Beginners Read online

  “Holly!”

  “Holly nothing,” she goes. She sits on the sofa and draws her knees up under her chin. It’s getting dark outside and inside. I pull the curtain and switch on the table lamp.

  “I said fix me another drink, son of a bitch,” she goes. “Fuck those horn-blowers. Let them go down the street to the Travelodge. Is that where your Mexican girlfriend works now? The Travelodge? I’ll bet she helps that Sleepy Bear get into his pajamas every night. Well, fix me another drink and put some scotch in it this time.” She sets her lips and gives me a fierce look.

  Drinking’s funny. When I look back on it, all of our important decisions have been taken when we were drinking. Even when we talked about having to cut back on our drinking, we’d be sitting at the kitchen table or out at a picnic table in the park with a six-pack or a bottle of whiskey in front of us. When we decided to move down here and take this motel job, leave our town, friends and relations, everything, we sat up all night drinking and talking, weighing the pros and cons, getting drunk over it. But we used to be able to handle it. And this morning when Holly suggests we need a serious talk about our lives, the first thing I do before we lock the office and go upstairs for our talk is run to the liquor store for the Teacher’s.

  I pour the last of it into our glasses and add another ice cube and a little water.

  Holly gets off the sofa and stretches out across the bed. She goes, “Did you make love to her in this bed, too?”

  “I did not.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” she goes. “Not much matters anymore, anyway. I’ve got to recover myself though, that much is for sure.”

  I don’t answer. I feel wiped out. I give her the glass and sit down in the big chair. I sip my drink and think, What now?

  “Duane?” she goes.

  “Holly?” My fingers curl around the glass. My heart has slowed. I wait. Holly was my true love.

  The thing with Juanita had gone on five days a week between the hours of ten and eleven for six weeks. At first we contrived to meet in one unit or another as she was making her rounds. I’d just walk in where she was working and shut the door behind me. But after a time that seemed risky and she adjusted her routine so that we began meeting in 22, a unit at the end of the motel that faced east, toward the mountains, whose front door couldn’t be seen from the office window. We were sweet with each other, but swift. We were swift and sweet at the same time. But it was fine. It was entirely new and unexpected, that much more pleasure. Then one fine morning, Bobbi, the other maid, she walks in on us. These women worked together, but they were not friends. Like that she went to the office and told Holly. Why she’d do such a thing I couldn’t understand then and still can’t. Juanita was scared and ashamed. She dressed and drove home. I saw Bobbi outside a while later and sent her home too. I wound up putting the units in order myself that day. Holly kept to the office, drinking, I suspect. I stayed clear. But when I came into the apartment before I went to work she was in the bedroom with the door closed. I listened. I heard her asking the employment service for another maid. I heard her hang up the telephone. Then she began that hum. I was undone. I went on to work, but I knew there’d be a reckoning.

  I think Holly and I could maybe have weathered that. Even though she was wild drunk when I got in from work that night and threw a glass at me and said awful things we could never either of us forget. I slapped her for the first time ever that night and then begged her forgiveness for slapping her and for getting involved with someone. I begged her to forgive me. There was a lot of crying and soul-searching, and more drinking; we were up most of the night. Then we went to bed exhausted and made love. It simply was not mentioned again, the business with Juanita. There’d been the outburst, and then we proceeded to act as if the other hadn’t happened. So maybe she was willing to forgive me, if not to forget it, and life could go on. What we hadn’t counted on was that I would find myself missing Juanita and sometimes unable to sleep nights for thinking about her. I’d lie in bed after Holly was asleep and think about Juanita’s white teeth, and then I’d think about her breasts. The nipples were dark and warm to the touch and there were little hairs growing just below the nipples. She had hair under her arms as well. I must have been crazy. After a couple of weeks of this I realized I had to see her again, God help me. I called one evening from work and we arranged that I would stop by. I went to her house that night after work. She was separated from her husband and lived in a little house with two children. I got there just after midnight. I was uncomfortable, but Juanita knew it and put me at ease right away. We drank a beer at the kitchen table. She got up and stood behind my chair and rubbed my neck and told me to relax, relax and let go. In her robe, she sat down at my feet and took my hand and began to clean under my fingernails with a little file. Then I kissed her and lifted her up, and we walked into the bedroom. In an hour or so I dressed, kissed her good-bye, and went home to the motel.

  Holly knew. Two people who have been so close, you can’t keep that kind of thing secret for long. Nor would you want to. You know something like that can’t go on and on, something has to give. Worse, you know you’re in a constant state of deception. It’s no kind of life. I held on to the night job, a monkey could do that work, but things were going downhill fast at the motel. We just didn’t have the heart for it any longer. I stopped cleaning the swimming pool, and it began to fill with algae so that guests couldn’t use it. I didn’t repair any more faucets or lay any more tile or do any touch-up painting. Even if we’d had the heart for it, there was just never enough time with one thing and the other, the drinking especially. That consumes a great deal of time and effort if you devote yourself to it fully. Holly began some very serious drinking of her own during this time. When I came in from work, whether I’d been by Juanita’s or not, Holly would either be asleep and snoring, the bedroom smelling of whiskey, or else she’d be up at the kitchen table smoking her filter tip, a glass of something in front of her, eyes red and staring as I came in the door. She was not registering guests right either, charging too much or else, most often, not collecting enough. Sometimes she’d assign three people to a room with only one double bed, or else she’d put a single party in one of the suites that had a king-size bed and a sofa and charge the party for a single room only, that sort of thing. Guests complained and sometimes there were words. People would load up and go somewhere else after demanding their money back. There was a threatening letter from the motel management people. Then another letter, certified. Telephone calls. Someone was coming down from the city to look into matters. But we had stopped caring, and that’s a fact. We knew things had to change, our days at the motel were numbered, a new wind was blowing—our lives fouled and ready for a shake-up. Holly’s a smart woman, and I think she knew all this before I did, that the bottom had fallen out.

  Then that Saturday morning we woke up with hangovers after an all-night rehashing of the situation that hadn’t got us anywhere. We opened our eyes and turned in bed to look at each other. We both knew it at the same time, that we’d reached the end of something. We got up and dressed, had coffee as usual, and that’s when she said we had to talk, talk now, without interruption, no phone calls, no guests. That’s when I drove to the liquor store. When I came back we locked it up and went upstairs with ice, glasses, and the Teacher’s. We propped up pillows and lay in bed and drank and didn’t discuss anything at all. We watched color TV and frolicked and let the phone ring away downstairs. We drank scotch and ate cheese crisps from the machine down the hall. There was a funny sense of anything could happen now that we realized everything was lost. We knew without having to say it that something had ended, but what was about to begin and take its place, neither of us could think on yet. We dozed and sometime later in the day Holly raised herself off my arm. I opened my eyes at the movement. She sat up in bed. Then she screamed and rushed away from me toward the window.

  “When we were just kids before we married?” Holly goes. “When we drove around
every night and spent every possible minute together and talked and had big plans and hopes? Do you remember?” She was sitting in the center of the bed, holding her knees and her drink.

  “I remember, Holly.”

  “You weren’t my first boyfriend, my first boyfriend was named Wyatt and my folks didn’t think much of him, but you were my first lover. You were my first lover then, and you’ve been my only lover since. Imagine. I didn’t think I was missing that much. Now, who knows what I was missing all those years? But I was happy. Yes, I was. You were my everything, just like the song. But I don’t know now what was wrong with me all those years loving just you and only you. My God, I’ve had the opportunities.”

  “I know you have,” I go. “You’re an attractive woman. I know you’ve had the opportunities.”

  “But I didn’t take them up on it, that’s the point,” she goes. “I didn’t. I couldn’t go outside the marriage. It was beyond, beyond comprehension.”

  “Holly, please,” I go. “No more now, honey. Let’s not torture ourselves. What is it that we should do now?”

  “Listen,” she goes. “Do you remember that time we drove out to that old farm place outside of Yakima, out past Terrace Heights? We were just driving around, it was a Saturday, like today. We came to those orchards and then we were on a little dirt road and it was so hot and dusty. We kept going and came to that old farmhouse. We stopped and went up to the door and knocked and asked if we could have a drink of cool water. Can you imagine us doing something like that now, going up to a strange house and asking for a drink of water?”

  “We’d be shot.”

  “Those old people must be dead now,” she goes, “side by side out there in Terrace Heights cemetery. But that day the old farmer and his wife, they not only gave us a glass of water, they invited us in for cake. We talked and ate cake in the kitchen, and later they asked if they could show us around. They were so kind to us. I haven’t forgotten. I appreciate kindness like that. They showed us through the house. They were so nice with each other. I still remember the inside of that house. I’ve dreamed about it from time to time, the inside of that house, those rooms, but I never told you those dreams. A person has to have some secrets, right? But they showed us around on the inside, those nice big rooms and their furnishings. Then they took us out back. We walked around and they pointed out that little—what did they call it? Gazebo. I’d never seen one before. It was in a field under some trees. It had a little peaked roof. But the paint was gone and weeds were growing up over the steps. The woman said that years before, before we were born even, musicians had come out there to play on Sundays. She and her husband and their friends and neighbors would sit around in their Sunday clothes and listen to music and drink lemonade. I had a flash then, I don’t know what else to call it. But I looked at that woman and her husband and I thought, someday we’ll be old like that. Old but dignified, you know, like they were. Still loving each other more and more, taking care of one another, grandchildren coming to visit. All those things. I remember you were wearing cutoffs that day, and I remember standing there looking at the gazebo and thinking about those musicians when I happened to glance down at your bare legs. I thought to myself, I’ll love those legs even when they’re old and thin and the hair on them has turned white. I’ll love them even then, I thought, they’ll still be my legs. You know what I’m saying? Duane? Then they walked with us to the car and shook hands with us. They said we were nice young people. They invited us to come back, but of course we never did. They’re dead now, they’d have to be dead. But here we are. I know something now I didn’t know then. Don’t I know it! It’s such a good thing, isn’t it, a person can’t look into the future? But now here we are in this awful town, a couple of people who drink too much, running a motel with a dirty old swimming pool in front of it. And you in love with someone else. Duane, I’ve been closer to you than to anyone on earth. I feel crucified.”

  I can’t say anything for a minute. Then I go, “Holly, these things, we’ll look back on them someday when we’re old, and we will be old together, you’ll see, and we’ll go, ‘Remember that motel with the cruddy swimming pool?’ and then we’ll laugh at the things we did crazy. You’ll see. It’ll be all right. Holly?”

  But Holly sits there on the bed with her empty glass and just looks at me. Then she shakes her head. She knows.

  I move over to the window and look from behind the curtain. Someone says something below and rattles the door to the office. I wait. I tighten my fingers on the glass. I pray for a sign from Holly. I pray without closing my eyes. I hear a car start. Then another. The cars turn on their lights against the building and, one after the other, pull away and out into the traffic.

  “Duane,” Holly goes.

  In this, as in most matters, she was right.

  Want to See Something?

  I WAS in bed when I heard the gate unlatch. I listened carefully. I didn’t hear anything else. But I had heard that. I tried to wake Cliff, but he was passed out. So I got up and went to the window. A big moon hung over the mountains that surrounded the city. It was a white moon and covered with scars, easy enough to imagine a face there—eye sockets, nose, even the lips. There was enough light that I could see everything in the backyard, lawn chairs, the willow tree, clotheslines strung between the poles, my petunias, and the fence enclosing the yard, the gate standing open.

  But nobody was moving around outside. There were no dark shadows. Everything lay in bright moonlight, and the smallest things came to my attention. The clothespins standing in orderly rows on the line, for instance. And the two empty lawn chairs. I put my hands on the cool glass, hiding the moon, and looked some more. I listened. Then I went back to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept turning over. I thought about the gate standing open like an invitation. Cliff’s breathing was ragged. His mouth gaped and his arms hugged his pale, bare chest. He was taking up his side of the bed and most of mine. I pushed and pushed on him. But he just groaned. I stayed in bed awhile longer until finally I decided it was no use. I got up and found my slippers. I went to the kitchen where I made a cup of tea and sat with it at the kitchen table. I smoked one of Cliff’s unfiltereds. It was late. I didn’t want to look at the time. I had to get up for work in a few hours. Cliff had to get up too, but he’d gone to bed hours ago and would be okay when the alarm went off. Maybe he’d have a headache. But he’d put away lots of coffee and take his time in the bathroom. Four aspirin and he’d be all right. I drank the tea and smoked another cigarette. After a while I decided I’d go out and fasten the gate. So I found my robe. Then I went to the back door. I looked and could see stars, but it was the moon that drew my attention and lighted everything—houses and trees, utility poles and power lines, the entire neighborhood. I peered around the backyard before I stepped off the porch. A little breeze came along that made me close the robe. I started toward the open gate.

  There was a noise at the fence that separated our house from Sam Lawton’s. I looked quickly. Sam was leaning with his arms on the fence, gazing at me. He raised a fist to his mouth and gave a dry cough.

  “Evening, Nancy,” he said.

  I said, “Sam, you scared me. What are you doing up, Sam? Did you hear something? I heard my gate unlatch.”

  “I’ve been out here awhile, but I haven’t heard anything,” he said. “Haven’t seen anything either. It might have been the wind. That’s it. Still, if it was latched it shouldn’t have come open.” He was chewing something. He looked at the open gate and then he looked at me again and shrugged. His hair was silvery in the moonlight and stood up on his head. It was so light out I could see his long nose, even the deep lines in his face.

  I said, “What are you doing up, Sam?” and moved closer to the fence.

  “Hunting,” he said. “I’m hunting. Want to see something? Come over here, Nancy, and I’ll show you something.”

  “I’ll come around,” I said, and started along the side of our house to the front gate. I let myself out
and went down the sidewalk. I felt strange, walking around outside in my nightgown and robe. I thought to myself that I must remember this, walking around outside in my nightgown. I could see Sam standing near the side of his house in his robe, his pajamas stopping just at the tops of his white and tan oxfords. He was holding a big flashlight in one hand and a can of something in the other. He motioned me with his light. I opened the gate.

  Sam and Cliff used to be friends. Then one night they were drinking. They had an argument. The next thing, Sam had built a fence between the houses. Then Cliff decided to build his own fence. That was not long after Sam had lost Millie, remarried, and become a father again. All in the space of little more than a year. Millie, Sam’s first wife, was a good friend of mine up until she died. She was only forty-five when she had heart failure. Apparently it hit her just as she turned their car into the driveway. She slumped over the wheel, the car kept going and knocked through the back of the carport. When Sam ran out of the house, he found her dead. Sometimes at night we’d hear a howling sound from over there that he must have been making. We’d look at each other when we heard that and not be able to say anything. I’d shiver. Cliff would fix himself another drink.

  Sam and Millie had a daughter who’d left home at sixteen and gone to San Francisco to become a flower child. From time to time over the years she’d sent cards. But she never came back home. Sam tried but he couldn’t locate her when Millie died. He wept and said he lost the daughter first and then the mother. Millie was buried, Sam howled, and then after a little while he started going out with Laurie something-or-other, a younger woman, a schoolteacher who did income tax preparations on the side. It was a brief courtship. They were both lonely and in need. So they married, and then they had a baby. But here’s the sad thing. The baby was albino. I saw it a few days after they brought it home from the hospital. It was an albino, no question of that, right down to its poor little fingertips. Its eyes were tinged with pink around the iris instead of being white, and the hair on its head was as white as an old person’s. Its head seemed overlarge too. But I haven’t been around that many babies, so that could have been imagination on my part. The first time I saw it, Laurie was standing on the other side of its crib, arms crossed, the skin on the backs of her hands broken out, anxiety making her lips twitch. I know she was afraid I’d peep into the crib and gasp or something. But I was prepared. Cliff had already filled me in. In any case, I’m usually good at covering up my real feelings. So I reached down touched each of its tiny white cheeks and tried to smile. I said its name. I said, “Sammy.” But I thought I would cry when I said it. I was prepared, but still I couldn’t meet Laurie’s eyes for the longest while. She stood there waiting while I silently gave thanks that this was her baby. No, I wouldn’t want a baby like that for anything. I counted my blessings that Cliff and I had long ago decided against children. But according to Cliff, who’s no judge, Sam’s personality changed after the baby was born. He became short-tempered and impatient, mad at the world, Cliff said. Then he and Cliff had the argument, and Sam built his fence. We hadn’t talked in a long while, any of us.