gained weight, inched like a man to the window where perfume would be safely lost into the salty night. Had she a bandana she would have tied it around her head, blown out her cheeks. She hid her bright fingers in the pockets of her slacks. She swayed, gone white, as if she too had just kissed a mouth thick with pie and tobacco leaves, just come from a man in black blucher shoes and pants swelled with a bladder beneath the belt. “Think,” she said, “I want to know. Did he have the nerve?” Then, against thesnapping of the guitar and smell of scattered red pepper seeds: “He ran straight to it all right. Like a buried bone!”
Thegna revolved, clapped both hands into crimson cheeks and spun so that the back of her head became as blunt and sealed as her face. Her eyes disappeared, popped in pain—nerves, glitter, fluid— into her head as in laughter an egg or thimble is suddenly swallowed whole and the body continues to shake while vomiting through the nose. In the old days Thegna had fired upon thieving Indians, shot her rifle on the fourth of July and, unarmed, stormed once to the reservation to organize a convention of stercoricolous squaws. She was the first to order a crystal set and the last to give up wearing a money belt. One braid flew loose and clung flatly to her shortened arm’s thick end, one breast trailed the other.
“Stop it,” hissed Camper’s wife, “shut up!”
But the laughter of the cook was dry, the fat goose flurry came in silence and the earth jug color rose, ebbed, beamed from her body, friendless, harmless, a howl on lips too old to part. Without stopping or turning to the door she spoke: “Fatima,” words clearly, distinctly extracted from the pounding bulk, “this is the visiting lady. She’ll play with us.”
Three disappointed women and then a fourth made long-jointed simple gestures toward the chairs they wished to sit in. They smelled of the tedder and handfuls of dry grass. Their heads turned slowly from objects knocked against to the cook, to Camper’s wife, moved along a thread of angular, impaired vision with apologetic sidelong sweeps, with shrugs of caution. They took single heavy steps as if the room had been reversed since the night before. Tall, large bones easily injured, deprived of something they were intent upon, not noticing and hardly afraid of the stranger, they fiddled, settled torestlessness somehow conscious of the years it would take them to make friends.
“You sit anywhere, Mrs.,” said the cook, “we don’t play partners.”
And Lou heard a sudden back country blow on metal strings—a hand clapped across the neck of the guitar below—and thought, bitterly hoped, that it might jerk them into the corridors, send them dancing.
A few old couples waltzed. They came from some watering point, perhaps near the hills, or from some dry plot of garden even further away than One Hundred Acres Grassland. Their overalls bagged, buttons flashed, armpits darkened halfway to belts and sashes.
Luke looked them over. He stepped by silent women, by men fanning themselves with wide brimmed hats, and approached the band. The cornet player stood up. Streamers sagged the whole length of the gym, and the raffling wheel, red, yellow and green with rusty nails driven round the hub to catch the tab and pick the winner, was pushed out of the way behind the bandstand, taller than a man.
The two dime collectors at the door in white shirtsleeves and muddy boots, shared a pack of cigarettes and ripped matches across their britches. They began to whistle a song together that their fathers, two buddy muckers, had taught them from Reshuffle days.
“Hey, Luke,” two little girls stood out of reach and clutched each other’s arms, “where’s Mr. Bohn? Where is he, Luke?”
He considered for a moment and then: “Bohn ain’t worked his way up this far as yet.”
An old man and woman, he in his straw sun hat and she hiding her face in smiles, were urged to keep dancing by
Thegna revolved, clapped both hands into crimson cheeks and spun so that the back of her head became as blunt and sealed as her face. Her eyes disappeared, popped in pain—nerves, glitter, fluid— into her head as in laughter an egg or thimble is suddenly swallowed whole and the body continues to shake while vomiting through the nose. In the old days Thegna had fired upon thieving Indians, shot her rifle on the fourth of July and, unarmed, stormed once to the reservation to organize a convention of stercoricolous squaws. She was the first to order a crystal set and the last to give up wearing a money belt. One braid flew loose and clung flatly to her shortened arm’s thick end, one breast trailed the other.
“Stop it,” hissed Camper’s wife, “shut up!”
But the laughter of the cook was dry, the fat goose flurry came in silence and the earth jug color rose, ebbed, beamed from her body, friendless, harmless, a howl on lips too old to part. Without stopping or turning to the door she spoke: “Fatima,” words clearly, distinctly extracted from the pounding bulk, “this is the visiting lady. She’ll play with us.”
Three disappointed women and then a fourth made long-jointed simple gestures toward the chairs they wished to sit in. They smelled of the tedder and handfuls of dry grass. Their heads turned slowly from objects knocked against to the cook, to Camper’s wife, moved along a thread of angular, impaired vision with apologetic sidelong sweeps, with shrugs of caution. They took single heavy steps as if the room had been reversed since the night before. Tall, large bones easily injured, deprived of something they were intent upon, not noticing and hardly afraid of the stranger, they fiddled, settled torestlessness somehow conscious of the years it would take them to make friends.
“You sit anywhere, Mrs.,” said the cook, “we don’t play partners.”
And Lou heard a sudden back country blow on metal strings—a hand clapped across the neck of the guitar below—and thought, bitterly hoped, that it might jerk them into the corridors, send them dancing.
A few old couples waltzed. They came from some watering point, perhaps near the hills, or from some dry plot of garden even further away than One Hundred Acres Grassland. Their overalls bagged, buttons flashed, armpits darkened halfway to belts and sashes.
Luke looked them over. He stepped by silent women, by men fanning themselves with wide brimmed hats, and approached the band. The cornet player stood up. Streamers sagged the whole length of the gym, and the raffling wheel, red, yellow and green with rusty nails driven round the hub to catch the tab and pick the winner, was pushed out of the way behind the bandstand, taller than a man.
The two dime collectors at the door in white shirtsleeves and muddy boots, shared a pack of cigarettes and ripped matches across their britches. They began to whistle a song together that their fathers, two buddy muckers, had taught them from Reshuffle days.
“Hey, Luke,” two little girls stood out of reach and clutched each other’s arms, “where’s Mr. Bohn? Where is he, Luke?”
He considered for a moment and then: “Bohn ain’t worked his way up this far as yet.”
An old man and woman, he in his straw sun hat and she hiding her face in smiles, were urged to keep dancing by
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