A Peculiar Grace Page 17

  Five days later the weather turned and he’d come home early with two red welts across his cheeks from the snapping grape canes and saw her car inexplicably in the driveway and his first thought was if she’d quit her job they’d shower and change and go out for a night on the town, a good meal and Irish coffee and then cruise for the inevitable party. He walked into the kitchen peeling off his quilt-lined Carhartt overalls when he glanced up to see Ken, quiet Ken with his thick mustache and gentle drooping cornflower eyes looking at Hewitt as if Ken wanted nothing but to be anywhere, anywhere on the planet than where he was right then and the look explained nothing and everything and Hewitt said, “Where’s Emily?”

  Ken sat down at the table and began to roll a Drum cigarette. He could roll a joint fast as the thought but he labored over the cigarette. Finally he looked up at Hewitt and gently rumbled, “Talking to Max. I think you should leave her alone just now man.”

  Of all of them Ken was the one he was most comfortable with. Briefly it flashed that it was no accident Ken was alone in the house when Hewitt arrived. He said, “Hey, man. That’s cool. That’s cool.”

  Ken struck a farmer’s match off his thumbnail and blew smoke and said, “Just hang loose, man.”

  And then Hewitt was very much not hanging loose. “What do you mean? What’s she talking to Max about, Ken? What’s going on?”

  Ken nodded. “They’re in a powwow of sorts.”

  “A powwow? You mean they’re holed up in his teepee? Shit, man. Are they out there fucking?”

  Ken looked at him. “No man. I would say they are not doing that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Hewitt. Why don’t you sit down and cool out? They’re talking is all. She came in around noon and wanted to talk to him. That’s all.”

  Hewitt was out the door in his socks and jeans and two layers of shirts. He walked through the crisp crusty snow and stood twenty feet from the teepee with its thin vent of smoke, silent, listening but hearing nothing. He tipped his head back and the first small dense flakes of new snow came out of the trees and on to his face, into his mouth as he opened it wide and cried her name.

  Maybe an hour later he was tramping a tight circle around her where she stood with her arms wrapped around the brown and white Peruvian sweater he’d given her last Christmas, her hair wet from the snow and turning the gold of honey, Emily silent as she’d been for some time and Hewitt unable to slow or stop himself. “Why didn’t you talk to me? What makes you think you couldn’t talk to me? What have I done that you couldn’t talk to me? Emily what the fuck do you mean? I don’t care if that’s what you really want. I mean I do care but why exclude me? If you want to go on to school that’s fine. I mean that is just absolutely fucking fine with me but what about us what about you and me Emily I mean this decision clearly says something about you and me or am I just plain goddamn wrong? You’re sick of this life? So am I. Can you do more than just tell me you’re going to Cornell in January and that’s all? How the fuck can that be all Emily? Don’t do this to me I can’t stand it, I’m falling apart here why the fuck won’t you talk to me? Emily Christ I can do anything with you, I’ll do anything with you, I’ll let you do anything you want just don’t goddamn Emily are you even listening to me? I love you, answer me damn it do you love me or not? Stop standing there like a fucking stone and talk to me Emily do you love me or has this been all a joke is that what it is, was I just someone to fill a little time, to kill a little time goddamn goddamn goddamn Emily fucking answer me!”

  AND WITHOUT THE least idea he was about to do so or even doing it as he did he reached out and swatted her hard across the top of her head with the flat of his hand

  “ASSHOLE!” SHE SCREAMED and broke and ran for the house

  HEWITT STANDING STARING after her not believing what he’d done and knowing he’d done it stood watching the door shut behind her and seeing then what he’d known all along—the line of faces pressed against the lit kitchen windows that had seen and most certainly heard it all and the snow came down

  ALL I WANTED he thought Was for her to say something, To let me know she was hearing and feeling some if not everything of what I was saying and feeling

  ASSHOLE SHE’D SAID and he stood in the snow a long time as it grew dark and stared at the house asshole

  WHEN HE FINALLY walked up to the house and into the kitchen Max and Willie and Ken waited. They were drinking dark Beck’s and passing a joint. In the middle of the floor was all his stuff. Backpack packed. He noticed that.

  He said, “Where’s Emily?”

  Ken said, “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  Willie said, “You already did. Now get your shit and go.”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  Max stepped forward. He said, “I’ll carry your stuff to your car. You can follow me or wait right here and then I’ll carry you to your car.”

  Hewitt was shaking, cold, angry, frightened, misunderstood. He said, “Come, on guys. I just need to talk to her.”

  Ken said, “Hit a woman.”

  Willie said, “You got about a minute. Then Max and I are going to take you apart and you won’t ever fit back together.”

  Hewitt said, “Come on and do it then.”

  There was a pause. Then Ken said, “Don’t make it worse, Hewitt. Don’t make it worse.”

  HE SAT IN the Volvo in the yard with the backseat piled with his stuff. They left him be. From time to time he’d start the engine to warm it up, also to let whoever in the house might care know he was still there. It was getting very cold and the snow was coming down heavily, the powdery snow that could encase the car in a foot or more by morning. He’d stopped crying a while ago. He thought he could, probably would, die by dawn. But he was going nowhere. And then well after dark, the snow still tracking heavily by the lights from the house suddenly there she was, face against his window, wearing her green down vest over the sweater, a ski cap pulled low on her head so her hair pressed tight down over the vest, her eyes red from crying and her lips pouched full, chapped to blooming. He started to roll down his window and she backed up a step, slipped and went down on her rear in the snow. Then he was out of the car pulling her up and they stood holding each other pressed tight not caring about the cold and he was crying and saying her name and she was crying also but silent and she led him into the house, through the suddenly quiet and empty house and up to their room, her room, whatever it was, where in the meager warmth of the heater they held each other again and kissing, kissing feeding each other as they stripped all four hands seeming to belong to one being as so many times before and then scurrying under the quilts and bedding where he sank into her so moist and close as if they’d never done this before and he came almost immediately but remained erect and then the long hard sweaty love that was like all times and like no time ever known to him and he knew for her also, her eyes wide and bold upon him, his name released like sucking air each time he’d take his mouth from hers and then somewhere he realized this was the final time and he began to cry and slowed, his rhythm with her matched exactly and she watched him still no longer saying his name until she cried it out one final time as she arched under him. Then they curled together silent, his tears and sobbing gone now as he simply lay with her and held her and she held on to him and it was so quiet in the room they could hear the faint swish of snow against the windows.

  He woke while it was still dark and lay beside her, composed and patient, certain that in this new dawn they would talk and repair themselves and each other and go forth someway together into the new life he also wanted, was amazed and awed and grateful she’d seen it first, had known the change needed to come and pressed him into this place of not simple acceptance but full cooperation, even if he wasn’t sure what that meant beyond her going to Cornell and his going back to Vermont to finish his forge and go to work and wait for summer. And he saw also the folly, the sheer selfish stupidity that had not allowe
d him to see and understand that need before, how he’d wanted to hold on to something that was already gone and then she slipped out of bed and in the light of the heater pulled on socks and sweats, already wearing a T-shirt to sleep in, and left the room as quiet as a cutpurse and he let her go, knowing as so many other mornings she would bring back coffee and climb into bed as they sat with the heavy insulated mugs to talk and perhaps make love again.

  She handed him his coffee but finished dressing and when he began to talk she asked him to please be quiet. He was rattling loose with all he’d thought about but she walked to the window and stood watching the gray dawn as his words fell off before she turned and said, “The driveway and road’s been plowed. The snow’s stopped. You should get going.” And left the room.

  When he was dressed he stood at the window and saw that not only was the driveway plowed but his car alone among the vehicles had been swept off. He turned and leaned against the sill and looked around the grimy falling apart room, the orange crate of her books, the old chairs, the Morrison Hotel poster and the Indian fabrics on the walls, the mattress on the floor, the rows of candles on the narrow mantel above the coal grate, the missing tiles from around the grate and knew he’d never see this again. He wanted something and for a moment considered the pale green underwear he’d pulled from her the night before but turned away and saw on the wire strung tight among her clothes two of his own shirts left, one of them the Black Watch flannel she wore in his favorite photograph of her and he rolled it up and stuck it in his pocket and went downstairs.

  He didn’t know and didn’t care where the others were but Ken and Barb sat at the table in the kitchen with Emily and he stood in the doorway and announced he was on his way and Barb got up and left the room as Ken nodded, a thoughtful nod that encompassed all of Hewitt’s sorrow and a kind farewell and Hewitt looked at Emily who sat in the corner spot as far from contact as possible and he started to speak and then looking at her was unable to and began to cry and she said, “Keep the tears for yourself, Hewitt, I don’t want them anymore.”

  ALL THOSE YEARS later he drove the Thunderbird slowly around the length of the Bluff back to the village, those years collapsed upon him with the precision of his own ticking bomb. He parked in the motel lot and locked the Bird and walked jauntily down the three blocks to the lit windows and without the least hesitation threw open the door, shouldered his way to the bar and leaned over to wait the bartender, something even with the crowd he knew wouldn’t take long, feeling bouncy and edgy and jacked right up in his dress shirt and soft coat, palmed a fifty on to the bar and ordered a double Jameson and a Genny Cream Ale—the ale nothing more than a gesture toward slowed intentions. As the first drink went down he felt raw and out of place, looking around at the working men and women, mostly younger but a few hard lined faces and old men with stubbled chins drawn close on their stools. There was a loud jukebox right where it always had been although this one played compact discs and toward the rear was the hanging light and clumped bodies that indicated a pool table, the occasional smack of balls making way through the noise and the second drink slid down and he felt the soft infusion creeping and hitched forward on to his stool to work his way out of his coat and draped it neatly over the stool back. The glass of ale was flat and the bartender understood his desire and kept careful eye on his whisky glass, ever ready with the bottle, a top-shelf item here and one Hewitt already regarded as belonging to him. Oh the whisky was fine and he thought What in the world was I thinking? Of course it was all different now, he’d have one more, perhaps two and then get something to eat and walk back to the motel and sleep a dreamless sleep and rise in the morning and head for home. It’s all a question, as he slid the empty glass to trade for the full one waiting, of moderation. He was as far from drunk as possible, simply loosened a little, nothing the day didn’t call for. The day. What a fucking joke. He held the glass up at eye level and watched the lights reflect in the whisky and wondered what he’d gained or lost by leaving it alone for so long. Nothing seemed the only answer. The last twenty-three years, the past quarter century, a considerable chunk of whatever time was his gone like that and here he was, doing nothing more than recognizing it. Leave those years right there with the change from the fifty.

  Briefly he considered calling Emily to apologize and knew he couldn’t but sat then lonely, wanting something, wanting some human touch or voice.

  Sometime later he was in the wooden old-fashioned phone booth with a folding door punching in numbers he knew by heart and waiting as the phone on the other end rang three times and a machine picked up. He sat through the message and then, against all sense, begged Julie to pick up, talking on until the machine hit the end of its recording time and he was foolish enough to go through the entire process again only this time to get a busy signal. He sat in the booth with the dead phone in his hands. He pressed the greasy receiver to his forehead. He knew this wasn’t damage that would last. Or maybe it would. At the moment he didn’t care.

  When he came out of the booth he lurched and caught himself, ran his hand through his hair, then shook his head like shaking off water and went to the men’s room and peed in the trough and came back out needing the drink he’d left in the phone booth but simply went back to the bar and like magic a full glass was waiting for him, his stack of bills still high, or perhaps it had grown low and been replenished again. He leaned and waited and the bartender came down while Hewitt was studying the menu on the board behind the bar and told him the kitchen was closed and pointed to the big Rolling Rock clock where he saw it was almost twelve thirty. So much for supper.

  A voice in his ear.

  He turned. A pretty woman. He grinned. “Howdy.”

  She leaned in. “I’m Carol. And who are you?”

  Hewitt was truly fucked-up so he skipped evasion. “A bunch of years ago I was in love with a woman here. So I came back to see what’s happened to her. So far, it hasn’t worked out too well.”

  Carol said, “God I hate that shit. Look at me. I got two kids already out of high school. You believe that?”

  Hewitt looked closely at her face. He said, “No.”

  She said, “You a cop?”

  “Fuck no.”

  She took his hand. They were turned to face each other, halfway away from the bar. The room was late.

  She held his hand and slid it up under her blouse so that suddenly he was cupping her breast, the nipple a jolt into his palm. Just as he realized what she was doing she removed his hand from her blouse. She said, “If you’re a cop you just fucked up. You want to smoke a joint?”

  “In here?” he asked, already knowing the answer. This woman wanted to fuck him.

  She grinned and leaned to run a hand from his knee up his thigh. “We take a walk,” she said.

  Hewitt stood, leaving the pile of bills on the bar. The big tipper. Then, with Carol watching and waiting, pulled his sport coat on. They stumbled side by side through the swarm toward the door.

  They went up the street toward the fire station, toward his motel. He wanted to take her back to his room. Then she fired a joint and stepped off the sidewalk through a torn opening in a chain-link fence. They were behind an auto-body shop. A small lot filled with junkers, cars waiting for parts to be found and used.

  Carol said, “Here.” And passed the thin joint. Hewitt leaned back against some metallic shell and sucked in. Let the smoke drift out into the warm summer night air. And passed it back to Carol. She looked tired but he was tired also. She toked hard and passed the joint back and he held it down at his side and reached out and drew her in. It was not a lovely kiss. Hewitt knew this was his fault—too much, too much of a day. They pulled away, still holding the other and Hewitt brought the joint back up and was about to hand it to her when Carol dropped to her knees. He thought she was passing out. Then felt her hands opening his jeans. And he let her.

  He stood with his head tilted up to the sky and smoked his way slowly through the joint as she worked h
er mouth upon him. Either he was too drunk to feel much or she lacked particular skill.

  It was not anything he wanted.

  He smoked until the roach was burning his fingers. He kept one hand on her head, loose in her hair. Making contact.

  And then had to take a break from the slide of her head, the furious work she was not accomplishing and so began to look up to the few faint stars beating down through the streetlights and saw out there right in the open empty middle of the yard as if stranded an almost new Lexus with the hood and glass and top all collapsed in an accordion of disaster. And knew what he was looking at. Carol patted him back into his pants, rose and glanced where he was looking. “The doctor. Sonofabitch hit a cow loose on the road and rolled that fucker three four times. They say there wasn’t even no skid marks. He musta been all fucked-up.” She paused and then said, “Well, if he wasn’t when he started he was by the time it was over.”

  “No shit,” Hewitt nearly whispered.

  “Say, you got a spare fifty?”

  SO IN THE morning he was horribly sick and knew he had to leave but after his hot and cold shower he sat on the edge of the bed and drank the bad coffee and finally lifted the telephone and pushed the message button.

  “I’ve got an hour for lunch at noon. Come up to the house. Bye.”

  He had to smile. Since she’d shut the door to him the evening before if there was a thing he could’ve done to make himself feel less worthy of visiting her, of explaining himself, of offering what consolation he could, he was hard pressed to find it. At least he hadn’t called her from the bar. Briefly he wondered if she knew the woman, what the hell was her name? If she was perhaps a client of Emily’s and two weeks from now she’d be sitting in Emily’s office telling the story of her own bad behavior. Fuck it, he thought. Not likely.