Nothing but Blue Skies

19

There was a car parked in front of the Jarrell house, not Boyd’s black Chevy half-ton pickup. Frank walked briskly to the house. He shot his cuff to look at his watch, suggesting that there would be many stops today. When he knocked, it was to a jokey little rhythm. He whistled and cast an admiring glance at the scrubby vegetation. The door opened and there stood Mrs. Jarrell: middle height, close-cropped hair, blue tank top and a face that saw through everything. She held the screen door in her hand and kept it between them. Frank was surprised to see her.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said. He could see the little irritated red dots in her armpit where she had shaved. The shadows that fell on her face from the door made her seem even more grave and unreachable than the already frightening tone of her voice.

“I won’t take any of your time. But I do need to reach Boyd. It’s business, that’s all. That’s all it is.”

“Maybe you’d like to come in.”

She opened the screen door a little more, just enough for Frank to sidle through, which he didn’t want to do. It seemed that if he declined he might set her off, and so, as obsequiously as he could, feeling the spaciousness behind him, he turned sideways to enter. She seized him by the shirt and pulled his face to hers, a knot of hatred and the pale ocher eyes of a weimaraner, her words full of spit. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she hissed. “You listening real good? Now get the fuck out.” And then he was looking at the discolored white mass of the locked door. He went around to the side window, which was partly opened.

“I’ll bet you’re a good cook too,” he called out. “Probably have a million friends, bunch of adoring nephews and nieces —” Glass exploded over the top of him as an electric flatiron came through the window. He picked a few shards from his hair. “I’ll catch up with you later. Ciao!”

Now as he drove he took no pleasure in the car. The way out of town had had all the expectation. It almost always does, thought Frank; all the movies, all the old westerns, had their great flavor in the road out of town. Going back to town was always somehow with your tail between your legs, kind of falling-on-your-sword in effect, and was just generally a joyless direction, devoid of chance. But going back with glass shards in your hair and the spit of a stranger on your brow would test anyone’s mettle. He liked to picture Mrs. Jarrell with her hand on her stomach, unable to find satisfaction, heading for the milk of magnesia. And there was no reason, short of the general rat-maze conditions of modern life, that they should not be kind to each other:

“Hello, Mrs. Jarrell. Just looking in. I know you’ve had some troubles lately. Anything you need? Anything I can do?”

“Oh, Mr. Copenhaver, leave it to you to worry about me. I’m adjusting quite well, thank you. In fact, I start today on a continuing education program up to the university. I don’t know if I told you this, but next year I plan to run for the United States Senate. I guess it was time I got on with my own life. I suppose I should thank you for firing Boyd. He got a great job at the White House, greeting dignitaries. George Bush will go anywhere to find hidden talent.”

“I just got lucky. Boyd playfully knocked my hat off my head. When I stooped to pick it up, I suddenly felt a new understanding to his working future.”

“We all just need our own space,” said Mrs. Jarrell. Evidently she felt it was time Frank knew more about her body because she …

The panel truck slid to a stop at Frank’s door and its horn blew continuously. Frank could practically reach out and touch the driver. And Frank could tell by the way the red-faced man was beating his steering wheel with both fists that he had not been driving attentively. He ducked his head apologetically and drove through. Pay attention or die, he told himself.