Thief of Dreams (20 page)

“Just let me speak my piece,” he said, looking at her in a way that carried with it all their time together, all their years of marriage, “that's all I ask.”

She wanted to tell him no. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't interested, that whatever he said would only be a trap to pull her and James back into the old life they'd led. But another part of her wanted to hear what he had to say, dangerous or not, wanted his apologies and promises if only as an acknowledgment of all his wrongdoing. It would be small payment for what she had endured, but better than nothing, because, when she'd heard him out, she'd know the decision she'd already made was the only proper one, and she could tell him what he offered was too damned little and too damned late. She let him know with her expression that she'd listen, but that was all, and he seemed to understand because he wasn't able to look at her anymore.

He leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and pondered the floor. “It's taken me a long time, all my life, to learn what I know now,” he said at last. “Maybe it's not much. Maybe a fellow ought to know it from the start,” he said, “but I didn't. I didn't know it until you asked me for a divorce.” He looked up at her miserably, looked down again, and rubbed his hands together as though they were cold. “Hell,” he said, “not even then, because I was mad and my pride was hurt.”

His voice suddenly grew thin, as though from a blow to the throat. “Maybe I didn't even know it all until yesterday, until last night.” He cleared his throat, but when he went on, his voice was just as hoarse and thin as before. “I love my family,” he said. For a long time he didn't say anything more. “Without you and James,” he added at last, his voice scarcely more than a hoarse whisper, “I don't have anything.” He shook his head as though the knowledge still astonished him. He cleared his throat again and sat with his head hung between his shoulders, rubbing his palms together.

There was nothing to fling back in his face, she realized. No apologies. No promises. Who but a man, and an arrogant man at that, would come so far to say so little? Not a word about coming home drunk time after time, about not coming home at all, about yanking them all around the country without so much as begging their pardon, abandoning them altogether whenever and wherever he chose. But even the offenses were beside the point; it was the attitude that allowed it all to happen that incensed her. Was that all he was going to say? Was he done? He could have written a postcard.

She was suddenly out of control. She knew it but could not stop it from happening. It was as though the shock of seeing him again was just now having its full effect. She could feel it inside her like a fire consuming her from her belly to the very roots of her hair, but doing something strange and icy to her genitals, weakening her thighs and knees, making her ears ring. For a moment she thought she might faint. She had to get away from him, there wasn't any doubt of that. She looked about without knowing exactly what she was looking for until she spied her car keys and took them up, her purse, and snatched it. “I won't … I can't stand …” She could have pulled out her hair that he was in her life again, that he was right before her in the flesh. “I have to go to work!” she said and rushed out of the trailer. She felt deaf, dumb, and blind and had gotten in her car and started it before she realized his car was behind her and she couldn't get out of the driveway. She thought of blowing her horn. She thought of backing into him and trying to push him into the highway; but then she realized if she pulled up and didn't mind getting into Lily's flowers, she might be able to miss him. She did exactly that, and although she was out of control and left ugly half-moon tire tracks through the garden, she didn't hit the Packard and managed to slew her little coupe around into the highway. She didn't even think of James until she was in high gear and going as fast as her car would go, but she couldn't help that either. She couldn't do anything except what she was doing until she got her wits together.

JAMES TALLY

He climbed the stile and went on toward the house where he'd been sent. Although it wasn't cold, he was shivering; and the heat from the wood cook stove in the kitchen would have felt good, except he dreaded his grandmother. She was such a strong, steady, dignified woman, she would be shamed and grieved by what was going on. It wasn't likely that she'd ask him any questions, but he didn't want to be around her or his grandfather either. It would be painful and embarrassing. He didn't even want his grandfather looking out the window of the post office and catching sight of him. Trembling from excitement and fear, he crept up on the porch and sat on its front edge by the quince bushes, where an obtuse triangle of sunlight still reached the floorboards and warmed them.

He hugged his knees to his chest, awed by the sight of his father's car in the driveway. Could it really be there? Right there? It was all milky down its sides with road film from having brought his father such a great distance to be with them, to be with his mother at that moment. Maybe this time it would work.

But as far back as he could remember there had been some persistent, incomprehensible trouble between his mother and father. Even in the good times he'd always been able to feel it lurking just under the surface; and sooner or later, he'd hear its edge in his mother's voice or glimpse some dark hint of it in his father's eye. And sometimes, when the trouble broke through and they fought, they fought about him, James, so he knew he had a part in it too.

All his shivering seemed to have shaken something loose inside him so that he could feel it vibrating in the center of his chest like a tuning fork. “Please,” he said and began to rock himself back and forth, “please, please, please.” He knew better than to think into words what he wanted. For sure it wouldn't happen if he spoke it aloud or even thought it. Something powerful seemed to haunt him just in order to see to it that what he most needed and desired never occurred, and he could feel it sniffing around him now, so he cleared his mind and rocked himself to-and-fro.

Thinking it might betray him even to be caught looking at his father's car, he wedged his chin against his knees and stared at the quince bushes. He could see a bit of his cheek puffed up into his line of vision, and he could see his own eyelashes because his eye was so swollen. His eyelashes looked as big as tree limbs, were incredibly tangled and disorganized, and seemed safe to think about. So was his lip, which felt heavy and tight and itchy as though it had been stung by a bee. But that led him to thinking about Earl and how afraid of Earl he'd been and how he hadn't followed his father's advice at all; yet he'd gotten a beating just the same. Not facing up to a bully, just as his father had warned, never worked. It made his stomach hurt to think that if he'd stood up to Earl from the beginning, he would have paid no bigger price, but he'd have been brave. So, after all, what right did he have to hope for anything?

He tried not to think of that. He rocked himself and tried not to think of anything at all, as though if he could empty his head of all thoughts, he might be insignificant enough to escape proper justice, might be invisible enough for fate to ignore. But the devastated musette bag of fishing equipment in the closet came into his mind. Sure he'd asked his mother if he could borrow some hooks and sinkers that first time, but he'd never asked again, and little by little, through carelessness and waste and by giving away what didn't belong to him, almost everything had disappeared. And in that same closet sat his father's shoes, one of their tongues brutally cut away. He'd asked no one if he could destroy the shoes because he'd already known what the answer would be, and so he was twice guilty, guilty before he'd even committed the act, which was far worse. He had no rights at all. He knew nothing was going to turn out well because he'd been pushing everything the other way, and there was no one to thank but himself.

Right then he saw his mother coming, but he wouldn't look at her. He didn't have to. At a glance, he'd seen her temper in the way she was walking. He gazed at the quince bushes, the stalks of his own eyelashes, unwilling to admit the worst, but not at all surprised by it, except in the way he was always surprised by the actual appearance of the bad news he had predicted for himself. He heard her get in her car. Heard it start. But he didn't look up, not even when the commotion of her leaving demanded it. He could feel, without having to look, the anger she'd left in her wake, and it blew right through him.

EDWARD TALLY

For a moment he didn't quite know what had happened, but the door was standing open and she was gone. He'd seen and heard her all right, only he didn't quite take it in because he'd thought it would be different. Hell, he'd imagined she might hug him, kiss him, weep for joy, be happy—maybe because, all through the night, he'd uncovered his own true feelings, planned his confession, looked forward to setting things right, getting his family back, being a better man, an honest man at last; and he'd been so wrapped up in his confession and vision of things that it took him a few moments after she'd gone to understand what she'd said and done. She was still mad all right, madder than a hornet, and he doubted that she'd listened to a word he'd said.

He heard her start the car, racing the engine, as she always did. But he was parked behind her, and since she'd gone off half-cocked, she hadn't thought of that, and he'd have to let her out. He almost laughed, whether at himself or her, he didn't know. How could he have thought it would be so easy, as though sorting out the disposition of his own heart was the hard part and the rest would just naturally fall into place? As sad as it was, it was also comforting and a little funny. Some things a fellow could count on, and in a scary kind of way, they made him feel at home. He'd let her out, but not before he'd told her again that he loved her. Maybe he could think of something funny to say. Something to break the tension. It wasn't impossible that she would laugh. He got up and stepped out of the trailer, gently closing the door behind him. He remembered a time or two when he'd been able to convert her fury to laughter, but as he turned, already smiling at the prospect, he saw her careen the little coupe off the driveway, somehow sling it around the Packard and gun off toward Cedar Hill.

“Son of a bitch,” he said.

For a moment he thought of chasing her down and having it out with her, but he thought better of it. Let her cool off, he told himself. It had been a shock for him to appear out of nowhere, and naturally it would bring back her anger. She never did well with surprises; he didn't remember ever giving her one that worked the way he'd thought it would. Okay, he told himself, all right. It was embarrassing, in front of the boy and her family and all, but the only thing to do was acknowledge it and make light of it. Buy her some flowers, say. Wait her out. Grin and tell everyone that she was still mad as the dickens. Be patient with her, until, some damned way or other, he could convince her he was a changed man.

He took a deep breath and let it whistle out through his nose. His eyes were suddenly tired, and every muscle seemed weak. Even the air in his lungs felt thin and oily, unhealthy from all the cigarettes he'd smoked. He crossed the stile, sadness and disappointment tugging at him, and went on toward the house, his hands shoved in his pockets and what he suspected was a very silly and addled grin on his face, although he figured it was probably the best expression he had to offer.

As he stepped up on the front porch, he noticed James and said, “Hey, worrywart!”

James was hugging his knees to his chest and rocking himself back and forth. He didn't look up.

“Say,” Edward said, “aren't you supposed to be in school?”

The boy stopped rocking but otherwise didn't move. “Are you going back to Pittsburgh?” he asked in a grown-up, matter-of-fact voice that took Edward so by surprise, it left him nothing to say. The question seemed impertinent and absolutely to the point. He pondered the skinny child, who kept himself stubbornly turned away, and then sat down beside him. He took the pack of Luckys out of his shirt pocket, shook out a cigarette, and lit it.

“You don't smoke yet, I reckon,” he said. “That's good,” he remarked after a moment as though he'd gotten an answer. “I was already smoking when I was your age.” He gave a little snort of laughter. “Use to pick butts up off the street. We called it shooting snipe. Don't know why. I'd smoke those and coffee grounds. Yeah, and corn silks and rabbit tobacco too. Hell, I'd even roll up newspaper with nothing in it, light the end, and smoke the news. Sometimes suck a flame down my throat, seemed like a foot,” he said and laughed. “That's when we lived in Atlanta, on the edge of colored town where my Daddy sold insurance to the colored folks. Collected maybe fifty, seventy-five cents a week from them when he could.” Edward looked off across the valley. Pondered the mountains. The fall colors were faded at the highest elevations; some of the trees had even lost their leaves up there; but they were still bright in the foothills. He pondered the fertile creek bottoms, the pastures and fields. “Wasn't pretty country like this.”

What the hell was he babbling for? The boy already knew how grubby his childhood had been, knew all about how much trouble he'd had with his father, and how early he'd left home. Maybe he'd never told him about the smoking, but, hell.… So, of course, here he was again trying to make James feel better by comparison; and since James was about ten times smarter than he was, the boy had no doubt been on to him from the beginning, whereas he was just figuring it out himself. Still, dammit, what sort of comfort was there to offer? “Yessir,” he said, “this is just about the prettiest country I ever saw. Do you know what
Watauga
means in Indian?”

James sat with his chin wedged against his knees, his rocking diminished to almost invisible oscillations. He did not speak.