Terms of Endearment (33 page)

“I want you to know that you’re the most intolerable, arrogant bitch I’ve ever encountered in my life, and I’ve encountered a great many,” the General said. He didn’t hit her, but he could not refrain from giving her a good hard shove.

Aurora noted that he had nice firm, rather delicate hands, the hands of a far younger man. There was something to be said for men who kept themselves in trim. She caught herself just short of her stairway, and saw that his chest was heaving and his face very red.

“You think I’m a coward, don’t you?” he said. “All these years I’ve loved you and what it comes down to is that you think I’m a goddamn coward.”

“How long have you loved me, Hector?” she asked in a friendly tone.

“Years … years,” he said heavily. “Since the forties. You know that. Since that party you gave us before I was sent to Midway. You remember that. Your baby had just been born and you were still nursing her. I remember the dress you wore.”

Aurora smiled. “What amazing memories men have,” she said. “I can barely remember that war, much less that party or that dress. Let me have your hand.”

The General held it out. To his amazement she seemed to want to examine it. “Well, it was around then,” he said. “I thought about you a lot while I was overseas.

“Pacific theater,” he said, to help her memory.

Aurora linked her arm companionably in his and kept his hand. “I’m sure there were any number of sentimental scenes I’d enjoy remembering, if I could,” she said. “You men have such patience too.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

“Never mind, dear,” Aurora said. “I suppose I’m just feeling rather ashamed. In all these years I’ve never shown you my Renoir. You might come and take a look at it now, if you aren’t in too great a hurry to get to your run. I think that’s the least I can do for someone who’s loved me twenty years.”

General Scott instantly freed the hand she held, but only in order to grasp her more firmly in both his hands. The agitation of anger gave way to another, equally powerful agitation, and that increased when it became apparent that finally, finally, after all those years, Aurora had stopped being reluctant to be grasped.

“Aurora, I’m not interested in your art, I’m only interested in you,” the General managed to say before passion choked him completely.

Aurora heard a new resonance in the familiar scratchy voice. She smiled, but ducked her head, so the smile was only for herself.

“Oh, well,” she said, “never mind about it, Hector. My Renoir is not likely to walk away. We’ll save it until all else fails.”

She looked up and met his eye. The General felt a fool, an old frightened fool, but not so frightened or such a graceless fool as to question miracles. Amiably, rather merrily, and with a great deal more conversation, Aurora led him upstairs, to a place he had long since ceased to expect to go.

CHAPTER XII

1.

R
OSIE, THAT
same morning, awoke to find that her hot water heater was on the blink. Little Buster, her baby, fell down and split his lip trying to take a toy duck away from his big sister Lou Ann, and Lou Ann made matters worse by laughing at him. Little Buster’s lip bled so profusely it looked like his throat was cut, and all either child could think about was when their daddy was coming home. When that might be, or where their daddy was, Rosie had no idea. There had not been a sound out of Royce in three weeks. Every day she went home expecting to find him there, lonely and repentant, and every day she found nothing but an empty house and two disagreeable children. It was almost too much, and by the time she got Little Buster cleaned up and shuttled the two of them down the street to the neighbor who kept them during the day, she was feeling desperate. She boarded her morning bus almost in tears and rode across Houston
with her eyes closed, so tired of the world that she just didn’t want to look at it anymore.

When she opened her eyes again one of the first things she saw was F.V. d’Arch sitting on the curb near her bus stop. That was the first time that had ever happened, and Rosie was mildly intrigued. F.V. looked like the bottom had fallen out, but then so far as she knew the bottom had always been out where F.V. was concerned. It was only the fact that he was sitting on the curb that surprised her. He had on his chauffeur pants and his undershirt.

“What’s the matter, you get fired?” she asked.

F.V. shook his head. “Worrit sick,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” Rosie said. “I don’t know if Royce is alive or dead. I don’t know what he thinks I’m supposed to tell the kids. I never would have married him if I’d known it was going to end up in a mess like this.”

“Guess where the General’s at, an’ you’ll know why I’m worrit sick,” F.V. said.

“Where is he, off somewhere buyin’ a tank?”

“Naw, he’s up at Miz Greenway’s,” F.V. said. “Ran up there two hours ago. Never even took his run. Them dogs is about to scratch the door down.”

“Uh-oh,” Rosie said, looking up the street.

“There ain’t no light in the kitchen, either,” F.V. said. “There ain’t no light in the whole house, if you want the truth.”

“Uh-oh,” Rosie said again. She sat down on the curb beside F.V. and both of them stared at Mrs. Greenway’s house. The sun was up and it was a fine bright day, but somehow the house seemed dark and ominous.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” Rosie asked.

F.V. shrugged an expressive Cajun shrug, signifying general calamity. Rosie accepted the fact of calamity but wanted something more precise.

“This is awful,” she said. “I wish Royce would come home.”

“I was gonna tell you about somethin’,” F.V. said. “I was plannin’ to mention it to you, but now all this happened.”

“What, what?” Rosie asked, thinking he had news of Royce.

“Dance,” F.V. said. “It’s tonight, out at the J-Bar Korral. You know, that place on McCarty Street.”

“Aw, yeah,” Rosie said. “What about it?”

F.V. pulled on his mustache for a while. A minute passed, but he seemed unable to bring himself to speak.

“F.V., I can’t stand no more suspense,” Rosie said. “What about the dance?”

“Wanta go?” F.V. managed to utter.

Rosie stared at him as if he was crazy. In fact, it seemed to her the whole world was crazy. Royce had disappeared into nowhere, and General Scott had disappeared into Aurora’s house. Now F.V. d’Arch had just asked her for a date.

“You oughta get out more,” F.V. mumbled, staring at his shoelaces.

“I guess it’s the truth,” Rosie said vaguely. “I oughta get out more. Little Buster’s driving me crazy.”

F.V. fell hopelessly silent, waiting for Rosie to rule on his invitation.

“Aw, well, what’s the use,” Rosie said. “If Royce don’t like it he can lump it.”

F.V. decided that meant she would go, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

Rosie looked up the street. “If he ain’t killed her that means they’re involved,” she said. Involved was a word she had picked up from Aurora’s soap operas. “It’s gonna break poor Vernon’s heart.”

“We still goin’ to the dance?” F.V. asked. The fact that his boss was involved with Mrs. Greenway faded into insignificance beside the fact that he almost had a date with Rosie.

Before Rosie could say a word Vernon’s white Lincoln pulled into the street.

“Oh, my God,” Rosie said and rushed out to stop it. Vernon saw her and pulled over. He had spent a sleepless night pacing his garage and had finally decided to ignore what seemed to be his orders and return for breakfast.

“Stop right there!” Rosie yelled dramatically. Vernon looked at her questioningly, at which point Rosie suddenly found herself at
a loss for words. She turned around and looked at F.V. to see if he had any inspiration. F.V. had stood up and was carefully balancing himself on the edge of the curb as if it were a tall building. After a moment or two of euphoria he was beginning to have intimations of calamity again. He had nothing at all to say.

Fortunately just at that moment one of the phones rang in Vernon’s car. The fact that he was on the phone gave Rosie time to gather her wits.

“I’ll take him to Emma’s,” she said. “Maybe she can help me break the news.”

“What about the dance?” F.V. asked.

Rosie felt very annoyed. It was just like someone from Bossier City to try and pin her down at a time when she didn’t know her own mind two minutes in a row.

“Aw, honey, let me call you about it later,” she said. “Right now I don’t know up from down.”

F.V. looked so gloomy that she reached out and gave his hand a little squeeze. After all, they had spent many happy hours together tinkering with the General’s Packard. Then she ran out and jumped in the Lincoln.

“Turn around,” she said as soon as Vernon hung up the phone. The order came too late: Vernon was staring down the street. Rosie stared too. General Hector Scott, in one of Aurora’s bathrobes, was walking briskly across Aurora’s lawn. He found the paper, walked briskly back into the house, and shut the door behind him.

Vernon put the Lincoln in reverse and took his foot off the brake. The big white car began to ease slowly backward. F.V. appeared in front of them in his gray pants and his undershirt, still balanced on the edge of the curb. He didn’t wave.

“I don’t know what come over her,” Rosie said.

Vernon let the Lincoln continue to drift backward until it had drifted around a curve—Aurora’s house was hidden from view. They had drifted some distance before it dawned on him that Rosie was still in the car.

“Here I am taking you out of your way,” he said.

“Well, I ain’t had breakfast,” Rosie said. “Wanta go see if Emma’s up?”

Vernon found that his arms were tired. It was so much easier to back than to turn around. He would have liked to go on as he was, just drifting back down some quiet street, across some carless country, no more trying to go forward. But they were in Houston, whose traffic wouldn’t admit such easeful defeat. The wiry little woman sitting across from him wouldn’t admit it, either.

A few minutes later Emma answered a knock and looked out with surprise to see the two of them on her landing.

“Good morning,” she said. “Are you two eloping?” She had not been awake very long and could not think of any other reason why they would be standing on her landing.

“You might say we’re at loose ends,” Rosie said. “We’re inviting ourselves to breakfast.”

Rosie at once threw herself into making breakfast, as if there were an army to be fed. Instead there were only three confused people, none of whom were hungry.

Vernon meekly took a seat and watched. He had foolishly put himself in the path of larger forces, it seemed to him, and he felt deprived of will.

“Vernon’s just been shot out of the saddle by General Scott,” Rosie said bluntly. “How many eggs, Vernon? We got to face facts.”

“Two,” Vernon said.

“General Scott?” Emma said. “General Scott’s been banished. He’s the last man she’d have anything to do with.”

Vernon and Rosie were silent. Rosie deftly cracked eggs.

“I wonder what made her change her mind.” Emma said after a while. At that point Flap appeared in the kitchen doorway in his pajamas. Vernon got up and shook hands.

“I must have an unusual hangover,” Flap said. “Did we have a slumber party?”

“We’re taking counsel with one another,” Emma said. “There’s a rumor afoot that Momma’s taken up with General Scott.”

“Perfect,” Flap said, sitting down. Emma was annoyed.

“It’s not perfect and don’t sit there making tactless remarks,” Emma said.

Flap immediately rose. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go back to bed. Then I won’t slip up and make tactless remarks.”

“Thank you,” Emma said.

“I done put his eggs on,” Rosie said. “Better let him stay.”

“You heard her, I’ve been banished,” Flap said. “Put those eggs back in their shells.” He left the room, looking insolent. Emma didn’t care.

“Maybe you misinterpreted something,” Emma said. “Maybe she’s just settling a score with the General, or something. She loves to settle scores.”

“Look at it this way, it ain’t none of our business,” Vernon said.

Both women looked at him quickly. Rosie broke a yellow and shook her head at her own carelessness and the world’s intractability.

“Oh, well, if you don’t care no more than that why’d you drag me over here?” she said. “I could have had the kitchen floor mopped by this time.”

Vernon was silent. It had become clearer and clearer to him that he spoke one language and women another. The words might be the same but the meanings were different. The language was so different from his that he had become afraid to try and say the simplest thing, like asking for a drink of water. He said nothing and ate his eggs under the malevolent eye of Rosie.

While he ate, Rosie’s mind drifted back to her own problem, which was what to do about F.V. and the dance. “Vernon, I got the perfect solution,” she said suddenly, her face brightening. “Even if you ain’t heartbroken you’re bound to mope—I know. I’ve lived with a moper twenty-seven years, and what’s it got me?”

“A big family,” Emma said. “How’s Little Buster?”

“Split his lip,” Rosie said indifferently. Her mind was elsewhere.

“Dancin’ beats mopin’ any old day,” she said, and got up and did a step or two.

“Can’t dance,” Vernon said.

“Then it’s time to learn,” Rosie said. “Me an’ F.V. d’Arch have got a date to go dancin’ tonight, and I just know F.V. would be glad for you to come along. We could go in your car an’ it’d cheer you up a whole lot.”

Vernon didn’t think so. He thought sitting on his building and watching the evening planes come in would cheer him more, but he didn’t say so. He looked across at Emma, who was smiling nicely at him—smiling as if she understood it all.

“Well, you’re out of the frying pan, Vernon,” she said. “You know what that leaves.”

They left a little later, and Emma went into the bedroom. Flap was sitting on the bed reading the paper. He looked at her balefully. “I have a bone to pick with you,” he said.

“You’ll have to wait,” Emma said. “I’m not going to fight with you until I’ve called Momma. I want to know what’s happening.”