He rose up and caught her wrist. What in the hell do you think you’re doing?
She wrenched her wrist free and shoved the phone onto the floor. That’s what I think of you and your work. You little chickenshit. You timid little boy.
Are you going to go now?
You know, I think I am. Because you know what? I’m through with you. I’m dumping you. I’m the one this time. And don’t call me. Some night you’re going to get lonely and start remembering what it was like in bed with me and how nice I was to you and then you’re going to want to call, to see if you can come over for a little while, but don’t do it. I’ll be over you by that time, you scared little chickenshit boy. I won’t answer the phone. I don’t ever want to talk to you again.
She walked out of his glassed office into the lobby. The cashiers and the people in line at the counters and the woman at the reception desk were all watching her, and she looked at them and then she stopped. She stood in the middle of the lobby to address them.
He’s not a very good fucker, she said. I don’t know if any of you knew that. He never was much good in bed anyway. I deserve better. Then she went outside to the street and got in her car and drove home.
And at home she went to pieces. She scarcely got up to make the girls breakfast or to see them off to school in the morning, and she was often still lying in bed in the back room, drinking gin and smoking, when the girls came home in the afternoon. They would come to her room and stand in the doorway and look at her. Sometimes they would lie down on the bed beside her and go to sleep in that place that used to be so pleasant and comfortable. More often now the two sisters would fight with each other when they were at home and she would call to them to stop, but other times she would simply get up and shut the door and light a cigarette and lie down again.
Outside, the trees beyond her window along the alley began to bud into leaf in the warm advancing days of early spring. But she lay in bed, smoking and drinking, staring at the ceiling as the light moved across the white flat surface as evening descended, and all the time she was lost in her troubled thoughts. The only thing she felt proud of herself about was that she had not called Bob Jeter again. She took some satisfaction in that. And she hoped very much that he too was suffering in some important way.
35
WHEN VICTORIA ROUBIDEAUX CAME HOME TO RAYMOND at spring break she had a boy with her. He was a tall thin boy, with wire glasses and close-cropped black hair, and he had a little gold earring hooked through one of his ears. They came up to the house in the evening in the blue shadows under the yardlight and she was carrying Katie in her arms. When they entered the kitchen Raymond moved away from the window where he’d been watching them, and Victoria kissed him as she always did and he hugged her and the little girl. I want you to meet Del Gutierrez, she said.
The boy came forward and shook Raymond’s hand. Victoria’s told me a lot about you, he said.
Is that so? Raymond said.
Yes, she has.
Then you got me at a disadvantage. I don’t believe I’ve heard the first thing about you.
I did too tell you about him, Victoria said. The last time we talked on the phone. You’re just trying to be obstinate.
Maybe you did. I can’t recall. Anyway, come in, come in. Welcome to this old house here.
Thank you. It’s good to be here.
Well, it’s pretty quiet. Not like in town. Where you from, son?
Denver.
From the city.
Yes sir. I’ve been there all my life. Until I went to college.