rising
against her sundress. She went to the bar and drank off her Scotch and soda and
poured another one. I looked away from her face.
"Admiring the
photo of Buford's father?" she said. "He was one of the bombardiers
who incinerated Dresden. You see the dead oak tree out by the field? Some of
Buford's other family members, gentlemen in the Knights of the White Camellia,
hanged a Negro and a white carpetbagger there in 1867. If you live with Buford,
you get to hear about this sort of thing every day of your life."
She drank three
fingers of Scotch on ice, her throat swallowing methodically, her mouth wet and
cold-looking on the edge of the glass.
"I'd better get
going, Karyn. I shouldn't have bothered you," I said.
"Don't be
disingenuous. I brought you here, Dave. Sometimes I wonder how I ever got mixed
up with you."
"You're not
mixed up with me."
"Your memory is
selective."
"I'm sorry it
happened, Karyn. I've tried to indicate that to you. It's you and your husband
who keep trying to resurrect the past or bring me into your lives."
"You say 'it.'
What do you mean by 'it'?"
"That night by
the bayou. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."
"You don't
remember coming to my house two weeks later?"
"No."
"Dave?" Her
eyes clouded, then looked into mine, as though she were searching for a lie.
"You have no memory of that afternoon, or the next?"
I felt myself swallow.
"No, I don't. I don't think I saw you again for a year," I said.
She shook her head,
sat in a deep leather chair that looked out onto the dead tree.
"That's hard to
believe. I never blamed you for the worry and anxiety and pain I had to go
through later, because I didn't make you take precautions. But when you tell
me—"
Unconsciously I
touched my brow.
"I had blackouts
back then, Karyn. I lost whole days. If you say something happened, then—"
"Blackouts?"
"I'd get loaded
at night on Beam and try to sober up in the morning with vodka."
"How lovely.
What if I told you I had an abortion?"
The skin of my face
flexed against the bone. I could feel a weakness, a sinking in my chest, as
though weevil worms were feeding at my heart.
"I didn't. I was
just late. But no thanks to you, you bastard . . . Don't just look at me,"
she said.
"I'm going
now."
"Oh no, you're
not." She rose from the chair and stood in front of me. "My husband
has some peculiar flaws, but he's still the best chance this state has and I'm
not letting you destroy it."
"Somebody tried
to open me up with a machete. I think it had to do with Aaron Crown. I think I
don't want to ever see you again, Karyn."
"Is that right?"
she said. The tops of her breasts were swollen and hard, veined with blue
lines. I could smell whiskey on her breath, perfume from behind her ears, the
heat she seemed to excrete from her sun-browned skin. She struck me full across
the face with the flat of her hand.
I touched my cheek,
felt a smear of blood where her fingernail had torn the skin.
"I apologize
again for having come to your home," I said.
I walked stiffly
through the house, through the kitchen to the backyard and my parked pickup
truck. When I turned the ignition, I looked through the windshield and saw her
watching me through the back screen, biting the corner of her lip as though her
next option was just now presenting itself.
CHAPTER 6
I t rained all that
night. At false dawn a white
ground fog rolled out of the swamp, and the cypress trees on the far bank of
the bayou looked as black and hard as carved stone. Deep inside the fog you
could hear bass flopping back in the bays. When the sun broke above the horizon,
like a red diamond splintering
against her sundress. She went to the bar and drank off her Scotch and soda and
poured another one. I looked away from her face.
"Admiring the
photo of Buford's father?" she said. "He was one of the bombardiers
who incinerated Dresden. You see the dead oak tree out by the field? Some of
Buford's other family members, gentlemen in the Knights of the White Camellia,
hanged a Negro and a white carpetbagger there in 1867. If you live with Buford,
you get to hear about this sort of thing every day of your life."
She drank three
fingers of Scotch on ice, her throat swallowing methodically, her mouth wet and
cold-looking on the edge of the glass.
"I'd better get
going, Karyn. I shouldn't have bothered you," I said.
"Don't be
disingenuous. I brought you here, Dave. Sometimes I wonder how I ever got mixed
up with you."
"You're not
mixed up with me."
"Your memory is
selective."
"I'm sorry it
happened, Karyn. I've tried to indicate that to you. It's you and your husband
who keep trying to resurrect the past or bring me into your lives."
"You say 'it.'
What do you mean by 'it'?"
"That night by
the bayou. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."
"You don't
remember coming to my house two weeks later?"
"No."
"Dave?" Her
eyes clouded, then looked into mine, as though she were searching for a lie.
"You have no memory of that afternoon, or the next?"
I felt myself swallow.
"No, I don't. I don't think I saw you again for a year," I said.
She shook her head,
sat in a deep leather chair that looked out onto the dead tree.
"That's hard to
believe. I never blamed you for the worry and anxiety and pain I had to go
through later, because I didn't make you take precautions. But when you tell
me—"
Unconsciously I
touched my brow.
"I had blackouts
back then, Karyn. I lost whole days. If you say something happened, then—"
"Blackouts?"
"I'd get loaded
at night on Beam and try to sober up in the morning with vodka."
"How lovely.
What if I told you I had an abortion?"
The skin of my face
flexed against the bone. I could feel a weakness, a sinking in my chest, as
though weevil worms were feeding at my heart.
"I didn't. I was
just late. But no thanks to you, you bastard . . . Don't just look at me,"
she said.
"I'm going
now."
"Oh no, you're
not." She rose from the chair and stood in front of me. "My husband
has some peculiar flaws, but he's still the best chance this state has and I'm
not letting you destroy it."
"Somebody tried
to open me up with a machete. I think it had to do with Aaron Crown. I think I
don't want to ever see you again, Karyn."
"Is that right?"
she said. The tops of her breasts were swollen and hard, veined with blue
lines. I could smell whiskey on her breath, perfume from behind her ears, the
heat she seemed to excrete from her sun-browned skin. She struck me full across
the face with the flat of her hand.
I touched my cheek,
felt a smear of blood where her fingernail had torn the skin.
"I apologize
again for having come to your home," I said.
I walked stiffly
through the house, through the kitchen to the backyard and my parked pickup
truck. When I turned the ignition, I looked through the windshield and saw her
watching me through the back screen, biting the corner of her lip as though her
next option was just now presenting itself.
CHAPTER 6
I t rained all that
night. At false dawn a white
ground fog rolled out of the swamp, and the cypress trees on the far bank of
the bayou looked as black and hard as carved stone. Deep inside the fog you
could hear bass flopping back in the bays. When the sun broke above the horizon,
like a red diamond splintering
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