Paul Kavanagh - Not Comin' Home to You

“If he caught you—”

“If he caught me, I wouldn’t be here today.”

“Oh, my God. How did you get home?”

“Got a ride with a farmer. I was almost afraid to get in his truck, I was afraid to get in anybody’s car or truck, but I couldn’t walk all the way home. I rode back to town with one hand on the door handle, believe me.”

“And nobody knows? You never told anybody?”

“Not a soul. I didn’t know there was anything to tell at first. And then when I found out I was just terrified. I’m still scared, if you want to know.”

“I believe it.”

“I wake up in the middle of the night wanting to scream. I can still see him coming out of the car after me.”

“You were lucky.”

“You said it. When I think what could of happened. Listen, you won’t tell anybody, will you?”

“Never.”

At first she did not believe it was happening.

The movie had completely enveloped her. It was a story of doomed young love, and at the end when she watched Robert Redford die and then saw Cybill Shepherd turn magically from girl to woman as the light drained from her eyes, she was too intimately involved in what she had seen to cry. She was, at that moment, a part of the movie, and she was still deep inside the movie as she left the theater.

And then, incredibly, that car was waiting at the curb for her. The blue Toronado with the white vinyl top, its window descending, its driver leaning toward her, his eyes alive and full of her. The movie had been so utterly real that she could only assume that this was a continuation of movie-reality, that it was not actually happening at all.

She waited for him to say something. When he remained silent, she opened the door and got in beside him. She closed the door and buckled her seat belt and he put the car in gear.

She said, “I saw you two hours ago. In front of the high school. You talked to two girls and drove down the block and another girl got into your car.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“No. I was halfway up the steps. I didn’t really see you. Just the car.”

“If I had seen you then—”

“My name is Betty. Deinhardt.”

“Jimmie John Hall.”

“Would that be Jimmie or Jimmie John? That people call you.”

“I don’t know that people call me anything. I don’t talk to people. Jimmie John.”

“Jimmie John.”

“Would you like a Coke or something? I don’t know the town. Name a place and we’ll go there.”

“Where I ought to go is home. What is it, five thirty? I was supposed to be home two hours ago. But I wanted to see that movie. I could have waited and seen it tomorrow. I thought of that, and then, I don’t know, I didn’t want to wait. I don’t like to wait for things.”

“Neither do I.”

“It was a fantastic picture. Do you go to the movies much?”

“Once in awhile.”

“You ought to see it. God, he’s gonna kill me.”

“Your father?”

“He’s a bastard. He really is. They had this huge fight this morning and the two of them turned it all on me. How I had to be home right after school because they don’t trust me. That’s such a laugh you wouldn’t believe it. I mean, nobody ever bothers with me. Girls, boys, nobody. I’ll go days without even talking to anybody.”

“You just move here recently?”

“I was born here. I just don’t, oh, I don’t know. I think he’s crazy. My father. I mean it, I think he’s crazy. Six years ago he drove my sister out of the house and I’ve never seen her since. The only person who ever cared about me. And now the two of them talk about her and call her a whore and then turn on me. Do you want to know something? I hate them. I mean it. I never said that before, not even to myself. It’s true. I hate them.”

“My parents are dead. My father before I was born, and then my mother a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. And I lied to you, or maybe I didn’t. My father could be alive or dead and I wouldn’t know. He ran out on my mother before I was born. If he was ever with her. She said they were married, but how would I know? So maybe I’m like your father.”

“Huh?”

“A bastard. Look, I don’t want you to get in trouble. Do you want me to take you home?”

“Yes, I guess you better. The longer I stay the worse it’s going to be. No.”

“How’s that?”

“Can I change my mind? I don’t want to go home.”

“Sure.”

“We could drive past there if you’d like. So you can see where I live. Do you want to? You turn where that car is turning, only left instead of right. My sister was not a whore or anything like that. They’re both completely crazy. She was a wonderful person. I think she’s a stewardess now, or possibly a nurse. I think about seeing her someday, and other times I think I’ll never see her again.”

“Take it easy, Betty.”

“I’m all right. It was the movie, and talking to you. I can never talk to people. I’ll have the words in my head and they just stay there while I stand around like a retard. Her name is Judy. My sister.”

“Do you have any other brothers and sisters?”

“Make the next right turn. That building is where I used to go to grammar school. Brothers and sisters. No, only my grandmother. She sits all day in front of the television set and... passes gas. What’s so funny?”

“The way you said it.”

“It’s all she does. I mean it. She never talks to anybody and never pays attention when you talk to her, and I know it’s because she’s so old and everything and she can’t help it, but it’s really disgusting. One more left turn, not this corner but the next, and we’re just about there. Another thing, she sits around with her teeth out. She has false teeth but won’t keep them in her mouth. Sometimes I think she just does it to be revolting.”

“I don’t have anybody. Listening to you, maybe I’m better off.”

“It’s that house right there. No, don’t stop, Jimmie John. Just keep right on going. I don’t even want to slow down. He’s home. But even if he wasn’t I wouldn’t go in there now. Do you want to know something? I am never going back. I just decided that this minute.”

“You’ll change your mind.”

“Do you really think so? No, I won’t. All I think about lately is getting out of here. This place. ‘This fucking town.’ I don’t talk that way. That was what Judy called it the night she left. I’m not going back. I’ll get on a bus or something. Or hitchhike, except it’s supposed to be dangerous because you don’t know who you’re riding with. Did I say something funny again? The way you smiled just then.”

“Well, I’ve thumbed rides from time to time. I was just thinking.”

“You must think I’m crazy. Talking a blue streak like this and I’ve never seen you before. It just seems natural.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy. I think—”

“What?”

“I think we oughta get something to eat. Where’s a good place?”

“There’s a restaurant across the street from the Orpheum. The movie house where we met. Where you picked me up, I guess you would say.”

“Where we met.”

“That was nice. Do you want to know something? You’re a very nice person.”

“Oh, now, you’re dead wrong about that.”

“I don’t think so. Do you know the way back? You want to turn left, and then—”

“I know the way back,” he said.

At Rinaldo’s they shared a booth and ate grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches and French fries and drank coffee. She set her cup in the saucer and leaned an elbow on the formica tabletop. There was a Waylon Jennings song on the jukebox. The singer told how he’d left town after a love affair went wrong, and now he was