The Longest Night (12 page)

And with that, the sergeant took his wobbling leave, drifting to his creamsicle car. He stood by it for a moment, climbed inside and sat unmoving, and finally started it up and glided away. Nat slitted her eyes after him. When it reached the main road the car let out a loud grunt, a flatulent grinding of tires; it chewed gravel and lurched for the highway.

There was a muffled commotion from Nat's car. She turned to see Sam near the windshield calling out to Webb, “Excuse me! Is our daddy coming out yet?”

She opened the door. The girls clambered up over the folded passenger seat and slid to the ground, their balloons bobbing into everything on the way out. The wind shot the balloons to the end of their strings, lifted the girls' skirts, pulled their dark hair sideways. They grinned shyly at Webb, glad to have another participant in this birthday surprise.

“Hold tight to those balloons,” Nat said. “Don't let go. You'll be so disappointed if you lose them.”

“There he is!” Sam shouted, and she and Liddie ran. Nat looked up and saw Paul stride from the building, his businesslike walk, head down. When he saw the girls he stopped in surprise, held open his arms, and laughed.

“I guess I'll be going then,” said Webb, starting off toward Franks's car. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Collier.”

“Nice talking with you,” she called. She smoothed her skirt and patted her heated cheeks. So Richards had been a bother; so she wouldn't get to spend the evening with Paul, or even drive him home after coming all this way. It was all right.

Paul knelt by the girls now as they talked his ear off, hopping up and down. She was relieved to see that he didn't mind their ignoring the bus rule, which of course she knew about but just felt like breaking this one time, this celebratory day. She had paid for it by enduring Richards and hoped now to be rewarded, too—and she was, as Paul came toward her grinning with a girl under each arm, the delight of seeing them written plain on his face, even as Liddie's red balloon slipped loose and they all said
Oh!
as it whipped like a kite on the brisk wind, smaller and smaller into the sky.

T
he boys from the CR-1 were out on the town, and even if the town were the size of a postage stamp they weren't about to care.

They'd all hauled over to the Calico Saloon after the day shift, leaving behind three cheerless shift mates who couldn't partake in the fun (no way around it; three were always sacrificed for the greater good). Nat had driven off with the girls, and Paul wished he could have just gone home with them; it had been such a surprise to see them there, bright spots of color and
life
in that dull gravel parking lot. The girls' enthusiasm shone from their little bodies, and Nat seemed somehow prettier than ever with what looked like a dozen emotions working their way across her face. The shy way she hung back from the girls, tucked her hair behind her ear, and kissed him. And maybe he was just imagining it (it was entirely possible that he was imagining it) but her hug seemed to have something extra in it—her breasts were somehow involved; he'd felt them against his chest with more prominence than usual, so what was going on there? Was this some new, bedroom kind of hug she was trotting out to make him a little crazy before he had to climb into yet closer proximity with, dear God, his dull, stinky, large-footed shift mates, all elbows and Adam's apples and collared shirts as they piled into Franks's car to meet the other guys out in the red-light district on the outskirts of town?

There had always been a small red-light district at the edge of Idaho Falls, as with any town founded on religious absolutism, but with the recent influx of military the area had boomed. The guys from the CR-1 favored the Calico, which seemed to have been there before time began. Dank, cinereal, with red-and-green tile floors, heavily knotted pine walls smoke-darkened over the years like a chamber in an underground mine, it whispered of gold rush days, high jinks, maybe a man or two cut down mid-celebration with gold nuggets in his hand. Now it did a steady, subdued business, a real drinker's place darkened by shadows, the slow clink of glasses, Tennessee Ernie Ford on the jukebox as Paul and his shift mates walked in.

Some people say a man is made outta mud / A poor man's made outta muscle and blood.

They were joining Richards, Kinney, and Slocum, who were already seated, sharing a pitcher. Slocum and Kinney had been off work that day; they looked refreshed, showered, and combed like little boys. Richards had worked the day shift—Paul had seen his car in the lot—but he hadn't glimpsed his boss till now.

Paul took a seat between Franks and Webb at the long table; what a trio they made, inseparable, like girlfriends. From the walls gazed the sorrowful faces of a dozen mounted animals. Pickled eggs blobbed in glass jars on the bar counter; the wood tabletop was soft and oily beneath his hand. Big Gitte, the bartender's stern and half-deaf wife, slapped a bowl of peanuts and a tiny napkin in front of him.

“What's with this fuckin' wind?” Richards asked, grinning around at them. His early coarseness absolved them all in advance: This was a man's night out, no ladies in sight (Big Gitte did not count), so they could talk like men and act like men and be as bawdy and crass as they pleased.

Franks spoke with authority. “It comes down out of the mountains,” he said.

“What does?” asked Webb, practically bouncing in his chair, then realizing he didn't care and dropping the subject. “Isn't this a great place?” He was so happy to be out of both the reactor and his bachelor apartment that he grinned and bobbed, his foot jiggling the lower rung. “I come here a couple times a week. I can't believe this is your first time out here.” He pointed at Paul's head and called to the men at the other end of the table, “This is Collier's first time out here!”

“That's because I'm married, Webb,” Paul said. “Married men don't come here.”

“But you
are
here,” said Richards with a smirk.

“Guess that's true,” said Paul. He avoided Richards's eyes and smiled at Webb's enthusiasm instead. He liked Webb, as flaky and dumb as he could sometimes be. He was just young, “young as a fresh shit” as Franks liked to say. Other than four weeks of boot camp followed by reactor school, this was Webb's first tour anywhere, ever, the first time he wasn't being constantly tested or hollered at or made to crawl through mud. No wonder he seemed so nonsensically happy.

Gitte returned to the table and Webb beamed as if she were his own grandma. She stared him down with no apparent trace of recognition but brought him a Miller High Life. He smiled from ear to ear, saying, “See? She knows exactly what I get.”

“The champagne of beers,” Kinney said.

“A toast,” said Richards, raising a glass. “To Slocum, you son of a bitch, for making shift supervisor. It's about goddamn time.”

“Hear, hear,” said Webb.

Slocum, now officially a son of a bitch, grinned and tossed back a long draught. He was one of the older guys, midthirties, heavyset and equally heavy eyed, his thick skin punched with divots. He'd always seemed a little dull to Paul, not friendly or unfriendly, just a sort of bulk lurking on the edge of their group.

“And to Collier,” said Webb. When everyone looked at Webb he said, “It's his birthday.”

“Oh, right!” said Franks. “To Collier—” he paused, apparently trying to think of a toast. His face twitched and reddened with the effort, like one of the
Tic-Tac-Dough
contestants.

“I've got it,” said Webb. “Here's to you, here's to me—”

“Oh, God,” Franks said.

“And here's to the girls who lick us where we pee.”

“Thank you for that,” said Paul.

“You're a regular Keats,” Franks observed. He turned to Paul. “Happy birthday,” he said, patting Paul's shoulder with sudden sincerity.

Slocum started in on some long, impossibly macho tale, so Paul studied the row of frozen ungulates staring down at him from the wall: moose, elk, white-tailed deer.

“I can get you a date with one of those if you like, Collier,” Richards called. “You look pretty interested.”

Paul chuckled in spite of himself.

“That caribou-looking thing is hot for you,” said Kinney. He slurped his beer, glanced at Richards for approval.

“Collier,” Richards said with sudden brusqueness, “we're all tired of this quiet superiority thing you've got going on.”

“I'm not superior to anybody,” Paul said, surprised.

“He isn't. I can vouch for that,” said Franks. Everyone laughed, including Paul, glad to turn the conversation from wherever Richards was trying to take it.

“I want you all to come to my wedding,” Webb said.

“You're getting married?” asked Kinney, dubiously.

“Hoping to. Her name's Vanna, met her here in town, and she's the best.”

“What's so great about her?” Richards wanted to know.

“Everything.”

“Is she legal?”

“Of course,” said Webb. “She graduates next year. She's not Mormon, even.”

“Well,” said Richards, raising his glass again, “congratulations.” He stood halfway from his seat.

“Here we go,” said Franks.

“Here's to gunpowder and pussy!” Richards said. “Live by one, die by the other, and learn to love the smell of both.” Franks whistled and Kinney commenced a quiet, effete clap, as if he were watching golf.
What a suck-up,
Paul thought.

They talked and drank until the windows grew dark, and Paul was relieved to feel his head start to swim. This was more pleasant; it made everything easier.

“Where'd Sloke go?” he heard Richards ask.

Paul glanced around. He hadn't noticed Slocum leave but now registered his empty pint glass pooling on the waxy counter.

“Beats me,” said Webb.

“Little boys' room,” offered Franks.

“Here he comes. Here's the man of the hour!” said Richards.

Slocum reappeared across the smoky bar, a tall dark-haired woman on his arm. The men quieted and turned to look. From a distance she seemed a showstopper; as she neared, Paul could see that she wasn't quite. Still, she was a woman in a roomful of men, and Slocum strutted in as if he'd bagged a string of partridges one-handed while they all sat on their asses slurping pints.

“Well, hello there,” said Richards, his manner instantly smoothing over. The woman didn't reply. She perched on Slocum's knee, smoking. Paul noticed the elegant lines of her arm, her long fingers, her impossibly soft-looking skin like browned butter. Her facial features were sharp, and the oiliness of fading makeup gave them a blurred quality; her eyes, small and close set, darted around the room unsmiling. She wore fitted blue pants, cowboy boots, and a red western shirt with fringe all the way around her upper arms and to the buttons, which were open enough to prompt Paul to avert his eyes at the last second. It was obvious that, in spite of her pointy face, her figure was a sight to behold.

“Well,” said Franks, turning to his beer, “don't he look like the cat who ate the canary.”

“No one's looking at him,” said Richards. “What's your name, sweetheart?”

“This is Ree,” Slocum announced, his wide face glistening. “I met her out in the parking lot.”

“Where you from, Ree?”

She paused as if waiting to see whether Slocum would answer for her again. “Blackfoot,” she said, in a slightly dry voice. She dangled her cigarette over her shoulder to Slocum's lips. He sucked like a delighted greedy baby, and Paul's stomach turned.

Richards ordered everyone shots. “What do you like to do, Ree?” he asked, apparently unable to think about anything else.

“This,” she said, without looking at him.

“Do you have any friends?”

Slocum's hand roved across the fringe of her shirt. She swatted it away. “Me and Rose charge ten bucks,” she said. “That's nonnegotiable.”

“Ten bucks!” cried Webb.

Richards asked, “Where's Rose?”

“I'll call her.” Ree's feet touched the floor when she sat on Slocum's lap, and she stood in one movement, nearly as tall as any of them. Sloke scampered after her. “We're going to my place,” he called back to them, “we'll meet up there.”

Richards downed his shot. “This party's not over,” he said. He stood and shoved his keys into Paul's hand. “You drive.”

“Me?” said Paul. “Webb and I came with Franks.” He felt a dull, gathering repugnance and wanted to be home.

“I don't feel like driving,” Richards said. “I need to save myself.”

“For
what
?”

“She's an Injun,” Franks blurted, leaning in. “You all know that, right?” He raised his hands. “No thanks, I don't play with Injuns.” He said this as if he had a long and turbulent personal history with them.

Paul stood. His head swam; his legs felt strangely light. “Drop me off at home, will you, Franks?”

“Nope,” said Richards. “You got my keys, you're driving. Gents, let's go.”

Paul cursed, turning away. He walked out into the parking lot, struck by the wind and the grassy, wet smell of fresh rain and mud. He didn't want to be Richards's personal babysitter. Ree made him uncomfortable; she looked like a taller version of Nat, gone native, and he was hopelessly transfixed by her breasts. No good could come of any of this. But there were the keys in his hand, the satiny Coupe de Ville just feet ahead of him. Richards wandered out of the Calico, leaning on Webb's shoulders; Slocum and Ree got into Sloke's car, Kinney in the backseat. Paul rubbed his eyes. He could not stay here with Big Gitte, that was for sure.

The leather seat was welcoming, kidskin-soft. The Coupe started up gently, and Paul couldn't help but appreciate it. He'd never driven a car like this. Next to him in the passenger seat, Richards gave a soft snore.

A
PPARENTLY, THE TEN DOLLARS
was
negotiable. By the time they got to Sloke's apartment, Ree had been talked down to two. She and Sloke headed into the bedroom while Webb, Kinney, Paul, and the newly restored Richards passed a church key and dived into a six-pack. Paul tried not to be sore; Slocum's dust-spewing couch and greasy, water-filled sink—inverted bowls rising out of it like small, sad islands—gave him a morbid cheer, so pathetic was the life of a bachelor.