What Hearts (13 page)

“Movers aren't coming 'til tomorrow afternoon—”

“Make better time—”

“The boy's exhausted—”

Asa watched this dialogue pass between them, looking up from the highways of Colorado. He could see them collaborating on an idea, showing more and more with each comment that they thought the same thing; he could see, too, that they both knew the idea was bogus. But safe, somehow: in the artificiality of this sudden free time, seemingly forced upon them, they could trick themselves and not get into trouble.

They decided, face to face, with a last long look. Then Dave went to ask the station owner to run them back to town, and Asa's mother came over to him. He looked up. Her eyes were gleaming.

“Honey,” she said. “Guess what! We're going home, for one more night.”

They piled into an old Mercury that sagged
badly to the passenger side. Asa rode in front. On the seat between him and the driver was a fuel pump; at his feet were two parts of a clutch assembly. As soon as they arrived home, Dave and his mother went out into the yard to sit on the long beach chair together. Asa watched them sit, then went to the telephone.

He had memorized Jean's number long before, not because he had ever come close to calling her, but merely because it was one more thing about her that could be committed to the sum inside him. As he dialed, he realized he had designed a speech in the back of his mind while he looked over those maps. He was ready for her anger, ready to rediscover his strength, to rely on the undeniable goodness of his feelings. Nothing could go wrong if he stuck to them, if he stuck to love.

She answered. He hesitated: her voice sounded quite chirpy. This was not what he had expected, but he spoke anyway: “Jean. This is Asa.”

She said, “Oh! Hi!” He filtered every iota of the two syllables through his finest scrutiny, but he could not find the slightest tone of
anger, regret, frustration. There was only good cheer, nice and shallow, open and free.

“I wanted to talk about today,” he began.

She laughed. “What a crazy day!” she said. Something about the way she said it—something about that
crazy—
warned him off. With a shiver he knew she wasn't referring to his part of the day, but to something that had happened later, after he left. He forced himself to remember that he had left halfway. Hey, there was a whole afternoon remaining, for crazy stuff to happen!

She seemed eager to talk, so he simply said, “Oh, yes?”

“Well,” she said, laughing again, “it was pretty weird. I certainly never expected it—I mean, I wasn't even paying attention much or anything. But—well, do you know Robert Pontiac?” He did, slightly; Robert Pontiac was the only kid in school as small as Asa, and nearly as shrewd. Somehow Robert capitalized on his smallness in a way that made him cute to the girls and appealingly funky to the boys. He could talk dirty with a certain
daring that passed for funniness, he got
C
's and
D
's, he had the perfect careless walk; he carried off much more of a rough-and-tumble swagger than could be expected from a runt. His older brothers were famous athletes in the school's history. His nickname, an honor strictly among the boys, was Booger. Asa said, “Yes, I know Robert.”

“Well—” And off Jean went in a narrative romp. It seemed she was eating her lunch, and a friend of Robert's called Brenda over, and then the friend took Brenda to where Robert was sitting, and then Brenda came back, alone, and sat down breathless. And then, amazing as it was, Brenda told her that Robert liked her.

“Can you imagine that?” Jean said, with an incredulous laugh.

“Can I imagine liking you?” Asa said, incredulous in his turn. But she breezed on: Robert Pontiac! What in the world did he like about
her
? She knew he was a pretty bad student, and he hung around with all those athlete types. Whereas she—she was just this brainy type, always buried in a book. How in
the world had he come upon
her
?

Asa knew, of course. He knew what had been released from Jean in all its radiance, and how the wind picked it up and spread it like light and scent and sound.
He
had not taken it in, so out it went, and Robert Pontiac was just the sort of keenly alert weasel to snatch the signs from the air and zero in.

But Asa said nothing. The funny thing was—Jean was really
asking
. She really didn't
know
. He could tell she wasn't even sure
he
did, either, but just in case, she was checking. And certainly he
could
explain. He almost did, too, with a resigned goodwill, out of habit. But it was too much to ask; he flared at the cruelty of her lightness, her fleet forgetting. Then he thought: who was
he
to get angry? What rights remained that he had not refused? So he said nothing; he let her run on with her query until she trailed off. Then it was obvious to both of them that the conversation was over.

“Well,” she said, “guess I've got to go.”

“Sure,” he said. “Me too.” But he could not just drop away. Some sense of honor compelled him to a last task: to acknowledge with
gratitude, at least, the first declaration of love he had ever received from a woman. Whatever hopes he had tricked up for this phone call had been foolish. He had to accept that. But before he moved on, a grace was called for.

“Jean,” he said, sounding formal even to himself, but so what? This was, after all, a kind of formality: “Jean, I just want you to know—that the hearts will always mean everything to me.”

And an instant after speaking, he knew with a pierce of insight exactly what Jean was going to say. It gave him an extra heartbeat to get ready—to understand that grace is given, not always received; to clench his honor closed before her words slipped in and undid it. He moved, gently but quickly, to hang up the phone, just as she asked, with all the simplicity of a memory wiped clean by new ardor, “What hearts?”

A moment later, sitting in the darkening living room, he felt better. Why not? He had the hearts, after all; he had the words,
I love you I love you
, printed clean. He had gotten them in what was suddenly his past, but they needn't
stay there. He pulled out the candies. In the twilight he could just read them, pale on his palm.
I love you I love you
. He had the
words
. There was a good thing about words: they could rise away from circumstances, they could take their meaning with them, they could move right along with you. And if a fellow had
these
words, these above all, then surely, something was in store in the future. Somewhere down the road, surely, these words would be made good.