Country Music: A Novel

Author

Part I

ONE

What are you going to do, Bobby Joe? Blanche pressed her loins against the glass of the display case. Her long fingers slipped panties from pasteboard boxes, unfolded them, and stacked them atop the lingerie counter. His gaze dropped from her hands to a taut, upturned crescent of flesh beneath her sleek skirt. Tennis. Watched her weight, too.

When you mean, Blanche? He ground the butt of a matchstick between his molars; her breasts clicked, alternately, like rocker arms beneath a red sweater which bore dim creases of factory folding.

Oh … Her musing ended with a muffled pop as she shook out another pair of panties. Aren't these nice? She draped the crotch over the back of her hand, then spatulaed the panties onto the stack. I meant in the future. Her deer eyes jiggled; her auburn hair swayed along her cheeks, then settled. She smirked, her hands flitting above the lingerie on the counter to stroke, smooth, caress. You can't stay here forever, can you? There aren't enough fish in this pond.

His reputation as a cocksman was a favorite joke; though he always enjoyed bantering with her when he went to pick up Lonnie, her light jab now annoyed him.

Aw, you can always hook something if you use the right bait.

She bent to extract something from a large carton behind the counter, and in a moment she displayed a lacy brassiere between her outstretched palms like a large cat's-cradle.

Think I'd look good in this?

Mild shock. Because that emotion got so little use in him, he faltered. Mm, I don't know, Blanche. He saw her spirits take a plunge. Dumbass! Yeah, yeah. He nodded, recovering. Sure—you'd look real good in that. He struggled for neutrality; he wanted to stay out of trouble. I never started none of this! A thickening in his groin sent him diving for his shoelaces. He began to sweat. What was he getting into here? True, Lonnie's dad hadn't any more sex appeal than a loaf of bread. A fat man's face was superimposed over the taut brown loops. The man rolled Camels on a cushion of spit between his lips while he bragged about all the big dime stores he had managed before his health went—why'd she marry him?

God, you know so many things we handle don't fit well or feel good, but people always go for looks. At first. Her voice fluttered above his head, wings of a bird frantic for an exit. He eased upright and watched her pace behind the counter, hips and thighs a green-water distortion through the glass. Some things are really comfortable, you know. Even though they may not look new or follow the latest fashion, you can't just toss them aside! I've always—her chatter tripped a step—always … uh … thought that—her voice quavered like a phone line on which a crow had alighted— well, that… uh … oh, hell! Who cares what I think! At the counter's end she bent to slide thin boxes into slots beneath the case; the hem of her black skirt eased above her knee backs. Trim. Most of the girls at HHS had soft legs with unformed calves and thighs—like Nelda Sue's—but these belonged to a woman who exercised.

Who for? he wondered suddenly. He recognized she had retreated in a spasm of self-loathing and yearned to be stroked and reassured. But he wasn't exactly shouting Hallelujah himself, what with this puny-assed job crawling on his knees to handle people's smelly feet and nothing better in sight. Flirting with her beat staring at the ends of all those shoe boxes and feeling the minutes suck at him like quicksand.

Blanche?

She froze.

You mind if I say something personal?

She strode to the far end of the counter and began to tug a large carton along the floor by a loose flap. If it's not good, keep it to yourself, Bobby Joe. She plunged her head and arms into the box; three girdles flew out onto the counter.

Blanche, they ain't a woman in this town has got legs as good as yours.

Her spine straightened like an unstrung bow. She craned her head over her shoulder to appraise one calf elevated upward to that coy angle made famous by the heroines of romance comics. Why, thank you, Bobby Joe! Some people are just born with it, I guess. I was lucky. She beamed.

Real natural, he purred, settling into the task. He let her see his eyes travel the horizontal calf with appreciation, as though the limb were a piece of jewelry.

Well, it's nice of you to say so.

I wasn't saying it just to be nice—I meant it. You know, if people would just speak their mind, why then half the trouble in this world would be solved quick as you could spit!

That's true. She sagged visibly, aware that he had diverted the compliment. Damn if she ain't a hard one to prop up!

"Especially when it comes to beauty. They's probly a couple hunnerd men see them legs ever day and think the same thing, but they're too scared to say so because they think you might take it wrong. I mean, you got too much class. Me, I'm a buddy a Lonnie's."

Oh my, how you go on! I'm not a bit surprised at what I hear about you!

Wal, punch another button on the jukebox, Mama! He shrugged off his fame. Wouldn't believe everything I heard.

Sure, she said, less playfully. If I did … well, you know how they talk.

That business again. Familiar potshot. His past was a mad sniper drilling him when he least expected it. He slipped the match stem from his mouth and held it just before his nose, feeling his eyes strain and cross to focus on the frayed wooden blossom. He was about to speak, but Sidelman's voice rushed into the air between them. Blanche?

She winked at Bobby Joe. Don't go way!

Her high heels set up a jiggle in her cheeks beneath the skirt, and the motion captured his attention for the full length of her stroll to the front of the store; when she vanished, his gaze hopped the stepping stones of the ceiling fans back to the shoe department.

Her absence disclosed a dressing mirror hung on the wall. Mirror Man sat leering at Bobby Joe. You're something else, Lover Man! Thick shocks of glossy black hair. Looks like a C and W singer, faro dealer, maybe. Dark mesh of day-old beard, sunglasses propped up on a tanned forehead, a black knight's helmet visor, ready to drop over those brown orbs.

He and Mirror Man grinned in secret compact. Didn't take much to make old Blanche happy; he was glad he could help her out. Hadn't cost anything to compliment her legs, he certainly hadn't lied. If it made up for having to live in Hedorville and work in this crappy store while her body turned to sags and wrinkles quicker than you could say Life's over! why, then the least he could do was bring a bit of sunshine into a very gray day.

His lively humor suffocated quickly in the vacuum of boredom. Don't go away! Fat chance. Nothing to do but wait for lunch. Sidelman had chewed on him twice about lounging during slack times, but he'd had only one customer this morning, even though he was responsible for the entire line of men's clothing, and he couldn't bring himself to do busy work, like Blanche did. He'd been grateful she got him the job, but in two weeks he had come to hate it. At Furr's there'd been something every minute—uncrating canned goods from boxes, taking inventory, checking, sacking, toting.

And if he hadn't gotten so hacked, he'd still be there. He fumed, longing to be where he could mock White's lecture aloud. I know you was next in line for assistant manager, but damn it all, you got to learn more about how to treat a customer. Goodrum can keep them women off my back, and I ain't got to remind you how many times I had to hear somebody complain about your wise mouth!

Nobody treated Bobby Joe Gilbert like that! He had hung his apron on a nail beside the produce desk in the stock room, then he had assumed his hardest look, squinting, head cocked like Brando's in The Wild One, mashing his gum slowly in the low side of his jaw, glaring down at the former classmate who had brown-nosed his way into the coveted position. Listen here, queerbait! I better not catch you outside your house after dark. Goodrum turned away, gulping. Aw piss, Bobby Joe. It ain't my fault I got the job. Bobby Joe thumped the boy's breastbone hard with a knuckle. Yeah? It ain't mine, neither!

Money. If he could have squeezed a couple thousand out of his Uncle Wallace, then he could have bought Irwin's pinball business. He had learned every solenoid and breaker and relay and motion mechanism Gotlieb and the best ever put out; he knew every machine in the county; he had serviced them, and he had spent countless nights punching their flippers and setting cold beers on their glass tops. And Irwin that dumbass! went broke—he thought you had to change machines every month, and no sooner had the clientele at one bar just begun to learn the point of tilt and how to score the machine so they felt at home with it and were happy to feed it, why then Irwin'd ship it someplace else.

Bobby Joe sagged like a sack of grain in the chair, chin on chest. That's Lady Luck, the bitch!

You know, I can't decide! Blanche's voice startled him; she lounged against the counter, addressing, it seemed, the same brassiere. He groaned inwardly. I think it might look pretty nice, she said.

It's underwear. Who's going to see it?

She flushed, then winked in mock lust, but the parody concealed neither desire nor hurt. Don't be silly! I meant from the outside. She cocked an eyebrow in suspended decision. I think I'll try it on. Watch for me, will you?

She vanished into one of the curtained-off booths along the wall. He sighed. Maybe it would be lunchtime before she could get it on. Preening the vanity of females he wouldn't take to bed was a serious waste of energy, and he didn't intend to take Lonnie's mother—or anybody else's—to bed. He had standards.

Bobby Joe—

The curtain was drawn around her head in swirls like muddy river water. Come help a minute, huh?

Her head disappeared. The curtain trembled. A mouse? Don't kid yourself! Wearily he rose and shuffled to the booth. A rustle penetrated the curtain. He glanced nervously about the store. It looked empty; only a low mumble in the back where Sidelman sat jawing with a salesman accompanied the muted thrum of the ceiling fans. Feeling furtive, he cleared his throat.

She parted the curtain slightly with her left hand; her nude back was to him, and her right arm was bent behind to hook the bra. A birthmark the size and shape of a robin's egg lay high on her left shoulder blade.

Could you? she spoke over her shoulder. The hooks are a little strange. Her voice gurgled in splashes of nerves. Frantically he scanned the store's interior again.

"Look—you don't want me in there, do you?"

Of course not! she laughed. Just put your hands around the curtain.

Somewhat relieved, he did; the peephole closed, and his hands were splayed rigidly in the air like a marionette's until she took his wrists. His fingers glided across a rib, she chuckled at their mutual clumsiness; he expelled an Ah! when at last his finger pads tapped the loose ends of the bra, but before he could snatch the material between his fingers, she pulled his hands away from her back and held his arms spread-eagled, his wrists cuffed in her shaking grasp, then she mewled in her throat and guided his palms down against her flesh. Is this real? To his dismay, an uncoiling tumescence proved the two rubbery protrusions tickling his palms to be very real.

Ah, listen, Blanche, I'm not sure I got the right thing.

Heavy breathing. She began to tug his right hand down her trunk, her stomach, his palm sliding across her flesh. He thought he heard someone approach at his back; he yanked his hands away, spun. Nobody. After a moment, he could hear her weeping, very quietly.

I gotta go to lunch, he said.

God! she moaned too loud for his comfort. I hate birthdays! I've never done anything like that in my whole life! If you had any idea of what it was like to turn forty—

Aw hellfire, I'm sorry! He hovered anxiously by the curtain. It's like this— He licked his lips, trying to recover and turn on the old charm, humble himself to save her face. "I'd really … uh … you know, like to … get together with you, but you got so much class and all—"

"Don't you dare patronize me! she hissed through the curtain. I'm not one of your stupid gumsmackers!"

Well yeah! It's like I was saying—you got—

"Oh! You … you … child!"

Stung, he stomped off to Stinky's, where he lunched until midafternoon on five beers and sixteen games of pinball. Now, if he wasn't Bobby Joe Gilbert—he brooded in counterpoint to pongs and thoks from Mississippi Gambler—he could brag about what happened; if he wasn't Lonnie's buddy, he could use it on him. Burdens of integrity—he didn't brag about his conquests, his propositions; there lay the power of his reputation. Mississippi Gambler's whore waggled a stockinged leg and winked—Come on, Lover Man, spill your guts to me! He glowered. Being B. J. Gilbert meant keeping your head and your heart to yourself. He couldn't confide in his Uncle Wallace or Annie Lee. Nelda Sue? Wrong subject. He'd just have to grit his teeth and plunge ahead. That way nobody could use it against you.

Outside, the heat combined with the beer to brew a poisonous gas in his belly. He felt half drunk; he stiffened to resist the heat rising from the baking asphalt. Whew! Buck up, body! It's a hot sumbitch! A man could perish without his shades.

A gang truck passed; four roustabouts in oil-soaked clothes and aluminum hats were perched upon a clutter of pipe connections, tool boxes, and rolls of barbed wire on the bed. Bobby Joe propped himself against a parking meter and watched the truck rattle by. A second, then a third followed, leaving a hot backwash brackish with gasoline and chemicals. Hard-assed caravan off to make somebody's paycheck— best you move it on, B.J.

Inside his car he let the engine warm before nudging the accelerator floorward to make the dual Glaspaks bark. He was about to shove the shift lever into reverse when it dawned on him there was nowhere to go. Dumfounded. The three-quarter-race Isky cam kept the Ford from idling smoothly, so the shell rocked and bobbled at the parking space, the motion suggestive not so much of forward progress as of the rhythm of carnival rides which simulated it. He stared at the cheesecake pinup trapped inside the steering knob; he gave the knob a spin with his left hand. Weird. It was attached on a pivot fixed to the rim of a wheel which was attached to a framework on wheels which rolled on the backside of this great big spherical planet which revolved on its axis which orbited the sun. God-a-mity damn! All this motion! Around and around!

Well, if you just sit here you're going to run outa gas. His voice sounded strange to his ears.

At Toby Tyler's Texaco he helped himself to a dollar's worth of regular, skipped away to relieve a much distended bladder, then strolled into the service area, where Tyler was wrestling with a truck tire aided by a roughneck named Kirby.

Working hard or hardly working? Bobby Joe asked listlessly as he relinquished one of his last four dollar bills.

Whichever way it comes, Tyler grunted. He and Kirby heaved the tire over and began to dig at its inner rim with a crowbar.

You?

Bobby Joe blinked and passed a palm across his sweating forehead. The buzz he had going in the bar had vaporized in the heat and left a swollen, aching throb inside his skull.

Looking for work.

Haw! Tyler snorted.

They looking for swampers, Kirby offered.

I ain't looking to break my back. I like to get paid for using my head.

That's nice, Kirby returned acidly.

Bobby Joe let it pass. He watched dully as they peeled the tire away from the rim.

Got a letter from Ronnie, Tyler said. He's getting hitched next month.

Huh! Ain't he still at State? Bobby Joe asked without interest.

Yeah. He's got two more years, but she's gonna work and put him through. Tyler turned to face him, the proud poppa. He's done got two offers to go to work in Houston, one for Shell and one for Gulf, but he wants to get that old sheepskin.

Hell yes, Kirby said. Best thing to do.

Bobby Joe spat a sour glob on the oily concrete, scarecrowed his arms to give his pits a breather. Nothing more to gain playing sidewalk super to a brace of grease monkeys. Gotta go. Don't do nothing I wouldn't do.

"That there gives us a mile a leeway," Tyler said wryly.

The Ford left a skein of hot rubber smoking on the driveway; Bobby Joe speed-shifted through the gears until he was screaming right at sixty down Turner, but he had to stop for the first light. He champed beneath it, furiously pumping the accelerator to back the Glaspaks off.

One for Shell and one for Gulf! he exploded, yammering in mockery. Didn't those people have any sense? Ronnie Tyler was a four-eyed lame-brain whose only claim to fame was that he had been president of the Latin club. The LATIN CLUB! Oh, the everloving peebrained cockbent sheepfuck displaced injustice of it all!

Hey, Bobby Joe! Lounging against a light-pole guy-wire was Weldon Molder, an old classmate now a junior partner in his father's ranch. He cocked his cowboy hat back. Hey! Y'all getting any?

Same as always! The light changed; Bobby Joe popped the clutch, peeling rubber. Molder slapped at his thigh with his hat, whooping, and waved him on as he might a running herd.

Two blocks later, Bobby Joe eased down to cruising speed. Blanche Dugger would have been nice, but something about her reminded him of flypaper. Chinese finger trap.

His free hand dug into his jeans to rearrange his genitals. Old Same-as-Always would probably be in study hall, and maybe he could get in to line up a date for later, if Barker wasn't on duty.

He stopped at another light. Ronnie Tyler's good fortune returned to plague him; he tried to shrug it off—anybody that lame deserves a break now and then—but he felt it was unfair: lately he had been paying out more for who he was than he received. He should be Tyler. Well, not be him. Have the offers, the wife working on her P.H.T. He pictured himself in a drafting class where Ronnie Tyler might be at that moment, studying plans, blueprints. After class he goes home? A little frame house with asbestos shingle siding, a two-step concrete stoop. On the stove is a skillet full of steaming, smothered pork chops, a heap of mashed potatoes … He washes up at the sink. Cracks the oven door to snuffle up a rich bubble of buttered pastry. His eyes wander about the clean kitchen, the nice dining furniture. Hears the bathroom door swing open, he turns and there is—Nelda Sue!

He burst into laughter as he pulled away from the light. Be serious! He liked Nelda Sue; she had many good qualities: she knew when to keep her mouth shut, she knew when to not make demands. She was familiar. She was comfortable. But—marry her? To begin with, he was fairly sure she'd been had by others, even Rabbit and Heavy, maybe.

He turned down the street toward the school. Also, he continued, his bride would have jugs that made mouths water. Nelda Sue's were nice enough when you saw them bare in the moonlight, but they wouldn't draw an ogle on a beach.

Too, the girl he married would have class; she'd be chic, like an airline stewardess, so that at a cocktail party the doctors and lawyers and oilmen would note how discriminating he had been. In that respect, Blanche Dugger came a damn sight closer.

Case closed. A vague uneasiness prodded at him as he strode from the parking lot. It wasn't Nelda Sue's fault, was it? He leaned over a flower bed bordering the sidewalk, popped a white rose from a bush and slipped it into a pocket of his sports coat.

The sun lay sharp-edged sheets of light on the pools of water standing in the nearby practice field. He winced behind his sunglasses as he sauntered toward the east wing of the building housing the library and the cafeteria, which doubled as a study hall after lunch. The double doors at the end of the wing were blocked open to let a breeze sweep the hallway; just inside them, he was stopped by a student wearing a white armband.

Sorry, sir, can't let you in without a slip.

Unfamiliar little kid with a flat-top and glasses, with a slide rule clipped to his belt. Bobby Joe hesitated in frustration—as a visitor he couldn't very well just shove this skinny kid out of the way as he might have done last year.

Ah … uh, I'm Nelda Sue Montgomery's cousin and I got a mighty urgent message to give her. It wasn't exactly a lie, he thought. She's in study hall right now.

The boy stood his ground, shaking his head. Y'all have to go to the office and get permission.

Well suckegg dog! Bobby Joe backed out of the doorway. Thanks, son, will do.

He edged along the building until he reached the windows of the cafeteria. The duty teacher sat at the desk on the far side of the room, reading. (Another strange face, this time female!) He didn't find Nelda Sue among the fifteen or so students scattered about the large room at the dining tables.

Rabbit, though, was frowning at a large book laid out on a table near the window, his fists chocked under his chin. Bobby Joe stared intently at his ear. Whammy's getting weak. A perplexing ennui sank into Bobby Joe's muscles, a helplessness far out of proportion to the difficulty of catching Rabbit's glance. He turned and looked across the unbroken expanse of grass and over to the long, low arm of the first classroom building, whose off-pink brick the sunlight etched with surreal clarity into his retinas. He could hear nothing but the distant hiss of sprinklers revolving slowly on the playing field. The place might have been abandoned.

Rabbit was still bent over the book. This studious posture seemed so unlike him that Bobby Joe was reminded of a character in a science-fiction movie whose body is possessed by an alien mind. But in truth Rabbit looked very much at home there, and it was Bobby Joe who felt like an intruder as he peered through the window. To think that just a year ago he was inside, looking out.

He tapped lightly on the pane with the stone of his ring, crouching low in case he had to duck. The teacher remained engrossed in her reading, but in a moment Rabbit lifted his eyes toward the window, his gaze stunned as though he were ascending from a deep dream of fearsome brilliance. Bobby Joe beckoned; cautiously, Rabbit rose and sidled to the window.

Where's Nelda Sue?

In the gym. It's College Day, he whispered. The juniors are in charge—she's head of the committee.

Bobby Joe nodded, glanced toward the gym, then turned back in time to catch Rabbit sending apprehensive flicks of his eyes to the teacher's desk.

Don't pee your pants, Rabbit.

Huh?

What're you reading?

It's a history book. About aviation. Rabbit shifted his weight from one foot to the other; Bobby Joe took a sour delight in holding him by the windows.

Whew! Heavy stuff, Rabbit! You some kind of intellectual?

Rabbit blushed and shrugged. It's for Fart-ner.

You want to pop a few tonight?

Sure.

The teacher had observed them and appeared to be hoping they would break off before she had to acknowledge the disruption. Bobby Joe saw her eyes dart up from her book and over reprovingly. She crossed her legs. He waved to Rabbit and stepped from the windows.

Inside the gym, tables ringed the playing floor. Students milled in the center or about the tables, where representatives of colleges had come to hawk their catalogues and to flatter the graduating seniors into picking their schools. Bobby Joe had skipped out the previous year on this day to play pinball and to drink at Stinky's. At the time he had told himself that he wasn't a college man; he had his wits, and if they weren't sufficient, he could attend one of those technical schools he read about on matchbook covers. Or join the Navy, learn electronics. But in the year since then, lack of money had closed the first option, bad knees and worse feet the second.

He hadn't seen Nelda Sue as he came through the foyer where the concessions were sold, and as he stepped onto the gym floor he scanned the crowd for signs of Authority, especially for Barker. As he stood alongside the table for State, he saw the scrutiny of a teacher sweep its vigilant way toward him. He whirled to the man at the table, who looked like a coach.

Got a buddy up there at your place. In engineering.

The man smiled. Looking for a school?

Well, yeah. Sort of. This buddy of mine—his name's Ronnie Tyler. He's in engineering, like I said, and I was wondering, you know, what you'd take if you was to be in that.

He hadn't intended to listen to the man's explanation, since the conversation had been only a ruse, but as the man began to talk—obviously unaware he was speaking to Hedorville's Bane to Virgins and Most Unlikely to Succeed—Bobby Joe found himself paying attention.

Here's a list of recommended subjects for the first semester, the man said as he wrote on a paper. Bobby Joe noticed that he used a real fountain pen with a gold cap. What was your name?

Bobby Joe answered before he could think.

Very good, Mr. Gilbert. The man printed, very neatly, the name into the appropriate blank, then passed the paper to Bobby Joe. It read: Trial Schedule Prepared for Bobby Joe Gilbert. Below the heading was a list of subjects: Math 101, English C, Chem. I or Biol. I, Lang, and/or Elect., Hist, of Civ.

Bobby Joe stared at the slip of paper for a long moment. He read it slowly a few times, then folded it and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

Sure thank you for the help.

The man held out a catalogue. My pleasure, Mr. Gilbert.

Bobby Joe tucked the catalogue under his arm. Turning from the table, he saw Nelda Sue striding toward him with a smile.

Hey, old man! she teased, bumping him with her hip. You just come by to give all the girls a thrill?

Oh, yeah. They're laying all over the sidewalk out yonder, just dead out fainted at the very sight.

She grinned, fetchingly, her wide mouth arching outward and upward to dimple her cheeks. He caught his breath: her apricot-colored hair had been set and combed out so that it fell in rolls just below her ears; her lipstick was fresh, and she wore a polka-dot blouse that smelled of ironing and perfume and was tucked into a skirt so tight the elastic ridges of her panties were visible.

Say, you are a vision of glory today, Sweet Thang. I don't recall right off what I come for, but I think I've gone far enough—how about a date tonight?

Although she smiled, she eyed him strangely. "We must be making progress. It's not like you to ask." She sniffed, twice. You been drinking?

Had a few for lunch.

That must be it. For a minute I thought that the great charm beneath my plain surface had come through. Oh, God, what shall I do? She laid her forearm across her brow in mock despair. He has asked me to be his.

Be sure and read the fine print there, friend.

You think I don't already know enough to do that?

They locked eyes. Hers were watercress green, irises flecked with yellow. Her lips were parting to speak, and the smell of her flesh, her perfume, shot into his head so hard that he would have shouted a renunciation of every unkind thought about her if he could have laid her right there on the gym floor.

I've got to work on the decorations for the Oil Parade float, but you can pick me up after. It's down on Grimm and Turner. About nine? Then, as she looked past his shoulder, her face leaped into panic. Oh, God, Bobby Joe, here comes Mr. Barker!

So? he sneered. But it was pure bravado; his heart had almost popped out of its socket.

You know how he is about you. Go on, don't make a scene, please! I'll see you later.

All right. He strode toward the doorway he had come in by, struggling to look as though he wasn't running away; he hadn't gone but a dozen steps before he heard her call his name. He looked behind and saw her standing, alone, in the toss-up circle, her hands cupped at her mouth. Coming up behind her was the short but stocky form of Barker, who was pacing briskly on the balls of his feet, fists doubled at his sides.

Bobby Joe! she shouted again, her features drawn up in concern. Everyone paused and looked at her. You won't forget, will you?

He drifted moodily along Main, snapping the clutch away from the lights almost absently, producing a perfunctory ert! on the pavement in each gear to punctuate his brooding. On past the pipe yards, truck parks, junk lots, chemical tanks, then he turned into the caliche drive at Gilbert's Sheetmetal and Boiler Shop, steering around the chuckholes to the back of the complex of galvanized-tin sheds until he reached the two trailer houses riveted into an L.

You better fix that step, Bobby Joe! Annie Lee warned when he came in. Somebody's going to fall and bust their brains on the concrete. She was playing blackjack, struggling to keep the cards from lifting and flying in the rush of air coming from the squirrel-cage swamp cooler whose vent opened onto the far end of the table at the window. The wet, lukewarm air plastered his hair to his head.

Who's winning?

She dipped her head toward the deck, which sat on a place mat opposite her at the table. Dealer.

He watched with amusement as she frowned at the cards, angry with Dealer, to whom she gave a mystical aura of reality by dealing herself cards from his side of the table in a way that reminded Bobby Joe of a child pouring from a fantasy playmate's teapot. She stared at the cards before her, hesitating; her brown hair, damp from the air, swung in limp strands across her ears.

Take a hit.

She looked up, shocked. You know what happens to people who take a hit on seventeen?

He laughed. Come on! You might make it.

She furrowed her brow and chewed at her lower lip. He almost chuckled out loud; he enjoyed teasing her, he liked her, but didn't understand her—her world seemed to teeter on a fulcrum of guilt and punishment, and a constant seesawing was required to keep an even plane. Her preoccupation with religion assured her of salvation from the sin of living common-law wife to his uncle (she couldn't marry him, because he drank); when she indulged in the sin of gambling, Dealer always won, and Bobby Joe suspected that Dealer meant Devil and to let him win was to be removed from his range as a target for temptation. Then, too, for any sin not specified in the contract there was Doom, a kind of blank check which could be filled in at any moment to balance the books. Pay to the bearer of sin one head busted on the concrete. Well, at least she wasn't bored.

Okay, she sighed. She slipped a card from Dealer's stack and flipped it over. Five of hearts.

Bobby Joe laughed. Well, you can't win them all.

After a moment of silence she raised her head to look at him, lifting her narrow cat's-eye glasses from her bovine face.

"I don't want to nag, honey, but you hadden paid your rent this month,