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Authors: Larry Brown
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rummaging around in a drawer and she could hardly take her eyes off Eric.
“So,” she said. “How long you been in Memphis, Eric?”
“Couple of months,” he said.
“And were you in the pet shop business in Mississippi?”
Arthur was banging around in the cabinets, muttering, moving pots.
“How about a bowl?” he said, his head behind a cabinet door.
“Bowl’s fine,” Eric said. He already had a pretty long ash hanging off his cigarette. Arthur got the bowl under his smoke just before it tipped off. “Thanks, well, no, ma’am it wasn’t really the pet shop business. We raised dogs, bulldogs, pit bulls, weenie dogs, poodles, peek-a-poos and some beagle hounds me and Deddy and Mister Nub run rabbits with in this rabbit factory we made outa chicken wire. We had a dog trailer and we’d go over to First Monday at Ripley and set up and stay all weekend. It was pretty big time.”
“It certainly sounds like it,” Helen said. Did he say “rabbit factory” ?
“My granddaddy had a beagle one time so scared of rabbits he had to let her ride up on the Bush Hog.”
“My goodness.” She was going to ask about the rabbit factory but got interrupted when Arthur tilted the bottle over Eric’s glass again and Eric nodded and thanked him. He puffed contentedly on his cigarette.
Helen sipped her drink and tried to think about what she was going to do. He didn’t want to do anything but just sit around the house and check his stocks on-line and watch those old westerns, and she was so tired of that she was about to scream. Checkers had gone the same route.
The snow was still falling outside the window. She knew there were people somewhere sleeping out in it. In Missoula they begged for money just off the interstate. And in three or four days, depending on how hard she wanted to drive, and the weather, she could be back out there. It had been nagging at the back of her mind. Just leave him. Go back home. Get a divorce. Try to find somebody else who could make her happy. In another ten years, he’d be eighty. And she’d be fifty. And there weren’t going to be any children by anybody if she waited much longer. She knew that now. She still didn’t want to accept it, but she knew it. She had to think about her own happiness. There hadn’t been any for her here in a long time.
“Cool,” Eric said. “This is great. Kind of cozy, like.”
Helen smiled at him. On a small screen, like a faint movie in her head, she could see herself kissing him. Up against the counter. On the couch. On the back seat of her Jag. Several different places.
16
I t was just dark down in Mississippi, out in the hills of woods on the black and lonesome winding roads with dirty snow melted along the sides, scattered lumps of snow all over the place. Domino cruised in the freezing night air with the window cracked in the cab of the reefer truck to let his cigar smoke out. The truck didn’t have a radio in it and it was just as well. He had to play everything so loud that it was starting to drive him deaf in the other ear, too. He guessed he’d have to get a hearing aid one of these days. He’d dropped off the dog hamburger at Mr. Hamburger’s place in Como and put it into a cooler that was inside the big shed in his backyard, and had driven on down the interstate and gotten off at Batesville and turned east on Highway 6. He was going to get a room at the Ole Miss Motel in Oxford like he always did and spend the night, get a good night’s sleep, drink a little bourbon in the hotel room, try to find some nature shows on TV, take the meat on down to the lion guy the next day, and last, drop the weed box off at the empty house and pick up his money. He didn’t want to be around those big cats at night. A few of them had gotten out a few times and had to be shot by the sheriff’s deputies. One of them had killed somebody’s pet dog in a yard and had been eating it when it got shot. It had been in the paper. He wanted to be
“So,” she said. “How long you been in Memphis, Eric?”
“Couple of months,” he said.
“And were you in the pet shop business in Mississippi?”
Arthur was banging around in the cabinets, muttering, moving pots.
“How about a bowl?” he said, his head behind a cabinet door.
“Bowl’s fine,” Eric said. He already had a pretty long ash hanging off his cigarette. Arthur got the bowl under his smoke just before it tipped off. “Thanks, well, no, ma’am it wasn’t really the pet shop business. We raised dogs, bulldogs, pit bulls, weenie dogs, poodles, peek-a-poos and some beagle hounds me and Deddy and Mister Nub run rabbits with in this rabbit factory we made outa chicken wire. We had a dog trailer and we’d go over to First Monday at Ripley and set up and stay all weekend. It was pretty big time.”
“It certainly sounds like it,” Helen said. Did he say “rabbit factory” ?
“My granddaddy had a beagle one time so scared of rabbits he had to let her ride up on the Bush Hog.”
“My goodness.” She was going to ask about the rabbit factory but got interrupted when Arthur tilted the bottle over Eric’s glass again and Eric nodded and thanked him. He puffed contentedly on his cigarette.
Helen sipped her drink and tried to think about what she was going to do. He didn’t want to do anything but just sit around the house and check his stocks on-line and watch those old westerns, and she was so tired of that she was about to scream. Checkers had gone the same route.
The snow was still falling outside the window. She knew there were people somewhere sleeping out in it. In Missoula they begged for money just off the interstate. And in three or four days, depending on how hard she wanted to drive, and the weather, she could be back out there. It had been nagging at the back of her mind. Just leave him. Go back home. Get a divorce. Try to find somebody else who could make her happy. In another ten years, he’d be eighty. And she’d be fifty. And there weren’t going to be any children by anybody if she waited much longer. She knew that now. She still didn’t want to accept it, but she knew it. She had to think about her own happiness. There hadn’t been any for her here in a long time.
“Cool,” Eric said. “This is great. Kind of cozy, like.”
Helen smiled at him. On a small screen, like a faint movie in her head, she could see herself kissing him. Up against the counter. On the couch. On the back seat of her Jag. Several different places.
16
I t was just dark down in Mississippi, out in the hills of woods on the black and lonesome winding roads with dirty snow melted along the sides, scattered lumps of snow all over the place. Domino cruised in the freezing night air with the window cracked in the cab of the reefer truck to let his cigar smoke out. The truck didn’t have a radio in it and it was just as well. He had to play everything so loud that it was starting to drive him deaf in the other ear, too. He guessed he’d have to get a hearing aid one of these days. He’d dropped off the dog hamburger at Mr. Hamburger’s place in Como and put it into a cooler that was inside the big shed in his backyard, and had driven on down the interstate and gotten off at Batesville and turned east on Highway 6. He was going to get a room at the Ole Miss Motel in Oxford like he always did and spend the night, get a good night’s sleep, drink a little bourbon in the hotel room, try to find some nature shows on TV, take the meat on down to the lion guy the next day, and last, drop the weed box off at the empty house and pick up his money. He didn’t want to be around those big cats at night. A few of them had gotten out a few times and had to be shot by the sheriff’s deputies. One of them had killed somebody’s pet dog in a yard and had been eating it when it got shot. It had been in the paper. He wanted to be
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