Kent Haruf - Plainsong

When she dialed the number, the woman on the other end answered at once, and the woman sounded angry from the outset.

May I speak to Dwayne? the girl said.

Who is this?

This is a friend of his.

Dwayne isn’t here. He doesn’t live here.

Is he in Denver?

Who is it wants to know?

Victoria Roubideaux.

Who?

The girl said it again.

I never heard him mention that name before, the woman said.

I’m a friend of his, the girl said. We met last summer.

That’s what you say. How do I know that? the woman said. I wouldn’t know you from Nancy Reagan.

The girl looked out across the highway. There was a scrap of paper blowing along the gutter, tumbling with the dirt. Can’t you just give me his phone number? she said. Please, I need to talk to him. There’s something I want to tell him.

Now you listen to me, the woman said. I told you, he isn’t here. And he isn’t here. I’m not giving out his number to everybody that wants it. He’s got his privacy to think of. He’s working a job and that’s what he needs to be doing. Whoever you are, you leave him alone. You hear me? She hung up.

The girl put the phone back. She felt very alone now, cut off and frightened for the first time. She was not sick in the morning very often anymore, but she still wanted to cry too much of the time, and lately her jeans and skirts were so tight at the waist that she’d begun wearing them unbuttoned with a little piece of elastic strap pinned inside, holding them together, a solution that Maggie Jones had given her. The girl looked up and down the highway. It was empty save for a big tanker truck that was rattling in from the west. She could hear the whistle of its brakes as it slowed, passing under the first streetlights. When it rattled by, the driver sitting up high in the tractor cab looked her over thoroughly, his head turned sideways like he had a broken neck.

Across the highway and up a block toward town was Shattuck’s, and she decided to go there. She didn’t want to go back to Maggie’s yet. She would still be out of the house at a teachers’ meeting, and the old man was there alone. The girl started walking back toward Shattuck’s. She felt emotional and softhearted toward it, as though she were being pulled there by the past. It was where he had bought hamburgers and Cokes for the two of them in the summer, and afterward they had taken the sack of food in the car and driven out into the flat open country north of town on the unnamed gravel roads, driving out alone at that hour when the sky was only beginning to deepen and color up and the first stars were just coming clear, when all the scattered birds of the fields were flying homeward.

Shattuck’s had a narrow room at the side with three café tables positioned along the wall where you could sit and eat your food if you weren’t ordering from a car. When she entered this room there was a young woman with two little girls eating at one of the tables. The woman had stiff red hair that looked dyed. She was eating chili from a Styrofoam bowl and the little girls were each having a hot dog and sipping chocolate milk from straws.

At the order window the girl asked for a Coke and old Mrs. Shattuck brought the glass to the counter and she carried it to the table in the corner where a window looked out on the highway. She sat down and put her red purse on the table. She unbuttoned her coat. She took a drink and looked out toward the street. A car went by loaded with high school kids, the windows rolled down and the music blaring. After a while two cattle trucks rattled past, one immediately behind the other, making the café windows vibrate. She could see the brown hides of the cattle through the ventilation holes in the aluminum sides, and all along the panels the manure had run down in ragged stains.

Inside Shattuck’s, country music was playing from the ceiling speakers. The young red-haired mother at the other table had finished with the chili and was smoking a cigarette. She was jiggling her foot to the music, her loose shoe half off. From the speakers overhead a girl’s voice was singing, You really had me going, baby, but now I’m gone. The woman’s foot moved with the music. Then suddenly she jumped up from the table and cried, Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh, my God. What is wrong with you? She jerked the smaller of the two girls by the arm, lifting the little girl out of her chair, and stood her violently on her feet. Couldn’t you see that was going to happen? There was a pool of chocolate milk spreading across the table from an upended glass, the dark milk spilling off the edge like a little dirty waterfall. The small girl stood away from the table watching it, her face was as white as paper and she began to whimper. Don’t you dare, the woman said. Don’t you even start that. She grabbed napkins from the dispenser and swiped at the table, spreading the mess around, then she dabbed at her hands. Shit, she said. Look at this. Finally she snatched up her purse and rushed out of the room. Behind her the two little girls clattered in their hard shoes across the tiled floor, calling for her to wait.

The girl watched them through the café window. The woman had already cranked the car and was beginning to roll it backward on the gravel lot, and then the older of the girls managed to open the passenger door and they hopped alongside trying to get in. Suddenly they leaped in one after the other but the door had swung out too wide and they couldn’t close it. The car jerked to a stop. The woman came rushing out and around to the other side and slammed the door shut and got back in and raced the car backward onto the highway where she put it forward and they roared away.

On the floor under the table the chocolate milk had made a thin muddy pool. Mrs. Shattuck appeared from the kitchen dragging a mop and began to soak up the chocolate milk by swiping the mop back and forth. She stopped and looked at the girl. Did you ever see such a mess? she said.

She didn’t mean to, the girl said.

I’m not referring to that, Mrs. Shattuck said. Is that what you thought?

It was after ten when the girl returned to the house. But it was still too early. Maggie Jones had not come home yet. The girl stepped quietly down the hall to the old man’s room and opened the door slightly and peered in. He was asleep in the bed in this back room where he could control the level of heat and it was turned up to a degree that seemed suffocating to the girl, but even so he was asleep in all his clothes with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His shoes formed a sharp bump under the blanket. A book was folded over his chest. She closed the door and went back to the sewing room she used as a bedroom and got undressed and put on her nightgown.

Afterward she was in the bathroom, scrubbing her face, when the door suddenly opened. She turned from the mirror. He stood in the doorway, his white hair standing up on his head like wisps of dried corn silk. His eyes appeared bloodshot and glazed, staring at her.

What are you doing in this house? he said.

She watched him carefully. I live here, she said.

Who are you? Who said you could just come in here?

Mr. Jackson—

Get out. Before I call the authorities.

Mr. Jackson, I live here. You remember me.

I never saw you before in my life.

But Mrs. Jones invited me, the girl said.

Mrs. Jones is dead.

No. Your daughter. That Mrs. Jones.

Then where is she? he said.

I don’t know. At a meeting, I think. She said she’d be here by now.

That’s a filthy lie.

He stepped into the room and began to move toward her. The girl stepped back. Suddenly he brought his arm up and slapped her face with his open hand and slapped her again. Her nose began to bleed.

Mr. Jackson, she cried. Don’t. She was backed up against the shower door, turned a little to the side, with one hand over her stomach to protect herself in case he should try to hit her somewhere other than the face. Don’t. Please. You don’t want to do this.