Kent Haruf - Plainsong

Yes, aren’t you?

Yes, I am.

Good.

I enjoyed myself, he said. You think you’d like to get together again sometime?

You’re not suggesting an actual date, are you? Maggie said. In broad daylight?

I don’t know what you’d call it, Guthrie said. I’m just saying I’d be willing to take you out for supper at Shattuck’s and invest in a hamburger. To see how that would go down.

When were you thinking of doing that?

Right now. This evening.

Give me fifteen minutes to get ready, she said.

He hung up and went upstairs and put on a clean shirt and entered the bathroom and brushed his teeth and combed his hair. He looked at himself in the mirror. You don’t deserve it, he said aloud. Don’t ever even begin to think that you do.

The next week he came home and informed her that he wanted to go to another party. But she wouldn’t go again. She was afraid of what would happen and how she’d feel afterward, because of the threat to the baby. She knew she shouldn’t take anything bad into herself, and she didn’t want to go anyway. She wasn’t happy with him. It wasn’t what she had expected or thought of, dreaming about it. They seemed to have gone straight into the problems and middle years of marriage, missing, passing the honeymoon, the fun and youthful times.

When she wouldn’t go to the party he got mad and went out alone, slamming the door. After he was gone she watched television for a while and retired to bed early. In the middle of the night, about three in the morning, she heard him knock over something in the kitchen and it broke, a jar or glass, and he cursed viciously and kicked the pieces away, and afterward she heard him in the bathroom next door, then he was in the bedroom taking off his clothes. When he got into bed beside her he smelled of smoke and beer, and even with her eyes shut she could feel him looking at her. You awake? he said.

Yes.

You missed a good time.

What happened?

You missed it. I’m not going to tell you.

He slid closer and began to touch her hip and thigh, feeling under her nightgown. He was breathing close to her face now, his breath coming hot on her cheek, moving her hair.

No, she said. I’m too sleepy.

I’m not.

He lifted the gown, passed his hand over her swollen stomach, and felt of her sore breasts.

Don’t, she said. She turned to move away.

He kissed her, pulling close again, he smelled strong and hot, then he drew down her pants.

I can’t, she said. It’s not good for the baby.

Since when.

Since now.

What about what’s good for me?

He was already hard against her. He pushed her hand so she felt him, pressing her hand over it, that live feel of muscle.

Then you can do something else, he said.

It’s too late.

Tomorrow’s Sunday. Come on.

He lay back. She hadn’t moved yet. Come on, he said. She pushed her nightgown down over her heavy stomach and past her hips and then she kneeled up in bed next to him with the blanket around her like a shawl and took him in her hand and began to move it.

Not that, he said.

So she had to bend over him, leaning over her stomach. Her long hair swung forward and she collected it and lifted it to one side. He lay back, his legs stiffened out and his toes turned up, and because he was drunk it seemed to her that it took a very long time. While she bent over him she made her mind go blank. She wasn’t thinking about him, she wasn’t even thinking about the baby. Finally he groaned and throbbed. Afterward she rose and went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and looked at her eyes in the mirror and scrubbed her face, taking time, wanting him to be asleep now, and he was, when she went back into the room. She lay down beside him again in the bed but she didn’t sleep herself. She lay awake for two hours thinking and wondering, watching the dim presence of light in the room move gradually to faint gray on the high blank ceiling, and all the time she was deciding what she should do. Around six-thirty she slowly got out of bed and eased the door shut and went out to the front room. She called for information and got the number in Holt. Maggie Jones sounded sleepy.

Mrs. Jones?

Victoria, is that you? Where in the world are you?

Mrs. Jones, can I come back? Do you think they would let me come back?

Honey, where are you?

I’m in Denver.

Are you all right?

Yes. Can I come back though?

Of course you can come back.

Out there, I mean. With them.

I can’t say about that. We’ll have to ask them.

Yes, she said. All right.

She hung up and went into the bathroom and gathered the few things she’d purchased since she’d been in Denver, and put them in a little zippered bag and returned to the bedroom and silently sorted out from the closet the few clothes he’d bought her, and she had them folded over her arm ready to walk out of the room when he turned over and opened his eyes.

What are you doing? he said.

Nothing.

What are you doing with those clothes?

I want to do some laundry, she told him.

He looked at her for a moment. What time is it?

It’s early.

He stared at her. Then he closed his eyes and almost immediately drifted back to sleep. She returned to the front room. His wallet and keys were on the kitchen table inside his upturned cap, and she took money from his wallet and folded her meager belongings into a cardboard box together with her few toiletries, and tied a string around it, then left the apartment, wearing her new maternity pants but the same shirt she’d come in, with the same winter coat and red purse she’d had all along, and carrying the box by the string she went down the hall and stepped outside into the cold air. She walked fast to the bus stop and sat waiting there for more than an hour. Cars went by, people going to work or going early to church. A woman walking a white lapdog on a piece of ribbon. The air was chill and crisp, and westward above the city the foothills rose up stark and close, all red rocks now in the early morning sun, but the high dark snowy mountain ranges beyond were hidden from view. Finally the city bus came and she got on and sat looking at Sunday morning in Denver.

At the bus station she waited for three hours for one going east out across the high plains of Colorado and from there eastward toward Omaha and still farther to Des Moines and Chicago. When they finally called her bus, she carried her box of clothes and stood in line with the others, moving forward toward the black driver who stood at the door, checking tickets. When she reached the front she discovered that Dwayne had come looking for her, and she felt suddenly frightened of him. Standing in the station exit, looking around, he saw her and came over, hurrying in a kind of stiff-legged trot, looking uncombed and angry in the dark interior of the bus bay.

Where do you think you’re going? he said. He took her by the arm and pulled her out of line.

Dwayne, don’t. Let me go.

Where you running off to?

What’s this here? the driver said.

Was I talking to you? Dwayne said.

The driver looked at him, then turned to the girl. Do you have a ticket? he said.

Yes.

Can I see it?

She showed it to him. He looked at her closely, taking in the fact of her pregnancy, then inspected her face and looked once again at Dwayne. He took the cardboard box from her. It was labeled simply Victoria Roubideaux Holt Colorado. This belong to you? he said.

Yes, she said, it’s mine.

You go ahead and get on then. I’ll stow it underneath. That what you want?

Stay out of this, Dwayne said. This don’t pertain to you.

No sir. I’m going to tell you something. I believe this girl here wants to get on this bus. He moved between them. He was a medium-sized man with a gray shirt and tie. So that’s what she’s going to do.