Kent Haruf - Plainsong

I’m here, he said.

The band came back and stepped onto the riser and took up their instruments. As they made warm-up riffs and runs, Maggie said, You better ask me to dance.

You’d be taking a hell of a risk, Guthrie said.

I know what I’m asking. I’ve seen you dance before.

I can’t imagine where that would’ve been.

Here.

Guthrie shook his head. That would’ve been a long time ago.

It was. I’ve been watching you for a long time. Longer than you have any idea about.

You’re going to scare me now.

I’m not scary, Maggie said. But I’m not a little girl either.

I never thought you were, Guthrie said.

Good. Then keep that in mind. Now ask me to dance.

You’re pretty sure of this?

I’m very sure.

All right, said Guthrie. Would you care to dance, Mrs. Maggie Jones?

That’s not very goddamn gallant, she said. But I guess it’ll have to do.

He took her hand and led her out onto the floor. A fast song, he swung her out and she danced back to him and he twirled her around and she swung out again and came back and he spun her around once more and when she came back up to him she said, Damn you, Tom Guthrie, I’m doing all the work.

But Guthrie could see she was smiling in her eyes.

Then it was late. The lights had come up and the band had played its last song for the night. The crowd wanted more but the band was tired and wanted to go home. More lights came on and suddenly it was very bright all over the hall and more so over the bar, and people began to rise from the booths and tables as if from some manner of sleep or dream and began to stretch themselves and look around and to pull their coats on and move slowly toward the doors.

You know where I live, Maggie Jones said.

Unless you moved lately, Guthrie said.

I’m still in the same place, she said. I’ll see you there. She went out ahead of him and he came up the stairs and stopped in the rest room off the main hall. They were two deep at the urinals and he waited his turn. Over on the right an old man in a blue shirt was talking to the man next to him, both of them holding themselves, finishing up. How long you been married, Larry?

Twelve years.

Goddamn, boy. You got a long way to go.

Larry turned to look at him, then zipped up and went out. Guthrie moved forward into his place.

Once he was outside, the midnight air was cold and frosty. Little pretty glittering flecks of ice were falling under the streetlights. People were calling and yelling across the parking lot. Through the breaking clouds overhead the myriad flickering stars showed fresh and pure. He cranked the old pickup and went out of the gravel drive onto the highway and over a couple of blocks and turned south another block to her house. The porch light was on and a low lamp burned in the front room. He went up to the door and didn’t know whether to knock or not, but decided to go on in. Inside it was quiet. Then she came toward him from the kitchen. She was barefoot when she stopped in front of him. Are you going to kiss me?

Who’s here? he said.

My father. I’ve just checked on him. He’s settled for the night. He’s deeply asleep.

Well, he said. I might try it once.

She leaned toward him and he kissed her. Even without shoes she was still nearly as tall as he was. He stepped forward a little and took her in his arms and they kissed harder.

Why don’t we go back to the bedroom, she said.

When her clothes were off Maggie was soft and creamy, as rich as if she were painted. She had large full breasts and wide hips and long muscular legs. He was sitting on a chair next to the bed looking at her. For the first time since he’d known her, she seemed almost reticent and tentative. I’m just a big old girl, she said. I’m not like what you’re used to. She stood with one hand covering her stomach.

Why, Maggie, you look beautiful, Guthrie said. Don’t you know that? You take the breath out of me.

Do you think so?

God, yes. Don’t you know that? I thought you knew everything.

I know a lot, she said. But that’s very nice to hear. I thank you. She got into bed. Now hurry up, she said. What are you doing?

I’m trying to get my boots to come off my feet. They’ve swelled up so bad I can’t get them off, from all that dancing you made me do. It’s like I been walking in river water or something, they’re soaking wet.

You pitiful thing.

You damn right.

You want me to get out of bed to help you?

Just give me a minute, he said.

Finally he succeeded in hauling both boots off and he stood up and got out of his clothes and stood naked, shivering, looking down at her, and she opened the bed covers to him and he crawled in. Lord, you’re just freezing, Maggie said. Come closer here. In bed she felt unbelievably warm and smooth and she was the most generous woman he’d ever known. He could feel her like satin all along his body.

But listen to me, she said.

What.

You don’t actually think I’m scary, do you?

Yeah, I do.

Tell me the truth. I’m serious now.

That is the truth. At times I can’t say I know what to make of you.

Can’t you?

No.

What do you mean? Why not?

Because you’re different than everybody else, he said. You don’t seem to ever get defeated or scared by life. You stay clear in yourself, no matter what.

She kissed him. Her dark eyes were watching him in the dim light. I get defeated sometimes, she said. I’ve been scared. But I’m just crazy about you. She reached down and touched him. Here’s one part of you that seems to know what to make of me.

You do make a person feel interested, said Guthrie.

. . .

Afterward they slept. The stars wheeled west in the night and the wind blew only a little. About four-thirty she woke him and asked if he wanted to go home before daylight.

Does it matter to you?

Not to me, she said.

They went back to sleep and then at gray dawn she got up when they heard the old man moving about in the kitchen. I need to get up and fix his cereal, Maggie said.

Guthrie watched her get out of bed and put a robe on and leave the room. He lay in bed for a while, listening to them talk, then got dressed and went into the bathroom. When he came out into the kitchen, Maggie’s father was sitting at the table with a dish towel tied around his neck and a bowl of oatmeal before him. The old man looked at him. And who do you think you are? he said.

Dad, you know Tom Guthrie. You’ve met him before.

What’s he want? We don’t need another car. Is he trying to sell you a car?

Guthrie told her goodbye and went home and traded his boots for gym shoes and went back out and drove over to the depot where a ragged stack of Sunday Denver News lay sprawled out beside the tracks, wrapped in twine. He sat down at the edge of the cobblestone platform with his feet out in the ballast and rolled the papers, and then rose and loaded them into the pickup cab and drove through Holt along early morning streets almost empty yet of traffic or any commotion at all, and hurled the papers from the pickup window in the approximate direction of the front doors and porches. He climbed the stairs over Main Street to the dark apartments above the places of business, and about midmorning he finished the boys’ paper routes and returned home and went out to the barn and fed the one horse and the cats and the dog. At the house he fixed himself some eggs and toast and drank two cups of black coffee, sitting in the kitchen with the sunlight slanted across his plate. He sat smoking for a while. Then he lay down on the davenport to read the paper. Three hours later he woke with the newspaper folded across his chest like a bum’s blanket. He lay still for a while, alone in the silent house, remembering the night before, what that had been like, wondering what might be starting. Thinking did he want it to start, and what if he did. Late in the afternoon he called her. You doing all right? he said.