ran us off. Maybe kids were bolder now. The memory of it reunited us
once again.
"You'd have to be completely crazy," he said.
"Completely."
He pulled on his beer, emptied it.
"God knows."
It had been a miserable day at work. Too much heat. It frayed the
customers' nerves and it frayed mine. I kept thinking of the beach, of
Casey's belly tanning in the sun. It made me restless but it got me
by.
I went home and showered and shaved, drank a cup of coffee and wolfed
down a hamburger to go from The Sugar Bowl, a local greasy spoon. I
dressed and went downstairs. The old black pickup, all body rust and
squeaky hinges, stood waiting for me across the street. I drove to her
place and parked it.
It was a very big house for three people to live in. I wondered if her
mother had help with it. Help would be easy to find and cheap to hold
in Dead River.
I climbed the steps to the freshly painted white front porch and rang
the bell. There were lights on in the living room. I heard a deep
sigh, then the sound of slow steps crossing the room.
Her father opened the door.
He was a big man, broad across the shoulders and still trim at
somewhere around fifty, with thinning gray- brown hair, black-frame
glasses and an inch or two of height on me- six-two or six-three. He
looked tired. His color wasn't good. He blinked at me through the
half-open door and I could see where Casey's eyes had come from, though
his own were maybe one-quarter shade darker.
"Yes?"
I put out my hand.
"Clan Thomas, Mr. White. Casey's expecting me."
He looked sort of muddled and shook my hand distractedly. I wondered
if the bad color came from drinking.
"Oh. Yes. Come in."
He moved aside and opened the door wider. I walked in. Inside the
house was very handsome. A lot better than the usual summer rental.
Most of the furnishings were old, antiques, not exactly top quality but
in good condition. The wood looked freshly polished. And there was an
old rolltop desk off to one corner that was a beauty.
He called up the stairs to her. The answer sounded rushed and
faraway.
"Coming!"
Neither of us sat. Nor were we able to think of much to say. I
guessed he'd been reading the paper when I rang, because he was
clutching it now, rolled up tight, in one big meaty fist. Sick or not,
I wouldn't have wanted him mad at me.
Casey had said he was a banker, but it was hard to picture him hunched
over a desk toting up a row of figures. Except for the sal low color
you'd have pegged him for outdoor work. I wondered how he'd gotten
those shoulders. Then I looked around the room a bit and saw the big
framed photo on the wall over the desk, and that told me.
He saw me looking and smiled.
"Wrestling team. Yale, 1938. That's me, last one on the left. Had a
pretty good record that year. Twelve wins, two losses."
"Not bad."
He sat down, sighing, in the big overstuffed chair beside the
fireplace. There was no enthusiasm in his smooth baritone. It was
flat, dead. Like the eyes were dead. They were Casey's eyes but there
was nothing in them, no animation, not even the strange fathomless ness
I found so attractive in hers. His eyes could have been colored glass.
I wondered if he was sick, or even dying.
There was the inevitable small talk. What do you do for a living?
"I sell lumber."
He nodded meaninglessly. There was silence. He was staring at
something in front of him. I tried to follow his gaze, but his
question called me back.
"Can you make a living at that?"
"Barely. But there aren't too many options here. Boats make me
seasick."
"Me too." He laughed. He wasn't amused, though. The laugh was
meaningless too.
"Nice place you've got here."
I told you I was fabulous at conversation.
More nodding.
I was making all the impact of a spot on the rug. Luckily he didn't
seem to care. I had the feeling that as far as he was concerned, I
We heard footsteps on the stairs. He glanced up at me sharply and for
once his eyes seemed to focus. Ah, a human being standing there.
"Take care of my daughter, Mr. Thomas." "Yes, sir."
The footsteps descended. I saw him staring away from me again, and
this time I followed the sight lines across the room to a small table
cluttered with vase, flowers, ashtray, and a pair of gilt-frame
photographs. One was a few-years-old photo of Casey. A high school
graduation photo, probably. The other was a studio portrait of a young
brown-eyed boy, maybe six or seven years old, smiling in that shy funny
way kids have of smiling without showing you their teeth.
Casey had never mentioned a brother.
I looked at Mr. White. He was staring intently at the photographs.
The high, pale forehead was studded with creases. The flesh gleamed.
I wondered if it was Casey he was staring at or the boy.
"Ready?"
She swung down the stairs and the T-shirt looked painted on. By a very
steady hand. She stood there slightly out of breath, smiling, smelling
very clean and freshly showered.
She moved to her father and pecked him on the cheek. "Bye, Daddy."
He managed to raise a weak smile. I could not see much in the way of
affection between them. "You'll be late?"
"Don't know. Maybe. Say goodnight to mother for me."
"Yes."
He stood up absentmindedly but with some effort. It was learned
behavior but its hold on him was stronger than the discomfort it caused
him. Or that's how it looked to me. When a lady leaves the room, you
stand. Even if it's your daughter. It was years of habit talking. But
it wasn't making life any easier for him.
Like everything else I'd seen him do, its net effect was zero. Except
to make you wonder where all that lethargy came from. Here was a man,
I thought, inhabiting a great big void.
"Good night... young man," he said.
He'd forgotten my name.
"Good night, sir."
We walked outside into the warm summer night. I was glad to be out of
there.
She looked at the pickup across the street.
"You really want to take that thing?"
"I don't care."
"Let's take the Chevy, then. Kim and Steve would never forgive me."
She turned and headed for the driveway. I grabbed her arm.
"Suppose we make a deal?"
"What's that?"
"We take the Chevy. But tonight we skip Kim and Steve."
She laughed. "They're expecting us."
"Call in sick. Say you've got your period."
"I can't do that." Sure you can.
"Suppose they see us driving around town or something?"
I shrugged. "You got better again."
We climbed into the car. I watched her mull it over for a minute. She
was smiling and I had the feeling I was winning this one. She started
up the car. I leaned over and took her chin in my hand, turned her
toward me and kissed her. At first I kissed smiling lips and teeth.
Then there was heat and a brittle hunger.