Eventide (5 page)

7

W
HEN THE PHONE RANG IT WAS HALF-PAST SIX IN THE
evening on a Saturday and Raymond got up from the kitchen table where he and Harold had been eating a supper of beef steak and pan-fried potatoes and took up the phone in the dining room where it hung on the wall on a long cord, and on the other end it was Victoria Roubideaux.

Well now, is that you? he said.

Yes. It’s me.

We just was finishing supper.

I hope I didn’t interrupt you. I could call later if you want.

You didn’t interrupt a thing. I’m just glad to hear from you.

How’s the weather there? she said.

Oh, you know. About like always this time of year. Starting to turn off cold at night but it’s still nice in the daytime. Most days it is.

He asked her how the weather was for her, there in Fort Collins next to the mountains, and she said it was dry and cold at night there too but that the days were still warm, and he said that was good, he was glad she was still getting some warm days. Then there was silence until she thought to say: What else is going on at home?

Well. Raymond looked out through the curtainless windows toward the barnlots and pens. We took those yearling steers into the sale barn last week.

The ones from over south?

That’s right.

Did you get your price?

Yes ma’am. Ninety-one seventy-five a hundredweight.

Isn’t that good. I’m glad.

It wasn’t too bad, he said. Well anyway, now how about you, honey? What’s going on up there?

She told him about her classes and professors and about an exam coming up. She told him one professor said albeit so often in his lectures that the students all counted the times.

Albeit? Raymond said. I don’t even know what that means.

Oh, it means something like although. Or even so. It doesn’t really mean anything. He’s just talking.

Huh, Raymond said. Well, I never heard of it. So have you been making any friends up there?

Not too many. I talk with this one girl some. And the apartment manager, she’s always around.

No young boys?

I’m too busy. I’m not interested anyway.

And how about my little girl. How’s Katie?

She’s fine. I put her in the university day care while I’m in class. I think she’s starting to get used to it. At least she doesn’t complain anymore.

Is she eating?

Not like at home.

Well. She needs to eat.

She misses you, Victoria said.

Well.

I miss you too, she said.

Do you, honey?

Every day. You and Harold both.

It isn’t the same around here, I can tell you. Far from it.

Are you all right? she said.

Oh yeah. We’re doing okay. But here, now I better put Harold on. I know he wants to say hello. And you take care of yourself now, honey. Will you do that?

You too, she said.

Harold came out from the kitchen and took up the phone while Raymond went back to start the dishes. Harold and Victoria talked about the weather and her classes again, and he asked why she wasn’t out having fun since it was Saturday night, she should be doing something to enjoy herself on a Saturday night, and she said she didn’t feel like going out, maybe she would some other weekend, and he said weren’t there any good-looking boys at that college, and she said maybe there were but she didn’t care, and he said well, she better keep her eyes open, she might see one she liked, and she said well, she doubted that, and then she said: But I hear you did all right at the sale barn last week.

Not too bad, Harold said.

I hear you got almost ninety-two. That’s really good, isn’t it.

I’m not going to complain. No ma’am.

I know how much it means to you.

Well, he said. Now what else about you? You need any money yet?

No. That’s not what I was calling for.

I know. But you be sure to say so. I got a feeling you wouldn’t tell nobody even if you did.

I’m all right for money, she said. It’s just good to hear your voice. I guess I was feeling a little homesick.

Oh, he said. Well. And since Raymond was making enough noise doing dishes that he couldn’t hear what Harold was saying on the phone, he told Victoria how much his brother missed her and how he talked about her every day, speculating on what she was doing there in Fort Collins and making suggestions as to how the little girl was faring, and as he went on in this vein it was clear to the girl that he was talking as much about himself as he was his brother and she felt so moved by this knowledge she was afraid she was going to cry.

After they hung up Harold went back to the kitchen where Raymond was just emptying the dishpan, pouring the water out into the sink. The clean dishes were drying in the rack on the counter. How’d she sound to you? Raymond said.

She sounded to me, Harold said, like she was kind of lonesome.

I thought so. She didn’t sound quite right to me.

No sir, she didn’t sound quite like herself, Harold said. I reckon we better send her some money.

Did she say something about that?

No. But she wouldn’t, would she.

That wouldn’t be like her, Raymond said. She never would say anything about what she wanted even when she was here.

Except for the baby sometimes. She might of said something about her once in a while.

Except for Katie. But it wasn’t just money, was it.

It wasn’t even about money, Harold said.

The way she sounded. The way her voice was.

No, it wasn’t money that made her voice sound that way. It was the rest of it too.

Well, I reckon she’s kind of lonesome, Raymond said. I’m going to say she kind of misses being here.

I guess maybe she does, said Harold.

Then for the next half hour they stood in the kitchen, leaning against the wooden counters drinking coffee and talking about how Victoria Roubideaux was doing a hundred and twenty-five miles away from home, where she was taking care of her daughter by herself and going to classes every day, while here they themselves were living as usual in the country in Holt County seventeen miles out south of town, with so much less to account for now that she was gone, and a wind rising up and starting to whine outside the house.

8

W
HEN ROSE TYLER CAME OUT FROM THE KITCHEN TO THE
front door of her house on a weekday night in the fall, the sky above the trees was heavily clouded and there was the smell in the air of rain coming, and on the doorstep under the yellow porch light stood Betty Wallace with the two children and out in the yard in the dry grass in the shadow of a tree was Luther Wallace looking big and hulking and dark.

Betty, Rose said. Is something the matter?

I didn’t want to bother you this time of night, Betty said. But I got an emergency. Could you drive me and my kids over to my aunt’s house? She looked out at Luther in the front yard. He’s being mean to me.

Do you want to come inside?

Yes. But he don’t have to. I’m mad at him.

Perhaps he better come too so we can all talk this over.

Well, he better behave hisself.

Rose called to Luther and he came up on the porch. He looked sad and disturbed. Even in the cool night air he was sweating, his great wide face as red as flannel. I never done nothing to her, he said.

You ain’t at home now, Betty said. You better behave yourself at Rose’s house.

Well, you better be quiet and shut your mouth and not tell no lies to people.

I ain’t telling no lies. What I tell is the truth.

There’s things I can tell too.

You don’t have no reason to tell something on me.

Yes sir, I do.

Here now, Rose said. We’re going to be civil. Or you can both go on back home.

You hear? Betty said. You better mind Rose.

Well, she ain’t just talking to me.

Hush, Rose said.

They entered the house through the front hall and went into the living room, and Joy Rae and her brother Richie looked at everything with a kind of awe and surprise, as if they were seeing a set display of furniture and paintings arranged for view in a city museum. They sat down with their mother on the flowered couch and were very quiet and still—only their eyes moved, looking at everything. Luther had started to sit in a wood rocker but it was too small and Rose brought him a chair from the kitchen. He sat down carefully, testing with his hand for the seat of the chair.

Betty, why don’t you start, Rose said. You said you wanted to go to your aunt’s house. What was that about?

That was about he’s being mean to me, Betty said. He just slapped me for no reason. I never did nothing to him.

I never either slapped her, Luther said.

Oh, he’s the one lying now.

I just pushed her a little. Because she did something to me. Well, she said I was eating too much.

When was this? Rose said.

Bout a hour ago, Betty said. Joy Rae wasn’t eating her dinner and he tells her you better—

I said you better eat if you want to keep your strength up.

No. He says you better eat or I’m going to eat it for you. Joy Rae, she said she didn’t want it. Said she was sick of this same old food all the time. So then he took her macaroni-cheese dinner off her plate and ate it looking right at her. I guess you’ll eat it next time, he says. I don’t care, she says. You going to learn to care, he says, and that’s when I come between them and he says watch out, and I says no, you watch out.

Then what happened? Rose said.

Then nothing happened, Luther said.

Then he slapped me, Betty said.

That’s a lie. I only just pushed her a little.

You slapped me in the face. I can still feel it. I feel it right now. Betty lifted her hand and caressed her cheek and Luther looked at her from across the room with slit eyes.

The children sat on the couch and appeared to be uninterested in what was being said, as if they were not involved in these matters or couldn’t affect their outcome even if they were. Studying the furniture and the pictures on the walls, they sat next to each other without so much as glancing at the three adults.

Rose stood and went to the kitchen and came back with a plate of chocolate fudge and held the plate in front of the children before offering it to Betty and Luther. She sat again. I think we all need to cool down, she said.

I just want to go to my aunt’s house, Betty said. I can cool down over there.

Does she want you to come?

We been there before.

But does she want you now?

I think she does.

Didn’t you call her?

No. Our phone ain’t working.

What’s wrong with it?

It don’t have no dial tone.

Rose looked at her. Betty sat slumped beside the children, her lank hair fallen about her pocked face, her eyes reddened. Rose turned to Luther. What do you think about this, Luther?

I think she ought to come home like she’s suppose to.

But she says she doesn’t want to be in that house right now.

I’m her husband. The Bible says man is lord of his own castle. He builds up his house on a rock. She’s suppose to mind what I say.

I don’t have to mind him, do I, Rose.

No. I think Luther’s wrong about that.

I want to go to my aunt’s house, Betty said.

W
HEN THEY BACKED OUT FROM THE DRIVEWAY LUTHER
was standing forlornly in the headlights, the beams sweeping across him while he looked back at them with his hands in his pockets. Overhead, above Holt, the rain seemed nearer. Betty sat in the front seat with Rose, the children in back, staring out the window at all the houses and the intersecting streets and the tall trees. The houses all had lights burning beyond the window shades, and there were bushes and narrow little sidewalks leading around back to the dark alleys. The streetlamps glowed blue at the corners and the trees were evenly spaced along the sidewalks. Rose drove them through the quiet streets and at the highway she turned east.

As they approached the Highway 34 Grocery Store Betty said: Oh, I forgot my napkins.

What do you mean? Rose said.

It’s my time of month come round again. I don’t have my napkins. I’ll have to change sometime.

Do you want to stop and buy some?

If you please. I better.

They pulled in and parked among the cars near the front doors. Beyond the plateglass windows the store was brightly lit and there were women standing at the checkout. Go ahead, Rose said.

Betty looked toward the store but didn’t get out.

What is it now?

I don’t have no money. I didn’t bring my pocketbook. Could you loan me some? I’ll pay you back first of the month.

Rose gave her some bills and Betty went inside. When she disappeared into the aisles, Rose turned in the seat to look at the children. Are you two all right back there?

She’s not going to want us, Joy Rae said.

Who isn’t?

Mama’s aunt.

Why do you say that?

Last time she said not to come back again. I don’t see why we have to go out there.

Maybe you won’t have to stay very long. Just until your parents can calm down a little.

When’s that going to be?

Soon, I hope.

I don’t want to go out there either, Richie said.

Oh? Rose said.

I don’t like it out there.

Cause you wet the bed the last time and she got mad, Joy Rae said. He wets the bed.

So do you.

Not no more.

Betty came back with a paper bag and Rose drove east from town on the highway out into the flat open treeless country, then turned north a mile to a little dark house. A light came on above the front door as the car stopped. Okay, Rose said. Here we are.

Betty looked at the house and got out and climbed the steps to the door and knocked. After some time a woman in a red kimono opened the door. Her hair was flat on one side, as if she’d been in bed already. She was smoking a cigarette and she looked past Betty at the car. Well, she said. What do you want now?

Can me and my kids stay here tonight?

Oh lord, what happened this time?

Luther slapped me. He’s being mean to me again.

I told you the last time I wasn’t going to do this again. Didn’t I.

Yes.

I don’t know why you two even stay together.

He’s my husband, Betty said.

That doesn’t mean you have to stay with him. Does it.

I don’t know.

Well I do. I got to get up in the morning and go to work. I can’t be running you all over town.

But he’s being mean. I don’t want to stay with him tonight. Betty looked back toward the car. Rose had turned the engine off.

Then suddenly the rain started. It came down slanted brightly under the yardlight next to the garage and glinting and splashing under the yellow porch light. Betty began to get wet.

Oh, all right, the aunt said. But you know you’ll just go back to him. You always do. But you listen to me now, it’s just for tonight. This ain’t going to be anything permanent.

We won’t make no trouble, Betty said.

You already have.

Betty looked away and put her hand up over her face, shielding her face from the rain.

Well, tell them to come in, the aunt said. I’m not standing out here all night.

Betty waved toward the car for the children to come.

I think you better go on, Rose told them. I think it’ll be all right.

Joy Rae took the bag from the front seat and she and her brother got out and hurried through the rain up onto the porch, then followed their mother inside. The aunt looked again at the car. She flipped her cigarette out into the wet gravel and shut the door behind her.

T
HE WIND WAS BLOWING THE RAIN SIDEWAYS IN GUSTS
when Rose pulled into the driveway at her house, and when she stopped she got a sudden fright. Luther was leaning against the garage door. She turned off the ignition and the headlights and got out, watching all the time to see what he might do. She walked around to the side door and he followed a few steps behind. Rose, he said, can I ask you something?

What do you want to ask?

Could you borrow me a quarter?

I think so. Why?

I want to call Betty and say I didn’t mean her no kind of hurt. I want to tell her to come back home.

You could call from here.

No, I better go downtown. I been rained on already.

She took a quarter from her purse and handed it to him, and he thanked her and told her how he’d pay her back, then walked off toward Main Street. She watched as he passed under the streetlamp at the corner, a great dark figure splashing through the shining puddles in the wet night; his black hair was plastered over his head and he went on in the rain, bound for a public phone booth on a corner.