Dancing After Hours (2 page)

“You didn’t catch but two.”

“They’re the best.”

His mother put a plate in front of him, then opened a can of beer and sat beside him. He sat quietly, watching his father at the stove. Then he looked at his mother’s hand holding the beer can. There were veins and several freckles on the back of it. Farther up her forearm was a small yellow bruise; the flesh at her elbow was wrinkled. He looked at her face. People said that he and Connie looked like her, so he supposed it was true, but he could not see the resemblance.

“Daddy and I are going to the Gossetts’ tonight,” she said.

“I know.”

“I wrote the phone number down,” his father said. “It’s under the phone.”

“Okay.”

His father was not tall either, but his shoulders were broad. Kenneth wondered if his would be like that when he grew older. His father was the only one in the family who tanned in the sun.

“And
please
, Connie,” his mother said, “will you go to sleep at a reasonable hour? It’s hard enough to get you up for Mass when you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

“Why don’t we go into town for the evening Mass?”

“No. I don’t like it hanging over my head all day.”

“All right. When will y’all be home?”

“About two. And that doesn’t mean read in bed till then. You need your sleep.”

“We’ll go to bed early,” Connie said.

His father served fried perch and hush puppies onto their plates and they had French bread and catsup and Tabasco sauce and iced tea. After dinner, his father read the newspaper and his mother read a Reader’s Digest condensation, then they showered and dressed, and at seven-thirty, they left. He and Connie followed them to the door. Connie kissed them; then he did. His mother and father looked happy, and he felt good about that.

“We’ll be back about two,” his mother said. “Keep the doors locked.”

“Definitely,” Connie said. “And we’ll bar the windows.”

“Well, you never know. Y’all be good. G’night.”

“Hold down the fort, son,” his father said.

“I will.”

Then they were gone, the screen door slamming behind them, and Connie left the sunporch, but he stood at the door, listening to the car starting and watching its headlights as it backed down the trail through the yard, then turned into the road and drove away. Still he did not move. He loved the nights at the camp when they were left alone. At home, there was a disturbing climate about their evenings alone, for distant voices of boys in the neighborhood reminded him that he was not alone entirely by choice. Here, there were no sounds.

He latched the screen and went into the living room. Connie was sitting in the rocking chair near the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. She looked at him, then flicked ashes into an ashtray on her lap.

“Now don’t you tell on me.”

“I didn’t know you did that.”

“Please don’t tell. Daddy would skin me alive.”

“I won’t.”

He could not watch her. He looked around the room for a book.

“Douglas is coming tonight,” she said.

“Oh.” He picked up the Reader’s Digest book and pretended to look at it. “Y’all going to watch TV?” he said.

“Not if you want to.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You watch it. You like Saturday nights.”

She looked as if she had been smoking for a long time, all during the summer and possibly the school year, too, for months or even a year without his knowing it. He was hurt. He laid down the book.

“Think I’ll go outside for a while,” he said.

He went onto the sunporch and out the door and walked down the sloping car trail that led to the road. He stopped at the gate, which was open, and leaned on it. Forgetting Connie, he looked over his shoulder at the camp, thinking that he would never tire of it. They had been there for six weeks, since early June, his father coming on Friday evenings and leaving early Monday mornings, driving sixty miles to their home in southern Louisiana. Kenneth fished during the day, swam with Connie in the creeks, read novels about baseball, and watched the major league games on television. He thought winter at the camp was better, though. They came on weekends and hunted squirrels, and there was a fireplace.

He looked down the road. The closest camp was half a mile away, on the opposite side of the road, and he
could see its yellow-lighted windows through the trees.
That’s the house. Quiet now. We’ll sneak through the woods and get the guard, then charge the house. Come on
. Leaning against the gate, he stared into the trees across the road and saw himself leading his soldiers through the woods. They reached the guard. His back was turned and Kenneth crawled close to him, then stood up and slapped a hand over the guard’s mouth and stabbed him in the back. They rushed the house and Kenneth reached the door first and kicked it open. The general looked up from his desk, then tried to get his pistol from his holster. Kenneth shot him with his Tommy gun.
Grab those papers, men. Let’s get out of here
. They got the papers and ran outside and Kenneth stopped to throw a hand grenade through the door. He reached the woods before it exploded.

He turned from the gate and walked toward the house, looking around him at the dark pines. He entered the sunporch and latched the screen; then he smelled chocolate, and he went to the kitchen. Connie was stirring a pot of fudge on the stove. She had changed to a fresh pale blue shirt, the tails of it hanging almost to the bottom of her white shorts.

“It’ll be a while,” she said.

He nodded, watching her hand and the spoon. He thought of Douglas coming and began to feel nervous.

“What time’s Douglas coming?”

“Any minute now. Let me know if you hear his car.”

“All right.”

He went to his room and picked up his rifle; then he saw the magazine on the chest of drawers and he leaned the rifle in the corner again. Suddenly his mouth was dry. He got the magazine and quickly
turned the pages until he found her: she was stepping out of the surf on the French Riviera, laughing, as if the man with her had just said something funny. She was blond and very tan and she wore a bikini. The photograph was in color. For several moments he looked at it; then he got the rifle and cleaning kit and sat in the rocking chair in the living room, with the rifle across his lap. He put a patch on the cleaning rod and dipped it in bore cleaner and pushed it down the barrel, the handle of the rod clanging against the muzzle. He worked slowly, pausing often to listen for Douglas’s car, because he wanted to be cleaning the rifle when Douglas came. Because Douglas was a tackle on the high school football team in the town, and Kenneth had never been on a football team, and never would be.

The football players made him more uncomfortable than the others. They walked into the living room and firmly shook his father’s hand, then his hand, beginning to talk as soon as they entered, and they sat and waited for Connie, their talking never ceasing, their big chests and shoulders leaned forward, their faces slowly turning as they looked at each picture on the wall, at the designs on the rug, at the furniture, passing over Kenneth as if he were another chair, filling the room with a feeling of strength and self-confidence that defeated him, paralyzing his tongue and even his mind, so that he merely sat in thoughtless anxiety, hoping they would not speak to him, hoping especially that they would not ask:
You play football?
Two of them had, and he never forgot it. He had answered with a mute, affirming nod.

He had always been shy and, because of it, he had stayed on the periphery of sports for as long as he could
remember. When his teachers forced him to play, he spent an anxious hour trying not to become involved, praying in right field that no balls would come his way, lingering on the outside of the huddle so that no one would look up and see his face and decide to throw him a pass on the next play.

But he found that there was one thing he could do and he did it alone, or with his father: he could shoot and he could hunt. He felt that shooting was the only thing that had ever been easy for him. Schoolwork was, too, but he considered that a curse.

He was not disturbed by the boys who were not athletes, unless, for some reason, they were confident anyway. While they sat and waited for Connie, he was cheerful and teasing, and they seemed to like him. The girls were best. He walked into the living room and they stopped their talking and laughing and all of them greeted him and sometimes they said: “Connie, he’s so cute,” or “I wish you were three years older,” and he said: “Me, too,” and tried to be witty and usually was.

He heard a car outside.

“Douglas is here,” he called.

Connie came through the living room, one hand arranging the wave of hair near her right eye, and went into the sunporch. Slowly, Kenneth wiped the rifle with an oily rag. He heard Douglas’s loud voice and laughter and heavy footsteps on the sunporch; then they came into the living room. Kenneth raised his face.

“Hi,” he said.

“How’s it going?”

“All right.”

Douglas Bakewell was not tall. He had blond hair, cut so short on top that you could see his scalp, and
a reddish face, and sunburned arms, covered with bleached hair. A polo shirt fit tightly over his chest and shoulders and biceps.

“Whatcha got there?” Douglas said.

“Twenty-two.”

“Let’s see.”

“Better dry it.”

He briskly wiped it with a dry cloth and handed it to Douglas. Quickly, Douglas worked the bolt, aimed at the ceiling, and pulled the trigger.

“Nice trigger,” he said.

He held it in front of his waist and looked at it, then gave it to Kenneth.

“Well, girl,” he said, turning to Connie, “where’s the beer?”

“Sit down and I’ll get you one.”

She went to the kitchen. Douglas sat on the couch and Kenneth picked up his cleaning kit and, not looking at Douglas, walked into his bedroom. He stayed there until Connie returned from the kitchen; then he went into the living room. They were sitting on the couch. Connie was smoking again. Kenneth kept walking toward the sunporch.

“I’ll let you know when the fudge is ready,” Connie said.

“All right.”

On the sunporch, he turned on the television and sat in front of it. He watched ten minutes of a Western before he was relaxed again, before he settled in his chair, oblivious to the quiet talking in the living room, his mind beginning to wander happily as a gunfighter in dark clothes moved across the screen.

By the time the fudge was ready, he was watching a
detective story, and when Connie called him, he said: “Okay, in a minute,” but did not move, and finally she came to the sunporch with a saucer of fudge and set it on a small table beside his chair.

“When that’s over, you better go to bed,” she said.

“I’m not sleepy.”

“You know what Mother said.”

“
You’re
staying up.”

“Course I am. I’m also a little older than you.”

“I want to see the late show.”

“No!”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’ll tell Daddy.”

“He doesn’t care.”

“I’ll tell him you wouldn’t listen to me.”

“I’ll tell him you smoke.”

“Oh, I could
wring
your neck!”

She went to the living room. He tried to concentrate on the Western, but it was ruined. The late show came on and he had seen it several months before and did not want to see it again, but he would not go to bed. He watched absently. Then he had to urinate. He got up and went into the living room, walking quickly, only glancing at them once, but when he did, Connie smiled and, with her voice friendly again, said: “What is it?”

He stopped and looked at her.

“Red River.”

He smiled.

“I already saw it,” he said.

“You watching it again?”

“Maybe so.”

“Okay.”

He went to the bathroom and when he came back,
they were gone. He went to the sunporch. Connie and Douglas were standing near the back door. The television was turned off. Kenneth wondered if Connie had seen
Red River
. If she had not, he could tell her what had happened during the part she missed. Douglas was whispering to Connie, his face close to hers. Then he looked at Kenneth.

“ ’Night,” he said.

“G’night,” Kenneth said.

He was gone. Kenneth picked up the saucer his fudge had been on and took it to the kitchen and put it in the sink. He heard Douglas’s car backing down the trail, and he went to the sunporch, but Connie was not there, so he went to the bathroom door and said: “You seen
Red River?”

“Yes.”

“You taking a bath?”

“Just washing my face. I’m going to bed.”

He stood quietly for a moment. Then he went into the living room and got a magazine and sat in the rocking chair, looking at the people in the advertisements. Connie came in, wearing a robe. She leaned over his chair and he looked up and she kissed him.

“Good night,” she said.

“G’night.”

“You going to bed soon?”

“In a minute.”

She got her cigarettes and an ashtray from the coffee table and went to her room and closed the door. After a while, he heard her getting into bed.

He looked at half the magazine, then laid it on the floor. Being awake in a house where everyone else was sleeping made him lonely. He went to the sunporch and
latched the screen, then closed the door and locked it. He left the light on but turned out the one in the living room. Then he went to his room and took off everything but his shorts. He was about to turn out the light when he looked at the chest of drawers and saw the magazine. He hesitated. Then he picked it up and found the girl and looked at the exposed tops of her breasts and at her navel and below it. Suddenly he closed the magazine and raised his eyes to the ceiling, then closed them and said three Hail Mary’s. Without looking at it, he picked up the magazine and took it to the living room, and went back to his bedroom and lay on his belly on the floor and started doing push-ups. He had no trouble with the first eight; then they became harder, and by the fifteenth he was breathing fast and his whole body was trembling as he pushed himself up from the floor. He did one more, then stood up and turned out the light and got into bed.