But he kept tight control. Advise restraint. Advise restraint, his brain tapped. He began connecting each loud invisible rustle with a very specific movement that the woman must make as she undressed. From top to bottom. He undressed her mentally with slow deliberation and no desire.
Then suddenly, naked. She had even rolled her socks and stuck them in her boots.
She should have come out then, but she didn’t. His heart pumped.
Concentration began to slacken. The image of her fled. He rolled from the bed and started to the door, feeling his way along the edge of the mattress until he lost it and had to cross long steps of endless space, where he thought water lapped his ankles. The rustling stopped.
Silence warns. He was going to kick and jump aside like in the village back there, but from somewhere he gained a measure of control.
He gripped the handle. The door swung in. The light seemed to move around her in sheets, and the tunnel widened.
Oil the tiny square of floor, still dressed, the bundle she had carried opened and spread all around her, she crouched low.
And he saw her as the woman back there.
How the hell could you figure them?
She looked at him. They had used a bayonet. She was out of her mind.
You, me, same. Same. She pointed to her eyes and his eyes.
The Asian, folded eyes of some Chippewas. She was hemorrhaging.
Question her Sir, she is dying, sir.
“And anyway, what could I have asked? Huh? What the hell?”
Albertine was looking at him, staring at him. He realized he had spoken out loud.
The brown hair swung over her face as she bent, smoothing a red handkerchief into a small square. She was wrapping things back into her bundle. He tucked a gray towel around his waist and lowered himself onto the edge of the stool. Her clothing was spread between them. He bent over and picked up a thin longwaisted pair of cotton underpants, doubled them, put them back.
“I’ll help you,” he said.
“I don’t need any help.”
He put his hands in his lap. He wanted cigarettes now, badly, but he didn’t want to go back and look for them in the dark where the bed was.
“Would you get me my smokes? I’m drunk.”
His voice caught in his throat. She did not answer or look at him but went out of the room.
I shouldn’t stay here, she thought. But all my things are here.
The was talking to himself While she was gone he noticed that his face, hands, chest were cold with sweat. His hands trembled when he lighted the Marlboro.
Weak, he thought, holding the smoke in his lungs. But now he was used to the shaking, this kind of shaking, which meant that the tightness was lowering, lowering him. He lit one cigarette from another and dropped the ends in the bowl beneath his hip.
As he watched her, his breathing gradually calmed. The blackness edging his vision dropped away. The movements of her hands were humble and certain. She had a long curved back and those ut ting shoulder blades, like wings of horn.
How long can I sit here and let him watch me like this? She felt like she was still riding on the bus. Her blood rocked.
“Please,” he said finally, when she had put everything in order several times, “can we go to bed? I won’t touch you. Too drunk anyhow.”
“All right.
He took her hand and led her from the bathroom, half shutting the door.
“I’m going to leave the light on if that’s okay with you.”
She nodded silently.
She took her jeans, boots, socks off, then slid into bed. She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and underwear. Once beside him, although she had been half asleep as she folded her clothes, she became completely alert, conscious of his lightest movement.
Good night. I’m going to shut my eyes and pretend to steep.
But the pretense just increased her sensitivity to his breathing, to the way the sheets scratched against his body.
The CREDIT sign across the street ticked on by slow stages until the letters completed, flared three times in silence. She turned to him.
She propped herself on her elbow and unbuttoned her shirt. He took her hand away and worked the cloth off her shoulders. She wore a thick cotton brassiere. He put both arms around her and undid the hook.
Once she was naked beneath him, he could hold off no longer. In panic, he tried to surge inside of her.
Her fear excited him so much, though, that he came helplessly, pressed against her, before he was even hard. She was quiet, waiting for him to say something. She touched his face, but he did not speak, so she rolled away from him.
Henry was not drunk anymore, not in the least. He knew that In a moment he would want her again, the right way, and in this expectation he listened as she pretended to sleep. Her back curved, a warm slope.
The length and breadth of her seemed edge less He felt wonder and moved closer. She tensed. Her breathing changed.
She gave off a fetid traveler’s warmth, cigarette smoke, bus-seat smell, a winy undertone from what they’d drunk, the crackery smell of snow melted into unwashed hair, a flowery heat from her armpits.
He thought of diving off a riverbank, a bridge.
He closed his eyes and saw the water, the whirling patterns, below.
He pushed her over, face down, and pinned her from behind. He spread her legs with his knees and pulled her toward him.
Muffled, slogged in pillows, she gripped the head bars. He pushed into her. She made a harsh sound. Her back was board hard, resistant.
Then she gave with a cry. He touched her with the cushioned part of his fingers until she softened to him. She opened. The bones of her pelvis creaked wide, like the petals of a wooden flower, and he thought she came. Then he did, too.
Wobbling then surging smoothly forward, he came whispering that he loved her.
Afterward, he let her go, put his face in dark hair behind her ear, and was about to whisper love talk, but she rolled out from under his chest.
She got as far away from him as possible. It was, to Henry, as if she had crossed a deep river and disappeared. He lay next to her, divided from her, just outside and with no way to follow.
At last she slept. Her even breath was a desolate comfort. He wound his hand in a long Thank of her hair and, eventually, slept, too.
Near dawn Albertine could not remember where she was. She could not remember about the dull ache between her legs. She turned to the man and made the mistake of touching him in his sleep. His name came back to her. She was about to say his name.
He shrieked. Exploded.
She was stunned on the floor, gasping for breath against the “ago L wall before the syllables of his name escaped. Outside their room a door opened and shut. Somewhere in the room she heard his breath, a slow animal wheeze that froze her to the wall. He moved.
The scent of his harsh fear hit her first as he came toward her.
In reflex, she crossed her arms b6ore her face. A dark numbing terror had stopped her mind completely. But when he touched her he was weeping.
THE RED CONVERTIBLE r ra jr (1974)
LYMAN LAMAR TINE
I was the first one to drive a convertible on my reservation. And of course it was red, a red Olds. I owned that car along with my brother Henry junior. We owned it together until his boots filled with water on a windy night and he bought out my share. Now Henry owns the whole car, and his younger brother Lyman (that’s myselo, Lyman walks everywhere he goes.
How did I earn enough money to buy my share in the first place? My one talent was I could always make money. I had a touch for it, unusual in a Chippewa. From the first I was different that way, and everyone recognized it. I was the only kid they let in the American Legion Hall to shine shoes, for example, and one Christmas I sold spiritual bouquets for the mission door to door. The nuns let me keep a percentage. Once I started, it seemed the more money I made the easier the money came.