As he was finishing it Judy came up from the back room. She stopped behind Guthrie and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around she said, I thought you’d be at the party at Maggie Jones’s house.
I was. I didn’t see you there.
I get enough of school at school, she said. It’s just the teachers. The same old talk.
Well, Guthrie said, you’re looking good.
Why, thank you. She turned completely around in front of him, making a little dance. She had on a low-cut white top and tight blue jeans and boots fashioned from soft red leather. The tightness of the top she was wearing made smooth pretty mounds of her breasts.
Can I buy you a drink?
I came over to buy you one, she said.
You can buy the next one, Guthrie said.
All right. I won’t forget.
Monroe brought her a rum and Coke and handed it to her and she tasted it and stirred it with the straw and tasted it again.
You want to sit down? Guthrie said.
Where?
You can have my seat. I’ll stand up awhile.
Shoot. I’m younger than you are.
Are you?
I’m younger than anybody here. I’m the youngest girl out on a Saturday night. She raised her fist and waved it.
The man on the barstool to Guthrie’s left was listening and he turned around and looked at her. He was wearing a big black hat with a bright feather in the band. I’ll tell you what, he said. You can have my seat if you give me a good-night kiss first. I was just about to leave anyhow.
Do I know you? she said.
No. But I’m not hard to get to know. I don’t have nothing, if that’s what you mean.
All right, she said. Lean forward, you’re too tall. He leaned forward from the waist and she took his face in both of her hands, ducked under the brim of his hat and kissed him hard on the mouth.
How’s that? she said.
Jesus Christ, he said. He licked his lips. Maybe I better just stay here.
No you don’t, she said. She pulled him by the arm.
He stood up and patted her on the shouder and went outside. She sat at the bar with Guthrie and turned in his direction. Who was that? she said.
He lives out south, Guthrie said. He comes in here once in a while. I don’t know his name.
I’ve never seen him before.
He comes in about every other week.
Guthrie and Judy sat and talked about various things, about school, about Lloyd Crowder, some of the students, but not for long. Instead she told Guthrie about her daughter, who was a freshman at Fort Collins, and how it was to have the house just to herself now, how it was so quiet too much of the time. And Guthrie said a few things about his boys, told her what they were doing. Then she told him the story about the blonde on the charter plane to Hawaii, and in turn he asked if she knew what the worst thing was for someone to say to you when you were standing at the urinal. They had another drink, which she insisted on buying.
After it came she said, You mind if I ask you something?
What.
Is your wife still in Denver?
Guthrie looked at her. Yes, she’s still there.
Is she?
Yes.
What’s going to happen, do you think?
I can’t say. She might stay there. She’s staying with her sister.
Aren’t you two going to get back together?
I doubt it.
Don’t you want to?
He looked at her. You think we could talk about something else?
Sorry, she said.
He lit a cigarette. She watched him smoke. Then she took the cigarette out of his hand and drew on it, blew two jets of smoke from her nostrils and drew on it again and gave it back.
Keep it.
No, I just wanted that much. I quit.
You can have this one.
No, that’s all right. But listen. Why don’t you come over sometime and let me cook you a steak or something. You seem so lonely. And it’s too quiet over there in my house all the time when it’s just me.
I might do that.
Why don’t you. You ought to.
I might.
A few minutes later the other woman came in from the other room and dragged Judy back to their table. My God, the woman said, don’t leave me with him.
See you later, Judy said, and Guthrie watched them go back into the other room. The two women pulled the curly-haired man to his feet and walked him over to the shuffleboard table and Guthrie watched them play for a while. When he turned back to the bar he found that Buster Wheelright had disappeared. He’d left some change on the bar and then he’d gone off. Guthrie looked around. The woman in the army jacket was still asleep down the bar. He finished his beer and went out into the cold air again and drove up Main Street toward home.
Victoria Roubideaux
In December the girl appeared in the doorway of Maggie Jones’s classroom during the teacher’s planning hour. Maggie was sitting at her desk, marking student papers with a red ink pen.
Mrs. Jones? the girl said.
The teacher looked up. Victoria. Come in.
The girl entered the room and stopped beside the desk. Nobody else was in the room. The girl was heavier now, beginning to show, and her face looked wider, fuller. Her blouse had drawn more tightly over her stomach, making the material appear polished and shiny. Maggie set the papers aside. Come around here, she said. Let me look at you. Well, my yes. You’re getting there, aren’t you. Turn around, let me see you from the side.
The girl did so.
Are you feeling all right?
It’s been moving lately. I’ve been feeling it.
Have you? She smiled at the girl. You seem to be eating enough. Is there something you wanted? You don’t have a class now?
I told Mr. Guthrie I had to be excused to the rest room.
Is something wrong?
The girl glanced around the room and looked back. She stood beside the desk and picked up a paperweight, then put it back. Mrs. Jones, she said, they don’t talk.
Who doesn’t?
They don’t say more than two words at a time. It’s not just to me. I don’t think they even talk to each other.
Oh, Maggie said. The McPheron brothers, you mean them.
It’s so quiet out there, the girl said. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. We eat supper. They read the paper. I go into my room and study. And that’s about it. Every day it’s like that.
Is everything else all right?
Oh, they’re kind to me. If that’s what you mean. They’re nice enough.
But they don’t talk, Maggie said.
I don’t know if they even want me out there, the girl said. I can’t tell what they’re thinking.
Have you tried talking to them? You know you could start a conversation yourself.
The girl looked at the older woman with exasperation. Mrs. Jones, she said, I don’t know anything about cows.
Maggie laughed. She laid the red pen down on the stack of student papers and leaned back in her chair, stretching her shoulders. Do you want me to talk to them for you?
I know they mean well, the girl said. I don’t think they mean any harm.
Two days later that week, in the afternoon, after school was let out for the day, Maggie Jones discovered Harold McPheron standing in front of the refrigerated meat case at the rear of the Highway 34 Grocery Store on the east side of Holt. He was clenching a package of pork roast to his nose. She walked up beside him.