The Night in Question: Stories Read online

  She had been teaching herself the guitar, and sometimes she would consent to play and sing for him, old ballads about mine disasters and nice lads getting hanged for poaching and noblewomen drowning their babies. He could see how the words moved her: so much that her voice would give out for moments at a time, during which she would bite her lower lip and gaze down at the floor. She put folk songs on the record player and listened to them with her eyes closed. She also liked Roy Orbison and the Fleetwoods and Ray Charles. One night she was bringing some fudge from the kitchen just as “Born to Lose” came on. Gilbert stood and offered his hand with a dandified flourish that she could have laughed off if she’d chosen to. She put the plate down and took his hand and they began to dance, stiffly at first, from a distance, then easily and close. They fit perfectly. Perfectly. He felt the rub of her hips and thighs, the heat of her skin. Her warm hand tightened in his. He breathed in the scent of lavender water with the sunny smell of her hair and the faint salt smell of her body. He breathed it all in again and again. And then he felt himself grow hard and rise against her, so that she had to know, she just had to know, and he waited for her to move away. But she did not move away. She pressed close to him until the song ended, and for a moment or two after. Then she stepped back and let go of Gilbert’s hand and in a hoarse voice asked him if he wanted some fudge. She was facing him but managing not to look at him.

  Maybe later, he said, and held out his hand again. May I have the honor?

  She walked over to the couch and sat down. I’m so clumsy.

  No you’re not. You’re a great dancer.

  She shook her head.

  He sat down in the chair across from her. She still wouldn’t look at him. She put her hands together and stared at them.

  Then she said, How come Rafe’s dad picks on him all the time?

  I don’t know. There isn’t any particular reason. Bad chemistry, I guess.

  It’s like he can’t do anything right. His dad won’t let him alone, even when I’m there. I bet he’s having a miserable time.

  It was true that neither Rafe’s father nor his mother took much pleasure in their son. Gilbert had no idea why this should be so. But it was a strange subject to have boiled up out of nowhere like this, and for her to be suddenly close to tears about. Don’t worry about Rafe, he said. Rafe can take care of himself.

  The grandfather clock chimed the Westminster Bells, then struck twelve times. The clock had been made to go with the living room ensemble and its tone, tinny and untrue, set Gilbert on edge. The whole house set him on edge: the pictures, the matching Colonial furniture, the single bookshelf full of condensed books. It was like a house Russian spies would practice being Americans in.

  It’s just so unfair, Mary Ann said. Rafe is so sweet.

  He’s a good egg, Rafe, Gilbert said. Most assuredly. One of the best.

  He is the best.

  Gilbert got up to leave and Mary Ann did look at him then, with something like alarm. She stood and followed him outside onto the porch. When he looked back from the end of the walkway, she was watching him with her arms crossed over her chest. Call me tomorrow, she said. Okay?

  I was thinking of doing some reading, he said. Then he said, I’ll see. I’ll see how things go.

  The next night they went bowling. This was Mary Ann’s idea. She was a good bowler and frankly out to win. Whenever she got a strike she threw her head back and gave a great bark of triumph. She questioned Gilbert’s scorekeeping until he got rattled and told her to take over, which she did without even a show of protest. When she guttered her ball she claimed she’d slipped on a wet spot and insisted on bowling that frame again. He didn’t let her, he understood that she would despise him if he did, but her shamelessness somehow made him happier than he’d been all day.

  As he pulled up to her house Mary Ann said, Next time I’ll give you some pointers. You’d be half decent if you knew what you were doing.

  Hearing that “next time,” he killed the engine and turned and looked at her. Mary Ann, he said.

  He had never said so much before.

  She looked straight ahead and didn’t answer. Then she said, I’m thirsty. You want a glass of juice or something? Before Gilbert could say anything, she added, We’ll have to sit outside, okay? I think we woke my dad up last night.

  Gilbert waited on the steps while Mary Ann went into the house. Paint cans and brushes were arranged on top of the porch railing. Captain McCoy scraped and painted one side of the house every year. This year he was doing the front. That was just like him, to eke it out one side at a time. Gilbert had once helped the Captain make crushed ice for drinks. The way the Captain did it, he held a single cube in his hand and clobbered it with a hammer until it was pulverized. Then another cube. Then another. Etcetera. When Gilbert wrapped a whole tray’s worth in a hand towel and started to whack it against the counter, the Captain grabbed the towel away from him. That’s not how you do it! he said. He found Gilbert another hammer and the two of them stood there hitting cube after cube.

  Mary Ann came out with two glasses of orange juice. She sat beside Gilbert and they drank and looked out at the Buick gleaming under the streetlight.

  I’m off tomorrow, Gilbert said. You want to go for a drive?

  Gee, I wish I could. I promised my dad I’d paint the fence.

  We’ll paint, then.

  That’s all right. It’s your day off. You should do something.

  Painting’s something.

  Something you like, dummy.

  I like to paint. In fact I love painting.

  Gilbert.

  No kidding, I love to paint. Ask my folks. Every free minute, I’m out there with a brush.

  Like fun.

  So what time do we start? Look, it’s only been three hours since I did my last fence and already my hand’s starting to shake.

  Stop it! I don’t know. Whenever. After breakfast.

  He finished his juice and rolled the glass between his hands. Mary Ann.

  He felt her hesitate. Yes?

  He kept rolling the glass. What do your folks think about us going out so much?

  They don’t mind. I think they’re glad, actually.

  I’m not exactly their type.

  Hah. You can say that again.

  What’re they so glad about then?

  You’re not Rafe.

  What, they don’t like Rafe?

  Oh, they like him, a lot. A whole lot. They’re always saying how if they had a son, and so on. But my dad thinks we’re getting too serious.

  Ah, too serious. So I’m comic relief.

  Don’t say that.

  I’m not comic relief?

  No.

  Gilbert put his elbows on the step behind him. He looked up at the sky and said carefully, He’ll be back in a couple of days.

  I know.

  Then what?

  She leaned forward and stared into the yard as if she’d heard a sound.

  He waited for a time, aware of every breath he took. Then what? he said again.

  I don’t know. Maybe … I don’t know. I’m really kind of tired. You’re coming tomorrow, right?

  If that’s what you want.

  You said you were.

  Only if you want me to.

  I want you to.

  Okay. Sure. Tomorrow, then.

  Gilbert stopped at a diner on the way home. He ate a piece of apple pie, then drank coffee and watched the cars go past. To an ordinary person driving by he supposed he must look pretty tragic, sitting here alone over a coffee cup, cigarette smoke curling past his face. And the strange thing was, that person would be right. He was about to betray his best friend. To cut Rafe off from the two people he trusted most, possibly, he understood, from trust itself. Himself, too, he would betray—his belief, held deep under the stream of his flippancy, that he was steadfast and loyal. And he knew what he was doing. That was why this whole thing was tragic, because he knew what he was doing and could not do otherwise.
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  He had thought it all out. He could provide himself with reasons. Rafe and Mary Ann would have broken up anyway, sooner or later. Rafe was moving on. He didn’t know it, but he was leaving them behind. He’d have roommates, guys from rich families who’d invite him home for vacation, take him skiing, sailing. He’d wear a tuxedo to debutante parties where he’d meet girls from Smith and Mount Holyoke, philosophy majors, English majors, girls with ideas who were reading the same books he was reading and other books too, who could say things he wouldn’t have expected them to say. He’d get interested in one of these girls and go on road trips with his friends to her college. She’d come to New Haven. They’d rendezvous in Boston and New York. He’d meet her parents. And on the first day of his next trip home, honorable Rafe would enter Mary Ann’s house and leave half an hour later with a sorrowful face and a heart leaping with joy. There wouldn’t be many more trips home, not after that. What was here to bring him all that way? Not his parents, those crocodiles. Not Mary Ann. Himself? Good old Gilbert? Please.

  And Mary Ann, what about Mary Ann? Once Rafe double-timed her and then dropped her cold, what would happen to that simple good-heartedness of hers? Would she begin to suspect it, stand guard over it? He was right to do anything to keep that from happening.

  These were the reasons, and they were good reasons, but Gilbert could make no use of them. He knew that he would do what he was going to do even if Rafe stayed at home and went to college with him, or if Mary Ann was somewhat more calculating. Reasons always came with a purpose, to give the appearance of a struggle between principle and desire. But there’d been no struggle. Principle had power only until you found what you had to have.

  Captain McCoy was helping Mrs. McCoy into the car when Gilbert pulled up behind him. The Captain waited as his wife gathered her dress inside, then closed the door and walked back toward the Buick. Gilbert came around to meet him.

  Mary Ann tells me you’re going to help with the fence.

  Yes, sir.

  There’s not that much of it—shouldn’t take too long.

  They both looked at the fence, about sixty feet of white pickets that ran along the sidewalk. Mary Ann came out on the porch and mimed “hi.”

  Captain McCoy said, Would you mind picking up the paint? It’s that Glidden store down on California. Just give ’em my name. He opened his car door, then looked at the fence again. Scrape her good. That’s the secret. Give her a good scraping and the rest’ll go easy. And try not to get any paint on the grass.

  Mary Ann came through the gate and waved as her parents drove off. She said that they were going over to Bremerton to see her grandmother. Well, she said. You want some coffee or something?

  I’m fine.

  He followed her up the walk. She had on cutoffs. Her legs were very white and they flexed in a certain way as she climbed the porch steps. Captain McCoy had set out two scrapers and two brushes on the railing, all four of them exactly parallel. Mary Ann handed Gilbert a scraper and they went back to the fence. What a day! she said. Isn’t it the most beautiful day? She knelt to the right of the gate and began to scrape. Then she looked back at Gilbert watching her and said, Why don’t you do that side over there? We’ll see who gets done first.

  There wasn’t much to scrape, some blisters, a few peeling patches here and there. This fence is in good shape, Gilbert said. How come you’re painting it?

  It goes with the front. When we paint the front, we always paint the fence.

  It doesn’t need it. All it needs is some retouching.

  I guess. Dad wanted us to paint it, though. He always paints it when he paints the front.

  Gilbert looked at the gleaming white house, the bright weedless lawn trimmed to the nap of a crewcut.

  Guess who called this morning, Mary Ann said.

  Who?

  Rafe! There was a big storm coming in so they left early. He’ll be back tonight. He sounded really great. He said to say hi.

  Gilbert ran the scraper up and down a picket.

  It was so good to hear his voice, Mary Ann said. I wish you’d been here to talk to him.

  A kid went by on a bicycle, cards snapping against the spokes.

  We should do something, Mary Ann said. Surprise him. Maybe we could take the car over to the house, be waiting out front when he gets back. Wouldn’t that be great?

  I wouldn’t have any way to get home.

  Rafe can give you a ride.

  Gilbert sat back and watched Mary Ann. She was halfway down her section of the fence. He waited for her to turn and face him. Instead she bent over to work at a spot near the ground. Her hair fell forward, exposing the nape of her neck. Maybe you could invite someone along, Mary Ann said.

  Invite someone. What do you mean, a girl?

  Sure. It would be nice if you had a girl. It would be perfect.

  Gilbert threw the scraper against the fence. He saw Mary Ann freeze. It would not be perfect, he said. When she still didn’t turn around, he stood and went up the walk and through the house to the kitchen. He paced back and forth. He went to the sink, drank a glass of water, and stood with his hands on the counter. He saw what Mary Ann was thinking of, the two of them sitting in the open car, herself jumping out as Rafe pulled up, the wild embrace. Rafe unshaven, reeking of smoke and nature, a little abashed at all this emotion in front of his father but pleased, too, and amused. And all the while Gilbert looking coolly on, hands in his pockets, ready to say the sly mocking words that would tell Rafe that all was as before. That was how she saw it going. As if nothing had happened.

  Mary Ann had just about finished her section when Gilbert came back outside. I’ll go get the paint, he told her. I don’t think there’s much left to scrape on my side, but you can take a look.

  She stood and tried to smile. Thank you, she said.

  He saw that she had been in tears, and this did not soften him but confirmed him in his purpose.

  Mary Ann had already spread out the tarp, pulling one edge under the fence so the drips wouldn’t fall on the grass. When Gilbert opened the can she laughed and said, Look! They gave you the wrong color.

  No, that’s exactly the right color.

  But it’s red. We need white. Like it is now.

  You don’t want to use white, Mary Ann. Believe me.

  She frowned.

  Red’s the perfect color for this. No offense, but white is the worst choice you could make.

  But the house is white.

  Exactly, Gilbert said. So are the houses next door. You put a white fence here, what you end up with is complete boredom. It’s like being in a hospital, you know what I mean?

  I don’t know. I guess it is a lot of white.

  What the red will do, the red will give some contrast and pick up the bricks in the walk. It’s just what you want here.

  Well, maybe. The thing is, I don’t think I should. Not this time. Next time, maybe, if my dad wants to.

  Look, Mary Ann. What your dad wants is for you to use your own head.

  Mary Ann squinted at the fence.

  You have to trust me on this, okay?

  She sucked in her lower lip, then nodded. Okay. If you’re sure.

  Gilbert dipped his brush. The world’s bland enough already, right? Everyone’s always talking about the banality of evil—what about the evil of banality?

  They painted through the morning and into the afternoon. Every now and then Mary Ann would back off a few steps and take in what they’d done. At first she kept her thoughts to herself. The more they painted, the more she had to say. Toward the end she went out into the street and stood there with her hands on her hips. It’s interesting, isn’t it? Really different. I see what you mean about picking up the bricks. It’s pretty red, though.

  It’s perfect.

  Think my dad’ll like it?

  Your dad? He’ll be crazy about it.

  Think so? Gilbert? Really?

  Wait till you see his face.

  Migraine

  I
t began while she was at work. At the first pang her breath caught and her eyes went wide open. Then it subsided, leaving a faint pressure at the back of her neck. Joyce put her hands on either side of the keyboard and waited. From the cubicles around her she heard the steady click of other keyboards. She knew what was happening to her, knew so well that when the next wave came she felt it not as pain but as dread for what was still to come. Joyce closed down the terminal, then gathered the lab reports and put them in a folder.

  She stopped in the doorway of her supervisor’s office to say that she was leaving early. Her supervisor made a sympathetic face and offered to call a cab if Joyce didn’t feel up to the drive; she could pay for it out of petty cash. “That’s what it’s there for,” she said.

  “I’ll manage,” Joyce told her. She added: “You don’t have to whisper.”

  Joyce did not drive home. Instead she called a taxi from the lobby of the building, as she had intended to do all along. Her supervisor might think that she was giving the money freely, but it wouldn’t work out that way. Whatever people gave you from their overflowing hearts they remembered, and expected you to remember, forever. In Joyce’s experience there was no such thing as petty cash.

  When she got home she found two cardboard boxes in the living room, filled with her roommate’s few belongings. Joyce and Dina had quarreled again, and now Dina was taking the final step in their agreement that she should move out. Joyce looked at the boxes. She considered searching through them, then rejected the idea as beneath her. It was the kind of thing she used to do but had taught herself, with difficulty, to stop doing. She closed her eyes for a moment, swaying slightly from side to side, then crossed the room and turned the television on. A screaming host in a yellow blazer was trying to make himself heard over the delirium of his audience as a big clock ticked away the seconds. Joyce turned the volume off and went into the kitchen to boil some water for tea.