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Authors: Rob Riggan
Tags: Fiction
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up north and so couldnât maintain the prohibition. Those people were grateful to his father. And more to his surprise, they spoke of him as someone gentle, which didnât set with the facts as he had been taught them.
So perhaps for that alone, he now supposed, it was inevitable heâd eventually return. No. More than that. In the dizziness of his journey through a blur of faces and emotions that funeral day, a feeling was sown that at last he belonged, or might belong, somewhere in the world. That was the dream.
He glanced longingly now at the blue sky out the windows, then eased off the sofa. After picking up his underwear, he made his way for the door and the lavatory in the hall outside his office. And he looked. She was sleeping naked with her knees pulled into her stomach, her back toward him hiding her breasts and the face, which was pretty, the long hair dyed a solid red that was too obviously not natural but pretty enough, especially in the muted light of a honky-tonk. But seeing her now, he felt no desire.Her unguarded repose suddenly made him feel sorry for her and for himself and for every damn fool like them.
The offices on the top floor of the Trotter Building surrounded a vast and airy hall painted a soft yellow and trimmed in varnished oak. It held five office doors, all with transoms, and the bench to the left of his own door, which he softly closed. There wasnât a sound in the building. The hardwood floor was cool to his bare feet. The stairway from the floor below protruded through an ornate iron cage in the middle of the hall. A huge oval skylight hung like a spaceship overhead. A clock said 7:14. He went into the lavatory.
He startled her when he emerged. Dressed except for her high-heel shoes, which she carried in one hand along with a small purse, she was gently pulling the office door shut. She looked around, her eyes wide, as though he were about to kill her. Her lips moved soundlessly. Then, with what seemed to him a supreme effort at defiance or contempt, she tossed her hair back.
âI â¦,â he began, but for a moment couldnât even remember her name. He thought he might have blushed.
âI was crazy, just downright stupid crazy, to stay here with you,â she announced, her words shattering the stillness as she ran for the stairs. Speechless, he saw the ring on her hand when she placed it on the banister. She stopped and gazed at him once more with a lopsided, brave smile. Then she was gone.
VII
Dugan
âJust who the hell do you think you are?â Martin Pemberton didnât speak loudly or with apparent rancor; the familiar soft drawl was educated and refined.
Dugan had been going over the duty schedule. He never did get any sleep Saturday night, all that stuff on the mountain and then his memories of Alabama, it becoming more apparent than ever he wasnât getting any younger. When he and Dru got momentarily talked out, he had done the chores, fed the Angus, then taken a shower and changed while she fixed breakfast. By the time they went to church, he was ready to play it moment by moment, and he and Dru were easy again.
Now it was Monday. At the sound of Pembertonâs voice, Dugan checked his watch, then laid the pencil down and looked up at the man standing unannounced in his door. He hadnât knocked, but then he usually didnât; Pemberton was as proprietary about the office as he was about the man he felt heâd gotten elected.
âThis fucking job going to your head, Charlie?â Pemberton leaned over the desk, his curled knuckles going white pressing the oak surface. It wasnât simple anger or aggressivenessâit was ownership.
âIâve been expecting you. Close the door?â Dugan said quietly.
âClose it yourself.â
Dugan got up and closed the door. âThis is only protocol, Martin. Your car came up as a possible.â
âDonât give me that crap. You bring a posse to my house in
So perhaps for that alone, he now supposed, it was inevitable heâd eventually return. No. More than that. In the dizziness of his journey through a blur of faces and emotions that funeral day, a feeling was sown that at last he belonged, or might belong, somewhere in the world. That was the dream.
He glanced longingly now at the blue sky out the windows, then eased off the sofa. After picking up his underwear, he made his way for the door and the lavatory in the hall outside his office. And he looked. She was sleeping naked with her knees pulled into her stomach, her back toward him hiding her breasts and the face, which was pretty, the long hair dyed a solid red that was too obviously not natural but pretty enough, especially in the muted light of a honky-tonk. But seeing her now, he felt no desire.Her unguarded repose suddenly made him feel sorry for her and for himself and for every damn fool like them.
The offices on the top floor of the Trotter Building surrounded a vast and airy hall painted a soft yellow and trimmed in varnished oak. It held five office doors, all with transoms, and the bench to the left of his own door, which he softly closed. There wasnât a sound in the building. The hardwood floor was cool to his bare feet. The stairway from the floor below protruded through an ornate iron cage in the middle of the hall. A huge oval skylight hung like a spaceship overhead. A clock said 7:14. He went into the lavatory.
He startled her when he emerged. Dressed except for her high-heel shoes, which she carried in one hand along with a small purse, she was gently pulling the office door shut. She looked around, her eyes wide, as though he were about to kill her. Her lips moved soundlessly. Then, with what seemed to him a supreme effort at defiance or contempt, she tossed her hair back.
âI â¦,â he began, but for a moment couldnât even remember her name. He thought he might have blushed.
âI was crazy, just downright stupid crazy, to stay here with you,â she announced, her words shattering the stillness as she ran for the stairs. Speechless, he saw the ring on her hand when she placed it on the banister. She stopped and gazed at him once more with a lopsided, brave smile. Then she was gone.
VII
Dugan
âJust who the hell do you think you are?â Martin Pemberton didnât speak loudly or with apparent rancor; the familiar soft drawl was educated and refined.
Dugan had been going over the duty schedule. He never did get any sleep Saturday night, all that stuff on the mountain and then his memories of Alabama, it becoming more apparent than ever he wasnât getting any younger. When he and Dru got momentarily talked out, he had done the chores, fed the Angus, then taken a shower and changed while she fixed breakfast. By the time they went to church, he was ready to play it moment by moment, and he and Dru were easy again.
Now it was Monday. At the sound of Pembertonâs voice, Dugan checked his watch, then laid the pencil down and looked up at the man standing unannounced in his door. He hadnât knocked, but then he usually didnât; Pemberton was as proprietary about the office as he was about the man he felt heâd gotten elected.
âThis fucking job going to your head, Charlie?â Pemberton leaned over the desk, his curled knuckles going white pressing the oak surface. It wasnât simple anger or aggressivenessâit was ownership.
âIâve been expecting you. Close the door?â Dugan said quietly.
âClose it yourself.â
Dugan got up and closed the door. âThis is only protocol, Martin. Your car came up as a possible.â
âDonât give me that crap. You bring a posse to my house in
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