Part 19 (2/2)

'I wish we was at the ocean. On the beach and watching the s.h.i.+ps far out on the water. You went to the beach one summer--exactly what is it like?'

His voice was rough and low. Well--there are the waves.

Sometimes blue and sometimes green, and in the bright sun they look gla.s.sy. And on the sand you can pick up these little sh.e.l.ls. Like the kind we brought back in a cigar box. And over the water are these white gulls. We were at the Gulf of Mexico--these cool bay breezes blew all the time and there it's never baking hot like it is here. Always--'

'Snow,' Mick said. 'That's what I want to see. Cold, white drifts of snow like in pictures. Blizzards. White, cold snow that keeps falling soft and falls on and on and on through all the winter. Snow like in Alaska.'

They both turned at the same time. They were close against each other. She felt him trembling and her fists were tight enough to crack. 'Oh, G.o.d,' he kept saying over and over. It was like her head was broke off from her body and thrown away. And her eyes looked up straight into the blinding sun while she counted something in her mind. And then this was the way. This was how it was. They pushed the wheels slowly along the road. Harry's head hung down and his shoulders were bent. Their shadows were long and black on the dusty road, for it was late afternoon. 'Listen here,' he said. 'Yeah.'

'We got to understand this. We got to. Do you--any?'

'I don't know. I reckon not.'

'Listen here. We got to do something. Let's sit down.' They dropped the bicycles and sat by a ditch beside the road. They sat far apart from each other. The late sun burned down on their heads and there were brown, crumbly ant beds all around them. 'We got to understand this,' Harry said. He cried. He sat very still and the tears rolled down Ms white face. She could not think about the thing that made him cry. An ant stung her on the ankle and she picked it up in her fingers and looked at it very close. 'It's this way,' he said. I never had even kissed a girl before.'

'Me neither. I never kissed any boy. Out of the family. 'That's all I used to think about--was to kiss this certain girl.

I used to plan about it during school and dream about it at night. And then once she gave me a date. And I could tell she meant for me to kiss her. And I just looked at her in the dark and I couldn't That was all I had thought about--to kiss her--and when the time came I couldn't.'

She dug a hole in the ground with her finger and buried the dead ant.

It was all my fault. Adultery is a terrible sin any way you look at it. And you were two years younger than me and just a kid.'

'No, I wasn't. I wasn't any kid. But now I wish I was, though.'

'Listen here. If you think we ought to we can get married--secretly or any other way.'

Mick shook her head. 'I didn't like that. I never will marry with any boy.'

'I never will marry either. I know that And I'm not just saying so--it's true.'

His face scared her. His nose quivered and his bottom lip was mottled and b.l.o.o.d.y where he had bitten it. His eyes were bright and wet and scowling. His face was whiter than any face she could remember. She turned her head from him.

Things would be better if only he would just quit talking. Her eyes looked slowly around her--at the streaked red-and-white clay of the ditch, at a broken whiskey bottle, at a pine tree across from them with a sign advertising for a man for county sheriff. She wanted to sit quiet for a long time and not think and not say a word.

'I'm leaving town. I'm a good mechanic and I can get a job some other place. If I stayed home Mother could read this in my eyes.'

Tell me. Can you look at me and see the difference?'

Harry watched her face a long time and nodded that he could.

Then he said: 'There's just one more thing. In a month or two I'll send you my address and you write and tell me for sure whether you're all right.'

'How you mean?' she asked slowly.

He explained to her. 'All you need to write is ”O.K.” and then TO know.'

They were walking home again, pus.h.i.+ng the wheels. Their shadows stretched out giant-sized on the road. Harry was bent over like an old beggar and kept wiping his nose on his sleeve.

For a minute there was a bright, golden glow over everything before the sun sank down behind the trees and their shadows were gone on the road before them. She felt very old, and it was like something was heavy inside her. She was a grown person now, whether she wanted to be or not.

They had walked the sixteen miles and were in the dark alley at home. She could see the yellow light from their kitchen.

Harry's house was dark--his mother had not come home. She worked for a tailor in a shop on a side street.

Sometimes even on Sunday. When you looked through the window you could see her bending over the machine in the back or pus.h.i.+ng a long needle through the heavy pieces of goods. She never looked up while you watched her. And at night she cooked these orthodox dishes for Harry and her.

'Listen here--' he said.

She waited in the dark, but he did not finish. They shook hands with each other and Harry walked up the dark alley between the houses. When he reached the sidewalk he turned and looked back over his shoulder. A light shone on his face and it was white and hard. Then he was gone.

'This here is a riddle,' George said.

'I listening.'

Two Indians was walking on a trail. The one in front was the son of the one behind but the one behind was not his father.

What kin was they?'

'Less see. His stepfather.'

George grinned at Portia with his little square, blue teeth.

'His uncle, then.'

'You can't guess. It was his mother. The trick is that you don't think about a Indian being a lady.'

She stood outside the room and watched them. The doorway framed the kitchen like a picture. Inside it was homey and clean. Only the light by the sink was turned on and there were shadows in the room. Bill and Hazel played black-jack at the table with matches for money. Hazel felt the braids of her hair with her plump, pink fingers while Bill sucked in his cheeks and dealt the cards in a very serious way. At the sink Portia was drying the dishes with a clean checked towel. She looked thin and her skin was golden yellow, her greased black hair slicked neat. Ralph sat quietly on the floor and George.was trying a little harness on him made out of old Christmas tinsel.

This here is another riddle, Portia. If the hand of a clock points to half-past two--' She went into the room. It was like she had expected them to move back when they saw her and stand around in a circle and look. But they just glanced at her. She sat down at the table and waited.

'Here you come traipsing in after everbody done finished supper. Seem to me like I never will get off from work.'

n.o.body noticed her. She ate a big plateful of cabbage and salmon and finished off with junket. It was her Mama she was thinking about. The door opened and her Mama came in and told Portia that Miss Brown had said she found a bedbug in her room. To get out the gasoline.

'Quit frowning like that, Mick. You're coming to the age where you ought to fix up and try to look the best you can.

And hold on--don't barge out like that when I speak with you--I mean you to give Ralph a good sponge bath before he goes to bed. Clean his nose and ears good.'

Ralph's soft hair was sticky with oatmeal. She wiped it with a dishrag and rinsed his face and hands at the sink. Bill and Hazel finished their game. Bill's long fingernails sc.r.a.ped on the table as he took up the matches. George carried Ralph off to bed. She and Portia were alone in the kitchen.

'Listen! Look at me. Do you notice anything different?'

'Sure I notice, Hon.'

Portia put on her red hat and changed her shoes. Well--?'

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