Read Online The Longest Night by Andria Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Andria Williams
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really looking one another in the eye, shouldering past each other in the kitchen, handing the girls back and forth like sandbags.
Then there was the day he’d come home eight hours late from work—eight hours!—claiming the bus had broken down. The more she thought about it the stranger that seemed, but the testing station
was
out there in the boondocks, fifty miles from home; it was possible they’d had no other transportation. He’d drunk more than a few beers that night and gone straight to bed, and Nat decided she was best off not prodding him about it.
Part of her was frustrated with him, with his passive stoicism even though he must have felt the distance between them, too. But she knew that he was tired, that he worried she and the girls wouldn’t like Idaho. His care took subtle forms: A week ago, she’d taken her early rising daughters to the park so he could sleep in, and when they tiptoed back into the house she’d expected to find him still asleep. Instead he was sitting at the kitchen table, in his undershirt and slacks, making a button stringer for the girls to play with. Nat watched in surprise as he looped a string over either palm and pulled it tight, a large button from her sewing kit—which she’d brought on the drive to Idaho, as two little girls were liable to tear a hole in anything—spinning rapidly in the center. When he yanked the string with one hand, the button leaped, still turning. Nat couldn’t help but watch, captivated; it seemed a trick from another place and time. The girls were delighted. They’d scampered out into the backyard with it and he watched them go, his face skimmed by a brief and satisfied smile.
“Hi,” she whispered now, stepping out onto the patio behind him.
He cleared his throat. “The girls asleep?”
“Yes, finally.” She settled onto the cool concrete, stretching her legs in front of her. She wanted to take his hand and feel its heaviness in her lap, but if he were angry with her she might be rebuffed. So she waited. She smoothed her cotton dress over her knees, idly wondering how women like Jeannie Richards kept up the curlers and high heels with children scampering around. A housewife could be a virtual shut-in, peering out through the blinds in fear of the milkman, but she still needed a good dress that nipped in at the waist and a nice pair of heels to lengthen her calf line.
She tried to follow his gaze: power lines, mountains. His face was unreadable, his hands folded in his lap. He looked like a statue of the young Abraham Lincoln.
“Well, we survived dinner at the Richardses’,” she said.
“I guess so.”
“Did you have a good time?”
He turned to look at her. “Did
you
?” His mouth was set in a straight line, and she felt her heart start to clatter a bit.
“It was all right,” she said. “Their house was beautiful. Mrs. Richards has a knack for decorating.” She smiled. “That is, they
have
furniture, anyway.”
“We have furniture,” he said. “We just have to find it all.”
“I know. I know that.” She couldn’t seem to stop talking about the darn furniture.
He nodded, and she saw his mind working with some unspoken thought. “My boss seems to like you,” he finally said.
“Oh, him.” Nat waved the notion away. “He had too much to drink.”
“Maybe
I
should have drunk more,” Paul muttered.
Nat paused, watching him. She could still make light of this if she were careful. She tried to imitate Richards in a mocking baritone. “ ‘I only drink old-fashioneds,’ he said. ‘Can I make you a Moscow mule?’ he said. ‘You have to drink it out of a tin cup. Have you seen my car, it’s a new Cadillac Coupe de Ville? Look at my shoes, they’re alligator Norwegians by Stetson.’ Whatever that means!” She smiled at him.
“It was embarrassing,” Paul said, as if to press on past the threat of Nat’s peace offering, “to see him pawing all over you—”
“He wasn’t pawing all over
Then there was the day he’d come home eight hours late from work—eight hours!—claiming the bus had broken down. The more she thought about it the stranger that seemed, but the testing station
was
out there in the boondocks, fifty miles from home; it was possible they’d had no other transportation. He’d drunk more than a few beers that night and gone straight to bed, and Nat decided she was best off not prodding him about it.
Part of her was frustrated with him, with his passive stoicism even though he must have felt the distance between them, too. But she knew that he was tired, that he worried she and the girls wouldn’t like Idaho. His care took subtle forms: A week ago, she’d taken her early rising daughters to the park so he could sleep in, and when they tiptoed back into the house she’d expected to find him still asleep. Instead he was sitting at the kitchen table, in his undershirt and slacks, making a button stringer for the girls to play with. Nat watched in surprise as he looped a string over either palm and pulled it tight, a large button from her sewing kit—which she’d brought on the drive to Idaho, as two little girls were liable to tear a hole in anything—spinning rapidly in the center. When he yanked the string with one hand, the button leaped, still turning. Nat couldn’t help but watch, captivated; it seemed a trick from another place and time. The girls were delighted. They’d scampered out into the backyard with it and he watched them go, his face skimmed by a brief and satisfied smile.
“Hi,” she whispered now, stepping out onto the patio behind him.
He cleared his throat. “The girls asleep?”
“Yes, finally.” She settled onto the cool concrete, stretching her legs in front of her. She wanted to take his hand and feel its heaviness in her lap, but if he were angry with her she might be rebuffed. So she waited. She smoothed her cotton dress over her knees, idly wondering how women like Jeannie Richards kept up the curlers and high heels with children scampering around. A housewife could be a virtual shut-in, peering out through the blinds in fear of the milkman, but she still needed a good dress that nipped in at the waist and a nice pair of heels to lengthen her calf line.
She tried to follow his gaze: power lines, mountains. His face was unreadable, his hands folded in his lap. He looked like a statue of the young Abraham Lincoln.
“Well, we survived dinner at the Richardses’,” she said.
“I guess so.”
“Did you have a good time?”
He turned to look at her. “Did
you
?” His mouth was set in a straight line, and she felt her heart start to clatter a bit.
“It was all right,” she said. “Their house was beautiful. Mrs. Richards has a knack for decorating.” She smiled. “That is, they
have
furniture, anyway.”
“We have furniture,” he said. “We just have to find it all.”
“I know. I know that.” She couldn’t seem to stop talking about the darn furniture.
He nodded, and she saw his mind working with some unspoken thought. “My boss seems to like you,” he finally said.
“Oh, him.” Nat waved the notion away. “He had too much to drink.”
“Maybe
I
should have drunk more,” Paul muttered.
Nat paused, watching him. She could still make light of this if she were careful. She tried to imitate Richards in a mocking baritone. “ ‘I only drink old-fashioneds,’ he said. ‘Can I make you a Moscow mule?’ he said. ‘You have to drink it out of a tin cup. Have you seen my car, it’s a new Cadillac Coupe de Ville? Look at my shoes, they’re alligator Norwegians by Stetson.’ Whatever that means!” She smiled at him.
“It was embarrassing,” Paul said, as if to press on past the threat of Nat’s peace offering, “to see him pawing all over you—”
“He wasn’t pawing all over
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