The Hard Blue Sky (7 page)

He could feel the muscles in his stomach tighten and he hunched his shoulders slightly. He had the silly desire to giggle. He could feel his mouth move around, trying to stop it. The three were staring at him, and he realized he must be making faces.

He forced himself to take deep slow breaths. Inside his shoes his toes curled downward—to get a better hold on the deck.

Slowly the indecision in the older man’s face faded. When he makes up his mind, Inky thought, they’ll come.

He waited.

Then it changed. All of a sudden. He saw it change.

It was the pimply-faced boy who did it. Inky was watching him. The face that was angry one minute turned confused and then, all of a sudden, guarded.

With that same careful strange expression on his face, the boy straightened up and laughed, a sharp little laugh that made the others turn to look at him.

Inky saw it and wondered. He’s remembering something, he thought, you can see him remembering. And it’s changing everything. And he doesn’t want anyone else to know.

Inky told himself: He’s not going to fight. He’s not afraid, but he just made up his mind.

“Jesus,” the boy said, “it got to be the heat.” He gave a shrug with one shoulder. Cut across the
Pixie
and climbed on the dock.

For a minute the others just stared after him. Then the older man said quietly: “Nothing here that won’t wait for tomorrow, Chep boy. … Lets us go.”

“I got to get the cigarettes.” Chep got them from the wheelhouse and, with the other, crossed over the
Pixie
to the dock. As he went, he lit a cigarette, dropping the match, which flickered for a second on the deck and then went out.

The two of them headed down the dock. Inky picked up the match and tossed it to the water. “Jesus,” he said, “everybody takes it out on the decks.”

The pimply-faced boy had not gone. He was standing a couple of feet back on the dock, talking to Hector.

Inky picked up the chamois and rubbed the spot: there was a small burned mark. He threw the cloth through the open hatch, angrily.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Cecile said. She was still stretched out on the cockpit seat, looking as if nothing had happened.

“Everything’s swell,” Inky said. “Now who were they?”

“Livaudais,” Cecile said. “Eddie Livaudais, the old man, and his boy Henry there,” she pointed over her shoulder, “and his brother-in-law.”

The boy finished talking to Hector and started off. After a few steps he turned and asked: “You know the date?”

“Who?” Cecile said. “Me?”

“It’s the ninth,” Hector said.

“You sure?”

Cecile said, “I wrote a letter yesterday and I looked at the calendar—that’s what it is, for sure.”

The boy lifted one hand to rub his cheek, remembered the pimples and dropped the hand again. “Just what I wanted to find out,” he said with a little grin. “The date was bothering me.”

“How come?”

“I been working enough these days here,” Henry said. “And I’m figuring to take it easy for a while.”

“Hell,” Hector said, “wish I was doing it.”

“Can’t go getting in a fight,” the boy said with that same nervous laugh. And he deliberately didn’t look over toward Inky. “Can’t go getting bashed up when I’m taking a couple of days off.”

“Wish I was doing that,” Hector said.

“Going hunting, maybe.” And the boy left.

“What I don’t get,” Cecile said quietly, “is why they changed their minds.”

“You got me,” Inky said.

“Ain’t like a Livaudais.”

“You saw it,” Inky said.

Cecile shook her head. “And they fighters, them. Tough as nobody’s business.”

“They could toss you in the bay,” Hector said. “Any size pieces they want to.”

“Something stopped Henry, for sure.”

Hector chuckled and began to move away. “Crazy Livaudais,” he said, “that what we always say around here. Whole bunch always been crazy.”

“See you,” Cecile said.

“I’ll be here,” Inky said.

Hector was halfway down the wharf. Cecile ran to catch up with him, turning once to wave.

Inky sat down on the sun-warmed cockpit seat and stared at the winch handle. And he felt just a little twinge of regret for not using it.

All the rest of the evening young Livaudais’s face bothered him.

A
S THEY HAD PLANNED,
Perique and Hector began drinking after supper. They worked on the whisky, sitting in the little screened-in part of the Boudreau porch. Cecile put the kids to bed and went over to the Monjures, next door, visiting. Every now and then they could hear her laughing. Finally she came back, passed by with only a look for them, and went to bed.

They found another bottle and kept drinking, steadily. Shortly after ten they finished all they had. And Perique left, walking slowly along the gravel paths, until he saw the light in the Landry house. He went over and let himself in the gate. The dogs knew him, and whined around his legs. He walked up to the window which was just slightly over his head, and called: “Hey!”

He heard the rustle of the paper as Annie put down the magazine. “Hey!” he called again. She did not answer. But the whisky was singing behind his ears, so he said: “You got company in the parlor.”

And went around the front and let himself in.

Annie had been curled up on her bed, her clothes off in the stuffy night, reading magazines: a copy of
House and Garden
that was four months old, and five or six back issues of the
Ladies’ Home Journal.

When she heard Perique she pulled up a couple of copies to cover herself, in case he could climb up on something and look in the window.

She was surprised. She really was. And her skin prickled with a shiver even in the heat. It was a pleasant feeling. She was glad he had come, gladder to see him than she had been in a long while. She slipped a dress on, hurrying, not bothering with panties or a bra. It was a heavy chintz cotton, and there wasn’t really any need for it, she told herself. She stopped to put on some lipstick, and brush her hair, and smear a little perfume down the sides of her neck.

He had put on only a single light in the living-room, and for a minute she didn’t see him. “Goodness,” she said, “it’s dark.”

“It’s your eyes,” he said thickly.

He was drunk, she thought. And there was another lovely little goosepimply shiver.

“Papa hasn’t come back,” she said, “he must be staying the night.”

“I figured that,” he said.

“I was in bed.”

“That’s a nice place to be.”

“I meant I had to get dressed again, in skirts and all.”

“Okay,” he said, “let’s us talk about your skirts.”

“You been drinking?”

“Honey,” he said, “I am drunk. You got any beer?”

“You don’t need any more.”

He got up and walked quietly past her and out to the kitchen. “Know your house well as mine.”

She went around, turning on the lights. He came back, three beer cans balanced on one hand, and squinted into the light. “God damn,” he tumbled the cans into her lap. “Hold on to these.” And he turned them all back out. “Open me a beer,” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said, “you had enough.”

“Not going to do it, huh?”

She caught the warning in his voice and shivered again.

“Okay,” he said. “Do it myself, me. And that there is one against you.”

“One what?”

“Tell you when the time come.”

“What?”

He drank the beer in long gulps. “I’m real thirsty,” he said. “Whisky give you a thirst.”

“Don’t I get one?” she said.

“More out there. Go get you’ own.”

She got up, angry now, went out to the kitchen, and brought a couple of cans for herself.

He was in the big chair. She sat on the sofa, realized that was a mistake, and was a little shy about changing her seat abruptly.

He gathered up his beer cans and came over to sit beside her. She started to move. He dumped the cans quick to the cushion, and grabbed her.

“Don’t spill it,” she said. “I got a clean dress.” She was excited now, she could feel her ears get hot—it was almost like anger, only it wasn’t.

“It’s a clean dress,” she repeated.

“Take it off if you worrying about it.”

“No. …” She pulled back, but he had her by one wrist and yanked her back down. “Ouch,” she said, “you hurt. …”

“Don’t go whining like a puppy dog.” He finished the can. “Hector, he was right.”

“About what?” she asked.

“None of your damn business,” he said.

He held her on the sofa with one hand, while he finished the three cans. “You didn’t drink yours,” he said.

“I did.”

“I been around here,” he said, “I been around here, me, and around here and around here some more. … And no this and no something else. And a man get enough somewhere.”

He put the empty cans down carefully on the floor. “Don’t want to go ruining you papa’s rug none.” He paused, thinking. Then he stood up. “Come on.”

In the hall he staggered, and she pulled free and was almost out the front door when he caught her. They knocked the little tabouret over.

“Jesus,” he said.

The only light in the hall was a small bare bulb without a shade. He left that on, and he left the door to her room open. That made a dim yellowish light inside as he pushed her down on the bed and carefully, with drunken precision undid the back buttons.

“Go head and yell,” he was saying, “go ahead.”

She was more afraid now than anything else. And she held herself perfectly stiff.

He dragged the dress off. “Being careful,” he said. “Me, I’m being real careful.”

“Not bad,” he said in a minute, “I seen better, but not bad.”

And he said: “It’s the god-damn likker.”

She laughed a little uncertainly.

“Bitch,” he said, “nobody’s through with you.”

She pulled away, but not very hard. Her nipples were burning and her belly quivered.

“Take care of you …”

“Your teeth,” she said, “they hurt.”

“Nothing to what they going to do … nothing.”

The night was very still and there were mosquitoes singing away in the corners of the room. “God-damn fucking likker,” he said, “but it don’t matter.”

“Jesus,” Perique said, “better go pass out home.”

He stumbled out through the hall. She heard him cursing the front gate, heard it spring shut behind him, and then heard the irregular rhythm of his steps on the gravel.

Annie wondered what time it was. The Baby Ben clock which always stood on the bureau had got knocked over; she couldn’t find it. A round white spot of mosquito bite began to rise on her stomach, and she scratched at it fitfully.

Finally she pushed herself up, and sat on the edge of the bed. She looked back, around her shoulder, at the sheet. She was surprised that there was no blood.

Annie did not see Perique for two days. Then she met him on the path between the grocery and the Livaudais house. She wasn’t sure what to say. So she said nothing. She started to look down at the ground and pass by him. But he took her arm and stopped her.

“Look,” he said, “don’t worry.”

Still looking at the ground, she shook her head, agreeing, and wondering what he was talking about.

“I had a load on, me,” he said, “but I can tell you just exactly what happened. Like I been cold sober.”

She nodded, afraid to say anything. She didn’t understand, and she knew she should have.

“Didn’t want you worrying about nothing.”

“I wasn’t,” she said.

“Wasn’t even near you.”

She nodded and tried to think of something to say. “It was the likker,” she said finally, echoing him.

He blushed. She stared as the tips of his ears got red. “I had some too much,” he said.

“Didn’t matter.”

His ears were bright red now. “You didn’t have a hard time of it,” he said defiantly. “You got some fun out of it.”

“Sure,” she said, “sure.”

But he was walking rapidly off.

She stared after him, wondering what they had been talking about.

J
ULIUS
A
RCENAUX RUBBED HIS
eyes. It was so quiet even the flies weren’t stirring; they were just still black spots on the dark ceiling. Way off some dogs were yipping, their cries sounding strangled in the heat. From their tone, they’d be after a bitch.

On hot days, with nobody to talk to in the store all the long afternoon, he had a hard time keeping awake. Sometimes he’d just give up and go to the back of the grocery where he lived and take a nap. If any customers came, they would yell for him.

His wife was always furious when she found him sleeping in the middle of the bed. “Comme cochon,” she would tell him, “rolling in his sweat on the bed all day long.”

They had been married a little over thirty years, and it had been a long time since he minded what she said.

He wouldn’t even open his eyes; he’d just turn over and go back to sleep. He slept better in the bed alone.

Sometimes when he woke up at night he could feel the form alongside him, feel her without touching her. And it would seem to him then that her body filled the whole small room. He could feel her expanding, expanding, blowing up like a balloon. And he would lie with the side of his face pressed hard into the pillow and look up at her silhouetted against the open window, the mounds of her thighs and her breasts. And he’d feel so crowded that he would roll out of bed and finish off the night on the linoleum of the floor.

Julius Arcenaux loosened the handkerchief around his neck. He’d tied it there in the early afternoon to catch the sweat that poured down the wrinkles of his thick neck.

“Ain’t doing no good,” he told himself aloud. All over, the shirt was sticking to his body. He could hear it squish when he moved his shoulders against the chair back. There were only two dry spots: the upper crease of each short sleeve. Otherwise the yellow cotton was soaked through: he could see the black hairs that covered his chest and stomach.

He changed his shirt three or four times a day in summer. Philomene, his wife, didn’t bother washing them anymore. She just hung them over the back of the rocking-chairs on the back porch. It didn’t matter to him that the shirts weren’t fresh as long as they were dry.