Machine Dreams (16 page)

Jean couldn’t think anymore; she wanted to dance. She opened the door and shut off the light and stood in the dim hallway. Straight ahead in the parlor Mitch was dancing with Marthella, jostled between two other couples. The others moved and Jean saw his hands cupped low on Marthella’s red skirt, caressing her hips and moving up to touch the small of her back. He pulled her against him. Jean knew his touch exactly: hard and slow and firm. Oh, didn’t they know everyone could see them? She turned away, her face burning, and walked down the hall toward the
kitchen. She stopped then and leaned against the wall. Bess, Gladys, Cora: they’d all see her embarrassment if she walked in now. If she said something to Mitch later, he’d tell her she was only being prudish or that she hadn’t seen what she saw. Well, she wouldn’t say a word, but she wouldn’t be coming back to one of these parties.
The things I tell my pillow, no woman should
; over the sound of the music, Jean heard the wind of the storm still blowing, and women talking in the kitchen. A scraping of chairs. Bess must be leaving.

Maybe Jean shouldn’t be embarrassed. Cora certainly wasn’t; she didn’t seem to mind at all. Maybe Jean shouldn’t either, but Mitch could damn well respect her and be discreet. Everyone was watching him with Marthella; Jean was ashamed but not really surprised. The truth was she’d never felt she owned him, that he was hers. He’d never belong to anyone the way some men belonged to women. Jean guessed she’d liked that in the beginning: his aloneness meant she could pay attention to other things. Well, here was the price. She’d have to pay it.

“Jean.” Bess stood opposite her in the hall, her tall, thin form bundled in her heavy coat.

“Bess, you’re going? We hardly got to say hello, with all the dancing. I’m just taking a rest.”

Deliberately, they looked into each other’s faces and didn’t glance toward the parlor.

“Yes, it’s late,” Bess said, “and Katie has a bad cold. Clayton’s not much of a nurse.”

“But Katie’s done awfully well this winter, hasn’t she?”

“Well, she’s twelve and says she’s too old now to be a sickly child.”

Bess touched Jean’s arm, and her hand was dry and warm. Jean covered the hand with her own palm. Bess wasn’t yet sixty but her hand was the hand of an old woman—soft, like worn silk: the structure of the bones beneath seemed delicate, sprung with tension, as though the whole of her upright carriage was an uncompromised act of will. Bess waited, allowing the moment of recognition, then moved her hand away.

“You know,” she said, keeping her voice low, “he and Clayton have sunk all they have into this new business. Clayton has won
and lost before, but Mitch.…” She stood so close that no word was mistaken. “Of course, they’ve got no work at all in this kind of weather.” She stepped back then and said, in a tone just loud enough to be heard in the parlor, “I’ll be going now, Jeannie.”

“Yes, all right,” Jean said, “I’ll walk you out.”

Bess leaned close again. “No need for that. Go sit down in the kitchen and have some hot tea.”

The kitchen was bright, the overhead light nearly glaring. The women had washed all the dishes and serving platters, and stacked the clean borrowed plates in baskets. Jean sat down at the table, across from Gladys; now that the work was done and Bess had gone, Gladys would probably have a couple of stiff drinks.

True to form, she poured herself a shot of bourbon as Jean watched. “Join the clean-up crew.” She smiled and nodded toward the parlor. “I expect they’re playing musical partners by now.” She sipped the bourbon cheerfully. “Just dancing and teasing, Jean—I expect you’d benefit by not taking it all to heart.”

“Gladys, why don’t you hush.” Jean put both her palms flat on the old carved-up surface of the table. Kids had written their initials for years on the old VFW table; her initials were probably here, and Tom’s, from high school.

Gladys looked over at Cora. “I think she means it. I’d best shut up. Too much advice on New Year’s can wreck the best disposition.”

“Oh, look,” Cora answered, pointing to the wall clock. “It’s just midnight. Let’s turn the radio up all the way.” She leaned toward both women, her eyes very bright, her expression joyous and slightly too set. “Al Jolson always comes on just at the stroke of twelve, ‘Anniversary Song,’ and tonight he’s absolutely right—it’s 1949.” She clapped her hands twice, like a child, and jumped up from her chair to go to the kitchen counter.

“Straight ahead, Cora,” Gladys said. She caught Jean’s eye and tapped her temple with a forefinger.

Jolson’s booming voice filled the room. Amazing that the old radio could play so loud. Violins sounded the slow strains of a waltz, and a melancholy harp built a stair-step preface of chimes. Jolson’s voice, so deep at first it was almost non-melodic, began
alone:
Oh, how we danced
, the
Oh
deep like the turning of a broad dark knife, like a man in the dark surprised by his own sharp pleasure. Cora’s lilting, reedy voice rode along on Jolson’s baritone, and together they seemed to describe some fairy tale with absolute belief.
The world. Was in bloom.
It was all so silly. Jean lifted Gladys’ glass to her lips and drank the bourbon down. The liquor tasted hot, biting. Jean stood a little shakily and walked into the pantry; if she had to hear the rest of this song, she wanted to be by herself.

Yes, she could breathe in here. The small room was cold and lit with an odd, restful light—snow light, and the glow of a street lamp outside the one window. The walls of the narrow space were lined with floor-to-ceiling cupboards, old-fashioned ones painted white, and they were nearly empty. The glass of the cupboard doors looked lovely and clean, a series of shining windows, one measured shape after another. It really took Gracie a long time to die, Jean thought. She hadn’t died until she’d taught Jean everything, but what good was what she knew? No one spoke this language; it was language you knew in your blood and learned to hear. Jean stood listening, looking at the bar of kitchen light thrown across the linoleum from the half-open pantry door; from here the song was almost pretty. She heard Gladys come in behind her.

“This isn’t a real veterans’ club,” Jean said. “It’s someone’s house they nailed a sign to.”

“You shouldn’t drink in your condition,” Gladys said quietly, “and you certainly shouldn’t drink so quickly.”

“What?” Jean steadied herself, one hand on the countertop, and raised her eyes. In the glass cupboard door she saw her reflection hover over a single yellow plate.

“You do know what’s the matter, don’t you?” Gladys’ round, powdered face was earnest.

“No, I don’t know anything.” Jean smiled. You had to smile, didn’t you? The bourbon was warm in her stomach now, like a core of heat.

“You’re about to know,” Gladys said. “I’ve known for a week, but I didn’t suppose it was my business to tell you.”

Oh, what was she talking about? Well, it didn’t matter; they
could talk about anything, just so long as Jean could stay here in this small, private place with its neatly painted, abandoned cupboards. Aloud, she said, “It’s just that I’ve been so tired lately.”

“Of course you have. You’re pregnant.”

The wind of the storm outside continued to rise and fall. Jean saw snow through the square pantry window, and the round bulb of the street light. “It’s true,” Jean said quietly. “I must be. I am.”

Gladys nodded. She took off her sweater and put it across Jean’s shoulders. “There,” she said.

Tomorrow she would tell him. Tonight it was too late, they’d been at the party so long. When he lay down beside her, she was nearly asleep, dreaming vacantly of telling him. Unformed shapes and sounds surrounded the words as storm winds rattled the windows of Gladys’ guest room. Boards creaked as he walked across the cold floor to the bed. She knew without looking that he was naked and had put his wool robe over their quilt like a blanket. His skin was moist and warm from the shower; as she turned to him he smelled like someone just come from a pool of heat, and the whiskey on his breath was a faint, sweet residue tinged with bitterness. He touched her forehead with his mouth and his warm shoulder pressed the side of her face. Nothing mattered for one moment but this: she took his weight and held him. He moved on top of her slowly and kept one hand under her; the heat of his hand ran in her spine like current. She looked at the ceiling and imagined on its surface the imprint of a dark, delicate body, a body that vanished by degrees. She strained to keep the image in sight, but her eyes closed involuntarily as she moved against him, blind, moving with her own breath until the shadow was closer, nearer, deep inside her, its lines and boundaries blurred. The body disappeared like a shadow or a wish and that was how she gave herself up, all her words gone like sparks burned up in a darkness. She felt his body tense then and brought his mouth to hers; he cried out and the vibration of his voice trembled in her throat, a rush of air dark and full. The sound passed through her, vanishing rapidly.

T
his was the Gulf of Papua, the Coral Sea: he knew by the feel of the air and the emptiness of the horizon. Two years he’d heard New Guinea tides, until he didn’t hear them at all but lived with the sound like a heartbeat; how had he arrived here again? The sea was flat as a transparent plate, the water still, glowing with a metallic sheen like it was dead and had a clear light under it. The sea had gone strange; Katie was in his arms and he told her to try it again, this time he would take smaller steps. Her face was robust and healthy like before the war; he understood then that the war hadn’t happened yet; he was here before the war or it was going on somewhere else. Least he could do before he left was teach her to dance; Clayton was too old to teach a girl to dance right, though he stood watching them at a short distance, beach sand blowing about him like a grainy smoke. That wind was goddamn fierce, a wonder the sea was so calm. He could barely hear Katie’s piping voice above the loudness of wind and clattering leaves—sound of leaves crazy since
the beach was barren, nothing anywhere. Sand swirled around them, obscuring their feet as they turned: a waltz was always the simplest way to learn. She was eager, excited, her body so light she had trouble keeping her feet on the ground. He had to hold her down as he led and circled, careful not to tread on her shoes. Misstepping once as she drifted upward, he listened for the beat and realized there was only the wind they danced to; that’s why Clayton was nodding and looking out to sea. Weather was coming up fast, wind blowing so loud and hard he couldn’t look and he turned, alone, shielding his eyes. He looked seaward then and saw Clayton wading in, holding Katie like they were honeymooners, Katie being a kid and kicking her feet, dragging her hand in the water starlet-style. Far out Mitch saw the sea lifting, the whole edge curling and sucking in, piling up and rumbling. He yelled at them, wind crushing the words back. But Clayton turned and Katie was Jean, her black hair blowing. They looked at Mitch, trying to hear, and past them the wave kept building. Jesus, the weight of that hard water: he heard it rattling savagely onto glass, a drenching rain he could smell. Hard rain, sharp and cold, and when he opened his eyes he saw water lashing the windows. He sat up in bed and listened for the baby, but the house was quiet and the lights in the hall were out. Why was she up if she wasn’t feeding the baby? The room was drafty; she’d left a window open in the cold March night, and rain had wet the sill and the floor. He got up and closed the window, his skin prickling at the cold, and walked through the L-shaped hallway to the kitchen.

One small light was burning, and she stood there in her robe, pouring milk into a saucepan.

He leaned against the doorjamb, hearing the rain surround the house. “Baby wake up?” he asked her.

“No.” She stirred the milk with a spoon. The burner under the pan was bright red and threw a glow against the enamel surface of the stove.

“It’s three in the morning,” he said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Her voice was weak. “I’m pregnant again.” She wiped her eyes with the back of one hand and looked into the pan.

He walked nearer and touched her shoulder. The side of her
face was wet, and her throat. “What’s wrong with that, now?” he said more gently. “We’re married, aren’t we?”

“But Danner’s only six months old, and you were just saying tonight how slow it is at the plant, and with all the bills from this house—”

“Things will pick up at the plant. Things always pick up in the spring, and it’s March already.” Mentally, he calculated; he would probably have to fire one man and go out on jobs himself. Damn, he should never have told her the state of things. “You’re not to worry. We can afford another baby.”

The milk was steaming and she pulled the pan from the stove, one hand at the small of her back. “We have to insulate the attic before another winter, and we just bought the new furniture, and you’ve picked out a car. We’re almost falling behind now.”

“The car will wait. If we tune up the Nash, it’ll go a while. And I’ll do the insulation myself, hire a man from the plant to help. Maybe even Clayton—get the old guy up there to do an honest day’s work.”

She sighed, moving to get a glass from the cupboard. “Don’t talk silly,” she said, as though he were serious. “Clayton’s not in shape to—”

“Clayton will be all right,” Mitch said, his voice sharper than he’d intended. He lowered his tone. “I told you, he went down to this same place once a long time ago, in the thirties, and didn’t touch a drop for nearly fifteen years after. When he comes back, he’ll be fine.” Mitch sat down in a kitchen chair, the chair creaking as he leaned forward. He touched the table and followed the wavery grain of the wood with his fingertips as the rain intensified, pounding the concrete porch in back. Had he pulled those damn porch chairs into the breezeway last night? He’d thought to enlarge the porch in summer and put a roof over it. Well, later, and better for two kids than one. Now only the concrete—if business improved enough—and a fence around it for a good large play space, keep them out of the road and the fields. Those fields got so tall in summer and autumn; if kids wandered in you wouldn’t find them at all. Aloud, he said, “Clayton will be back at work in two weeks, then you’ll see I’m right.”