Eventide (Plainsong #2)(61)

HE SET OUT ON A COOL FRESH NIGHT, DRESSED AGAIN IN his town clothes and his Bailey hat. He had shaved and washed up and had put on some of the cologne that Victoria had given him at Christmastime. It was a Saturday night, the sky overhead clear of any cloud, the stars as clean and bright as if they were no more distant than the next barbed-wire fence post standing up above the barrow ditch running beside the narrow blacktop highway, everything all around him distinct and unhidden. He loved how it all looked, except he would never have said it in that way. He might have said that this was just how it was supposed to look, out on the high plains at the end of winter, on a clear fresh night.

In Holt he parked at the curb in front of the Holt Mercury newspaper offices, closed and darkened for the night, and walked up the block past the unlit stores to the corner. Inside the tavern it was just as before. The same noise and desolate country music, the men shooting pool at the tables in the back and the TV blaring over the bar, the long room just as crowded and smoky as it had been in December—all of it the same, except maybe a little more of it now, a little more gaiety, since it was a Saturday night.

He stood at the door and saw no one that he might sit down with, so he went up to the bar as he had that other time and ordered a draft beer and got it and paid for it and then turned to survey the room. He drank from his glass and wiped the palm of his hand across his mouth. And then he saw that she too was there again, sitting by herself in a booth, looking off to the side. Her short dark hair had grown out a little, but it was Linda May.

He took his glass of beer and walked back past the tables of patrons toward her booth, stopping once to let somebody pass in front of him, then she saw him coming toward her and she sat looking at him without moving, without anything showing in her face. He stood at the booth and removed his hat and held the hat in one hand at his side.

Raymond, she said. Is that you? She spoke too loudly. She was wearing a red blouse that was unbuttoned deeply at the neck, and above the throat of the blouse she wore a silver necklace and there were silver hoops in her ears. Her eyes looked too shiny.

Yes ma’am, he said. I reckon so.

What are you doing?

Well. I come out for a night. I thought I would. Like I done that other time.

She seemed to study him. Have you been here long? she said.

No. Not long.

How have you been?

Okay, I reckon. I guess I’ve been pretty good. I’ve been kind of busy. He looked at her dark hair and shining eyes. How about yourself?

She started to say something but turned to peer toward the back, and then turned forward again and took up her glass and drank.

Ma’am, he said. You okay?

What?

I said, are you okay? You seem a little disturbed.

I’m all right.

How’s your car running?

She looked at him. My car.

Yes ma’am. It wouldn’t start that other time.

Oh, that. No, it’s fine. I thank you for getting me the battery. It starts every time now. She made a little gesture with her glass. Why don’t you sit down.

If you wouldn’t mind.

No. Please do.

He sat opposite her and set his glass of beer on the table and laid his hat on the seat beside him.

How’s that young girl and her baby? she said.

Victoria? They’re both doing pretty good, I believe. They’re back in Fort Collins.

She looked around again, peering toward the back of the room, and this time her eyes changed. Raymond followed her gaze and saw a tall red-haired man with a considerable stomach approaching the booth. He stopped and stood for a moment, then slid in beside Linda May and rested his arm on her shoulder. You attracted you some company while I was gone, he said.

This is a friend, she said. Raymond McPheron. I took care of him at the hospital one time.

I hope you took good care of him.

I did.

How you doing, old buddy?

Raymond looked at him across the table. I don’t believe I know your name, he said.

Why hell, don’t you know me? I thought everybody knew me around here. I’m over at the Ford dealership.

I drive a Dodge, Raymond said.

That would explain it, the man said. Cecil Walton, he said. He lifted his hand into the air above the table and Raymond looked at it and then shook it once, briefly.

Can I buy you a drink—what’d you say your name was?

His name is Raymond, Linda May said. I told you.

That’s right, you did. But I forgot. Is that all right with you?

I didn’t mean it that way.

Okay then. So Ray, can I buy you a drink?

I have one, Raymond said.

How about another? I need one myself. And I know this little lady does. Don’t you. He looked at her.

Yes, she said.

The man looked out across the room and began waving his hand. He kept looking and he waved and whistled once through his teeth. Linda May was sitting close beside him, leaning against the shoulder of his green corduroy shirt. There. She seen me, the man said. She’s coming over.

The young blonde barmaid walked up carrying a bar tray with empty glasses balanced on it. She looked tired. You ready for another round, Cecil? she said.

Does the bear shit in the Vatican?

I don’t know. I’m too wore out. So what’s it going to be?

The same for me and her. And whatever our buddy here wants.

I wouldn’t care for anything, thank you, Raymond said.