Women & Other Animals (24 page)

Martin, Rebecca and Martha disappeared around the far side and then reappeared. Martha wore the leather jacket the man had left Page 161

in her room. It flapped toobig around her and the zipper glinted, its wide teeth grinning into the fire. As Barb stepped into the light, Rebecca and Martin spun off and fell onto the ground beside each other, laughing, with Muffin licking at them. Their faces were turned toward the sky, open to whatever enlightenment might fall down from the heavens or waft out of the fire. Their wrists were joined by a bright steel chain.

"Martin," said Barb. She wanted Martin to acknowledge the handcuffs. Then maybe she could explain about the potato water, and tell him she intended to buy chicken wire. But Martin's forehead glowed in the firelight, and she knew she'd never be able to explain. He bent down to kiss Barb, and his shirt front was hot. One of his plastic buttons singed her neck, but instead of pulling away she pressed harder against it. When Martha grabbed Martin's hand, Martin tried to pull Barb along as well, but she resisted and stepped back. When Rebecca began baying like a wolf, Martin and Martha joined in, moaning, "Owowowoooo," to the moon.

Barb was surprised how cold the air became just a few yards from the fire. Lights shone from the house, from the kitchen and Martha's bedroom, but beyond that everything was dark. Barb wrapped her arms around herself, then felt the warmth of other arms. The three fleshandblood O'Learys closed around her, their limbs and breath like those of a hundred people. "Ringaroundtherosie," they chanted. The musky smell of sweat rose off them. At first Barb stood stiff against their bodies, but when she looked into those faces, all like her daughter's, she felt a surge of love too large for her chest to contain.

"Ashes, ashes," the three said in unison, and Barb prepared to fall with them into the cool grass.

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Shifting Gears

The sun glowed red in the gloss finish of Tommy's threequarter ton F250 fourwheel drive longbox pickup. The paint glistened like fresh blood, as clean and smooth as something just born, something whose outer layers had been peeled away. The truck's beauty still overwhelmed Tommy though he'd been driving it for a couple weeks now, since the end of September. He'd traded in the old blue bomb which now sat in the Ford dealer's bargain lot. Tommy would not be lying on the cold ground under that hunk of junk this winter. He stood in the driveway with one hand on the hood, soaking in the warmth of the engine. Though he was home, he was in no hurry to go into his house.

Ever since his wife had left him, the house seemed reptilian, as lifeless as a snake cage at the zoo. He took all the overtime he could get these days, and he drove the truck everywhere he could think of, but eventually he had to come home each night. When his neighbors Bob and Sharon stepped out of their house into the late sunshine, Tommy waved. He unlocked the front door of the house only to let his dog out, then headed over to Bob's. Sharon was nine months pregnant with her first child, so what was she doing? She had picked up a fan rake and was dragging it across the lawn. She seemed angry and impatient, as usual.

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"Ought she to be doing that?" Tommy asked Bob.

"Her sister told her it'll make her have the baby."

Even though he was getting fat, Bob had those blond, athletic looks women seemed to like. He didn't have any problems talking to women. Tommy was smaller by about eighty pounds with a thin moustache that he worried between his thumb and forefinger. Bob worked at a paper converting plant, first shift, Sharon worked at the Harding's grocery, and Tommy worked at Taggert Plumbing Supply, filling orders and making deliveries.

Bob went into his house and brought out two beers. He walked on the balls of his feet like the football player he used to be in high school. Bob could surprise you with his abilities, like this Labor Day weekend when he put up vinyl siding on his house. He started it on Friday evening and finished on Monday, the trim around the windows and everything. A perimeter of paint chips surrounded Tommy's house—bluegray and green patches showed through the latest coat of white paint. The two men sat on the picnic table, which afforded them a good view of both Sharon's raking and Tommy's truck.

"You ought to get a new truck, Bob," said Tommy. "That '83 is dying."

"It's an '84."

"It needs an exhaust. I heard you clear down to M98 this morning."

Bob's dog, a female beagle some guy had sold him because she wouldn't hunt, walked across Bob's yard and lay down on Sharon's pile of leaves.

"Stupid bitch!" screamed Sharon and whacked the dog with the rake.

The Bitch—that's what Bob named the dog—picked herself up and followed a zigzag path of scents, then lay under the picnic table.

Tommy's dog Moe rolled on his back and crunched leaves. Moe was a black lab who until six months ago spent a good part of his time chasing females in heat. Six months ago, Tommy's wife had gotten Moe neutered. Tommy had to admit that now, with his wife gone, it was a comfort to have his dog sticking close to home. And bailing him out of the pound had been getting expensive.

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Tommy produced a second pair of beers from his house and gave one to Bob. As they were cracking open the beers, Sharon turned and pitched her rake through the air at the picnic table. It fell way short of them.

"What's the matter, honey?" yelled Bob.

"Why don't you two just stay out here all night and drink beer. I'm sick of your faces. You make me want to scream." She went inside and slammed the door.

"I wonder if she's going to make supper," said Bob.

The yellow leaves on Tommy's front yard maple flickered like gas jets. Tommy imagined Sharon inside peeling potatoes, gouging out the eyes with the end of the peeler. Tommy and Bob sat outside until after the sun set, nursing the beers until Sharon appeared in the doorway barefoot, wearing only a thin bathrobe. The light from indoors was shining right through it, outlining her swollen shape. Tommy watched her without turning to face her. He knew that Sharon had never much liked him, and because she was close with his wife she liked him even less since the divorce. Sharon didn't ever talk to Tommy, but spoke to the air around him or to anybody else who happened to be in the vicinity. Lately, Sharon didn't seem to like Bob all that much either. Even so, Tommy took comfort in seeing Sharon every day, at home or in the Harding's checkout line. Standing there in the doorway, with her hair hanging in her face, she looked different than usual, frail. Tommy thought of a storm traveling east across the sky. He wanted to go to Sharon, to fall down and wrap his arms around her legs and feet, confess that he'd do anything for her. He pushed these thoughts out of his head, on the off chance that Bob could read his mind.

"Bob, I think Sharon wants you," he said.

Bob drained his beer and crushed the can in his hand. He stood up and called the Bitch. When she didn't come, he pulled her out from under the picnic table by her front legs, and carried her home in his big arms. She laid a shiny cord of drool all along the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

Tommy dragged Moe inside by the collar and poured some nuggets into his bowl. Suppers always caused Tommy trouble. Breakfast was coffee and a doughnut at work. Lunch he could eat at the

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Greek's with all the other working guys. But supper never felt right now that he was alone. He imagined that next door Bob was sitting across the table from Sharon, eating some fresh squash and mashing butter into a potato alongside a hunk of New York strip or a Tbone. Maybe tomorrow Tommy'd pick up a piece of meat on the way home. He could see his truck sitting in the Harding's parking lot, as pretty as a picture beside all those other beatup trucks like Bob's. He'd stand in Sharon's checkout lane if she was there. Tommy settled on a Salisbury steak frozen dinner that he microwaved and ate in front of the television.

When Tommy heard noises next door, he pressed the mute button on his remote control, put on his hunting jacket, and stepped out into the leaves. The sharp coldness of the air made him think about his wife again. He'd liked being married, liked his wife's roundness and the shampoo smell of her hair. He'd looked forward to coming home after work so much he'd turned down overtime. But after about a year, his wife was always mad at him. She'd said he wasn't capable of really caring about anybody, not even himself. Tommy's maple swayed above, spilling leaves over him. As he brushed a leaf out of his hair, painful thoughts of his wife began to fade, to be replaced by disconcerting visions of Sharon waddling pregnant out to the mailbox or scanning the items he'd bought at the grocery store, one by one, without looking up at him.

The sky was dark and metallic, punctured by a crescent moon and some sharp stars, just the kind of weather for a first hard freeze, the kind of weather that made you think of pumpkins carved with ghouls' faces. In the moonlight Tommy's truck looked almost black, lacquer black like his wife's mirrored dresser, of which there was nothing left but imprints in the carpet. On top, she'd had hundreds of pairs of earrings in neat rows, some scarves, and a wooden inlaid jewelry box lined with velvet.

Tommy's dresser, then as now, had a heap of clothes on the top. His wife used to beg him to put his clothes away. A few times he'd cleared off the dresser, putting the socks and underwear in the top drawer, the shirts in the second, the pants in the third. But the dresser looked so empty. He liked his clean clothes in plain sight, liked them the way they came out of the dryer, twisted together in a ball from which he could extract what he needed.

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He followed the noises next door and found Bob sitting in his truck, trying to start it.

''Sounds like you flooded it, Bob," he offered.

"Jesus Christ, of course I flooded it. You think I don't know that?"

"Let her cool down for fifteen minutes."

"Sharon's having the baby," said Bob. "I don't have fifteen minutes."

"Where's Sharon's car, anyway?"

"She loaned it to her damn sister."

"Call up her sister, have her take Sharon to the hospital."

"I'm taking her," said Bob. "Let me borrow your truck."

"Hell, Bob, I haven't let anybody drive my truck."

"All right, then you drive us to the hospital."

Sharon appeared at the back door with her bangs falling over her eyes. She looked desperate, the way a person who is never helpless looks when she is helpless.

Tommy felt that pang again, that unholy desire to throw himself at her feet, and though he meant to speak, his mouth just hung open. He worked his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.

"Are you going to get your truck or am I?" Bob looked about as big as Thor standing there in his driveway.

The keys were in Tommy's pocket, so without even bothering to go in and turn off the TV, he crossed the lawn to his truck. He touched the tailgate as he passed and let his fingers trail along the left rear body panel. Tommy started to like the idea of driving Sharon to the hospital—Bob couldn't get her there, but Tommy could, by God, quickly and safely, and in the comfort of his new faux suede upholstery. He backed into their driveway with his arm over the back of the seat, stopping in front of Sharon, who stood there waiting like a lost stormcloud. Tommy leaned over and opened the door, but Sharon stood until Bob appeared carrying a duffel bag. The truck sat pretty high off the ground and Sharon, who was short to begin with, was in no condition to jump. First Bob boosted her up into the passenger seat, but she couldn't wedge herself over the gear shift in the middle, so she slid back out and insisted that Bob get in first. Then Bob about pulled Sharon's arm off getting her up after him.

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"Damn stupid truck," she spat, once she was inside. She was panting hard and rubbing her shoulder. "Don't ever ask me to get in here again."

Bob reached across Sharon's belly to slam the door.

This was the first time Tommy'd had two other people in the front seat, and with one of them as big as Bob it was a tight squeeze. Good thing it was dark so nobody'd see Bob and him pressed up against each other. "I'd rather have sat next to Sharon," Tommy mumbled.

"Well, she doesn't want to sit next to you," said Bob.

Sharon held her stomach and squeezed her eyes closed. "Shut up and drive," she said to the air inside the truck cab.

Bronson Methodist Hospital was in town, ten miles away. When they turned onto M98, Bob said, "Step on it, Tommy."

"Dealer said I ought not go over 55 for the first 3000 miles."

"Listen, Tommy. All you care about now is getting us to the hospital."

Tommy edged the speedometer up to 60 mph, then to 65, but no faster. Bob's right foot was pressed against the floor as though he was working his own accelerator pedal. The road poured out dark and empty before them, and the railroad tracks sped along beside. Tommy had to admit that driving fast on this dark, smooth road felt good.

As they passed the Ford dealer, Tommy searched the lot for his old blue bomb, but the spot where it had been sitting this morning was empty. Somebody else would be busting his knuckles on that hunk of junk now. Somebody else would be driving with his hand rested on that oversize gearshift knob that he'd taken from a '56

junkyard Ford. Somebody else would jiggle it carefully into reverse.

"Why you slowing down?" asked Bob.

"You know, Bob, you ought to buy yourself a new truck," said Tommy. When Bob didn't respond, he continued. "I always know that my truck's going to start, every time I turn the key. Ford dealer's got good financing, too."

Bob said, "I'd buy a Dodge."

"You'd be crazy to buy a Dodge."

"I always buy Chrysler."

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"I know a guy bought a new Dodge Ram truck," said Tommy, "Ten thousand mile warranty runs out, he's got that thing in the shop every week. First it's his front end, then it's his midship bearing. Mopars are nothing but trouble. Like that truck you're driving now, flooding out, backfiring. That's your Mopar."

"That truck's over twelve years old. And it needs a new exhaust. In ten years your Ford's up on blocks. Fix Or Repair Daily. That's your Ford."