The Stories of Richard Bausch (47 page)

“It’s because they can take turns sleeping on shift,” Jane says.

“I’ll tell them,” Milly says, going down the hall.

Jane steps out of her jeans, pulls her blouse over her head and crawls under the sheets, which are cool and fresh and crisp. She turns the light off and closes her eyes. She can’t believe how bad it is. She hears them all saying goodnight, and she hears Martin shutting the doors and turning off the lights. In the dark she waits for him to get to her. She’s very still, lying on her back with her hands at her sides. He goes into the bathroom at the end of the hall. She hears him cough, clear his throat. He’s cleaning his teeth. Then he comes to the entrance of the bedroom and stands in the light of the hall.

“I know you’re awake,” he says.

She doesn’t answer.

“Jane,” he says.

She says, “What?”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I have a headache.”

“You always have a headache.”

“I’m not going to argue now, Martin. So you can say what you want.”

He moves toward her, is standing by the bed. He’s looming above her in the dark. “Teddy had some dope.”

She says, “I know. He offered me some.”

“I’m flying,” Martin says.

She says nothing.

“Let’s make love.”

“Martin,” she says. Her heart is beating fast. He moves a little, staggers taking off his shirt. He’s so big and quick and powerful; nothing fazes him. When he’s like this, the feeling she has is that he might do anything. “Martin,” she says.

“All right,” he says. “I won’t. Okay? You don’t have to worry your little self about it.”

“Look,” she says.

But he’s already headed into the hall. “Martin,” she says.

He’s in the living room. He turns the television on loud. A rerun of
Kojak.
She hears Theo calling someone sweetheart. “Sweetheart,”

Martin says. When she goes to him, she finds that he’s opened a beer and is sitting on the couch with his legs out. The beer is balanced on his stomach.

“Martin,” she says. “You have to start your shift in less than five hours.”

He holds the beer up. “Baby,” he says.

In the morning
he’s sheepish, obviously in pain. He sits at the kitchen table with his hands up to his head while she makes coffee and hard-boiled eggs. She has to go to work, too, at a car dealership in town. All day she sits behind a window with a circular hole in the glass, where people line up to pay for whatever the dealer sells or provides, including mechanical work, parts, license plates, used cars, rental cars and, of course, new cars. Her day is long and exhausting, and she’s already feeling as though she worked all night. The booth she has to sit in is right off the service bay area, and the smell of exhaust and grease is everywhere. Everything seems coated with a film of grime. She’s standing at her sink, looking at the sun coming up past the trees beyond her street, and without thinking about it she puts the water on and washes her hands. The idea of the car dealership is like something clinging to her skin.

“Jesus,” Martin says. He can’t eat much.

She’s drying her hands on a paper towel.

“Listen,” he says, “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Sorry?” she says.

“Don’t press it, all right? You know what I mean.”

“Okay,” she says, and when he gets up and comes over to put his arms around her, she feels his difference from her. She kisses him. They stand there.

“Four days,” he says.

When Teddy and Wally pull up in Wally’s new pickup, she stands in the kitchen door and waves at them. Martin walks down the driveway, carrying his tote bag of uniforms and books to read. He turns around and blows her a kiss. This morning is like so many other mornings. They drive off. She goes back into the bedroom and makes the bed, and puts his dirty uniforms in the wash. She showers and chooses something to wear. It’s quiet. She puts the radio on and then decides she’d rather have the silence. After she’s dressed, she stands at the back door and looks out at the street. Children are walking to school in little groups of friends. She thinks about the four days ahead. What she needs is to get into the routine and stop thinking so much. She knows that problems in a marriage are worked out over time.

Before she leaves for work she goes out into the garage to look for signs of Teddy’s dope. She doesn’t want someone stumbling on incriminating evidence. On the worktable along the back wall are Martin’s model planes. She walks over and stands staring at them. She stands very still, as if waiting for something to move.

At work her
friend Eveline smokes one cigarette after another, apologizing for each one. During Martin’s shifts Jane spends a lot of time with Eveline, who is twenty-nine and single and wants very much to be married. The problem is she can’t find anyone. Last year, when Jane was first working at the dealership, she got Eveline a date with Teddy Lynch. Teddy took Eveline to Lum’s for hot dogs and beer, and they had fun at first. But then Eveline got drunk and passed out—put her head down on her arms and went to sleep like a child asked to take a nap in school. Teddy put her in a cab for home and then called Martin to laugh about the whole thing. Eveline was so humiliated by the experience that she goes out of her way to avoid Teddy—doesn’t want anything to do with him or with any of Martin’s
friends, or with Martin, for that matter. She will come over to the house only when she knows Martin is away at work. And when Martin calls the dealership and she answers the phone, she’s very stiff and formal, and she hands the phone quickly to Jane.

Today things aren’t very busy, and they work a crossword together, making sure to keep it out of sight of the salesmen, who occasionally wander in to waste time with them. Eveline plays her radio and hums along with some of the songs. It’s a long, slow day, and when Martin calls Jane feels herself growing anxious—something is moving in the pit of her stomach.

“Are you still mad at me?” he says.

“No,” she tells him.

“Say you love me.”

“I love you.”

“Everybody’s asleep here,” he says. “I wish you were with me.”

She says, “Right.”

“I do,” he says.

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I said
okay.”

“Is it busy today?” he asks.

“Not too.”

“You’re bored, then.”

“A little,” she says.

“How’s the headache?”

“Just the edge of one.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Sometimes I feel like it is.”

“How’s
your
head?” she says.

“Terrible.”

“Poor boy.”

“I wish something would happen around here,” he says. “A lot of guys snoring.”

“Martin,” she says, “I’ve got to go.”

“Okay.”

“You want me to stop by tonight?” she asks.

“If you want to.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You don’t have to.”

She thinks about him where he is: she imagines him, comfortable, sitting on a couch in front of a television. Sometimes, when nothing’s going on, he watches all the soaps. He was hooked on
General Hospital
for a while. That he’s her husband seems strange, and she thinks of the nights she’s lain in his arms, whispering his name over and over, putting her hands in his hair and rocking with him in the dark. She tells him she loves him, and hangs the phone up. Eveline makes a gesture of frustration and envy.

“Nuts,” Eveline says. “Nuts to you and your lovey-dovey stuff.”

Jane is sitting in a bath of cold inner light, trying to think of her husband as someone she recognizes.

“Let’s do something tonight,” Eveline says. “Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

“I’m not going with you if you’re going to be giving strange men the eye,” Jane says. She hasn’t quite heard herself. She’s surprised when Eveline reacts.

“How dare you say a nasty thing like that? I don’t know if I want to go out with someone who doesn’t think any more of me than
that.”

“I’m sorry,” Jane says, patting the other woman’s wrist. “I didn’t mean anything by it, really. I was just teasing.”

“Well, don’t tease that way. It hurts my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” Jane says again. “Please—really.” She feels near crying.

“Well, okay,” Eveline says. “Don’t get upset. I’m half teasing myself.”

Jane sniffles, wipes her eyes with the back of one hand.

“What’s wrong, anyway?” Eveline says.

“Nothing,” Jane says. “I hurt your feelings.”

That evening they
ride in Eveline’s car over to Shakey’s for a pizza, and then stroll down to the end of the block, to the new mini-mall on Lincoln Avenue. The night is breezy and warm. A storm is building over the town square. They window-shop for a while, and finally they stop at a new corner café, to sit in a booth by the windows, drinking beer. Across the street one of the movies has ended, and people are filing out, or waiting around. A few of them head this way.

“They don’t look like they enjoyed the movie very much,” Eveline says.

“Maybe they did, and they’re just depressed to be back in the real world.”

“Look, what is it?” Eveline asks suddenly.

Jane returns her gaze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong,” Eveline says.

Two boys from the high school come past, and one of them winks at Jane. She remembers how it was in high school—the games of flirtation and pursuit, of ignoring some people and noticing others. That seemed like such an unbearable time, and it’s already years ago. She watches Eveline light yet another cigarette and feels very much older than her own memory of herself. She sees the person she is now, with Martin, somewhere years away, happy, with children, and with different worries. It’s a vivid daydream. She sits there fabricating it, feeling it for what it is and feeling, too, that nothing will change: the Martin she sees in the daydream is nothing like the man she lives with. She thinks of Milly Harmon, pregnant and talking about waiting to be surprised by love.

“I think I’d like to have a baby,” she says. She hadn’t known she would say it.

Eveline says, “Yuck,” blowing smoke.

“Yuck,” Jane says. “That’s great. Great response, Evie.”

They’re quiet awhile. Beyond the square the clouds break up into tatters, and lightning strikes out. They hear thunder, and the smell of rain is in the air. The trees in the little park across from the theater move in the wind, and leaves blow out of them.

“Wouldn’t you like to have a family?” Jane says.

“Sure.”

“Well, the last time I checked, that meant having babies.”

“Yuck,” Eveline says again.

“Oh, all right—you just mean because of the pain and all.” “I mean yuck.”

“Well, what does ‘yuck’ mean, okay?”

“What
is
the matter with you?” Eveline says. “What difference does it make?”

“I’m trying to have a normal conversation,” Jane says, “and I’m getting
these weird one-word answers, that’s all. I mean what’s ‘yuck,’ anyway? What’s it mean?”

“Let’s say it means I don’t want to talk about having babies.”

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

Each is now a little annoyed with the other. Jane has noticed that whenever she talks about anything that might border on plans for the future, the other woman becomes irritatingly sardonic and closemouthed. Eveline sits there smoking her cigarette and watching the storm come. From beyond the square they hear sirens, which seem to multiply. The whole city seems to be mobilizing. Jane thinks of Martin out there where all those alarms are converging. How odd to know where your husband is by a sound everyone hears. She remembers lying awake nights early in the marriage, hearing sirens and worrying about what might happen. And now, through a slanting sheet of rain, as though something in these thoughts has produced her, Milly Harmon comes, holding an open magazine above her head. She sees Jane and Eveline in the window and waves at them. “Oh, God,” Eveline says. “Isn’t that Milly Harmon?”

Milly comes into the café and stands for a moment, shaking water from herself. Her hair is wet, as are her shoulders. She pushes her hair away from her forehead, and wipes the rain away with the back of one hand. Then she walks over and says, “Hi, honey,” to Jane, bending down to kiss her on the side of the face. Jane manages to seem glad to see her. “You remember my friend Eveline from work,” she says.

“I think I do, sure,” Milly says.

“Maybe not,” Eveline says.

“No, I think I do.”

“I have one of those faces that remind you of somebody you never met,” Eveline says.

Jane covers this with a laugh as Milly settles on her side of the booth.

Milly is breathless, all bustle and worry, arranging herself, getting comfortable. “Do you hear that?” she says about the sirens. “I swear, it must be a big one. I wish I didn’t hear the sirens. It makes me so jumpy and scared. Wally would never forgive me if I did, but I wish I could get up the nerve to go see what it is.”

“So,” Eveline says, blowing smoke, “how’s the baby coming along?”

Milly looks down at herself. “Sleeping now, I think.”

“Wally—is it Wally?”

“Wally, yes.”

“Wally doesn’t let you chase ambulances?”

“I don’t chase ambulances.”

“Well, I mean—you aren’t allowed to go see what’s what when you hear sirens?”

“I don’t want to see.”

“I guess not.”

“He’s seen some terrible things. They all have. It must be terrible sometimes.”

“Right,” Eveline says. “It must be terrible.”

Milly waves her hand in front of her face. “I wish you wouldn’t smoke.”

“I was smoking before you came,” Eveline says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Milly looks confused for a second. Then she sits back a little and folds her hands on the table. She’s chosen to ignore Eveline. She looks at Jane and says, “I had that dream last night.”

Jane says, “What dream?”

“That Wally was gone.”

Jane says nothing.

“But it wasn’t the same, really. He’d left me, you know—the baby was born and he’d just gone off. I was so mad at him. And I had this crying little baby in my lap.”