Anne Tyler - A Slipping-Down Life

“She is a mite uppity,” he said.

“Did you sleep all right?”

“Sure. It’s little short, but better than the ground. You got any syrup?”

Evie handed it to him and then sat down. “Have you been to see David yet?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“How about your friends?”

“How about them?”

“Well, you do have some.”

“Sure.”

“Are they worried about you?”

He frowned at her over a biscuit. “What you getting at?” he asked.

“I’m not getting at anything.”

“You want me to clear out?”

“No, of course not.”

“What you asking about friends for, then?”

“I just wanted to know—” said Evie. She drew rays out from a coffee ring, with Drum watching. “I was wondering why it was me you came to,” she said finally.

“Oh. I don’t know.”

“There must have been lots of other people.”

“Sure.”

She gave up. She waited until he had finished eating, and then she brought him an ash tray. Drum tipped back in his chair to smoke a cigarette. At his elbow was the back door, unlocked and waiting in case her father should appear. There was no telling when he might walk in. She sat braced to move suddenly, her mind tracking down and identifying every sound from the street, so that when finally Drum decided to answer her question she didn’t take it in. “You and me really had some fight that night,” he said. Evie said, “Mmhmm.” She was listening to a jingling noise that could have been her father’s Volkswagen. When it passed she said, “What?”

“You and me really had some fight, I said.”

“Oh, well.”

Drum blew out a funnel of smoke and watched it dissolve. Then he said, “I thought about it later. That fight is where I went wrong, I thought.”

“Oh, well, it’s over now,” Evie said.

“It came to me the night I got fired. I said, Oh, damn, I missed all the signs, will you look at that?’ ”

“What?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“I just don’t see what you’re saying,” Evie said. “It’s all right about the fight, really. I’m the one that should apologize.”

“I ain’t apologizing, I meant every word. You weigh on my head. But you bring luck, too. Or take it away, like when you hoped I would mess up at the Parisian.”

“Well, wait—” Evie said.

“If I’d of took you to the Parisian like you asked, they wouldn’t have fired me.”

“That’s just silly,” Evie said.

“Nothing silly about it. Except I wish if you bring me luck you wouldn’t have to weigh on my head. Don’t you ever smile none?”

“Of course I do.”

“Not to notice. Just sitting there paper-faced with your forehead showing. Now you’ve cut bangs.”

“I thought it was time to.”

“Does that mean you were serious?”

“Serious about what?” Evie said. “I don’t understand what we’re talking about.”

“The fight. When you said I couldn’t play the guitar.”

“Oh, that.”

“I can play one hell of a lot better than Joseph Ballew, I’ll tell you that. And sing too. If you don’t agree, you got no ears.”

“Well, I was just angry,” Evie said. “I never really meant it.”

“Did you know I took lessons? Up at Farnham’s Music Company, where I got my guitar. Then I won a talent show before I had even finished my lessons. Fifteen dollars and a medal.”

“You know I never meant it,” Evie said. “It was just one of those things you say when you’re angry. I could listen all day when you play.”

“Well, then,” said Drum. It seemed to be what he had come for. He stubbed his cigarette out and then just sat there, tipping his chair against the wall, until they heard Evie’s father climbing the porch steps. “See you around,” Drum said. He was up from his chair and out of the house before Evie could answer. He must have taken note of that door right from the beginning.

When he was gone, she felt she had made a mistake. He had come to make sure she still liked his singing; if she had had any sense, she would have kept him wondering. She plodded from room to room pulling sharply on one strand of hair, muttering under her breath when she was sure she was alone. “Was I serious? I don’t know. I’ve forgotten what you sound like by now.” Clotelia passed her several times, and threw her a look but said nothing. Her father asked if she were bored. “No, why?” Evie said.

“I thought you looked restless.”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, school will start soon. Summer always drags about this time.”

He looked so cheerful nowadays. He had made her an appointment with a plastic surgeon for September, and at supper he had grown talkative and sometimes made small jokes. What she should have said was, “No. I don’t like you anymore, I don’t like your music, I don’t want you sleeping on my porch.” Then life would be simple again. No more hanging around waiting and wondering, no more secrets hidden from her whistling, unsuspecting father.

Drum set up a pattern. He came whenever her father was gone, as if he kept close watch on the house, and he seldom spoke. Conversation was up to Evie. If she was silent he seemed irritable, tapped his fingers or swung his foot, left before he had to. If she talked he seemed not to listen, but kept very still. He rested the back of his head against the wall and watched the ceiling while she searched for any words at all to fill the space. “You mustn’t mind Clotelia. Does she get on your nerves? Once I went home with her when my father was out of town and I met her boyfriend, not the one she has now but another one, who sat around drinking beer all the time and matching pennies, living off her money. She thinks all men do that way. That’s the only reason she acts so snippy. His name was, wait a minute. Not Spencer, no—”

She had never been given so much time before. No one interrupted her, no one shifted impatiently. She could choose her words as slowly as luxury items in a department store. “Not Steward, not Stengle. It will come to me in a moment. Spindle. I knew it was something peculiar. Have you ever heard of anyone named Spindle? He had a black knitted skull cap on in the middle of summer. His shoes were the big high kind with metal toe-caps.”

Drum stubbed his cigarette out and passed a hand over his eyes. “Are you tired?” Evie asked him.

“No.”

But his face was pinched and tight, and his tan was turning yellow. Sometimes, lost in what she was saying, she forgot that anything was wrong. Then she would look up accidentally and notice how he sat, limp and heavy-limbed, not bothering to protect himself from the net of words she had wound around him. She would break off and say, “Do you want something? Iced tea?”

“No.”

“Are you not sleeping nights?”

“I’m sleeping fine. Go on talking.”

“How can I talk if I never get an answer? You talk to me . What’s been happening? Have you been back to see your mother?”

“No.”

“Are you going?”

“No.”

“She can’t still be angry with you.”

“I don’t care if she’s angry or not, I’m not going.”

“What, not ever?”

“I’ve had it,” said Drum. “All this time telling how famous I’m going to be, and then she goes to pieces at one little setback. I’m nineteen years old. I got a right to get fired once, don’t I? Oh, it looks like I will never get anywhere in this life. Never do a thing but bag groceries on Friday nights. A lot she cares.”

“If you’re not going back,” said Evie, “where are you going?” She was careful about her tone of voice. Even a sudden movement, she felt, might frighten him away. But Drum only shook his head. He didn’t seem to care what she said.