Mohawk (24 page)

The Woods were a few feet away, across the semicircle that enclosed her father’s grave. She watched Dan until he felt her and their eyes met. His expression was tender, as always, and genuine. But it was an act of kindness, arising out of what he felt was her need, not his own. Dallas was there, too, and if smiling had been a possibility, she would’ve smiled then. Dallas, as she might have predicted, was wearing a blazer that neither fit him nor matched anything else he was wearing. Despite the subfreezing temperature, he wasn’t wearing an overcoat, and Anne still knew him well enough to guess why. No doubt he owned several warm jackets but none of them would be long enough to cover the blazer, which he wore so seldom that he had no reason to invest in an outer garment to cover it. A simpler and far less expensive solution was to pretend he wasn’t cold, which now he was valiantly doing. She wondered from time to time what her life would’ve been like if
she had tried to tough out the marriage. Though it was conceivable she might have developed a sense of humor, she doubted it.

One night a month earlier he had awakened her at three
A.M.
to ask her to give his sister-in-law Loraine a job, which she had done. Then, yesterday at the funeral home, when the poor girl was kind enough to pay her respects to the family of a man she’d never met, he had cut her as if she had the plague. Dallas, always careening about town, out of control, always landing on his feet, always vaguely wondering about the sound of screeching tires and crashing metal wherever he went, never suspecting a causal connection.

And, of course, there was her mother. It would have been comforting to think that Mather Grouse’s death would draw them closer together. After all, in a sense they’d been fighting over him all these years. And certainly there ought to be some way that two grown women could keep from agitating each other. But so far there was no indication that things would change. They hadn’t talked much since that morning when Mrs. Grouse climbed the stairs, a very few minutes before the moving crew arrived, to tell her daughter what had happened in the night. “Your father has died,” she said firmly, as if Anne might not trust her diagnosis and rush downstairs to administer mouth-to-mouth. “We had better call the people.”

Mother and daughter had shared no moment of grief together in the days that followed, though from her mother’s swollen eyes Anne could tell that she’d wept privately. But Mrs. Grouse had little need of strength. If she needed to lean at all, she could lean on Milly, who rose up like a mountain of granite for the occasion. Usually a bundle of infirmities that prevented her doing
for herself what she had grown accustomed to her daughter doing for her, Milly put age and infirmity on hold, and the two old women clasped hands and teetered against each other in a way that would’ve made anyone who didn’t know them fear for their collective safety.

With the service at the grave concluded, people began to file back to the procession of cars, eager to warm up again. Randall walked part way with his mother, but within sight of the black limo he said he’d rather walk home. She couldn’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t. There were times when she couldn’t understand him, and others when she understood perfectly. On this day, so bitter and cruel, he wanted no part of warmth and comfort.

Diana offered to return to the house with them, but that would’ve meant old Milly coming too, and Anne doubted she could suffer even one of the old woman’s remarks. Dallas, in a moment of uncharacteristic humility, thanked her for letting him be a pallbearer, even reminding her that he had owed “Pa” money. She resisted the temptation to tell him that she herself had repaid her father, and that if compelled he could always pay her instead. The postponed move was going to cost more than she could afford, and the money would’ve been a godsend. But Dallas wouldn’t have it, anyway. He looked pitifully cold, and there was no future in being mean to men like Dallas. After all, she had married him out of pity, and that was mean enough.

At the cemetery gates, the small procession of cars broke ranks, their unity of purpose having dissolved. So, Anne thought, it’s over. She and her mother, alone in the huge back seat of the limo that would drop them off in front of Mather Grouse’s home on Mountain
Avenue before returning to the funeral home to wait for another death and short drive. When they arrived, the driver got out and helped Mrs. Grouse to the curb before getting back in and driving off. Mrs. Grouse, showing her first signs of distraction in the entire ordeal, stopped at the foot of the porch steps and rummaged through her purse. To Anne, she suddenly looked old. “I have the keys right here,” Mrs. Grouse said, and indeed they could both hear the keys jingling. Neither noticed the man in the black suit standing near the corner at a respectable distance. Only when he was at her elbow did Anne start, and look at him so maliciously that he removed the big cigar from his face and mumbled something about their time of grief. Then the hand not holding the cigar disappeared into a pocket and emerged with a fistful of money, which he thrust at Mrs. Grouse, who backed away as if from a knife.

“Your husband …,” Mr. Untemeyer said. “The number.”

But he was no good at talking to women, having had little practice in decades, and quickly gave up. “It’s yours, damn it,” he said gruffly.

But Mrs. Grouse continued to retreat up the porch steps. “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”

Untemeyer was clearly nonplussed, having absolutely no experience of people refusing money. This struck him as unnatural, even perverse. He turned to Anne, who was only slightly less confused than her mother. Was there some grotesque Mohawk lottery that her father had won by dying on a certain day? “My father was just buried,” she told the man. “Won’t you please go away?”

In fact, Untemeyer looked as if there was nothing
in the world he would’ve liked better, but he stood his ground, fanning the thick wad of bills like playing cards. “
It’s yours
,” he insisted. “Your old man hit the goddamn number. It ain’t my fault.”

To Anne’s surprise, her mother stopped backing up and confronted her husband’s accuser. “There is some mistake,” she said. “My husband was no common gambler.”

The bookie was prepared for this defense. He never went anywhere without his slips, and Mather Grouse’s, which he had been carrying around for a week, was right on top, handy. “See?” he said, showing Mrs. Grouse her husband’s clearly printed name. “See?”

But the good woman was firm. “I’m
very
sorry,” she said.

“Jesus Christ, lady,” said Untemeyer. But realizing he wasn’t getting anywhere, and after one more futile thrust of the money, he returned it to his own pocket and stumped off, still shaking his head.

Once they were safely inside, Anne noticed that her mother, who was peering between the blinds as if she expected him to return, was crying quietly. “Why are there such horrible people in the world,” she asked, as if she really wanted to know and thought perhaps her worldly daughter might be able to explain. Still gazing fearfully out the window, Mrs. Grouse then said something even more surprising. “You won’t go now, of course. You won’t go anywhere. You’ll stay right here.”

Anne understood her mother perfectly. By “now” she was not referring to Mather Grouse’s death, but rather to what had just happened. It was the man who had so rudely pushed money at her that had forced
Mrs. Grouse to look squarely at an uncertain future. She was afraid, perhaps for the first time since her wedding day.

“Of course not, Mother,” Anne heard herself say. “We’ll stay as long as you want.”

Harry Saunders looks around the Mohawk Grill and considers that life is change, an idea that occurred to him only recently and has given him little comfort. Indeed he had always embraced the opposite philosophy, or rather it had embraced him. Until recently, his days were arranged like dominoes spaced far enough apart to fall independently, victims of repetition, not necessity, the end result an unbroken black line, definitely headed somewhere or other.

Today would be the last of life as he knew it. Tomorrow, the men from Blackstone Construction would knock out the wall between the grill and what briefly had been a bookstore. Before that it was a beauty salon, and before that a men’s clothing store. In the twenty-five years since Harry bought the grill, eight or ten businesses had come and gone next door, each more ill-fated than its predecessor. They all opened with a flurry, the traditional quarter page ad in the
Mohawk Republican
, free balloons for the kids, a door prize. For a few months the owner would mind the store and speak of business picking up with the warm weather. Then, in July, he’d hold a clearance sale of some sort and the curious would wander in off the street to rearrange the merchandise in the bins before wandering
back out again. That it was an unlucky spot wasn’t news to anybody, least of all Harry Saunders, who had commiserated with each of the legion of failed merchants over coffee they ended up unable to afford.

Given all this, Harry is a little unnerved to consider that he’s agreed to buy the place and expand the grill. Seduced. He has been seduced. The word has a nasty sound. He says it out loud—“Seduced!”—and echoing off the walls of the empty diner, it sounds even worse. He says it several times more and is still saying it when his first customer, a truck driver named Herb with long red sideburns, comes in off the street. “Say what, Harry?”

“Nothing.”

“Talking to yourself already?”

Herb takes his black. Still agitated, Harry slops some coffee over the side of the cup and onto the saucer. Herb is a good customer and not overly particular. He’ll gladly slurp the saucer.

“Most married guys end up talking to theirselves sooner or later,” Herb observes, engrossed in the menu. He knows it by heart, but studies it intently every morning before ordering.

“How would you know?” Harry says. He breaks two eggs onto the grill where they sputter happily. They’ll be ready by the time Herb decides it’s eggs he wants for breakfast. Harry takes a platter down from the tall stack and warms it on the edge of the grill. Herb almost always ends up ordering bacon or sausage since ham is a dime extra. Harry spatulas some home fries onto the platter along with toast.

“Couple eggs, sunny side,” Herb says from behind the menu. “Sausage, I guess”

When Harry sets the platter in front of him, Herb
digs in. “Women are okay,” the truck driver concedes. “Some of them.”

Two more customers wander in and Harry takes their orders. Pretty soon, the counter is full. Since Harry’s competition over at the Fulmont Diner had a stroke, business has been brisk. Rumor has it that the Fulmont will be reopening soon, but the cook/owner hasn’t fully recovered the use of his right side, and the sight of his lopsided smile is certain to disconcert customers who expect balance in a short-order cook.

“I might even get married again someday,” Herb speculates, scratching one long sideburn dreamily with an eggy forefinger. “Who knows?”

“I didn’t know you ever were married.”

“Just twice. Not lately.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t know. Something.”

Herb pays and leaves. Harry’s morning waitress arrives and they stay busy straight through the lunch hour. The wash-up boy sets to work at ten-thirty but can’t keep up with the dirty dishes. The sight of people waiting for tables and counter space doesn’t cheer Harry, who envisions a vast expanse of empty seats and stools once the wall gets knocked down and all the bad luck next door begins to seep in.

Around two-thirty Dallas Younger comes in looking red-faced. “That old lady of yours sure is touchy,” he observes.

“You walk in on her again?”

In addition to buying the place next door, Harry has renovated the upstairs, which he and Mrs. Saunders now use for living quarters. That was months ago, and everybody has got the hang of it except out-of-towners
and Dallas Younger, who still expects to find a poker game in progress instead of looking three doors down the street, where it has moved.

Dallas studies the picture calendar hanging from a magnet on the milk machine. “It’s April, Harry. Are you gonna get this year’s calender, or just let it be 1971 again?”

“I like 1971.”

Dallas nods. “She’s all right, I gotta admit.”

Randall Younger had to wait a long time before anyone would give him a lift. It was the hair. He was lucky at first, getting picked up on the outskirts of Buffalo by a driver heading east on the Thruway to New York. The man dropped Randall off at Fultonville, and from there it was basically no go. He thumbed for a while, strolling slowly along the highway and across the bridge at the Mohawk River, but by the time he got to Fonda it was getting dark, so he skipped dinner and climbed the fairground fence. Beneath the grandstand he would keep dry if it decided to rain. The ground was littered with refuse let fall by last Friday night’s stock-car enthusiasts, and the smell was bad, but after a while Randall got used to it. The wind made a lonely sound high up in the bleachers that jailed the night sky.