Bonnie Nadzam - Lamb

“Pardon me if I’m speaking out of line.”

“No,” Lamb said, “you’re right. I guess we’ll head back in a couple days. I was just… we’re expecting company. A friend.”

The old man held his chin up. He raised a palsied, spotted hand. “I’ll leave you to your troubles.” He made for the door.

“Was there something you wanted, Foster?”

“Just see how you’re getting on. Let you know snow’s on its way.”

“We’ll be all right. You’re welcome anytime.”

“Pretty night coming on.”

“Yeah, she is.”

When the old man left, Lamb leaned against the workbench, his back to the window, and drained the beer as the shop darkened. He waited. He moved the lawn chair from beside the woodstove to the far corner of the shop and sat on the floor, his legs stretched out before him. He sat there an hour, then went out through the bunk room door and pissed in the weeds. It was dark but he could still see the green of the grass. He waited. Listened. He had no sense of where she was, so he walked back into the shop and left the door open behind him—that was as far as he’d go. She must have been waiting for it, because soon after he heard the main door swing open. She caught it to keep it from slamming, but he knew she was coming. When she stepped into the doorway the night was lit up blue-black behind her. She stood still looking in. He could tell she’d washed her face.

“You were supposed to be the lookout,” he said from the floor across the room.

“I’m sorry.”

“You have to pay attention to everything now. Do you see? Everything depends upon it. Our friendship depends upon it. You have to be awake.”

She was crying. She’d been crying for some time. She came to him.

“Tell me what it is,” he said.

She nodded and made little choking noises back in her throat. It was big crying. She ran her arm beneath her nose and Lamb reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. “Here,” he said, but she let it hang loosely in her fingers and fall from her hand. He picked it up and she took it, wiped her nose. “What’s the worst of it? That you feel bad like you ran away?” She shook her head. “That I slapped you?” She shrugged. “That you feel stupid. You feel like I tricked you into liking me then I turned around made you look bad in front of Mr. Foster.” She nodded. “Well. That makes sense. And I’m not surprised. But I want to say something about that, okay? When you calm down. Will you sit down here beside me? I’m not going to touch you. Right here. Good. Okay.” She sat on her feet a few inches beside him. “Now take a deep breath. That’s not a deep breath. Come on. I’ll do it with you. Ten of them, okay? Inhale,” he said. “All the way, nice and slow. Let it out. Nice and slow. Again. Big deep breath. Okay. Nine. Big breath. Again.” She breathed and listened to him breathe and counted backward to zero. “Better? Do you feel better?”

She shrugged.

“You’re shrugging at me.”

She shrugged again.

“You must be very upset.”

She stared at the floor.

“Can you listen to me even though you’re upset? Good. Now. Come over here. I can touch you? It’s okay if I touch you? How’s your skin? All burnt to hell, huh?” She smiled, and he put his arm around her and drew her in. “Come here, Tom. That’s all. Good.” He combed back her greasy hair with his fingers until his hand was behind her head. “Now,” he said, “I know that you’re upset. But what we’ve just done, my dear, is protect our friendship exactly the way we’ve been saying we’d have to. Right?” The girl did not move. He spoke very low, very gentle. “Imagine if I had not reacted like an angry uncle. What do you think Mr. Foster would have done? What do you think he would have made of a man letting his niece drink beer?”

Shrug.

“It’s child abuse, Tom.”

“It is?”

“Yes. It is.”

“He might call the police then,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying.

“Maybe. Although—and I’m not sure if this would be much better—he might just start stopping by a lot, right? Checking in. Ruining the week.”

“Oh.”

“But at worst, Tom, eventually he probably would have called somebody. Then I would have gone to jail, the police would have found out who you are and where you belong, and how do you think they would react to that back in Lombard?”

“Not good.”

“That’s correct. Not good.” They looked each other in the eye. “And what do you think Mr. Foster is actually thinking now?”

She stared down at the concrete floor.

“Out here you step out of line your dad’ll whip off his belt and bend you over and give you hell and high water.”

“Oh.”

“So I’ll tell you what’s happening right now down the road in that little white-painted house. Mr. Foster is mixing a basin of warm soapy water to wash his sick wife’s face with, and he’s thinking only about her, and about the temperature of the water, whether it’s too hot or too cold, and of her wrinkled face, and of whether she knows it’s him washing her. Maybe he’s crying over her face. Maybe he’s over crying about it. But I’ll tell you one thing he isn’t thinking about: you and me. Because on his walk back through the evening he would have already decided that in terms of us, everything is as right as rain. Wouldn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And no police, and no angry mom, and no friends in Lombard who think you were in love with me and running away from Jessie. Right? Everything fine, the evening fine, the sky the color of a dark blue crayon, and the wind picking up because it’s October, and it’s the mountains, and it was all more beautiful than anything our girl had ever seen, right?”

She nodded at the floor, then looked up at him. “His wife is sick?”

“Very sick.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

He looked down at his chest. “No,” he said. He took her hand and opened her palm and pressed it to him. “Feel how warm.”

“Me too.”

“I know it. You’re sunburned. And Tommie, dear. Will you look at me? Can you see me?” She looked up.

“Didn’t we say this was going to require being a lookout, protecting each other? Didn’t we say this was unusual?”

“Yes.”

“I know we did. We shook on it. And you’re a girl who keeps her word.” He reached for the handkerchief and wiped at her tears. “It just breaks my heart to see you crying.”

This renewed her tears some.

“Say you forgive me. Say you understand.”

“I forgive you. I understand.”

“But do you mean it?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Oh, Tom.” He opened his arms. “Come. Will you hug me? Will you let me hug you?” He wrapped his arms around her. “You’ve washed up. But I’m all stinking and sweaty.”

“I only washed my face,” she said over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about the cow shit.”

“I don’t think it was cow shit.”

“Your body feels very warm. Do you think you have a fever?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does your body hurt?”

“A little.”

“Ache from hiking or ache from fever? Can you tell?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Well, it’s probably both.” He held her thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes during which they did not speak or move. “Tom.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I’m not a bad guy. Do you believe me?” He put his hands to her shoulders and pushed her away a little and looked at her, holding on to her.

She nodded.

“This is something I’ve been keeping from you, okay? And we said we’d share everything, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

He put two fingers beneath her chin and drew her face toward his own. “In Iowa we said we weren’t going to do this. Do you know what I’m referring to?”