Heat (6 page)

J
esse pulled up in front of the house and gave it a good look. A two-story Victorian with a beautiful lawn and flower beds, a wide front porch and gingerbread everywhere. It looked old but was in perfect condition. He got out of the pickup, walked up the front walk, climbed the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. He reckoned on a long wait, while Mrs. Weather by made it to the front door with her walker.

He had turned and was admiring the flowers when a low voice behind him said, “Good morning.” He turned to find a much younger woman than he had expected. Mrs. Weather by's nurse, no doubt.

“Good morning,” he replied. “My name is Jesse Barron. May I speak with Mrs. Weather by?”

She rewarded him with a quizzical smile. “I'm Mrs. Weather by,” she said, opening the screen door. “Please come in.” She turned and walked toward the rear of the house, expecting him to follow.

Jesse followed. “Forgive me, I suppose I was expecting a nice little old lady—the widow Weatherby,” he said to her back.

“I am the widow Weatherby,” she said without turning, and there was amusement in her voice. She led him into a large kitchen and indicated a chair at the breakfast table. “I was just making some tea; would you like some?”

He sat down and looked at her again. She was nearly as tall as he, slim, in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with gray streaks in her light brown hair. She wore a simple cotton dress that emphasized her small waist and full breasts.

“Would you like some tea?” she repeated, and as if on cue, the kettle began to sing.

“Oh, yes, I'm sorry. My mind was wandering, I guess.”

“Milk?”

“Just lemon, if you have it.”

She poured the tea and set it before him with a wedge of lemon on the saucer. “Sugar's there on the table,” she said as she poured herself a cup. She set down her tea and pulled up a chair.

Her nose was slim and straight, her large eyes wide apart and her mouth broad, revealing large teeth when she opened it. She sipped her tea tentatively and gazed at him in a direct manner.

“Pat Casey said you might have a room to rent,” he said, trying not to seem unsettled.

“Jesse, you said?”

“That's right.”

“You look like a pretty tough guy, Jesse.”

“I was in an accident; I used to look a little more respectable.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, and a hint of a blush ran up her cheeks. “It's just that I'm particular about who comes into my house, even if Pat Casey did recommend him.”

“That's understandable,” Jesse said. “I don't blame you a bit.”

“I have a little girl, you see; she's at school right now.”

“How old?”

“Six. She's in first grade.”

Jesse looked away, a move that was becoming more natural as he perfected his performance. “I had three girls, once,” he said.

“Are you divorced?”

“Widowed. My wife and daughters were killed in the car wreck that made me look like this.”

Her face fell. “Oh, I am sorry. I can only imagine what it must be like to lose a child, let alone three.”

“Thank you; I'm living with it.”

“Was the accident your fault?”

“No, thank God. I don't think I could have lived with that.”

Slowly, methodically, she extracted his story from him, leaving nothing unexamined. Jesse gave her what she wanted, a little at a time.

“Thank you for telling me all this,” she said finally.

“Not at all. But you've told me nothing about yourself.” He smiled. “I'm particular whose house I live in.”

She laughed. “All right, I'm a local girl, married in my late twenties, lost my husband in my early thirties, in an automobile accident.”

“I'm sorry. That's your whole story?”

“Just about. I dote on my daughter, I help out at the local library, do some volunteer work.”

“No regular job?”

“My husband provided for us.”

“It's a lovely house,” he said.

“Thank you. I have the time to work on it.” She set down her tea cup. “Come, I'll show you the room.” She got up and led the way down the hall and up the stairs. “Carey's room is straight ahead,” she said, when they had reached the top of the stairs. “And—”

“What did you say?” The name was an arrow through his heart.

“It's my daughter's room; Carey's.”

“How do you spell the name?”

She spelled it.

“I used to know a little girl named Carrie,” he said, spelling it.

“Oh. Well, my room is to the right, and the spare room is to the left, here.” She led the way into a large, sunny bedroom, comfortably furnished with a double bed, a chest of drawers and a comfortable chair. “The bath's over there.”

“It's very nice,” he said.

“I'd be happy to have you here, if you want it,” she replied. “The rent is fifty dollars a week and another fifty with three meals a day. I cook well.”

“I'm sure you do,” Jesse replied. “I'll take the room and the meals. Is a month in advance all right?” He counted out eight fifty-dollar bills.

“Thank you, yes, and you should open a bank account, Mr. Barron. That's a lot of money to be carrying around.”

“Good idea, and will you please call me Jesse, or Jess, if you like?”

“Sure. My name is Jenny.” She held out her hand for the first time.

He took it and didn't want to let go. “I'm starting at the Wood Products plant tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Then you'll want an early breakfast. That's all right, we rise early here. Go to bed early, too.”

“That's fine by me.”

“Cereal or eggs?”

“Eggs, please, scrambled?”

“I can manage that. I'll put lunch in a bag for you. When would you like to move in?”

“I'll go back to the motel and get my things and be back in half an hour.”

“Fine.”

“May I have a door key?”

She laughed. “Oh, we don't lock our doors in St. Clair,” she said. “No burglar would dare operate in our town.”

 

Jesse pointed the pickup toward the motel and reflected on his good fortune. A very handsome landlady, and a little girl in the house, to boot. He would have to be very careful not to sweep her into his arms when he saw her. The daughter, he meant, chuckling to himself.

On Main Street he passed the Bank of St. Clair, and, on impulse, pulled into a parking spot. He might as well start getting respectable, he thought. He got out of the truck and walked toward the building. He opened the front door, stepped in and immediately knew something was wrong. A young man was backing toward him and, across the marble floor, a guard stood, a riot shotgun held tensely at port arms. He'd never seen a bank guard with a shotgun before he thought, as the man continued to back toward him, apparently oblivious of his presence. Before Jesse could move, the man bumped into him.

The younger man spun around, his face full of surprise, and Jesse saw the pistol coming around. Instinctively, he grabbed the man's wrist, made the gun point toward the ceiling and twisted hard. The gun came away in his hand. At that moment, all hell seemed to break loose. Jesse saw the guard's shotgun swing toward the robber and, flinching, he turned his body away. The shotgun went off at exactly the moment that the front window of the bank caved in.

The robber flew toward Jesse, knocking him off his feet, then there was another shotgun blast. Jesse thought it was the third. He looked out onto the street
and saw another young man, looking frightened, standing next to a pickup truck and yelling.

“Come on, Dan, get out of there!” he screamed.

Dan was lying on top of Jesse, and he wasn't going anywhere. The young man outside suddenly figured this out and leapt into the pickup. As he did, a police car suddenly appeared, skidding sideways into the truck, and another squad car rammed the pickup from behind. The driver started out the truck's door, but before both his feet had made the ground there were half a dozen gunshots, and the young man was lying on his face in the street.

Jesse pushed the robber's body off him and started to get up, but he was pushed back onto the floor by a large foot. The bank guard was standing over him, pumping the shotgun.

“Hold it, Frank!” somebody shouted from the street, and the guard stepped back, still pointing the weapon at Jesse.

“I don't think he's one of them,” the voice said, and then Pat Casey was helping Jesse to his feet.

“Well hello, Pat,” Jesse said. “I was just coming in to open an account. Does this happen every day in St. Clair?”

Casey laughed. “Put down the shotgun, Frank; this is a customer.”

The bank was suddenly filled with policemen, and Jesse was herded off to one side. Eventually, somebody took his particulars, accepted his money and gave him a temporary checkbook. The man called Ruger watched from an office and talked with Casey, occasionally nodding at Jesse.

Jesse finished his business and left for the motel, to collect his things. On the way he reflected on the bungled robbery, and it occurred to him that at least one of the robbers, the one he'd taken the gun from, had been shot unnecessarily, after Jesse had the pistol.
The other one had been shot down very quickly, too, but Jesse hadn't seen that as clearly.

He remembered Jenny Weatherby's comment that no one would dare commit a burglary in St. Clair. Now he knew why. He bet himself that there were no prisoners in the city jail.

J
esse packed his things, then checked out of the motel and drove up Main Street. He parked in front of police headquarters, went inside and asked for Pat Casey. Casey, who was sitting in a glass-enclosed cubicle, waved him into his office and into a chair.

“What can I do you for, Jess?”

“I just wanted to thank you, Pat. I arrived in this town less than twenty-four hours ago, a complete stranger, and now I have a job and a very nice place to live and you to thank for all of it.”

“I'm glad to be of help. I'm grateful for your help, too. It seems you disarmed one of the bank robbers.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Casey laughed. “It certainly was.”

“I'm a little overwhelmed, I guess,” Jesse said. “Since I got out of the hospital I've been sort of numb, just going through the motions, wandering across the country. Now, all of a sudden, I seem to have some sort of life again. I just want you to know I appreciate your help, and I hope I'll be able to find a way to repay you some day.”

Casey shrugged. “Who knows? One of these days you might be able to do something for me. I'll let you know. In the meantime, just settle into St. Clair and be one of us.”

Jesse stood up. “That, I'll do.” He shook Casey's hand and left the station.

 

Jesse carried his bags up the front steps of Jenny Weatherby's house and was met at the door by a somber little girl with hair so blonde it was nearly white.

“Hello,” Jesse said to her. “I'll bet you're Carey.”

“How did you know?” the little girl asked.

“Oh, I know all about you. You're six years old and in the first grade.”

She smiled shyly. “Mama told you.”

“That's right, she did.”

“Are you going to live with us?”

“I sure am, and I hope you and I are going to be good friends.”

“That depends,” Carey said. “Do you like niggers?”

Jesse was brought up short. “Why do you ask that?” he asked.

“Because at school they told us we're not supposed to be friends with nigger lovers.”

Jesse set his bags down at the bottom of the stairs, struggling for a way to continue this conversation. “And where do you go to school?” he asked lamely.

“At the First Church school,” Carey replied. “Everybody goes there.”

“And do you like school?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “We get to learn lots of stuff.”

“Well, I want to hear all about that,” Jesse said, “just as soon as I take my things upstairs.”

“Carey!” her mother called from the kitchen. “Who's that out there?”

She turned to him. “What's your name?”

“Jesse.”

“It's Jesse, Mama,” she called out. “I'm helping him take his stuff upstairs.”

Jesse handed her his small bag and followed her up the stairs to his room.

“Do you like this room?” Carey asked. The phone rang downstairs.

“I like it very much,” he said, sitting on the bed. “And I think I like you very much, too.”

The little girl giggled and ran out of the room and down the stairs.

 

Jesse was stretched out on his bed, dozing, when there was a soft rap at the door.

“Come in.”

Jenny opened the door. “Seems you're the local hero,” she said.

“You've heard already?”

“It's a small town.”

“I'm lucky I didn't get my head blown off.”

“Luckier than you know,” she said. “Supper's in half an hour; would you like something to drink before? I've got some gin and some bourbon and some beer.”

“I'd love a bourbon on the rocks,” Jesse said, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and standing up. “But room and board can't include liquor. I'll buy my own.”

She smiled. “Tonight you're my guest.”

“Carey's gorgeous,” Jesse said. “She comes by it naturally.”

The little blush again. “Come on downstairs, and I'll fix your drink.”

Jesse splashed some water on his face, brushed his teeth and went down to the kitchen. Jenny handed him a large drink. “What time does the evening news come on in Idaho?”

“You mean on TV?”

“Right.”

“We don't have much TV,” she said. “Not in St. Clair. Oh, they've got a satellite dish at Harry's Place, where the fellows go to watch football, and down at the motel, I guess, but TV is sort of frowned on around here.”

“Oh,” Jesse said, nonplussed. Never in his life had he been to a place that didn't have much TV. He sat down at the kitchen table and raised his drink. “Will you join me?”

“Sure,” she said, and poured herself a bourbon and water. She peeked under a pot lid, then sat down and sipped her drink. “You think we're missing anything by not having TV?”

“Well, I guess you're missing the news and some movies and a few good programs,” he replied. “But you're missing a hell of a lot of junk, too, and, on balance, I'd guess Carey might be better off without it.”

“That's sort of what I thought,” she said.

“When I was a kid we didn't have a TV for a long time,” Jesse said, then stopped himself. He was about to start talking about Jesse Warden instead of Jesse Barron, and he couldn't have that.

“Strict father?”

“That's it.”

“I had one of those, too. If he could see me now, sitting in my kitchen with a strange man who's just moved into my house, sipping whiskey with him, he'd roll over in his grave.”

“You've always lived in St. Clair?”

She nodded. “Always.”

“Have you traveled much? Seen any of the country?”

“I've been to Boise half a dozen times,” she said, “and once I went to Seattle to visit my mother's sister. That's about it.”

“Is your mother still alive?”

“No, she died before my father did, when I was fifteen.”

“What did your father do?”

“He worked out at Wood Products, like everybody else.”

“That's been here a long time, has it?”

“Sure has; all of my life and before. Herman Muller's daddy came here from Germany to farm, and when he died, Herman sold the farm and started that business. It's grown and grown. Soaked up just about all the farm boys around here.” She talked while gazing out the window into the middle distance.

Jesse took in her fine profile and the gray in her hair, and he wanted her. “Girls as beautiful as you are don't usually stay in small towns,” he said.

“Why, thank you sir,” she said, raising her glass to him. “I haven't heard anything that nice for a long while.” She sighed. “Once, when I was twenty-one or twenty-two, I was putting some gas in my car and a fellow in a Mercedes pulled into the filling station, got out and gave me his card. He was with Paramount Pictures, he said, and he wanted to put me in the movies.”

“That doesn't surprise me in the least,” Jesse said. “What did you say to him?”

“Shoot, I didn't say anything. I just paid for my gas and got out of there!”

Jesse laughed aloud, and it suddenly occurred to him that he had not laughed in at least two years. A rush of well-being came with the laugh.

“I think I've still got his card somewhere,” she said, blushing.

Jesse laughed again.

“I like the way you talk,” she said.

“You mean, my hillbilly accent?”

“Yes. There's nothing like it in St. Clair. Everything has a sort of sameness about it around here.”

“Seems like a beautiful part of the country.”

“I guess it is. You tend not to notice when it's all you've seen all your life. What's it like where you come from?”

“We've got mountains, too, but smaller ones, with lots of pine trees.”

“How about the town?”

“Not very different from this one, but not so neat. I think most American small towns are alike.”

She started to say something, but stopped.

 

They ate in the dining room—roast beef, Idaho potatoes and fresh green beans. Jesse and Jenny both had another drink with their dinner. Afterward, she put Carey to bed, and then they went into the living room, where Jesse was surprised to find a piano, and even more surprised to hear her play it well. She played a Chopin etude without referring to the music and something else she said was Mendelssohn that he had never heard before.

“Where did you learn to play so well?” he asked.

“My mother was the piano teacher,” she said. “It would have looked bad for her if I hadn't learned to play. I always enjoyed it, and I still don't let a day go by without playing.”

His mother had taught piano, too, but he couldn't mention that.

She fixed them another bourbon, then switched on the record player and sat down in a chair facing his. Symphonic strains filled the room.

“Beethoven's Sixth,” Jesse said. “The Pastoral Symphony.”

“It's my favorite,” she said.

“I have it on tape in my truck; listened to it all the way across the country. It seemed to fit the landscape.”

“I can't think of a landscape it wouldn't fit,” she
said, then laughed. “Even if I've never seen much landscape.”

“One of these days,” Jesse said, and he found himself meaning it.

She finished off her drink. “One of these days.”

She seemed to mean it, too, or was that his imagination. Jesse finished his drink, and they walked upstairs, pausing on the landing.

“It was a wonderful dinner,” he said. “A fine welcome to St. Clair.”

Again she started to speak, then stopped.

“What?”

“I'm glad you enjoyed it,” she said. “Good night, Jesse.”

“Good night, Jenny.”

 

Jesse lay in bed and tried to sleep, but couldn't. He replayed every part of the evening in his head—the bourbon, the beef, the little girl and, most of all, Jenny. It had been like having a date, and he had given up hope that he would ever again have an evening like that. His breathing was shallow, and his heartbeat rapid. In his whole life, so far, he had slept with only one woman: Beth. Certainly, he was no seducer, but an hour before, on the landing, he had thought for a moment she might say something that would allow him to take her in his arms. A presumptuous, foolish thought. An arrogant thought. This was not a perfect world, he knew that.

There was a tiny creak, and the door to his room opened. He lifted his head from the pillow and looked, but the darkness was too thick, he could see nothing. He could hear, though, and feel.

A rustle of fabric and the covers were pulled back, and she was in bed beside him, in his arms. They kissed eagerly, then struggled from their night clothes.

There was no foreplay, just the immediate, ecstatic joining of two hungry human beings, taking each other quickly and, astonishing to him, because he was so quick, finishing together, muffling their cries so as not to wake Carey.

They lay together, panting. Jesse turned to her. “Jenny, I—”

“I guess you think I'm pretty bold,” she said, interrupting.

“Bolder than I am, anyway,” he said, laughing.

“I got the impression that if I'd waited for you to make the first move it might have been months.”

He laughed again. “You read me well.”

“I don't know what made me do it,” she said. “I guess I was lonely and thought that you were, too. I may be brazen, but it seemed like the right thing to do. You won't hold it against me, will you?”

He lay back and hugged her to him. “I'll just hold
you
against me.”

“Mmmm,” she moaned. “I like it here.”

“I like it here, too.” He had been in St. Clair for little more than twenty-four hours. What a difference a day made!