Norwood by Charles Portis Page A

like a mess to me.”
    â€œI washed it and rolled it up and had it looking so nice and now look at it. It was running for that bus. What are you doing with that cowboy hat on?”
    â€œI thought you liked it.”
    â€œI’ll say this, it’s a tall one.”
    Norwood stirred his coffee and talked to her with his head turned just slightly; he knew he wouldn’t be able to talk straight if he looked directly into her face. What a honey! It might even knock him off the seat. “This ain’t a bad looking bus station for Richmond,” he said. “You’d be surprised how little that one is in New York.”
    â€œI know a girl that went to New York and got a suckruhturrial job right off making ninety-five dollars a week. She was the FHA Charm Queen two years running. And smart? She didn’t know what a B was.”
    â€œThey put butter on ham sandwiches up there,” he said. He put a dime in the remote jukebox unit and played a Webb Pierce selection.
    â€œI know why you’re wearing that hat. You’re a singer yourself.”
    â€œHow did you know?”
    â€œI saw your guitar on the bus.”
    â€œI fool around with it some.” He looked in all his pockets and then forgot what he was looking for.
    â€œHave you made any records?”
    â€œWell, I’m just getting started. I may cut some platters when I get to Shreveport.” Cut some platters?
    â€œI bet you’ll be a big star one of these days and your folks will be so proud of you.”
    He wound his watch.
    â€œIs that your home, Shreveport?”
    â€œNaw, my home is Ralph, Texas, down there the other side of Texarkana. It ain’t too far from Shreveport.”
    â€œHave you got a wife anywhere?”
    â€œNaw.”
    â€œI was supposed to been married last March. It was all my fault, I said no we better wait. Wayne, see, he wants to do everything right now and after he thinks about it he don’t want to do it any more.”
    â€œThat’s a mighty nice dress you got on.”
    â€œThank you, I made it myself. He may have him some old girl down there. That handsome devil, all the girls wanted him back home but they couldn’t get him from me. He would favor Rory Calhoun a lot if his neck was filled out more.”
    Norwood was doing a pushup from the stool.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” she said.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œYou keep doing things.”
    Nothing was said about it but there was a tacit understanding that they would sit together when they got back on the bus. Norwood did not try anything right away, although much of his discomfort had passed. There in the half-light of the bus he could not see her face clearly. Her voice alone and presence did not stun and confound his brain.
    They talked. He edged closer to her through a series of leg crossings and body adjustments. Soon he had his arm over her shoulder. No resistance. He let it slide down a little and began squeezing the soft flesh of her upper arm. It was wonderful. The way he was doing it, with just a thumb and finger, giving a thick pinch here and there, was like a witch testing a captured child for plumpness. Rita Lee couldn’t decide whether she liked it or not. She had been grabbed and wrenched about in many different ways but this was a new one. She stiffened.
    â€œI was afraid of this,” she said. “I was afraid the minute I sat down here you would think I was looking for love on a bus.”
    Norwood didn’t stop, nor did he answer, not liking to have attention called to what he was doing when he was at this kind of thing. He nuzzled her. “I mean it now,” she said, but not with any firmness, and he cleared his throat and kissed her and she relaxed, Wayne the Marine out of mind. He went back to the arm business, still not saying anything or acknowledging in any way that anything was going on.
    After a time she said,