William Gay - Provinces of Night

As long as you understand that I’m not some watered-down version of my mama. We’re two different people, so don’t go getting us confused. She don’t tell me how to live my life and I don’t tell her how to live hers. I’ve already changed my name from Evelyn and I expect before long I’ll be changing the Halfacre too.

You planning on getting married?

You don’t have to get married to change your name. Besides, I’m sixteen years old, way too young to be married. Not too young to get married, just to be married. Mama thinks I’m pretty enough to get into some line of show business. Maybe not a movie star, or anything like that, but something. Really Mama sees me as her best shot to get out of Clifton. Out of Tennessee. She hates Tennessee, says it’s full of hillbillies.

Where’s she from?

Tennessee, the girl said, grinning, then leant to suck the last of her Coke through the straw.

We closing up in here, a woman at the counter called, proving it by crossing the room to a panel box on the wall and flipping a switch that killed the exterior lights.

They rose from the table, Raven Lee rolling up her magazine. That woman just hates me, she said. And I’ve never done a thing to her.

Fleming suspected that before time eventually did whatever it was going to do to Raven Lee Halfacre a lot of women were going to just hate her, but he didn’t say so. He followed her out the pneumatic door onto the sidewalk where enormous moths and candleflies fluttered about in confusion as if they’d ascertain where the light had gone. One entrapped itself in the girl’s hair and after slapping at it unsuccessfully she allowed Fleming to extricate it. He released it and it flew away.

I hate those things, Raven Lee said. Let’s walk up by the cafe and see if it’s still open.

They had gone scarcely a block and a half past dark stores shuttered and barred when they came upon Fleming Bloodworth’s worst nightmare.

He was lounging against the front of the Eat and Run Cafe. The cafe was closed and dark. This nightmare was wearing engineer boots with straps and buckles, one of them on the sidewalk and the other propped back against the brick facade of the cafe. He was wearing jeans turned up one turn at the cuffs and a white T-shirt with a pack of unfiltered cigarettes rolled into a turned up sleeve. A pair of aviator sunglasses hung by an earpiece from the neck of the shirt. His hair was as flat on top as if it had been barbered with the aid of a spirit level and the sides were worn long and brilliantined back into a gleaming ducktail. A cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth in a studied manner, as if he’d practiced it before a mirror.

Hellfire, Fleming was thinking.

Raven Lee Halfacre, the boy-man said.

Just walk on by and don’t answer, the girl hissed.

They did. Fleming didn’t look back but the boots had toe and heel taps on them and he could hear them clicking along behind them. Clicking faster.

When you goin to give me a shot at that stuff, Raven Lee, the man called. I believe it’s about my time.

Fleming stopped. She jerked his arm. Are you crazy? she demanded.

I may well be, he was thinking. He felt called upon to say something. Do something. Defend her honor in some manner. At length he allowed himself to be propelled along but by this time the man had approached, passed, and halted in front of them.

When you goin out with me?

When hell freezes over, she said.

Looks like you down to scrapin the bottom of the barrel, he observed. What’d you do, decide to get you a young one and bring him up right?

We’re not bothering you, the girl said. Why don’t you just let us alone and go about your business?

Right now you are my business, the man said. I heard you had some excellent stuff.

I heard you didn’t, the girl said. I heard you got that no account Sheila Brewer in the bedroom with none of her folks at home and couldn’t even get it up.

You lyin little slut, he said. He slapped her openhanded hard and then whirled on Fleming. The girl clasped her face bothhanded and stood for a moment with her head down and her hair fallen over her hands. The man spun his cigarette into the street in a spiral of sparks. His face was flat and angry. What do you have to say about this? he asked Fleming.

I heard — Fleming tried to swallow but there was insufficient spit in his mouth. He could feel cold clammy sweat in his armpits, tracking down his rib cage — you couldn’t get it up till her brother came in the room.

He knew he was going to be hit and he threw up both hands in a kind of clumsy guard, with the result that he was hit not only with the man’s fist but by his own as well. His own hands slammed nose and mouth and a larger fist connected with his lower jaw and his knees just seemed to liquefy. He struck out as hard as he could aiming at the man’s face but felt glass break under his right hand. His left connected to something with more flesh to it but then a blow caught him in the solar plexus and the air exploded out of his lungs like a bellows someone had closed. He sat down hard with his hands splayed out behind him to break his fall and the man kicked him in the thigh with an engineer boot then whirled and ran.

You cowardly son of a bitch, the girl cried. She was looking about wildly for something to throw but could find not so much as a Coke bottle. She made as if to throw the magazine then thought better of it and turned and caught Fleming by the hand.

Can you get up?

He stood but his left leg wouldn’t work. The muscles in his thigh felt as if they had cramped themselves into a series of knots, one atop the other. He made it to the curb and sat down and massaged his leg hard. The muscle in it was jumping like something alive but separate from him and he rubbed it until he could feel some of the tension easing out of it. Blood kept dripping on his jeans and he reached and felt his face and worked his jaw back and forth with his hand then leant and spat a tooth into the street.

Let’s go, the girl said. We need to be out of these streetlights before the law drives by. They’ll lock you up.

He spat a mouthful of blood. I haven’t done anything.

That makes no nevermind. You’re from out of town and you’ve got blood all over you. They’ll lock you up.

He staggered up out of the street. Then by all means, he said.

They went down a narrow sloping alley between the Eat and Run Cafe and a feed store past broken crates and garbage cans and an inkblack cat that vanished into nothing at all in the darkness. They came out on a street near the river and struck out down it, the boy pausing now and again to raise his left foot and kick the leg as if some delicate mechanism had become misaligned and he might jar it back into place. After a while he noticed his right hand was aching and when he raised it to the light there were streaks of blood coursing down his fingers. He just shook his head and went on.

Abruptly the girl stopped in the middle of the street and began to laugh. She grasped his arm. Why did you say that about Sheila Brewer’s brother? she asked.

Hellfire, he said. You were the one that came up with that crazy shit about that no account Sheila Brewer. I’ll bet there’s not even such a person.

After a moment she began to laugh again. It was a throaty halfmusical sound and Fleming for a crazy moment thought that if he hurried he might be able to catch his assailant and get beaten up again and she’d go on doing it.

Anyway I thought I’d make him mad enough to charge me, and if he was out of control I might be able to handle him. It may be that I’ve seen too many movies.

He was out of control, all right, the girl said. I believe that I’ve misjudged you. I believe you’re something of a smartass after all.