John Gardner - October Light

“We’re keepin you,” Sam said.

“Hell no,” he said. There was no one at the bar. On the TV there was a spaceship. The picture changed to a man with pointed ears. Emily went behind the bar, looking gray as a ghost, and mixed herself a drink. She looked at the clock, then looked at her watch, then came over to them, picking up a chair as she came. James quickly drank and poured another.

Whether or not it would eventually fix his constipation, the wine was playing hell with the rest of his system. His head felt heavy as a deadman in a pond; his bladder was in pain. He put down the glass, excused himself, and made his way past Merton and over to the restroom. On the toilet, nothing came but black water. It burned as it came like it was gasoline. He washed his hands, hardly looking at the face peering out at him from the mirror — face like an old bum’s begging him for a coin. He went back to the table.

They were talking about Sally, and he should have been interested, but it was as if they’d never met her. His mind kept drifting to the teacher and the writers, the book he’d fed the pigs, his mule-headed sister up there starving in her room, blaming the whole damn world on him, and his spirits grew still heavier, weighed down with self-pity and pity for them all, the whole country sickening by a foolish accident, some deaf misunderstanding. Outside, the wind was ferocious now, and it was beginning to rain. Drops ran down the window, brightening near the neon, then darkening again. He saw in his mind’s eye the smile of the Mexican as he gazed around the kitchen, adding up the value of the sink, the stove, the chairs, glass doorknobs, dishes.

The jukebox went off, and the fatter girl and the pock-marked boy, holding hands, went back to their table. The Graham boy and the taller, prettier one were sitting side by side, shoulder against shoulder. She had long, long lashes.

“I like you a lot,” the Graham boy said.

“Listen,” the girl said, “I like you too .” She looked at him hard. “Really.”

The boy with the long black hair — Albert — came vaguely from the restroom and started across to the table then paused, undecided, looking at his friends. He changed his course and came slanting toward the booth, dragging a chair with him. “Mine I join you?” he said. It was barely intelligible. When he sat he’d have fallen if Emily hadn’t caught him, laughing.

“Albert, you’re drunk,” she said.

“When I ever make it with you I wasn’ drunk?” he said. He put his hand on her muscular upper thigh and she gently pushed it off. As if to make up for it, she held her drink to him, Scotch or Bourbon. James filled his wineglass, then on second thought let it stand and filled his pipe. Like a mother, Emily was helping Albert drink.

“You got every right to kick her out, by tunkit,” Bill Partridge said.

“It’s hahd to say,” he said. His vision was giving him a good deal of trouble. He looked at Henry Stumpchurch, closing one eye, hoping to get Henry’s judgment, but Henry was asleep. Merton sucked at his bottle, then set it down. Albert leaned his head against Emily’s shoulder. Gently, laughingly, she pushed it away, balancing him like a toy, and got up to put a quarter in the jukebox. What came out was violins. She came back and picked her glass up, drained it in a gulp, and went back to the bar to fix another. When she was seated with them again, she smiled and moved her chair close to Albert’s, then moved his head, with her two hands, to her shoulder.

Merton said absently, studying his bottle, “It’s a rare man would put up with it.” He nodded to himself.

“She does her pot,” James said, “—or did till it come to that TV.”

Bill Partridge looked angry. “Hell, James, you know that ain’t true.”

“What?” he said.

“She tricks you, James,” Sam Frost said gently, evading his eyes. “You know she does. Been doin it all along.”

James raised his glass, waiting. It struck him that he had, in fact, known it all along.

“Never trust a woman,” Bill Partridge said. “It’s like the time Judah Sherbrooke found his wife in the pottin shed—”

“What you mean, tricks me?” James said. Behind him — troublesome background noise — the fatter of the Bennington girls was saying, “That’s a very positive feeling, really.”

“Tell him,” Merton said.

“Well, you know how it is,” Sam Frost said. “The little woman’s got a habit of listening on the phone.”

James drank, then waited. He stared at his knuckles to keep things in focus.

Sam looked at the table. “That time you took that ad in the Pennysaver for someone to help with chores … You know why you never got a nibble?”

He waited on, his body growing heavy, heating up with rage.

“Ever time your phone rings our phone rings,” Sam said, apologetic, “and naturally the little woman listens. You know how women are. Sister of yours claimed you was legally required to hire by ‘fair employment.’ Wouldn’t consider a soul that wasn’t Negro or female.” He shook his head.

“She’d nevah do that,” he said. “Sally’s a fair-minded woman, always was.” His teeth clamped tight. She’d do it. Hell yes! His childhood burst back over him, his big sister Sally running to the mailbox ahead of him, looking at his mail before he could. He remembered her selfishness, how if she ever got a candybar she’d share it with nobody, sneak it away to her room and you’d never know she had it. He’d never have done such a thing in a hundred years. It was animal, someway. Turned his stomach. He remembered how she lied. He’d never known such a liar, he could hardly believe it — neither could his mother or father. He remembered how she’d sneak away to Ralph Beeman and later Horace, go climbing out the window in the middle of the night, and offer him, her little brother James Page, cash money to keep her secret. He’d refused, indignant, and she’d sworn she’d break his arm. He’d believed she’d do it — he believed it yet — and so, though he’d have told if they’d asked him straight out, nobody asked and, ashamed of himself, he had kept her secret. He remembered how she’d flounced. She’d been a beauty in those days. Young gentlemen came flocking like dogs around a bitch in heat. And he remembered how she’d sing dirty songs in the kitchen when she was taking her bath, songs their parents didn’t know were dirty, though he did, because she’d explained them to him, teasing him with sex the way she teased all the others:

I have a little cat, and I’m very fond of that,

But I never had a bow-wow-wow!

Washing her armpit, she’d raise her arm so that her titty showed, and knowing he was watching she’d roll her eyes at him and wink. Their mother had had some sense of it. “James,” she’d snap as if the whole thing was his fault — he was five, maybe six—“get out there and bring in that kindlin!” James Page’s face was burning now, less at his old sister’s treachery than at his own pure damn stupidity. Lucky he hadn’t known it when he chased her up the stairs with the fireplace log. He’d’ve popped her one certain.

“That’s nothin,” Merton said. He sighted down the hole in his beer bottle.

James’ heart was hammering, painful.

Stumpchurch slept on.

Sam Frost took a breath, looked sadly at the ceiling. “Little woman was in charge of the fund raisin for the Republican Potty,” he said, and sighed again. “Called you up for help and it was Sally answered.”

“Go on,” James said. His legs began to tremble.

“Said you want home,” Sam Frost said, mournful. “It want the truth. Little woman could hear you hollerin in the background.”