Victoria Roubideaux.
One night when she had finished washing dishes at the Holt Café and afterward had eaten her own supper sitting at the café counter, she didn’t go back to Maggie Jones’s house immediately. Instead she walked about town by herself with her coat buttoned up to her chin and her hands pulled up into the sleeves.
She made the call from a pay phone on the highway out at the town limits of Holt where there was a short turnout for cars and where a summer picnic table was set out under four scrubby and leafless Chinese elm trees. Cattle buyers used the phone during the day, leaning over the hoods of their dusty pickups while they talked, carrying the phone out on its cable as far it would allow them and writing their figures on pads of paper. Now it was dark. The sun had gone under two hours ago and a sharp cold winter wind was blowing dirt across the highway in brown skeins, pushing it into ridges along the gutters at the curbing. The new yellowish streetlamps were burning all along the empty blacktop, showing the entrance into town. She called for information in Norka, where he came from, the next town going west from Holt. The operator gave the number that was listed for his mother.
When she dialed the number, the woman on the other end answered at once, and the woman sounded angry from the outset.
May I speak to Dwayne? the girl said.
Who is this?
This is a friend of his.
Dwayne isn’t here. He doesn’t live here.
Is he in Denver?
Who is it wants to know?
Victoria Roubideaux.
Who?
The girl said it again.
I never heard him mention that name before, the woman said.
I’m a friend of his, the girl said. We met last summer.
That’s what you say. How do I know that? the woman said. I wouldn’t know you from Nancy Reagan.
The girl looked out across the highway. There was a scrap of paper blowing along the gutter, tumbling with the dirt. Can’t you just give me his phone number? she said. Please, I need to talk to him. There’s something I want to tell him.
Now you listen to me, the woman said. I told you, he isn’t here. And he isn’t here. I’m not giving out his number to everybody that wants it. He’s got his privacy to think of. He’s working a job and that’s what he needs to be doing. Whoever you are, you leave him alone. You hear me? She hung up.
The girl put the phone back. She felt very alone now, cut off and frightened for the first time. She was not sick in the morning very often anymore, but she still wanted to cry too much of the time, and lately her jeans and skirts were so tight at the waist that she’d begun wearing them unbuttoned with a little piece of elastic strap pinned inside, holding them together, a solution that Maggie Jones had given her. The girl looked up and down the highway. It was empty save for a big tanker truck that was rattling in from the west. She could hear the whistle of its brakes as it slowed, passing under the first streetlights. When it rattled by, the driver sitting up high in the tractor cab looked her over thoroughly, his head turned sideways like he had a broken neck.
Across the highway and up a block toward town was Shattuck’s, and she decided to go there. She didn’t want to go back to Maggie’s yet. She would still be out of the house at a teachers’ meeting, and the old man was there alone. The girl started walking back toward Shattuck’s. She felt emotional and softhearted toward it, as though she were being pulled there by the past. It was where he had bought hamburgers and Cokes for the two of them in the summer, and afterward they had taken the sack of food in the car and driven out into the flat open country north of town on the unnamed gravel roads, driving out alone at that hour when the sky was only beginning to deepen and color up and the first stars were just coming clear, when all the scattered birds of the fields were flying homeward.
Shattuck’s had a narrow room at the side with three café tables positioned along the wall where you could sit and eat your food if you weren’t ordering from a car. When she entered this room there was a young woman with two little girls eating at one of the tables. The woman had stiff red hair that looked dyed. She was eating chili from a Styrofoam bowl and the little girls were each having a hot dog and sipping chocolate milk from straws.
At the order window the girl asked for a Coke and old Mrs. Shattuck brought the glass to the counter and she carried it to the table in the corner where a window looked out on the highway. She sat down and put her red purse on the table. She unbuttoned her coat. She took a drink and looked out toward the street. A car went by loaded with high school kids, the windows rolled down and the music blaring. After a while two cattle trucks rattled past, one immediately behind the other, making the café windows vibrate. She could see the brown hides of the cattle through the ventilation holes in the aluminum sides, and all along the panels the manure had run down in ragged stains.
Inside Shattuck’s, country music was playing from the ceiling speakers. The young red-haired mother at the other table had finished with the chili and was smoking a cigarette. She was jiggling her foot to the music, her loose shoe half off. From the speakers overhead a girl’s voice was singing, You really had me going, baby, but now I’m gone. The woman’s foot moved with the music. Then suddenly she jumped up from the table and cried, Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh, my God. What is wrong with you? She jerked the smaller of the two girls by the arm, lifting the little girl out of her chair, and stood her violently on her feet. Couldn’t you see that was going to happen? There was a pool of chocolate milk spreading across the table from an upended glass, the dark milk spilling off the edge like a little dirty waterfall. The small girl stood away from the table watching it, her face was as white as paper and she began to whimper. Don’t you dare, the woman said. Don’t you even start that. She grabbed napkins from the dispenser and swiped at the table, spreading the mess around, then she dabbed at her hands. Shit, she said. Look at this. Finally she snatched up her purse and rushed out of the room. Behind her the two little girls clattered in their hard shoes across the tiled floor, calling for her to wait.
The girl watched them through the café window. The woman had already cranked the car and was beginning to roll it backward on the gravel lot, and then the older of the girls managed to open the passenger door and they hopped alongside trying to get in. Suddenly they leaped in one after the other but the door had swung out too wide and they couldn’t close it. The car jerked to a stop. The woman came rushing out and around to the other side and slammed the door shut and got back in and raced the car backward onto the highway where she put it forward and they roared away.
On the floor under the table the chocolate milk had made a thin muddy pool. Mrs. Shattuck appeared from the kitchen dragging a mop and began to soak up the chocolate milk by swiping the mop back and forth. She stopped and looked at the girl. Did you ever see such a mess? she said.
She didn’t mean to, the girl said.
I’m not referring to that, Mrs. Shattuck said. Is that what you thought?
It was after ten when the girl returned to the house. But it was still too early. Maggie Jones had not come home yet. The girl stepped quietly down the hall to the old man’s room and opened the door slightly and peered in. He was asleep in the bed in this back room where he could control the level of heat and it was turned up to a degree that seemed suffocating to the girl, but even so he was asleep in all his clothes with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His shoes formed a sharp bump under the blanket. A book was folded over his chest. She closed the door and went back to the sewing room she used as a bedroom and got undressed and put on her nightgown.
Afterward she was in the bathroom, scrubbing her face, when the door suddenly opened. She turned from the mirror. He stood in the doorway, his white hair standing up on his head like wisps of dried corn silk. His eyes appeared bloodshot and glazed, staring at her.
What are you doing in this house? he said.
She watched him carefully. I live here, she said.
Who are you? Who said you could just come in here?
Mr. Jackson—
Get out. Before I call the authorities.
Mr. Jackson, I live here. You remember me.
I never saw you before in my life.
But Mrs. Jones invited me, the girl said.
Mrs. Jones is dead.
No. Your daughter. That Mrs. Jones.
Then where is she? he said.
I don’t know. At a meeting, I think. She said she’d be here by now.
That’s a filthy lie.
He stepped into the room and began to move toward her. The girl stepped back. Suddenly he brought his arm up and slapped her face with his open hand and slapped her again. Her nose began to bleed.
Mr. Jackson, she cried. Don’t. She was backed up against the shower door, turned a little to the side, with one hand over her stomach to protect herself in case he should try to hit her somewhere other than the face. Don’t. Please. You don’t want to do this.
I’ll do it again. You better get out of here.
I will. If you just step out for a minute, I’ll leave.
He stood still, waiting. His eyes were wild. It’s at the bank, he said. You’ll never touch it in your life.
What? No. If you’ll just step back.
I have it. Not you. You don’t have the key.
Yes, I know. But just wait outside. Just for a minute. Will you do that?
Why should I?
I want to dry my face.
He looked at her. I can’t take much more of this, he said. He surveyed the bathroom, his eyes still wild and red. At last he shuffled his feet, backing out.
Immediately she locked the door and he stayed outside, muttering. She could hear him guarding the door, waiting for her. For an hour she stayed in the bathroom. She put the lid down and sat down on the toilet and held toilet paper to her nose and all the time she could hear him talking and arguing in the hallway. It sounded as though he had seated himself against the wall.
. . .
He was still there when Maggie Jones came home after eleven. She came into the hall and found him sitting on the floor. Oh, Dad, she said. What have you done?
She’s in there, he said. I got her trapped. But she won’t come out.
Mrs. Jones? the girl called. Is that you?
That’s her, he said. That’s her yapping in there.
Dad, Maggie Jones said, she lives here. That’s Victoria. Don’t you remember? She turned toward the door. Honey, are you okay?
I don’t know what I did, the girl said through the door. I don’t know what upset him.
I know. It’s all right. I know you didn’t do anything, honey.
She wants my key. That’s what she wants.
No, now Dad. That’s not so. You know it isn’t. Come on. Let’s get you to bed.
That’s what they all want.
She raised her old father by the arm and led him back to his room. He came along docilely now. She helped him out of his clothes and removed his shoes and set them on the floor beside the bed and he stood naked in the hot room, his arms at his sides, his skin sagging at the elbows and knees, his thighs as skinny as sticks. His old gray buttocks had fallen forlornly. He stood like a child waiting for what she would do next. She helped him step into his pajamas and buttoned his top, then he lay down in the bed. She covered him with the blankets.
Dad, she said. She brushed his wispy hair flat on his head. You can’t do that again. Please. You can’t. Listen to me now.
Do what? he said.
Please, she said. Just don’t do that. That girl has enough trouble.
She can’t get to it anyway.
No. Hush now. We’ll talk in the morning. Try to sleep. She bent and kissed him and held her face against his cheek for a long while. He began to relax. She smoothed her hand over his eyes and he closed them. She continued to caress his face. At last he was asleep. Then she went back into the hall. She found the girl in the makeshift bedroom at the back of the house, standing at the dresser. The girl looked large-eyed and very tired and pale in the long white nightgown. Just a young high school girl with dark hair, with something swollen beginning to show at her stomach.
Did he hurt you? Maggie Jones said.
Not really, the girl said.
You’re sure you’re all right?
I’m okay. But Mrs. Jones. I think I have to go someplace else. He doesn’t like me.
Honey, he doesn’t even know you.
He scares me. I don’t know what to do.
Can you stay with a friend?
I don’t know who, the girl said. I don’t like to ask.
Go to bed then, honey, Maggie Jones said. I’m here now.
Ike and Bobby.
In the afternoon they sat on their bikes at the curb on Chicago Street directly across the way, looking at it. A little pale stucco house no bigger than a cottage, standing back behind three low elms that grew in the front yard, one of the trees with a long weep of sap from upwards in its trunk where a limb had been taken off. A sidewalk led to the front door. It was a little rental house, one story and no basement, in this country where most houses had basements or root cellars, and it was faded to a dim green with a gray shingled roof and even though they knew she was inside it looked empty and unlived in. Beyond the windows there was no movement. They watched for a long while.
Then they crossed the street walking their bikes and stopped and looked at it again, put down their kickstands and parked the bikes on the sidewalk and walked up to the front door. Go on, Bobby said.
Ike tapped on the unvarnished wood door.
She won’t even hear that, Bobby said.
Then you do it.
Bobby looked away.
All right then.
Ike tapped again, only slightly louder, and they waited, staring at the door. Behind them the street was quiet and without traffic. When they no longer expected anything from inside, the door swung inward slowly and there was their mother. She stood in the doorway looking at them with dull lusterless eyes. She looked bad now. She appeared to be completely worn out. They could see that. She had been a pretty woman with soft brown hair and slim arms and a thin waist. But now she looked sick. Her eyes were sunken behind dark circles and her face was pasty-looking, thin and drawn, as if for days she’d fogotten to eat or as if nothing she brought to her mouth tasted good enough anymore, even to take in and chew and swallow. She was still wearing a bathrobe in the middle of the afternoon and her hair was flattened against one side of her head.
Yes, she said. Her voice was dry and flat, without inflection.
Hello, Mother.
Is something wrong? She cupped one hand over her eyes against the bright afternoon sun.
We just wanted to see you. They felt embarrassed and they turned away, looking back across the empty street toward the spot at the curb from which they had watched the house.
Did you want to come in? she said.
If you don’t care.
They followed her into the little front room where at any time, day or night, her clothes had been discarded and dropped over the anonymous furniture and where dishes from the kitchen, coffee cups and saucers and bowls of shrinking drying food, had been put down at random on the bare rug.
I wasn’t expecting anyone, she said.
She sat down on the couch and drew her feet up under her. The boys were still standing.
Can’t you find a place to sit?
They seated themselves on the two wood chairs opposite the couch and looked in her direction and after the first time they didn’t look at her eyes again. She was playing with the belt of her bathrobe, wrapping it around one finger and then unwrapping it. Her pale legs, the pale shins and her yellowish sallow feet, were visible beneath the hem of her robe.
Did your father send you here? she said.
No, Ike said. He didn’t send us.
He doesn’t even know we came, Bobby said.
Does he ask about me?
We talk about you, Ike said.
What do you say?
We say we miss you. We wonder how you are.
We wonder how you’re doing all alone in this new house, Bobby said.
I appreciate that, she said. Knowing that much makes me feel better. She looked across the room. How is he?
Dad?
Yes.
He’s okay.
I understand he stays out all the time now.
He goes out at night sometimes after we’re in bed, Ike said.
Where does he go?
We don’t know.
Doesn’t he tell you?
No.
I don’t like that, she said. She examined her hands, the ends of her long slender shapely fingers. He must think I’m crazy now. That I’ve gone over the other side. He must think that about me. She looked up. Did you know he doesn’t want me to come back anymore. Even if I wanted to. He told me as much.
We want you to come back, Mother.
I’m not crazy yet, she said. I don’t think I am. Do you think I’m crazy?
No.
No. I haven’t gotten there yet. I don’t think I’m going to now. She stared off fixedly across the room. I thought I would but I don’t think so now. It’s just that I don’t know what to do about what I’m thinking. I think all the time and I can’t seem to stop, but I don’t know what to do about that yet either. She was looking at them again. Isn’t that a nice fix to find yourself in?
Maybe you should go outside more, Ike said.
Do you think that would help me?
It might.
But when do you think you will be coming home again? Bobby said.
I can’t say about that. You mustn’t rush me. I need time. Don’t ask me that now, all right?
All right.
She smiled at him sadly. Thank you, she said.
Mother, do you want us to pick up for you? Ike said.
Why? What do you mean?
The things here. In this house. He looked around the room and waved his hand.
Oh. No. That’s nice of you. But I’m feeling kind of tired. She pulled the neck of her robe together. I think I’ll lie down. I feel kind of sick.
You should see the doctor.
I know. Would you mind if I lie down now?
You look tired, Mother.
We’ll come back later, Bobby said.
Can we bring you anything? Ike said.
She looked into their faces. Well. I don’t know. I am out of coffee, she said. Could you get me some coffee?
Yes.
You could charge it at Johnson’s in my name.
She stood up and went back slowly to the bedroom, and they went outside and talked about it between themselves on the street curb and then rode downtown to Johnson’s grocery store on Main Street and went back along the wood floor to the ranked shelves of coffee that were arranged by brand and price and chose a green can that looked familiar to them and charged it to their mother at the register. Afterward they went over to Duckwall’s, still on Main Street in the middle of the same block, and stood in front of the perfume counter, debating for fifteen minutes, while the clerk behind the glass case showed them little bottles.
How much is that one? Ike said.
This one here?
Yes.
This one is five dollars.
Finally they chose the one they could afford out of their paper-route money and from what was left of the dollars Raymond McPheron had given them for helping work cattle—a little blue bottle that said Evening in Paris on the label and had a very sweet scent and a silver stopper that closed it, and they still had enough money left over to buy a small box with a clear lid that contained a dozen round soft vari-colored balls of bubble bath. They had the clerk, the middle-aged woman, wrap the two boxes in paper with a bow.
Then they rode back to her house on Chicago Street. By now it was late afternoon and getting cold outside. The long shadows were reaching across the street. They waited a long time before she answered their knock, and when she came to the door she looked as though she had risen from a deep sleep.
They offered the can of coffee to her and she took it fumbling and then they held out the two boxes from Duckwall’s.
Did you buy these too?
Yes.
What are they?
Open them why don’t you, Mother?
But what are they?
They’re for you.
She slowly untied the bows and unwrapped the bright paper and saw what was in the boxes. She began to cry then. The tears ran unregarded down her face. Oh, dear God, she said. She was crying. She hugged the two boys with the boxes still clutched in her hands. Oh God, what am I going to do about any of this?