Preston Falls : a novel by 1947- David Gates Page A

then hang them back up.

    PRESTON FALLS
    Unbelievable. No wonder it smells in here. She makes space on both sides of her cotton dress with the cerise flowers, the one halfway decent thing she keeps in Preston Falls. Willis bought it for her three birthdays ago at—where else?—Laura Ashley, and it's actually not that dreadful, though she had to exchange the six he'd gotten for an eight. So obviously he should have married Laura Ashley, some willowy honey-haired size-eight hippie princess with a fetching little English accent and Pre-Raphaelite pallor and breasts that get magically gigundo once she takes off her chaste Laura Ashley dress. Jean puts her underwear in the laundry bag, gets the nightgown on and goes downstairs to the bathroom. Through the screen door she sees Willis sitting out on the stepstone with his back to her. Feeling lonely and misunderstood. Or sensing his own insignificance in the vastness of the universe. Or planning how he's going to dump her. Or wondering whether to buy a motorcycle or another guitar. Really, at this point, how would anybody know?
    She pees, puts in a new Tampax, washes, brushes her teeth and pops two Advils. The cramps have pretty much passed, but Advil might help her sleep. In addition to everything else, she's worried about the kids. Though it's crazy to suspect Arthur Bjork is a pedophile just because he's overweight and because he and Katherine have marriage trouble. After all, don't she and Willis have marriage trouble? Isn't that what this is?
    When the upstairs light goes out, Willis gets to his feet and goes inside, holding the door for Rathbone, who comes clicking in, leaving wet footprints on the kitchen floor. The footprints make Willis think the seat of his pants must be wet too, but damned if he can feel it. He reaches around: yep. He gets down that bottle of Dewar's and pours himself some. Pours himself really quite a bit, actually. He brings his glass into the living room, stretches out on the couch—Rathbone lies down on the floor by his side—and starts looking through Dombey and Son for just any scene with Old Joe Bagstock, old Joseph, Joey B., Sir. Funny as shit. When he's polished off the whole glass he rests the open book on his chest and closes his eyes. Then the room starts to spin. Oh shit. Shit shit shit. He tries to pretend this is actually desirable and he can just merrily spin away into dreamy dreamland. No good. He opens his eyes, sits up a little and tries to read, but now that's no good. He eases back down and the room goes so crazy he wonders if he's having a stroke on top of being drunk. He gets to his feet and moonwalks into the bathroom.

    closes the door behind him, drops to his knees and flips up the toilet seat. The sight of a pubic hair on the rim does the trick: he sticks out his tongue and out it pours, vanity after vanity, this whole evening's stupid history. He wipes his mouth with toilet paper and lies sweating on the floor, thinking At least that's over with. Knowing God damn well it's not.

    He wakes up on the sofa, mouth nasty, head throbbing. Still in his clothes. Turns his head, and the son of a bitch throbs worse. Yellowish daylight in the living room. Rathbone rises from the floor, stretches and sniffs Willis's face. Willis pats his head and tells him Good dog, then gets up to piss and take Advil. The house is silent. Before going into the bathroom he gives Rathbone fresh water and makes sure he's got food, hoping to placate whoever might be watching and judging all this shit from on high.
    He's putting on water for coffee when he hears somebody coming downstairs. Jean? Please, no. Rathbone's tail gets going. But it's Champ, thank God.
    "Hey, the hostess with the mostest," says Champ. "Didn't expect you to be up." He squats and tousles Rathbone's ears. "Yes, you're a good guy."
    Willis spoons coffee into the filter paper. Then he turns and sees Champ's t-shirt and says, "Jesus H. Christ."
    "What— this}'' Champ tugs out a Httle