The Last Good Kiss (47 page)

"It's always my fault," I said lightly.

"In the beginning, I wanted you to find out about

Melinda so I would know-if Rosie hadn't hired you, I

would have found some way to do it-but I watched

you go after her for a smile and eighty-seven dollars,

and you never judged her, not once, you forgave her

without asking anything in return. When I was in the

hospital, I thought about it all the time, and I finally

understood it. All this time, all these years since the

war, I worried about how tough you had to be to live,

how I had to live without flinching, but when it came

down to it, when it had to do with living instead of

dying, I didn't have the guts to forgive the woman I

loved. I couldn't cut it, son, not a bit." He paused long

enough to pick up the .45 and shove the stack of pages

off his desk. "So now I'm through with all that. I'm

going to write a novel about love and forgiveness. Even

if it kills me. And that's why I'm not about to blow my

brains out with this." He tossed the pistol back on his

desk. "It's nothing but a paperweight now."

"Good."

"I've pulled my last trigger, boy," he said, grinning.

"Hell, I didn't even pull the trigger on the shotgun that

night-I just jacked a round into the chamber and I was

so drunk that I had the trigger back when I did it, and

the son of a bitch went off. Nobody there was more

surprised than me."

"Some of us were pretty surprised," I said, grinning

back at him.

"Nobody more than me," he said, then he chuckled

and handed me the glass of whiskey. "Now get out of

here, boy, I've got work to do."

"Right," I said. As I stood up and watched him

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gather his sharpened pencils and a fresh legal pad, I

discovered an odd knot in my throat and a burning in

my eyes, but I went off to do my chores before the old

man noticed.

Trahearne worked until dinner, then he ate scrambled eggs and sausage at his desk, waving me away when I offered him more. Since he seemed locked in, I

decided to wander outside to check on the bulldog.

Fireball had eaten most of the baby food in his dish and

had fallen asleep with his nose still touching the bowl. I

left him alone ,and drifted over toward the creek.

Catherine met me at the bridge. She was wearing a long

knit gown that rippled across her body in the twilight.

"Were you coming for a drink?" she asked as she

locked her arms around my neck and socketed her

groin against mine.

"Something like that," I said as I slipped my arms

around her firm waist.

As she kissed me, she murmured against my mouth,

"We've no place to go, lover." It didn't seem to matter,

though. She moved her hands down and quickly

unfastened my �vis, then lifted the long folds of her

skirt and gathered them about her hips so I could hold

her naked buttocks in my good hand as I bent my

knees.

When we were finished, I glanced over her shoulder

toward Trahearne's mother's house. A curtain at an

upstairs window wavered as if someone had just

stepped away from it.

"I think the old woman was watching us," I said.

"To hell with her," Catherine said as she smoothed

her skirt down finely muscled legs.

"Did it ever occur to you that we shouldn't be doing

this?" I asked.

"It never occurs to me until afterward," she an-

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swered, then laughed prettily. "Tomorrow evening, "

she added, "same time, same place. " Then she walked

away from me into the fading dusk, walked away before

I could say no.

But the next evening when I showed up at the bridge

after dinner, Edna Trahearne was waiting for me. She

was dressed, as usual, in her retired fishing clothes, to

which she had added a knit Irish hat against the evening

chill. As I walked out on the bridge, she snorted as if I

were late for a fly-casting lesson.

"Try to contain your disappointment, " she growled

at me. "Catherine is still clearing the dinner table.

She'll be along shortly. "

"It's nice to see you again, Miz Trahearne," I said as

I leaned against the rail beside her. "Fish bitin'?"

"Aren't you the polite one?" she sneered. "How did

you get mixed up with all these mortal folk?"

"How did you?"

"A moment of foolish passion, boy," she answered,

then broke out in a cackle, a rash, fevered laugh that

split the evening like a loon's call. "What's your

excuse?"

"I guess I don't have one, ma'am."

"You'd best find one, boy," she advised cheerfully.

"You've stepped into a nest of vipers, and if you're here

without a good reason, you got no business being

here . "

"A day's work for a day's pay," I said, and she

laughed again. "You're in a good mood tonight," I

added.

"Every time that little slut is gone it improves my

mood considerably," she said, then smiled as she

waited for me to rise to the bait. When she was

convinced that I wasn't going to bite, she snorted again,

then asked, "What happened to your hand, boy?"

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"I hit your baby boy in the chops," I admitted.

"A fella in your line of work ought to know better

than to hit a man that size with your fist."

"I knew better," I said, "but I did it anyway. Just for

the pure pleasure of it. "

"You're polite, boy," she said with a smile as twisted

as her fingers, "but you're not nice. Not a bit."

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, and the old woman

turned away to hobble toward her house, pausing for a

moment to speak to Catherine, who was walking

toward the bridge. I couldn't hear what Edna was

saying, but Catherine glanced over her shoulder to

smile at me, the sort of smile my mother used to call a

snake's grin. When they . finished talking, the old

woman went on toward the house, and Catherine

strolled toward me slowly. She wore the same long soft

green gown and carried a tall glass in her hand.

"I understand that you aren't always respectful

toward your elders," she said as she stepped onto the

bridge, the smile still sly on her face.

"I'm always nice to you," I said.

"You find it amusing to remind me of my age?" she

asked, the smile suddenly wiped from her face.

"Just a little joke," I said by way of apology.

"I am not amused," she said as she swirled her drink

furiously.

"I'm sorry. "

"Why don't you go back and play nursemaid?"

"You got it, lady," I said, then walked away from

her.

"C.W. , " she said softly, but I kept on walking.

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1 7 ••••

FOR NEARLY TWO WEEKS EVERYTHING WORKED SMOOTHLY,

and Trahearne and I lived together as pleasantly as two

old impotent bachelors, much as we had during his long

visit up on the North Fork. It was like a vacation for

me. In the mornings I ran, then sat in the sun and read

my way through a large portion of his library. After

lunch, I moved my chair into the shade and picked up

whatever book I had just put down. Trahearne worked

all day, though, writing in his furious scrawl and

muttering to himself. About five every afternoon, he

would stroll out of the house, stretch and growl,

"Scribble, scribble, scribble, eh, Mr. Gibbon?" then

chuckle as he walked down the stairs for his daily

exercise, whistling for Fireball.

The big man and the bulldog walked toward town

every afternoon while I followed in the Caddy like a

trainer watching my fighters do their roadwork. When

Trahearne tired, I would pick them up and drive on to

the hotel pool, where Trahearne lolled about like an

old walrus until his head began to nod. Then I drove

the two invalids home and fed them. After dinner they

both went to sleep, and I went downstairs to drink

beer and watch television until I, too, found refuge in

sleep.

Every morning, while I was away from the house

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running, Catherine brought Traheame a sheaf of typed

manuscript and picked up his pages from the day before

to transcribe them. Once, though, she was late, and I

was sitting on the porch, back from my run and

breathing hard as she carne up the steps. She nodded at

me, then went on into the house. When she carne out,

though, she stopped.

"I suppose you find this odd?" she said, rattling the

long yellow sheets at me.

"Nobody else in the whole world can read his

handwriting," I said.

"I'm pleased to do what I can," she said huffily, then

went away.

"Aren't we all?" I whispered to her departure.

Trahearne stayed dry, seemingly without effort,

except for a sip of my beer the afternoon we toasted

Fireball the first time he managed to raise · his leg to

take a leak.

"God, that's good," Trahearne sighed after he had

swallowed the beer, "so goddarnned good."

"The first one always is," I reminded him as I took

my beer can back.

"Right," he said, then trundled off on his walk.

Fireball followed dutifully, marking every bush and

rock in sight. When they reached the highway, Fireball

waddled across the road to the creek to fill up again,

and on the way toward town, Traheame fussed at the

bulldog constantly, telling him to put his damned leg

down and come on.

That night, as he lowered himself into the pool,

Trahearne asked me why I didn't come in with him

anymore.

"It's like swimming in sornebody's snot," I said.

"Sughrue," he said softly, "Sughrue, you're the most

disgusting human being I've·ever had the displeasure to

meet."

"At least I don't swim in-"

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