Russell Banks - Continental Drift

Bob remembers that the last time he felt truly sexy, which is to say, the last time he felt like an adult male instead of a boy inside an outsized body, was with Marguerite, before he went out there with the gun, of course. If only he could see her now, tall and mocha-colored, with her soft, Southern voice licking him all over, if only he could lie with her in a darkened room and tell her about Eddie and how strange the idea of going on alone without him makes him feel, then he would be able to understand it all, Eddie’s death and life and the suicide that’s made one the expression of the other. He would be able in the telling to learn how he is different from Eddie, as one man is different from another and not as a child is different from an adult.

But it’s too late now for him to talk to Marguerite. He ruined that possibility the last time he saw her, that afternoon in October when he nearly went crazy with a gun in his hand. She hates him now, Bob is sure. She probably hates all white men now, he thinks, and then he winces, for he is once again thinking of them both in terms of color, which he cannot seem to avoid doing, even though every time he does it, he loses sight of her face and voice and almost forgets her name. It’s not that he believes there is anything morally wrong with this; it’s that he’s genuinely frustrated, feels deprived, experiences a loss when it happens.

Maybe if he called her on the telephone and chatted for a few minutes about trivial things, for old time’s sake, say, just to catch up, say, he would be able to read her voice well enough to know whether, if he asked her to meet him, she would say yes, sure, why not? He will not ask her to meet him if she is going to say no. Then it would be like talking to all the other women he’s talked to this morning, and it’s specifically to counter the effect of those conversations that he is deciding now to call Marguerite Dill.

He can’t remember her number and has to look it up in the telephone book in the kitchen, which he finally locates under a stack of old newspapers on the table. It’s almost twelve-thirty, he notices, and a weekday. She won’t be home. He says this to himself with relief, which surprises him. But then she answers the phone, says, “Hello?” and he’s so glad to hear her voice, so thrilled by its familiar, buttery tone, that he cannot speak.

She repeats, “Hello?”

He opens his mouth, wets his lips with his tongue, but says nothing.

“Who’s there? Hello?”

“Marguerite, it’s me, Bob. I …”

She’s warm and quick, a kind, friendly, intelligent woman who takes the initiative in the conversation, as if she knows that to do otherwise would threaten Bob and make the conversation difficult. She asks him questions, where has he been living since he left the store, what kind of work has he been doing, how is his family, and she succeeds in conveying with the form and tone of her questions the clear impression that she now regards him as a dear, old friend.

Bob responds as he must, as a dear, old friend. “Well, I was in town … and I wanted to say hello. My brother … Eddie, he died.”

Marguerite is shocked, saddened, full of pity for everyone. “You must feel awful!” she exclaims. “Daddy’s going to be sad to hear this. He was right fond of your brother, you know. He hated leaving him when the store closed up,” she says, adding, “That’s how come you managed to catch me now. I come home at lunchtime to check on Daddy, ’cause he’s here alone now. He’s fine,” she says, as if Bob has asked after the old man.

“Good, that’s good. Give him my regards. Listen, Marguerite, I really wanted to talk to you … to apologize for … well, for the way I acted there, back in October, you know. I … I was under a lot of pressure, a hell of a lot of pressure, and, well, I guess I kinda lost it for a while, you know?”

She is sweet and forgiving. He needn’t apologize, she understands, though maybe she didn’t really understand it all as well then. But what with the new baby coming, and what with his troubles with Eddie and the store, after that robbery … which reminds her, she says, her voice brightening. “You remember that man, husband of my cousin, the one you chased over here?”

“Yeah, listen, that’s what I’m talking about, that’s what I want to apologize to you about, that more than anything else. I mean …”

“No, no, no! You were right about him! That one, he’s a bad man, all right. He got himself arrested by the police up in North Carolina about a month ago. My cousin told me all about it. Robbing a liquor store, just like he was robbing yours, and turned out he told the police up there everything.”

Bob is dumbfounded. “What? What do you mean?”

“Leon, that’s his name, Leon Stokes, he admitted robbing a whole bunch of liquor stores, including yours, most of them in Florida and Georgia. They found some drugs in his car, and I guess they made some kinda deal with him on who sold him the stuff or something, because he’s in jail now. But only for a couple years for robbing the liquor store in North Carolina, because he had to witness at a couple other big drug trials up there and in New York. So you were right.”

“I was right?”

“Sure were, honey. Right as rain. It’s me who ought to be apologizing.”

“I was right? That doesn’t make sense. I was wrong. ”

“Nope. You had the man, all right. Leon Stokes. I had no idea, you understand. I was just giving him a lift over to Auburndale, where he said he had some friends who were putting him up a while. If I’d have known, well …”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” Bob says. “I was wrong! It doesn’t matter that I was right about the guy; I was acting crazy. I didn’t know what I was doing, you know? I mean, Jesus, Marguerite, I could’ve shot the guy, and I didn’t even know it was the guy.”

“Yeah, and you would’ve done a lot of people a favor, probably, if you had shot him.”

“No, listen, you don’t understand. Listen, I really do need to talk with you. Can we get together, can we meet someplace? After you get off from work?”

There is a long silence, and finally Marguerite says in a quiet, steady voice, “I don’t think we should meet, Bob.”

“What? Why?”

“Bob, it’s over now between us. Right?”

“Well, yeah, sure.”

“There’s no sense firing it all up again. It was nice and … and interesting for a while, and we’re friends now and all. But we shouldn’t see each other anymore. Besides, I got a man now, and he wouldn’t like it….”

“Aw, Christ!” Bob bawls. “Jesus H. Christ! You got a man now. I suppose a black man.”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. But I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.” Her voice has gone cold.

“Nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Look, I’m just … I’m disappointed, that’s all. I’m sorry. I wanted to talk with you, see, about stuff. Eddie and all, I guess, and oh, Jesus, what the hell does it matter? I’m really sorry for everything. You … you’re fine, you’re wonderful. Don’t worry, I won’t come around or call you anymore or anything. Don’t worry, I understand. Well, look,” he says, changing gears, “I got to go now, I gotta arrange Eddie’s funeral and all, and his wife is flying down from Connecticut….”

“I’m real sorry about your brother, Bob.”

“Yeah, well, I guess he was a lot worse off than anybody thought. Look, I got to go. It’s been good talking to you.”

“I’m real sorry, Bob.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Goodbye,” she says, and quickly hangs up. He holds the dead receiver in his hand for several minutes, then places it slowly back in its cradle. The blood on his hands has dried to a dark brown map.