A Hard Witching (14 page)

The boy crams a fistful of straw under the other tire, his face
down close to the mud, runs the back of his hand across his nose. He stands before answering. “Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

Wesley straightens, rubs straw from his wet hands.

“Your buddy willing to push?”

The boy looks doubtfully back at the car.

“Need you both.”

“Yeah,” he says, “he’ll push.”

“Somebody steering?”

The boy shrugs. “Crystal, I guess,” he says. “Crystal can steer.”

“Come in,” Wesley says, holding the screen door. He is speaking to all of them, but it is the blonde girl he looks at, Crystal. The girl with the earrings pushes the red-haired boy in ahead of her, giggles again, but it sounds shrill and forced in the quiet house.

Wesley goes to the kitchen while they remove their shoes, fills the electric kettle with water, reaches for the jar of Nescafé. He knows they have not come in behind him; they are standing in the porch, hands jammed into the pockets of their jackets, the blonde girl farthest back.

“I guess we should call someone,” Koskey says to him. “We’ll need someone to come get us, I guess.”

Wesley nods. “Phone’s in the hall there.”

The kids shift their feet and look at each other. The girl with the hoops checks her watch. “It’s late,” she says in a low voice to the others.

“I’m not calling Herb,” the red-haired boy says. “He’ll have my balls.”

“You should call,” the girl with the hoops says to Koskey. “It’s your car.”

“Herb has four-wheel,” Koskey says.

“It’s your car,” the red-haired boy says firmly. “You were driving.”

Koskey stands there a minute, deciding. He does not look at the blonde girl.

“Yeah,” he says, “I guess I should call.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck and glances at Wesley. Then he goes down the hall, where they hear him pick up the phone, the slow
whirr
of the dial.

“Come in,” Wesley says to the others, motioning, “sit.”

The girl with the hoops perches herself on the red-haired boy’s knee, hooking one arm around his neck. He shifts her on his lap, puts an arm around her waist, drops it. Wesley knows they are pretending not to look around, not to be surprised at the scrubbed counters, the neat row of canisters, the dishcloth folded lengthwise across the faucet. The new radio on top the fridge is the only thing that has changed since his mother. It is still her kitchen.

The blonde girl sits at the far end of the table, running her toe in circles around one of the silvery flecks floating in the linoleum.

“Coffee’s coming,” he says, placing four mugs on the table with a dish of sugar cubes and some Coffee-mate. “Here’s towels. You can dry off there, in the bathroom.”

The red-haired boy and the girl with the hoops both look at the blonde girl, her long hair plastered down against her jacket in peaks, as though frozen. Wesley tries not to stare at her. He keeps thinking, There is something familiar.

They can hear Koskey’s voice coming low from the hallway, then the click of the receiver and he is back in the kitchen, standing in the doorway, unhappy.

“Well?” the red-haired boy asks.

“He’s coming.” His mouth set in a grim line. Then he adds,
half-apologetically, “He’s calling Herb. For the four-wheel.”

“Shit,” says the red-haired boy.

They are all quiet a moment. The blonde girl looks across the table at Koskey, who stares back at her. She takes one of the towels from the table and waits.

“I know,” he says finally, quietly. He looks away, rubbing his hands on his knees. The girl hesitates, then disappears down the hall.

“We sure do appreciate it,” Koskey says to Wesley after she’s gone.

Wesley nods. So the blonde girl is with him, then; they are a couple. He notices the girl with the earrings is wearing a dress and stockings with rhinestones on the ankle.

“Social in town tonight?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Koskey says. “It was winding down.”

“Right,” the red-haired boy says, “winding down. You mean it was missing something.” And the girl with the earrings punches him in the shoulder.

“What?” Wesley says, in spite of himself. “What was it missing?”

“Preacher’s girl,” the girl with the earrings says. Then adds, “Saint Crystal.”

“Shut up, Janine,” Koskey says.

The girl with the earrings, Janine, and the red-haired boy laugh, but they shut up. The kettle whistles and Wesley pours out water into each of the mugs. So she’s a preacher’s kid. Which preacher? he wonders. From town?

He stands leaning against the counter, watching them pass around the dish of sugar cubes, stir their coffees, the spoons loud against the cups. Janine takes a sip, sets her cup down. Koskey looks up at Wesley as if to say something, then back down at his cup, stirs again. Wesley thinks, There must be something I could say. But nothing comes. Only foolishness,
fragments.
Rain’s been a long time coming. Hill road’s a real bugger in this weather. Stuck out there myself a time or two. Coffee okay? You know there was this surveyer once, Robert McCallum I think his name was, an Englishman—do you know this one?—he was a good shot and sat a horse like he was born riding one, but he wasn’t used to the land here, went a little touched, some said, and took up living in a skin-tent over by Ingebrigt Lake, not much of a lake really, couple miles south of here, until one day he just disappeared, left the tent and the horse and just disappeared, nobody knows where
…

But he says nothing. Instead, he reaches to turn on the radio, and as he does the bathroom door opens. The blonde girl, Crystal, comes out, hair combed straight back from her face and the towel draped around her shoulders. With her face exposed like that, Wesley realizes with a twinge of surprise that he knows her, that thin, pale face, alert and birdlike, those eyes, not quite pretty. He stands with his hand on the radio dial, and in that moment he is back at the corner table of the Parrish Hotel years ago, a glass of ginger ale in its wet ring before him and all that light from a Thursday afternoon in August pouring in through the small, grimy windows. The door swings open luridly into sunlight, and a group of young people crowds in, chooses the big table next to him. Well, not that young, not too much younger than he is, probably early twenties, but not from town. He doesn’t recognize them. One of the girls elbows her friend, lifts her chin in his direction, and they both laugh. It’s nothing, really, just kids being silly. But he pulls out his wallet anyway, counts the change for his pop, carefully, until he feels someone standing at his elbow. It is the girl from the next table, grinning, her hair frizzed out, her teeth pointy, like a cat’s. She looks back once over her shoulder, giggles, and says, “So sorry to bother you, but someone over there thinks you’re really cute. Her, right there in the yellow blouse.” She points back to a blonde girl he does not recognize, sitting shrunk in her chair, miserable. He
meets the girl’s eyes for just a second, sees she is humiliated, sorry for them both. Even from where he sits, he can see a small round scar on her chin—it is nothing, but he feels at that moment as if it is the saddest thing he’s ever seen. The girl looks down, letting her blonde hair swing over her eyes. He knows he should feel humiliated, too; the joke is on him, after all. But he wishes she would look up, wishes he could catch her eye again, let her know somehow this kind of thing doesn’t matter. He would smile and nod, hoping she knew that he realized it was a joke, knowing somehow she would understand. “She says she’d like to be your girlfriend,” says the girl with the pointy teeth. “Wouldn’t you, Clare?”

Clare. Of course. He’d forgotten all about her. Clare. He steals a glance at the blonde girl hunched over his table. How odd, he thinks, how odd to think that I knew her, as if time had collapsed for that second. This girl is maybe fifteen, sixteen. Clare would be, what? Forty now? Older?

He feels ashamed, then, as if he has spoken his error aloud, as if they all know. But they just sit at the table, sipping their coffee, waiting for their parents to collect them, parents he probably knew at school, though they would have been younger, maybe, parents he still sees sometimes on his infrequent visits to town, where they greet him in the feed store, slap him on the shoulder and bark, “Hey there, Wes, you still living the bachelor’s life out there? That’s the way, boy, that’s the way. You ain’t missing a thing, buddy. You got it all figured out, but what I want to know is why the hell didn’t you tell the rest of us sorry sonsabitches before it was too late?” And they all guffaw and he ducks his head good-naturedly and says, “Yeah, that’s for sure, eh? That’s right.”

“They’re here,” Koskey says now, and Wesley turns to see truck lights pull into the yard. None of the kids move. They sit there at his table, not looking at each other, not looking at
him—except for the blonde girl who, for the first time, stares straight at him, her face blank with fear, and he remembers: preacher’s kid. She’s probably not supposed to be here at all. She stares at him, as if he could do something to fix things, as if willing an assurance from him, sits there small and shivering again under the damp towel. He sees she is even smaller than he thought. Here, in the light of the kitchen, with her hair combed back, she is a child. And he thinks, There is very little resemblance really.

Outside, the horn blows once, long and hard.

“Well,” Koskey says, rising first, “I guess this is it.”

Wesley watches them file out to the porch and pull on their shoes slowly. He wonders whether he should walk them out to the truck, but it is raining still. And he realizes then that he is wearing his wet shirt, realizes he is freezing. He shouldn’t go out again. It wouldn’t be smart, getting a chill. He is not as young as he used to be.

“Thanks again,” Koskey yells, as they run out the door into the rain. The blonde girl is the last to go. In the dimness of the porch, she is not Crystal, but Clare again. He almost asks, “Who’s your mother?” Almost. And then he thinks, What does it matter? Even if it was so, what would I say to her? “I knew your mother once, just for a second. I knew her.” No, he would only frighten the girl. But she turns to him then, hands him the towel from around her neck. “It’s not what you think,” she says. “Nothing happened.” As if it mattered, what he thought. Her face is wet, maybe from the rain. And then she is outside, walking straight into the headlights, the rain bouncing from the shoulders of her jacket.

He thinks he should follow her. Go out and say hello at least to the parents. But he doesn’t. He closes the door and steps back into the kitchen, lifts his coffee to his lips and gulps hugely, letting the hot liquid warm his throat, his chest. He
wraps his hands around the cup the way his mother used to in the evenings at the kitchen table with his father, and for years after his father was gone, just the two of them, remembering him, until at last she was too old to remember. And then she was gone, too.

And he thinks, No, this is not right. I should go out there, step through those headlights and the rain. I should say hello at least. I could do that much. Though he really means,
I could do that much for her, for the girl. I could say something. It’s not what you think, boys. Nothing happened.
So he sets down his cup and pulls his boots on over his bare feet, ducks out onto the porch steps. But they have gone, the red brake lights blinking once and then turning out past the caraganas, the back end of the truck fish-tailing in the mud. He stands there with the rain piercing his bones, listening to the sound of the engine recede into the night, thinking he is not as young as he used to be. Thinking it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. And he thinks, There is this girl, Crystal, and there was another girl once, Clare. That is all. Clare. With blonde hair and a scar on her chin. There was that, at least. He could remember that kind of thing; he could remember that still.

The summer Cora Mae Clark and her brother Boyd turned up, I’d only just kicked my habit of sleeping with a night light—a painful adjustment, learning to fall asleep with all that darkness edging up against me. But I would never have admitted that to Cora Mae, not with her tight smile, the fearless blonde arch of her eyebrows. She wasn’t the sort of girl you confided in. Not about something like a night light anyway. And Boyd … well, Boyd was something else entirely.

He was three years older than I was and almost two years older than Cora Mae, though you never would have guessed it to look at them. Despite his advantage of height, a certain looseness about his limbs made him seem younger, as if he had not yet gained control of his muscles, as if he could shoot off in any direction without warning at any time. Not just adolescent gawkiness; he lived in perpetual erratic motion. Next to the neat, precise, oddly adult movements of Cora Mae’s compact body, Boyd was like some clumsy marionette, capable of sudden bursts of absurd energy.

“That’s just Boyd,” Cora Mae sighed that first day, “trying to get attention. Ignore him.”

I watched him from the concrete steps outside the Lucky Dollar grocery store where I waited for my mother. It seemed to me that getting attention hardly interested Boyd. He sat hunched over something halfway down the block, at the mouth of one of those weedy little alleys that ran between the few buildings on Main Street, rocking back and forth on his heels, fluttering his hands in quick, nervous movements. There was a certain fragility in the way all his parts seemed to work, or not to work, in unison, as if a puff of wind could easily collapse him. As I watched, he stood up, crouched down, stood up again, his feet tapping, his whole body quivering.

“Cora Mae,” he called back over his shoulder, waving a white hand, “c’mere.”

Cora Mae bent to rub a smudge of dust off the top of her sandal. Then she straightened with decisive grace and looked down at me, wrinkling her sunburned nose. “I used to have a barrette like that.”

The plastic butterfly I’d used to jam my overgrown bangs from my face was an old yellow one, part of a set I’d received several Christmases ago when my mother began selling Avon. I raised my fingers, flushing with embarrassment as I touched the rough corner where I’d chewed most of one wing away.