knew where she was going, he’d offer to drive her, keep from worrying about the car.
Why go out there in all this snow and cold?
he’d say.
You’ll just get hung up; that graveyard road isn’t even all paved.
But the snow wasn’t deep, only a powder really—she’d tell him she had errands. Surely he’d take
a nap before the party anyway. He’d been out with Reb Jonas last night at the Elks’, and he’d gotten in late.

Jean pressed her face to the cold glass. There, he’d stopped the car and stepped out, shaking wrinkles from his long tweed coat, pulling his hat brim lower as he shifted the sack of groceries. Oh, it was cold outside, too cold to snow hard. Mitch came up the walk and Jean moved away from the window, heard his footsteps, that flat
slap
of a man’s shoe on cement. She sat down and picked up the folded party dress, shook it out over her lap. He knew she was fixing it; she’d say she was out of thread. The doorknob turned and she slipped the wooden spool under the soft cushion of the chair.

“My God, it’s cold,” he said as he stepped inside. “Like hell froze over out there.”

“I know,” Jean said, standing, “and I have to run downtown to get some thread.” She took the sack of groceries and leaned up to kiss his cheek. Under her lips his skin was faintly rough with beard, and cold and sweet.

“You’re crazy to go out now.” Mitch took off his gloves and blew on his hands. “Supposed to be zero by dark, and Main Street is bumper to bumper. People shopping because everything’s closed tomorrow.”

“You’re right, but I have to wear this dress tonight. I can’t finish the hem without the thread.”

He looked at her, a little exasperated. “Do you want me to get it for you? I’ve still got my coat on.”

“No, no. Didn’t you want to take a nap before the party? I’ll just put these away and drive down real quickly.”

She walked into the kitchen and he followed her. Oh, did he have to follow her, as though she couldn’t even put groceries away without being watched? He unbuttoned his coat as she put the sack on the table and opened Gladys’ refrigerator.

“Reb is bringing his wife tonight,” Mitch said, confiding in her.

“His wife isn’t well, is she? Gladys says she’s very nervous.”

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with her. Reb doesn’t seem to know either.” He paused. “Will you be sure and talk to
her tonight at the party? Just in case she stays quiet and doesn’t speak to anyone.”

Jean turned to put the milk away and felt a little ashamed. That’s why he’d followed her in here; he really did care about Reb. “Of course I’ll talk to her,” Jean answered. “But your Aunt Bess will be there. She always helps at VFW parties, and she’ll certainly be talking to Reb’s wife.”

“I know, but Reb thinks Cora needs to know more women close her own age. She’s only five or six years older than you.”

Cora. Yes, that was her name. Jean had only met her a few times; you seldom saw her. How strange—the last time Jean had seen her had been last summer, at the graveyard. Jean had gone out with some flowers and there Cora Jonas was, sitting on a cloth spread across the grass, as though at a picnic. She seemed a sweet woman, but distant.

Jean shut the refrigerator and moved to fold the paper sack. Where was it Gladys kept these? She’d have to put it in exactly the right place or never hear the end of it. She looked up at Mitch then and realized he was still waiting for an answer. “Don’t worry,” she told him, “I’ll talk to Cora. I’ll be sure to.”

Mitch patted her shoulder awkwardly in thanks, then turned quickly and left the room as Jean stood with the folded sack in her hands. She heard him at the hall closet, hanging up his coat, shaking it out before he put it on the hanger. She sighed. He certainly was fastidious, even if he talked a little rough. She’d given up saying anything about it—then he only blustered and swore more.

Once outside, she wrapped her coat tighter around her and pulled on bulky mittens. She’d have to hurry; as it was, she wouldn’t get back before the early dark fell. The blue Nash looked surprisingly bright on the gray street; in dusk light, the houses and dark cars lost definition, powdered with old snow and shadowed. Jean went around to the driver’s side and pulled on the door; heavens, why had he locked it? Now she’d have to take off the mittens, fuss in her deep pocket for the keys. Immediately, her bare fingers ached with cold, but the key fit and she turned it. Nothing. She heard then the dull thud of Mitch’s hand on Gladys’
living room window and saw him, in his bathrobe, elaborately motion that she should turn the key the other way. Jean waved cheerily, pretended not to have understood, and opened the car door. There.

The car started smoothly and easily—not even a clutch or a gearshift; a child could drive it. She sat letting the engine warm, hugging herself in the cold and smiling. If she tried to take off too soon, he’d be running out here in his bare feet to stop her. She could feel him at the window, still watching, but she looked steadfastly ahead. Finally the curtain dropped back into place; she was alone. Jean eased the Nash down the street on the soft cover of snow and heard the muffled road under the wheels.

Anniversaries were strange; you felt the important ones in your body even if you tried not to remember—and not just the day of the event but the days before and after. A deep change was a short season of its own; you felt the season come and go for years after. Tom had died in the spring, late May, when they were seventeen. Jean felt it, every spring, before she remembered what she felt. Now she knew they’d been children, but still—not such children. They were in love; maybe they would have married in a couple of years, and grown up. After he died, Jean had felt that now she was like anyone else: it didn’t matter so much who she married.

She stopped the Nash at the turn onto Quality Hill; it was such a quiet car that you could drive along with no diversion from your thoughts. Jean looked down toward town and she could see the traffic on Main Street, the lights of the cars. She turned the other way, up the hill toward the country. She’d go right past the concrete company but it wouldn’t matter; Clayton and the other men would have gone home when Mitch did. Tonight was the New Year; my God, time passed. Already, she was twenty-three, married a year and a half. And last summer, she hadn’t remembered her wedding anniversary at all—Mitch had told her that morning that his Aunt Bess and Uncle Clayton were having dinner for them. Jean had used her lunch hour to go downtown and buy Mitch a shirt; she’d planned to buy it anyway, to replace one she’d burned with the iron. Anniversaries: maybe she just remembered death instead of life. That was bad. But death wouldn’t let you
forget, would it? Life did; life let you go on for long weeks and never think at all. You just lived, nothing was wrong; those weren’t bad times. Mitch would never have remembered the anniversary if Bess hadn’t had the dinner—he didn’t remember such things. But wives were supposed to. Jean frowned and touched her face; she felt so at loose ends: that was it. In the warm interior of the car, she unbuttoned her coat. Damn it, she was a good wife, she knew she was. She kept her temper and was a help to him, and didn’t interfere with what he knew about; she was a good cook and usually did things right. Being a wife was a job, like being a secretary or a student. And if you took pride in what you did, you did things well. Mother had had no illusions about it. Oh, had she ever really loved a man, and been carefree? Strange to think she’d probably loved Dad in the beginning, but then she’d loved her children. Dad had really been a child himself, even though he’d been so much older: first he was eccentric and successful, then he was eccentric and broke. Jean could almost hear her mother laugh, softly and without bitterness. If she were here, there’d be someone to be honest with, someone to laugh with at how things went.