45
O
N A WARM WINDLESS AFTERNOON ROSE TYLER STOPPED
at the trailer on Detroit Street and honked and waited, and after a while Luther and Betty Wallace stepped out onto the porch. Luther lifted his hand to shade his eyes, then he removed a washrag from the pocket of his sweatpants and dabbed at his eyes, and afterward put the rag away and took Betty by the arm and led her down the porch steps out along the dirt path to the car at the edge of the weeds. They got in and Rose drove them across town. Everything’s going to be all right, she said. Try not to worry.
The woman was wearing an apron when she let them in. Hello, Rose said. We’re here.
Come in, the woman said.
This is Mr. and Mrs. Wallace.
I’ve been expecting you. How do you do.
How do you do, ma’am, Luther said. He shook her hand. Betty shook hands, but said nothing.
Please come in. I’ll go get Joy Rae and Richie.
The Wallaces entered her house as if they were entering some formal place where circumspection was the custom. They sat together on the couch. She got a nice house here, don’t she, Luther said. Real nice.
Rose sat down across from them, and presently the woman brought their children out from the back room. They stood beside her and glanced once shyly at their parents, then looked away. Their clothes appeared to have been freshly washed and ironed, and Joy Rae’s bangs were trimmed in a straight line across her forehead.
You can sit there with your mother and father, the woman said. She gave them a little push.
The children sat down on the couch next to Betty. They didn’t say anything. They seemed to be much embarrassed by the occasion. Betty took Joy Rae’s hand and pulled her close and kissed her face and then leaned across and kissed Richie. Both children sat back and wiped at their faces and looked out into the room.
The woman excused herself to go into the kitchen, and Rose stood up. I’m going to leave you too. You’ll want to catch up a little, by yourselves, won’t you. Then she followed the woman into the kitchen.
You look so nice, honey, Betty told Joy Rae. Did you get your hair cut?
Yes.
It looks so nice. Did she cut it for you?
She cut it last week.
Well, it looks real nice on you. And how you been doing, Richie?
Okay.
What you been doing with yourself?
Reading.
Is it a book from school?
No, it’s from church. They said I could keep it.
And I guess you been playing with other kids?
Sometimes we have.
Then the front door opened. Two young girls in bright dresses came in and stopped and stood looking at the Wallace family and then went on to the back of the house.
Who’s that? Betty whispered.
Her other ones.
Her other foster kids?
We don’t see them much, Joy Rae said. They don’t want nothing to do with us.
R
OSE CAME BACK IN AND THE WOMAN FOLLOWED HER WITH
a plate of cookies and set the plate on the side table.
Joy Rae, the woman said, why don’t you ask your parents if they would like a cookie. And Richie, would you pass around these napkins.
The children rose and did as they were asked.
Would you care for some tea? the woman said.
Oh, no thank you, ma’am, Luther said. We’re doing pretty good just the way we are.
They all sat and ate the cookies and tried to think what there was to say.
Finally Luther leaned forward on the couch toward the woman. My eyes been burning me some, he said. I reckon I got me some kind of eye infection. Might be pinkeye. I don’t know what it is. He took a bite of his cookie and set what was left of it on a napkin on the arm of the couch and pulled out the washrag from his pocket and dabbed at his weepy eyes. And my wife, he said, her stomach’s been acting up again on her too. Ain’t it, dear? Acting up bad.
It’s been acting up real bad, Betty said. She laid her hand over her stomach and massaged at a place under her breasts.
We’ll make appointments for both of you to see the doctor, Rose said. It’s time again, isn’t it.
When you think that’ll be? Luther said.
As soon as I can get you in. I’ll call yet today.
I don’t want to see that same doctor I seen the last time, Betty said. I don’t want to see him again ever.
He ain’t never done you no good, has he, Luther said.
He give me some pills. That’s bout all he ever did.
We’ll see, Rose said. I’ll try to get you in to see Dr. Martin. You’ll like him better.
Then they fell again into an awkward silence.
Joy Rae, the woman said, why don’t you see if your parents are ready for another cookie.
I could stand me another one, Luther said. How bout you, dear?
If it don’t grip my stomach too much, Betty said.
Joy Rae stood in front of each of them offering the plate of cookies and then set it down and returned to the couch and sat beside her brother and put her arm around him. The little boy moved closer to her and laid his head on her shoulder, as if there were nothing else to do in such circumstances.
46
S
HE CALLED RAYMOND IN THE LATE AFTERNOON AND HE
was still outside. She called him again an hour later and he had come up from the horse barn by that time in the lowering afternoon sun, and he picked up the phone. I want to go out for dinner, she said.
When would you want to do that?
Now. This evening. I want you to take me out for dinner right now this evening.
It’ll be my pleasure, he said. I’ll have to clean up first.
I’ll be waiting for you, Rose said, and hung up.
He showered and changed into his town clothes and drove into Holt in the pickup. It was still light outside and would be yet, now that daylight savings had started, for another two hours.
He went up to the door and she came out at once and he walked her to the pickup. She seemed disturbed by something. They went out to the Wagon Wheel Café on the highway as before, and over dinner she told him about taking the Wallaces to see their children at the foster home at the west side of town. He asked questions when he needed to, but mostly he only listened, and afterward he drove her back to her house.
Will you come in for a while? she said. Please.
Of course. If you want me to.
They stepped inside and she said: Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll make coffee.
Thank you, he said. He sat in his accustomed chair and looked around, studying a painting of hers he particularly liked, a watercolor of a stand of trees with their leaves all gone, just the bare trunks remaining, a windbreak on a hill, and brown grass on the hill against a winter sky. She had other pictures on the walls, but they seemed too bright to him and he didn’t like them as well. He could hear her out in the kitchen. You want any help? he called.
No, she called back. I’m coming.
She came in and set his cup on the side table next to his chair and she sat down on the couch across the room and placed her cup on the coffee table before her. Then, without warning, she began to cry.
Raymond set his cup down and looked at her. Rose. What is it? Have I done something wrong?
No, she said. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands. It’s not you. It’s not you at all. I’ve just felt sad all afternoon. Ever since we went to the foster home. It was okay really, but it just seemed sad to me.
There wasn’t nothing else to be done about it, was there? he said.
No. But I’ve felt like weeping all afternoon. I told them everything would be all right. That was a lie. I didn’t tell them the truth. This isn’t any kind of a priority for the police. The police aren’t going to find her uncle and they won’t get their children back. Those kids will be kept in foster homes till they’re eighteen or till they just run away. Everything is not going to be all right.
Probably not, Raymond said.
Her eyes filled with tears again and she took out a handkerchief, and Raymond sat watching her, then he stood and crossed to the couch and sat down and put his arm around her shoulder.
She wiped at her tears and turned to face him. I’ve done this kind of thing so many times, she said. And today they could only mention their physical ailments. I don’t blame them for that. That’s all they know how to talk about. So I called the doctor and made them an appointment. But what good can any doctor do?
Not enough, Raymond said. A doctor couldn’t of done nothing for my brother, either.
She looked up at him. His iron-gray hair was so stiff on his head, his face so red from all the years of fierce weather he’d worked in. Still, she could see the kindness there. She settled into his shoulder.
I’m sorry to go on so, she said. Thank you for listening. And coming over here to sit next to me without my having to ask. It means a lot to me, Raymond. You mean a lot to me.
Well, Raymond said. He drew her slightly closer to him. That goes both ways, Rose.
Then she began to weep again, against his shoulder while he held her. They sat for a long time in this way, without moving, without talking.
A
ND NOW, OUTSIDE THE HOUSE, BEYOND THE SILENT ROOM
they sat in, the dark began to collect along the street.
And soon now the streetlamps would come on, flickering and shuddering, to illuminate all the corners of Holt.
And farther away, outside of town, out on the high plains, there would be the blue yardlights shining from the tall poles at all the isolated farms and ranches in all the flat treeless country, and presently the wind would come up, blowing across the open spaces, traveling without obstruction across the wide fields of winter wheat and across the ancient native pastures and the graveled county roads, carrying with it a pale dust as the dark approached and the nighttime gathered round.
And still in the room they sat together quietly, the old man with his arm around this kind woman, waiting for what would come.
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to acknowledge the generous support and encouragement of:
Mark Haruf, Verne Haruf, Edith Russell, Sorel Haruf Arnold, Whitney Haruf, Chaney Haruf, Mark and Gin Spragg, Rod Bina, Tony Watkins, Kit and Sandy Carpenter, Jeff Donlan, Liz Gersbacher, Stephanie Dillard, Theresa Saucke, John Niedfeldt, Rollie Deering, Dr. Tom Parks, Dr. Paul Ammatelli, Karen Greenberg, Meg Viets, Peter Brown, Carol Devine Carson, Liz Van Hoose, Kathryn Laughon, and especially JJ Laughon; and Peter Matson and Jody Hotchkiss, longtime friends and agents; and Gary Fisketjon, friend and the best of all editors; and Cathy Haruf, always.
ALSO BY KENT HARUF
Plainsong
Where You Once Belonged
The Tie That Binds
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Copyright © 2004 by Kent Haruf
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Haruf, Kent
Eventide / Kent Haruf.
p. cm.
1. City and town life—Fiction. 2. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title.
PS
3558.A716E93 2004
813'.54—dc22
2003060480
e
ISBN:
978-1-4000-4301-9
v3.0