He began to light a cigarette. His movements were slow and ponderous. When he had it lit he tossed the match onto the floor, over into the corner where there was already a pile of cigarette butts and matches. “What’d you want to know anyway? Since you’re here.”
“It doesn’t matter really. Whatever you want to tell me. Except that I don’t understand what made you come back. Didn’t you like California?”
Now for the first time he sat up. Perhaps the memory of his years on the West Coast still interested him. It was hard to tell; he was so bloated and wasted-looking.
“Arbuckle,” he said, “you ever been out there? To California?”
“No.”
“You ought to sometime. It’s a hell of a place.”
“So they say.”
“Yeah, it’s a hell of a place. Only it’s expensive. You can spend a lot of money out there. They got things in California you never even heard of.”
“Probably.”
“Lots of things.”
“Well, you had lots of money,” I said. “What happened to it? Did you run out?”
“Sort of,” he said. Then, unexpectedly, he began to laugh. “But don’t you think they’d let me have some more?”
Apparently the thought of that amused him. His eyes squinted shut and his gut shook; his heaving weight made the cot bounce. “Why not?” he said, going on. “This is my hometown, isn’t it? Don’t you think they’d let me take some more?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think they would.” I knew of course that he was joking, that he wasn’t stupid, but I didn’t care. I had other things on my mind. I told him there were people in Holt who hated him now. “They haven’t forgotten anything,” I said. “I doubt if they’d give you five cents to leave on. Assuming you were allowed to leave.”
“No? I would of thought they’d of forgot by now. But hell, never mind about that. What about you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I suppose you hate my guts too.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you?”
“Look,” I said. “You never cared what anyone thought of you before. What difference could that make to you now?”
“You’re right,” he said. “It don’t make no difference.” Then his face changed again. There was the show of effort in his eyes, as if he were concentrating. “It’s just that I hear you been seeing my wife.”
“What?”
“Yeah. That’s what I hear. I hear you been seeing my wife. I hear you been seeing Jessie.”
“She isn’t your wife. Not anymore.”
“Oh, yeah. Jessie and me—we’re still married.”
“You ruined all of that a long time ago. She doesn’t want to see you again.”
“Sure. We’re still married.”
“Listen, goddamn it. You leave her alone.”
“And I still got my kids here.”
“You haven’t got anything here. You don’t have a goddamn thing in Holt anymore.”
“Yes,” he said. “I still got my family here. I can count on that much. And this is still my hometown.”
“Listen. You must be crazy. You listen to me, goddamn you.”
But he didn’t listen; instead he began to laugh again. He lay back on the cot with his feet hanging over the end. He was pleased with himself. His heavy sick-looking face smiled out at me from behind the bars. “Anything else you want to know, Arbuckle? Did you get what you needed for your paper?”
“Go to hell,” I said.
And that amused him too. It was all amusing. It seemed pointless talking to him anymore. Finally I left.
Then on Tuesday, Arch Withers paid him a call. Over the years Arch Withers had become an embittered man.