I’m surprised to see you out here, she said. I didn’t think you ever came out at night.
I don’t, Raymond said. I can’t say what I’m doing out here this time.
You need to get out once in a while. Everybody does.
That must be it.
They do. Believe me. It’s good you came out.
Aren’t you working tonight?
No, she said. This is one of my nights off.
Well. That would explain how one of us came to be here anyways.
The boy’s grandfather stepped up to bar next to DJ. You staying out of trouble?
Yes.
It’s about time we get on home.
How you doing there? Raymond said.
Who’s that? Is that you, McPheron?
More or less. Yes sir.
Look who else is here, the old man said, looking at the woman. Aren’t you from the hospital?
That’s right, Linda May said.
Well. Okay then. It’s good to see you. He turned to DJ. Let’s go, boy. Here’s your coat.
DJ stood down from the barstool and put on his coat and stuck his papers in the pocket. I want to tell her good-bye first, he said.
Who?
That lady who was nice to me.
The old man looked into the back. She’s working, he said. She don’t need you bothering her.
I’m not going to bother her.
He walked back toward the pool tables at the rear of the long smoky room where she was talking to some men sitting at a table. They were all laughing and he waited behind her until one of the men said: I believe there’s somebody here wants to say something to you.
The barmaid turned around.
I’m going now, DJ said.
She reached toward him and pulled his coat collar up. You stay warm outside now.
Thank you for all the— He motioned behind himself. For the place to work on my papers.
That’s all right, sweetheart. She smiled at him. I was just glad to see you. Now you come again sometime. Okay? He nodded and went back to his grandfather.
You think you’re ready to go now? the old man said.
Yes.
Let’s go then.
Just a minute, Raymond said. Are you walking?
We walked over here.
You’d better let me drive you home.
You don’t need to do that. We got over here all right.
Sure, but it’s colder now.
Well. The old man glanced toward the door. I don’t like this boy being out like this, I’ll say that.
Linda May looked at Raymond. You haven’t finished your beer. Why don’t you go ahead and run them home and I’ll keep your glass here for you. Then you can come back.
I might, he said.
Do, she said.
They went outside and got into Raymond’s old battered pickup, and he backed away from the curb and turned north up Main Street and followed Walter Kephart’s directions across the railroad tracks and then west into the quiet neighborhood, pulling up in front of their house. The old man and the boy got out. We thank you kindly for the ride, the old man said.
Don’t you take no more sickness, Raymond said.
I don’t plan on it.
The old man shut the pickup door and it didn’t catch, so Raymond leaned across and pushed it open, then slammed it hard. When he looked up they were already halfway to the door of the house. He drove to the end of the block and made a U-turn at the intersection and drove back to Main Street and parked down the block from the tavern. For a while he sat in the cold cab looking at the darkened storefront in front of him. What in hell’s sake do I think I’m doing? he said. His breath smoked in the cold air. I don’t have the first idea. But I guess I’m doing it.
He got out and went back into the warmth and noise once more and walked to the end of the bar where Linda May stood. When he came up to her she smiled and held out his beer glass.
Well, here you are, she said. I didn’t know if you’d come back or not.
I said I might, Raymond said.
That doesn’t mean you would. Men say I might, and it doesn’t mean a thing.
I thought it did, he said.
Maybe it does for you.
He took the glass from her hand and drank the rest of the beer. He looked around and all the people nearby appeared to be having a good time.