He stood over the table watching them eat. I have to go to school early this morning, he said. I’ll be leaving in a minute.
Aren’t you going to eat breakfast with us? Ike said. He stopped chewing momentarily and looked up.
I can’t this morning. He recrossed the room and set the skillet in the sink and ran water into it.
Why do you have to go to school so early?
I have to see Lloyd Crowder about somebody.
Who is it?
A boy in American history.
What’d he do? Bobby said. Look off somebody’s paper?
Not yet. I don’t doubt that’ll be next, the way he’s going.
Ike picked at something in his eggs and put it at the rim of his plate. He looked up again. But Dad, he said.
What.
Isn’t Mother coming down today either?
I don’t know, Guthrie said. I can’t say what she’ll do. But you shouldn’t worry. Try not to. It’ll be all right. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.
He looked at them closely. They had stopped eating altogether and were staring out the window toward the barn and corral where the two horses were.
You better go on, he said. By the time you get done with your papers you’ll be late for school.
He went upstairs once more. In the bedroom he removed a sweater from the chest of drawers and put it on and went down the hall and stopped in front of the closed door. He stood listening but there was no sound from inside. When he stepped into the room it was almost dark, with a feeling of being hushed and forbidding as in the sanctuary of an empty church after the funeral of a woman who had died too soon, a sudden impression of static air and unnatural quiet. The shades on the two windows were drawn down completely to the sill. He stood looking at her. Ella. Who lay in the bed with her eyes closed. He could just make out her face in the halflight, her face as pale as schoolhouse chalk and her fair hair massed and untended, fallen over her cheeks and thin neck, hiding that much of her. Looking at her, he couldn’t say if she was asleep or not, but he believed she was not. He believed she was only waiting to hear what he had come in for, and then for him to leave.
Do you want anything? he said.
She didn’t bother to open her eyes. He waited. He looked around the room. She had not yet changed the chrysanthemums in the vase on the chest of drawers and there was an odor rising from the stale water in the vase. He wondered that she didn’t smell it. What was she thinking about.
Then I’ll see you tonight, he said.
He waited. There was still no movement.
All right, he said. He stepped back into the hall and pulled the door shut and went on down the stairs.
As soon as he was gone she turned in the bed and looked toward the door. Her eyes were intense, wide-awake, outsized. After a moment she turned again in the bed and studied the two thin pencils of light shining in at the edge of the window shade. There were fine dust motes swimming in the dimly lighted air like tiny creatures underwater, but in a moment she closed her eyes again. She folded her arm across her face and lay unmoving as though asleep.
Downstairs, passing through the house, Guthrie could hear the two boys talking in the kitchen, their voices clear, high-pitched, animated again. He stopped for a minute to listen. Something to do with school. Some boy saying this and this too and another one, the other boy, saying it wasn’t any of that either because he knew better, on the gravel playground out back of school. He went outside across the porch and across the drive toward the pickup. A faded red Dodge with a deep dent in the left rear fender. The weather was clear, the day was bright and still early and the air felt fresh and sharp, and Guthrie had a brief feeling of uplift and hopefulness. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it and stood for a moment looking at the silver poplar tree. Then he got into the pickup and cranked it and drove out of the drive onto Railroad Street and headed up the five or six blocks toward Main. Behind him the pickup lifted a powdery plume from the road and the suspended dust shone like bright flecks of gold in the sun.
Victoria Roubideaux
Even before she was awake she felt it rising in her chest and throat. Then she rose rapidly from bed in the white underpants and the outsized tee-shirt she wore at night and rushed into the bathroom where she crouched on the tile floor, holding her streaming hair away from her face and mouth with one hand and gripping the rim of the bowl with the other while she retched and gagged. Her body was wracked by spasms. Afterward a spit-string swung from her lip, stretched, elongated, then broke off. She felt weak and empty. Her throat burned, her chest hurt. Her brown face was unnaturally pale now, sallow and hollow beneath the high cheekbones. Her dark eyes looked larger and darker than ordinary, and on her forehead was a fine film of clammy sweat. She stayed kneeling, waiting for the gagging and paroxysms to pass.
A woman appeared in the doorway. She at once flipped the light on, filling the room with harsh yellow light. What’s all this? Victoria, what’s the matter with you?
Nothing, Mama.
Something is. You think I don’t hear you in here?
Go back to bed, Mama.
Don’t lie to me. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you.
No.
Don’t lie to me.
I’m not.
What is it then?
The girl rose from the floor. They looked at each other. The woman was thin, in her late forties, haggard of face, washed-out, still tired though she’d just risen from sleep, wearing a stained blue satin robe she clutched together over her sagging chest. Her hair had been dyed, but not recently; her hair was maroon, like no human natural color anywhere, the white roots showing at the temples and above her forehead.
The girl moved to the sink and ran water onto a washcloth and held the cloth to her face. The water dripped into the front of her thin shirt.
The woman watched her and removed cigarettes from her robe pocket and took out a lighter and lit the cigarette and stood in the door smoking. She scratched one naked ankle with the toes of the other foot.
Mama, do you have to smoke in here now?
I’m here, aren’t I? This is my house.
Please, Mama.
Then she was sick again. She could feel it rising. She was kneeling again at the bowl, gagging, her shoulders and chest wrung by dry spasms. Her dark hair was caught as before in one hand, automatically.
The woman stood over her, smoking, surveying her. Finally the girl was finished. She stood up and returned to the sink.
You know what I think, little miss? the woman said.
The girl applied the wet washcloth to her face once more.
I think you got yourself knocked up. I think you got a baby in you and it’s making you puking sick.
The girl held the cloth to her face and looked at her mother in the mirror.
Didn’t you.
Mama.
That’s it, isn’t it.
Mama, don’t.
Well you stupid little slut.
I’m not a slut. Don’t call me that.
What do you want me to call it? That’s the name for what you done. I told you before. And now look at you. Look here at what’s happened. I told you, didn’t I.
You told me a lot of things, Mama.
You better not get smart with me.
The girl’s eyes filled. Help me, Mama. I need you to help me.
It’s too late for that, the woman said. You got yourself into this, you can just get out of it. Your father wanted me to hold his head too. All them mornings when he’d come home feeling sick and sorry for himself. I won’t hold yours too.