Ed Gorman - The Day The Music Died

She took another drag on the cigarette and then started hacking. “I guess I don’t know how to smoke.”

“Good. It’s not good for you.”

“You smoke.”

“I know. But you’re a lot smarter than I am.”

“Oh, shit, McCain.”

“What?”

“It was awful.”

“What was?”

“Tonight. With Wes. At the pharmacy.”

“What happened?”

“People told him about you and me. You know, last night. Out in the woods and everything.”

“Oh.”

“I know you think he’s a jerk, McCain. But the way he was raised-his father’s a real Bible-thumper and beat him all the time. You should see him in a swimming suit. You can see these old scars and old welts all over his back.

He’s got some of that Bible-thumper stuff in him.

That’s the part I hate. But the other part-”

We sat there and didn’t say anything for a while.

“You want anything to drink?” I said.

“No, thanks.”

We went silent again. I heard cars passing out on the street. A couple of times, light trucks went by and the windows vibrated. The cats came out and looked us over and apparently didn’t find us particularly exciting. They went back into the bedroom.

She said, “He cried.”

“Tonight, you mean?”

“Yes. After I got done working, he was waiting for me out in back. He was in his car. He told me to get in. Usually, when I make him mad, he kind of shouts at me. But tonight he was quiet. Real quiet. He kind of scared me a little bit, in fact. The way he just kept looking at me. So I got in the car. I was afraid not to. And then he took me for a ride. I don’t think he knew where he was going. He was just driving, you know how you just drive around sometimes. And then when we were out in the park and driving by the duck pond, he started crying. Just sobbing. I didn’t know what to do.”

She frowned. “Then we got out of the car and walked on the hill above the swimming pool. It looks real strange in winter, like ancient ruins or something. Then he finally talked. He told me how much he loved me and that he knew I loved you and knew that you loved Pamela and that he didn’t know what to do about it. And then he said that even if I didn’t love him now, he was sure I’d love him someday, and that we should still go through with the marriage and pick out a house and plan to have a kid and everything.”

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“You’ve succeeded in doing the impossible.”

“What?”

“He’s one of the most pompous, arrogant bastards in the valley and now you’ve got me feeling sorry for him. His dad beats him, you and I damned near crushed him and now he’s willing to marry you even if you don’t love him.”

“I feel terrible.”

“So do I.”

“Maybe I love him, McCain, and don’t even realize it.”

“Maybe.”

“God, McCain, what should I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“I feel like a whore.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“I don’t even know if I love you anymore, McCain.”

“It’d be easier if you didn’t.”

“Easier for who?”

I paused. “For all three of us. You and him and me.”

“I guess you’re right.” Then, “I really do feel like a whore, McCain.”

I thought of Ruthie saying that. Ruthie and Mary were about as far from being whores as you could get.

And yet they didn’t seem to believe that.

The phone rang. In the shadows, the rings were loud, ominous. I didn’t get it until the fourth ring. The phone was on the cigarette-scarred coffee table along with the new issues of Playboy and Manhunt.

A voice said, “He wants to talk to you, Mr. McCain.” No amenities. Lurlene Greene.

“Where is he?”

“Here. Home.”

“Why didn’t Darin call me himself?”

“I had to talk him into it.”

“I see.”

“He’s waiting for you.”

“He sober?”

Mary was on her feet, pushing her arms into her coat. She gave me a wan little wave and went to the back door. I waved her off, pointing to the chair, indicating she should sit down. I didn’t want her to leave in the mood she was in. I felt a surge of affection for her. I wanted to hold her, smell her hair, feel her mouth on mine. Sometimes, I felt just as confused as she did.

“Are you coming out?” Lurlene asked.

Mary left quietly. I went back to the phone conversation.

“As soon as I can. Half an hour, say.”

“I don’t know how long I can hold him, Mr. McCain. You best hurry.” She hung up.

I was halfway down the stairs before I realized there was a car in the alley. I recognized the new Buick. It belonged to Wes, the pharmacist, Mary’s Wes. The engine was running, the parking lights were on. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I could see two people sitting in the front seat, Wes and Mary.

I felt sick. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I was embarrassed for him. I’d followed Pamela all kinds of unlikely places over the years. Sometimes, when I needed to see her, it was like a fever coming over me. I wasn’t quite aware of what I was doing. I was all raw need. And then I’d see her and it would be all right. Just seeing her was enough.

There’s a kind of symmetry to love affairs ending in cars. That’s where most of them start and have since the days of the Model-T. You start out necking and then it gets more serious and then pretty soon you’re going all the way. You read a lot of magazine articles about how men are always walking out on women, but I know an awful lot of men who’ve been walked out on, too. Whenever I hear one sex or the other trying to stake a claim on virtue, I generally leave the room.

They sat there in the alley light, the Buick handsome and imposing, sleek as all hell. You could faintly hear words spoken. Gentle words. And those hurt more than the harsh ones. A lot of times, you don’t mean the harsh ones. You just kind of blurt them out unthinkingly. But the gentle ones, man, those are the killers: the considered words; the I-don’t-want-to-hurt-your-feelings words; the final words.

Then the driver’s door opened and Wes awkwardly got out of the car and shouted over the rooftop. “C’mon, you son of a bitch, let’s get this over with!”

I don’t know which surprised me more, that he wanted to fight or that he was sloppy drunk.

He came around the back of the car, slipping and sliding in stumbling drunken anger, throwing his fists up like old John L. Sullivan in the days of bare-knuckle fighting.

“You son of a bitch!” he said.

Mary burst out of the passenger door.

“Wes! Wes! Stop it! Stop it!”

“You son of a bitch!” he yelled at me again.

I’d have to teach this boy some new swear words.

I stood next to the garbage cans and watched Mary try to stop him from coming at me. At first, she seemed to do a pretty good job. He put his gloved fists down, anyway. He looked lost and frantic, the way drunks get when the booze is turning ugly in them.

Then he went around her. She grabbed for him but slipped and went down on one knee on the ice.

And then he was there in front of me. His fists came back up and he started swinging. He caught me a square one right on the temple, surprising me. There was some ego involved, too. He was a stuffy man and stuffy men shouldn’t be able to throw punches like that.

Mary was screaming at him again and then it was all frenzy because he leaped on me and started choking me.

You know how it gets in fights-all kinds of things going on at the same time, little explosions of anger and fear and confusion, the neighborhood dogs suddenly starting to yowl, sweat and blood and snot covering my face. That was when I kicked him in the balls. I know that’s something that heroes never do, take those dirty little shortcuts that frequently mean victory, but he was too big and I was not exactly a great fighter. I got him good, real good. He screamed and then he started to flail backward. Mary grabbed him to keep him from falling and then he lunged to the right of her and started throwing up. You never see this in movies, the vomiting, but a lot of parking lot puking goes on after two drunks have at each other.