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Authors: Steven Barthelme
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looked across at Dave. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be making it hard. That’s money I owe Claire, some of it is, which I am paying her back, which she lent me.” He looked over his shoulder toward the back of the apartment. “Sorry I woke you up. When it is you’re getting married?”
“December,” Dave said. “I wanted to do it right away, but Claire wanted to wait. Her parents are in Fort Worth—but I guess you know them.”
Bailey nodded. He heard a whistle from outside the window, and then again. That’s a bird, he thought. That’s morning. He looked toward the window, but the sky hadn’t begun to light. “What do you do for a living, Dave?”
“Now you sound like her parents,” the boy said. “I’msecond year at the law school. I was managing Bechtold’s—the restaurant—but you know, I needed to make—” Bailey looked up, then followed the boy’s glance to Claire, who had apparently been watching. “That’s better,” she said. Now she was wearing white jeans and a shirt of her own, white, a short sleeveless tunic.
“A Snapple?” Dave said, standing and reaching for the refrigerator door. She smiled, his answer.
Bailey looked at the table in front of him. “I guess I’ll go,” he said. “Sorry to barge in, I don’t know what I was doing. No, I know what I was doing. I just won sixteen grand and I had to tell somebody, I guess.” He picked up his money and stuffed it into his pocket. “Here’s the eight I owe you,” he said and handed Claire the hundreds he had taken from the roll.
She took the money and kissed him, laughing. “You really won sixteen thousand dollars? That’s great, Bailey. Aren’t you happy? You’re going to quit now, I hope?”
Dave let the refrigerator door fall closed and handed her a bottle of what looked like pink lemonade. “Jesus,” he said. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Bailey?” Claire said.
“I gotta go,” he said, and nodded to Dave. “It was good to meet you.”
Dave stood to shake hands. The dog got to its feet. “Good to meet you,” Dave said.
“I’ll walk you out?” Claire said. She took a drink of lemonade and set the bottle on the table beside the hundreds, but then thought better of it and picked the bottle up again and walked out the door, leaving Bailey and the boy standing there.
“Good night,” Bailey said and turned and followed Claire outside.
He found her sitting with her lemonade beside her on alow concrete wall at the edge of the property, near where his car was parked. It was still not quite morning, although the air was wet and birds were already chirping and whistling all around.
“I wanted to show you all this dumb money,” Bailey said, taking it out of his pocket in a ball, staring at it. “Isn’t that pathetic?” He settled beside her on the concrete wall, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “You’re busy doing the watata with the sweetheart of Sigma Chi.” He shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He threw the money on the grass.
Claire laughed. “And you accuse
me
of making movie gestures?” she said, and slipped off the wall.
“Okay,” Bailey said, “right. Give me that back. Make sure the ink isn’t running on that damn check.”
She handed him the dewy money, yawning.
“All the good gestures have been gestured,” he said, replacing it in his shirt pocket. “So, I mean, what are you thinking? Breeding stock? It’s not only that he’s not me, he’s not even
like
me.”
“You’d like that better?” Claire said, sipping lemonade. The glass bottle clanked when she set it back down on the wall.
“No, I guess not. But he has a dog. He has a gun. He’s a goddamn norm. He’s the enemy.”
“He wants to have children.”
“Oh, Jesus, it
is
breeding stock.” Bailey caressed the concrete wall absentmindedly, then realizing it, lifted his hand to touch his forehead with the tips of his fingers, then clapped his hand on his jeans above the knee. “Look, marry me.
“December,” Dave said. “I wanted to do it right away, but Claire wanted to wait. Her parents are in Fort Worth—but I guess you know them.”
Bailey nodded. He heard a whistle from outside the window, and then again. That’s a bird, he thought. That’s morning. He looked toward the window, but the sky hadn’t begun to light. “What do you do for a living, Dave?”
“Now you sound like her parents,” the boy said. “I’msecond year at the law school. I was managing Bechtold’s—the restaurant—but you know, I needed to make—” Bailey looked up, then followed the boy’s glance to Claire, who had apparently been watching. “That’s better,” she said. Now she was wearing white jeans and a shirt of her own, white, a short sleeveless tunic.
“A Snapple?” Dave said, standing and reaching for the refrigerator door. She smiled, his answer.
Bailey looked at the table in front of him. “I guess I’ll go,” he said. “Sorry to barge in, I don’t know what I was doing. No, I know what I was doing. I just won sixteen grand and I had to tell somebody, I guess.” He picked up his money and stuffed it into his pocket. “Here’s the eight I owe you,” he said and handed Claire the hundreds he had taken from the roll.
She took the money and kissed him, laughing. “You really won sixteen thousand dollars? That’s great, Bailey. Aren’t you happy? You’re going to quit now, I hope?”
Dave let the refrigerator door fall closed and handed her a bottle of what looked like pink lemonade. “Jesus,” he said. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Bailey?” Claire said.
“I gotta go,” he said, and nodded to Dave. “It was good to meet you.”
Dave stood to shake hands. The dog got to its feet. “Good to meet you,” Dave said.
“I’ll walk you out?” Claire said. She took a drink of lemonade and set the bottle on the table beside the hundreds, but then thought better of it and picked the bottle up again and walked out the door, leaving Bailey and the boy standing there.
“Good night,” Bailey said and turned and followed Claire outside.
He found her sitting with her lemonade beside her on alow concrete wall at the edge of the property, near where his car was parked. It was still not quite morning, although the air was wet and birds were already chirping and whistling all around.
“I wanted to show you all this dumb money,” Bailey said, taking it out of his pocket in a ball, staring at it. “Isn’t that pathetic?” He settled beside her on the concrete wall, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “You’re busy doing the watata with the sweetheart of Sigma Chi.” He shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He threw the money on the grass.
Claire laughed. “And you accuse
me
of making movie gestures?” she said, and slipped off the wall.
“Okay,” Bailey said, “right. Give me that back. Make sure the ink isn’t running on that damn check.”
She handed him the dewy money, yawning.
“All the good gestures have been gestured,” he said, replacing it in his shirt pocket. “So, I mean, what are you thinking? Breeding stock? It’s not only that he’s not me, he’s not even
like
me.”
“You’d like that better?” Claire said, sipping lemonade. The glass bottle clanked when she set it back down on the wall.
“No, I guess not. But he has a dog. He has a gun. He’s a goddamn norm. He’s the enemy.”
“He wants to have children.”
“Oh, Jesus, it
is
breeding stock.” Bailey caressed the concrete wall absentmindedly, then realizing it, lifted his hand to touch his forehead with the tips of his fingers, then clapped his hand on his jeans above the knee. “Look, marry me.
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