Richard Russo - Nobody's Fool

Toby Roebuck was sitting quietly in the truck when Sully got in. The truck’s dome light didn’t work, and the glowing tip of her cigarette was the only testimony to her presence.

“God, you’re a jumpy man,” she said.

She had, in fact, startled him. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said.

She looked at him. “There must be a lot of surprises in your life, Sully.”

This was true, and Sully didn’t deny it. Today had been a pretty surprising day, start to finish. “How come you let him back in?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I think Horace gave him a key, the dirty, double-crossing snake. Carl was there when I got back from Schuyler.”

This reference jogged Sully’s memory. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there’s a rumor circulating about you.”

“Really!” Toby clapped her hands in mock excitement. “How exciting! Do tell.”

“You’ve got a boyfriend in Schuyler.”

Toby studied him seriously for long enough to make him squirm, then broke into laughter. “Poor Sully,” she said when she was finished. “You are a hoot.”

As was almost always the case with women, Sully suddenly felt himself to be on the fringes of the conversation. “Hey, I didn’t make it up,” he insisted. “In fact, I told the guy I didn’t believe it.”

This set Toby Roebuck off again, though she stifled her hilarity more quickly this time. “You really are a sweet man,” she said, striving for seriousness.

“It’s true,” Sully grinned at her. “I just wish more women realized it.”

Inside the house, Carl had come over to the window and was peering out, scout fashion, into the drive where they sat. Sully doubted he could see anything but his own reflection. He started the truck, realizing that not hearing it might have been what had brought Carl to the window. “Maybe you shouldn’t stay here tonight,” he said. “He’s in pretty rough shape.”

She noticed his glance and followed it. “I can’t take much more of this,” she admitted. “Look at him.”

Carl, still shading his eyes, was right up against the window. He looked unsteady, like he might tumble through the glass.

“Go away for a while,” he suggested. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

The suggestion brought a smile. “That’s a funny idea. You looking after anybody.”

“Why?”

“Oh, Sully, don’t go getting your feelings hurt. I know you’d mean to. After about two minutes you’d get sidetracked and forget, and you wouldn’t think of him again until about two weeks after the funeral. You’d be walking down the street and wondering why you hadn’t seen him around.”

Carl had stepped back and gone to the foot of the stairs, his back to the window.

“By the way, where’d he hide the snowblower?”

“Out at the yard,” she confided. “In the shed.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll steal it back tomorrow or the next day.”

“Careful of that mean-ass dog.”

“I’m not worried about the dog,” Sully said. “I’m trying to figure how I’m going to scale the fence.”

“You’re a man among men, Sully.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” she assured him.

“You don’t have to get all dressed up to come in here,” Tiny said when Sully, clean-shaven and dressed as he’d been for his visit to Vera’s, came in and took a seat at the end of the bar. The shirt was a gift from Ruth, given to him months earlier, and this was the first time he’d worn it. He’d put it on right out of its plastic wrapping. The shirt’s creases still conformed more to its cardboard packaging than to Sully’s torso. The pinholes had still not closed, in fact.

A college football game on the television above the bar occupied the attention of the dozen or so men who’d escaped their families late on Thanksgiving afternoon. The holiday had begun too early with the Macy’s parade, and they hadn’t been able to enjoy the afternoon football with all the holiday commotion. At The Horse they hoped to watch the second game in peace.

“I always like to look spiffy when I know you’re tending bar,” Sully said. Tiny appeared to be in a better mood, and Sully knew they would not renew last night’s quarrel until later in the evening. For the next few hours both would pretend they were not going to renew it at all, a notion they would surrender only when the quarrel was actually under way. “Where’s your best customer?”

Tiny consulted his watch. “Should be along any minute,” he said. “You’re popular today. I been open all of an hour and already you’ve had a phone call and a delivery.” Tiny produced a foil-covered plate from underneath the bar. “Smells like turkey.”

Sully peered beneath the foil. Turkey, stuffing, squash, cranberry sauce. Still warm. He examined both sides of the foil. “No return address.”

“Your ex,” Tiny said. “What’s-his-face brought it. The mailman.”

“Ralph?”

“He said you missed dinner.”

“I just finished eating, actually. Who phoned?” he asked, expecting it to be Ruth, who wouldn’t leave her name, of course.

“Somebody about a job.” Tiny had scribbled a note, which he handed to Sully. The note contained a phone number and a man’s name: Miles Anderson.

Sully frowned. “Who the fuck is Miles Anderson?”

“Never heard of him,” Tiny admitted. “Said he just bought a house here in town. Needs some work done on it. Another asshole yuppie, probably.”

“The woods are full of them, all right,” Sully admitted. “At least they’ve got money.”

“That’s what makes them yuppies,” Tiny said. “Otherwise they’d just be assholes.”

“I wish I could stay busy just working for people I admire,” Sully said.

He was on his second beer and still chatting amiably with Tiny when Wirf slid stiff-legged onto the stool next to him. “Nice to see all my loved ones are on speaking terms again,” he observed. “What’s that?” he said, pointing at the foil-covered dish at Sully’s elbow. “It smells like food.”

“No dinner, huh?” Sully said.

“I had dinner with you,” Wirf reminded him. “Remember?”

“That was yesterday,” Sully pointed out.

“Oh.” Wirf grinned. “You meant today?”

“Stick this in the microwave, will you?” Sully said, pushing the plate in Tiny’s direction.

Tiny did as he was told, a shade unhappily, it seemed to Sully.

“He’ll be bellyaching about that before the night’s over,” Sully predicted.

“He’d rather sell me half a dozen pickled eggs over the course of the evening,” Wirf said. “And who can blame him?”

“I’ll be able to after another beer or two.”

The microwave chirped and Tiny returned with the plate of turkey and stuffing, steaming now. Several men watching the football game placed orders for the same.

“See the trouble you cause?” Tiny said.

Wirf dove into the food hungrily.

“I don’t think I can watch this,” Sully said, wondering how a man could get a degree in law without picking up some rudimentary table manners. Wirf forked with his left, knifed with his right, put neither utensil down until they were no longer of practical use.

Sully went across the room and dialed the number on the slip of paper Tiny had given him.

“Adirondack.”

“What?”

“Adirondack Motel.”

“You got a Miles Anderson staying there?”

“Why don’t I check.”

“Why don’t you.”

After a moment: “Miles Anderson.”

“This is Don Sullivan.”

“Who?”

“Okay, good-bye.”

“Oh … right … Mr. Sullivan. Sorry. Listen. I just purchased a house here in town. On Upper Main. You know where that is?”