There wasn't much to do in Centreville. “Good” young boys and girls went for a hamburger, then to the movies or bowling, then back home. That was it. “Bad” boys and girls drove to the railroad trestle spanning the deep, muddy river, and did in their cars whatever “bad” boys and girls do together.
“Hurry up, dear, it's almost seven-thirty. Didn't you promise to pick up your girl at seven-thirty? I don't want you rushing around.”
“Yeah, mom.” Under his breath, Joe muttered, “Can't leave me alone for a second, can you? Think I'm still a baby, right?”
Joe's driver's license was fresh and new. He had been driving for two weeks. He felt very grown-up. He finished combing his hair and took one last look in the mirror. Then, instead of vaulting down the stairs three at a time as he did when he was “younger,” Joseph Langston descended carefully, with the dignity befitting his new status in life. He was a driver.
“Here I am, mother -- in plenty of time.” His eyes and voice communicated reproach.
Isabell Langston pretended not to notice. “Did you comb your hair?”
“Yesss,” Joe hissed slowly.
“Well, it doesn't look like it.” She put up her hands to touch a stray hair jutting out over his forehead, then caught herself. Her son, whom she ached to hug as she did when the five-year-old beaming boy used to crawl up in her lap, had become an “untouchable.” He was too old for maudlin signs of affection.
“Sheesh. That's the way people wear their hair THESE days,” Joe said. His emphasis on “THESE” made Isabell feel that she belonged in a museum, next to the dinosaur bones.
“Are you going to bring the young lady home for us to meet?” she asked. “Your father should be home soon.” Ralph Langston was working late at the hardware store, as he always did on Fridays, checking the books.
“It's a DATE, Mom. I'm not asking her to marry me.”
“Well, don't be home late.”
“Yeah.” (“Worrywart.”)
Joe was in a hurry. He brushed past his mother and strode quickly to the door. Outside, the frustration dropped away like snow sloughing off a mountaintop in spring. A warm rush invaded his veins. He stared hard, almost unbelieving, at his very own car, a sporty gunsmoke grey Porsche look-alike. He stared hard. It was almost as if it weren't real, and by staring, he could make it real. He opened the door, breathed in the fresh, new-car smell, slid in behind the wheel, and turned the key. It was real!
He couldn't describe it. The act of driving -- moving effortlessly from one spot to another, free from the supervision of his parents, free from censure by the adult world -- gave him the feeling that he was in control; master of his fate. He could do anything, go anywhere -- and he would, too. He could drive down Brower's Lane, turn left onto Main Street, follow Main Street all the way out of town to the interstate, and then -- and then the whole world lay at his feet, and his machine was ready to do his bidding, take him to any place on earth; any place far away. He didn't drive to the interstate. For tonight, it was enough, just knowing that he could.
Mary fidgeted. For the fourth time, she changed the ribbon in her hair. Blue, or red -- which? It was one of the few choices she had; she had only one dress, two waitress uniforms, and a few blouses and pairs of jeans. It had been all the clothes she could jam in her suitcase; not that she had left a lot of clothes behind, either.
She strained and stretched -- would he like it (what she didn't dare to think -- would he like HER?). No time to think.
She heard footsteps on the creaky front porch. A knock at the door. Miz Gryder was going to answer it.
“Maaaayyyreee!”
“Coming,” Mary called back.
Joe, standing in the doorway, stopped talking to Miz Gryder. His mouth hung open for a second. He stammered, “I didn't...did_n't know you were...had such...such a ... pretty dress. I mean, of course I never thought -- I knew...I just saw you in the cafe.”
Mary grinned back. Warm prickling spread all over her body. She knew she must be turning red as a fire engine, and that made her blush even harder (“Hey, Santa, let me guide your sleigh tonight!”).
Blazing like the neon sign at Hungry Jim's Cafe, Mary took his offered arm.
Together, they descended the front porch steps, while Miz Gryder watched silently, thinking her own thoughts. Joe puffed up like a frog when Mary slipped gracefully into the front seat. He closed her door. Then, Prince Joseph, Protector of the Realm, seated beside his Lady Fair, gave commands to his steed.
On the large screen, a trite tale was spun. A rich, powerful man seduced a poor country girl with his charms, made beautiful promises, then abandoned her with a child. But, just as she was about to jump into the muddy river, taking her newborn treasure with her, good old Tom, her childhood country beau, appeared. “Go away,” she cried. “I love you,” he called. “I don't want your pity,” she answered. His hopes dashed, the hero plunged into the swirling current. Trying to save him, the heroine followed, but couldn't fight the raging torrent. As she was going down, he grabbed her and pulled her to shore. Embrace, fade out, curtain.
Mary and Joe scarcely knew what was taking place on the screen. Mary was alone with her thoughts. Odd sensations were bubbling and boiling through Joe's system. Midway through the movie, he stretched and yawned, and let his right arm fall across the back of Mary's seat. As the movie droned on, he moved his arm a millimeter at a time closer to her shoulders. Finally, his forearm touched her spine at the base of her neck.
His fingers groped downward, and lightly touched the upper part of her right arm. The touch was lighter than a mosquito. Did she notice? If she did, she gave no sign; just stared straight ahead at the screen. Not daring to twitch, Joe's arm remained there, long after it had grown uncomfortable; long after the tingling, blood-drained, numb deadness overtook it.
Something broke the trance. People were getting up, leaving their seats. The screen was black.
Joe stood up. His arm followed at a distance. There was nothing to say. Mary got up without looking at him. Wordlessly, they left the theater.
He opened the car door for her, feeling very much the gallant. She was flustered and flattered. He drove aimlessly; and yet, there seemed to be a destination. The lights of town slipped away, and darkness closed in. Silence was the third person in the car. Joe struggled to speak, but the words weren't there.
Silence clouded his brain and clamped a hand on his mouth. Joe had forgotten language. The darkness was a din, drowning out speech. He would have to scream to be heard over the pounding of his blood.
Joe stole a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring straight ahead into the black din, just as he was. The darkness thickened; took shape. There was an indefinable malice hunched somewhere ahead, waiting. They were being sucked into it.
They had left the pavement behind. The tires no longer hummed; they sank into soft sand, rattled harshly over “washboard” gulleys left by the rain, and splashed through mud puddles. This was not the way home. Mary woke out of her reverie.
“Where are we?” she asked. “Where are we going?”
“Uh... Uh. I want to show you a place.” With a flush of embarrassment, Joe stopped kidding himself. He knew where the car was taking them.
“What place?”
“It's kind of a view. You'll see.”
“How far?”
“Just up here.”
The car splashed around a muddy curve, and slid into a clearing. The darkness pulled back on either side, leaving a silver band gleaming between black banks. They slid to a stop.
Now Mary could see that they were on a bluff overlooking the river. Dark arms of the trees on the far bank reached into the overcast sky. A few isolated stars shone bleakly through the clouds. In the middle of the panorama was an outline -- a child's erector set; black beams crisscrossed, blacker than the sky.
Mary sat stiffly, arms crossed in her lap. Joe tried to clear his throat, but couldn't. “I...I... like to come here,” he stammered. “It's pretty, don't you think?”
“I don't know. It's so dark,” Mary said.
Joe tried again to clear his throat, stretched his arms, and slid closer to Mary, all in one awkward move. The steering wheel and transmission hump got in the way.
Mary's heart caught in her throat. She looked away, out the window at nothing, when Joe slid his right arm along the top of the seat toward her. She held her breath. When his fingers touched her shoulder, she breathed in quickly through her nose, then let the air out slowly and quietly.
Joe's fingers closed on her shoulder and tugged gently. He extended his thumb to touch her cheek. With his left hand, he reached over, grasped her chin and pulled her face to him. His face shrouded in shadow. (Later, when his heart stopped its kathumping and his blood returned to his brain, Joe would try to recall his feelings at this moment: was he being timid or generous? -- Joe, the most popular boy in school, deigns to kiss a newcomer, a social outcast. Joe, the scared kid, stomach twitching, tastes adventure from the mouth of the dark stranger.)
The darkness slid away from Mary. Here was light; here was warmth; here was home, solidity, future -- everything. For the first time in her life she felt in touch with another human spirit. She made a home in the shadow.
Joe's left hand dropped from her chin to her blouse. His fingers fumbled, searching like five drunks, staggering home after a night of carousing.
Mary pulled her lips away from his, and looked out the window.
Something white and bobbing caught her eye. Up and down, up and down; a pale, roundish shape framed by black. She had been too preoccupied to see that there was another car there. Something was going on in the car next to theirs. Moans and soft whimpering screams. Up, down up, down of the pale object. Why was Mary suddenly afraid? She felt like an intruder; a spy, fearful of being caught in the act of spying.
“Let's go,” she said. “Quickly.”
Joe blinked, instantly sober. Ice water down the back. Back down now, back in time, reality. He started to protest, too late. The spell was broken.
Slowly, Joe disengaged himself from her, turned back to the steering wheel. Against his will, his fingers sought the ignition key, fumbled.
They could not look at each other.
Out of the corner of her eye, movement. The white bobbing ceased. Blackness now, and confusion. Then up popped a different white blob, then another. An odd combination of terror and amusement plastered itself on one of the whitish orbs. With a start, even from this distance in the dark, Mary recognized the dazed, grinning, sheepish face -- “Polly!”
“Let's go -- now,” she begged Joe, who was still fumbling with the ignition. His fingers belonged to someone else; they marched to the sound of their own drummer, ignoring his orders.
“Ok, ok,” he muttered, irritated. “I'm trying.”
Finally, the key turned. The motor answered, and the tires sighed backwards through the silky sand of the river bank.
They rode home in total silence.
She: filled with wordless apprehension, desolation. Mouth parched dry and belly empty, she walked all alone across flat, white, parched ground. A positive note: at least this wilderness had no demons. He: turmoil and tumbling; suppressed rage -- rage directed at whom? Lacking a target, undirected rage flailed back on itself, gnawing his soul raw.
They rode home in blackness.
She: Fear taking shape; forming words: “Now I've blown it. See that empty, trackless desert? That's the way it's gonna stay; long, empty and alone. Just glad Mom can't see me now. She always said it; I'm strange; different. Nobody for me. Nobody to understand, love, be there -- nobody.”
He: “Numbskull! Idiot! Muck for brains! Almost had it; her -- had to blow it, didn't you?
They rode home.
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