Pacific (9780802194800) by Tom Drury Page B

Scouts while flocks of birds flew from the ravine.
    â€œI wonder if you shouldn’t talk to someone about your stories,” said Albert.
    â€œI’m talking to you.”
    â€œSomeone more like a doctor.”
    Sandra set the yardstick on edge, and there it stood. “Doctors don’t know anything. What is your blood pressure? Do you have thoughts of hurting yourself or others? That’s what they know. Don’t be afraid. You will never find a truer friend than me. We can sleep together in the Continental Hotel.”
    Albert drew an exclamation point on his reporter’s notebook. “I’m not sure this is working out,” he said.
    At that moment the owner of the bar came up from the basement with a bottle of tequila. When he saw Sandra he hurried across the barroom.
    â€œWhat did I say about that stick?” he said.
    â€œRemind me,” said Sandra.
    â€œYou’re not to come in here with that.”
    Sandra smiled. “Well, too bad, because I already have, and this is a public place.”
    The True Value yardstick of wheat-colored wood and black fractions lay across the table with Sandra’s hand hovering.
    â€œIf you can take it from me,” she said, “I will scrub tables in this bar for one year without pay.”
    â€œI wouldn’t even want that.”
    The bar owner and Albert reached for the yardstick, which jumped to Sandra’s hand. She slashed the stick through the air, hitting the man in the throat. He fell back, knocked over a chair, dropped the bottle he was carrying, and held his neck with his hands.
    Albert and Sandra stepped from the booth, holding opposite ends of the yardstick and circling each other as in some ritual. A smile came over Sandra’s face, and a reddish light shone around her white hair. She yanked on the yardstick, Albert lurched forward, and she struck his face with the heel of her hand, at which point he let go. She backed to the door of Bruiser’s as Albert and the bar patrons gathered warily around her.
    â€œFirst one to move is the last one to get up,” she said.
    They considered the sequence implied by the threat. With one hand behind her back, Sandra found the doorknob and slipped out of the bar. They saw her walking past the window.
    â€œIs she a friend of yours?” said the barman.
    â€œI just met her,” said Albert.
    â€œThat crazy fuck does not come in here again.”
    Don Gary’s tombstone dealership closed for the day, and Lyris sat on the steps, waiting for Albert and looking at the moon above the city. Don Gary locked the door and walked past her in his brown saddle shoes.
    â€œGoodnight, Miss Darling,” he said.
    â€œGoodnight, Don.”
    Lyris liked it at night when she was alone and Albert on his way. She felt free and original with him, their old lives like train cars uncoupled and falling away.
    When he drove up she got in the car and kissed him. He had a bruise under his eye and driving home told her of his attempt to interview Sandra Zulma.
    Back at the apartment Lyris led Albert by the hand to the bathroom, where they stood looking at the welt on his cheekbone in the medicine cabinet mirror.
    Albert said it was nothing but Lyris insisted on treating it. She washed and dried her hands and took a small green bottle from the medicine chest.
    Albert sat on the toilet lid looking up at the light fixture as she painted antiseptic beneath his eye with a stiff black brush built into the cap of the bottle.
    â€œNow it looks really terrible,” she said.
    Then, for no reason other than play, she painted a stripe under the other eye.
    â€œNow you’re a football player.”
    â€œShe never hit me there.”
    â€œOh, I like this look.”
    They went into the bedroom and closed the door. The room was dark except for the light from the windows.
    He undressed her, rolled her black tights down. Lyris breathed slowly, fingers trembling at her sides. Being with