Plainsong by Kent Haruf Page B

street. A car went by loaded with high school kids, the windows rolled down and the music blaring. After a while two cattle trucks rattled past, one immediately behind the other, making the café windows vibrate. She could see the brown hides of the cattle through the ventilation holes in the aluminum sides, and all along the panels the manure had run down in ragged stains.
    Inside Shattuck’s, country music was playing from the ceiling speakers. The young red-haired mother at the other table had finished with the chili and was smoking a cigarette. She was jiggling her foot to the music, her loose shoe half off. From the speakers overhead a girl’s voice was singing, You really had me going, baby, but now I’m gone. The woman’s foot moved with the music. Then suddenly she jumped up from the table and cried, Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh, my God. What is wrong with you? She jerked the smaller of the two girls by the arm, lifting the little girl out of her chair, and stood her violently on her feet. Couldn’t you see that was going to happen? There was a pool of chocolate milk spreading across the table from an upended glass, the dark milk spilling off the edge like a little dirty waterfall. The small girl stood away from the table watching it, her face was as white as paper and she began to whimper. Don’t you dare, the woman said. Don’t you even start that. She grabbed napkins from the dispenser and swiped at the table, spreading the mess around, then she dabbed at her hands. Shit, she said. Look at this. Finally she snatched up her purse and rushed out of the room. Behind her the two little girls clattered in their hard shoes across the tiled floor, calling for her to wait.
    The girl watched them through the café window. The woman had already cranked the car and was beginning to roll it backward on the gravel lot, and then the older of the girls managed to open the passenger door and they hopped alongside trying to get in. Suddenly they leaped in one after the other but the door had swung out too wide and they couldn’t close it. The car jerked to a stop. The woman came rushing out and around to the other side and slammed the door shut and got back in and raced the car backward onto the highway where she put it forward and they roared away.
    On the floor under the table the chocolate milk had made a thin muddy pool. Mrs. Shattuck appeared from the kitchen dragging a mop and began to soak up the chocolate milk by swiping the mop back and forth. She stopped and looked at the girl. Did you ever see such a mess? she said.
    She didn’t mean to, the girl said.
    I’m not referring to that, Mrs. Shattuck said. Is that what you thought?
    It was after ten when the girl returned to the house. But it was still too early. Maggie Jones had not come home yet. The girl stepped quietly down the hall to the old man’s room and opened the door slightly and peered in. He was asleep in the bed in this back room where he could control the level of heat and it was turned up to a degree that seemed suffocating to the girl, but even so he was asleep in all his clothes with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His shoes formed a sharp bump under the blanket. A book was folded over his chest. She closed the door and went back to the sewing room she used as a bedroom and got undressed and put on her nightgown.
    Afterward she was in the bathroom, scrubbing her face, when the door suddenly opened. She turned from the mirror. He stood in the doorway, his white hair standing up on his head like wisps of dried corn silk. His eyes appeared bloodshot and glazed, staring at her.
    What are you doing in this house? he said.
    She watched him carefully. I live here, she said.
    Who are you? Who said you could just come in here?
    Mr. Jackson—
    Get out. Before I call the authorities.
    Mr. Jackson, I live here. You remember me.
    I never saw you before in my life.
    But Mrs. Jones invited me, the girl said.
    Mrs. Jones is dead.
    No. Your daughter. That Mrs.