Plainsong (Plainsong #1)(6)

When he entered the teacher’s lounge Maggie Jones was using the copy machine. She turned and looked at him. He sat down at the table in the center of the room and lit a cigarette. She stood at the counter watching him.

I thought you quit that, she said.

I did.

How come you started again? You were doing okay.

He shrugged. Things change.

What’s wrong? she said. You don’t look good. You look like hell.

Thanks. You about done with that?

I mean it, she said. You look like you haven’t even slept.

He pulled an ashtray closer, tapped the cigarette into it and looked at her. She turned back to the machine. He watched her working at the counter, her hand and arm turning rapidly with the crank of the machine, her hips moving at the same time and her skirt jumping and swaying. A tall healthy dark-haired woman, she was dressed in a black skirt and white blouse and wore considerable silver jewelry. Presently she stopped cranking the machine and put in another master.

What brings you here so early? she said.

Crowder wanted to talk to me.

What about?

Russell Beckman.

That little shit. What’d he do now?

Nothing. But he’s going to if he wants to get out of American history.

Good luck, she said. She cranked the machine once and looked at the paper. Is that all that’s bothering you?

Nothing’s bothering me.

Like hell it isn’t. I can see something is. She looked into his face, and he looked back without expression and sat smoking. Is it at home? she said.

He didn’t answer but shrugged again and smoked.

Then the door opened and a muscular little man in a shortsleeve white shirt came in. Irving Curtis, who taught business. Morning one and all, he said.

He moved up beside Maggie Jones and put his arm around her waist. The top of his head came up to her eyes. He stood up on his toes and whispered something into her ear. Then he squeezed her hard, drawing her toward him. She removed his hand.

Don’t be such an ass, she said. It’s too early in the morning.

It’s only a joke.

And I’m just telling you.

Oh now, he said. He sat down at the table across from Guthrie and lit a cigarette with a silver lighter and snapped it shut and then played with the lighter on the tabletop. What’s the good word? he said.

There isn’t any, said Guthrie.

What’s wrong with everybody? Irving Curtis said. Jesus. It’s the middle of the week. I come in here feeling good and now look what you’ve done to me. I’m depressed already and it’s not even eight o’clock in the morning.

You could shoot yourself, Guthrie said.

Ho, Curtis said. He laughed. That’s better. That’s funny.

They sat and smoked. Maggie Jones stopped the machine and gathered up her papers. Your turn, she said to Guthrie, and left the room.

Bye-bye, Irving Curtis said.

Guthrie rose and fed the ditto master into the slot on the drum and closed it and cranked the machine once and once more to see how the exam looked.

No shit, though, Curtis said. Just once I’d like to get her in a dark room.

You want to leave her alone, Guthrie said.

No. I mean, think about it.

Guthrie cranked the machine and turned the damp exams out into the tray. There was the sharp smell of spirits.

I told you what Gary Rawlson said about her.

You told me, Guthrie said.

Do you believe it?

No. And neither does Rawlson when he hasn’t been drinking. When it’s in the daylight.





Victoria Roubideaux.

At noon she came out of the noise and crush at school and walked over to the highway and then up a block to the Gas and Go. In her purse she had three dollars and some change and she wanted to think she could eat something now and keep it down. Thinking anyway she ought to try.

Approaching the store she passed two high school boys leaning together at the gas pumps, running fuel into an old blue Ford Mustang. They watched her walk across the blacktop in her short skirt. Once she glanced up at them. Hey, one of them called. Vicky. How you doing? She looked away and he said something she was unable to hear but it made the other boy laugh. She went on.

When she entered the store a group of high school kids was lined up at the counter, talking and waiting to pay for the cold meat sandwiches they’d taken from the refrigerated case and also the bags of chips and the plastic cups of pop. She walked back through the aisles, glancing at the labeled cans and the bright packages on the shelves. Nothing looked good now. She picked up a can of Vienna sausages and examined it and read the label and put it back thinking how slick they were, how they dripped and ran when you lifted them out. She moved over to the popcorn case. At least that would be a salty taste. She filled a bag of popcorn and then chose a can of pop from the cooler. She carried these to the front and set them on the counter next to the register.

Alice rang them up, a hard-looking thin woman with a black mole on her cheek. Dollar twelve, she said. Her voice sounded harsh. She watched the girl raise the purse on its strap and open it.

You’re looking kind of puny today. You okay, hon?

I’m just tired, the girl said, and set the money on the counter.

You kids. You need to go to bed at night. She scooped the money up and sorted it into the drawer. And I mean in your own bed.

I do, the girl said.