Plainsong (Plainsong #1)(43)

Guthrie shook his head, grinning. How bad was he hurt?

Oh, he’s all right. Give him a good headache is all.

Did he hit the dog?

Nah. Hell. The dog wasn’t even involved. The dog skedaddled. You reckon there’s a lesson there?

I wouldn’t be surprised, Guthrie said.

My mama use to say it’s a lesson in everything you do if you just have eyes to see it, Buster said.

I believe that, Guthrie said. Your mama was a smart woman.

Yes sir, she was, Buster said. She’s been dead now twenty-seven years.

Guthrie lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Buster. Buster took one and inspected it and put the filter end in his mouth. They smoked and drank for a while. Monroe brought Guthrie another beer and brought a beer and a shot for Buster. Take it out of that, Guthrie said. Buster nodded thanks to him and picked up the little glass and threw the shot back and immediately afterward bent over and had a long drink of beer.

As he was finishing it Judy came up from the back room. She stopped behind Guthrie and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around she said, I thought you’d be at the party at Maggie Jones’s house.

I was. I didn’t see you there.

I get enough of school at school, she said. It’s just the teachers. The same old talk.

Well, Guthrie said, you’re looking good.

Why, thank you. She turned completely around in front of him, making a little dance. She had on a low-cut white top and tight blue jeans and boots fashioned from soft red leather. The tightness of the top she was wearing made smooth pretty mounds of her breasts.

Can I buy you a drink?

I came over to buy you one, she said.

You can buy the next one, Guthrie said.

All right. I won’t forget.

Monroe brought her a rum and Coke and handed it to her and she tasted it and stirred it with the straw and tasted it again.

You want to sit down? Guthrie said.

Where?

You can have my seat. I’ll stand up awhile.

Shoot. I’m younger than you are.

Are you?

I’m younger than anybody here. I’m the youngest girl out on a Saturday night. She raised her fist and waved it.

The man on the barstool to Guthrie’s left was listening and he turned around and looked at her. He was wearing a big black hat with a bright feather in the band. I’ll tell you what, he said. You can have my seat if you give me a good-night kiss first. I was just about to leave anyhow.

Do I know you? she said.

No. But I’m not hard to get to know. I don’t have nothing, if that’s what you mean.

All right, she said. Lean forward, you’re too tall. He leaned forward from the waist and she took his face in both of her hands, ducked under the brim of his hat and kissed him hard on the mouth.

How’s that? she said.

Jesus Christ, he said. He licked his lips. Maybe I better just stay here.

No you don’t, she said. She pulled him by the arm.

He stood up and patted her on the shouder and went outside. She sat at the bar with Guthrie and turned in his direction. Who was that? she said.

He lives out south, Guthrie said. He comes in here once in a while. I don’t know his name.

I’ve never seen him before.

He comes in about every other week.

Guthrie and Judy sat and talked about various things, about school, about Lloyd Crowder, some of the students, but not for long. Instead she told Guthrie about her daughter, who was a freshman at Fort Collins, and how it was to have the house just to herself now, how it was so quiet too much of the time. And Guthrie said a few things about his boys, told her what they were doing. Then she told him the story about the blonde on the charter plane to Hawaii, and in turn he asked if she knew what the worst thing was for someone to say to you when you were standing at the urinal. They had another drink, which she insisted on buying.

After it came she said, You mind if I ask you something?

What.

Is your wife still in Denver?

Guthrie looked at her. Yes, she’s still there.

Is she?

Yes.

What’s going to happen, do you think?

I can’t say. She might stay there. She’s staying with her sister.

Aren’t you two going to get back together?

I doubt it.

Don’t you want to?

He looked at her. You think we could talk about something else?

Sorry, she said.

He lit a cigarette. She watched him smoke. Then she took the cigarette out of his hand and drew on it, blew two jets of smoke from her nostrils and drew on it again and gave it back.

Keep it.

No, I just wanted that much. I quit.

You can have this one.

No, that’s all right. But listen. Why don’t you come over sometime and let me cook you a steak or something. You seem so lonely. And it’s too quiet over there in my house all the time when it’s just me.

I might do that.

Why don’t you. You ought to.

I might.

A few minutes later the other woman came in from the other room and dragged Judy back to their table. My God, the woman said, don’t leave me with him.

See you later, Judy said, and Guthrie watched them go back into the other room. The two women pulled the curly-haired man to his feet and walked him over to the shuffleboard table and Guthrie watched them play for a while. When he turned back to the bar he found that Buster Wheelright had disappeared. He’d left some change on the bar and then he’d gone off. Guthrie looked around. The woman in the army jacket was still asleep down the bar. He finished his beer and went out into the cold air again and drove up Main Street toward home.