American Boy - Larry Watson [46]
“And now he has a new protégée, I understand? The young woman the Dunbars have taken in? Is he instructing her as well?”
“She’s mostly making appointments. And doing some bookkeeping.”
“How does Mrs. Dunbar feel about their houseguest? Although I can’t imagine that little china doll complaining about much of anything. And the way she stares up at that husband of hers when they’re out in public? I can’t help it. All I can think is, does anyone fall for that act?”
My impulse was to protect Mrs. Dunbar, but I could only defend one woman at a time. “Mrs. Dunbar feels sorry for her. For Louisa Lindahl. She’s had a hard life.”
“I should say. Getting shot certainly qualifies in that regard.”
“I meant before. But Lester Huston was crazy.”
Mrs. Knurr exhaled a stream of smoke and innocently asked, “Before he met her or after?”
I knew what Mrs. Knurr was implying, but I had no answer for that question. “She came from a real poor family.”
“I’m sure she did.” She finished her drink in one long swallow, the ice cubes bumping against her teeth. “She strikes me as a bit of a plain Jane, but something about her must rile men up. I’ve pissed off a few men over the years, but none of them took a shot at me.”
Mrs. Knurr bent over, but this time it was not an invitation to look down her dress. “Well,” she said, slipping on her shoes, “I’d better get you back to Palmer’s. Phil would probably like your help with cleaning up.”
At Mrs. Knurr’s insistence, I drove once again. Nothing but the big Lincoln was moving at that hour on the curving streets of Rocky Run Acres. The sprawling ranch houses, set far back from the street, were all dark and silent. The smell of Mrs. Knurr’s perfume filled my nostrils and the smoke from her cigarette stung my eyes. And suddenly it occurred to me that this darkened housing development was a kind of adult equivalent of Frenchman’s Forest, a place men and women built for themselves so they could smoke, drink, and conduct their sexual experiments away from judging eyes. When Mrs. Knurr offered me a cigarette, I accepted it and let her light it for me.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“She can’t decide between me and another guy. I’m not exactly sure what to do.” If my evening with the Knurrs had taught me nothing else, I’d learned that a falsehood could be stated without fear of contradiction—my husband has injured his back—and that others would pretend right along with you.
“The thing is,” I gently added, “he’s my friend.”
Only three cars were still in the parking lot when we pulled in to Palmer’s, but my mother’s DeSoto was one of them. I pulled alongside it and got out. Mrs. Knurr slid over. She looked very comfortable behind the steering wheel of the Lincoln, and I wondered if the smaller car belonged to her husband.
“Thank you for your help tonight, Matthew. And don’t forget—if you ever feel like throwing a ball around, Norb would welcome the company.” Although euphemism and metaphor had been the rule that night, this remark was neither.
My mother was sitting at the bar, and Phil Palmer was with her, standing behind the bar. Phil was a buzz-cut, rock-jawed ex-Marine, and he believed his success as a restaurateur was attributable to his policy of giving a customer an occasional free drink or dessert. Some people said he kept a list in his office, so he never gave anything away to the same customer in the same year.
Both Phil and my mother were smoking, and they both had drinks in front of them. My mother’s represented the only drinking she ever did: a single brandy old-fashioned at the end of her shift. Phil, on the other hand, drank from the time he arrived at his supper club early in the afternoon until he left early in the morning. He always drank beer, and never in front of the customers. All the staff knew that the open bottle of Budweiser on the counter just inside the kitchen door was Phil’s, and that it was not to be