Читать книгу Fri Nov 22 00:00:00 CST 2019 - Bryan Woolley - Страница 17

The Third Hour

STACY

WHEN MARK LEARY LEFT to drive the baby-sitter home, Stacy went to the small bedroom in the back of the house to look in on Jason. The baby-sitter had said he was sleeping soundly, so there was no reason to go in and chance waking him, but Stacy never felt comfortable about an evening out until she got home and saw that Jason was all right.

She tiptoed into the room without switching on the light and sat down on the edge of the bed. Jason had kicked the covers off and his pajamas had worked their way up his legs. His face and legs and feet were pale in the dim light that came through the doorway from the hall. His face was serene as an angel’s, and his legs were long in the slender, coltish way of ten-year-olds who are going to be tall. Stacy pulled the covers up to the boy’s chin. He stirred and turned onto his back. His mouth opened and made a little snoring noise, then he turned back onto his side and the noise stopped. Stacy kissed him lightly on the forehead and stood up. Where had her baby gone? Whatever happened to the precious little bundle she had carried so proudly from the hospital on that humid August day? She was still proud, of course. No mother would want her baby to remain a baby forever, and Jason was growing up so fine. But she was a little sad, too, whenever she noticed how quickly he was doing it.

She tiptoed into the hall and pulled the door almost closed, but left it ajar. Why? Did she still expect him to cry out in the night with hunger or an earache? He hadn’t in years, but silliness was no reason to break a habit she found comforting.

She felt tired and heavy from the wine and brandy. Undoing her clothes and stepping out of them exhausted her. She slipped on her gown and slid into bed without removing her makeup or even brushing her teeth, and thought she would be asleep before Mark returned. But the scrape of his key in the lock and the back door closing roused her from her doze. She lay open-eyed in the darkness when he crept into the bedroom and began undressing, so careful not to make noise. She listened to the care with which he laid his shoes on the floor and kept his hand on his belt buckle to keep it from rattling, and then she said, “Never again.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Never again,” she said.

“Never again what?” Mark’s voice was thick and defensive, as it was when he had drunk too much. She didn’t like to talk with him when his voice was like that, because some of their worst fights began that way. Sometimes it would take several days or even a week to be close again, and the equilibrium of the household would be cockeyed, and everyone would be edgy until it was over. Sometimes, at the end of one of those times, Mark would promise to stop drinking, but Stacy knew that wouldn’t work and didn’t really want him to stop anyway, because he wasn’t a drunk and enjoyed his liquor. She wished he wouldn’t drink too much, that’s all, and that she wouldn’t get into conversations with him when he had. But he couldn’t help drinking a lot with Rodney Dart standing at his elbow with the bottle all the time, and now she couldn’t help getting into this conversation with him. “I’m never going to that house again,” she said.

“Why not?” Mark had his pajamas on now and asked the question on the way to the bathroom. He closed the door, and Stacy heard him pissing and then flushing and then brushing his teeth, so it was a time before she got to answer.

“Because they’re nuts,” she said as he slipped between the sheets.

“Who’s nuts?” He sounded insulted.

“The Darts. They’re crazy. I’ve never heard so much baloney in my life. And you just sat there and took it.”

“They’re not crazy. They’re just different,” Mark said. “There are a lot of people like them around here. This isn’t Connecticut, you know. Yale isn’t just down the road. People think differently here.”

“Think! You call that thinking? There wasn’t a thought in that house, unless that Betty Lou Carpenter had one and kept it to herself. Who in the world are the Texans for America? Who else would Texans be for?”

“Go to sleep, baby. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Stacy knew what that meant. Mark saw that they were moving toward a fight and was trying to avoid it. He was right. She ought to shut up and go to sleep. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I’m just telling you I’m not going there anymore, or anyplace like it. Why were we there, anyway? Why were we sitting there like dummies, listening to that garbage?”

“Because I’m in the insurance business,” Mark said. “Because Rod Dart is one of the biggest home builders in Dallas County and has just bought a big policy from our company.” His voice was patient, condescending, as if she were a child asking why she couldn’t play in the street. “Because Rod Dart can recommend our company to a lot of people who buy his houses. Because if I don’t sell insurance, you and Jason and I go without shoes.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“Besides, they’re neighbors of ours, and we’re trying to show a little hospitality to the newcomers, even though the newcomers are Yankees. But one of the Yankees turned around and bit the hand that fed her.”

“Bit! Who did I bite? That Elsie?” Stacy sat up and propped her pillow against the headboard. “All I did was tell the truth! And believe me, she was trying hard enough to drag it out of me!”

“Well, you didn’t have to give her that Irish and Catholic and Kennedy business. That’s private stuff and they don’t need to know it.”

“You sound ashamed of it!”

“I’m not ashamed. Our religion and politics are nobody’s business, that’s all.”

“Well, they were telling us plenty about theirs! I never heard such boring bullshit in my life!” The anger rose in her, hot and glowing with alcohol.

Mark laid his hand on her shoulder. “Stacy, let’s—”

“Don’t touch me.”

The hand remained on her shoulder for a moment, then dropped away. Mark rolled onto his side, his back to her. “Goodnight, then.”

She waited until she knew he wouldn’t speak again, then moved her pillow down and stretched out and pulled the sheet around her. She was sorry. She wished she had been asleep when he got home, so everything would be all right in the morning. She knew one thing, though, Stacy and Jason Leary would be among those “Communists” who would wave and cheer when the president rode by. She didn’t care what Mark thought.