Spencerville (11 page)

Keith passed the joint to her. "Enough."

"Enough what?" She took a toke and said, "You, Mr. Landry, could solve your problem and our problem at the same time..." she exhaled. "...right?"

Keith had trouble forming his thoughts, but after a few seconds, or a few minutes, he heard his voice say, "Gail Porter... I've butted heads with the best in the world... I've had enough experience with women to write the book on the subject... don't try to fuck with my head..." He thought this was what he wanted to say. It was close enough.

Gail seemed to ignore him and said, "I always liked her... I mean, we weren't big buddies, but I... she was kind of like... always had a smile, always doing some good deed... I mean, I could puke, you know... but deep down inside, I envied her... completely at peace with her man and her... like, uninvolvement with anything..."

"She became an antiwar something or other at Columbus."

"Really? Wow. That piss you off?"

Keith didn't reply, or thought he didn't. He couldn't tell any longer if he was thinking or speaking things.

The room seemed to be silent for a long time, then Gail said, "I mean, if you do nothing else here, Keith, if you do nothing else with your life after conquering the fucking world... get that woman away from him."

Keith tried to stand. "I think I'm leaving."

Jeffrey said, "No way, buddy. You're sleeping here. You can't even find the front door."

"No, I have to..."

Gail said, "Subject closed. All subjects closed. No more heavy shit. Get mellow, folks." She handed the joint to Jeffrey, then stood and changed the tape and began dancing to "Honky Tonk Woman."

Keith watched her in the flickering light. She was graceful, he thought, her thin body moving in good time to the music. The dance was not particularly erotic in and of itself, but it had been a long time since he'd been with a woman, and he felt a familiar stirring in his pants.

Jeffrey seemed indifferent to his wife's fugue and concentrated on the candle flame.

Keith turned away from Gail and helped Jeffrey look at the flame. He didn't know how much time passed, but he was aware that the tape had changed again and was now playing "Sounds of Silence," and Jeffrey was declaring that this was the ultimate musical accompaniment to pot, then Keith was aware that Gail was sitting opposite him again, drawing on a joint.

She spoke, as if to herself, and said, "Hey, remember no bras, and see-through blouses, and nude swimming, and group sex, and no killer diseases, and no hang-ups, no Antioch rules of sexual conduct, and men and women who actually liked one another? Remember? I do." She added, "God, what has happened to us?"

No one seemed to know, so no one replied.

Keith's mind was not working very well, but he did remember better days, though perhaps his idea of better was different from Gail's or Jeffrey's. The point was, things were once better, and his heart suddenly ached with a sense of loss, a nostalgia and sentimentality partly induced by the cannabis, partly by the evening, and partly because it was true.

Gail did not offer herself to him, which was a relief, because he didn't know what he would have said or done if she had. The evening ended with him sleeping on the couch in his underwear with a quilt thrown over him, and the Porters upstairs, in their bed.

The incense burned out, the candles guttered and died, a Simon and Garfunkel album ended, and Keith lay in the quiet dark. At dawn, he rose, dressed, and left before the Porters awakened.

It was a few days after dinner with the Porters, a Friday night, and Keith Landry, reacting to some remembered behavior of farm life, decided to go into town.

He put on slacks and a sport shirt, got into his Blazer, and headed for Spencerville.

He'd seen no sign of Annie during the past few days, but that was not for lack of vigilance on his part. He'd been home, he'd stayed within earshot of the phone, he'd checked his mailbox a few times a day, and he watched the cars that went by. In short, he'd reverted to a lovesick adolescent, and the feeling was not entirely unpleasant.

The day before, he'd seen a blue and white patrol car from Spencerville pass about noon, and that morning he'd seen a green and white county sheriff's car go by. The sheriff's car might have been a random thing, but the town police car was a long way from home.

In any case, he kept his Blazer out of sight, and he didn't know if they'd discovered his new automobile, unless, of course, they'd run his name through the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.

It was sort of a low-key cat-and-mouse game at this point, but Keith knew it had the potential for confrontation.

He drove up Main Street, which was quieter than he'd remembered it on Friday nights. In those days, Friday was called market day, and there had been a huge farmer's market on the blocked-off street north of Courthouse Square. Now, everyone, including the farmers, bought most of their food in supermarkets, prepackaged.

The commercial strip outside of town probably got the majority of Friday night shoppers, Keith thought, but there were a few shops open downtown, and the bank was open late. Also open, with cars parked nearby, were Miller's Restaurant and the two taverns — John's Place and the Posthouse.

Keith pulled into a space near John's Place and got out of the Blazer. It was a warm Indian summer evening, and there were a few people on the sidewalk. He walked into the tavern.

If you want to know a town, Keith had learned, go to the best and the worst bar, preferably on a Friday or Saturday night. John's was obviously the latter.

The tavern was dark, noisy, smoky, smelled of stale beer, and was inhabited mostly by men dressed in jeans and T-shirts. The T-shirts, Keith noticed, advertised brand-name beers, John Deere tractors, and locally sponsored sports teams. A few T-shirts had interesting sayings such as, "Well-diggers do it deeper."

There were a few video games, a pinball machine, and in the center of the tavern was a billiards table. A jukebox played sad country-western songs. The bar had a few vacant stools, and Keith took one.

The bartender eyed him for a moment, making a professional evaluation that the newcomer posed no potential threat to the peace of John's Place, and asked Keith, "What can I get you?"

"Bud."

The bartender put a bottle in front of Keith and opened it. "Two bucks."

Keith put a ten on the bar. He got his change, but no glass, and drank from the bottle.

He looked around. There were a few young women, all of them escorted by men, but mostly this was a male domain. The TV above the bar broadcast the Yankees vs. Blue Jays in a tight pennant race, and the sportscaster competed with some country singer sobbing about his wife's infidelities.

The men ranged in age from early twenties to late fifties, mostly good-old-boys as likely to buy you a beer as split your head with a barstool, and meaning nothing personal by either. The women were dressed like the men — jeans, running shoes, and T-shirts — and they smoked and drank beer from bottles like the men. All in all, it was a happy and peaceful enough crowd at this hour, though Keith knew from experience it could get a little rough later.

He swiveled his stool and watched the billiards game awhile. He'd had little opportunity to hang out in any of the few taverns in town because he'd been drafted and was being shot at about the time he could legally vote or drink. Now you could be shot at and vote, but still had to wait until you were twenty-one before you could order a beer. In any case, he'd hit John's Place and the Posthouse once in a while when he was home on leave, and he recalled that a good number of the men at the bars were recent veterans with some stories to tell, and some, like him, were in uniform and never had to buy a drink. Now, he suspected, most of the men in John's Place hadn't been far from home, and there seemed to him a sort of restless boredom among them, and he thought they had the look of men who had never experienced any significant rite of passage into manhood.

He didn't recognize any of the men his own age, but one of them at the end of the bar kept looking at him, and Keith watched the guy out of the corner of his eye.

The man got off his stool and ambled down the bar, stopping directly in front of Keith. "I know you."

Keith looked at the man. He was tall, scrawny, had blond hair down to his shoulders, bad teeth, sallow skin, and sunken eyes. The long hair, the jeans and T-shirt, and the man's mannerisms and voice suggested a man in his twenties, but the face was much older. He said in a loud, slurred voice, "I know who you are."

"Who am I?"

"Keith Landry." A few of the men around them glanced their way, but otherwise seemed disinterested.

Keith looked at the man again, and realized that he did know him.

He said, "Right, you're..."

"Come on, Keith. You know me."

Keith searched his memory, and a profusion of high school faces raced through his mind. Finally, he said, "Billy Marlon."

"Yeah! Hell, man, we was buddies." Marlon slapped Keith on the shoulder, then pumped his hand. "How the hell are ya?"

Keith thought perhaps he should have gone to the Posthouse instead. "Fine. How are you, Billy?"

"Just great! All fucked-up!"

"Buy you a beer?"

"Sure can."

Keith ordered two more Budweisers.

Billy sidled up next to him at the bar and leaned close enough for Keith to smell the beer on him, and other odors. Billy said, "Hey, man, this is great."

"Sure is."

"Hey, you look great, man."

"Thanks."

"What the hell you doin' here?"

"Just visiting."

"Yeah? That's great, man. How long you been back?"

"A few weeks."

"No shit? Great to see you."

Obviously, Billy Marlon was happy to see him. Keith tried to recall what he knew of Billy, what they'd had in common, so he could carry his end of what promised to be a stupid conversation. Finally, it all came back to Keith as Billy jabbered away. Marlon had been on the football team with him, had played halfback, but not very well, and mostly sat on the bench cheering on the starting lineup. Marlon had been the sort of kid who wanted to be liked, and there was little not to like about him, objectively, but most people found him annoying. In fact, Keith still found him likable and annoying.

Marlon asked, "You get fucked-up in Vietnam?"

"Probably."

"Me, too. You was with the First Cav. Right?"

"Right."

"Yeah, I remember that. Your mom was worried sick. I told her you'd be okay. Hell, if a fuckup like me could survive, a guy like you would be okay."

"Thanks." Keith recalled that Billy had been drafted right out of high school. Keith had availed himself of the college draft deferment, which in retrospect was a monumental government blunder. The rich, the bright, the privileged, and anyone else who could get into college had four good years of protesting the war or ignoring it, while the poor and stupid got killed and maimed. But instead of the war ending in a reasonably acceptable time frame, it went on, and the college graduates, like himself, started getting called. By the time he got to Vietnam, Billy Marlon and most of his high school class were already out of the Army or dead.

Billy said, "I was with the Twenty-fifth Division — Jungle Lightning. We kicked some gook ass over there."

"Good." But not enough gook ass to end the damned thing. "You saw some shit, too."

"Yes, I did." Apparently, Billy had been following Keith's Army career while probably regaling Spencerville with his own exploits. "You kill anybody?" Billy asked. "I mean up close."

"I think so."

"It's a kick."

"No, it's not."

Billy thought a minute, then nodded. "No, it's... but it's hard to forget it."

"Try."

"I can't, man. You know? I still can't."

Keith looked at his former classmate. Clearly, Billy Marlon had degenerated. Keith asked, "What have you been up to?"

"Oh, shit, not too much. Married twice, divorced twice. Got kids from the first marriage. They's all growed now and live in Fort Wayne. They went there when they was young with their mother. She married some, like, asshole, you know, and I never really seen the kids. Second wife... she moved away." He went on, relating a predictably barren life to Keith, who was not surprised by any of it, except when Billy said, "Shit, I wish I could do it over again."

"Yeah, well, everybody feels a little of that. But maybe it's time to go on."

"Yeah. I keep meaning to go on."

"Where you working?"

"No place. I do odd jobs. Do some hunting and fishing. I live a mile outside of town, west of here, got a whole farmhouse to myself. All I got to do is look after the place. Retired people living with one of their kids in California. Cowley. You know them?"

"Sounds familiar."

"They got the place sold now, so I got to find something else by November."

"Why don't you check yourself into a veterans' hospital?"

"Why? I ain't sick."

"You don't look well."

"Ah, I've been pounding the suds too much since I learned I got to move. I get real nervous when I don't have no place to live. I'll be okay."

"Good."

"Where you stayin'?"

"My folks' place."

"Yeah? Hey, if you need company, I can pay a little rent, do the chores, put some game on the table."

"I'll be gone by November. But I'll see what I can do for you before I leave."

"Hey, thanks. But I'll be okay."

Keith ordered two more beers.

Billy inquired, "What're you doin' for a living?"

"Retired."

"Yeah? From what?"

"Government."

"No shit. Hey, you seen anybody since you been back?"

"No. Well, I saw Jeffrey Porter. Remember him?"

"Hell, yeah. I seen him a few times. He don't have much to say."

They spoke a while longer, and it was obvious to Keith that Billy was too drunk. Keith looked at his watch and said, "Hey, I've got to run." He put a twenty on the bar and said to the bartender, "Give my friend one more, then maybe he should head home."

The bartender pushed the twenty back to Keith and said, "He's cut off right now."

Billy made a whining sound. "Aw, come on, Al. Man wants to buy me a drink."

"Finish what you got and be off."

Keith left the twenty on the bar and said to Billy, "Take that and go home. I'll stop by one day before I leave."

"Hey, great, man. See ya." Billy watched him as he left, and waved. "Great to see ya, Keith."

Keith went out into the fresh air. The Posthouse was on the other side of Courthouse Square, and Keith crossed the street and began walking through the park.

There were a few people on the benches, sitting under the ornate lampposts, a few couples strolling. Keith saw an empty bench and sat a moment. In front of him was the Civil War monument, a huge bronze statue of a Union soldier with musket, and on the granite base of the statue were the names of Spencer County's Civil War dead, hundreds of them.

From where he sat, by the light of the lampposts, he could make out the other war memorials, which he knew well, beginning with an historical marker relating to the Indian Wars, proceeding to the Mexican War, and on and on, war by war, to the Vietnam War, which was only a simple bronze plaque inscribed with the names of the dead. It was good, he thought, that small towns remembered, but it did not escape him that the monuments seemed to diminish in size and grandeur after the Civil War, as if the townspeople were getting frustrated with the whole business.

It was a pleasant night, and he sat awhile. The choices of things to do in a small town on a Friday night were somewhat limited, and he smiled to himself, recalling evenings in London, Rome, Paris, Washington, and elsewhere. He wondered if he could really live here again. He could, he thought. He could get back into a simple life if he had company.

He looked around and saw the lighted truck of the ice cream vendor and a group of people standing around. It had occurred to him that if he came into town on a Friday night, he might see Annie. Did the Baxters go out to dinner? Did they shop together on a Friday night?

He had no idea.

He remembered the summer nights when he and Annie Prentis sat in this park and talked for hours. He recalled especially the summer before college, before the war, before the Kennedy assassination, before drugs, before there was a world outside of Spencer County, when he and his country were still young and full of hope, and a guy married the girl next door and went to the in-laws for Sunday dinner.

This park, he remembered, had been filled with his friends; the girls wore dresses, the boys wore short hair. Newly invented transistor radios played Peter, Paul and Mary, Joan Baez, Dion, and Elvis, and the volume was low.

The preferred smoke was Newport menthols, not grass, and Coke was drunk, not snorted. The couples held hands, but if you got caught necking behind the bushes, you got a quick trip to the police station across the street and a tongue-lashing from the old police magistrate on duty.

The world was about to explode, and there were inklings of it, but no one could have predicted what finally happened. The summer of '63, Keith reflected, had been called the last summer of American innocence, and certainly it had been his last summer of innocence, when he lost his virginity in Annie Prentis's bedroom.

He had never seen a naked woman before Annie, not even in pictures or in the movies. Playboy existed in 1963, but not in Spencer County, and risque movies were censored before they got to Spencerville. Thus, he had no idea what a naked woman, let alone a vagina, looked like. He smiled to himself and recalled their first fumbled attempt to consummate the act. She had been as inexperienced as he, but her instincts were better. He had gotten the condom, which he'd carried in his wallet for no good reason, from an older boy who had gotten a box of them in Toledo, and it had cost Keith two dollars for one, a fortune in those days. He thought, If we had known what lay ahead, we would have tried to keep that summer going forever.