Winter Loon(55)

THE ROOKS’ HOUSE WAS IN the center of town, off Main Street in the right direction. It was brick and square, solid, white door, white trim on the windows. Flimsy drapes drawn. Kathryn pulled the yellow car into the driveway around back. “Out,” she’d said. “For the night. I told them I was staying in, watching television.”

I nodded, followed her through the back door, through the mudroom where she hung her coat, kicked off her shoes, and made me do the same. We were in her kitchen, appliances that matched each other and the linoleum on the floor, wallpaper with vertical stripes pin straight and pattern matched, pictures of flowers and fruit perfect enough to smell and taste. “Sit down,” she said. “You want something to eat?”

The light came on in the refrigerator. Milk, juice, eggs. Containers upon containers. Condiments in the door, multiple jars of jelly and preserves. The kitchen smelled clean, like grease never sizzled there, fish wasn’t poached, nothing ever burned. “Whatever you’re having,” I said. I’d never been in a kitchen so neat, like something out of a magazine. “Do you have servants?”

“Servants? What sort of people do you think we are, Wes? I mean, we have a housekeeper.”

I ran my finger along the chair rail like I’d seen done in movies. It came up clean, but I wiped it on my jeans anyway. “She does a good job.”

Kathryn cut the sandwich diagonally, then licked the mustard off her finger slowly, for me. “Here,” she said, setting the plate on the table along with one of her father’s bottled beers. “Eat.”

My mother made her bologna sandwiches like that, lots of mayonnaise and mustard, a slice or two of meat, soft white bread that tacked to the roof of your mouth. She’d crush barbecue potato chips in with it, squash them into the bologna for crunch. Kathryn watched me eat, her elbows back against the counter so her chest burst forward out of her sweater. “You going to tell me what happened with you and Jolene Oliver?”

“What does it matter?” I said, as much to Kathryn as to myself. I swigged the beer and took another from the refrigerator. “You mind?”

“Be my guest.”

She grabbed two more beers, then led me out of the kitchen, through a living room with tightly upholstered furniture—light colored because no one would spill, because no one would be allowed to eat in a room like that—up the carpeted stairs. I held onto the polished banister that didn’t wobble or creak, watched Kathryn’s ass sway like ripe fruit.

Her room was lavender and blue, soft and round like her. She turned on a lamp that shone on a cold painting above her bed of mountains and a blue stream. It reminded me of motel room paintings. Placeless and false.

I stood there, not sure what I was supposed to do next. Kathryn prowled up to me, pretending to be a woman who’d had a man before, pretending we were not still kids really.

“So . . .” she said. “Take off your jacket.”

“Right.”

“Don’t be nervous. I’m ready. I have everything we need. Why don’t you sit down,” she said, pushing me gently onto the end of the bed. “I’m going to go slip out of these clothes. I’ll be right back. You make yourself comfortable.” She set the beers down. “Have another.”

She disappeared into her own bathroom. I quickly drank another beer, fell back. The picture was upside down now, and I was trapped under ice or paint. I imagined my palms on the underside of the water, trying to push my way out. The bed spun like a whirlpool. I allowed myself to get sucked down, hoping there’d be a way out once I hit bottom.

“Are you ready?” Kathryn called from the bathroom.

I tried to block out the lake cabin, the hole in the ice, the sound of the loon’s cry. It’s just sex, I told myself. And then there was Jolene, emerging from the river, glowing like sunset followed her wherever she went. I opened my eyes and Kathryn was standing in front of me, backlit by the bathroom light. She was wearing a baby-blue bra and panties and nothing else.

“Ta-da!” she said as she spun around, obviously impressed with her ample, flawless body.

The thought of her in that bed—me naked with her and touching her body, climbing on top of her, then putting myself inside her—made me feel queasy and repulsed. I couldn’t do what she wanted me to do. I pushed myself to standing, locked my knees.

Her hands flew to her hips.

“Wes Ballot! Get undressed! You’re making me feel silly.”

I rubbed my temples to clear my head. “I have to go,” I said. “I can’t do this. I really can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? Of course you can. You’re just nervous. Here,” she said, “let me help you.” She moved closer, undid my belt buckle, and dropped my pants.

“Kathryn.”

She shoved my chest lightly, enough to tangle me in my jeans so I’d fall back onto the bed. She straddled me, reached behind her back to unhook her bra, freeing white breasts to sway close to my face. I wormed out from under her and sat on the edge of her frilly bed.

“No,” I said. “I . . . I don’t want to.”

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. I’d heard that sound in a voice before and I’d seen that look in pleading eyes. She had a plan and her plan included me. I shook my head, stood, and hoisted my pants up. She grabbed my wrists and tried to pull me down, but I yanked free.