Eventide by Kent Haruf Page B

paper bag and Rose drove east from town on the highway out into the flat open treeless country, then turned north a mile to a little dark house. A light came on above the front door as the car stopped. Okay, Rose said. Here we are.
    Betty looked at the house and got out and climbed the steps to the door and knocked. After some time a woman in a red kimono opened the door. Her hair was flat on one side, as if she’d been in bed already. She was smoking a cigarette and she looked past Betty at the car. Well, she said. What do you want now?
    Can me and my kids stay here tonight?
    Oh lord, what happened this time?
    Luther slapped me. He’s being mean to me again.
    I told you the last time I wasn’t going to do this again. Didn’t I.
    Yes.
    I don’t know why you two even stay together.
    He’s my husband, Betty said.
    That doesn’t mean you have to stay with him. Does it.
    I don’t know.
    Well I do. I got to get up in the morning and go to work. I can’t be running you all over town.
    But he’s being mean. I don’t want to stay with him tonight. Betty looked back toward the car. Rose had turned the engine off.
    Then suddenly the rain started. It came down slanted brightly under the yardlight next to the garage and glinting and splashing under the yellow porch light. Betty began to get wet.
    Oh, all right, the aunt said. But you know you’ll just go back to him. You always do. But you listen to me now, it’s just for tonight. This ain’t going to be anything permanent.
    We won’t make no trouble, Betty said.
    You already have.
    Betty looked away and put her hand up over her face, shielding her face from the rain.
    Well, tell them to come in, the aunt said. I’m not standing out here all night.
    Betty waved toward the car for the children to come.
    I think you better go on, Rose told them. I think it’ll be all right.
    Joy Rae took the bag from the front seat and she and her brother got out and hurried through the rain up onto the porch, then followed their mother inside. The aunt looked again at the car. She flipped her cigarette out into the wet gravel and shut the door behind her.
     
    T HE WIND WAS BLOWING THE RAIN SIDEWAYS IN GUSTS when Rose pulled into the driveway at her house, and when she stopped she got a sudden fright. Luther was leaning against the garage door. She turned off the ignition and the headlights and got out, watching all the time to see what he might do. She walked around to the side door and he followed a few steps behind. Rose, he said, can I ask you something?
    What do you want to ask?
    Could you borrow me a quarter?
    I think so. Why?
    I want to call Betty and say I didn’t mean her no kind of hurt. I want to tell her to come back home.
    You could call from here.
    No, I better go downtown. I been rained on already.
    She took a quarter from her purse and handed it to him, and he thanked her and told her how he’d pay her back, then walked off toward Main Street. She watched as he passed under the streetlamp at the corner, a great dark figure splashing through the shining puddles in the wet night; his black hair was plastered over his head and he went on in the rain, bound for a public phone booth on a corner.

 
    9
    O N A SATURDAY AFTER BREAKFAST, AFTER HE HAD DONE up the dishes, he came outside and without specific intention or any direction in mind started up the street in the bright cool morning and passed the vacant lot and the houses where the old widows lived in individual silence and isolation. Dena and Emma were out in front of their mother’s house, and they had a new bicycle that they’d bought with the money their father in Alaska had sent. Dena knew how to ride already but Emma was only learning. Dena was on the bicycle now, riding on the sidewalk, and she stopped in front of DJ and stepped down, straddling the bike. Her little sister ran up beside them. You want to ride? she asked him.
    No.
    Why not? Don’t you know how?
    No.
    You could learn, Dena said. Look at me, I’m