The Evening Hour (16 page)

“She's eleven. Ain't that big enough to be on her own?”

“You going to do this for me or not?”

He felt as if he'd been tricked. Sara Jean didn't like it any better than he did, so he kept his distance and followed her around the store, watching her pick things up and put them back. It was crowded. Kids ran down the aisles, and their mothers screamed at them. Other shoppers blocked the shelves, standing there as if in shock and staring at their lists. A father and son, in matching camouflage jackets, cussed at each other. A little girl squalled. Cole looked over his shoulder. He felt antsy, wondering if Terry was here.

At the jewelry counter, Sara Jean looked small and out of place, her stringy hair falling in her eyes. “You think my mom would like any of this?”

Most of what she had laid out on the counter was gaudy and cheap. He pointed to a pair of silver earrings shaped like feathers. “What about these?”

She nodded. “These are good.”

“You got any money?”

“Twenty bucks.”

“You plan on buying anything else?”

“Mom said I can just draw pictures and make stuff.”

“I've got some extra. Why don't you buy more presents?”

For the first time today, she made eye contact with him. “I don't want Mom to get mad.”

“If she does, it'll be at me, not you.”

She thought it over for a few seconds, then grinned. “Okay.”

Cole pushed the cart and Sara Jean filled it up. Whatever was between them had been knocked out of the way, at least for now. She chattered up a storm. He didn't spend much time with kids, but he couldn't imagine that most of them talked the way she did.

“Blue says if we get enough people together, we can stop it.”

“You'll never stop people from mining coal.”

She dropped a Magic 8 Ball in the cart; he didn't ask who it was for. “If the sludge dam breaks, there won't be anywhere to go,” she said.

“It won't break.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” He patted her head. “You shouldn't worry about all this.”

But she had a worried face, like some little animal, a weasel or squirrel. He tried to change subjects and interest her in all the stuff around them. “Your uncle, he's a carpenter, right? Look at this hammer, that would be a nice present.”

He pushed the cart to the end of an aisle and turned and realized they'd walked into the gun department. Shotguns, high-powered rifles, and handguns were locked behind Plexiglas cases, and Terry Rose was behind the counter.

Coe started to turn around, but Terry said, “Hey, buddy, hold on.”

Cole gripped the cart. A hotness bloomed in his chest. He looked at Sara Jean. “Why don't you go look at the fishing stuff for your grandpa? Right over there.”

“He doesn't fish.”

“Well maybe you'll find something else for your uncle. I bet he likes to.”

Terry asked a woman with a buzz cut to cover for him, and then he stepped out from behind the counter. “What are you doing, bro?”

“Christmas shopping.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yup. What about you?”

Terry picked his scabby meth face. “I'm all right. Man, listen, about Charlotte—”

Cole cut him off. “It ain't my business.”

Terry bit his lip, looked around. He spoke in a hushed, nervous voice. “I'm telling you, shit has got me spooked. All these busts.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I'm looking for a place to test a couple recipes, you know,” he said, talking fast. “I can get everything we need right here, but I need an old trailer, something like that. Maybe those trailers out by you, or the old church?”

“It's all gone. It's Heritage property, not mine.”

“We could make some good money.” He had that desperate junkie look, which made Cole's stomach turn. “You remember how it was between us. You can't turn your back on that.”

“You better take care of yourself,” Cole said quietly. “You got a wife. A son.”

Then, from behind them, a small voice. “Cole?” Sara Jean said. “I'm finished.”

“Who's this?” Terry crouched down. “What's your name, sweetie?”

“Sara Jean Cooper.”

He looked up at Cole. “Lacy's kid.”

“We gotta go.”

“I'm Terry Rose,” he told her. “I'm Cole's buddy.”

Cole took Sara Jean by the hand.

“Wait a sec.” Terry stood up. “I'm going over to Reese's tonight. Why don't you come by?”

Cole hadn't talked to Reese in a couple of weeks, but he looked in the paper every day for Ruthie's obituary. He was afraid to go over there again, did not want to be led back into that room of death.

“I can't, not tonight.”

Terry smiled, but it was not real. “Listen, that faggot owes me. He's your friend. Tell him he can't fuck me around like this. I'm not getting fucked over by that cocksucker.”

Cole looked down at Sara Jean. She was quiet, but he knew she'd heard every word. Terry stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his face twisted up in anger. He'd turned hard. He never used to be that way. He used to make people laugh. Teachers let him get away with everything, and other kids always wanted to be around him.

“I don't like that guy,” Sara Jean said after they were out of earshot.

“You don't even know him.”

“I can just tell.”

At the front of the store they met up with Lacy, and she looked at Sara Jean's cart. “What's all that?” When Cole told her, she shook her head. “You can't just give her things.”

“It's not that much.” He handed Sara Jean a few twenties and told her to get in line. He asked Lacy if she'd bought the camera that Sara Jean wanted.

“I'm going to wait till after Christmas when it'll probably go on sale.” She paused. “I really don't like this, you giving her money.”

“C'mon, it's Christmas. Look, I need to get a few more things. You two get something to eat, and I'll meet you in a half hour.”

“Cole—”

But he was already walking away. A sudden image of Terry Rose and Charlotte—smoking crank, kissing, fucking—flashed in his head. He turned into the kitchen section and stared at a display of coffeemakers. Percolators and Mr. Coffees and carafes and espresso machines. He wanted Terry out of his head for good. The shelves and rows and stacks of factory-new, unused objects slowly calmed him. He grabbed one of the fancier Mr. Coffees, thinking maybe his grandmother would like it. He walked up and down the aisles, shopping quickly. When the cart was full, he felt oddly satisfied, and stood in line and paid for everything in cash. He could not give Lacy what she wanted, but he could shower her with gifts. “You're going to make somebody real happy,” the cashier agreed.

“What the hell is all this?”

It was Christmas Eve, and he'd come over like she'd wanted him to, to watch movies, eat caramel corn. The three of them, like a family. After Sara Jean had gone to bed, Cole unloaded everything from his truck.

“Stuff for Sara Jean. Look.” He showed Lacy the gift tags. “From Santa.”

“What did you get her?”

“Stuff. That camera. Some video games.” He pushed a few presents toward Lacy. “These are yours. Come on, open them.”

They were sitting on the floor in front of the tree. Under the light, Lacy's face looked pink. She wore a red bow on each tit and had promised him that his present be worth waiting for.

“Come on,” he said eagerly.

She unwrapped the paper carefully, without tearing it, the same way the old people did at the nursing home. After everything was opened, she stared at the gifts as if she wasn't sure they were for her. A stack of CDs, a sweater, a purse, and an opal ring that had come from Hazel Lewis's top dresser drawer. She wasn't smiling. She didn't seem happy at all.

Cole's grin faltered. “What's wrong?”

“You got Sara Jean a camera after I told you I wasn't getting it for her?
A camera
?”

“She won't know I bought any of it. Tell her that it's from you.” He pointed to the gifts. “But what about all this? You don't like what I got you?”

Lacy examined the ring, turning it over, holding it up. She did not try it on.

“Cole, where did you get this?”

“What do you mean? I bought it.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Did you win the goddamn lottery or something?”

He did not like the look in her eyes. “I worked for it,” he said evenly. “I've got a job.”

“I never heard of a nurse's aide making this much.”

It was like she'd spit on him. He stood up slowly. His face on fire, pulsing.

“I don't know what you think you're doing, but it's gonna stop.” Lacy was whispering, but the rage in her voice poked through like the teeth in a saw. “It's got to stop right now.”

She stripped him bare with her eyes, and everything inside of him buzzed. He wanted to stomp on all the gifts, kick the shit out of the tree. But he grabbed his jacket.

“I'm out of here.”

“That's all you're going to say?”

“What else do you want to hear?” Before slamming the door behind him, he added, “Throw it out if you want, I don't give a shit.”

He climbed in his truck, punched the steering wheel two or three times. He didn't know why he was trying so hard. Still, he sat there and waited a few more minutes. Maybe she'd come out, knock on the window, ask him back in. But she turned off the outside Christmas lights and everything darkened, like nobody lived there. He punched the wheel again. His hand throbbed. Fuck this. He checked the time. It was not even midnight; he could still make a lot of money. He gunned the engine, tires spitting gravel. There were people out there who were waiting on him, who needed him.

It was the first time that the house had been decorated, and his grandmother had gone a little wild. Icicles drizzled from every branch. Christmas bows and wreathes cluttered the mantel, the banister, the windows. Garland, tinsel, Santa figurines. Cole and Ruby stared at the glittery tree. It didn't feel like home.

“Everyone will be here soon,” Ruby said. “God, I get nervous with these big family things.”

“You never seem nervous,” Cole said.

“It's my good acting skills.” She ran her hands down the front of her jeans as if she was smoothing out wrinkles. “I feel like everybody's waiting for me to mess up or something.” She took a deep breath. “Do you have any pot?”

“No.” He added, “I might have a Xanax.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That'll do,” she said, and didn't ask questions.

In the kitchen the windows were steamed up. Pots on every burner. A roast in the oven. Side dishes crowding the table: cornbread dressing, noodles, green bean casserole. His grandmother stood at the stove, stirring.

“You shouldn't have done all of this work,” he said.

“It wasn't so much. Ruby helped.”

He doubted that. “We could have gone to Aunt Rebecca's.”

“I wanted to have it here. It might could be the last one.” She gulped 7UP, wiped the fizz off her upper lip. “I been having dreams, Cole. The crows keep coming into my sleep. And I dreamed that the ocean or something raised up and washed us out. I don't have a good feeling, especially with all this rain.” She sighed. “Now that Clyde's gone, I just don't know how much longer I'll be around.”

“Don't talk like that,” he said.

Ruby walked in and lifted a lid from one of the pots. “Is she talking about her dreams again?”

“Don't poke fun.” His grandmother looked at him. “One thing I'd like to see before I go is for you to settle down. Find yourself a wife. A good woman, that's what you need.”

He sighed as he opened the refrigerator. “Not again.”

Ruby laughed.

“Who's your new friend?” his grandmother persisted. “Why didn't you invite her over for Christmas? I'd like to meet her. What is it you said she does?”

The refrigerator was stuffed with covered bowls and dishes, all for today's dinner. He just wanted a glass of damn milk, but couldn't get to the carton. He slammed the door. “My friend is Lacy Cooper. She's got an eleven-year-old kid, and she's still married.”

His grandmother's face did not change expression. “I've got to check on them beans,” she said finally.

Cole went out the front door and stood on the porch and watched the rain. It fell in thin misty sheets, splattering the yard, rushing through the treetops. Soft, repetitive. A lonesome sound. Everything smelled like damp wood and worms. He looked at the rising creek. The rain always made people nervous around here; too many floods and slides and shredded mountains. He knew that his grandmother was worried about the weather, but he was sick of all the prophecy and dreams roiling in this house. Sick of the old man, lingering. His grandfather had never forgiven Cole for walking out of the church. He was too proud, he accused him, too high and mighty.
You've got to be repentant before you can be saved. You've got to show God your broken heart. You got to get down on your knees. You got to weep.

Back inside, his grandmother clanged pots and pans, while his mother lounged on the sofa, peaceful. The Xanax, he remembered.

“Is she pissed?”

“She'll survive. There's worse things than dating a married woman.”

“Might be over between us, anyways,” he said, suddenly missing Charlotte, who was easier to please, in a way. She never would have turned down a gift.

The phone rang and his grandmother picked up in the kitchen. A few minutes later, she stood in the doorway, hands on hips, brow furrowed.

“What's wrong now?” Ruby asked.

“Esther can't get out of her driveway because the creek's too high, and there's flooding around Stillwell. They've all decided to stay home. On Christmas Day.”