Nightwoods - Charles Frazier [73]
He said, Pretty girl, you’re free to have an opinion, but the court saw it my way and let me go. And now I’m here.
—You were born guilty, and we both know you killed my sister, and the children saw you do it. You did something to them, too.
Luce watched his focus fade, and a moment where he started to get twitchy. Then, like an actor momentarily losing the thread of his character and suddenly grasping it back, he got confident again. He said, Now, why do you want to get going in that direction? Listening to those little bastards’ lies.
—They can’t hardly talk.
—Big surprise. I never knew the natural daddy, but their mama was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. So, what do you expect?
—What I don’t know is why anybody would marry you. But I know Lily was sweet and trusting, and I’m not. I can figure the things you did by how they act.
—You’re letting your private imagination run wild in bad directions. But go ahead on and make up whatever mean stories get you fired up. Nothing to do with me.
Just angry, not really thinking or planning, Luce said, I’m going to get back at you.
—Back at me? Bud said. What does that mean?
—What do you think?
—Well, let’s see. Could mean several things, such as kill me.
—You’d have it coming.
—Now, I’m no lawyer, but you probably crossed the line into conveying threats. Which is how they’ll put it when I go to a magistrate to get a restraining order. Probably be your daddy to serve it.
Luce was caught wrong-footed by the unexpected threat of law and her father against her, and couldn’t come up with anything to say.
Bud went riffing forward without hardly drawing breath. He said, And by the way, pretty girl, who are you to threaten me? You’re not such hot shit around here anymore. Used to be a cheerleader way long time ago. Which I’ve done some imagining about. A lot more wholesome than whatever trash you’ve made up about me. Just saddle shoes and bobby sox and pleated skirts. Wool sweaters with the name of the team animal spelled out across the titties. Red underpants for when you turned cartwheels in front of the crowd. Back here in the sticks, a cheerleader must be about like being a movie star for a couple of years. But then what? All downhill from there. Now you’re living up yonder at the ass end of nowhere, as you hillbillies say. In that old ruin by the lake. All by yourself, except for those retard kids. Real dark lonesome nights, way down that rough dirt road.
Luce’s breathing went shallow and quick. She realized her mouth was partly open. She closed it and drew a breath from deep down and said, How do you know where I live? What I wore back then? How do you know anything about me?
—Public knowledge. Which is simply a bullshit mix of facts and opinions. Not threats. And they can’t do anything to you in this country for stating facts and opinions. Not yet.
—You burned the uniform, didn’t you? Luce said. You’ve been where I live.
—Calm down. All I did was look through some yellow newspapers at the library. You were a tight little piece in those old Friday night pictures.
A SONG PASSED BY and Stubblefield got up and drifted toward the bar looking for Luce. When he got to the back hall, a man stood in the door to the ladies’, and Stubblefield saw the top of Luce’s hair over his shoulder.
—What the hell? Stubblefield said.
Bud turned and grabbed Stubblefield by the front of his shirt and wheeled and shoved him hard inside. The mirror broke. Then all three of them were there with the door closed. Bud clicked the lock behind him.
In the cramped space, Luce and Stubblefield crowded up against the toilet. One bare bulb over the sink, its light fragmented by the spider-webbed mirror. A machine for sanitary napkins to match the rubber machine screwed to the same stud on the other side of the wall, in the men’s.