She ran off west. And he left her. Left her gap-toothed from all the times he got drunk … left her with you to feed. She could have come home anytime. Could have! But would she? No! Not Mary-Jane. Anything but admit defeat.”
Travis squirmed on the sofa.
“You have that heritage,” Aunt Liza said, her eyes blazing. “You must be aware of it, Travis. Know it, or it’ll hurt you. You have your father’s blind anger and your mother’s stupid passions. Leave that woman alone! She is nothing you know or understand. You don’t need her … whatever your body might tell you.”
He said faintly, “Aunt Liza, I—”
“Go up now.” She sank back into the easy chair as if some sustaining energy had been consumed. “Go up and sleep and don’t let on to Creath that we talked.”
The trail was cold. Anna was gone. He went upstairs, dazed.
He slept almost instantly … and was still asleep in that hour before dawn when Anna Blaise crept silently back into the house, cold blue fire playing like sheet lightning about her body.
Friday next he drove Nancy back to the stand of oaks on the highway out of Haute Montagne. The prairie spread out around them, grain fields whispering toward a meager harvest. With the motor of the old Ford off and the shrilling of the locusts all around, they might have been a thousand miles from home.
Tonight was special, Travis thought. He felt a special wildness in Nancy. She would glance at him, glance away, and then her eyes would find him again.
Her eyes, when the contact held, were very blue and very wide.
Travis himself felt victim to a kind of unfocused randiness. Nancy’s warmth next to him on the lumpy seat of the Ford stimulated a painful and persistent erection. He wanted her so badly that his knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel.
He guessed it was understandable. He had fallen into the rhythm of his work at the ice plant, and the days passed easily enough—more easily than the nights. Often, though, he would stop what he was doing, shake his head like a man coming out of a dream, and a deep panic would flood him. He imagined himself growing old in Haute Montagne, growing fat and sedately cruel, growing into the shape of Creath Burack like rubber poured into a steel mold. He felt at such times that he must push back at the barriers that confined him—push, or go mad.
He guessed Nancy felt the same way. She had been pushing a long time. There was that bond between them.
He stopped the car and they climbed into the truck bed and made pillows of empty burlap sacks. Travis touched her lightly. She’s anxious, too, he thought. She wants to touch. Push down the walls. But she lit a cigarette, her hand shaking, and waved the match at the darkness. Her lips trembled as she exhaled. “Tell me about Anna.”
He told what there was to tell. For a time even Travis was distracted by it, the memory of Liza and of Anna’s nightwalk welling up in him like a cold sea-current.
“Strange,” Nancy whispered.
“Passing strange,” Travis said.
“Obviously” Nancy said, “she needs our help more than ever.”
“She hasn’t asked for it.”
She looked at him from behind the glowing tip of her cigarette. “You think I’m butting in.”
“No …”
“You do. Admit it.”
“No. Rushing in too fast, maybe. Remember, Nance, we still don’t know anything about this girl. She was out on a highway, naked. Creath picked her up. Maybe she wanted it that way. Maybe she likes things the way they are.”
Nancy scrunched down in the shadowy pickup bed, drawing herself inward, musing.
“Before I got this diner job,” she said, “I would go over with sewing. Mama would send me over. I’ve seen the girl, Travis. Seen her up close. I’ve looked her in the eye.”
He nodded. “So have I.”
“Have you? And you can sit there and suggest maybe she likes what she’s doing?”
Well, no, he couldn’t—not honestly. There was that desperation in Anna Blaise like an
Travis squirmed on the sofa.
“You have that heritage,” Aunt Liza said, her eyes blazing. “You must be aware of it, Travis. Know it, or it’ll hurt you. You have your father’s blind anger and your mother’s stupid passions. Leave that woman alone! She is nothing you know or understand. You don’t need her … whatever your body might tell you.”
He said faintly, “Aunt Liza, I—”
“Go up now.” She sank back into the easy chair as if some sustaining energy had been consumed. “Go up and sleep and don’t let on to Creath that we talked.”
The trail was cold. Anna was gone. He went upstairs, dazed.
He slept almost instantly … and was still asleep in that hour before dawn when Anna Blaise crept silently back into the house, cold blue fire playing like sheet lightning about her body.
Friday next he drove Nancy back to the stand of oaks on the highway out of Haute Montagne. The prairie spread out around them, grain fields whispering toward a meager harvest. With the motor of the old Ford off and the shrilling of the locusts all around, they might have been a thousand miles from home.
Tonight was special, Travis thought. He felt a special wildness in Nancy. She would glance at him, glance away, and then her eyes would find him again.
Her eyes, when the contact held, were very blue and very wide.
Travis himself felt victim to a kind of unfocused randiness. Nancy’s warmth next to him on the lumpy seat of the Ford stimulated a painful and persistent erection. He wanted her so badly that his knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel.
He guessed it was understandable. He had fallen into the rhythm of his work at the ice plant, and the days passed easily enough—more easily than the nights. Often, though, he would stop what he was doing, shake his head like a man coming out of a dream, and a deep panic would flood him. He imagined himself growing old in Haute Montagne, growing fat and sedately cruel, growing into the shape of Creath Burack like rubber poured into a steel mold. He felt at such times that he must push back at the barriers that confined him—push, or go mad.
He guessed Nancy felt the same way. She had been pushing a long time. There was that bond between them.
He stopped the car and they climbed into the truck bed and made pillows of empty burlap sacks. Travis touched her lightly. She’s anxious, too, he thought. She wants to touch. Push down the walls. But she lit a cigarette, her hand shaking, and waved the match at the darkness. Her lips trembled as she exhaled. “Tell me about Anna.”
He told what there was to tell. For a time even Travis was distracted by it, the memory of Liza and of Anna’s nightwalk welling up in him like a cold sea-current.
“Strange,” Nancy whispered.
“Passing strange,” Travis said.
“Obviously” Nancy said, “she needs our help more than ever.”
“She hasn’t asked for it.”
She looked at him from behind the glowing tip of her cigarette. “You think I’m butting in.”
“No …”
“You do. Admit it.”
“No. Rushing in too fast, maybe. Remember, Nance, we still don’t know anything about this girl. She was out on a highway, naked. Creath picked her up. Maybe she wanted it that way. Maybe she likes things the way they are.”
Nancy scrunched down in the shadowy pickup bed, drawing herself inward, musing.
“Before I got this diner job,” she said, “I would go over with sewing. Mama would send me over. I’ve seen the girl, Travis. Seen her up close. I’ve looked her in the eye.”
He nodded. “So have I.”
“Have you? And you can sit there and suggest maybe she likes what she’s doing?”
Well, no, he couldn’t—not honestly. There was that desperation in Anna Blaise like an
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