Executioner's Song, The - Norman Mailer [3]
"Oh, my God," said Brenda, "I wonder how tall he is."
"What?" said Johnny.
She had begun to think he might be short. That would be awful. Brenda was only five feet five, but it was a height she knew well. From the time she was ten years old, she had been 130 pounds, five-five, and wholly equipped with the same size bra as now-C cup.
"What do you mean, is he tall?" asked Johnny.
"I don't know, I hope he is."
In junior high, if she put on heels, the only person big enough to dance with her was the gym teacher. She used to hate like hell to kiss a boy on the forehead and tell him good night. In fact, she got so paranoid about being tall it could have stunted her growth.
It certainly made her like boys taller than herself. They let her feel feminine. She just had this nightmare that when they got to the airport, Gary would only come up to her armpit. Why, she would abandon the whole thing right there. Shift for yourself, she would tell him.
They pulled up to the island that ran parallel to the main entrance of the terminal building. So soon as she got out of the car, there was Johnny over on the driver's side, trying to tuck his shirttail in. That annoyed Brenda no end.
She could see Gary leaning against the building. "There he is," Brenda cried, but Johnny said, "Wait, I have to zip my pants."
"Who gives a shit about your shirttail?" said Brenda. "I'm going."
As she crossed the street between the parking island and the main door, Gary saw her and picked up his satchel. Pretty soon they were running toward each other. As they met, Gary dropped his bag, looked at her, then encircled her so hard she could have been hugged by a bear. Even Johnny had never gripped Brenda that hard.
When Gary put her down on the ground again, she stood back and looked at him. She had to take him all in. She said, "My God, you're tall."
He started to laugh. "What did you expect, a midget?"
"I don't know what I expected," she said, "but, thank God, you're tall."
Johnny was just standing there with his big good face going, um, um, um.
"Hey, coz," said Gary, "it's fine to see you." He shook hands with Johnny.
"By the way, Gary," said Brenda demurely, "this is my husband." Gary said, "I assumed that's who it was."
Johnny said, "Have you got everything with you?"
Gary picked up his flight bag-it was pathetically small, thought Brenda-and said, "This is it. This is all I have." He said it without humor and without self-pity. Material things were obviously no big transaction to him.
Now she noticed his clothes. He had a black trench coat slung on his arm and was wearing a maroon blazer over-could you believe it?-a yellow and green striped shirt. Then a pair of beige polyester trousers that were badly hemmed. Plus a pair of black plastic shoes. She paid attention to people's footwear because of her father's trade and she thought, Wow, that's really cheap. They didn't even give him a pair of leather shoes to go home in.
"Come on," said Gary, "let's get the hell out of here."
She could see then he'd had something to drink. He wasn't plastered, but he sure was tipped. Made a point of putting his arm around her when they walked to the car.
When they got in, Brenda sat in the middle and Johnny drove. Gary said, "Hey, this is kind of a cute car. What is it?"
"A yellow Maverick," she told him. "My little lemon."
They drove. The first silence came in.
"Are you tired?" asked Brenda.
"A little tired, but then I'm a little drunk too." Gary grinned. "I took advantage of the champagne flight. I don't know if it was the altitude, or not having good liquor for a long time, but, boy, I got tore up on that plane. I was happier than hell."
Brenda laughed. "I guess you're entitled to be snockered."
The prison sure cut his hair short. It would, Brenda judged, be heavy handsome brown hair when it grew out, but for now it stuck up hick style in the back. He kept