"She turned out a pretty good little girl, although Doss was more than half of it. She is what she is and we'll go have dinner with her every Sunday night and act proper."
Joanne had glanced around the kitchen and frowned. 'Everything's still here, but you and Frank have pushed it a little beyond casual living, haven't you? Don't worry. I'll fix
And she had. She'd vacuumed out bushel basketsful of 73
it.
dog hair, scrubbed the sticky linoleum, and made new curtains, but she hadn't really changed anything. She'd given him his home back and loved him.
The table was covered now with jars and jars of jam that she'd canned while he'd been out patrolling stinking taverns with Sam. He wondered if she hadn't plunged into a flurry of canning more out of anger than anything else; she did this/ sort of thing more and more lately.
"I have nothing but time on my hands," she told him flatly. "I have no one to take care of but you—and you're never here, and if you are here, you're asleep."
His sense of serenity vanished. She was changing, and he couldn't deal with her. He'd heard that women grew more and more like their mothers as they aged, and wondered if he was destined to end up with another Elizabeth Crowder instead of the wife he'd married.
Danny was more bewildered than angry; he'd wanted kids too, but he'd never thrown it up to Joanne when she didn't get pregnant. He'd never pushed her into Doc's office, and he'd gone along with her plans to go when she wanted to, but he felt sick at the idea of putting his manhood on the line, of having Doc or anyone else know if there was something wrong with him. She didn't understand what she was asking of him.
He looked under the breadbox for his note. There was always a note—something silly or sexy or teasing. He ran his hand under the tin box but came up empty. And there were no cookies or sandwiches on the counter either, nothing to indicate that she was glad he'd come home to her.
He turned on the radio on the windowsill and listened to the weather and the farm report while he ate a bowl of cold cereal. He didn't give a goddamn about the weather or the price of hogs, but the familiar drone of the announcer's voice filled the empty kitchen. He put the cereal bowl in the sink and ran water over it so the Wheaties wouldn't stick and harden, turned off the light, and walked down the hallway, unhooking his gunbelt and hanging it over the
74
halltree. Joanne didn't like to have his service revolver in the bedroom, and it was close enough if he needed it.
She lay exactly as she had before, turned away from him, and she didn't stir as he padded through the room to the bathroom. He urinated, flushing the toilet as noisily as he could, letting the water run full force in the sink as he washed his face, hoping she'd wake up and reach out for him when he came to bed. And then he saw the familiar square blue cardboard carton that held her Tampax. The top was torn raggedly, and two of the white paper-wrapped cylinders were missing. Again. Without wanting to admit his anxiety about it, he'd been counting the days crossed off on her calendar and noted that she'd been five days overdue. And now she wasn't overdue anymore, and she'd blame him. There was just a brush of dried blood on the toilet seat when he flipped it back down.
He'd laughed when Fletcher had a vasectomy and Sam kidded him about shooting with an unloaded gun. Well, he wasn't laughing now. Danny leaned on the sink with both hands and stared at himself in the mirror. O.K. O.K. Damn it to hell. He'd go and do it, but he wouldn't tell her. He didn't want her to know for certain that she'd married a eunuch. Joanne wasn't asleep. She'd heard the truck coming up the lane, and said a prayer, as she always did—thanks for Danny's being safe. She'd sent him off in anger, and she'd gone to bed without leaving one sign for him that she cared if he got home or not. If anything had happened to him, it would have been her
Joanne had glanced around the kitchen and frowned. 'Everything's still here, but you and Frank have pushed it a little beyond casual living, haven't you? Don't worry. I'll fix
And she had. She'd vacuumed out bushel basketsful of 73
it.
dog hair, scrubbed the sticky linoleum, and made new curtains, but she hadn't really changed anything. She'd given him his home back and loved him.
The table was covered now with jars and jars of jam that she'd canned while he'd been out patrolling stinking taverns with Sam. He wondered if she hadn't plunged into a flurry of canning more out of anger than anything else; she did this/ sort of thing more and more lately.
"I have nothing but time on my hands," she told him flatly. "I have no one to take care of but you—and you're never here, and if you are here, you're asleep."
His sense of serenity vanished. She was changing, and he couldn't deal with her. He'd heard that women grew more and more like their mothers as they aged, and wondered if he was destined to end up with another Elizabeth Crowder instead of the wife he'd married.
Danny was more bewildered than angry; he'd wanted kids too, but he'd never thrown it up to Joanne when she didn't get pregnant. He'd never pushed her into Doc's office, and he'd gone along with her plans to go when she wanted to, but he felt sick at the idea of putting his manhood on the line, of having Doc or anyone else know if there was something wrong with him. She didn't understand what she was asking of him.
He looked under the breadbox for his note. There was always a note—something silly or sexy or teasing. He ran his hand under the tin box but came up empty. And there were no cookies or sandwiches on the counter either, nothing to indicate that she was glad he'd come home to her.
He turned on the radio on the windowsill and listened to the weather and the farm report while he ate a bowl of cold cereal. He didn't give a goddamn about the weather or the price of hogs, but the familiar drone of the announcer's voice filled the empty kitchen. He put the cereal bowl in the sink and ran water over it so the Wheaties wouldn't stick and harden, turned off the light, and walked down the hallway, unhooking his gunbelt and hanging it over the
74
halltree. Joanne didn't like to have his service revolver in the bedroom, and it was close enough if he needed it.
She lay exactly as she had before, turned away from him, and she didn't stir as he padded through the room to the bathroom. He urinated, flushing the toilet as noisily as he could, letting the water run full force in the sink as he washed his face, hoping she'd wake up and reach out for him when he came to bed. And then he saw the familiar square blue cardboard carton that held her Tampax. The top was torn raggedly, and two of the white paper-wrapped cylinders were missing. Again. Without wanting to admit his anxiety about it, he'd been counting the days crossed off on her calendar and noted that she'd been five days overdue. And now she wasn't overdue anymore, and she'd blame him. There was just a brush of dried blood on the toilet seat when he flipped it back down.
He'd laughed when Fletcher had a vasectomy and Sam kidded him about shooting with an unloaded gun. Well, he wasn't laughing now. Danny leaned on the sink with both hands and stared at himself in the mirror. O.K. O.K. Damn it to hell. He'd go and do it, but he wouldn't tell her. He didn't want her to know for certain that she'd married a eunuch. Joanne wasn't asleep. She'd heard the truck coming up the lane, and said a prayer, as she always did—thanks for Danny's being safe. She'd sent him off in anger, and she'd gone to bed without leaving one sign for him that she cared if he got home or not. If anything had happened to him, it would have been her
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