Kent Haruf - Our Souls at Night

And once they stayed overnight in Denver as she had before at the great old beautiful Brown Palace Hotel with its open court and lobby and the piano player who played all afternoon and evening. Their room was on the third floor and they could look over the railing down to the open courtyard below and see the piano player and people sitting at tables taking tea and drinking cocktails and the waiters moving back and forth from the bar and as night approached the guests going into the bar or into the restaurant with its white tablecloths and gleaming glasses and silverware. They went down and ate in the restaurant and then came back upstairs and Addie put on one of the expensive dresses she’d bought years ago just to wear in Denver. Then they went out onto the sidewalk to the 16th Street Mall and rode the shuttle bus to Curtis Street and walked over to the Denver Center and throups and stomach

Labor Day they decided to drive out east on the highway to Chief Creek. The creek was shallow and sandy-bottomed with grass and willows grown up on both sides and milkweed, the grass had been cropped off close to the ground by cattle. There were great old cottonwood trees in a grove back a little from the creek. Addie brought out the basket with their picnic and Louis got the rake and shovel from the car trunk and scraped the old dry flaky manure from the shade under the trees where the cattle had stood out of the wind.

You’ve been here before, Addie said. You came prepared.

We used to come out here when Holly was a little girl. It’s about the only place to find running water and shade.

Well, it’s nice. It’s not the mountains but it’s nice for Holt County.

Yes.

But won’t somebody come to chase us off this place?

I doubt it. It belongs to Bill Martin. He never minded before.

You know him.

You do too, I think.

Just by name.

I had his kids in school. They were all bright kids. Hell-raisers, but bright. They’ve all left home now. I imagine he’s sorry about that. Kids don’t want to stay he at him, waiting.

Addie spread out a blanket on the cleared ground and they sat down and ate the fried chicken and coleslaw and carrot sticks and chips and olives and she cut them each a piece of chocolate cake. They drank iced tea with it all. Then they lay down on the blanket and looked up into the green moving branches of the tree overhead, the leaves twisting and fluttering in the low wind.

After a while Louis sat up and took his shoes and socks off and rolled up his pants cuffs, then walked over to the creek across the hot ground and stepped down into the cool water onto the sandy bottom and dipped and cupped water onto his face and arms. Addie joined him, barefooted in her summer dress. She held her dress up above her knees and stepped in.

Oh isn’t this just perfect for a hot day. I’ve never been here before. I didn’t know there was anyplace like this in Holt County.

Stick with me, he said. You’ll learn a lot, lady.

Louis took off his shirt and pants and underwear and laid them out on the grass and stepped back into the water, splashed himself and sat down.

Well then, Addie said. If that’s the way you’re going to be. She pulled her dress off over her head, took off her underwear and lowered herself into the cool water beside him. And I don’t even care if someone sees us, she said.

They sat facing each other and lay back in the water, both of them very pale except for their faces and hands and arms. They were a little heavy, contented. They could feel the current pushing fingers of sand underneath them.

Later they got out and went back to the blanket and toweled off and got dressed, they took a nap in the warm afternoon in the shade of the trees and got up again and waded in the creek once more to cool off before they packed up the food and drove back to Holt. He dropped her off at her house and she carried the picnic basket inside while he drove down the block and parked his car and put the shovel and rake back in the shed. When he stepped into the house, the phone rang almost immediately.

You’d better come over here, Addie said.

What’s going on?

Gene is here. He wants to talk to both of us.

I’ll be there in a minute.

In the living room Gene was sitting on the couch across from Addie.

He said, Sit down, Louis.

Louis p>

What’s this about?

I’ll get to that, Gene said. I’ve been waiting for you all afternoon.

I told him where we’ve been, Addie said.

It’s not much of a place.

It’s what you make of it. It’s who you’re with, Louis said.

That’s why I’m here. I want this to stop.

You’re talking about us being together, Louis said.

I’m talking about you sneaking over here at night to my mother’s house.

No one’s sneaking around, Addie said.

That’s right. You’re not even ashamed of yourselves.

There’s nothing to be ashamed of.

People your age meeting in the dark like you do.

It’s b

After the talk with Gene, Addie and Louis still saw each other. He came to her house at night but it was different now. It was not the same lighthearted pleasure and discovery. And gradually there were nights when he stayed home, nights when she read for hours alone, not wanting him to be there in bed with her. She stopped waiting for him, naked. They still held each other in the night when he did come over but it was more out of habit and desolation and anticipated loneliness and disheartenment, as if they were trying to store up these moments together against what was coming. They lay awake side by side silently now and never made love anymore.

Then the day came when Addie tried to talk to her grandson on the phone. She could hear the boy crying in the background but his father wouldn’t let him talk.

Why are you doing this? she said.

You know why. If I have to do this I will.

Oh you’re just mean. This is cruel. I didn’t think you’d go so far.

You can change it.

She called her grandson one afternoon when she thought he would be at home by himself. But he wouldn’t talk to her.

They’ll be mad, he said. He began to cry. They’ll take Bonny away. They’ll take my phone.

Oh God, Addie said. All right, honey.

When Louis came to her house in the middle of that week she led him out to the kitchen and gave him a beer and poured herself a glass of wine.

I want to talk. Out here in the light.

Something more has changed, he said.

I can’t do this anymore, she said. I can’t go on this way. I thought something like this was coming. I have to have contact, and some kind of limore sense, a

fe with my grandson. He’s the only one left to me. My son and his wife mean little now. That’s all broken, I don’t think they or I will ever get over it. But I still want my grandson. This summer made that clear.

He loves you.

He does. He’s the only one of my family who does. He’ll outlive me. He’ll be with me as I die. I don’t want the #x2019;t care about the others. They’ve killed that. I don’t trust Gene. I can’t guess what else he might do.

So you want me to go home.

Not tonight. One more night. Will you do that?

I thought you were the brave one of us.

I can’t be brave anymore.

Maybe Jamie will fight it and call you on his own.em; margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 2em; text-align: ">Yes, oun s.

Not yet he won’t. He can’t, he’s only six years old. Maybe when he’s sixteen. But I can’t wait that long. I might already be dead. I can’t miss these years with him.

So this is our last night.

Yes.

They went upstairs. In bed in the dark they talked a little more. Addie was crying. He put his arm around her and held her.