A Peculiar Grace (22 page)

She handed him his coffee but finished dressing and when he began to talk she asked him to please be quiet. He was rattling loose with all he’d thought about but she walked to the window and stood watching
the gray dawn as his words fell off before she turned and said, “The driveway and road’s been plowed. The snow’s stopped. You should get going.” And left the room.

When he was dressed he stood at the window and saw that not only was the driveway plowed but his car alone among the vehicles had been swept off. He turned and leaned against the sill and looked around the grimy falling apart room, the orange crate of her books, the old chairs, the Morrison Hotel poster and the Indian fabrics on the walls, the mattress on the floor, the rows of candles on the narrow mantel above the coal grate, the missing tiles from around the grate and knew he’d never see this again. He wanted something and for a moment considered the pale green underwear he’d pulled from her the night before but turned away and saw on the wire strung tight among her clothes two of his own shirts left, one of them the Black Watch flannel she wore in his favorite photograph of her and he rolled it up and stuck it in his pocket and went downstairs.

He didn’t know and didn’t care where the others were but Ken and Barb sat at the table in the kitchen with Emily and he stood in the doorway and announced he was on his way and Barb got up and left the room as Ken nodded, a thoughtful nod that encompassed all of Hewitt’s sorrow and a kind farewell and Hewitt looked at Emily who sat in the corner spot as far from contact as possible and he started to speak and then looking at her was unable to and began to cry and she said, “Keep the tears for yourself, Hewitt, I don’t want them anymore.”

A
LL THOSE YEARS
later he drove the Thunderbird slowly around the length of the Bluff back to the village, those years collapsed upon him with the precision of his own ticking bomb. He parked in the motel lot and locked the Bird and walked jauntily down the three blocks to the lit windows and without the least hesitation threw open the door, shouldered his way to the bar and leaned over to wait the bartender, something even with the crowd he knew
wouldn’t take long, feeling bouncy and edgy and jacked right up in his dress shirt and soft coat, palmed a fifty on to the bar and ordered a double Jameson and a Genny Cream Ale—the ale nothing more than a gesture toward slowed intentions. As the first drink went down he felt raw and out of place, looking around at the working men and women, mostly younger but a few hard lined faces and old men with stubbled chins drawn close on their stools. There was a loud jukebox right where it always had been although this one played compact discs and toward the rear was the hanging light and clumped bodies that indicated a pool table, the occasional smack of balls making way through the noise and the second drink slid down and he felt the soft infusion creeping and hitched forward on to his stool to work his way out of his coat and draped it neatly over the stool back. The glass of ale was flat and the bartender understood his desire and kept careful eye on his whisky glass, ever ready with the bottle, a top-shelf item here and one Hewitt already regarded as belonging to him. Oh the whisky was fine and he thought What in the world was I thinking? Of course it was all different now, he’d have one more, perhaps two and then get something to eat and walk back to the motel and sleep a dreamless sleep and rise in the morning and head for home. It’s all a question, as he slid the empty glass to trade for the full one waiting, of moderation. He was as far from drunk as possible, simply loosened a little, nothing the day didn’t call for. The day. What a fucking joke. He held the glass up at eye level and watched the lights reflect in the whisky and wondered what he’d gained or lost by leaving it alone for so long. Nothing seemed the only answer. The last twenty-three years, the past quarter century, a considerable chunk of whatever time was his gone like that and here he was, doing nothing more than recognizing it. Leave those years right there with the change from the fifty.

Briefly he considered calling Emily to apologize and knew he couldn’t but sat then lonely, wanting something, wanting some human touch or voice.

Sometime later he was in the wooden old-fashioned phone booth with a folding door punching in numbers he knew by heart and waiting as the phone on the other end rang three times and a machine picked up. He sat through the message and then, against all sense, begged Julie to pick up, talking on until the machine hit the end of its recording time and he was foolish enough to go through the entire process again only this time to get a busy signal. He sat in the booth with the dead phone in his hands. He pressed the greasy receiver to his forehead. He knew this wasn’t damage that would last. Or maybe it would. At the moment he didn’t care.

When he came out of the booth he lurched and caught himself, ran his hand through his hair, then shook his head like shaking off water and went to the men’s room and peed in the trough and came back out needing the drink he’d left in the phone booth but simply went back to the bar and like magic a full glass was waiting for him, his stack of bills still high, or perhaps it had grown low and been replenished again. He leaned and waited and the bartender came down while Hewitt was studying the menu on the board behind the bar and told him the kitchen was closed and pointed to the big Rolling Rock clock where he saw it was almost twelve thirty. So much for supper.

A voice in his ear.

He turned. A pretty woman. He grinned. “Howdy.”

She leaned in. “I’m Carol. And who are you?”

Hewitt was truly fucked-up so he skipped evasion. “A bunch of years ago I was in love with a woman here. So I came back to see what’s happened to her. So far, it hasn’t worked out too well.”

Carol said, “God I hate that shit. Look at me. I got two kids already out of high school. You believe that?”

Hewitt looked closely at her face. He said, “No.”

She said, “You a cop?”

“Fuck no.”

She took his hand. They were turned to face each other, halfway away from the bar. The room was late.

She held his hand and slid it up under her blouse so that suddenly he was cupping her breast, the nipple a jolt into his palm. Just as he realized what she was doing she removed his hand from her blouse. She said, “If you’re a cop you just fucked up. You want to smoke a joint?”

“In here?” he asked, already knowing the answer. This woman wanted to fuck him.

She grinned and leaned to run a hand from his knee up his thigh. “We take a walk,” she said.

Hewitt stood, leaving the pile of bills on the bar. The big tipper. Then, with Carol watching and waiting, pulled his sport coat on. They stumbled side by side through the swarm toward the door.

They went up the street toward the fire station, toward his motel. He wanted to take her back to his room. Then she fired a joint and stepped off the sidewalk through a torn opening in a chain-link fence. They were behind an auto-body shop. A small lot filled with junkers, cars waiting for parts to be found and used.

Carol said, “Here.” And passed the thin joint. Hewitt leaned back against some metallic shell and sucked in. Let the smoke drift out into the warm summer night air. And passed it back to Carol. She looked tired but he was tired also. She toked hard and passed the joint back and he held it down at his side and reached out and drew her in. It was not a lovely kiss. Hewitt knew this was his fault—too much, too much of a day. They pulled away, still holding the other and Hewitt brought the joint back up and was about to hand it to her when Carol dropped to her knees. He thought she was passing out. Then felt her hands opening his jeans. And he let her.

He stood with his head tilted up to the sky and smoked his way slowly through the joint as she worked her mouth upon him. Either he was too drunk to feel much or she lacked particular skill.

It was not anything he wanted.

He smoked until the roach was burning his fingers. He kept one hand on her head, loose in her hair. Making contact.

And then had to take a break from the slide of her head, the furious work she was not accomplishing and so began to look up to the few faint stars beating down through the streetlights and saw out there right in the open empty middle of the yard as if stranded an almost new Lexus with the hood and glass and top all collapsed in an accordion of disaster. And knew what he was looking at. Carol patted him back into his pants, rose and glanced where he was looking. “The doctor. Sonofabitch hit a cow loose on the road and rolled that fucker three four times. They say there wasn’t even no skid marks. He musta been all fucked-up.” She paused and then said, “Well, if he wasn’t when he started he was by the time it was over.”

“No shit,” Hewitt nearly whispered.

“Say, you got a spare fifty?”

S
O IN THE
morning he was horribly sick and knew he had to leave but after his hot and cold shower he sat on the edge of the bed and drank the bad coffee and finally lifted the telephone and pushed the message button.

“I’ve got an hour for lunch at noon. Come up to the house. Bye.”

He had to smile. Since she’d shut the door to him the evening before if there was a thing he could’ve done to make himself feel less worthy of visiting her, of explaining himself, of offering what consolation he could, he was hard pressed to find it. At least he hadn’t called her from the bar. Briefly he wondered if she knew the woman, what the hell was her name? If she was perhaps a client of Emily’s and two weeks from now she’d be sitting in Emily’s office telling the story of her own bad behavior. Fuck it, he thought. Not likely.

So, a plan. If ever there was a need for one. No winging it today.

Four hours. Breakfast, and reminding himself to keep it light, to let the hangover work itself out on its own and not try to pack it down with protein. Besides, he’d recalled clearly enough where he was bound when he packed and so had an old pair of swim trunks in the suitcase. A long hard swim would be the best curative of all.

He dressed and went out toward the East Lake Road and found a bagel shop where he ordered two plain with butter no cream cheese, two large orange juices and a coffee. Almost fifteen goddamn dollars but the juice was freshly squeezed and drinking it he felt as if the poisons were already being expelled. The bagels also felt right, carbohydrates he imagined soaking up and nullifying the residual bile coating his stomach.

The park was for children and families, with picnic tables and permanent grills all locked into concrete footings. Then it sloped down to meet the small waves of the lake, the pebbly shore. The swimming area was defined by nylon ropes and buoy balls, alternating orange and red. There was a small lifeguard tower. Hewitt walked down in his trunks and talked to the girl perched there. His head was at the level of her seat, her knees inches from his face. She wore a sunshade hat and dark glasses and a neon green one-piece suit. It was not yet July and she was brown as almond butter. He guessed she had a few prework sessions at a local tanning salon.

“Morning,” he said.

Her head turned an inch from her steady gaze out on to the water. Where only a small handful of children were in the water. It was early. She was a beautiful girl too well aware of it and behind her mirror-blue shades she was taking him in. He also knew her averted gaze was as much as he was going to get for the moment.

He kept it short. “I’m traveling. And I need a long hard swim this morning. So I guess you don’t have a problem if I go around the kids and swim across the lake and back.” It was only about a quarter mile over. Perhaps a third. Nothing he couldn’t do.

She kept those blue metallic eyes upon him for a moment. Then said, “Once you’re outside the designated area I’m not responsible.”

He smiled and nodded and said, “Of course not. Thanks.”

As he went down the five feet to the edge of the lake she spoke again, just loud enough for him to hear. “Watch out for the motor-boats. They sure won’t be watching for you.”

He didn’t look back but raised a hand and made a circle of thumb and first finger high over his shoulder. Then waded into the water which was colder than expected and rendered a slipping smooth dive and came up blowing, already in a deep pacing crawl. He slid under the buoys and went on. He reminded himself, not just his briefly exposed ears but all of him to be attuned to the deep vibratory thrash of inboard or outboard engines. And he did try to look around. But mostly he swam hard and strong. When he came up on the opposite shore he was in front of a cottage, near a dock with a pair of boats moored and a man standing watching him. Hewitt stood in the waist-deep water a moment, breathing in and out fully. Then he turned and began the return swim. This time stroking even harder as he felt his body coming together into the rhythm of muscle and movement. So much so that partway across he rolled on to his back and went a distance in a lazy backstroke, the sky dome cloudless, the hills either side visible and the water had replenished him and he felt the best he had in days. Far to the south but gaining under a steady breeze he saw a group of sailboats approaching. So he rolled and again began the hard precision of the crawl. Something returning of the best of his time here.

He slowed and stroked in among more children than before. Their shrieks of pleasure and mock terror somehow the perfect conclusion to his swim. When he stood and walked out of the water he passed the lifeguard and nodded to her. She said, “You’ve got power but your stroke’s a little ragged.”

He paused and looked up at her. Those insect sunglasses were pushed up on her forehead and she had pretty brown eyes. He said, “Tell you what. When you’re forty-three come make the same swim and see how you do.”

It was eleven thirty.

He drove back to the motel and hung the trunks on the shower curtain rod and changed again. Nothing fancy this time. Green frayed Carhartts and a short sleeved denim shirt and his old black sneakers.

* * *

A
T FIVE MINUTES
past noon he walked up the steps to her porch and found the door open and heard music. Still pumped from his swim he was cheered not so much because she’d put music on but from the choice. Bach’s cello suites. Somber and elegant, comforting and uplifting.