American Boy - Larry Watson [74]
The driveway was partially cleared—perhaps the result of the twins’ enthusiastic but inefficient shoveling—but I managed to park the Valiant in its usual spot in the garage. When Johnny and I left the house that afternoon, the wind had stacked snow on the porch so high we practically had to climb over a drift to leave. But during our absence the wind had shifted and now the path in and out of the back door was as clear as July. I entered quietly and paused in the kitchen to announce my presence. “Hello,” I said. “It’s Matt. Anyone up?”
No one answered. I slipped off my shoes and padded into the house’s quiet, warm interior. In each room I called out softly, but there was no response.
I found Mrs. Dunbar in the living room, asleep on the couch. On the table next to her was an ashtray brimming with lipstick-stained cigarette butts smoked right down to the filter, and the cup she had been drinking coffee from didn’t have a saucer.
I probably could have crept through the house and completed my mission without waking Mrs. Dunbar or her daughters, but I didn’t want to take a chance. For a moment I stared at her. Her hair was mussed, her mouth was open, and her skirt had ridden up above her knees. What won’t you do that Louisa will?
“Mrs. Dunbar,” I whispered.
She was stretched out on the couch and didn’t stir. She was wearing the clothes she had worn that morning to church, and her pearl necklace—those omnipresent pearls—were twisted and tugged tight to her throat.
I crouched down beside her, close enough to hear her breathing. “Mrs. Dunbar?” I said, louder this time.
She came awake suddenly, but without a physical start, as if her body lagged well behind her mind. Her eyes blinked open, and she recognized me. “Matt?” she said, but she was already looking past me.
“I came alone,” I said. “I was afraid my mom would be worried, so I drove back in your car. The others will come later tonight or tomorrow morning.”
“Johnny—?”
“Johnny’s with them.” It took a moment for the import of what I told her to take hold, but once it did, her relief was visible.
“He decided to ride back with his dad,” I added.
“I called your mother earlier—”
“Yeah, but I just thought it would be better if I came back sooner rather than later. You know. She worries. Because of what happened with my dad.”
She smiled kindly at me and sat up, careful to tug her skirt down in the process. “You’re a good son, Matt.”
I stood up. “Well, I don’t know about that ...”
“And a good friend to Johnny. When the two of you left this afternoon I wasn’t worried because the two of you were going. I knew Johnny would be all right with you along.”
There was so much I could have said. You didn’t send both of us; you sent Johnny and you didn’t know, at least not at first, that I’d go along. And did you really believe that Johnny would be all right? But what was the point? I knew very well what Mrs. Dunbar was doing. She was smoothing her skirt and rearranging the collar of her blouse and straightening up the past, bringing it all in line with who she had to be. Like Louisa, like me, Mrs. Dunbar had her own list of what she had to do in order to create herself in her own image. Though she didn’t have to write anything down.
“Johnny drove,” I said. “I was just along for the ride.”
The room was dark, but Mrs. Dunbar saw something darker. “Matt, is that a bruise? On the side of your face?”
She reached up tentatively, and I wanted to crouch down again, to come close, to feel her cool fingers where my head still throbbed from her husband’s fist, to feel a mother’s touch....
“I slipped getting out of the car in Bellamy. Fell right on my face.”
“If Rex were here he could take a look at it.”
“He already did. He said I should be more careful.