The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay (37 page)

“I know you are, you damn fool.” Idella reached over and put her hand around the beer can that was now wedged up between his legs. It was damn cold, all right. Idella twisted the can lightly in circles without taking it.

“What are you doing?” Edward asked. Cold or no cold, things were happening down there.

“Just stirring it,” she said lightly. “This way and that.”

“Well, you’re giving me a hard-on.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmmmmm.” Edward reached over and put his hand on her knee. “Lift your skirt up.”

“Why should I?” She was willing, though, Edward knew that.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He slowly worked his fingers, gathering up a handful of her skirt material, pushing it up over her leg.

“Edward, look out!” A truck was suddenly bearing down with high beams, coming at them like a train. It had turned out of a side road and was barreling downhill straight at them. Edward pulled hard to the right, whumping against an embankment. The truck went charging on, blasting its horn as it passed, taking up both sides of the road. Bits of rock flew out clattering from behind it.

“Jesus God Almighty,” Idella said, her hand against the dashboard.

“Goddamned son of a bitch! He come out of nowhere. The goddamned beer’s all over me. My pants are soaked.” Edward groped across the seat. “It’s all the hell over everything. Goddamned son of a Christly bitch ought to be locked up. I’m gonna get that bastard!”

Idella started pulling Kleenexes from out of her pockets. “Here, give me your handkerchief.”

“I got my pants all covered in it.”

“Well, I’m not going to blot them. That’s how we got into this mess.” Idella was wiping the seat.

“I better check on the car.” Edward pulled over, got out of the car, and walked around to the front. No scratches. He kicked a tire. It was all muddy—from the camp road, mostly. He’d take it to a car wash in the morning. He sighed. His pants were wet, clinging to him all around the insides of his legs. He needed to pee. He turned away from the car toward the field and unzipped, peeing into the darkness. It was a cow pasture. He could see a bunch of them wagging their big white heads at him. Old biddies, they looked like, wanting to know all that goes on. His mother’d been that way—sitting on the porch for hours at a time. Something to say about everyone, nothing good.

He sighed and looked up. Stars. He never bothered to look at them much. Blinking at him from way out in nowhere. It smelled good out here—spring mud had its own smell. It reminded him of picking strawberries. He’d go out in the fields and pick them little wild ones when he was a kid.

He zipped up, pulling the clammy trousers away from his legs. He felt like he’d made in his pants. What a night. What a goddamned night. Every time he thought he was in for a treat, some other goddamn thing happened. Better get on home. Idella’d been awful quiet. He walked around his open door and got behind the wheel.

“What you been doing?” he asked, smiling when he saw that she was drinking the remains of the can.

“Sitting here waiting for you, what do you think?” She was smiling, though, not mad.

“You putting on a toot?” Edward teased, reaching over and taking the can from her. There was one good swallow.

“No, not really. But I do need to pee.”

“Well, there’s a good ditch out there. No one to see you but the cows. I won’t put the headlights on.” He laughed, thinking that maybe he would.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.” Idella was rummaging through her pockets. “I need something to wipe with. I used up all my Kleenexes on the beer. I can’t stand not having something. Don’t you keep napkins somewheres?”

“Jesus, Idella, it’s a car, not a restaurant.”

“You might have some from A&W. You keep that place in business.” She gave the glove compartment a whack with the heel of her hand. The door popped open. “What on earth have you got in here?”

Holy Christ. Edward sat with his hands frozen on the wheel.

“What in the name of God?” Idella leaned forward into the faint glow of the glove compartment’s bulb. “Is that your bathing suit?” She pulled it out onto her knees. “Jesus, yes. It is.” She reached in again. “And this . . . Holy Mother of God . . . this is mine. This is my bathing suit.” Idella stared down at them. “Why, Edward . . .” she said finally, her voice coming out of the darkness. “They’re wet.” She said it so soft he could barely hear. Her thumb was going around and around in a circle, feeling his suit over and over again. The scratching sound of it was filling up the car.

Edward wished that she’d get on with it, start railing at him. He didn’t know what excuse he was going to come up with. Nothing was coming to him. Then she started sniffing. She wasn’t going to let loose and bawl. Oh, no. She was going to sit there sniffing, twitching her lips. She was going to snivel all the way home and make him suffer. He reached for his handkerchief. She’d used it on the beer. That’s how this whole damn thing started—looking for them Christly napkins. That bastard driving the truck. If he ever found that bastard, he’d turn him in. He’d slash his goddamned tires if he got the chance.

“Take me home, Edward. I want to go home.” She was all crumpled up against her door.

Edward started the engine and pulled on the lights. Them damn cows were all staring back at him, their dumb eyes glazed in the glare of lights, shaking their stupid heads. He backed straight out, swung the car around, and lurched forward onto the familiar dark road. He wished he could drive all night, keep going, leave the cows and the store and that Murphy bastard and Iris and Idella behind. Nothing stayed good. Nothing stayed easy. He’d have Iris pulling on him one way, wanting to find them a new place, calling up at the store, for Christ’s sakes. That’d have to stop. And Idella’d be starting in with her questions, wanting to know every move he made. They’d both be watching him now. The two
I
s. He pushed his foot a little harder on the gas.

June 1963

 

“Now, you don’t want to do that. You don’t want to point a gun.” Idella stood behind the counter at the store.

“Do like I say, lady. I’m not foolin’.” But he hadn’t told her anything yet. He hadn’t expected her to say something—not before he got a chance to open his mouth. He could hardly swallow, he was so dry. “Give me all your money. Now.” He croaked it out. And he should have peed before he tried to pull this.

He’d stepped out from behind the Humpty Dumpty potato-chip stand. His right cheek had a lattice grille pattern where he’d pressed against the side of the metal rack. He’d had to wait for the cigarette deliveryman to clear out. Then some kid had come in and taken ten minutes trying to decide how to spend five cents. He was hungry, too. He should have eaten something. There was never shit in the house to eat. If there was, the old man got to it first.

Idella had seen the strange young man—boy, really—enter the store and disappear behind the racks. He’d sort of skulked in. She’d never seen him before. She had been busy with the deliveryman and had lost track of him out of the corner of her eye. He had been crouched down beside the chips, she didn’t know for how long. Something about him was queer, and now she knew why.

She didn’t know whether she should get a really good look at him for the police or try not to see him so that she couldn’t identify him. She’d read about that being safer for the victim. Her heart was beating very fast, and her cheeks felt hot from inside. Her high blood pressure was kicking up, no doubt about that.

“Now, this won’t solve anything.” Her belt buckle pressed into her belly as she leaned against the counter. She didn’t dare step back and release it.

“I just want the money,” he said, nodding toward the closed register, “and a couple of cartons of Camels—no, Winstons. Gimme all your Winstons.” He made a little jab toward the cigarettes with his gun, for emphasis. He was holding it low in front of his waist.

“Well, there’s not much here right now,” she said, careful not to move even a finger. “I just paid the cigarette man most of the cash drawer. It’s not enough to risk going to jail for.”

“Who said anything about jail? I’m talking money here, not jail. And cigarettes. Get me those Winstons—and a couple of cold six-packs.”

“Now, how are you going to carry all that?”

“Just let me worry about that, lady.” He jabbed his gun into the air again for emphasis. It startled him, and he pulled it in close.

“Well, you can go pick out the beer—but if you want it cold, you’ll have to put some more in the case. I spent all morning filling that case, and I’m just about to drop.”

She could see he was ill at ease, a scared and skinny kid. His teeth were bad. Nobody took him to the dentist. “Don’t tell anyone I sold it to you. I’ll lose my license. You’re too young to buy beer, and I don’t want to have anything to do with it.” No way was he eighteen. She had a good eye for it. Kids were always coming in trying to buy beer, and if they got away with it, you paid the price.

“Jesus, lady, don’t worry. I’m stealing it, not buying it, so don’t worry, okay?”

“You don’t have to swear. Just because you have a gun, it don’t mean you have to swear.”

“What are you, my mother? I got two mothers all of a sudden? One’s plenty.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are to have a mother.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve never met mine.”

Idella took a step back from the counter and let her belt buckle fall away from her belly. He was just a skinny kid, and she wasn’t going to let him make her sick. She was too old for this.

“Listen, I’ll get the beer, and you fix me up a bag of food. Don’t try anything but what I tell you. I’ve got the gun right here, and I’m fast and you’re old.”

“It don’t matter that much to me. A few six-packs and a little money. I’m not stupid.” She looked right at him. “What do you want in the bag? I’m going to reach under the counter now and get a brown paper bag and open it. I just want you to know what I’m going to do so you don’t get excited.”

“Who’s excited?” His shoulders started rising. “I just want to get the hell out of here. Give me some of those cream rolls there.” He nodded toward the pastry shelf below the potato chips. “And a couple of Devil Dogs, some Twinkies, and a couple of those beef jerkies up there by the cigarettes.”

“Is this all you want? Cream rolls and Devil Dogs?” No wonder his teeth were bad. She’d like to tell him that, but it was none of her business. She didn’t want to get him any more excited than he was. It’s his mother that should have told him. It might even be too late for him. He won’t have much of a life.

The boy’s eyes darted around the overhead shelves. This was neat. He could have anything. He eyed a shelf of SpaghettiOs and pizza sauces, laundry soaps, and toilet paper. He should probably help himself to a roll of that. Buses never had anything. Just taking a whiz on a bus could make you puke.

“You should have something besides sweets. What about a sandwich? You want me to make you an Italian sandwich?”

His mouth watered at the thought. “That’d be great.”

“I have to go in the back to make it. Will you watch the store?”

“What?”

“If anyone comes in, just ask them to wait.”

“Right. Okay. Hurry up.”

“I’m going to walk out from behind the counter now and go back to make the sandwich. You’ll hear the door to the cooler back there open and close. And I’ll have to use a knife to slice things.”

“Enough with the blow-by-blow.”

“Do you like olives? Some people don’t care much for them.”

“Yeah, sure.” He was about to keel over with hunger. He grabbed a big bag of potato chips from the rack and yanked at the top. His hands were slippery with sweat, and he couldn’t get a good grip with the gun in one hand. The bag wouldn’t open. Idella stood watching him.

“Do you want me to do it?”

“No.” He grabbed the side of the bag with his teeth and tore into it. Chips spewed everywhere. They flew up onto his arms and shoulders and stuck there like oily feathers. Idella stood watching as he cradled the gaping bag against his belly with the arm holding the gun and stuffed the chips into his mouth with his free hand. He eats like a mangy animal, she thought.

“Well, what are you looking at? Go make that sandwich.”

Idella wasn’t sure what to do with her arms and hands. She held them straight in front of her and walked from behind the counter. Potato chips crunched beneath her step, but she didn’t stoop to pick them up. She walked, zombielike, into the back of the store, behind the big meat counter full of hot dogs and torpedoes of bologna and salami.

“I’m hearing everything!” he called through a wad of ground chips.

He needed a beer. He looked through the glass doors of the case. Miller High Life, “The Champagne of Bottled Beers.” He slid the case open and pulled out a six-pack. “I’m watchin’ you!” he called out.

“I’m just now slicing the tomato,” she called. He could hear the
thump, thump, thump
of her slicing, even and efficient. “I’m using the knife now, and in a minute I’m going to be using the slicer. I won’t be able to hear the door then, so keep an eye out.”

He reached in and grabbed a second six-pack, then slid the door closed with his foot.

“Did you put warm ones back in?” she called. Jesus, he thought, she must be listening to every sound I make. “Take the cold ones from the back and move them up front and put warm ones in the back.”

“Okay, okay, I’m doing it.”

“Do you want two sandwiches? I might as well make two while I’m at it.”

“Sure.” He was sliding two warm six-packs into the back of the case. He had to put his gun in his pocket and get down on his hands and knees. It felt good in the cool beer case with only the purr of the motor and the cold bottles rubbing against his arms. He closed his eyes. Sometime today he’d be on a Greyhound heading south, where they had air-conditioning all over. Every room would feel as good as this beer cooler.