Machine Dreams (15 page)

Gladys chuckled and hugged Jean’s waist. “Here we are, two fools on a heat grate, 1949. Your mother is looking down and having a laugh on us.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. Gracie was a Danner, from Pickens, and there’s a special heaven for Danners.”

“But it’s not 1949 yet, not until midnight.” Jean watched Gladys’ profile. The round, lined face seemed delicate, the powdered skin colored carefully as a doll’s.

“Well,” Gladys sniffed, “if you want to be a stickler. You Danners are such sticklers.”

“I’m a Hampson now,” Jean said.

“You’re a Hampson legally,” Gladys corrected her, “like I’m a Curry. But you’ll be a Danner all your life—look in the mirror. You look like all the Danner women, dark-haired, dark-eyed—beauties, every one of them, and such sticklers. Stubborn and mannered as hell. Danners could be poor as church mice and walk around like heiresses.”

Jean felt herself smiling. “Gracie was like that, wasn’t she? She used to say I’d have no self-respect if my posture wasn’t perfect. Drove me nuts, lecturing about such things while we milked the cows.”

“Are the two of you going to this party?” Mitch stood in the hallway, his hair still slicked and wet from the shower, knotting his tie. He smelled of Old Spice and pretended to scowl impatiently. Their collective joke was that he, the man of the house, made heroic efforts to keep the two women on an even keel.

“We thought we might go,” Gladys said coolly, her brows raised, “if Prince Charming could ever let anyone else in the bathroom.”

The three of them rode through the snow in the Nash, seated in their usual formation: Mitch driving, Jean in the middle, Gladys
on the passenger side, her window open a crack to vent the smoke of her cigarette. The night was dark and the storm worsening; the car seemed to coast like a sled on the deepening snow of the unplowed streets. Electric candles were triangular dots of light in the windows of houses.

“People ought to leave Christmas decorations up all winter,” Gladys said. “Makes the cold more cheerful.”

“And the utility companies richer.” Mitch pumped the brakes gently as the car swerved around a turn.

“Oh well,” Gladys said contentedly, “if they don’t get money one way, they’ll get it another.”

“You should have seen the VFW club in Washington during the war, when I was in that nurses’ training program.” Jean heard the animation in her own voice, then spoke more softly. “We girls went every weekend. That place was always lit up like a birthday cake—mostly with candles, so as not to waste energy. It was an old hotel, and the floors of the ballroom were marble.”

The car was silent. Jean had completed a few months of training, then come home because of her mother’s illness. If things had been different, she would have gotten the degree. Maybe she would have lived in a big city. How exciting, to think of Baltimore, Washington, maybe even New York, where she’d never been.

As though in response to Jean’s thoughts, Gladys spoke up in her arbitrary fashion. “Being a nurse is no kind of life.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mitch said.

Of course, he was talking about Red Cross girls he’d known in the war. They were brave, Jean supposed, and pretty; the men had all admired them. Did anyone, ever, admire a secretary? Well, she wouldn’t be a secretary all her life, that was certain. Someday, she’d find a way to finish college. Now, in the gently moving car and snow-blurred dark, the future seemed far away.

“Everyone and his uncle will be at the VFW tonight,” Gladys said. “People this town hasn’t seen for years. It’ll be a madhouse.” She waited for her proclamation to take effect, then proceeded. “Marthella Barnett will be there. I wonder how Cora Jonas will like that.”

“Hell, Gladys,” Mitch said, “it was twenty years ago Marthella knew Reb. High school stuff.”

“High school stuff is the stuff that lasts.” Gladys straightened her wristwatch. “I don’t care what anyone says.”

Jean turned away from Gladys and looked at Mitch. “Didn’t you go out with Marthella a little?” she asked quietly. “I mean, the summer we met.”

“No, she was in town that summer for the first time in years, and I took her down to the dance. I never knew her so well—she’d been Reb’s girl. She left Bellington clear back in ’28, the year we graduated.” Mitch shifted his weight on the seat and Jean felt his movement.

“She
certainly never graduated,” Gladys said. “Quite a story that was. She must be in her mid-thirties by now, and already divorced twice.”

“Gladys,” Mitch told her, irritated, “you have a mouth like a bell clapper.”

Gladys smiled. “I say what I think, if that’s what you mean.”

“Hell, maybe everyone doesn’t want to hear what you think.” He slowed a little suddenly as they came to a stop sign, and the car slid to the left.

“If ‘everyone’ lives in my house,” Gladys said, unruffled, “they’re going to have to hear—though of course they don’t have to listen.”

“I wish you wouldn’t argue before we even get to the party,” Jean said.

“It’s not an argument.” Gladys chuckled. “This is how we have fun. Isn’t that so, Mr. Hampson?”

“We’re here.” Mitch was parking the Nash. He looked at Gladys patiently and arched one eyebrow, then shook his head in a parody of fortitude. He put the car in reverse and turned to look back, throwing one arm along the seat behind Jean. The warmth of his body was muffled in his thick coat, but Jean smelled a scent of after-shave, a delicate musk of tobacco and soap. She let her face touch his shoulder as the car came to a stop. Mitch let the engine tremble a moment, then turned off the motor. Across the whitened street, the VFW house was softly illuminated. Snow fell across the swept plank floor of the wide
porch, drifting softly and heavily. As Jean sat watching, the snow was suddenly buoyed on a gust of wind. Snowflakes whirled then with a feverish motion, so incredibly fast, like an animated swarm drawn to the light.

Reb met them at the door and bowed from the waist when he saw Gladys. “Why, Mrs. T. A. Curry.”

“Oh, you old fool.” Gladys passed him by with a wave of her hand, walking down the hallway toward the big kitchen.

Mitch lifted Jean’s coat from her shoulders. She felt proud when he did such things; his manners were kind and old-fashioned. “Cora come along?” he asked over Jean’s head.

“Sure.” Reb smiled confidently. “She’s in the kitchen helping Bess set out the food. Don’t know why in hell they’re setting it out already.” He talked to Jean then, trying to include her. “People might want a few drinks first, dance a few times.”

“Of course,” Jean answered. “Let’s go start the jukebox.”

“That’s the spirit.” Reb took a drink from his flask. “But no jukebox tonight—we’ve got a big cabinet Victrola, and every Ellington and Dorsey record ever made. And the Crooner. Marthella brought the Crooner.”

Mitch laughed. “No kidding? She brought all those records of hers?”

Jean smiled uncertainly and Reb touched her arm.

“Would you like a drink, Jean?”

“Just some wine, I think.” She gave him a grateful look. Reb was good at smoothing situations; he seemed to see everything so squarely and easily. Maybe it was just part of doctoring. But Old Doc Jonas, Reb’s father, had been very different. A bit silent and grave. He’d inspired a secretive confidence rather than ease. Ease, that was it. Reb’s manner encouraged an ease that skated along over the tops of conversations and was evasive. Jean watched the two men joking and felt surprised at her own conclusion. But I like Reb, she thought, I really do. He seemed to perform his slight dishonesties for the sake of others, to give up something himself in the inclusive gestures, the arbitrarily friendly voice. Mitch wasn’t like that: he was absolutely honest, to the point of being tactless and not getting along with people. Tonight he was in a
good mood. She hoped Reb wouldn’t influence him to drink too much.

“Cowboy,” Reb said, “what’ll it be? Have some good brandy here in my flask, or you can start on a fifth of Jack Daniels.”

“I’ll have to drink fast to catch up with you.” Mitch winked at Jean.

She felt his hand, lightly, at her waist. He was so courteous in public; if only he wouldn’t get tipsy. She felt shy of him then, a little scared—not of Mitch but of her own discomfort. Well, she’d just have a few drinks herself. After all, it was New Year’s. She looked up at Mitch and said brightly, “I think I’ll have some of Reb’s brandy, he brags about it so.”

“Fine,” Mitch said in her ear, “but I think we’ll mix it in a little water for you.”

Yes, there, he was taking care of her. They walked across the hall to the parlor, a big room kept empty for dancing, and music was already playing.

“Jean, have you met Marthella?” Reb gestured toward the woman beside him and began pouring four glasses of brandy. “Cowboy, I insist on at least one toast. This is good, aged stuff, and perfectly mellow. If you try to water it for them, I’ll deck you.”

“Now, now,” Marthella laughed nervously. “Not on a holiday.”

She wasn’t from good family, Jean thought. You could tell. Her clothes clung a little too tightly and were too bright, but she seemed nice enough, even a bit shy. Gladys and her gossip. “Marthella,” Jean said, “hello again. I think I met you a couple of summers ago, probably right here in the parlor. A VFW dance.”

“Yes, I remember.” Marthella nodded. “But it sure isn’t summer now. What a storm.”

They stood a little awkwardly, sipping their drinks. Jean looked at the room; she’d helped decorate it that morning. The holly and red candles on the mantle looked beautiful, and the ceiling was hung with real mistletoe and red and green crepe paper.

“Well,” Jean said, “I’m glad the crepe isn’t red, white, and
blue again. As late as last year, they wouldn’t let us use Christmas colors.”

“Probably smart.” Reb sighed. “We may be in another war soon, with this Korean thing.”

“I don’t think so,” Marthella answered. “Everyone is still recovering from the last one.”

“Cheers to that,” Mitch said.

The four of them smiled and stepped close to touch glasses.

They’d danced for hours, changing partners, joking, showing off. Empty bottles stood in a cluster near the Victrola. Mitch was a good, solid dancer, but Reb liked to try tricks and fancy moves. He swung Jean around in a circle; she laughed, and in the midst of her laughter felt totally relaxed with him, familiar. After all, she’d known him, known of him, all her life, and his father had been a presence in her house. Reb was almost a brother. Now he grabbed her hand and spun her back toward him effortlessly. His hands were like his father’s hands, broad and square.

Jean looked down and the toes of his wingtip shoes were polished so bright she saw the reflection of her own slim ankles. When he snapped his fingers and pulled her smoothly near, he was smiling, his eyes were closed. She smelled his cologne. It was tangy, like candied fruit. Too sweet, meant to cover the smell of something else—hospitals, Jean supposed, or the bourbon he’d had before the party. Jean felt too warm, a little feverish.

“Reb,” she said, stopping, “I just have to rest. I didn’t realize I’d had so much brandy.”

“That’s what New Year’s is for,” he said.

She really had drunk too much. She’d go to the bathroom and pull herself together a little. As she turned toward the hallway, Reb got another partner and Jean saw Mitch and Marthella across the room, their heads inclined. They were holding hands. Jean walked quickly into the hall. Well, what if they were? They were old friends. You had to be mature about these things, and about dreams and apprehensions as well. Dreams didn’t mean so much. Anyway, what sort of dream could she expect, falling asleep in a graveyard? And she’d been thinking about her father; it was true they’d been afraid of him sometimes.

That was better. Jean shut the bathroom door behind her, relieved. She’d have a headache tomorrow if she wasn’t careful. Cold water would help, and then she’d stop drinking. She stepped to the big sink, lowered the stopper on its chain, and ran the cold water. She held her hands under the tap and chilled her wrists, then bent to splash her face. As the cold water touched her skin, sharp, comforting, she remembered the dream again clearly, and understood. Quiet Glade—she’d dreamed of the murders at Quiet Glade. Jean had been four or five; she remembered, growing up, Gracie’s telling her how whole congregations of churches had driven out to the country after Sunday services one morning to see the bodies exhumed. A man had killed his family, buried them in the cellar, and confessed weeks later. It was the only such happening in anyone’s memory, a sort of myth. Jean reached for the linen hand towel and blotted her wet face, then let the water drain. You could never tell what was in your mind. She was sure she hadn’t really been there that day; her mother surely wouldn’t have taken a tiny child to such a place. Why had she dreamed of it, up there in the snow? She dried her hands, feeling the rough fiber of the towel and recognizing sewn into it Bess Bond’s monogram. Bess had lent her linens for the party. Jean folded the towel carefully, hung it back in place. The fabric was rich and fine and had a sheen; it was probably older than a lot of the girls who were dancing. Jean smoothed her dark hair in the mirror, then stopped primping and looked seriously at her own reflection. She was scared; that’s why she’d had the dream. But why should she be afraid? She and Mitch had a chance. He was a good, responsible man—he’d never hit a woman the way Dad had hit Mother a few times, and the age difference was fifteen years, not almost thirty. Marry an older man, Jean and her girlfriends had told each other, not an
old
man. Jean smiled at their foolishness. She touched her ring, twisting it nervously, and saw how the diamond glinted. It was a small stone, but perfect; Mitch had been so careful to get her a nice one. She shouldn’t be scared; she’d done the right thing. The Victrola clicked off then in the parlor and she heard the dancers arguing good-naturedly about what to play next.

After her mother had gotten sick, Jean had started going out almost exclusively with older men. When she was with them she
felt she was wearing a sort of disguise, being her best, most responsible self. Convincing everyone that she was, at twenty-one, head of a household, nurse to her mother, a working woman. She belonged with older men, not kids her age. The funny thing was, once you knew the older men you realized they were just like the kids, only they had better jobs, more money, and were more polite. When they drank, they got sad instead of happy. She looked at herself again in the spotless bathroom mirror and shook her head; she probably saw things wrong. Mitch and Reb were plenty happy tonight. And it was uncharitable to look at things so hard; still, she didn’t see as much to admire as she got older. Pointless, really, a lot of what happened. Didn’t people have to do more than just endure? Didn’t they have to be smart, as well, and know what things meant? Oh, she compared everyone to her mother: maybe that was what scared her. God, did she hate it—her mother’s strength? It was what she loved most and what she hated. Her mother had fought for every minute, and here Jean stood in this bathroom, or on a street in the town, or in Gladys’ kitchen, with all the years stretched in front of her. Oh, how had Gracie known so much? Even when JT was craziest, she’d seemed to value him in some strange way at the same time she held her own against him. It was how she’d been with the cancer, too: as though she respected her own assailant because it was part of her; she watched and didn’t panic and was somehow guided. How? Where had it come from? In the parlor someone had put on a record. Laughter as an Ellington tune came on so loud the sound distorted—Marthella’s laughter, Jean could tell. The volume was lowered a little then and a girl vocalist’s sloe gin voice rolled out over the melancholy swing of the music.