The tarp was more than large enough to cover Desiree’s things and to wrap generously around the sides, but both men knew that Desiree liked to limit her speed to between eighty-five and ninety miles per hour, unless she was in the city, where she would hold it to under thirty. Without having to discuss it, they set to work tying down the tarp so that it wouldn’t flap loose as Desiree barreled down the interstate.
They walked several more times around the truck and each man concluded with some reluctance that the job was finished, Desiree’s things were immobilized as securely as a freshly pinned Dhont wrestling opponent, and there was nothing more to worry about. Dick Dhont rummaged under the seat of the truck, found Clyde’s five-year-old Rand McNally Road Atlas, opened it up to the map of Kansas, and carefully arranged it there on the seat next to where Desiree would sit tomorrow. Clyde was ashamed that he had not thought of this.
Dick went inside to check on Desiree; he had to work in the morning and would not be able to see her off. Clyde sat down in the grass in the front yard and waited. A batch of plastic went bad out at Nishnabotna Plastics and erupted from the tower like a detonating oil well, filling the neighborhood with faint, ghostly light. Dick came out of the front door after a few minutes, closed it gently, then turned and ran to his car. He sat behind the wheel for a few minutes, his shoulders hunched and heaving, then started the engine and drove away, forgetting to turn on his headlights.
Clyde turned off the garage light and went inside. He found Desiree lying on the couch in the living room with Maggie nestled up against her. Her nightgown was unbuttoned and one breast was peeking out. The sleeping Maggie nuzzled at it. Her lips began to suck on air, and a little smile came onto her face.
Clyde had been working the night shift so frequently of late that he did not imagine he would have much luck getting to sleep; the adjustment was just too difficult to make. So he made himself comfortable in the living room, turned the TV around toward his chair so that its flickering light would not disturb the girls, and watched TV for a while, mostly CNN. It all had to do with Desert Shield. President Bush was buzzing around Maine in his boat, and convoys of heavy military vehicles were converging on air bases around the country, mostly in the Southeast. There was a little feature story about a schoolteacher in Ohio who had been called up, and who had appeared before his class in his Army uniform to give a last lecture, explaining to the kids where he was going and why. The kids looked stunned, much the way Dick Dhont had.
Then the doorbell had rung and its sound was dying away and the front door had been flung open. It was Mrs. Dhont and two of the Dhont wives. It was morning. Clyde tried to sit up in the La-Z-Boy but found Maggie had been deposited on his chest all wrapped in pink blankets. Desiree was not in the room anymore. She was taking a shower. He heard the whine of the house’s plumbing and could smell her shampoo.
Becky, the eldest Dhont wife, came and plucked Maggie off Clyde’s chest and cuddled her, leaving Clyde there alone, as if he had some preordained role in the upcoming ceremony that had nothing to do with looking after Maggie. Mrs. Dhont and the other Dhont wife busied themselves in the kitchen making a hearty Dhont breakfast. Knowing that Desiree had strayed from the family dietary traditions, they had brought the necessary staples with them: two-inch-thick patties of homemade pork sausage, eggs still warm from the chickens, bottles of raw milk with cream still making its way to the top.
Clyde found himself with nothing to do. He went out and walked around the truck a couple of more times.
When he came back inside, Desiree was out of the shower, her hair wet and smelling of peaches. She had changed into jeans and a T-shirt for the drive. They spent a few minutes smooching and flirting in the bedroom as if this were any other day, then went down, hand in hand, to breakfast. The Dhont females had prepared a meal adequate to feed the entire Seventh Army Corps. Clyde expressed rote amazement but was hurt on the inside; it reminded him too much of what was to come.
Still, he thought as he chewed his sausage, it wouldn’t have been any better if Desiree had pulled into the drive-up window on the way out of town for an Egg McMuffin. There was nothing wrong with marking the occasion, with bringing all of the heavy emotions straight to the forefront, as women in general and the Dhont women in particular tended to. It just wasn’t a Banks way of doing things, and he would never adjust to it.