“No.”
“Probably some damned kids.”
“Maybe that guy who brought Molly O’s girl.”
“Well, whoever it is . . .”
“I’ll go out and see.”
“No, you don’t have to do that. If they want something—”
“I’ll be right back,” Vena said.
She couldn’t tell until she got past the headlights that the vehicle was a truck she had seen before and the driver a man she recognized from her first night at the Honk.
“We’re closed,” she said.
“You mean it’s too late for a drink? Didn’t know it ever got too late for a drink.”
“Caney’s not selling beer tonight anyway.”
“Why not?”
“It’s Christmas.”
“Well, it’s not really beer-drinking weather, is it?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
“Yeah, need something a little stronger than beer for a night like this.” He reached between his legs for a fifth of Wild Turkey, uncapped it and took a long, slow swallow. “Now this’ll make you forget you’re cold, Vena.”
Vena tried not to look surprised at hearing him say her name, but he caught the sudden tilt of her head.
“Oh, I make it my business to know the names of good-looking women,” he said. “And I don’t like to drink with strangers.” He winked then to make sure she understood. “I’m Sam. Sam Kellam.” Smiling, he passed the bottle through the window and held it out to Vena.
“No.”
“Aw, go on. You look like you need something to warm you up.”
Sam leaned farther out the window. “Warm you all the way up inside, Vena.”
“I said no!”
“Whoa now. I just came to offer you a drink . . . and a ride.”
“I don’t need a ride.”
“That right?” Sam let his eyes range over the empty parking lot.
“Then how you gonna get home, huh? You gonna take a bus?”
Vena cut her eyes away, looked off into the night. “There’s no bus in this town.”
“Oh yes there is. And it’s not very far from here. Not far at all.
You know, I wouldn’t mind a little ride in a bus myself. Take a little of this to relax,” Sam said, waving the bottle in Vena’s face, “then get all cozy in the back of a bus. Let someone else do the driving. You know what I mean?”
“I don’t give a damn about what you mean.”
Vena tried to step away from the truck, but Sam grabbed her arm, pulling her close to the window, so close she could smell the sourness of his breath.
“What’s your hurry? You tired? Yeah, I bet you are. On your feet all day. In and out, in and out. Time you pulled off those boots, put your legs up—”
Vena twisted out of his grasp and started for the Honk, but she hadn’t taken more than three steps before Sam gunned the truck, tires spinning on the snow as it careened past Vena, then slid to a stop, blocking her path to the door.
“I might be seeing you on that bus. Might get on it myself. And when I do, Vena, I’ll do the driving.” Then he accelerated and the truck, fishtailing, shot away.
Vena was shivering when she stepped back inside the Honk, a chill caused less by the weather than by her encounter with Sam Kellam. She’d run up against plenty like him before, a few of them even dangerous, but none who made her feel the way he had.
“Whew,” she said, blowing on her hands. “It’s colder than I thought.”
“You’re freezing,” Caney said.
“Yeah.” Vena hid her hands beneath her jacket so Caney couldn’t see them trembling.
“Who was that out there?” Caney asked.
“Some kids. Just out having fun.”
“Now, this is a hell of a night to be—”
“Caney, when you asked me to spend the night . . .”
“Look, Vena. I was just offering you my couch. Nothing more to it than that.”
“Well, if you’re still offering, I’ll take you up on it.”
“Sure,” Caney said, clearly delighted. “You bet.”
“You mind if I keep the dog in your room? Sometimes at night she—”
“No problem. You go on back, get her settled. I’ll lock up, fix us something to drink. Be there in a jiffy.”
“Don’t go to any trouble for me, Caney.”
“You’re no trouble, Vena. No trouble at all.”
*
Cocooned in Caney’s heavy flannel robe and a nest of thick blankets, Vena took the mug he offered, then blew at the steaming liquid before she took a cautious sip. “Um.” She ventured another taste. “This isn’t just ordinary hot chocolate, is it?”
“No. It’s a secret family recipe.”
“What’s in it?”
“That’s the secret. And if I told you, my Aunt Effie would come out of her grave raising hell.”
“You come from a big family, Caney?”
“Not much family at all. My parents weren’t married. Hell, they were just kids. He took off when he found out she was pregnant.
She stuck around till I was three or four, then my aunt took over.
Well, actually, she was my great-aunt.” Caney tapped a cigarette from his pack and held it out to Vena.
“Thanks, but I really am quitting.”
“What about you?” Caney asked. “Your folks.”
“My mom and dad are gone.” Vena’s voice was even, without emotion.
“Any other family?”
Vena pressed the back of her hand against her lips as if she might hold back the words. “No,” she said. “I had a sister.” Then she turned to stare at the blinking lights of the Christmas tree, her face bathed in color, then cast in darkness. “She died a few months ago.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
“You didn’t.” Vena drained the last of her drink, then, forcing a lighter tone, she said, “This is nice, Caney. I mean, it feels like Christmas, doesn’t it? Snow, hot chocolate . . . the tree. Sort of like one of those Hallmark cards.”
Caney slipped his hand into the pocket of his chair and pulled out the gift he had kept there all day.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, handing it to Vena.
“Oh, Caney. I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .”
“It’s just something I had when I was a kid.”
Vena peeled the tissue paper back to reveal a tiny clear figure, a prancing horse of spun glass. With her fingertips, she traced the delicate lines of the horse’s body and the smooth spirals which shaped its tail and mane. Then she held it up so that the lights on the tree sent gleaming flashes of reds and greens through the frag-ile glass.
Smiling, she looked up and whispered, “Merry Christmas, Caney.” Then she placed the horse in the palm of her hand and gently closed her fingers over it. “Merry Christmas.”
C
ANEY HAD HEARD every sound Vena made from the time he turned out the light until the sun came up.
He’d listened as she pounded her pillow into submission, wrestled blankets to defeat, forced the cushions of the couch to a truce.
He’d heard her get up once, feeling her way to the dog where she stroked and soothed until it stopped whimpering; then she’d gone to the window where she’d stood for a long time, looking out into the night.
Soon after she’d settled down on the couch again, he could tell when her breathing slowed that she’d given herself to sleep . . . knew, too, she was dreaming when he heard a soft whine of protest before she murmured, “No. Don’t.” A warning whispered in the dark.
But as soon as the sky began to turn pink Caney went out like he’d had a whiff of ether.
Sleep carried him so far under that he didn’t hear Vena stir, didn’t hear her fold away her bedding or tiptoe to the bathroom.
But when he did begin to surface, in those few free moments drifting between dream and reality, he floated past watery images of a woman, dark hair spilling across a pillow, face turned toward dim light. And resting in her hand, a small glass horse.
When he awoke to the sound of the shower, he felt time rewinding itself, felt again the wonder of other mornings—rousing on the first day of summer vacation; opening his eyes to the sight of a key on his dresser, the key to his very own car; waking on a fast-moving train to the view of a city skyline—knowing in those first delicious moments he had something to feel good about, something to make him feel alive.
And today, that something was Vena Takes Horse.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, she was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, her hair wrapped in a towel, her feet bare.
“Did I wake you up?” she asked.
“No.”
She sat on the end of the couch, took a brush from her duffel bag and pulled the towel from around her head.
“Snow’s stopped,” she said.
“That’s too bad. I was hoping we’d get snowed in.”
“You wouldn’t have much business.”
“Yeah.” Caney grinned, obviously pleased by the idea.
“But if nobody could get in, then we couldn’t get out.”
“That’d suit me just fine.” Caney scooted himself up on one elbow and watched Vena brushing her hair. “There’s nothing out there I want anyway.”
As Vena reached into her bag for a barrette, the dog spied her and, struggling, pushed itself up on its two front legs, then hung its head over the side of the box.
“Hey, girl. Looks like you’re feeling a little bit better.”
“Is that what you named her? Girl?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“How about Harvey? That’s a good name.”
“For a female?”
“Harvette? Harvelina?”
Vena laughed then, the first real laugh Caney had heard from her.
“Harvey was a little terrier my aunt got me when I was seven or eight,” Caney said. “Only dog I ever had.”
“Lord, we had so many pets we ran out of names.”
“You live on a farm?”
“More like a zoo. My sister took in strays. Dogs, cats, rabbits, squirrels—whatever needed a home. And it didn’t matter if they were sick or pregnant or hurt, Helen kept them all. Once she had so many dogs she named two of them Lucky.”
“Were they?”
“I guess so. They both got distemper and I thought for sure I’d lose them, but they pulled through.”
“You took care of them?”
“Had to. Helen went all to pieces when her animals were sick.
She couldn’t stand to see them suffer, so she made me doctor them.”
“How’d she swing that?”
“She was my big sister. And I was crazy about her. Besides, I liked messing with the plants and—”
“Whoa! I’m lost here.”
“Our grandpa taught me a little about Cherokee medicine.”
“I thought you were Crow.”
“My dad was Crow, but my mom was Cherokee. So was my husband.”
“Oh.” Caney tried not to let his expression change when he asked, “You still married?”
“No. That was a long time ago.” Vena pulled on a pair of socks, then reached for her boots. “Anyway, my grandpa showed me how to mix up salves, poultices. Teas. Berry wines.”
“Now how do you get a squirrel to drink wine?”
“Well, sometimes I treated people, too.”
Caney made a face of surprise.
“Nothing very serious,” Vena said. “Toothaches, colds, rashes.
Now and then my mom had some kidney trouble.”
“Seems pretty serious to me.” Caney reached for a cigarette.
“How do you treat kidney trouble?”
“Make a tea out of devil’s shoestring.”
“Sounds like a rock band.”
“Oh, some of the plants have great names. Turkey beard. Lady’s thumb. Jack-in-the-pulpit. Mountain ditney.”
“So what do you use that stuff for?”
“Poison ivy, ringworm, snakebite.”
“You treated snakebite?”
“Yeah. Helen had a cat named Peabo. Lord, she loved that cat.
One summer Peabo tangled up with a rattlesnake and got bit on the thigh. Leg swelled up three times its size.
“Helen came apart. Couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat. Said if Peabo died, she was going to starve herself. And I was afraid she might.
So I mixed up a poultice of mountain ditney and kept it on that cat for a week. Day and night.”
“Did Peabo live?”
“Only six more years.”
“Damn! You ever think about going to medical school?”
“Me? No! Helen was the smart one. Valedictorian in high school, honor student in nursing school.”
“Wait a minute. You treated your mother, you saved the two Luckys, you saved Peabo. Your sister couldn’t stand to see anything in pain, yet it was your sister—”
“Who became an RN.”
“But you’re the one who had the cure for snakebite and poison ivy and kidney trouble.”
“Yeah, I had some cures”—Vena’s eyes suddenly seemed to lose their light—“but I didn’t have what Helen needed.”
*
Molly O was hardly through the door of the Honk before she made her announcement.
“I’m going to be a grandma!”
Caney, momentarily at a loss for a reaction, forced an uncertain smile.
Vena lifted her coffee cup in the gesture of a toast and said,
“Congratulations.”
Life moved quickly to take advantage of the moment, grabbed Molly O around the waist and danced her across the floor.
Bui, with absolutely no idea of what was happening, was never-theless caught up in the celebratory mood and fell into a wild excitement of bowing.
Throughout the morning, Molly O repeated her news many times, but most of her customers, at least those as old as she was, responded by pulling out pictures of their own grandchildren, whom they declared to be not only beautiful, but talented and sweet as well.
The exception was Wilma Driver.
“This is my grandson Ronnie,” she said as she flipped through pictures in her billfold. “He’s nineteen, ugly and stupid. Doesn’t work, doesn’t go to school, doesn’t bathe.”
Trying to sound unfazed, Molly O asked, “What does he do, Wilma?”
“Drugs. Now this one is Erin, fourteen. She’s trying to sleep with every boy on the football team before her junior year. If she does, she wins five hundred dollars.”
“Now who would pay her to do a thing like that?”
“The football team. Here’s Robby, the best-looking one of the bunch. Well, he will be if they can do something with his ears.
He’s an eleven-year-old pyromaniac. Set the garage on fire twice, burned down his sister’s playhouse and he’s a suspect in the arson of the bookmobile. And guess what he wants to be when he grows up?” Without waiting for an answer, Wilma supplied one. “A fire-man.”
“Oh, Wilma, I can’t imagine—”
“Wait, there’s one more. Ashley. She’s eight, and according to her, an alien. Claims she’s from a planet called Klynot and refuses to eat anything green. Says if she does, she’ll turn to slime.”