The Diary (8 page)

As soon as they could politely escape, Bob steered Elizabeth out a side door onto the porch. They settled on a rattan loveseat overlooking the garden, where a crepitating chorus of crickets could be heard and hydrangea blossoms the size of cabbages glowed like pale constellations in the light that spilled from the windows behind them. Elizabeth leaned into Bob. His hand, clasped about hers, was warm and comforting. She pictured them sitting this way years from now, a gray-haired couple taking in the night air, and it didn't seem so terrible all of a sudden.

“You're sweet to be so nice to my mother,” she told him.

Bob flashed her an easy grin. “Not at all. I like your mom.”

That was just it, Elizabeth thought, a small grain of irritation working its way into her complacency: Bob got along with her mother a little
too
well. It shouldn't have been a problem—quite the reverse—but somehow it was. She had a sudden unsettling vision of the three of them having Sunday dinner at her house, a practice her mother would no doubt expect to become routine once she and Bob were married. At the same time, she knew that if her mother had disapproved of Bob, they wouldn't be sitting here right now. Mildred would have found a way to get rid of him long ago.

“And she likes you,” Elizabeth replied.

“Well, I should hope so. Seeing as how I'm going to be a member of the family.” Bob spoke in the same mild tone as when observing that it was going to be another scorcher of a day or that the Cornhuskers had won their last game.

Elizabeth grew very still. It had been an offhand remark, not so different from ones he'd made in the past when the subject of family and marriage had come up, but it felt different for some reason. She recalled Ingrid's coy prediction and wondered if her friend knew more than she'd been letting on. Had Bob confided in her that he planned to propose tonight? She felt oddly panicky at the thought, and the fingers twined about hers, which moments before had seemed comforting, grew hot and sticky all at once.

Oblivious to her change of mood, Bob went on in the same mild tone, “In fact, I was thinking we might make this a double celebration. Not to rain on Ingrid and Jeb's parade or anything, but what would you say about us making the announcement tonight?” He turned to her, looking not so much hopeful as pleased with himself for having come up with such a splendid idea. In his mind, it was a done deal. All that was left to decide were the details. And why shouldn't he think that way? Had she ever given him a reason to think otherwise?

“Are you sure that's such a good idea?” She managed to get the words past lips that had gone numb.

He must have misunderstood, thinking she was only being considerate of Ingrid and Jeb, for he plowed on, “I was going to wait for your birthday to surprise you.” Elizabeth's birthday was a little more than a month away. “But then I got to thinking, why wait? Our friends and family are all here, except Grammy and Grandpa—” Bob's grandparents were away on a trip—“and we already have their blessing. Heck, we've even got the champagne. Seems a shame to let all that go to waste.”

Elizabeth looked into his ruddy, beaming face, and thought,
I can't
.

I can't say yes. I can't say no. I can't marry him. I can't lose him
.

Her mind in a hopeless muddle, one fractured thought bleeding into the next, she abruptly stood up. “I'm sorry, Bob. I … I'm not feeling well. I really should go home. I'm sure it's nothing,” she assured him at the look of concern dawning on his face. “It must have been something I ate.” Not a lie exactly: She did feel dizzy from the champagne, and her stomach was in revolt.

Bob peered up at her worriedly. “You
do
look a little pale.” An instant later, he was on his feet taking hold of her elbow, as if fearful she'd topple over. “You wait here while I go get the car.” Though the evening wasn't working out as planned, he was doing his best to swallow his disappointment.

“No, please. I'd rather walk. The fresh air will do me good.”

He deliberated, his natural protectiveness clearly at war with the part of him that always did its best to respect her wishes. At last he reluctantly conceded, “All right. If you're sure.”

She squeezed his hand. “I'm sorry to spoil the evening. I'll make it up to you, I promise.” She turned as she was stepping off the porch. “Oh, and darling? Don't say anything to my mother. I don't want her worrying.”

“What do I say when she notices you're gone?”

She managed a wan smile. “Just tell her … I don't know … that we had a fight.”

Bob chuckled at the absurdity of it. Neither of them could remember the last time they'd fought.

On her way home, teetering along the sidewalk in her high heels, which after two minutes had already made her regret having turned down Bob's offer to drive her, Elizabeth thought about the apology she'd have to make to Ingrid in the morning. She hoped her friend wouldn't be too sore and that she wouldn't see through Elizabeth's flimsy excuse and demand to know the real reason she'd left the party without even saying good-bye. If so, she'd have to lay it on thick. She also had to decide what to do about Bob's proposal … or their presumed engagement, as he saw it. Dear, decent Bob, who was so unsuspecting …

Lost in thought, Elizabeth didn't notice the car passing by until it slowed to a stop at the curb. It was fully dark out, and in the glare of its headlights, she couldn't quite make it out. At first she thought it was Bob coming to fetch her after all. Then she saw that it wasn't her boyfriend's dark-blue Buick but a battered green-and-tan Studebaker station wagon.

A head was thrust out the window, and a familiar male voice called, “Hey, lady. Need a lift?”

Elizabeth, her pulse quickening, squinted to get a better look. It was him, all right. That distinctive face, with its clean planes and lines. Those blue eyes, which ought to have been declared illegal, given their effect on her. That breezy air of recklessness, as if he lived so close to the edge that he had little to lose. What was AJ doing in this neighborhood? she wondered. Had he been on his way to see her? The thought caused her heart to lurch in her chest, partly in delight at the prospect and partly in panic at what her mother's reaction would have been had he come knocking at the door when they were home.

In her senseless joy at seeing him, she blurted, “Well, for heaven's sake, where have you been all this time?”

He broke into a grin, clearly pleased to learn that his absence hadn't gone unnoticed. “Here and there,” he replied with maddening vagueness. “I just came from the county fair up Kingston way. Funny I should run into you. I was on my way to your place to drop this off.” His head disappeared back into the car. He resurfaced a moment later, clutching a rolled-up sheet of drawing paper fastened with a rubber band. He held it out to her. “I wanted you to have it.”

She didn't have to look at it to know what it was: the caricature he'd done of her at the fair. “You certainly took your time,” she chided, annoyed at him for no reason she could think of.

“I only just got back into town. Anyway, I didn't realize you were keeping track.” He sat there, the engine idling and his arm hooked over the open window, grinning up at her in that infuriating way, as if he knew something she didn't.

“Who said I was keeping track?” She felt suddenly, inexplicably on the verge of tears. “It's just that when I didn't hear from you …” She let the rest of the sentence trail off, fearing she'd already said too much.

“Get in.” It wasn't a request.

“What?”

“I said get in,” he repeated in the same amiable but firm tone.

Elizabeth obeyed. Not because of her blistered heels or even because she feared a nosy neighbor would spy her chatting with a known miscreant. She obeyed because she couldn't
not
get into the car. It was as simple as that.

The interior of the station wagon smelled like AJ himself: a combination of worn leather, crisp drawing paper, and freshly washed clothing left in the sun to dry. He might have been living out of his car, but it was clean and uncluttered. Not painstakingly so—the knapsack and rolled-up sleeping bag stashed in back were testament to his itinerant lifestyle—but enough to give the impression of someone who took care of his things, not at all the sort to set fire to other people's cars.

“I would've dropped you a line, but I didn't know that you'd want to hear from me,” he explained in a matter-of-fact tone. He dropped the Studebaker into gear, and moments later they were cruising along Grand Street, Hank Williams crooning softly on the radio about a cold, cold heart. “You look nice, by the way.” He darted her a sidelong glance. “You on your way to a party?”

“On my way home from one, actually.”

“Isn't it a little early to be leaving?” he remarked, glancing at the clock on the dash, which showed the time to be just a little past nine.

“It's a long story,” she said with a sigh.

AJ didn't press for details, but she had the sense that it wouldn't come as a surprise were she to tell him that the story had to do with her and Bob. “Feel like taking a drive?” he asked instead.

She shot him an arch look. “You seem to have a habit of shanghaiing me.”

“Would you rather I drove you straight home?” he asked in a tone that suggested he knew what her answer would be.

“And give you the satisfaction of thinking I'm afraid to go off alone with you? Thanks, but I'll take my chances,” she replied smartly.

Soon the gracious homes and sweeping green-baize lawns of Grand Street gave way to the more modest brick abodes of the neighborhood where Bob's family lived. They passed through downtown, where the storefronts were shuttered and streetlamps lit, and soon they were on a country lane that rambled past cornfields and pastures, with only the occasional farmhouse to break up the monotony. They continued along it for several miles, eventually reaching the tiny hamlet of Cross Corners, midway between Emory and Shaw Creek. It wasn't much of a destination, its main drag consisting of a gas station, a few stores, and a seedy-looking roadside tavern called the Rooster's Nest. Elizabeth was surprised when AJ pulled to a stop in front of the tavern.

He turned to her. “You a fan of the blues?” The neon sign above the tavern's front entrance cast a reddish glow over his face that made him look almost devilish.

“I don't listen to much of it, to be honest,” she told him. Her mother's taste in music ran to the likes of Perry Como and Peggy Lee—that and show tunes—which were the only LPs in their house.

“In that case, you're in for a treat. There's a guy in there who'll teach you everything you need to know about the blues.” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the tavern, from which drifted the sounds of raucous voices and laughter and the tinkle of piano music. “I come here just to listen to him play. Come on, let me buy you a drink.” He hopped out before she could give him an answer.

Waiting for him to come around and open her door, Elizabeth felt a tingle of anxiety mixed with excitement. She wasn't in the habit of patronizing such places, and certainly not in the company of disreputable young men. But there was something about AJ that made her inhibitions seem ridiculously prudish. So she smiled as he opened her door, and stepped out to take his proffered arm.

Elizabeth should have felt self-conscious walking into a grungy roadhouse dressed in her evening finery, but for some reason she didn't. A few of the patrons stared openly—farmers in billed caps, many still in their boots and overalls—but she paid them little mind.
This isn't happening
, she told herself. She'd stepped out of her life into a fairy tale, where nothing was real.

They found a table in back, where they settled with the beers AJ brought over from the bar. The piano player turned out to be an old Negro man, so shrunken and withered that he would have appeared mummified had he not been in motion. Listening to him play, his fingers flying over the keyboard and his head bobbing in rhythm to the music, she found herself tapping her toes. It was a lively number, like nothing she'd ever heard—not so much music as the pulse beat of life itself. Before she knew it, she was on her feet, twirling across the dance floor with AJ. She wasn't thinking about her blistered heels. Or her boyfriend. Or even her mother, who might at that very moment be launching a frantic search for her. It was as if a window had been thrown open inside of her, letting in a gust of fresh air that had blown away all the old fears and reservations clinging to her like wet sheets of newspaper. There was only the music and AJ.

They made an odd pair, the man in his well-worn Levis and old checked shirt with its sleeves rolled up and the woman shimmering in sapphires and satin, but if anyone was eyeing them curiously, they were unaware of it.

The next number was a bluesy one to which they slow-danced while the piano player sang the lyrics in an ancient, cracked voice. They swayed together, holding on to each other as though to let go would rob them of something life-giving, as not too long ago they'd clung to each other on a rock in the middle of a rain-swollen creek. She could feel AJ's breath warm against her ear, just as she had then, and the steady beat of his heart as he held her tightly to him, one hand pressed to the small of her back. With Bob, who was so tall that he towered over her, she always felt almost childlike when they danced, but in AJ's arms she fitted perfectly, as though she belonged there.

One number melted into the next; they were scarcely aware of the passage of time. “Let's get out of here,” he said when the piano player finally took a break. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Outside, he took her hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do so. When they got to where his car was parked, he leaned on it instead of reaching for his keys, drawing Elizabeth against him so they stood nestled together, her back against his chest. They didn't speak. They just gazed up at the starlit sky, her head tipped back against his shoulder and his chin resting on hers.