Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [49]
I opened the front door and took her arm. As we climbed into her yellow Nova, she was over her initial nervousness, and she began to scold me.
“Did it ever occur to you, Frank, that even a picture postcard mailed in advance would be helpful to everybody concerned?” I rather enjoyed the quality of Mary Elizabeth's voice. Like most schoolteachers of the female sex, she had an overtone of fretful impatience in her voice, and this note of controlled irascibility amused me.
I grinned and tweaked the nipple of her right breast gently through the thinness of her white cotton blouse.
“Don't!” The sharp expletive was delivered furiously, and her blue-green eyes blazed with sudden anger. She set her lips grimly and remained silent for the remainder of the short drive to her farm, where she lived with her brother. As she pulled into the yard and parked beneath a giant pepper tree, I noticed that she had cooled off. The moment she turned off the engine, I pulled her toward me and kissed her mouth softly, barely brushing her lips with mine.
“You do love me, don't you, Frank?” she asked softly, with her eyes glistening.
I nodded, and kissed her again, roughly this time the way she liked to be kissed. One day, when we had first started to go together, Mary Elizabeth had asked me thirty-seven times if I loved her. At each affirmative reply she had been as pleased as the first time. Women never seem to tire of being told, again and again and again.
“Here comes Wright,” Mary Elizabeth said quickly, looking past my shoulder. “We'd better get out of the car.”
We got out of the car and waited beneath the tree, watching her brother approach us from the barn with his unhurried, shambling gait. Wright Gaylord hated me, and I was always uneasy in his presence because of his low boiling point. He worshiped his little sister and had put her through college. Now in his late forties, Wright was still unmarried. He had never found a woman he could love as much as he loved his sister. He hated me for two reasons. One, I could sleep with Mary Elizabeth and he couldn't. After all these years he was bound to know about us, or at least suspect the best. And two, when I married Mary Elizabeth, he knew that I would take her away and he would never see her again. When our engagement had been announced and published in the paper, he had locked himself in his bedroom for three days.
“I didn't get sick or anything.” Mary Elizabeth said as Wright came within earshot. “Frank came home, so I took the day off for a picnic.”
Wright glared at me. His face reminded me of a chunk of red stone, roughly hewn by an amateur sculptor, and then left in the rain to weather.
“When are you leaving?” Wright asked rudely, shoving both hands into his overall pockets deliberately, to avoid shaking hands.
“Now, that's no way to talk, Wright,” Mary Elizabeth chided. “Frank just got home this morning.” She patted her brother's meaty arm. “We're going to The Place for our picnic. Why don't you come with us?”
“I ain't got time for picnics,” he said sullenly. “I got too much work to do. Anyway, I've been meanin' to go to town all week. Give me the keys, and I'll take your car instead of the pickup.”
Mary Elizabeth handed him her keys. “It might do you good to take a day off and come with us.”
Wright grunted something under his breath, got into the car, and slammed the door. We entered the house, picked up a quilt and the lunch basket to take with us, and then cut across the fields for The Place.
We had called it The Place for as long as I could remember. The tiny pool in the piney woods wasn't large enough to be called a swimming hole. Fed by an underground spring that bubbled into a narrow brook about fifty yards up the pine-covered slope, the pool was only big enough for two or three people to stand in comfortably, and the water was only chest deep. The clear water was very cold, even on the hottest days. On a cruel summer day, a man could stand in the pool, his head shaded by pines, and forget