“Maybe she went for a ride. She says she does that sometimes when she feels the urge to take a drink. That was something she learned at her Mayo program. You know, to keep yourself occupied in some way.”
“So she goes for rides with Courtney?”
“What’s wrong with that? He’s her minister. And it’s better than taking a drink, she says.”
She got me with her rubber band this time. Pearl Harbor sneak attack, as I’d been wont to say on the playgrounds of my youth.
“So maybe they were just driving by and saw the ambulance and-”
“I think I’ll talk to her.”
“For God’s sake, McCain, why?”
“For the same reason I’m going to talk to Courtney. They aren’t the type that chase after ambulances. They didn’t belong there. Ergo, they’re worth talking to.”
“Ergo,” she said, taking a dramatic drag on her Gauloise.
Her chambers weren’t as exciting as they’d once been. In the old days, I came here to see the beautiful Pamela Forrest, to try and get her to go out with me. Nobody could make me feel as bad as Pamela when she turned me down and it was wonderful, anyway. I was drunk on her. And the Judge hated it, was always symbolically hosing me off with harsh words about leaving Pamela alone.
But Pamela was gone. I was still in love with her. It hurt but it wasn’t a wonderful hurt anymore. It was a hurt hurt. And for the first time in my life I realized that it was a hurt I’d have to work on getting over. She was out of my life -living elsewhere in shame-and she was never going to be in my life again.
“I want you to promise me you won’t go see her.”
“We’re talking Sara Hall?”
“We are, as you say, talking Sara Hall.”
“She just happened to be out there.”
“She just happened to be out there.”
“A country-club lady out at a hillbilly church where they use rattlesnakes in their religious ceremonies?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not even curious why she was out there?”
“No.”
“Well,” I said, standing up so as to avoid the rubber band she’d just shot at me, “you’re the boss.”
“Yes, I am, McCain,” she smiled with her imperious mouth, “and don’t you forget it.”
How I came to talk to Sara Hall twenty minutes later is something I’m not necessarily proud of. I mean, it’s the sort of duplicitous thing only a counselor-at-law could come up with. Or a Republican.
Let me put it to you as a philosophical question.
Say there’s this woman you want to ask some questions. Now, you’ve already given your word that you won’t go see her.
But what if you happen to be driving by her house and you see her backing out of her driveway in her new DeSoto convertible?
And what if you just happen-not having anything else better to do and the day being so beautiful and all and you owning a red ‘ea ragtop and it needing to go for a drive to clean some of the engine sludge away and all-y just happen to follow her to our town’s first, only, and very tiny-twelve stores-enclosed shopping mall.
And what if you just happen to follow her inside?
And wait while she’s in The Moderne
Woman? And when she comes out, she runs into you.
You will notice, I believe, the subtle difference between me running into her and her running into me. Which, technically, she did. She could’ve gone right, she could’ve gone left, but instead she chose-completely of her own volition-ffwalk straight.
Now, to be technical again, it is true that I abruptly moved over from my rightward position to be in front of her when she chose-of her own volition-ffwalk straight ahead. But that’s hardly my fault, is it? There was a sudden draft from the nearby air-conditioning duct, and is it my fault I didn’t want to catch a head cold and be laid up for weeks? Possibly in traction?
“Hi, Sara.”
“Oh, hi, McCain.”
Neither time nor alcohol could ever quite dim her beauty. She had a kind of sensibly erotic face, the schoolmarm whose ripe lips told of discreet and memorable pleasures. The brown eyes were sad-y don’t drink as much as she did and look happy-but again they were not without aesthetic pleasure, fine brown eyes they were, even with their melancholy, and not without a hint of high intelligent humor even in their gentle pain.
White sleeveless blouse, tan tailored skirt, no hose, brown flats. Nice arms.
“That’s funny. I just saw the Judge a while ago.”
“I talked to her this morning,” she said.
“She’s very excited about Richard Nixon coming out here. It’s all she talks about these days.” Then, “Nice seeing you.”
People ebbed and flowed around us. From the record store came the sound of Jerry Lee Lewis.
Teenagers sparked over by the hot-dog counter.
“Say,” I said, ever the sly one. “I saw you last night.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Out at Muldaur’s church.”
She actually blushed. “Oh… We were just passing by. And saw the ambulance and everything.”
“I thought maybe you knew somebody there. I saw Reverend Courtney.”
The flush had faded. An abrupt coldness came into eye and voice. “Yes, we’d taken a ride together. He… helps me sometimes. You know, with-” She hesitated. “You know I went to the Mayo Clinic.”
She looked humiliated. Hard to look at pain so fresh in those lovely eyes.
“It’s all right, Sara.”
“Well, he helps me sometimes. Sort of counsels me.”
But if he was the kind and gentle counselor, why had her first reaction been anger when his name came up? And going for a ride together? But then I’d probably been reading too many books by Dr. Edmond DeMille, astksta Kenny Thibodeau, and was suspicious of even the most generous acts.
“I really need to go. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to bring up anything unpleasant, Sara.”
“I know. It’s all right.”
She touched shapely fingers to the edge of her erotic mouth. “It was nice seeing you.”
Wanting to keep her here as long as I could, hoping something useful would just spurt from her, unbidden, I said, “How’s your daughter?”
A tiny tic at the outer corner of her left eye. I didn’t make much of it. Coincidence.
“Fine. She’s just fine.” But she sounded tight again, the way she had about Courtney.
“I heard her sing at the springfest in the park.
She’s got a beautiful voice.”
She smiled, looking happy for the first time.
“Folk music. The Kingston Trio eighteen hours a day.” Then the tic came back. “I need to go. Bye.”
I gave her a long minute, then I followed her. There was a bar on the edge of the mall. I hoped I hadn’t driven her to it. I felt guilty and confused. Everybody always clucked about her “nervous personality” but her response to what I’d said seemed awfully dramatic.
She acted as if I’d accused her of something sinister.
She went into a bookstore. I sat on a bench and smoked a Lucky. I was there two or three minutes when I saw Reverend Courtney appear from the far end of the L-shaped brick mall. He wore a yellow golf shirt and chinos and white Keds. He looked like Yale’s most successful graduate of recent vintage.
He went into the bookstore, apparently not seeing me, and emerged a bit later in the company of Sara Hall. She looked angry again.
Angry but on the verge of cracking, her feelings threatening to overwhelm her.
He had her by the arm, led her to The House of Beef. I’d been there a few times. It was cave-dark, cavern-cold. It was the preferred trysting place. The martinis were good, the food better. All the upwardly mobile young men who imagined themselves to be cool-a la Peter Gunn or Tony Curtis I suppose-called the place “The House,” the way Frank Sinatra would.
I wondered if she’d drink. I wondered if she’d cry. I wondered if she’d get violent. She’d seemed on the verge of all three. And then I wondered if she was in love with Courtney. It was the kind of thought I didn’t especially want to have. I’d always liked Sara Hall.