蛋白粉可以空腹喝吗:So Much Water So Close to Home

《So Much Water So Close to Home》


My husband eats with good appetite but he seems tired, edgy. Hechews slowly, arms on the table, and stares at something across theroom. He looks at me and looks away again. He wipes his mouth on thenapkin. He shrugs and goes on eating. Something has come between usthough he would like me to believe otherwise.

"What are you staring at me for?" he asks. "What is it?" he says and puts his fork down.

"Was I staring?" I say and shake my head stupidly, stupidly.

The telephone rings. "Don't answer it," he says.

"It might be your mother," I say. "Dean--it might be something about Dean."

"Watch and see," he says.

I picked up the receiver and listen for a minute. He stops eating. I bite my lip and hang up.

"What did I tell you?" he says. He starts to eat again, then throwsthe napkin onto his plate. "Goddamn it, why can't people mind their ownbusiness? Tell me what I did wrong and I'll listen! It's not fair. Shewas dead, wasn't she? There were other men there besides me. We talkedit over and we all decided. We'd only just got there. We'd walked forhours. We couldn't just turn around, we were five miles from the car.It was opening day. What the hell, I don't see anything wrong. No, Idon't. And don't look at me that way, do you hear? I won't have youpassing judgment on me. Not you."

"You know," I say and shake my head.

"What do I know, Claire? Tell me. Tell me what I know. I don't knowanything except one thing: you hadn't better get worked up over this."He gives me what he thinks is a meaningful look. "She was dead, dead,dead, do you hear?" he says after a minute. "It's a damn shame, Iagree. She was a young girl and it's a shame, and I'm sorry, as sorryas anyone else, but she was dead, Claire, dead. Now let's leave italone. Please, Claire. Let's leave it alone now."

"That's the point," I say. "She was dead. But don't you see? She needed help."

"I give up," he says and raises his hands. He pushes his chair awayfrom the table, takes his cigarettes and goes out to the patio with acan of beer. He walks back and forth for a minute and then sits in alawn chair and picks up the paper once more. His name is there on thefirst page along with the names of his friends, the other men who madethe "grisly find."

I close my eyes for a minute and hold onto the drainboard. I mustnot dwell on this any longer. I must get over it, put it out of sight,out of mind, etc., and "go on." I open my eyes. Despite everything,knowing all that may be in store, I rake my arm across the drainboardand send the dishes and glasses smashing and scattering across thefloor.

He doesn't move. I know he has heard, he raises his head as iflistening, but he doesn't move otherwise, doesn't turn around to look.I hate him for that, for not moving. He waits a minute, then draws onhis cigarette and leans back in the chair. I pity him for listening,detached, and then settling back and drawing on his cigarette. The windtakes the smoke out of his mouth in a thin stream. Why do I noticethat? He can never know how much I pity him for that, for sitting stilland listening, and letting the smoke stream out of his mouth....

He planned his fishing trip into the mountains last Sunday, a weekbefore the Memorial Day weekend. He and Gordon Johnson, Mel Dorn, VernWilliams. They play poker, bowl, and fish together. They fish togetherevery spring and early summer, the first two or three months of theseason, before family vacations, little league baseball, and visitingrelatives can intrude. They are decent men, family men, responsible attheir jobs. They have sons and daughters who go to school with our son,Dean. On Friday afternoon these four men left for a three-day fishingtrip to the Naches River. They parked the car in the mountains andhiked several miles to where they wanted to fish. They carried theirbedrolls, food and cooking utensils, their playing cards, theirwhiskey. The first evening at the river, even before they could set upcamp, Mel Dorn found the girl floating face down in the river, nude,lodged near the shore in some branches. He called the other men andthey all came to look at her. They talked about what to do. One of themen--Stuart didn't say which-- perhaps it was Vern Williams, he is aheavy-set, easy man who laughs often--one of them thought they shouldstart back to the car at once. The others stirred the sand with theirshoes and said they felt inclined to stay. They pleaded fatigue, thelate hour, the fact that the girl "wasn't going anywhere." In the endthey all decided to stay. They went ahead and set up the camp and builta fire and drank their whiskey. They drank a lot of whiskey and whenthe moon came up they talked about the girl. Someone thought theyshould do something to prevent the body from floating away. Somehowthey thought that this might create a problem for them if it floatedaway during the night. They took flashlights and stumbled down to theriver. The wind was up, a cold wind, and waves from the river lappedthe sandy bank. One of the men, I don't know who, it might have beenStuart, he could have done it, waded into the water and took the girlby the fingers and pulled her, still face down, closer to shore, intoshallow water, and then took a piece of nylon cord and tied it aroundher wrist and then secured the cord to tree roots, all the while theflashlights of the other men played over the girl's body. Afterward,they went back to camp and drank more whiskey. Then they went to sleep.The next morning, Saturday, they cooked breakfast, drank lots ofcoffee, more whiskey, and then split up to fish, two men upriver, twomen down.

That night, after they had cooked their fish and potatoes and hadmore coffee and whiskey, they took their dishes down to the river andrinsed them off a few yards from where the body lay in the water. Theydrank again and then they took out their cards and played and drankuntil they couldn't see the cards any longer. Vern Williams went tosleep, but the others told coarse stories and spoke of vulgar ordishonest escapades out of their past, and no one mentioned the girluntil Gordon Johnson, who'd forgotten for a minute, commented on thefirmness of the trout they'd caught, and the terrible coldness of theriver water. They stopped talking then but continued to drink until oneof them tripped and fell cursing against the lantern, and then theyclimbed into their sleeping bags.

The next morning they got up late, drank more whiskey, fished alittle as they kept drinking whiskey. Then, at one o'clock in theafternoon, Sunday, a day earlier than they'd planned, they decided toleave. They took down their tents, rolled their sleeping bags, gatheredtheir pans, pots, fish, and fishing gear, and hiked out. They didn'tlook at the girl again before they left. When they reached the car theydrove the highway in silence until they came to a telephone. Stuartmade the call to the sheriff's office while the others stood around inthe hot sun and listened. He gave the man on the other end of the lineall of their names--they had nothing to hide, they weren't ashamed ofanything--and agreed to wait at the service station until someone couldcome for more detailed directions and individual statements.

He came home at eleven o'clock that night. I was asleep but wokewhen I heard him in the kitchen. I found him leaning against therefrigerator drinking a can of beer. He put his heavy arms around meand rubbed his hands up and down my back, the same hands he'd left withtwo days before, I thought.

In bed he put his hands on me again and then waited, as if thinkingof something else. I turned slightly and then moved my legs. Afterward,I know he stayed awake for a long time, for he was awake when I fellasleep; and later, when I stirred for a minute, opening my eyes at aslight noise, a rustle of sheets, it was almost daylight outside, birdswere singing, and he was on his back smoking and looking at thecurtained window. Half-asleep I said his name, but he didn't answer. Ifell asleep again.

He was up this morning before I could get out of bed--to see ifthere was anything about it in the paper, I suppose. The telephonebegan to ring shortly after eight o'clock.

"Go to hell," I heard him shout into the receiver. The telephonerang again a minute later, and I hurried into the kitchen. "I havenothing else to add to what I've already said to the sheriff. That'sright!" He slammed down the receiver.

"What is going on?" I said, alarmed.

"Sit down," he said slowly. His fingers scraped, scraped againsthis stubble of whiskers. "I have to tell you something. Somethinghappened while we were fishing." We sat across from each other at thetable, and then he told me.

I drank coffee and stared at him as he spoke. Then I read theaccount in the newspaper that he shoved across the table: "...unidentified girl eighteen to twenty-four years of age... body three tofive days in the water... rape a possible motive... preliminary resultsshow death by strangulation... cuts and bruises on her breasts andpelvic area... autopsy... rape, pending further investigation."

"You've got to understand," he said. "Don't look at me like that. Be careful now, I mean it. Take it easy, Claire."

"Why didn't you tell me last night?" I asked.

"I just... didn't. What do you mean?" he said.

"You know what I mean," I said. I looked at his hands, the broadfingers, knuckles covered with hair, moving, lighting a cigarette now,fingers that had moved over me, into me last night.

He shrugged. "What difference does it make, last night, thismorning? It was late. You were sleepy, I thought I'd wait until thismorning to tell you." He looked out to the patio: a robin flew from thelawn to the picnic table and preened its feathers.

"It isn't true," I said. "You didn't leave her there like that?"

He turned quickly and said, "What'd I do? Listen to me carefullynow, once and for all. Nothing happened. I have nothing to be sorry foror feel guilty about. Do you hear me?"

I got up from the table and went to Dean's room. He was awake andin his pajamas, putting together a puzzle. I helped him find hisclothes and then went back to the kitchen and put his breakfast on thetable. The telephone rang two or three more times and each time Stuartwas abrupt while he talked and angry when he hung up. He called MelDorn and Gordon Johnson and spoke with them, slowly, seriously, andthen he opened a beer and smoked a cigarette while Dean ate, asked himabout school, his friends, etc., exactly as if nothing had happened.

Dean wanted to know what he'd done while he was gone, and Stuart took some fish out of the freezer to show him.

"I'm taking him to your mother's for the day," I said.

"Sure," Stuart said and looked at Dean who was holding one of thefrozen trout. If you want to and he wants to, that is. You don't haveto, you know. There's nothing wrong."

"I'd like to anyway," I said.

"Can I go swimming there?" Dean asked and wiped his fingers on his pants.

"I believe so," I said. "It's a warm day so take your suit, and I'm sure your grandmother will say it's okay."

Stuart lighted a cigarette and looked at us.

Dean and I drove across town to Stuart's mother's. She lives in anapartment building with a pool and a sauna bath. Her name is CatherineKane. Her name, Kane, is the same as mine, which seems impossible.Years ago, Stuart has told me, she used to be called Candy by herfriends. She is a tall, cold woman with white-blonde hair. She gives methe feeling that she is always judging, judging. I explain briefly in alow voice what has happened (she hasn't yet read the newspaper) andpromise to pick Dean up that evening. "He brought his swimming suit," Isay. "Stuart and I have to talk about some things," I add vaguely. Shelooks at me steadily from over her glasses. Then she nods and turns toDean, saying "How are you, my little man?" She stoops and puts her armsaround him. She looks at me again as I open the door to leave. She hasa way of looking at me without saying anything.

When I return home Stuart is eating something at the table and drinking beer....

After a time I sweep up the broken dishes and glassware and gooutside. Stuart is lying on his back on the grass now, the newspaperand can of beer within reach, staring at the sky. It's breezy but warmout and birds call.

"Stuart, could we go for a drive?" I say. "Anywhere."

He rolls over and looks at me and nods. "We'll pick up some beer,"he says. "I hope you're feeling better about this. Try to understand,that's all I ask." He gets to his feet and touches me on the hip as hegoes past. "Give me a minute and I'll be ready."

We drove through town without speaking. Before we reach the countryhe stops at a roadside market for beer. I notice a great stack ofpapers just inside the door. On the top step a fat woman in a printdress holds out a licorice stick to a little girl. In a few minutes wecross Everson Creek and turn into a picnic area a few feet from thewater. The creek flows under the bridge and into a large pond a fewhundred yards away. There are a dozen or so men and boys scatteredaround the banks of the pond under the willows, fishing.

So much water so close to home, why did he have to go miles away to fish?

"Why did you have to go there of all places?" I say.

"The Naches? We always go there. Every year, at least once." We siton a bench in the sun and he opens two cans of beer and gives one tome. "How the hell was I to know anything like that would happen?" Heshakes his head and shrugs, as if it had all happened years ago, or tosomeone else. "Enjoy the afternoon, Claire. Look at this weather."

"They said they were innocent."

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"The Maddox brothers. They killed a girl named Arlene Hubly nearthe town where I grew up, and then cut off her head and threw her intothe Cle Elum River. She and I went to the same high school. It happenedwhen I was a girl."

"What a hell of a thing to be thinking about," he says. "Come on,get off it. You're going to get me riled in a minute. How about it now?Claire?"

I look at the creek. I float toward the pond, eyes open, face down,staring at the rocks and moss on the creek bottom until I am carriedinto the lake where I am pushed by the breeze. Nothing will be anydifferent. We will go on and on and on and on. We will go on even now,as if nothing had happened. I look at him across the picnic table withsuch intensity that his face drains.

"I don't know what's wrong with you," he says. "I don't--"

I slap him before I realize. I raise my hand, wait a fraction of asecond, and then slap his cheek hard. This is crazy, I think as I slaphim. We need to lock our fingers together. We need to help one another.This is crazy.

He catches my wrist before I can strike again and raises his ownhand. I crouch, waiting, and see something come into his eyes and thendart away. He drops his hand. I drift even faster around and around inthe pond.

"Come on, get in the car," he says. "I'm taking you home."

"No, no," I say, pulling back from him.

"Come on," he says. "Goddamn it."

"You're not being fair to me," he says later in the car. Fields andtrees and farmhouses fly by outside the window. "You're not being fair.To either one of us. Or to Dean, I might add. Think about Dean for aminute. Think about me. Think about someone else besides your goddamnself for a change."

There is nothing I can say to him now. He tries to concentrate onthe road, but he keeps looking into the rearview mirror. Out of thecorner of his eye, he looks across the seat to where I sit with myknees drawn up under my chin. The sun blazes against my arm and theside of my face. He opens another beer while he drives, drinks from it,then shoves the can between his legs and lets out breath. He knows. Icould laugh in his face. I could weep.


Stuart believes he is letting me sleep this morning. But I wasawake long before the alarm sounded, thinking, lying on the far side ofthe bed, away from his hairy legs and his thick, sleeping fingers. Hegets Dean off for school, and then he shaves, dresses, and leaves forwork. Twice he looks into the bedroom and clears his throat, but I keepmy eyes closed.

In the kitchen I find a note from him signed "Love." I sit in thebreakfast nook in the sunlight and drink coffee and make a coffee ringon the note. The telephone has stopped ringing, that's something. Nomore calls since last night. I look at the paper and turn it this wayand that on the table. Then I pull it close and read what it says. Thebody is still unidentified, unclaimed, apparently unmissed. But for thelast twenty four hours men have been examining it, putting things intoit, cutting, weighing, measuring, putting back again, sewing up,looking for the exact cause and moment of death. Looking for evidenceof rape. I'm sure they hope for rape. Rape would make it easier tounderstand. The paper says the body will be taken to Keith & KeithFuneral Home pending arrangements. People are asked to come forwardwith information, etc.

Two things are certain: people no longer care what happens to otherpeople; and 2) nothing makes any real difference any longer. Look atwhat has happened. Yet nothing will change for Stuart and me. Reallychange, I mean. We will grow older, both of us, you can see it in ourfaces already, in the bathroom mirror, for instance, mornings when weuse the bathroom at the same time. And certain things around us willchange, become easier or harder, one thing or the other, but nothingwill ever really be any different. I believe that. We have made ourdecisions, our lives have been set in motion, and they will go on andon until they stop. But if that is true, then what? I mean, what if youbelieve that, but you keep it covered up, until one day somethinghappens that should change something, but then you see nothing is goingto change after all. What then? Meanwhile, the people around youcontinue to talk and act as if you were the same person as yesterday,or last night, or five minutes before, but you are really undergoing acrisis, your heart feels damaged....

The past is unclear. It's as if there is a film over those earlyyears. I can't even be sure that the things I remember happening reallyhappened to me. There was a girl who had a mother and father--thefather ran a small cafe where the mother acted as waitress andcashier--who moved as if in a dream through grade school and highschool and then, in a year or two, into secretarial school. Later, muchlater--what happened to the time in between?--she is in another townworking as a receptionist for an electronics parts firm and becomesacquainted with one of the engineers who asks her for a date.Eventually, seeing that's his aim, she lets him seduce her. She had anintuition at the time, an insight about the seduction that later, tryas she might, she couldn't recall. After a short while they decide toget married, but already the past, her past, is slipping away. Thefuture is something she can't imagine. She smiles, as if she has asecret, when she thinks about the future. Once, during a particularlybad argument, over what she can't now remember, five years or so afterthey were married, he tells her that someday this affair (his words:"this affair") will end in violence. She remembers this. She files thisaway somewhere and begins repeating it aloud from time to time.Sometimes she spends the whole morning on her knees in the sandboxbehind the garage playing with Dean and one or two of his friends. Butevery afternoon at four o'clock her head begins to hurt. She holds herforehead and feels dizzy with the pain. Stuart asks her to see a doctorand she does, secretly pleased at the doctor's solicitous attention.She goes away for a while to a place the doctor recommends. Stuart'smother comes out from Ohio in a hurry to care for the child. But she,Claire, spoils everything and returns home in a few weeks. His mothermoves out of the house and takes an apartment across town and perchesthere, as if waiting. One night in bed when they are both near sleep,Claire tells him that she heard some women patients at the clinicdiscussing fellatio. She thinks this is something he might like tohear. Stuart is pleased at hearing this. He strokes her arm. Things aregoing to be okay, he says. From now on everything is going to bedifferent and better for them. He has received a promotion and asubstantial raise. They've even bought another car, a station wagon,her car. They're going to live in the here and now. He says he feelsable to relax for the first time in years. In the dark, he goes onstroking her arm.... He continues to bowl and play cards regularly. Hegoes fishing with three friends of his.

That evening three things happen: Dean says that the children atschool told him that his father found a dead body in the river. Hewants to know about it.

Stuart explains quickly, leaving out most of the story, saying onlythat, yes, he and three other men did find a body while they werefishing.

"What kind of body?" Dean asks. "Was it a girl?"

"Yes, it was a girl. A woman. Then we called the sheriff." Stuart looks at me.

"What'd he say?" Dean asks.

"He said he'd take care of it."

"What did it look like? Was it scary?"

"That's enough talk," I say. "Rinse your plate, Dean, and then you're excused."

"But what'd it look like?" he persists. "I want to know."

"You heard me," I say. "Did you hear me, Dean? Dean!" I want to shake him. I want to shake him until he cries.

"Do what your mother says," Stuart tells him quietly. "It was just a body, and that's all there is to it."

I am clearing the table when Stuart comes up behind and touches my arm. His fingers burn. I start, almost losing a plate.

"What's the matter with you?" he says, dropping his hand. "Claire, what is it?"

"You scared me," I say.

"That's what I mean. I should be able to touch you without youjumping out of your skin." He stands in front of me with a little grin,trying to catch my eyes, and then he puts his arm around my waist. Withhis other hand he takes my free hand and puts it on the front of hispants.

"Please, Stuart." I pull away and he steps back and snaps his fingers.

"Hell with it then," he says. "Be that way if you want. But just remember."

"Remember what?" I say quickly. I look at him and hold my breath.

He shrugs. "Nothing, nothing," he says.

The second thing that happens is that while we are watchingtelevision that evening, he in his leather recliner chair, I on thesofa with a blanket and magazine, the house quiet except for thetelevision, a voice cuts into the program to say that the murdered girlhas been identified. Full details will follow on the eleven o'clocknews.

We look at each other. In a few minutes he gets up and says he is going to fix a nightcap. Do I want one?

"No," I say.

"I don't mind drinking alone," he says. "I thought I'd ask."

I can see he is obscurely hurt, and I look away, ashamed and yet angry at the same time.

He stays in the kitchen a long while, but comes back with his drink just when the news begins.

First the announcer repeats the story of the four local fishermenfinding the body. Then the station shows a high school graduationphotograph of the girl, a dark-haired girl with a round face and full,smiling lips. There's a film of the girl's parents entering the funeralhome to make the identification. Bewildered, sad, they shuffle slowlyup the sidewalk to the front steps to where a man in a dark suit standswaiting, holding the door. Then, it seems as if only seconds havepassed, as if they have merely gone inside the door and turned aroundand come out again, the same couple is shown leaving the building, thewoman in tears, covering her face with a handkerchief, the man stoppinglong enough to say to a reporter, "It's her, it's Susan. I can't sayanything right now. I hope they get the person or persons who did itbefore it happens again. This violence...." He motions feebly at thetelevision camera. Then the man and woman get into an old car and driveaway into the late afternoon traffic.

The announcer goes on to say that the girl, Susan Miller, hadgotten off work as a cashier in a movie theater in Summit, a town 120miles north of our town. A green, late-model car pulled up in front ofthe theater and the girl, who according to witnesses looked as if she'dbeen waiting, went over to the car and got in, leading the authoritiesto suspect that the driver of the car was a friend, or at least anacquaintance. The authorities would like to talk to the driver of thegreen car.

Stuart clears his throat then leans back in the chair and sips his drink.

The third thing that happens is that after the news Stuartstretches, yawns, and looks at me. I get up and begin making a bed formyself on the sofa.

"What are you doing?" he says, puzzled.

"I'm not sleepy," I say, avoiding his eyes. "I think I'll stay up a while longer and then read something until I fall asleep."

He stares as I spread a sheet over the sofa. When I start to go for a pillow, he stands at the bedroom door, blocking the way.

"I'm going to ask you once more," he says. "What the hell do you think you're going to accomplish by this?"

"I need to be by myself tonight," I say. "I need to have time to think."

He lets out breath. "I'm thinking you're making a big mistake bydoing this. I'm thinking you'd better think again about what you'redoing. Claire?"

I can't answer. I don't know what I want to say. I turn and beginto tuck in the edges of the blanket. He stares at me a minute longerand then I see him raise his shoulders. "Suit yourself then. I couldgive a fuck less what you do," he says. He turns and walks down thehall scratching his neck.


This morning I read in the paper that services for Susan Miller areto be held in Chapel of the Pines, Summit, at two o'clock the nextafternoon. Also, that police have taken statements from three peoplewho saw her get into the green Chevrolet. But they still have nolicense number for the car. They are getting warmer, though, and theinvestigation is continuing. I sit for a long while holding the paper,thinking, then I call to make an appointment at the hairdresser's.

I sit under the dryer with a magazine on my lap and let Millie do my nails.

"I'm going to a funeral tomorrow," I say after we have talked a bit about a girl who no longer works there.

Millie looks up at me and then back at my fingers. "I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs Kane. I'm real sorry."

"It's a young girl's funeral," I say.

"That's the worst kind. My sister died when I was a girl, and I'mstill not over it to this day. Who died?" she says after a minute.

"A girl. We weren't all that close, you know, but still."

"Too bad. I'm real sorry. But we'll get you fixed up for it, don't worry. How's that look?"

"That looks... fine. Millie, did you ever wish you were somebody else, or else just nobody, nothing, nothing at all?"

She looks at me. "I can't say I ever felt that, no. No, if I wassomebody else I'd be afraid I might not like who I was." She holds myfingers and seems to think about something for a minute. "I don't know,I just don't know.... Let me have your other hand now, Mrs. Kane."

At eleven o'clock that night I make another bed on the sofa andthis time Stuart only looks at me, rolls his tongue behind his lips,and goes down the hall to the bedroom. In the night I wake and listento the wind slamming the gate against the fence. I don't want to beawake, and I lie for a long while with my eyes closed. Finally I get upand go down the hall with my pillow. The light is burning in ourbedroom and Stuart is on his back with his mouth open, breathingheavily. I go into Dean's room and get into bed with him. In his sleephe moves over to give me space. I lie there for a minute and then holdhim, my face against his hair.

"What is it, mama?" he says.

"Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep. It's nothing, it's all right."

I get up when I hear Stuart's alarm, put on coffee and prepare breakfast while he shaves.

He appears in the kitchen doorway, towel over his bare shoulder, appraising.

"Here's coffee," I say. "Eggs will be ready in a minute."

He nods.

I wake Dean and the three of us have breakfast. Once or twiceStuart looks at me as if he wants to say something, but each time I askDean if he wants more milk, more toast, etc.

"I'll call you today," Stuart says as he opens the door.

"I don't think I'll be home today," I say quickly. "I have a lot of things to do today. In fact, I may be late for dinner."

"All right. Sure." He moves his briefcase from one hand to theother. "Maybe we'll go out for dinner tonight? How would you likethat?" He keeps looking at me. He's forgotten about the girl already."Are you all right?"

I move to straighten his tie, then drop my hand. He wants to kissme goodbye. I move back a step. "Have a nice day then," he saysfinally. He turns and goes down the walk to his car.

I dress carefully. I try on a hat that I haven't worn in severalyears and look at myself in the mirror. Then I remove the hat, apply alight makeup, and write a note for Dean.

Honey, Mommy has things to do this afternoon, but will be homelater. You are to stay in the house or in the backyard until one of uscomes home.
Love.

I look at the word "Love" and then I underline it. As I am writingthe note I realize I don't know whether back yard is one word or two. Ihave never considered it before. I think about it and then I draw aline and make two words of it.

I stop for gas and ask directions to Summit. Barry, aforty-year-old mechanic with a moustache, comes out from the restroomand leans against the front fender while the other man, Lewis, puts thehose into the tank and begins to slowly wash the windshield.

"Summit," Barry says, looking at me and smoothing a finger downeach side of his moustache. "There's no best way to get to Summit, mrsKane. It's about a two-, two-and-a-half-hour drive each way. Across themountains. It's quite a drive for a woman. Summit? What's in Summit,mrs Kane?"

"I have business," I say, vaguely uneasy. Lewis has gone to wait on another customer.

"Ah. Well, if I wasn't tied up there"--he gestures with his thumbtoward the bay--"I'd offer to drive you to Summit and back again.Road's not all that good. I mean it's good enough, there's just a lotof curves and so on."

"I'll be all right. But thank you." He leans against the fender. Ican feel his eyes as I open my purse. Barry takes the credit card."Don't drive it at night," he says. "It's not all that good a road,like I said. And while I'd be willing to bet you wouldn't have cartrouble with this, I know this car, you can never be sure aboutblowouts and things like that. Just to be on the safe side I'd bettercheck these tires." He taps one of the front tires with his shoe."We'll run it onto the hoist. Won't take long."

"No, no, it's all right. Really, I can't take any more time. The tires look fine to me."

"Only takes a minute," he says. "Be on the safe side."

"I said no. No! They look fine to me. I have to go now. Barry...."

"Mrs. Kane?"

"I have to go now."

I sign something. He gives me the receipt, the card, some stamps. Iput everything into my purse. "You take it easy," he says. "Be seeingyou."

As I wait to pull into the traffic, I look back and see him watching. I close my eyes, then open them. He waves.

I turn at the first light, then turn again and drive until I cometo the highway and read the sign: SUMMIT 117 Miles. It is ten-thirtyand warm.

The highway skirts the edge of town, then passes through farmcountry, through fields of oats and sugar beets and apple orchards,with here and there a small herd of cattle grazing in open pastures.Then everything changes, the farms become fewer and fewer, more likeshacks now than houses, and stands of timber replace the orchards. Allat once I'm in the mountains and on the right, far below, I catchglimpses of the Naches River.

In a little while I see a green pickup truck behind me, and itstays behind me for miles. I keep slowing at the wrong times, hoping itwill pass, and then increasing my speed, again at the wrong times. Igrip the wheel until my fingers hurt. Then on a clear stretch he doespass, but he drives along beside for a minute, a crew-cut man in a blueworkshirt in his early thirties, and we look at each other. Then hewaves, toots the horn twice, and pulls ahead of me.

I slow down and find a place, a dirt road off of the shoulder. Ipull over and turn off the ignition. I can hear the river somewheredown below the trees. Ahead of me the dirt road goes into the trees.Then I hear the pickup returning.

I start the engine just as the truck pulls up behind me. I lock thedoors and roll up the windows. Perspiration breaks on my face and armsas I put the car in gear, but there is no place to drive.

"You all right?" the man says as he comes up to the car. "Hello.Hello in there." He raps the glass. "You okay?" He leans his arms onthe door and brings his face close to the window.

I stare at him and can't find any words.

"After I passed I slowed up some," he says. "But when I didn't seeyou in the mirror I pulled off and waited a couple of minutes. When youstill didn't show I thought I'd better drive back and check. Iseverything all right? How come you're locked up in there?"

I shake my head.

"Come on, roll down your window. Hey, are you sure you're okay? Youknow it's not good for a woman to be batting around the country byherself." He shakes his head and looks at the highway, then back at me."Now come on, roll down the window, how about it? We can't talk thisway."

"Please, I have to go."

"Open the door, all right?" he says, as if he isn't listening. "Atleast roll the window down. You're going to smother in there." He looksat my breasts and legs. The skirt has pulled up over my knees. His eyeslinger on my legs, but I sit still, afraid to move.

"I want to smother," I say. "I am smothering, can't you see?"

"What in the hell?" he says and moves back from the door. He turnsand walks back to his truck. Then, in the side mirror, I watch himreturning, and I close my eyes.

"You don't want me to follow you toward Summit or anything? I don't mind. I got some extra time this morning," he says.

I shake my head.

He hesitates and then shrugs. "Okay, lady, have it your way then," he says. "Okay."

I wait until he has reached the highway, and then I back out. Heshifts gears and pulls away slowly, looking back at me in his rearviewmirror. I stop the car on the shoulder and put my head on the wheel.


The casket is closed and covered with floral sprays. The organbegins soon after I take a seat near the back of the chapel. Peoplebegin to file in and find chairs, some middle-aged and older people,but most of them in their early twenties or even younger. They arepeople who look uncomfortable in their suits and ties, sport coats andslacks, their dark dresses and leather gloves. One boy in flared pantsand a yellow short-sleeved shirt takes the chair next to mine andbegins to bite his lips. A door opens at one side of the chapel and Ilook up and for a minute the parking lot reminds me of a meadow. Butthen the sun flashes on car windows. The family enters in a group andmoves into a curtained area off to the side. Chairs creak as theysettle themselves. In a few minutes a slim, blond man in a dark suitstands and asks us to bow our heads. He speaks a brief prayer for us,the living, and when he finishes he asks us to pray in silence for thesoul of Susan Miller, departed. I close my eyes and remember herpicture in the newspaper and on television. I see her leaving thetheater and getting into the green Chevrolet. Then I imagine herjourney down the river, the nude body hitting rocks, caught at bybranches, the body floating and turning, her hair streaming in thewater. Then the hands and hair catching in the overhanging branches,holding, until four men come along to stare at her. I can see a man whois drunk (Stuart?) take her by the wrist. Does anyone here know aboutthat? What if these people knew that? I look around at the other faces.There is a connection to be made of these things, these events, thesefaces, if I can find it. My head aches with the effort to find it.

He talks about Susan Miller's gifts: cheerfulness and beauty, graceand enthusiasm. From behind the closed curtain someone clears histhroat, someone else sobs. The organ music begins. The service is over.


Along with the others I file slowly past the casket. Then I moveout onto the front steps and into the bright, hot afternoon light. Amiddle aged woman who limps as she goes down the stairs ahead of mereaches the sidewalk and looks around, her eyes falling on me. "Well,they got him," she says. "If that's any consolation. They arrested himthis morning. I heard it on the radio before I came. A guy right herein town. A longhair, you might have guessed." We move a few steps downthe hot sidewalk. People are starting cars. I put out my hand and holdon to a parking meter. Sunlight glances off polished hoods and fenders.My head swims. "He's admitted having relations with her that night, buthe says he didn't kill her." She snorts. "They'll put him on probationand then turn him loose."

"He might not have acted alone," I say. "They'll have to be sure.He might be covering up for someone, a brother, or some friends."

"I have known that child since she was a little girl," the womangoes on, and her lips tremble. "She used to come over and I'd bakecookies for her and let her eat them in front of the TV." She looks offand begins shaking her head as the tears roll down her cheeks.


Stuart sits at the table with a drink in front of him. His eyes arered and for a minute I think he has been crying. He looks at me anddoesn't say anything. For a wild instant I feel something has happenedto Dean, and my heart turns.

"Where is he?" I say. "Where is Dean?"

"Outside," he says.

"Stuart, I'm so afraid, so afraid," I say, leaning against the door.

"What are you afraid of, Claire? Tell me, honey, and maybe I canhelp. I'd like to help, just try me. That's what husbands are for."

"I can't explain," I say. "I'm just afraid. I feel like, I feel like, I feel like...."

He drains his glass and stands up, not taking his eyes from me. "Ithink I know what you need, honey. Let me play doctor, okay? Just takeit easy now." He reaches an arm around my waist and with his other handbegins to unbutton my jacket, then my blouse. "First things first," hesays, trying to joke.

"Not now, please," I say.

"Not now, please," he says, teasing. "Please nothing." Then hesteps behind me and locks an arm around my waist. One of his handsslips under my brassiere.

"Stop, stop, stop," I say. I stamp on his toes.

And. then I am lifted up and then falling. I sit on the floorlooking up at him and my neck hurts and my skirt is over my knees. Heleans down and says, "You go to hell then, do you hear, bitch? I hopeyour cunt drops off before I touch it again." He sobs once and Irealize he can't help it, he can't help himself either. I feel a rushof pity for him as he heads for the living room.

He didn't sleep at home last night.

This morning, flowers, red and yellow chrysanthemums. I am drinking coffee when the doorbell rings.

"Mrs. Kane?" the young man says, holding his box of flowers.

I nod and pull the robe tighter at my throat.

"The man who called, he said you'd know." The boy looks at my robe,open at the throat, and touches his cap. He stands with his legs apart,feet firmly planted on the top step. "Have a nice day," he says.

A little later the telephone rings and Stuart says, "Honey, how areyou? I'll be home early, I love you. Did you hear me? I love you, I'msorry, I'll make it up to you. Goodbye, I have to run now."

I put the flowers into a vase in the center of the dining room table and then I move my things into the extra bedroom.

Last night, around midnight, Stuart breaks the lock on my door. Hedoes it just to show me that he can, I suppose, for he doesn't doanything when the door springs open except stand there in his underwearlooking surprised and foolish while the anger slips from his face. Heshuts the door slowly, and a few minutes later I hear him in thekitchen prying open a tray of ice cubes.

I'm in bed when he calls today to tell me that he's asked hismother to come stay with us for a few days. I wait a minute, thinkingabout this, and then hang up while he is still talking. But in a littlewhile I dial his number at work. When he finally comes on the line Isay, "It doesn't matter, Stuart. Really, I tell you it doesn't matterone way or the other."

"I love you," he says.

He says something else and I listen and nod slowly. I feel sleepy.Then I wake up and say, "For God's sake, Stuart, she was only a child."