Prudence (12 page)

“Oh, God, sorry.”

Prudence looked past his shoulder and smiled to herself.

“Oh, honey. Oh, honey. Merry Christmas.”

The song ended and the boy held out his hand. She shook it and he turned back to his group. The other boys said something and he said, “Stop it.” One of them slapped him on the back. They all laughed.

“They’ve got to pay for what happened in Malmédy,” Mr. Brown was saying. “That’s not what civilized people do. They’ll be judged for it, mark my words.”

“God will be the judge,” said Father Paul, pointing one chubby finger toward the ceiling. It looked as though he were pointing at the stuffed pike.

“They ever do anything like that in the Great War, Dickie?” asked Mr. Brown. “You ever hear of anything like that?”

“Worst two goddamn years of my life that was,” said Dickie.

“Why’s that?” asked Harris as he took a mixing bowl from Mary and began whipping the egg whites.

“Ahh,” said Dickie with a shrug. “How about for you?” he asked Harris.

“Oh, you know,” said Harris, staring down into the mixing bowl as the egg whites began to set.

“I hope to Christ Dickie Junior has a better go of it than I did.”

“Where’s he at?” asked Harris.

“Last we heard, Marseilles. But they could be anywhere. Better there than up north. Colder than a witch’s tit in the Ardennes. They say it’s as bad as it is here. Them flyboys have it worse. Can you imagine?”

“Can’t say I can,” said Harris agreeably. He glanced at Prudence.

“Army doesn’t know a goddamn what it’s doing,” said Dickie to his beer. “It’s nothing to them’s in charge.”

“Now, now, Dickie. Language,” said Father Paul.

“Father, would you?” asked Harris. He jerked his shoulder toward the record player behind him.

“My pleasure, my absolute pleasure,” said Father Paul, and he minced behind the bar and sifted through the 78s, holding each of them up to the light.

Prudence wiped her face gently with a handkerchief from her clutch and applied more lipstick. Mary walked past her, carrying two gallons of milk from the icebox.

“Johnny-on-the-spot,” said Harris to Mary. He set the mixing bowl on the counter and poured in the milk and began beating the egg whites and milk together.

“Perfect,” said Father Paul to the mirror behind the bar. He
placed a record on the spindle and set the needle down with a fussy flourish.

Thought there’s one motor gone

We can still carry on

“How about another, Davey,” said Prudence.

“Jesus, Prudy, how many is that?”

“Oh, you know . . .” She waved her hand in the air.

“Same thing?”

“You only live once. Make that a rum and Coke.”

“Rum and Coke, please, Harris.”

“Hold your horses, Pony Boy. These Tom and Jerrys is almost done. Dickie, would you mind?”

“Not at all.”

Dickie walked around behind the bar and began upending coffee cups on the counter.

“Make way,” said Harris, and he carried the mixing bowl out from behind the bar across the dance floor to the woodstove. He set the mixing bowl on top. It hissed and subsided. He continued to whisk the milk and eggs.

“Ten minutes, everybody. Ten minutes.”

“Dickie, be a doll,” said Prudence. She took one of the coffee mugs that Dickie had filled halfway with brandy.

“Hey now.”

“Can you reach the Cokes?”

Dickie set one on the bar top.

“Let me get that, Prudy,” said Davey. He opened it and poured it into her mug. She drank, blinking against the fizz that popped up into her eyelashes she’d darkened with stove soot and a dab of grease.

“Ahh, that’s the ticket.”

“Father, you got your toast ready?” asked Harris from across the dance floor.

“It’s ready right here,” he said, tapping his temple as he turned sideways through the bar flap.

The radio sets were humming

They waited for a word

The song died out and Dickie set the arm of the record player back on its rest. “Ready, boss,” he said. Harris took the steaming milk and egg whites back to the bar and added vanilla and nutmeg and cinnamon. He ladled it into the mugs.

“Come on now,” he said.

Dickie’s men were first in line, then the girls from the village. Some of the men from the tables stood and took a mug in each hand, one for themselves and one for their wives.

“Might as well grab yours,” said Dickie. Prudence finished her brandy and Coke and pushed it away and blew her hair out of her eyes. She reached out and took the hot mug in her hands and blew on the top. Some foam flew off and landed on her dress.

“Cheers, Mr. Brown,” she said.

The stationmaster had been lost in thought.

“Cheers, Prudy.”

She eyed his breast pocket.

“You wanna dance, Mr. Brown?”

“Oh! I think I’m too old, Prudy. But you’re sweet to ask.” He wiped his eyes and sipped from his mug with one finger extended.

She set the mug back on the bar very slowly and walked unsteadily across the dance floor to her clutch and took out her handkerchief and brushed off the foam. Harris finished ladling out the rest of the drinks. He wiped his hands on a bar towel and nodded at Father
Paul, who was back in his spot at the end of the bar, with his eyes shut and his chin raised toward the pike.

“Father. You’re on.”

“Oh, already? If you say so. If you think so.”

He reached out and took the mug Dickie handed him with his thumb and forefinger. He cleared his throat.

“Friends and neighbors,” he began. “Yes, I think we can say that. Friends and neighbors.” Mary crossed in front of him with an armful of split wood. She used a piece of it to lift the stove handle and swing the door wide. Smoke billowed out and rolled across the ceiling. The coals glowed red. She placed the wood in the firedogs, then closed the door and latched it and shook her fingers and clomped back toward the storeroom. “Friends and neighbors,” resumed Father Paul. “We live in remarkable times. Fact. We live in remarkable times indeed. The last four years have been hard ones for all of us. I look out on you just as I do in the blessed confines of our holy church and there are many of us missing. Our young men have gone off to war. They are in the Pacific. They are in Italy. They are in France. Our young men are scattered all across this world. Fact. They are on boats. They are in tanks. They are on foot. And they are in the sky over our heads. Some of them won’t be coming back to us. Fact. No, they won’t be coming home to us. Instead they will enter the gates of heaven and sit with Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior. They are in God’s great arms in the great by-and-by. Fact. And why is it a fact? It is a fact because we know God is on our side. God is on the side of freedom. We didn’t want this war but now it’s up to us to finish it. And we will finish it. Yes, we will. We will finish it and bring our boys home. You might be wondering what
you
can do.”

“I’m wondering if I’m gonna drink this warm,” muttered one of Dickie’s men.

“Now, now,” continued Father Paul, with his right palm upraised.
“You might be wondering what you can do. You can toast our fighting boys and wish them a speedy return. And then you can go home to your loved ones. They are waiting for you in the here and now. You can go back to them and in the morning you can come to church and pray for the ones who are not here. You can pray and give thanks that our soldiers are out fighting for you and for our great country. They are fighting for God. They are fighting for you. You can pray for them to be strong and to finish this war and come home. Pray for them to come home to us. Amen.”

As one, they raised their mugs and said, “Amen,” and drank deeply.

“Now go home and get some rest and come help me celebrate the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ tomorrow morning,” concluded Father Paul. With his tongue he wiped away a bit of foam stuck on his lip.

The men at the tables collected the mugs and brought them up to the bar and thanked Harris. The village girls walked toward the farm boys, who turned and dived for the girls’ coats. Dickie’s men put on their boots but didn’t lace them. They fished in their pockets for cigarettes and stumbled out the front door, laces trailing. Father Paul shook himself from his reverie and put on his deerstalker and his greatcoat and, still listening to some tune or a message from above, walked lightly out the door. Mary appeared with a large tray and began collecting the mugs off the bar and the empty tables. Once a tray was full, she would bring it into the kitchen and limp back out with another one. Dickie shook Harris’s hand and followed his men outside.

“Well, I suppose,” said Prudence to no one. “I suppose.”

Davey Gardner gave her a long look and then put on his coat.

“Good night, Harris. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Davey.”

He left.

“That was a good one, Harris,” said Mr. Brown. “You make a mean Tom and Jerry.”

Prudence busied herself by the jukebox. She put on her coat very
slowly as Harris and Clarence Brown talked at the bar. Harris handed Clarence Brown his coat. He shrugged it on slowly. Once it was on, he removed the telegrams from his breast pocket. Harris poured himself a whiskey. Clarence handed the telegrams to Harris.

“You’ll see these home?”

Harris looked through them quickly. “Ahh. Damn,” he said.

“You give Felix that package yesterday?”

“I did indeed.” Harris sighed and drank his whiskey down and put the telegrams in the till.

“Shame. Till next year, Harris.”

“In short order, Clarence.”

“Merry Christmas, Harris.”

“Merry Christmas, Clarence.”

Mr. Brown left.

“I suppose,” said Prudence. She walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, and collected her coat and shrugged it on, staggering a little. But it was as though Frankie’s long arms found her and she steadied. His fingers would be light on her sleeve. His smile light into her shoulder. His long fingers light on her arm. She took her scarf and put it around her neck and trapped her clutch in her armpit and walked very carefully to the front door.

“Merry Christmas, Prudy.”

“Yeah, Harris. Yeah. Merry Christmas.” She paused and turned back to Harris and breathed in deeply. “Anything for me? Letters or anything?”

Harris studied her long and hard.

“No, girl,” he said, not ungently, “nothing today.”

“Oh.”

“Probably because of the holiday, you know.”

He glanced at the till and then wiped out the glass in front of him.

“Yeah.”

“Go on home now. Felix is probably waiting for you.”

“Good night, Harris.”

“Good night, Prudy.”

She stepped out of the Wigwam. Everyone had scattered already. The temperature had dropped even lower, and the warm, moist air spilled out of the Wigwam around her in a thin fog.

“Sweet Mary, mother of God,” she whispered. The air felt sharp in her lungs. She looked up and down the street and over toward the depot. No one was out. She could see the lights—some electric, some kerosene—shining here and there between the trees, spilling over the mounds of snow. The sodium light outside the Wigwam bronzed the road. She shifted her weight and wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck. The wedges of her Mary Janes squeaked in the compacted snow. She pulled her coat to her body and began following the path through the mounded snow along the side of the Wigwam around to the back.

“Hey, Prudy, you okay?”

Prudence looked up and saw, over the lip of the snowbank, Dave Gardner leaning from the window of his Ford Eight with the headlights off. It was hard to make out his face but the sodium light flashed off his glasses and she saw a cigarette arc out of the open window.

“Davey boy, shouldn’t you be home by now?”

“She wouldn’t start. Not right away.”

“Ahh.” Prudence teetered a little and then stood straight.

“You headed home?”

“Round about,” said Prudence.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

“If you say so, Davey.”

“You must be cold.”

“I’ve been warmer.”

“She’s got a heater.”

“You don’t say. You got another one of them smokes?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, then.”

Prudence held her arms out to the sides to steady herself and took a step toward the car. Her foot punched through the mounded snow up to her knee.

“God, I hate it here,” she said.

“Easy, Prudence.”

“I got it. I got it. Just why does it have to be so goddamn hard?”

She took another step and then another, until she stumbled onto the plowed roadbed. She got in the passenger’s side and slammed the door after her.

“Wow.”

“Right? Here.” Dave Gardner lit two cigarettes and handed one to Prudence.

“Merry Christmas,” she said.

“Merry Christmas.”

They smoked.

Prudence leaned her head back against the seat rest and then pulled it forward again. Then she bent down and unbuckled her shoes and put her feet over the heater.

“Whooeee.”

“Your feet must be freezing.”

“Oh,” said Prudence, as though noticing them for the first time.

They smoked in silence a while longer.

“This’ll pass,” she said, looking first at her cigarette and then out the window.

“What will?”

“This.” Gesturing again. “That.” Again. “All of it.”

“Oh.”

“It’s got to. It just has to.”

Dave Gardner pulled on his cigarette again and then unrolled the window and dropped it out.

“Listen, Prudy.” He turned to face her. His right knee pointing toward her. “I was—”

“Okay.”

“You look so—”

“I said okay. Okay?”

“Okay.” He paused. “You sure?”

“You’re sweet. Just not inside me, okay. All right?”

“Okay.” His voice was very small.

Prudence undid the belt and unbuttoned her coat.

Dave Gardner removed his coat and unbuttoned his trousers.

“Did you take yours off?” he asked. “Did you take them off?”

“I’ll just pull them to the side,” she said.

“I can’t see.”

Prudence reached out to Dave Gardner with her eyes closed. She saw Frankie standing in the woods, his hands shaking. And then she saw Frankie standing in the door to the maid’s room off the kitchen, where Emma tended to her after the shooting. And then the small lighted window of the boathouse and Felix looking out from under the curtain across the river. She opened her eyes.