The Chute had been decorated for the season. Loops of red and green lights were festooned above the bar and silver tassels hung from the mirror. A half-dozen men were sitting at the bar, drinking and talking, and an old woman was asleep with her head in her arms at a far table. From the jukebox Elvis Presley was singing I’ll have a blue Christmas without you. A man who had been at the bar earlier had put in enough quarters to play the same song eight times over, but then had gone outside and driven off in the night in his pickup.
One of men at the bar turned to look balefully at the jukebox. He turned back to the bartender. Can’t you do something about that?
What do you want me to do about it?
Well, can’t you turn it off or something?
It’ll stop pretty soon by itself. It’s Christmas. You got to enjoy yourself.
I’m trying to. But I’m sick of that goddamn thing.
It’ll run out pretty quick now. Forget it. Let me get you another drink.
Are you buying?
I could.
Make it a double then.
I said it was Christmas. I never said it was old home week.
The man looked at him. What in hell’s that suppose to mean?
I don’t know. It just come to me. Let’s say it means I’ll get you a single drink.
I’m waiting.
You know what? Monroe said. You ought to cheer up. You’re starting to make everyone around here feel bad.
I can’t help it. It’s the way I am.
Well try, for christsake.
In the back booth Hoyt had circled his arm around Laverne Griffith. She picked a cigarette from the pack on the table and put it in her mouth, and he reached the lighter with his free hand and took it and lit it for her. She blew a cloud of smoke and squinted her eyes shut and rubbed them, then she opened her eyes again, blinking, and stared unhappily across the table.
You all right? Hoyt said.
No, I’m not all right. I’m sad and blue.
Why don’t you and me go over to your place when they close up here. That’ll make you feel better.
She inhaled and blew a long thin stream of smoke away from her face. I’ve been down that old road before, she said. I know where it comes out.
Not with me, you haven’t.
She turned to stare at him. His face was only inches away, his cap pushed back on his thick head of hair. You think you’re that much different?
I’m like nothing you ever knew before, Hoyt said.
What makes you so different?
I’ll show you. I’ll give you a little demonstration.
I’m not talking about that, she said. That’s available to a woman anytime. What about in the morning when we wake up?
I’ll make you breakfast.
What if I don’t eat breakfast.
I’ll make one you will.
She smoked again and looked out into the room. It doesn’t close here for two more hours, she said. She turned and lifted her face toward him. You can give me a kiss anyhow.
AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT MONROE CALLED: MERRY Christmas, you sons of bitches. Merry Christmas, everybody. The men at the bar shook hands and one of them said they should wake the woman sleeping at the far table and ask her if she could guess what day it was.
Let her sleep, one of the others said. She’s better off sleeping. Here, he said to Monroe, give me one of those decorations. Monroe took down a piece of silver tassel from the bar mirror and the man walked over to the woman and leaned over and draped it across her head and shoulders. How’s that look? he said. The woman groaned and sighed, but didn’t wake.
In the booth, Hoyt and Laverne kissed a long time at the announcement that it was Christmas. Oh hell, she said finally. Let’s get out of here. We might as well go back to my place. They stood up out of the booth.
Monroe called: You two have yourself a merry little Christmas now. Drive careful.
Hoyt waved at him and they went outside. It was very cold in the parking lot, the air dry and hard on their faces. They got into her car and she drove them along the ice-rutted empty streets to her apartment on the second floor of a house on Chicago Street, a block south of the grain elevators. They walked around to the back of the house in the frozen grass and he followed her up the plank stairs that were built up outside the house, climbing to a little porch that was roofed over with tin above the landing. She found her key in her purse and unlocked the door. Inside, the apartment was stifling hot but neat and tidy, with almost no furniture. She locked the door and he at once turned her around and began to kiss her face. Jesus Christ, she said, shoving him back, let me get my coat off first. I have to use the bathroom.
Where’s your bedroom at? Hoyt said.
Back there.
She went through the kitchen, and he walked a few steps across the room and entered the bedroom. There was a red comforter over the bed and a mirrored dresser against the bare wall. The mirror reflected the room at an odd angle, including a little closet with a naked lightbulb hanging from a cord. He switched on the lamp beside the bed and got out of his clothes, then dropped them on the floor and got in bed and pulled the cover up. He stretched out comfortably looking at the ceiling and put his hands under his head.
Laverne stepped into the room. Well, why don’t you make yourself at home?
I’m just waiting on you.
You didn’t wait long.
Come on to bed.
Don’t look at me, she said.
What?
Don’t watch me. She turned her back and removed her blouse and her slacks and hung them in the little closet and stood in the doorway facing away from him, and took off her black bra and black silky underwear. Are you looking?
No.
Yes you are.
I’m just doing what you want me to.
Like hell. Shut your eyes.
He looked at her and shut his eyes and she turned toward the bed. She was very pale and soft-looking, with a thick stomach and large fallen breasts and heavy legs, and she seemed saddened in the dim light. She crossed to the bed and crawled in under the covers. She switched off the bedside lamp.
You have to be nice to me, she said. I don’t like to be hurt.
I’m not going to hurt you.
Kiss me first.
He raised up on his side and put one hand to her face and kissed her, then he kissed her again and she lay back quietly and closed her eyes, and beneath the sheet he began to move his hand over her flattened breasts and across her soft stomach, and she said nothing more to him but seemed content just to breathe, and he went on kissing and after a while he lay on her and began to move.
When he was finished he saw that she had gone to sleep beneath him. Laverne, he said. Darlin. Hey. He looked into her sleeping face and rolled off and lay back beside her under the warm covers, and soon was asleep himself.
THE NEXT DAY HE GOT UP LATE AND MADE A BREAKFAST of eggs and coffee and buttered toast, and he sprinkled paprika on the eggs and arranged everything on a large white plate and brought all of it to her in the bedroom. She sat up with the blankets drawn around her shoulders, her maroon hair all matted and disheveled, but she seemed to be cheered now in the morning. What have you got here? she said.
Didn’t I say I’d make you breakfast?
At noon they rose from bed and spent the afternoon and the evening watching the holiday parades on television and viewing the old sweet movies that were shown at Christmastime. And in the succeeding days and weeks in the heart of winter she allowed him to stay with her in the upstairs apartment on Chicago Street while she went off to work as an aide at the Holt County Twilight Nursing Home and he took a job riding cattle pens at the feedlot east of town. He reported to the probation officer at the courthouse as the judge had ordered, and he and Laverne Griffith were still together at the middle of February, and during all that time things stayed satisfactory for Hoyt in the little apartment upstairs.