things.”
5
The naked bearded man lay in the sheltered space between brown rocks and thought of all the people he had been, of all the curious turns and twists of the road that had finally brought him to this place. Had it started when Danton came to Maine? Or when Dockerty had fired him? Or had it really started that first day with Sylvia when, for no reason that either of them could isolate later, they had reached very quickly a level of utter frankness.
He knew when the other phase of it had started. After that first day he did not see her for a week, but he thought about her a great deal. She was in his mind more often than was reasonable or understandable. The thought of her married to Harry made him feel slightlyqueasy, yet there was no reason, he thought, to feel that way. She was certainly far from a virgin bride, probably as far as you could get.
There was that Joey Tower and then somebody she didn’t name, and then Lennie and Frenchy and Windsalla. And God knows how many in between, or, earlier, how many sordid episodes in the alleys and hallways and staircases and packing boxes and parked cars of Hell’s Kitchen. She was certainly too hardened to feel squeamish about Harry’s flabby fifty-three-year-old body, or the hard round pot on the front of him. No matter how much polish had been added, this was still a cheap tramp, a consort of criminals, a hardened chippy, who had wearily, drunkenly, endured all imaginable orgy and debauch. And yet …
Harry asked him to stop over at his place one evening and have a drink with them. One of Harry’s other business partners was there, a man who had no piece of the hotel, but operated a trucking line in the Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi area, a man named Guntry with a long red wrinkled face and neck, a harsh high-pitched voice, and three fingers of his left hand missing. Sylvia wore a very plain yellow cotton dress. She seemed sullen and remote. Her conversation, though polite, was limited. Guntry had no small talk. All he wanted to talk was tractors and trailers and cost per mile of operation and expansion to Pensacola and how much it would cost.
Guntry wanted to write down some figures, so he and Harry moved to the far corner of the big living room. Sylvia sat on a chaise longue, ankles crossed, both hands holding her drink, looking down into it.
“You’re not a bundle of cheer tonight,” Lloyd said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can whip up a nervous giggle.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Nothing special. It was just an extremely short honeymoon.”
When Harry spoke to her there was a nasty-sweet edge to his voice that Lloyd found embarrassing. He left as soon as he could. The next day, in town, he saw Sylvia’scar, the baby blue MG Harry had bought her. He had been about to return to the hotel. Instead he walked around until he spotted her coming out of a dress shop, a package in her arm.
“Coke, lady?”
“Lloyd! You startled me. This is more a beer type day, isn’t it.”
“That there place over there lady has got draft beer and yuh git to set on a saddle at the bar, by Godfrey.”
She inspected the saddles and settled for a booth near the back. They got huge mugs of dark beer. “I was grim last night, I guess.”
“Sort of.”
“I can talk to you, Lloyd. I can talk to that nice boy scout face of yours. Your good deed is just to listen. I jumped at this marriage, Lloyd. God, how I jumped. And I made it damn well clear to him it wasn’t love. He said he’d never been convinced there was any such thing anyway. So now he wants love. I’ve got to go all dewy when he’s around. Mist right up. Gasp and bleat and whinny. He is the sort of human being who has to have everything, every last atom and molecule of everything he touches. He gets sore when I do what he calls ‘hiding in a damn book.’ He tells me I’m cold. If I stop telling him what a great man he is, then I’m being critical. Damn it all, I was willing to marry him, but I
5
The naked bearded man lay in the sheltered space between brown rocks and thought of all the people he had been, of all the curious turns and twists of the road that had finally brought him to this place. Had it started when Danton came to Maine? Or when Dockerty had fired him? Or had it really started that first day with Sylvia when, for no reason that either of them could isolate later, they had reached very quickly a level of utter frankness.
He knew when the other phase of it had started. After that first day he did not see her for a week, but he thought about her a great deal. She was in his mind more often than was reasonable or understandable. The thought of her married to Harry made him feel slightlyqueasy, yet there was no reason, he thought, to feel that way. She was certainly far from a virgin bride, probably as far as you could get.
There was that Joey Tower and then somebody she didn’t name, and then Lennie and Frenchy and Windsalla. And God knows how many in between, or, earlier, how many sordid episodes in the alleys and hallways and staircases and packing boxes and parked cars of Hell’s Kitchen. She was certainly too hardened to feel squeamish about Harry’s flabby fifty-three-year-old body, or the hard round pot on the front of him. No matter how much polish had been added, this was still a cheap tramp, a consort of criminals, a hardened chippy, who had wearily, drunkenly, endured all imaginable orgy and debauch. And yet …
Harry asked him to stop over at his place one evening and have a drink with them. One of Harry’s other business partners was there, a man who had no piece of the hotel, but operated a trucking line in the Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi area, a man named Guntry with a long red wrinkled face and neck, a harsh high-pitched voice, and three fingers of his left hand missing. Sylvia wore a very plain yellow cotton dress. She seemed sullen and remote. Her conversation, though polite, was limited. Guntry had no small talk. All he wanted to talk was tractors and trailers and cost per mile of operation and expansion to Pensacola and how much it would cost.
Guntry wanted to write down some figures, so he and Harry moved to the far corner of the big living room. Sylvia sat on a chaise longue, ankles crossed, both hands holding her drink, looking down into it.
“You’re not a bundle of cheer tonight,” Lloyd said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can whip up a nervous giggle.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Nothing special. It was just an extremely short honeymoon.”
When Harry spoke to her there was a nasty-sweet edge to his voice that Lloyd found embarrassing. He left as soon as he could. The next day, in town, he saw Sylvia’scar, the baby blue MG Harry had bought her. He had been about to return to the hotel. Instead he walked around until he spotted her coming out of a dress shop, a package in her arm.
“Coke, lady?”
“Lloyd! You startled me. This is more a beer type day, isn’t it.”
“That there place over there lady has got draft beer and yuh git to set on a saddle at the bar, by Godfrey.”
She inspected the saddles and settled for a booth near the back. They got huge mugs of dark beer. “I was grim last night, I guess.”
“Sort of.”
“I can talk to you, Lloyd. I can talk to that nice boy scout face of yours. Your good deed is just to listen. I jumped at this marriage, Lloyd. God, how I jumped. And I made it damn well clear to him it wasn’t love. He said he’d never been convinced there was any such thing anyway. So now he wants love. I’ve got to go all dewy when he’s around. Mist right up. Gasp and bleat and whinny. He is the sort of human being who has to have everything, every last atom and molecule of everything he touches. He gets sore when I do what he calls ‘hiding in a damn book.’ He tells me I’m cold. If I stop telling him what a great man he is, then I’m being critical. Damn it all, I was willing to marry him, but I
Similar Books
