Chapter 4

Simon Tate pushed his empty dinner plate away from him and patted his mouth with a napkin. He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, struck a match, belched, then lit up.

He wore a very contented expression.

"You have enough, Simon?" asked his wife from across the table. "There's more, you know."

"I'm all filled up, Nora. Just set out some coffee."

"Oh." She smiled nervously. "Yes, right away, Simon."

He watched her through the curling strands of smoke as she rose quickly from the table and gathered all the dishes into her thin arms. Her movements were worried and bird-like, in perfect keeping with the looks of her face and body.

When she had all the dishes and flatware balanced on her hands, she said. "I'm sorry about the coffee, Simon."

"That's all right, Nora."

"I'll have it for you right away. You won't have to wait long."

"Fine," said Simon.

She hurried from the room, looking as frail and defenseless as a little gray wren on a winter street.

Simon surveyed his world, and smiled. That Hermann Hinkle didn't know what he was talking about. Excitement was all very well and good-Simon agreed with that part-but each individual had to manufacture his own excitement. You couldn't rely on the town for it. You had to go make it for yourself.

Maybe that Yorkville place had been all that Hinkle said it was, but he could have it. If the German yearned for some spice in his life, why the hell didn't he go live somewhere else? Why the hell didn't he go back to Yorkville, or even Germany, where he belonged?

Simon was satisfied with things just the way they were. Sheriff Small had hit the nail right on the head when he said the people of this town were content with the status quo. As far as Simon was concerned, there wasn't a thing he lacked.

The cigarette had burned almost all the way down to his fingers when Nora finally returned with a pot of coffee.

"Here it is, Simon. It wasn't too long, was it?"

"No, Nora." He sat motionless while she lifted the heavy pot with difficulty and poured the coffee.

"There. And here's the cream. And here's the sugar. Everything just like you want it."

Simon nodded. "Whereabouts is Abbie, Nora?"

She glanced at the empty chair. "Abigail? Oh, she ate dinner already, Simon, before you came home. Said she had to go out."

"Out where?" Simon asked.

"She didn't say. You know how she is sometimes, Simon. Sometimes she just doesn't tell me."

Simon shook his head. "I don't like that, Nora. I don't like not knowing where my daughter is nights. You're supposed to keep an eye on her."

Nora fidgeted with the table cloth. "Yes, I know."

"I want you to talk to her, Nora."

"All right."

"Tomorrow. Give her a good talking to. Tell her that from now on she's supposed to eat dinner with us, no matter where she's going."

"Simon," Nora said, "she won't listen to me. You know that."

"Don't be silly, Nora, You're her mother, she has to listen to you. It's your duty to make her listen."

"I-I can't, Simon." The birdy little eyes darted in her skull.

Simon similed. "Talk to her," He said. "I want you to make her understand. That's your job."

She bent her head slightly. "I'll try, Simon."

"Try hard, Nora. You know what I mean? Try real hard."

She nodded. She didn't raise her eyes.

Simon looked at her, then down at the cup of coffee before him. His hand came up casually from his lap and took the spoon off the table. "Nora?"

"Yes, Simon?"

"You forgot the spoon."

Her head snapped erect. "The spoon? Did I?" She jumped to her feet. "Oh, Simon, I'm sorry. Wait, I'll just be a moment."

She scurried out.

Actually, Simon thought, Abigail was the only problem in his world, but she was such a small one that he didn't worry about it. The trouble was that his daughter took after him, and it was pretty hard to play the role of stern parent when the behavior you were criticizing was a reflection of your own. Every time he tried to chew Abbie out, he ended up laughing and telling jokes and forgetting all about his anger.

His daughter favored him, no doubt about it. There wasn't a trace of her mother to be found in Abigail anywhere. Sometimes Simon got the feeling that he had created her all by himself, without any assistance from Nora. After all, to look at Nora now, you could hardly believe she had ever been a young woman with enough fertility to bear a child.

Oh, well-Abigail had her own mind, just as Simon himself had, and he couldn't deny her a right to it. Besides, there were compensations; Abbie frequently came in handy as a tool with which to dig at Nora.

Maybe, Simon thought, Hinkle doesn't know how to handle his wife. Maybe that's why he complains about there being no excitement.

Nora returned with the spoon held out before her. She laid it down precisely beside Simon's cup, and smiled at him hopefully. "Is everything all right now, Simon?"

He lifted his hand from under the table and held out the original silver spoon for her to see. "It was on the floor," he said.

"Was it? Oh, I'm sorry, Simon."

"You should be more careful about that. I don't like silver to fall on the floor. I like to keep a sanitary household."

"Yes, Simon, I know. I'll-I'll boil it."

He tossed the spoon across the table, and it skidded to a halt in front of Abigail's empty place.

"You're not taking very good care of things today," Simon said.

Nora licked her bloodless lips. "I don't feel so well today, Simon."

"Oh? And why not?"

She hung her head again. He stared at the nape of her pale neck, and the fine, sparrow-colored fuzz of her hairline. She seemed to be getting smaller and more fragile every day. He could almost imagine that he saw her bones and veins and skinny muscles right through her skin.

"It's time," she said.

"Time? Time for what?"

"That time," she replied faintly. "The time of the month? "

He sat the cup down and watched the pink flush of embarrassment creep into her neck. He wondered idly what she was going to call it this time-she had so many old wives expressions for the thing; The Curse, The Problem, The Discomfort. Once she told him she didn't feel well because The Mirror Had Cracked From Side To Side. He had never heard anyone call it that before.

"I have My Trouble," she said, making the capital letters unmistakable.

"Don't we all?" Simon remarked.

"You know what I mean, Simon. My Monthly Troubles. That's why I don't feel well."

Simon slurped at his coffee, stubbed out his cigarette, and lit a fresh one. He let the smoke blow in her direction. Nora hated cigarette smoke.

"There isn't a woman in the world who doesn't have that problem," Simon said. "Women are born with it. It's no excuse for not attending to work."

"I'm sorry, Simon."

He sat in silence for a while until the flush left Nora's skin, and the awful fidgeting of her hands stopped. When he was certain she had recovered from her embarrassment, he said, "I think we'd better play the game a little tonight."

Her head came up with an almost audible snap. "Simon-no."

He pursed her lips. "Yes, Nora. I think you need it."

"Please, Simon. " Her mouth twitched. "I'll be better tomorrow-honest, I will. It's just the first few days each month...."

"We'd better play the game tonight, just the same."

"But when I'm-when it's this time of the month, how can I?"

"Tonight, Nora."

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, smoking contentedly and letting his mind dwell on the evening to come. Excitement, he thought-what the hell does Hermann Hinkle know about excitement?

When Nora finally said, "Yes, Simon," he wasn't even listening.

The barn smelled.

It smelled of animals and years of rot; it also smelled of human beings, and their sweaty affairs. The total of these smells was an aroma so vast and engulfing that one could almost cut it with a knife.

George waited in the hayloft, smoking cigarette after cigarette. As long as his nostrils were filled with smoke, the odor of the barn didn't bother him. But he was careful to shield the coal inside his hand-he didn't want to advertise his presence to anyone passing by. He was also careful not to let any sparks drop into the dried hay spread beneath him.

Abbie ought to be coming along pretty soon. It was past suppertime now, and the lights were burning in all the houses. From where George sat, he could just make out the neon glow of the Four Star on Main Street. The sight made him thirsty for a drink. He resolved to hit Pa's bottle as soon as he got home.

He took a drag on his butt, cupping his hand to conceal it, and the cup-shape reminded him of Abbie.

Man, he thought. That had been one wild time in the shed this afternoon. Oh, he had taken handfuls of Abbie before, but that was the one and only time he had ever looked at her in the light. And it had been the first time he had ever put his mouth to her.

Thinking of that made him recall the taste of the cream, and he grimaced. That Lady Jane tasted the way this barn smelled, like all the old stale tastes in the world rolled into one. Even with Abbie's excited nipple right there in his mouth, George had had a difficult time concentrating on the pleasure of the moment.

But the cream had done its job, and that was the important thing. It might never make Abbie's front any bigger, but it made that front available.

The front, and the rest of her as well.

He wondered, as he had several thousand times since his arrival in the hayloft, whether the girl was really going to show up. She had sounded pretty hot that afternoon, but there had been a lot of time for her to cool off. At that very moment, she might be sitting at home with her folks, listening to the radio and laughing inside herself as she thought of George waiting for her in the barn.

He wouldn't put it past her.

Well, if she didn't show up, the hell with her. There were other girls in town. Like that Solveig, for instance. As far as George knew, Solveig Hinkle hadn't ever gone on her back for anybody. But that didn't mean she would not, if given the right attention. There wasn't a gal in the world who couldn't be bedded, as long as a man knew how to go about it. Maybe taking off after Solveig would be fun.

That was the only trouble with Abbie, now that he thought about it. Sure, she was a nice hunk of chicken; sure, she had big ones in front, and big ones in back, and probably had a lot of other nice big things on her, but she was too easy. The fact that George had never bagged her made no difference, because nearly everybody else had. There was even talk that Abbie had done it with Sheriff Small, although George couldn't quite picture that.

So this moment of waiting and anticipation was spoiled slightly by the fact that Abbie presented no challenge. If it had been Solveig coming up to the hayloft tonight-well, that would be a different story. George would have been able to crow to all his friends about a conquest like that.

But with Abbie-if he told anybody he'd just bagged Simon Tate's daughter, they'd just ask how she'd been this time.

It was too bad. Nevertheless, Abbie was a woman, even if she wasn't a challenge. And she was a woman with all her meat in the right places. And she had a turn of mind that wouldn't inhibit any of the good times George was planning. And she was coming to the hayloft.

There was a lot of consolation in that.

George was lost in thought-mostly thoughts about Solveig, oddly enough-when he heard the ladder creak under a foot. His head came erect, and he looked nervously at the entry to the loft. It was probably Abbie, but not necessarily, and George didn't relish the idea of explaining to anyone why he was sitting all alone in this barn.

A head appeared on the ladder and a pair of eyes twinkled at him. "Hello there, George," Abbie said.

"You're late Abbie."

"I know." She climbed the last few rungs and slid into the hay beside him. "I had to get out of the house before Pa came home from the store, but it was too early to come here. So I went to Marge Webster's for a while and chewed the fat."

"You didn't tell her you were coming here, did you?"

"No, but I told her about the cream."

"Hey-you didn't."

"Sure I did. What's wrong with that?"

"You tell her who gave it to you?"

"Of course I told her. What the hell's the matter with you, George Link?"

He frowned. "It was supposed to be a secret."

"Oh, that's nothing. Marge ain't going to tell anybody about it. Don't you worry about your stupid secret."

"Yeah? Well, she better not."

"Why do you want to keep it a secret, anyway? You ashamed to have people know you give me presents?"

"Now, Abbie," George said, easing himself up close to her. "It ain't that. Look, what would I give you a present for in the first place if that's the way I felt?"

"Then why's it a secret?"

George was about to tell her the reason: that the young men of the town would ride him unmercifully if they ever found out he'd bought a present for easy Abbie Tate, who could be had any time at all for the price of a drink. But all of a sudden he thought of a better tactic.

"Don't you see? People'll think you got to use cream to build yourself up. They'll think you ain't got anything of your own up in front."

"What do you mean, George Link?" She sat up and stared at him angrily. "Who thinks I ain't got nothing?"

"Nobody, Abbie," George said. "Nobody thinks that yet. That ain't what I said."

"So what are you talking about?"

George sighed. "Abbie, if they found out you was using cream, they'd think that. That's what I meant. They'd think you used that bust cream because you had to."

Abbie crossed her arms under her breasts and lifted them until they swelled. "They got eyes, don't they?"

"Sure Abbie, sure. But you know how gals pad themselves up sometimes. I heard of guys who married women for their fronts, and when they got them to bed there wasn't nothing there but a lot of rubber."

"Crap," Abbie said. "I'll go walk right down Main Street with my front hanging out. That'd show them. They wouldn't be able to say nothing about me after that."

George laughed. "Yeah. That would make a hit, all right. But listen-long as you don't tell anybody about the cream, then everything's fine. That's the reason I want to keep it a secret."

She glanced at him shrewdly. "That the only reason, George?"

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

"Don't you want to keep it a secret because it's something personal, just between us? Because it ain't nobody's business that we like each other and give each other presents?"

George closed his eyes wearily. He was beginning to wonder if Abbie was worth all this talk and trouble. There wasn't a gal in town who would twist words like she could, find insults in every innocent statement, pry arguments out of every friendly conversation. It was only her way of teasing, of course, but it got pretty tiresome after a while.

"Abbie," he said. "You come here to argue with me, or have some fun?"

"I don't know-maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I don't like you so much after all. I could still turn right around and go down that ladder, and let you go to hell all by yourself."

"Oh, no you won't!"

He heaved himself up from the hay in one sudden motion and dropped his body on top of hers, driving the wind from her lungs. His hands scrambled up out of the straw and gripped her breasts.

"Hey-take it easy." She rolled her face away from his mouth. "You're going to hurt me, George."

"The hell with that," he said tightly. "I took enough teasing for now. I'm getting you right now, if I have to kill myself trying."

"All right. All right." She relaxed her body and looked up at him. "I got a right to kid around if I feel like it. You think you're such a great man? I'd like to tease for a while first, but that don't mean you won't get me."

The sound of her voice was beginning to really get on his nerves, so he shut her up with a fierce kiss. He clutched her breasts two-handed, and forced his tongue into her mouth. As usual, her own tongue hardly responded.

When the kiss ended he slid over onto his hip next to her, and let go of the breast. "Come on, Abbie-let's go. Right now."

"All righty, George," she said giggling. He gritted his teeth and slid his hand down the length of her torso, down to the material of her skirt. He pulled the hem all the way up to her waist.

Then his hand dropped back down.

"Hey, Abbie-"

She giggled again. "I told you I was going to do it. didn't I? I said you could have me, and I meant it. That's why I didn't bother to wear no pants."

George swallowed hard.

As he watched she undid the buttons of her blouse and pulled it open. In the dimness of the loft, the pale mounds of her breasts looked as white and cool as a double vanilla sundae. With cherries.

"And that's why I didn't wear no bra either. Now, why don't you take off some of them clothes, George, and let's get rolling."

He didn't want to release his grip on her, but undressing one-handed was impossible. He thrashed around madly in the hay, trying to strip his pants off without removing his shoes, hurrying at the bidding of his growing passion.

He didn't bother to take off his shirt.

She lifted her knees as he knelt in front of her, and he felt her bare feet touch his hips. "Little closer, George. Move up a little-come on."

He stared at her. And all at once he wasn't seeing Abbie Tate in front of him-he was seeing Barbara Padgett, and Lucy Wynn, and Rosa De Marco, and all the other girls he had brought up to this loft, or a place like it. He looked at the female lying spread out before him, and she looked exactly like every other girl in town-the same round breasts, the same shiny knees, the same white thighs, the same triangle of darkness at the loins.

Abbie moved her shoulders and slipped her hand under one of her thighs. George felt himself grabbed.

"Come on George," she said, as he let himself down onto her, resting his weight on one elbow so that a hand would be free for her breasts. "You go to it, now, and make it a good one. I want a real good one this time, George."

This time? Well sure-when you had it as often as old Abbie here, you got choosy after a while. That made sense.

The only thing that didn't make sense was why George was bothering to do it at all.

Just like Barbara and Lucy and Rosa, and that other one.-Cindy something. Just the same. The same softness in his hand, the same guiding thighs, the same....

He thought, are all the women in the world the same?

Where the hell are those girls in the jokes-the ones who do those great things to a man? Where are the girls the soldiers talk about? Where are the girls the soldiers talk about? Where are the girls who really know how to drive a man crazy?

Or were there even such girls? Really?

Always the same old thing, no matter how many times you tried it, no matter who you tried it with. It was fun, sure-but George could think of a lot of things that were just as pleasant. Wasn't sex supposed to be the biggest thing in the world? Wasn't that why everybody talked about it all the time?

Didn't anybody ever get sick of it?

He pushed that line of thought out of his head quickly. The girls in those dirty jokes didn't exist in real life, so there was no point in thinking about them. Besides, ideas like that were crazy. If anybody ever found out that George was bored with sex, they'd think he was a fruit or something.

He bent his whole attention on the problem at hand while Abbie thrashed and gasped underneath him, taking everything he could give and giving nothing in return but the use of her body.

He used it the only way he knew how.

And along toward the end, when Abbie was hissing in her teeth and digging her fingernails into his bare hips, even as he felt the old pleasure come charging out of nowhere to fill his guts, even as his mouth broke away from her breast to make room for his own gasping....

He thought: I wonder if I could get fat Solveig up here?

I wonder if she'd be any different?

It hadn't been very hard after all-not nearly as hard as Wille had expected. Gar was in a good mood this evening, and it took a lot less pleading than usual to get Willie's tab extended far enough to allow an evening's drinking.

Of course, the pleasure of it was spoiled for Willie by the realization that his credit total was running higher and higher all the time. The day of reckoning was coming, and Willie didn't have any idea of how he was going to settle up.

But there was time enough to think of that tomorrow, or the next day. Right now, everything was fine.

Willie tilted his head back and gargled his twelfth beer down his throat. He wiped a hand across his mouth, then looked expectantly at Gar.

"You ready for another, Willie?"

"I sure am. You know me, Gar. Always ready."

Gar didn't smile, but that didn't bother Willie at all. As long as the beer was flowing, nothing bothered Willie.

"Where's your boy tonight?" Gar asked, refilling the glass and handing it over.

"George, you mean?"

"Yeah, George. How many you got, for pete's sake?"

Willie sipped at the fresh suds. "Around somewhere, I guess. I don't know. He goes his own way, and I don't worry about it."

Gar twisted his mouth. "What kind of attitude is that? "You're his Pa, ain't you?"

"Sure, I am. So what?"

"Well, shouldn't you keep track of him? Suppose he gets in trouble?"

"Let him," Willie said. "Us Links know all about trouble. If he gets himself into some kind of trouble, he can get himself right out of it. My own Pa never lifted a finger to bail me out of trouble. He was usually too plastered to lift a finger, anyway." Willie brayed.

"You should keep an eye on him, Willie. That's not right, letting him just run round."

Willie debated whether to tell Gar to mind his own business, then decided that it wouldn't be wise. Spoiling Gar's mood would be spoiling a very good thing indeed.

"He's a good kid." Willie said. "He won't get in no trouble."

"He fooling around with gals yet?" asked Gar. Willie pursed his lips. "I don't know," he answered. "Tell you the truth, I ain't never thought about that."

"How old is he? Seventeen, ain't it?"

"Yeah. That's right."

Gar shook his head. "You ought to watch him, Willie. He's no little kid anymore. He starts fooling around, you might be a grandpa before you know it."

"George wouldn't take no chance like that," Willie protested. "He's smart enough to know how to keep that from happening."

"Yeah?" Gar looked dubious. "You ever explain it to him?"

"No," Willie said. "And my Pa never explained it tome, neither. But I knew about it just the same, and long before I was seventeen. Didn't you?"

The bartender shrugged. "I guess."

"George ain't going to get in no trouble, Gar. Take my word for it. He might be fooling around, maybe trying out some of the local tail, but what's the harm in that? Didn't we all do about the same thing when we was seventeen or so?"

"You know," Gar said. "If I was you, I'd check Perry's."

"Perry's? Check it for what? You know I don't have no truck with Perry?"

"Still and all, you better forget the feud long enough to check with him."

Willie waved a hand. "What are you talking about, Gar?"

"If George is getting them anywhere, it has to be Perry's. That's the only drug store in town."

"Oh." Willie sipped his beer. "Yeah, that's right, ain't it?"

"You should do that, Willie. Check with him. If George's been buying there, then everything's fine, just like you said. But if he ain't-well, you and him better have a talk, and quick."

"You got me wondering, Gar. I think I'll stroll over one of these days and see if I can get any sensible talk out of that Perry.

Gar nodded, pleased. "Drink up, Willie. Next one's on me."

Willie did what he was told without question. It was turning into a fine night all around, with a plentiful flow of beer and something new and interesting to think about.

He glanced up smiling as Gar set the new drink in front of him, but the bartender was staring past him with a troubled expression. He swiveled around on his seat and took a look at himself.

Gully Fry had arisen from his table in the back, and was making his way cautiously toward the door. One look told Willie that he was plastered to the eyes.

"Hey, Gully," Gar called. "You all through?"

The man paused and inched around to look at them. His eyes were pale and flat, and seemed to catch the light from the bar almost like the eyes of an animal. His crumpled suit hung on his thin frame as if it were two sizes too big.

He looked seventy years old. Actually, he was just past forty.

"Yes, Garfield, my friend," he said, his voice rolling from his throat like an actor's. "The tanks are filled."

"Okay Gully. You take it slow, now."

"Oh, that I will," he answered. "Never fear."

"You going back to your office now?" Gar asked.

The man smiled. "Are you worried about me, Garfield?"

Gar seemed embarrassed. "I was only asking, that's all. In case anybody came looking for you."

"I see," said Gully. "I appreciate your interest. Yes, lam going back to the office. If anyone does come looking for me-" He paused and seemed to laugh at the absurdity of the idea. "-why, just direct them to the Weekly Journal."

"I'll do that," said Gar. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight to you, Garfield, and to you, Mr. Link."

Willie nodded. "Mr. Fry."

After a pause to ascertain his direction and balance, Gully laid out a course to door of the tavern and followed it outside.

When Willie turned back to the bar, Gar was still wearing the troubled expression. "He's plastered," Willie said. "He sure is," agreed Gar sadly.

"You sound worried about him," Willie said. "How come?"

The bartender shrugged. "I ain't worried, really. He can take care of himself."

"Sure he can. Besides, what the hell could ever happen to him around here? He could lie all day in the middle of Main Street and never get robbed or hit by a car or nothing.

"He's as safe here as he'd be in a baby carriage."

Willie brayed at his joke, but Gar only smiled. "I got a feeling," he said.

"How do you mean? "

"He ain't been holding it so well lately. Drinker like Gully shouldn't get so high on just beer, no matter how much he puts away."

"Yeah-I suppose that's so. But what's this feeling you have, Gar?"

"I think he's building up to another one." Willie blinked. "Another what?"

"Another bat. Like that last time. I think he's building up to trouble."

"Yeah?" Willie pivoted around again and stared at the closed door. "You really think that, Gar?"

The bartender nodded. "Maybe I'm crazy, but if I remember right, it happened that way last time. He was just going along, drinking as usual and not really showing it; then all of a sudden it started to get to him. He seemed to lose the knack of holding it, just got drunker and drunker every time he dropped by."

"Then what, Gar?" asked Willie, fascinated.

"Then he switched off beer to the hard stuff. Inside a week he went off."

"You can say that again. Like a bomb. You really think he's building up to another of those, Gar?"

The bartender shook his head. "I hope not."

"Willie grinned to himself. I hope so, he thought, but he managed not to let the anticipation show in his face.

After a while Gar moved off down the bar without a word, and began polishing the washed glasses. He seemed lost in thought.

Willie, lost in thoughts of his own, never noticed him go.

The beer was flowing freely, the completely fascinating question of his boy's sex life had been raised, an opportunity had come to renew his old feud with Perry the druggestand now even old Gully was acting up. There were faint rumblings of exciting trouble in the air.

It was too much for Willie to hold in his mind all at once-he couldn't even find a place to begin thinking about it.

What a fantastic night this was turning out to be. And the night was only just starting.