The Girl from Charnelle (8 page)

“We better go,” she whispered.

“What's wrong?”

“It's just that they're out there all alone.”

“Okay,” he said.

He repositioned her bra with his hand, kissed the outside of the cloth, and then he leaned up and kissed her lightly on the nose and on the lips. She opened her mouth and laughed, not because of nerves but because she felt suddenly light without his weight upon her.

He pulled her to him suddenly, and she kissed him, this time intensely, enough so that the strangeness, the odd displacement she felt before, was gone. She now wished they didn't have to stop. And then she knew, a split second before it happened, that the kitchen door would open.

“Daddy!” It was Jack. “Where are you?”

John opened the door. “In the bathroom,” he called. “I'll be right there.” He raised his eyebrows in a comic double arch, like Groucho did on TV. He closed the door behind him.

She looked in the mirror, ran her fingers through her hair, repositioned the clips, snapped her dress slowly. She turned to go but then stopped. She reached down to the hem of her dress. She inched it up as he had done, over her thighs, over her stomach, past her ribs. She studied the mirror for a few moments. Her body seemed abstract. Not part of her. Not part of what had happened in this room just moments before. How odd.

She expected to feel a knot in her stomach, electricity skittering over her skin, the nervous shaking from before. But she didn't. She felt calm and easy. She liked this feeling.

“Laura,” he called.

“Coming,” she answered.

A
lthough she didn't have her license yet, her father let her drive his truck with Gene, Rich, Jack, and Willie to the Charnelle Drive-in. She filled a big paper bag full of popcorn for them all and made a small jug of lemonade.

On weekends the drive-in showed about an hour's worth of shorts and cartoons early, starting at dusk. She parked the truck, but rather than set up shop in the back of the truck, as her family used to do, they laid an old blanket on the grassy area next to the playground. The kids played during the newsreel, then sprawled out on the grass and watched the screen. It was warm enough to wear short sleeves, even in the evening, and everybody had been commenting on the strange hot weather, but what a nice break it was after nearly two months of shut-up-in-your-house wintry blight.

There were several cartoons—Mickey and Goofy and Donald Duck, Yosemite Sam and the Road Runner (her favorite)—and three long trailers for upcoming films followed them. There was an Elvis movie called
G.I.
Blues,
and an Alfred Hitchcock film,
Psycho,
that had the big, double-chinned director giving a slow, droll tour of the hotel and home where evidently the psycho lived with his mother, and a Marilyn Monroe movie,
Let's Make Love
. Laura felt a jolt of excitement from the title of this last movie and wished that John had been sitting here next to her on the blanket when the words flashed on the screen. She didn't like Marilyn Monroe, though, didn't like that fake pout, hated how she always acted dumber than she was, as if that was what made her attractive. And maybe it did make her attractive, at least to some guys. Maybe that was what they wanted—a willing dummy with hips and breasts, sleepy eyes, and thick lips. It made her kind of sick.

They watched the movie, a remake of
Tarzan, the Ape Man.
She liked looking at Denny Miller, so nicely bronzed but not nearly as good or as handsome as Johnny Weismuller. It was clear that this Tarzan was wrestling stuffed animals, and the Pygmies whose village gets demolished by elephants seemed to be American kids. Jane was a pretty but bad actress that Laura had seen once or twice on television. It was really quite awful, this movie, but the boys got a kick out of it, and she did, too, just watching them. Afterward she gathered up everything and everyone, and they headed back home.

 

Several cars and trucks were in the driveway and on the street outside her house, so she had to park in front of Mrs. Ambling's. She sent the boys to clean up and get into their pajamas. Jack and Willie were sleeping at her house until the poker game was over.

The game had already commenced, all the men crowded around the kitchen table. Jimmy and Bob Cransburgh were there, and her father of course, and Beaver Mitchell, an old silver-haired, deeply wrinkled comic troll of a man who worked at the post office, and Manny and John. It was good to see her father's friends in the house again.

“Hey, there she is. Lucky!” Bob called. “Is she gonna sit on your lap and help you play your hands again, Zeeke?”

“Maybe,” her father said. “Everybody ante up. Pot's not right. How was the show, honey?”

“Good,” she said. “It's really warm tonight.”

“Don't we know it.”

“What's it gonna be, Zeeke?” Bob asked.

“Seven stud, low Chicago.”

She got a glass and poured some tea and ate some potato chips from a bowl on the counter. Beers already littered the table, and everybody had a cigarette dangling from his lips, even Manny. There were two packs of Bicycle cards, one red, one blue, and the money. Her father had a rack of chips, which he rarely used. Everybody liked to see the coins and cash, mainly nickels, dimes, and quarters, with scattered dollar bills. Nobody won or lost much at these games. They were an excuse to get together, get a little drunk, and have some laughs.

Before her mother left, the family used to play—even Gene. Her father had taught them all well. And she was sure she could have won in these games, if her father let her play. But maybe not. When her family played, they played for pennies or toothpicks or with the chips. This was too much money for her. She might not be as bold as she normally was if her own money were at stake.

“Jack of diamonds. No help for the Beaver,” her father said, part of his usual patter when he dealt, a little song that she hadn't heard him sing in quite a while. “Seven of clubs, possible flush for the boy. Eight—a long stretch on your straight, Letig. Another jack for Jimmy. Jacks are cheap, Jimmy. Uh-oh. Look what we have here: a pair of tens showing for old Bobby. And a dinky little three for the dealer. Bet 'em up, tens.”

She watched from the sink, not going too close until asked. John had his shirt undone at the top and his sleeves rolled up. His hair was slicked back except for a messy blond curl that flopped on the top of his forehead. His skin was a little reddish. She flicked her eyes around the table and caught Manny looking at her. He squinched his eyebrows together.

“Bring me a beer, will ya?” he said.

“What's the magic word?” she said.

“Pleeeeeease,” he whinnied.

“You keep these boys in line now, Laura,” Bob said.

She nodded and got a beer out of the icebox and popped the cap.

“Thanks,” Manny said.

John reached out and touched her wrist, and she felt her heart beat fast. He liked to do that sort of thing. Even though he said he worried about the danger, some part of him must have liked the risk. She liked it as well. “Can you get me a beer, too, Laura?” he asked. “Please.”

She smiled and stole a glance at her father, who was studying his cards as a thin wisp of smoke snaked between his eyes.

“Appreciate it,” he said.

“Okay, pot's right,” her father growled. “Beaver's out. Last card up. King, no help for Manny's flush. Don't know why he's still in. Letig's still alive with the straight. Uh-oh: pair of jacks to go with Jimmy's eights. Hard to beat two pair showing. An ace to go with Bobby's tens. And that seven sends me outta here.”

“Oh, come on, Zeeke,” Jimmy said. “Ain't you gonna wait for the spade in the hole?”

“Not much chance there with all these spades showing. Besides, I think Letig is holding the deuce, the way he keeps betting with that hand. Or Manny's got it.”

“Down and dirty, gentlemen.”

“Laura!” Rich called.

She leaned into the living room and said, “Be right there.”

She watched the final betting. Bob folded, too. There was just Manny, Jimmy, and John left.

“Quarter,” Jimmy said, two pair showing.

“Bump a quarter,” John said.

“Let me borrow a dollar, Dad?”

Jimmy protested. “Hey, none of that family-bank shit.”

“Let me see what you have.” Her father looked at Manny's hole cards, then took four quarters from his pile and dropped it on Manny's cards.

“Bump you a quarter,” Manny said.

“Fifty cents to you, Jimmy.”

“Well, shit,” Jimmy said. “Either they got me beat or they're battling for the low spade.”

“You can't go out with the high hand,” her father said.

“I know, I know.” He reluctantly put his money in the pot. “Call.”

“Call,” John said, and dropped his quarter in the pot.

Her father said, “Show 'em.” Manny flipped over his pair of kings and a pair of nines. And a seven of spades in the hole.

“Well, fuck me,” Jimmy said.

“Hey!” her father said and motioned to Laura.

“Sorry, Laura,” Jimmy said.

“It's okay.”

“Did ya get your straight, Letig?” her father asked.

John rolled them over one at a time. Two, three, four, five, six, and a
seven to boot. A straight. The four was a spade, and it had been a hole card. He didn't have to split it. It was all his.

“Shit!” Manny said.

“Lucky bastard,” Beaver muttered.

John smiled widely. “Sorry, gentlemen.” He raked the money toward him. “Hate to take your money like that.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Jimmy said. “Hustler.”

“Are the boys ready to go yet?” John asked her. All the men simultaneously groaned.

“You're not getting out of here after that, you asshole!” Beaver half shouted.

John laughed. He had no intention of going anywhere.

Gene appeared at the doorway and said, “Rich squeezed the toothpaste all over the toilet.”

“I'm coming.”

“Thanks, honey,” her father said.

 

She read the younger boys a book and put them to bed, and then she and Gene returned to the poker game. Gene stood behind Manny for a few hands, grew bored, and went into the living room and read his comic books. She stood behind her father and watched the game, putting her hand on his shoulder. He leaned his head back, his mouth puckered. She offered him her cheek self-consciously, looking at John, but his head was down, like he didn't want to see that.

Her father won a couple of hands while she was standing behind him.

“Not fair,” Bob growled, mock angry, his face flushed from the beers. He'd been guzzling them, she noticed. The trash can was full of bottles. Manny was drinking another one himself; the bottle she'd given him stood empty beside his new one. Bob said, “You gotta share the luck, Zeeke. Pass your daughter around.”

The group of men ooooohed, including John, at the insinuation.

Bob smiled lecherously. “Come over here, Lucky,” he said. “Come to Poppa.”

“Don't go near that old goat,” her father said.

“How about me?” John said, a loopy grin on his face. Laura smiled
nervously and then looked away. He was flirting too close to the edge, she thought. But she liked it, liked how good he was at it.

“You've been lucky enough,” Jimmy said, pointing at John's pile of coins. Several dollar bills were underneath his beer bottle.

“Well, then, that leaves me,” Beaver said.

“I'll tell you what,” her father said. “I gotta take a leak and say good night to the boys anyway. Laura, why don't you play this hand. Embarrass these jackasses.”

“Hey,” Beaver said, “she doesn't know what she's doing.”

“She'll kick your butt if you don't watch out,” her father said. Everybody laughed.

 

She did kick their butts. They played five-card draw, and she had three nines and drew a pair. She bet conservatively from her father's pile, but Beaver had lucked into three fours, so he kept bumping the pot. When she showed them her hand, they all gasped.

Her father returned. “Well, what happened?”

“No more women at the poker table!” Beaver squalled.

The Cransburgh brothers laughed. Manny just shook his head as he gathered up the cards for his deal. John leaned back in his chair, lit another cigarette, and smiled at her.

“I told you,” her father said. “She's something else.”

“That's for sure,” John said.

Her father let her play a couple more hands, despite Beaver's complaints. Beaver stared suspiciously at her. She didn't win again, but once she had a straight. Manny beat her with a flush. Her father gave her three dollars from his pile, and she watched a few more hands and then excused herself.

Gene had gone to bed, and all the other boys were asleep. She sat in the living room and flipped through the
Hollywood Star Gazette,
skimming over an article about Kirk Douglas's upcoming movie,
Spartacus
(he wore no shirt in the cover photo), and an article on Anthony Perkins, whom she had half a crush on when she first saw him as the Quaker boy in
Friendly Persuasion,
so it was hard to believe that he would now be the psycho in
Psycho.

Mostly she listened to the game. She loved the sound of it. She tried to imagine John, his movements, his gestures. He didn't speak much. Once
she heard him say, “Son of a bitch.” Another time he said, “Come here, sweet little momma.” He won a couple of pots. She imagined the smoke snaking before his eyes. Drinking his beer, the edge of his mustache a bit frothy above his red lips. It was hot in the kitchen. Half-moons darkened his shirt beneath his arms. His hairline beaded with droplets.

The men made frequent trips to the bathroom. They'd chat with her for a minute, surprised that she was still awake. Everyone seemed to go except John; she knew he'd have to before long. It was almost midnight. She checked in the bedroom. The boys were still asleep, Willie and Jack on the pallet she'd made them between the beds. She pulled the door shut, went back to the couch, and tried to read, but she dozed and then woke with a start. John was leaning over her.

“Hey, Lucky, you still awake?” he whispered, close to her ear. She could smell his beer.

He looked toward the kitchen, where the light splashed. They listened for a second and could hear her father's patter.

“The boys asleep?” he whispered.

She nodded.

“Sure?”

She nodded again. He motioned toward the bathroom. She let him go first, and then she got up and tiptoed to the hallway, looking back to check the kitchen before she turned toward the bathroom instead of her room. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the bathroom and shut the door, the light still out. He found her lips and kissed her. She put her arms around his neck, and he let his hands slide over her breasts, then down over her hips. They kissed for a silent moment. Then she pushed him away, nervous, thinking she'd heard the sound of a chair moving, someone rising in the kitchen. She'd be trapped in here, caught for sure, if someone waited outside the door for the bathroom. The window was too small for her to slip through, and even if she could, they'd hear her in the kitchen.

They stood still, listened intently. No more sound. She reached up and kissed him again. Their lips smacked together, and she pulled away and almost burst out laughing. He put his hand over her mouth. Then he put a warning finger to his own lips.