Waveland by Frederick Barthelme Page A

Gail said to Greta, and they both nodded.
    “I'm not a conspiracy guy,” Eddie said.
    “Sure you are,” Greta said, dusting imaginary dust off his shoulders.
    “Well, that way, maybe. It's a mean country,” Eddie said.
    “And yet, here you are,” Gail said.
    “One-handed,” Vaughn said, giving her a look.
    “I remember when it was a great country,” Gail said. “When it was a country that did the right thing. That's what it was when we were growing up; that's what was in the history textbooks.”
    “I loved those books,” Vaughn said.
    “Quit it, will you, Vaughn?” Gail said.
    “I'm trying to participate,” he said.
    “I'm going out,” Gail said. “Will you guys be all right? It's really nice of you to move over here.”
    “We didn't actually
move,”
Vaughn said. “We're just coming to visit for a while.”
    “I know,” she said. “I know exactly what's going on, and I appreciate it.” She gave Vaughn a kiss on the cheek. She gave Greta a hug. She gave Eddie a handshake.
    That night Vaughn and Greta had dinner in Biloxi and went to a movie. They got back late and the house was dark. Gail's carwas there but her bedroom door was closed and they didn't hear anything at the door. They went out to sit on the deck and have a beer. “You think she's asleep?” Greta said.
    “Could be a nap,” he said. “She takes naps.” She clinked Vaughn's beer bottle with hers. “This went okay, didn't it? For the first day?”
    “I guess,” he said.
    “Some difficulty with Eddie, there in the early going,” she said.
    “Where'd you get Eddie, anyway?”
    “I don't know,” she said. “He's been around on and off. He knows a lot of people.”
    “He looks like one of those weird military spooks—I mean, like I imagine those guys look.”
    “I get that,” Greta said. “Kind of
could-explode-at-any-moment.”
    The lake was glassy and mirrored the lights in the houses across the water. They could hear the sounds of the air-conditioning units on the side of the house, the compressors working away like the industrious little angels they were.
    “I wish we knew more people like him,” she said. “You get people now with clever names and they don't know where to stop. They think being Pond or Able makes everything different, and suddenly they're on television or something. We should know people of good, hardworking stock. People who bowl for a living or design great buildings.”
    “I did not design great buildings,” he said.
    “Okay, maybe that was wrong,” Greta said. “We should know some people who killed some people.”
    Vaughn gave her a squint and a raised eyebrow.
    “Please,” she said. “Moving along here, I'm thinking weshould know race car drivers with magic names. Or George Clooney. Or Charlie Rose. I hate him, though. He's unctuous.”
    “We wouldn't have to have him over,” Vaughn said.
    “What was your nickname when you were young?”
    “Tug,” Vaughn said.
    “Your nickname was Tug?” she said.
    “I just said that to be interesting.”
    “You're making fun of me,” she said. She took a long drink from her beer, and he took a long drink from his, and they sat quietly listening to the sounds of the night. They could hear cars and crickets, electronics, water, ducks. The balcony had a white rail made of wood. It seemed kind of springy with his feet on it. Across the lake, a matter of four hundred yards, other houses were barely lit up. Sometimes they could make out someone crossing a window or opening a door, but mostly it was just small yellow squares in the inky darkness of trees against a night sky.
    He was worried about what was to come. Was it a good idea to stay at the house? Would it help Gail? He thought he knew what she felt like. You get to a point and things that used to mean something don't mean what they used to mean. The game changes. You don't want what you used to want. You don't care about what you used to care about. You don't need what you used to need.