Neal Barrett Jr. (11 page)

“You—hey, you all right?” Howie backed off in alarm. He wasn’t sure what to do. “You burned bad?”

“Just—just a little.” Lorene looked shaken. She kept patting at her skirt, as if this action might make the problem simply go away.

“Cory, I—I’m going to have to get out of this— garment, I’m afraid.” Her face colored just saying the words aloud.

“I’ll step out back,” Howie said quickly, moving toward the door. “You call me when you—”

“No, no, wait.” Lorene nervously chewed her lip. She ran a hand across her cheek. “You better not do that. Miz Laintree, if she was to go out in the garden or anything.” She blew out a breath. “Oh, what am I
thinking
about? Just turn around, Cory. I won’t be a minute getting into something else,”

Howie looked alarmed.

“Cory, it’s all right,” Lorene said. “Just
do
it.”

Howie looked at the wall. He could hear the dry rustle of clothing at his back. He could hear Lorene moving about. He tried not to think about sounds. The room seemed a great deal warmer than he recalled. He wondered if humming might help. If he did it loud enough he couldn’t hear. Oh Lord, that wouldn’t work at all. The girl would think he was a fool.

“Cory …”

“Uh-huh?”

“Cory” … Lorene’s voice sounded funny. As if something was caught in her throat. “Cory, you’re going to think I’m just awful. I—I can’t help it. I don’t know what to do.”

“What’s wrong, Lorene?”

“
Me
. That’s what’s wrong.” Her voice broke again.

“Cory, something terrible is happening in my head. I think I’m caught up in sin.”

“Huh?” Howie swallowed hard. “Well—how caught up do you think you are, Lorene?”

“I guess a whole lot. I never felt anything like this before. Cory, what’s in my head is I want you to—turn around. I shouldn’t and I know it’s wrong. God forgive my weakness but that’s what I think I got to do.”

Howie drew in a breath. “Are you sure, Lorene?”

“I’m real sure, Cory. Just turn around. Please. This is something that can’t be stopped. It’s just got to happen is all.”

Howie turned. Lorene stood halfway across the room. The white dress was on the floor. She wore a thin cotton garment Howie figured was underwear. He knew she was naked underneath. The garment started just above the swell of her breasts and ended right above her knees. Her legs were longer than he’d imagined; it looked as if they went on forever and didn’t stop. She held her hands behind her back, like a little girl caught being bad. Her hair fell over one eye. She wouldn’t look right at him; tears rolled down her cheeks, and she looked all frightened and shy, and something else besides that.

“Oh, God,” Howie said. “You’re pretty as you can be, Lorene.”

“I’m shameful is what I am,” Lorene said. “But I can’t help that, ’cause Satan’s flat got me in his grip. Come over here, Cory.”

It seemed a long way across the room. His legs didn’t want to work right. Lorene looked at him then and raised her hands up high, and Howie thought sure she was going to pray. Instead, she found his shoulders and slid her hands around his neck and drew him close. A sob started in her throat and her whole body trembled in his arms. Howie held her cheeks and kissed her. He was dizzy with the smell of her skin, the heady perfume of her hair. His hand found the curve of her back. He knew he had to be dreaming all this; it couldn’t be happening for real.

“Lorene,” Howie said, “you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.’

“Oh, Cory, yes I do,” Lorene moaned, “I can’t help it but I do!”

Howie dropped his hands to her hips. His fingers burned at the touch. He found the bottom of the shift and slid it up across her waist. Lorene gripped his hands and helped, slipping the garment swiftly over her head, shaking her hair free.

Howie’s mouth was dust-dry. He marveled at the way the sun filtered through the curtains and kissed her skin a dusty shade of gold. Her hard little breasts were set high and wide apart. He reached up and touched them with his hands.

Lorene gasped and closed her eyes. “Cory,” she said calmly, “I reckon we’re going to sin a little more. I don’t see how we can stop.”

“I don’t rightly see how we can,” Howie said. “That’d be awful hard to do.”

Lorene sighed. “Well, if we are we might as well get to it. Thinking about it’s just as bad as the wicked act itself….”

CHAPTER TEN

A
s the day began to fade, shadows lazed across the dirt street to climb broken board fences and unpainted walls. Harsh points of sunlight flashed through the foliage overhead. Locusts chattered in the trees, in the overgrown yards and the gardens gone to seed. Little else stirred in the sultry afternoon.

Howie was fairly sure he hadn’t come this way before. He had no idea where he was and didn’t care. His head was full of Lorene. The sweet taste of her flesh was in his mouth. He could smell the scent of her hair, feel the delicious pressure of her legs across his hack, see her lips stretched tight in the joy of release.

He stopped abruptly in the street, stunned by the pictures in his head. God A’mighty, he wanted to turn right around and go back to her again! Start all over and love her till he flat passed out or maybe died. Hell, dying wouldn’t be bad at all. Not if he could feel her jerk against him once more, hear her ragged cries of delight.

Howie grew hard as a rock at the thought. Lorene hadn’t wanted him to go. Her eyes had filled with tears and she’d said she didn’t want him to stop. Not ever. She had looked right at him and said the words aloud, and Howie had stared at her naked in the afternoon light and taken her again. And that was the best time of all, both of them laughing and crying and loving each other hard and fast in the thrill of desperation, Lorene saying Sister Amelia might walk right in and all the time drawing Howie deeper inside.

Finally, she had helped him to find his clothes and said they’d made enough noise to give poor Miz Laintree a stroke, and Howie had stumbled out the door.

Lord, the girl had drained him dry and left him limp, but he knew he couldn’t ever get enough. There wasn’t any way to do that. Not with Lorene. And there wasn’t nothing
wrong
with it, either. He didn’t feel bad about it happening the way it did, and Lorene said she knew they’d done right. That they’d started out in sin, but it hadn’t ended up that way at all. Somewhere after about an hour and a half, she knew plain lust had turned to something fine and good and the Lord must have meant it that way. She said she felt it in her heart, and Howie said he did too.

He knew this was true. Still, walking back toward town he had a sudden, sobering thought, and an image of Ritcher Jones. He stopped for a minute and felt his throat grow dry. How could he face the preacher now? Jones would see clear through him. He’d know right off what they’d done. Howie was certain of that. You couldn’t hide sin from Ritcher Jones. Even if it likely wasn’t sin anymore. Jones would see them tangled naked in the bed and he wouldn’t see love pure and fine, he’d see dark violation arid corruption of the flesh. And he’d sure as hell figure it was all Howie’s fault. He wouldn’t understand that a Sister of the Church could feel stirrings inside like any other girl. That if the right man came into her life, even a girl as clean and refined as Lorene would have to follow where her heart said to go.

What Ritcher Jones would do, Howie knew, was pray for Howie’s soul and forgive him on the spot—then draw that long silver gun from his belt and put a sanctified hole in Howie’s head. Amen.

Maybe, Howie reasoned, if he avoided the hotel for a while, the pictures in his mind might fade just a little, and Jones wouldn’t see them real good. It was sure worth a try. He thought about the ships and how they’d look with the sun going down. That would be a good thing to see.

T
he day was nearly gone when he found his way back to the docks, but there was still enough light to see the tall masts sketched against a purple eastern sky. How fine it would be, sailing off across the sea. Ritcher Jones said most of the time you couldn’t even see the land. That was kind of scary, but a person could get used to that. Why, you’d have to if you were a sailor, or someone like Jones who rode ships all the time.

How fast did they go? Howie hadn’t asked Jones about that. The ships he’d seen in the bay under sail didn’t look to be faster than a horse. But that was sure fast enough. And of course you didn’t have to stop and rest. As long as there was a wind you could sail all day and all night.

And in his head right then, Howie saw a picture of himself and Lorene, off on a ship going somewhere no one had ever been before. The ship would stop and let them off; the sailors were good and honest men, and they would promise not to tell anyone where they were.

Howie had to laugh at himself. Hell, there weren’t any places like that. And if there were, the sailors would cut his throat and take Lorene for themselves the first day out to sea. There wasn’t a man alive who could keep from doing that.

T
he place was a few minutes’ walk from the pier and on a street that had lights. Inside, the walls were freshly whitewashed wood. A bar was set along one side, and there were tables in the back where you could sit and order food. Howie asked for potatoes and fried fish. It was still early yet, and there weren’t a lot of drinkers at the bar—a few sailors and workers from the docks. They acted as if they’d been there all day and intended to stay the night.

Past the dining tables at the far end of the bar, four troopers sat around a table playing cards. Howie wished they weren’t there, but there was no use worrying about that. The army was in Alabama Port and meant to stay. At any rate, the soldiers were intent on their game and didn’t notice he was there. An overweight bargirl kept the players supplied with ale. Each time she passed by a skinny trooper pinched her rear: the girl shrieked with delight and seemed constantly surprised.

The potatoes weren’t done but the fish was the best he’d ever had. Howie mopped up his plate with a thick slice of bread and grinned at a secret thought. By God, it was true as it could be. Lovin’ sure made a man hungry. He was starved right down to the bone. If a fella was to wrestle with Lorene every day, he’d have to spend all his coppers on food—just to keep from getting weak and falling down. He laughed aloud at that, and two stout merchants at a table close by looked up and frowned. Howie grinned back and the men turned quickly away, likely thinking he was crazy or a fool. Well, they could by damn think what they liked.

Howie ordered a cup of ale and another after that. The more he thought about food and Lorene, the funnier the joke seemed to be. After a while, the merchants got up and found a table near the door.

A
s it had the night before, dry heat lightning raced across the summer sky. Howie had felt fine in the tavern, his head full of fanciful thoughts. He’d find Lorene and steal a horse. Ride west and then south to Mexico. They’d be long gone before Ritcher Jones guessed they were even out of Alabama Port.

At the time, it had all seemed easy enough. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do. Now, on the street again, the stifling night air seemed to wilt all his dreams. His head felt full of nails and the ale had gone sour in his belly.

Goddamn it, isn’t none of that ever going to be. Lorene’s going off to California. And I’m not going anywhere at all.

Howie kicked savagely at an empty whiskey jug and sent it shattering against a wall. A pair of drunken sailors cursed him from the far end of the alley, then laughed at what they had done.

It wasn’t right at all, Howie thought. He didn’t want to let her go. And Lorene didn’t want to leave
him
, he knew that. Lord, he didn’t have to wonder about Lorene, not with the thought of her bare-ass naked astride his thighs, her eyes rolled back in her head. She liked lovin’ as much as he did, and there wasn’t any doubt about that.

Howie saw the man coming toward him, cutting a dizzy path down the street. He was singing to himself, taking slow, exaggerated steps, as if that might do the trick.

Howie had to grin. At least he wasn’t near as drunk as that. The way the poor fellow was going, he’d take half a week to get home.

“Wunnerful night,” the man muttered as he passed. “Goddam wunnerful night,”

“Sure is,” Howie said, giving the drunk a wide berth. The man lost his footing, reached out, and caught himself against a wall, muttering and trying to find his feet.

“Might be a good idea to stop and take it easy, friend,” Howie said. “Seems to me y—”

Howie felt a chill clutch his spine. He was staring right into the barrel of a pistol, and the man’s eyes were sober as his own.

“Raise ’em.” The man grinned. “Just back up slow against the wall. Move blow your damn brains all over the street.”

“Mister, I got a few coppers, that’s all,” Howie said carefully. “You’re sure welcome to ’em. I ain’t looking for any trouble.”

“And I’m not looking for any coppers, Howie Ryder. What I’m looking for is you.

Howie’s heart nearly stopped. Too late, he recognized the skinny trooper from the tavern, the one who liked to pinch barmaids on the sly. Howie cursed himself for a fool. He’d never caught the man looking at him at all; he had never once given himself away.

“Guess you got the wrong man,” Howie said, forcing an easy grin. “Name’s Cory, and I—”

The barrel of the weapon was a blur. Howie tried to jerk away and the iron struck him hard across the brow. The pain was like a cannon going off in his head. He went to his knees and retched. Something far off in a place that didn’t hurt said,
Get the damn pistol from your belt—do it now!
He reached feebly for his waist. The man kicked him in the ribs. Howie groaned and brought his knees up under his chin. A boot found his back, then a hand snaked down and found the pistol under his coat. Howie heard it hit dirt, and knew the man had tossed it away.

“Sit up,” the man said harshly. “I ain’t goin’ to kill youlyin’ down.”

“Why the hell not?” Howie spat blood on the ground. “Boy, you want some more kickin’, that’s purely up to you.”