Charles Williams - Hill Girl

“Just three days. But I didn’t love you then. I do now.”

She thought it over quietly for a minute before she answered. “It’s that way with me too, Bob.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. That’s the reason I came down here. I thought I might see you again. It was just a chance that you might decide to come on down here instead of going somewhere else.”

“You don’t hate me for what I said? And did?”

“No. Not now. I think I finally figured it out for myself and guessed what was the matter. I wouldn’t have followed you except for that. But you won’t do it again, will you, Bob? I couldn’t stand it again.”

“No. That’s all finished,” I said.

I kept it from her, all right, this fear I had, but I couldn’t fool myself any about it. Was there any way of being sure it wouldn’t happen again? How could there be?

Eighteen

The desk clerk regarded me suspiciously when I registered again with Angelina and wanted to be moved into a double room. The combination of my whiskery, cut-up face with its evidence of a two-day binge and a wife who showed up unexpectedly with no luggage was obviously a little strong to take straight, but he managed it and moved us into a room overlooking the beach.

When the boy had gone I picked her up and walked over and sat down with her in the armchair by the window. We were silent for a long time and just sat there holding onto each other and listening to the swish of the surf beyond the sea wall.

“You’ll hold me a lot, won’t you?” she asked at last. “Like this. So I’ll forget about last night and the night before that.”

“Were they bad?”

“Awful. I kept trying not to think about not seeing you any more. But you can’t make yourself not think, can you?”

“No,” I said. “You can’t turn it off.”

“Did you miss me, Bob?”

“Yes.”

“Very bad?”

“Very bad. And on top of that was the way I’d hurt you. That was something to live with.”

“Don’t think about it now.”

She leaned back against my arm and ran her fingers lightly over the bruises and cut places on my face. “Poor face. Poor old sweet face, it’s all hurt.”

“It’s not hurt.”

“You tell me who did it and I’ll go scratch his eyes out.”

“Let’s forget about my face and talk about something nicer. Yours, for instance.”

“No. I will not forget about it. It’s a beautiful face and I love it. And I want to fix up the cut places.”

I lost interest in my face as a topic of conversation in a very short while, so I kissed her.

That changed the subject for both of us, all right. I wondered why kissing her could always cloud up the issue in a way that whisky never could. The jagged edges of facts and the sharp corners of realities became blurred and softened and all the noises muted.

“I love you so,” I said.

“What is it like with you, Bob? Do things seem to sort of run together? Is it like flying through colored clouds?”

“Right now it’s like having a high fever and being full of quinine. Everything’s fuzzy and my ears hum.”

“It doesn’t sound very nice for you. Maybe what you need is a doctor.”

“All right,” I said. “Call a doctor.”

“No. But I want it to be nicer for you. I want you to see the colors. Big clouds of colors swinging around and passing through each other. I don’t think men have any fun being in love. Don’t you see any colors?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Even with your eyes closed?”

“I didn’t close them. I don’t think I did.”

“Kiss me again, with your eyes closed.”

I kissed her again and I think I closed my eyes, but it wasn’t any different. There was the wildness of it and a paradoxical tenderness and a feeling of suffocation, but it was just the same.

“Did you see them?”

I shook my head.

“Poor men. They don’t have any fun. No colors.”

“I see the ones that are you. Like your hair. It’s a beautiful color. It’s just a little lighter than wild honey.”

“That’s nice, but it isn’t the same thing. You don’t just see these colors. You feel them.”

“I can see your hair and feel it, too. Against my face.”

“I want you to. I’m going to have it bobbed tomorrow and you’ll like it even better.”

“No, I won’t. It couldn’t be any better. And let’s not talk about tomorrow. We’re in no condition for long-range planning.”

“We’re not?”

“No. Planning requires great clarity of thought.”

“I don’t want any what-you-said of thought. I just want you to kiss me.”

“That’s better,” I said. “More kissing; less planning.”

“You can’t plan when you’re kissing me?”

“Not objectively.”

“Why not?”

“How could I kiss you and do anything objectively?”

“We won’t plan about the hair then? Not now?” she murmured.

“No.”

“Have you ever felt this way about anybody before, Bob?”

“No. Not ever.”

“We couldn’t have felt this way about anybody before, could we?”

I closed my eyes and put my face down against her throat and prayed I wouldn’t see Lee again, or hear him. Let’s don’t hear that thing again. Wasn’t once enough to hear it? It doesn’t mean anything now anyway. It was a thousand years ago in another place, and another girl named Angelina. Not this one.

We didn’t go back out any more that afternoon or night. We had supper brought up to us and ate with the cool breeze from the Gulf blowing in through the window and afterward sat watching the people go by on the sea wall.

Once, while we were lying quietly in the dark, she stirred suddenly in my arms and said, “Oh, Bob, the car!’

“What about the car?”

“We didn’t bring it back. It’s still downtown where you left it.”

I laughed. “Well, what if it is?”

“Won’t somebody be apt to steal it?”

“That would be fine.”

“Oh.” There was silence for a minute, and then she said, “You don’t like the car, do you?”

“It’s something like that, I guess. I don’t like for us to be in it.”

“That was what it was when we had that fight by the river, wasn’t it? It was the car that suddenly made you remember things, that made you mad.”

“Let’s don’t talk about it.”

“We won’t, if you say so, but I’d rather talk about it than to have it coming between us. I’m sorry about it, but I’m not ashamed.”

“You shouldn’t be. I think I understand it all, Angelina. Let’s just bury it.”

The next morning I was awake in the early dawn. It was cooler, with a light breeze blowing off the water and the low-flying clouds that mean a clear day later on. The sea wall was deserted and quiet and the low sound of the surf beyond was peaceful. Angelina was sleeping quietly beside me, with her cheek on the crook of her arm and the cloud of hair spreading across the pillow. I leaned over and kissed her on the throat and she opened her eyes and smiled.

“You need a shave. Your whiskers stabbed me on the throat.”

“It’s a fine day,” I said. “We’ve got lots to do.”

“Oh, can we plan now?”

I grinned. “At the moment, yes.”

“All right. What do we have to do?”

“First we have to cash a draft. We need some more money.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’ve still got about fifteen dollars of your money. I meant to give it back to you.”

“My money? Haven’t you realized yet what that man was mumbling about back there in Shreveport the other day? It’s our money now.”

“All right, smarty, I’ll keep it. But you say we have to have some more? Why? And how do we get it?”

“We have to have more because I’ve only got about seventy-five left and we’re going to be here a week. And we’ve got to buy you some more clothes and a traveling bag and a bathing suit and”—I gave the sheet a sharp tug—”a nightgown. Look at you.”