The houseboat, p.5
The Houseboat, page 5
How much fer thisn? he said again.
She reached for the tag and spun it on its piece of string.
It’s three dollars, she said. She was a shy thing, probably no more than fifteen years old. She wore her hair in a ponytail and her lips were colored pink.
I ain’t talkin the dress, goddamnit. I mean the doll. How much fer the doll?
You mean the mannequin? I don’t think it’s for sale, sir.
Then why yeh got the damn thing in the winder here?
She’d been looking at the floor and now she was looking toward the back of the store.
Can you keep your voice down, please, she said softly.
No I cain’t cause yeh ain’t hearin me. Jest wantin a answer to my question is all.
Well I don’t think it’s for sale, sir. I’m sorry.
Well shit then!
The girl was fluttering her eyes about the store like a pair of hummingbird wings.
I could go get my manager? she said. He might be able to help?
Sure’s shit hope so. Yeh ain’t doin a goddamn thing.
The girl went away and Rigby watched her go. His eyes fell on an old woman staring at him from behind a rack of men’s trousers and he cocked his tongue at her and she looked away. The girl was gone a little bit of time and when she came out from the back she was following the manager. He was a tall lanky man with a black mustache. His hair was combed back and he wore a white shirt with a blue tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. He looked at Rigby like one might a vandalized fence. The girl stood behind him like a child would her father.
My name is Gene, the man said. What can I help you with? His voice was low and mirrored his demeanor.
I want a buy this here doll, Rigby said.
I’m sorry it’s not for sale.
That’s what she told me.
So you know already.
Rigby reached out and rubbed the hard thigh of the mannequin with the back of his hand. Stroked it like a cat.
Don’t touch that, Gene said.
Rigby was looking around the store.
Yeh got any black ones? he asked.
That’s a black dress there, Gene said.
Dolls I mean. Yeh got any black dolls? That’s what I come lookin fer.
The manager smelled the air around Rigby. Have you been drinking, sir?
Naw. I ain’t drinkin.
I think you better go.
Hold on now. I ain’t tryin to cause nothin.
The manager’s face darkened. I said I think you better go. He pointed to the door.
Now hold on, Rigby said.
Betty, Gene said, turning back to the salesgirl, go call Sheriff Fielding.
All right, Rigby said, raising his hands in surrender and pushing past the man. I’m goin.
15
The cruiser pulled to the curb in front of Deb’s Café. Stopped a couple of feet away. It was nine o’clock in the morning and the air was thick with heat. A light rain was falling. Sheriff Fielding opened the passenger-side door and looked down into the gutter running with gray water.
Don’t worry, Deputy, Fielding said, I’ll walk to the curb.
I’ll go see what Gene’s got to say about this complaint, Clinton said. Then I’ll be back. Order me up a couple a eggs won’t yeh.
Good enough.
Fielding came in from the rain and stomped the mud from his shoes and shook the water from his collar. He removed his wide hat and said the name of the woman working the counter.
Mornin Sheriff, she said.
He took his regular booth in the back corner and read the headlines of a paper left behind and set his hat in the center of the table.
A nice, thick woman named Meryl brought the sheriff his coffee in a china mug with a saucer. He smiled warmly at her and ordered the deputy his eggs.
Can I get you anything? she asked.
I guess I wouldn’t say no to a muffin.
Bran all right with you?
No blueberry?
Sold my last one to that gentleman there.
Well then I’ll take the bran.
He drank the coffee and read the paper. Plucked a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. The first drag was long and slow. He finished his coffee and had another. Half an hour passed before he saw the deputy again. By that time it had stopped raining and the deputy’s eggs were cold. Fielding was just about to pay when Clinton came through the door and crossed the café in a bit of a hurry and sat down at the booth.
He took off his hat and set it on the table and combed his black hair over with his fingers.
Yer eggs is cold, Fielding said.
Gene said they were robbed last night, Clinton said.
Robbed?
That’s what he said.
They get the safe?
Naw. No money was missin.
What the hell they take then?
Clinton grinned.
What’s got you amused? Fielding asked.
Some ladies’ panties and three brassieres.
Fielding stubbed out his cigarette. Laughed through his nose and shook his head. He tapped the paper with his middle finger as if that would help to explain things.
They found an entire family kilt out in Colorado this week, he said. Whole family murdered for twenty dollars. He frowned and shook. The older I get . . .
Fielding stared at the headline on the paper.
The older yeh get, what sir? Clinton asked.
Fielding laid a dollar on the table.
Nothin. Yeh best eat them eggs. Gene ain’t one for patience.
16
Hunting through the woods he heard the voices of girls. Held his breath to make sure. A sharp excitement. Where he looked the tall elms thinned to the river and the gaps there held blades of sunlight and whorls of gnats. In the far distance he could see the limestone bluffs across the water. Great smears of green moss. Shadows mottled the river’s surface like cold skin. He was tempted to run. The ferny underbrush stood nearly to his waist as he started toward the noise, leveling his gun.
At a small distance he stood behind a thick oak tree and peeked from around the trunk. In the sandy loam the sun spotlighted three teenage girls taking in the warmth in their bikinis atop beach towels. A small transistor radio stood between them. One girl with blonde hair lay on her stomach with the straps of her top undone and her skin was oiled and brown. The fine hair on her back shone like glitter. Another girl with black hair and freckled shoulders read aloud from a gossip magazine. Rigby leaned his head against the tree and listened after her voice as though it was only for him. At the funny parts the girls would laugh and Rigby would smile at that.
He watched closely as one girl in a dark blue bikini rose from her towel and stepped into the water. She was a little heavier than the other two, but nicely proportioned with long crimson hair that drifted down to the small of her back. She knelt in the water and lapped up handfuls onto her arms. Had alabaster skin and her heavy breasts hung in the small top. In his mind Rigby imagined this was what Eden might look like. It was a hot day but the water was cool and the girl gave a gasp at its chill. The other girls laughed at her squealing. A little croak of laughter escaped Rigby’s lips and all three girls’ heads snapped woodward as though on a timer. The girls squinted into the dim forest as if letting their eyes adjust and the girl in the water covered her breasts with an arm.
Hello? the blonde girl said.
A long quiet second passed before Rigby shouldered the shotgun and lifted his snared rabbit from the forest floor and stepped from behind the tree. The shredded light through the wooded ceiling gave the man a caged appearance like a zoo animal stalking behind the bars. Already he wore a strange grin as he came through the ferns, pushing aside the dogwood and stepping onto the sand. Rigby’s dry lips tightened over his long teeth.
What say yeh, he said.
They watched him without a word. The blonde had reached around and begun to tie up the strings of her top.
Don’t let me intrude on yeh none, he said, crooked grin. I jest came to say hi yeh.
The blonde girl had sat up and had pulled a shirt around her shoulders. The big-breasted one in the water had come forward and taken up her towel and wrapped it about.
What yeh all doin out here? he asked.
The black-haired girl had her legs curled under. She looked at her friends. Just sun tanning, she said.
Sun tannin? He smiled. That’s nice. He tapped his fingers against the barrel of the gun. Well.
They said nothing.
Behind Rigby the woods whistled with the echoes of birds. Downriver, car sounds over the bridge sounded like distant moving water. The blonde girl switched off the radio and then there were only the birds. Rigby sucked through his teeth then spat a gout of foam into the sand. Yeh all alone? he asked.
What do you mean?
Where’s yeh all’s boyfriends at?
They’re coming.
Where they run to?
They didn’t run off anywhere, the black-haired girl said.
Yeh all even have boyfriends?
Yeah, said the blonde.
What bout you, he said, pointing the barrel of the shotgun toward the heavier girl.
What about me? she asked.
Yeh got a boy?
Yeah.
No yeh ain’t.
You better get out of here before they show up, said the blonde, pretending. She was trying hard to smile. They don’t like other guys talking to us, she said. They’re jealous.
Jealous?
Mm-hmm.
If they is so jealous they shouldn’t leave yeh all by yer lonesome. Rigby swung the dangled rabbit against his leg. He winked at the black-haired girl. Yeh all like rabbit? I could make it up if yeh all is hungry. Build up a nice fire right here. Yeh all want me to make yeh a fire?
We’ve already eaten lunch, said the black-haired girl.
Rigby’s eyes jumped from one to the other. Let them come to rest on the breasts of the redhead and he did not move them for what seemed a long time.
Yeh all could be in them magazines, he said.
What are you talking about?
Not them kind there, Rigby said, pointing to the one laid in front of her. Them other kinds. Them ones fer men to look at.
The blonde cocked her head and scowled at him. That’s a disgusting thing to say.
Rigby grinned. He sucked his teeth. Didn’t mean it to be.
Well it’s rude.
Sorry then.
I’d go if I were you, said the blonde girl, the patience going out of her. They’ll be here any minute. They aren’t going to like you talking to us the way you are.
I didn’t mean nothin. I was jest huntin rabbit and heard yeh all laughin and I thought I’d come see what was so funny.
Well they aren’t going to like you being here.
Okay, he said. He allowed himself a good long look at the breasts of the one. Okay, he said again. Don’t yeh get a sunburn now. He winked one last time then turned on his heel and retreated into the woods. They heard him go, that thing of the wild, lumbering through the ferns, trodding snapped twigs. And when he was gone they stared at each other with waxed eyes because they didn’t know what else to do.
17
It began to rain the next morning. The first stippling over the river. Muted in the woods. Rigby did not leave the boat all day. Busied himself with the tasks of a mouse. When night fell he cooked a supper of pork belly and cut the slab into small pieces and forked each up for the mannequin, Mary Belle. When her rigid face failed to accept the food he threw down the fork and cast the plate to the floor. Stood barking curses at her until he collapsed into the bed. Exhaustion followed his sobbing and then he slept fitfully. He awoke at some point to find her dry wooden eyes staring back in the oil light and he rose like a child from the mattress and took her up like a stuffed toy and dragged her into bed.
In the morning there was a pool of brown water on the countertop from where the roof leaked and the drip stirred him. He went there and eyed up at where the water was falling. Scratched himself and turned to the bed where Mary Belle had her back turned. He asked her if she was still mad at him but she did not answer.
He brought a chair and climbed up and poked at the sagging patch in the ceiling with a wooden spoon. The vinyl panel tore and a moldy pocket of water fell down upon him. He waved furiously at it and in doing so rocked the legs of the chair out from under him and went crashing to the floor. Pale and naked he looked like some advanced fetus newly birthed writhing balled on the plywood.
Later in the day, in the dying, waxen light he read his magazine to her, what words he could, with her cold face laid into his chest. He’d say, See that? She’s got yer same name.
The rain came harder and the daylong the river boiled under the black clouds. The dark sky darkened even further until it was the same color as the river, with Rigby’s shadow coming out finally at night to follow him about in the sallow oil lamps like a pup.
18
Rigby climbed the wooden steps in a sway, his head tumbling in drink. On the front of the house there was a porch and no windows in the clapboarding. The white paint was peeling, the porch empty of furniture. Rigby rapped on the door. Two men stood at the far end of the porch smoking cigarettes, regarding him. He looked their way and then he beat the door again. Could hear music within. Stepped back and looked up at the lighted transom and he could see shadow pictures of people playing on the ceiling. He tried the handle but it felt stuck.
There a trick to this? Rigby asked the men down the porch but they didn’t offer an answer. He knocked again.
It was a warm night. A big moon rode high in the sky and so bright it turned the land silver. In the open field beyond the house a group of men had built up a bonfire and stood circling it. Passing a jar and laughing, the pretty flames licking between the opaque figures. The crickets wailed in the tall grass. Nightbirds in the bur oaks. A car had turned off onto the dirt road and began to cut through the trees. It came up into the small parking lot and the headlights caught Rigby’s hollow face squinting back at them. Those fiendish lenses catching the light like some deep-sea creature. The men exited the car and said howdy to the guys smoking at the far end. They climbed the steps one at a time.
There some code? Rigby asked.
Code? said one of the men.
Sumpin to git in?
You just walk in, partner.
Door’s locked.
I don’t think so.
Rigby heard the smoking men chuckle and followed the others inside.
It was an open room with tables arranged over a hardwood floor. There was a bar along one wall with a mirror built into the barback. A raw wood ceiling. Thick beams. A jukebox was playing and girls of all kinds sashayed about to smile at the men and whisper in their ears. Rigby picked out a petite isabelline thing with auburn hair and dull green eyes. Her pouty lips were the color of red cabbage. A black silk slip loose on her shoulders, looking out lazily at the room.
What say darlin? Rigby asked, coming up to her. He was attempting to smooth the cowlick in the back of his head. Wore his cleanest overalls for the occasion and his shirt, which was too big for him, was buttoned to the neck, but still the collar hung like a loose band. He adjusted those comical glasses, flashed his yellow teeth. What’s yer name pretty thing?
Why yeh want a know my name?
Thought we’d get friendly first.
I got enough friends.
Yeh got any like me?
Every one a them is like you.
Bet not.
She took stock of him a moment. Against her better judgment she told him.
Caroline, she said.
Like the state?
That’s Carolina.
Caroline. That really yer name?
I said it was, didn’t I?
Her eyes tracked the length of him. Saw her image dished out in the glass of his lenses.
Yeh lookin to get yerself into somethin tonight or what? she asked. She parted her legs and pulled the hem of her slip up her thighs.
He sat down at the barstool next to her and she reached out for his knee. She leaned in like she had a secret, Rigby trying to look down the neck of her slip. She said, Yeh want a take me in the back, show me what kind a man yeh are?
Why don’t yeh give me a little peek, Rigby said.
Yeh got the change?
Yeah. I got money.
Let me see it first.
Jest let me have a peek then I’ll show it to yeh.
She sat back abruptly, took her hand from his knee. Yeh sure yeh got the money?
Sure I got it, Rigby said. He’d not taken his gaze from her chest. His big, drunkward eyes. She sighed heavily, then pulled down the front of the slip exposing her peach-colored nipples. Breasts like fruit not quite ripe. When she pulled the fabric up again he said, Let me have another look-see.
Yeh ain’t gettin anothern less yeh take me in the back. Shoot, yer already in a little now.
All right then.
She led him by the hand to the back room. Along the way he heard the moans of women behind closed doors. The narrow hallway was pitched in red lighting and lanky girls leaned smoking against the walls with their robes fallen open like addicts. The room she took him to was plain looking: only a bed, a mirror, and a basin of water and a hand towel pegged to the wall. A cheap lamp with some dangling fringe burning beside the basin was the only light. She went to the basin and took down the towel and dabbed a corner into the water and reached it up under her slip and cleaned herself. The muffled grind of bedsprings came through the walls. She hung the towel back on the wall and turned to him.
It’s five dollers to blow yeh, she said. Ten if yeh want a fuck me. And twenty if yeh want it any other way. She crossed the room and looped her arms around his neck like she’d always been his sweetheart. So what sounds good, honey?
Blushing a little he said, That all sounds good.
