Plainsong (Plainsong #1)(32)

You mean when am I going?

Yes, when do you plan to leave?

Tomorrow. In the morning. I’ll be taking the car.

You’ll be taking the car. That’s news.

You don’t need it. You have the pickup.

He looked around, out into the little dining room and through the arched doorway into the kitchen. He turned back. And you think this’ll be the answer? Taking off like this?

She regarded him steadily. You know, you make me really tired sometimes.

I guess that goes both ways, he said.

They looked at each other, and it seemed obvious to Guthrie that she was thinking hard, trying to get back to how she wanted this to be. But it wasn’t going to happen. Too much had gone on.

She spoke again. I’m sorry about that for both of us, she said. I’m sorry about a lot of things. And I’ve decided I’m finally tired of being sorry.

He started to speak, but she cut him off.

Let me finish, please.

I was only going to say—

I know. Let me finish. I don’t want to forget this. I want something more than this. I understand that now. I’ve been submerged and abstracted. I wanted something more from you all these years. I wanted someone who wanted me for what I am. Not his own version of me. It sounds too simple to say it that way, but that’s what it is. Someone who wanted me, for myself. You don’t.

I used to, he said. I did once.

What happened to it?

Lots of things. It wore out. He shrugged. I didn’t get back what I gave you, what I wanted in return.

What you wanted? She flared up now, speaking heatedly. What about me? What about what I want?

What do you want? he said. He was angry now too. I don’t think you know. I wish you did but I don’t think you do. This is just another example of it.

You can’t say that, she said. That’s not for you to say. I’ll take care of that.

They sat facing each other across the room, and Guthrie thought, So they had reached this point again. It hadn’t taken them long. They’d arrived at this place one more time despite whatever good intentions they’d started with. It didn’t matter, this is where they would end up. It had been this way for the past three or four years. He looked at her. They were waiting, both trying privately to regain some calm in themselves. At the back of the little house the heater clicked on and the fan blew warm air into the room.

What about the boys? he said.

I’ve been thinking about that. You’ll just have to keep them.

You mean as opposed to what I’ve already been doing.

I know you’ve been taking care of them by yourself, she said. I can’t do anything else right now. But I want them to come stay with me here tonight. Then I’ll leave in the morning. I’ll bring them back to the house before I leave.

They still have their papers in the morning.

They’ll be home in time.

What about money? he said.

I’m going to take half of our savings.

The hell.

It’s half mine, she said. It’s only fair.

He took out matches and lit the cigarette he’d been holding. He blew smoke toward the ceiling light and looked across at her. All right, he said. Take the money.

I already have, she said. And you’ll be good to the boys, won’t you. And you’ll pay attention to them. And I want them to call me and for you to let me talk to them. I want you to promise you won’t make that a problem.

You can call any time, he said. They can call you any time.

And I want them to come and see me too. After a while. After I’ve gotten settled.

I think they should, he said. They’ll want to. They already miss you now. It’ll be worse after you leave.

He smoked and looked around for an ashtray but there wasn’t any and she didn’t get up to find him one. He tapped ashes into his cupped palm.

So that’s it?

Yes, I think so.

All right. I think I’ll go.

He rose without saying anything more and he walked out onto the front porch and she followed him and shut the door. Outside, he brushed the ashes off his hand and that evening he drove the two boys back to their mother’s house, driving across town in the old pickup with a grocery bag containing their clean pajamas on the seat between them, with the blue streetlights turned on at all the street corners and the town itself looking quiet and serene. He pulled up and stopped in front of the house. The lights were on inside.

Mom’ll bring you home in the morning, he said. And you’ve got your pajamas.

They nodded.

You’re all set then.

Can we call you if we need anything? Bobby said.

Of course. But you’ll be all right. I know you will. You’re going to have a good time here.

Guthrie and the two boys sat in the heated cab, looking at the little stucco house with the lights showing in the windows. Once they saw her pass before the window carrying something. Patches of snow under the bare trees in the yard were shining in the house light.

All right? Guthrie said. That’ll be good. You’ll have a fine time. Who knows, maybe you won’t even want to come home again. He patted them on the legs. A joke.

But they didn’t smile. They didn’t say anything.

Well. You better go. Your mom’s waiting. I’ll see you in the morning.

Good night, Dad.