Here on Earth (35 page)

Anything can fuel an argument between Hollis and March now. She looks at him the wrong way, she interrupts his work, she breathes; she’s somehow not enough his. His ardor hasn’t cooled, but often his flesh won’t comply with his spirit’s demands. When he can’t make love to her he insists it’s her fault. She never does as he says and she’s taken to fighting back, which is foolish. She leaves the room, she slams the door behind her, behavior which only gives him all the more reason to go to one of the women in town who are so willing to pretend he belongs to them, if only for a few hours. When he comes home, he blames March even for this. She sent him into another woman’s arms; she forced him to stray. Why does she do this to him? To them? After he’s done berating her, he turns his fury on himself, and that, of course, is the thread that always ties March to him; that is the moment when she always goes to him and holds him.
No one will ever love you the way I do,
that’s what he tells her then.
No one can have you, if I can’t. Don’t even think about leaving. I mean that. Don’t even try.

On New Year’s Eve March is glad that Hollis leaves early. Let him go out and try to enjoy himself; she’s tired and her cough is worse and she’s grateful for some peace and quiet. Hank is supposed to go to a party, but at the last minute he decides to skip it. He’s already wearing his good white shirt and has combed his hair, but it’s Gwen he wants to be with, not his friends from school. He plans to watch TV and go to bed early, yet when he sees March in the kitchen, all alone, he can’t abandon her. They drink tea and play five-hundred rummy, and then, in spite of himself, Hank gets restless.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he suggests.

March smiles up at her nephew. His sweetness always astounds her. “Go out with your friends,” she says.

“Come on,” Hank insists. “I’ve got my car.”

March laughs at that since Hank’s car, an old Pontiac he bought last week, has no heat and no backseat and is dented all the way around, from the previous driver. The rattletrap, they call it. The icebox.

“We’ll go out and get one beer. Just for New Year’s,” he says. “We can’t just sit here.”

March grabs her coat and her long black scarf and hastily runs a brush through her hair. They get in the car, but they’re freezing by the time they reach the liquor store; March runs in to buy them their bottles of beer so they can toast the New Year.

“Where do you think Gwen is tonight?” Hank asks March as they drive toward town.

“Probably with her dad,” March guesses. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s not out with some other boy.”

“That’s all right,” Hank says. “I want her to have a good time. I don’t own her.”

“Right,” March says, opening her beer and taking a sip. “Nobody owns anybody. Or so they say.”

A light snow has begun. Flakes catch on the windshield and stick like glue. Hank switches on the wipers and they turn onto Main Street. They drive through town, counting the houses where parties are being held. When they pass by the Lyon, March has a funny feeling in her stomach. She’s one of those women who no longer want to know the truth.

“Don’t stop,” she tells Hank.

They go on, all through the town. The defroster in the car isn’t much use, and every once in a while Hank wipes off the windshield in front of him with the palm of his hand, or March cleans the glass with the tail end of her scarf. In very little time, everything is covered with a blanket of white. It is a beautiful night, so quiet the sound of their tires echoes as they drive on.

“You ought to see Dr. Henderson about that cough,” Hank says when March starts hacking.

“It’s the cold weather,” March says. “I’m not used to it.”

It feels so odd to be in the village; everything seems brighter and bigger than usual.

“Look at him.” March laughs when they pass Town Hall. The Founder is covered in snow; only his nose is recognizable.

“I did my senior thesis on him, and I never realized he had such a big nose.” Hank grins. “They probably should have named this town Noseville.”

“Nostriltown,” March suggests, as she finishes her beer.

“Schnoz City.” Hank gets a particular hoot out of that one. “The football team at the high school could be the Schnozkickers.”

March lets out a laugh. “They’d have big noses on the back of their jackets.”

“Good old Schnoz City,” Hank says affectionately. “Born and bred there.”

They have turned down a side street, the one where Susanna Justice lives. Susie’s little house is all lit up and music floats into the street.

“She’s having a party,” March says.

They pull over and park, then exchange a look.

“We could go in for a little while,” Hank says.

“Have a drink and leave,” March agrees.

March reaches into her coat pocket for an old lipstick, then peers into the rearview mirror so she can apply some color to her face. They walk through the snow, and go in through Susie’s unlocked front door. It’s hot in this little house, and noisy. There’s the scent of cider and beer and pizza. As soon as Susie spies March, she runs over and hugs her.

“How come you didn’t invite me?” March teases.

Susie is wearing a violet sweater decorated with rhinestones and a short purple skirt. She looks beautiful tonight, flushed and breathless and a little drunk.

“I sent you an invitation,” Susie says. “I went out to see you last week, and Hollis told me you were sleeping, you couldn’t see me. I thought he was lying, but what could I do?”

“Well, I’m here now,” March says.

“Yes, you are.” Susie smiles. “You know Ed,” she adds when a good-looking man comes over to loop his arm around her waist. Susie’s two Labrador retrievers are following him, eyeing the platter of mini-knishes Ed’s been circulating.

“Sure, I remember,” March says. “Thanksgiving.”

“This guy must be starving.” Ed nods at Hank. “He’s started to drool.”

They all laugh when they see how Hank is staring at the platters of food, as rapt as the retrievers.

“Come on.” Ed guides Hank toward a buffet table which spans the width of Susie’s tiny living room.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” Susie says to March.

March nods and follows. She knows Susie’s been checking her out; her clothes, after all, aren’t nice enough for a party, and she didn’t think to do anything about her hair, not even tie it away from her face. People seem to be staring at her as they head for the kitchen. She lives with the richest man in the county, and look at what she’s wearing—worn corduroy slacks and a red sweater from the old-clothes bin at the Harvest Fair.

“You’ve got to try the pizza,” Susie tells March. “It’s made with pesto and feta cheese.”

It’s broiling in the kitchen—Ed and Susie spent all afternoon cooking pizzas with the oven turned on high—but March is shivering and she can’t get rid of her damned cough.

“Have you seen a doctor?” Susie says as she pours March a glass of wine. “Because you should.”

“You think I’m sick because I’m living out there with him,” March says.

Susie puts down the plate she’s already heaped with pizza and a salad Miranda Henderson brought over. “You told me not to judge,” she says.

March smiles, and suddenly starving, she reaches for the plate of food. As she does, Susie sees a circle of purple bruises on her arm, leftovers of a disagreement they had last Saturday night when Hollis came home after midnight and refused to say where he’d been.
I’m not your servant,
he’d snapped at March, as though she were some harping wife.
I don’t have to account to you.

“Are you going to tell me it’s anemia?” Susie asks.

“It was nothing.”

Susie laughs; she can’t help herself. “March. That’s what they all say.”

“No, it really was nothing,” March insists. “We were arguing and he grabbed me. Believe me, if he ever hit me, I’d be gone.”

“Eat,” Susie suggests, and she stands there and watches March devour the pizza.

Someone in the living room has switched on the radio; there’s already a countdown to midnight. Hank has made himself comfortable on the couch, so he can concentrate on eating. There’s smoked salmon on crackers, bluefish pâté, marinated mushrooms, French Brie. He’s eating so fast and so much that Susie’s dogs have switched their allegiance from Ed and are now stationed by Hank’s feet.

“If you slow down,” Bud Horace, the animal control officer, advises when he sits beside Hank, “you can fit more food in. The salmon is good, but you should try the pizza.”

Hank is directed toward the kitchen, but it’s hard to get through the crowd. He’s doing his best to elbow his way past the bar set up in a comer near the front window when he sees Hollis’s truck pull up.

“Fuck it,” Hank says under his breath. He’s the one who’s going to be held accountable for this and he knows it.

Hollis comes in through the front door, wearing a black overcoat made of soft Italian wool, bringing in cold air and suspicion. He stops to greet two members of the town council, to whom he made sizable contributions, but his eyes flicker over the room. Before he can spy Hank, Hank makes his way into the kitchen.

“Hollis is here,” he tells March.

March looks at him; then, without saying a word, she goes to the back door and wrenches it open. She’s so panicked she doesn’t even think to retrieve her coat. Hollis is probably walking through the living room right now.

“Wait a second,” Susie says, grabbing March’s arm and holding her back. “The man you’re living with is here and you’re running out the back door. Think about it, March.”

“You don’t understand,” March says. She has said this so often it probably sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. “He’ll see my being here as a betrayal. He’ll see me as one of you.”

“Gwen left a plane ticket here. You could use it. You could leave—even for a little while. Take some time and think.”

March has to laugh at that. You do not think about such matters; you fall into them, head over heels, without a safety net, without a rope.

That’s what Hollis sees when he comes into the kitchen—March laughing at the back door—and that doesn’t please him one bit. Earlier tonight, Hollis met Alison Hartwig at the Lyon; then they went over to her place—she had managed to get rid of the kids and her mother—but he let Alison know he had to be home before midnight. And then, after all that, when he got back to Guardian Farm, no one was there. Since that time, it’s taken close to an hour for him to track March down. This doesn’t please him either.

“Hey, Susie,” he says, as though he isn’t annoyed in the least. “Great party.”

“Yeah, too bad you weren’t invited,” Susie says.

Hollis grins at that. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll hurt my feelings?”

“Nope,” Susie says.

Hollis leans closer to March and kisses her. His lips are cold, and there’s snow in the folds of his coat. “You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he says. “As usual.” He notices Hank now, and wonders if perhaps the boy hasn’t taken it too much on himself to think over matters that are none of his business. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he tells Hank. “You’d better head out.”

Hank looks at March, uncertain as to what he should do.

“Go on,” March insists. You can’t even tell that she’s nervous. She laughs, then has a sip of wine. “Find some folks your own age. Just don’t freeze in that car of yours.”

“Sure,” Hank mumbles.

“Hey.” As Hank is about to pass him by, Hollis puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking.”

“Just a beer,” Hank says. “One.”

“You don’t want to go in that direction,” Hollis says. “Considering your background and all.”

It is the worst possible thing Hollis could say to Hank and he knows it—the threat that he might take after his father. March can’t quite believe she has actually heard right.

“He had one beer,” March says. “I bought it for him. That doesn’t mean he’s an alcoholic.”

“Maybe I’ll stick to Coke.” Hank grabs a can from the counter. “It’s probably not a bad idea.”

“We’d better head out too,” Hollis tells March after Hank has left.

He says it easily, but he doesn’t mean it that way. Nothing is easy with Hollis. March looks at him closely. The evidence is in his eyes. That’s where the anger is.

“You could spend the night,” Susie says to March. She’s not fooled by Hollis’s pleasant manner, and she never will be.

Hollis laughs. “Aren’t you girls a little too old for pajama parties?”

March hugs Susie. “Thanks,” she says. “Another time.”

“You can come back whenever you want to,” Susie tells her, low so that Hollis has to strain to hear. “You know that.”

By the time March gets to the front door, Hollis is waiting with her coat and scarf. There’s confetti in the air and slow music playing, but Hollis pays no attention. He holds open the door for March, then lets it slam once they’re out of the house.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says as they start down the snowy walkway leading to the sidewalk. They can still hear voices from the party drifting out of Susie’s place. Hollis is so furious that the air around him pops. “You should have been there when I got home, but you weren’t, and that’s the problem.”

He grabs her by the arm, to make his point, to make certain she’s listening and to reel her in, closer.

“I don’t like an empty house,” he says, in a voice so mean it’s barely recognizable.

March hears Susie’s front door slam as another guest leaves the party. Some man has stepped out onto Susie’s porch and March is mortified to think of the tableau which greets this stranger: an angry man, a woman who looks frightened, snow falling, ice on the herringboned brick path.

“What are you looking at?” Hollis is facing the stranger, whom March now recognizes as someone who works at the paper with Susie. The sports editor, she thinks. Bert something-or-other. Whoever he is, he was about to take his gloves from his overcoat pocket—he’s already got his car keys in his hand—but he stopped when he saw Hollis holding on to March.