The man whispered something into her ear and she pulled her head back even farther to look at him, startled by his suggestion. He pulled her to him again, and for a moment they leaned against the back of the wagon itself. Behind them Dyce could see the shadows of the man’s landscaping tools, hafts and handles sticking up like a dead, stunted forest.
Finally the couple moved to the car on the right of the station wagon and drove off together, the woman behind the wheel. She was talking as they swung directly past Dyce’s car and for a moment she reminded him of Helen. That inability to do anything in silence. Dyce wondered if the man next to her bothered to listen to her, either. It wasn’t conversation. There was no exchange of views and ideas; it was noise, generated from a fear of what she might hear if she were quiet.
There was an opening next to the wagon now, but it was on the wrong side and in the full glare of the light. Dyce could not take a chance, so he settled in to wait and let himself think of Helen. It was now just past nine o’clock. She would call him around eleven before she went to bed to say goodnight. She had already called him at six to discuss her day. She had inquired about his activities as well, but Dyce didn’t have those kinds of days. Things did not happen to him as they did to her. He met no strangers, he encountered no minidramas in the shopping aisles, no shoplifters tried to run away with steaks under their shirts in his world. Dyce did his work, ate his lunch, was overlooked by his superior. There was a beauty and a comfort in the numbers, of course; an elegance in the predictions formed from raw data, as simple but complex as the patterns of the ocean’s waves- but he had long since given up trying to explain it all to Helen. She did not understand and after a halfhearted attempt, did not even try. Dyce kept it to himself, another private pleasure.
He did not know what to do about Helen. She was smothering him, that much was clear, but how he might stop it was as murky as the shadows in the back of the station wagon. They had had one fight, a silly squabble about nothing at all as far as Dyce could remember. At the time, he had even suspected she started it just to get a rise out of him. Dyce was not accustomed to fighting and did not understand there were rules. At first he took her petulance as some sort of game, but eventually it dawned on him that she was accusing him of not being jealous. Somewhere in her ramblings she had told him about another man who made a pass at her at work, and Dyce had not responded with the fury she hoped for. In truth, he had not even been listening and the incident was lost on him, although it would not have occurred to him to be angry even if he knew the details. What she did during the day was her business, as far as he was concerned, just as what he did when he was alone was entirely his concern.
The argument had grown and swirled about Dyce as he watched in bafflement, wondering how she could wring so many variations of woe out of the same theme without Dyce contributing anything. Finally she had begun to cry, and it was then that Dyce realized how hard it would be to stop seeing her. When she wept, she touched him and Dyce would do whatever he could to ease her pain.
He comforted her as best he could even though he wasn’t sure what ailed her, and to his amazement he heard himself apologizing. When he admitted his guilt in the matter, her spirits improved immensely. She forgave him and kissed him. The crisis was past, although she continued to pout occasionally about his alleged lack of attention.
He knew she would cry if he told her he didn’t want to see her anymore, or even not so often. He was afraid, in fact, that she would do much worse than cry. She had told him more than once that she would kill herself if he ever left her, and Dyce believed she was capable of it. In a way, the notion of being that important to her was rather flattering, although something of a responsibility. Dyce did not want to be the cause of anyone’s death, or even their unhappiness.
Pouring him a third white wine spritzer, the bartender considered what he was going to have to do with Eric Brandauer. Ginny had already complained twice. The first time, while giving him Eric’s order, she had simply said, “What a prick.”
He liked that about Ginny; she was a no-nonsense person. Older women made better waitresses. They didn’t look so hot, maybe, and nobody tipped them big just because they were cute, but they got the orders straight and they knew a prick when they saw one. Ginny had two kids in high school and a husband who drank it up as fast as Ginny could pay for it, so she didn’t have any illusions that waitressing in a place like this was a stepping-stone to somewhere else. This was it.
The second time she said, “Harold,” using his proper name, which was what he preferred, not Harry, which he hated and the younger women insisted on. “Harold, you’re going to have to shut that prick off.”
“Eric?”
“The asshole.” Eric was slouched in his chair, his left leg stretched out so it nearly tripped anyone who passed, his right leg draped over another chair. “The one sitting in two chairs.”
“Eric Brandauer,” said the bartender. “This is only his third drink.”
“His third here,” said Ginny. “He’s been swilling something stronger than white wine spritzers somewhere. Either that or he’s just naturally as pleasant as a molting snake.”
“Eric’s always had a mean streak,” said the bartender, hoping he wouldn’t be called on to do anything. Eric not only had a reputation for being mean, he was awfully quick to use his hands. And his boots. Tending bar was not the same as bouncing, and Harold had no desire to take up a new career at this stage in his life.
“If he gives you any more trouble, let me know.”
“I’m letting you know now, Harold. If he touches me again, or even looks at me like that, I’m through serving him.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Harold, placing the wine spritzer on Ginny’s serving tray. She added a napkin.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” she said. “You keep an eye on me.”
The bartender watched as Ginny put the wine on the table in front of Brandauer. He affected a hat, not quite a Stetson, but something semi-Western, that he wore very low over his eyes. Thinks he’s Clint Eastwood, Harold thought. Or no, someone else, some other actor. Who was it he looked like, not quite a star but well known, a character actor, foreign. Harold remembered him from a Redford movie where he had been a CIA killer, and then he had seen him only the other night in an old movie where he played Jesus or John the Baptist with a Swedish accent. The planes of his face were the same, the high cheekbones, the long, slightly horsey look. Funny that the Swedish women all looked good enough to eat, and the men had these thin, long faces with the big jaws. Max Von Sydow, that was it. He looked like a young Max Von Sydow. Or like Max Von Sydow pretending he was Billy the Kid.
Knowing just how far to push it and when to stop, Eric Brandauer let Ginny pass without incident, but his eyes under the brim of the hat looked at her with the kind of malevolent interest that Harold usually saw on television only when the punk was about to do something rash. Harold prayed that Eric would save his rashness for the parking lot where Harold wouldn’t have to know about it until he read the police report in the local paper.
Dyce waited until ten thirty. His favorite classical music station was playing one of the Beethoven symphonies-he wasn’t certain which, he had missed the announcement, but he thought it was the Seventh- and he was nearly as comfortable in the car as he would have been at home. When the driver of the car to the left of the station wagon finally left, Dyce pulled into the spot, carefully leaving just enough room so that he could open the passenger door all the way. He would wait for fifteen more minutes.