"Something about it raining," Long said.
"Mister, excuse me, will you?" He got up and left the dining room.
Lowell Holbrook was in the lobby emptying ash trays and picking up the Sunday paper from chairs. He'd traded shifts with the day bellboy so the boy could go somewhere. If Lowell hadn't traded he wouldn't be standing in the lobby with Frank Long coming toward him. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to talk to the man because he was afraid he'd be nervous and maybe say the wrong thing. But it was too late to pretend he hadn't seen Mr. Long looking this way and raising his head as a sign he wanted him.
Frank Long didn't wait but came over to him. "Didn't I see Mrs. Lyons a minute ago?" "She left," Lowell said.
"What do you mean she left?"
"I guess she wasn't feeling good. She went home a little early."
"Doesn't she live in the hotel?"
"No, sir. She did for a while. Then she rented herself a little house." Damn--he hadn't wanted to say sir. It just slipped out.
"You say rented herself. Don't she live with her husband?"
"No, sir." There it was again. "I guess her husband's dead."
"That's too bad," Mr. Long said. He turned without another word and walked out. Lowell moved over to the door and saw him get in his car.
Now what was he up to?
Talking to him hadn't been so bad. Except the calling him sir. Earlier that morning Lowell had called Mr. Baylor from the office when no one was there and told him about the BAR rifle in Frank Long's suitcase and the man saying he used it for hunting.
"I reckon he does," Mr. Baylor had said. "Wouldn't a gun like that be against the law?" "Not if you are the law yourself."
Mr. Baylor had told him then that Frank Long was a federal man. "Everybody will know it soon' enough," Mr. Baylor had said. "But, Lowell, they don't have to know anything about that gun. All right?"
From the hotel entrance Lowell watched Frank Long drive off down the street, the same way Mrs. Lyons had gone. He thought about the BAR rifle again, upstairs in the room. He pictured himself going up to 205, opening the door with a passkey, and walking out with the whole suitcase.
Then what would he do with it?
There he'd be coming down the stairs as Frank Long walked into the lobby and looked up at him.
No, sir, there were things that were exciting to think about, but nobody with a brain in his head would ever do them in real life.
Frank Long spotted Mrs. Lyons before she was three blocks from the hotel. There, looking at the drugstore window, then moving along to the corner and into the noon sunshine, her dark hair taking on a glint of light: she looked fresh and probably smelled nice, took soapy baths with something in the water like perfume. A good-looking woman with a soft, warm body. Yes, sir, Frank Long decided. He watched her until she was in the next block, then gave the car some gas, got up to her, and swung in close to the curb.
"Mrs. Lyons?" He waited for her to look over. "Hop in, I'll give you a lift."
She didn't recognize him immediately. As she did she said, "Oh, I'm almost there, thank you."
"I don't see any houses along this street."
"The next street where you see the church? I live just up the hill back of there. Say"--now she put a little hint of surprise in the soft, southern-gentlewoman tone of her voice--"how do you know where I'm going?"
"I understand you're not feeling so good."
"I'm just tired I think."
"Then get in, I'll take you."
"Thank you--but I think the fresh air and sunshine will do me more good than anything."
Frank Long grinned at her. "It ain't going to make you look any better than you do."
"Well, thank you very much." Kay Lyons nodded politely and smiled, then let the smile fade as she turned away from him and continued on, hearing the car engine idling at the curb. She wasn't going to look back; not yet. She took her time and didn't glance over her shoulder until she reached the corner. He was still sitting in the car.
Still there as she turned the corner and crossed the street diagonally toward the Baptist Church and walked up the road past the churchyard and the fenced-in cemetery. She knew he was going to follow her, in the car or on foot, to see where she lived. There was nothing she could do about it. If he came to her house and knocked on the door she wouldn't answer. She was tired of smiling and being polite to salesmen and railroad agents and timber buyers in their muddy high-laced shoes: ten hours a day at the hotel, being bright and efficient. If she didn't smile or get a little sparkle in her eyes or make herself laugh--if she just acted natural--they say, "What's the matter with her?"
Kay had the feeling her life was slipping by, leaving no more than a few fading pictures in her mind. She saw herself as a little girl, little Kay Worthman, shy and skinny and scared to death of her cousin Virgil. She saw a pretty girl in high school, her hair marvelled into tight curls, honor student, and secretary of her graduating class. She saw the bright, neatly dressed young lady with the good position in the hotel office, assistant to the manager when she met Alvin Lyons, who came through Marlett once a month with his sample case of drugs and pharmaceuticals. She had dated Alvin Lyons whenever he came to town: thirteen dates with him before they became engaged and eleven more before she married Alvin in the Old Regular Baptist Church and left Marlett as Kay Lyons.
The next five years were fading pictures of her life in Louisville:
The red brick duplex on the street of two-family houses; she saw the house in the fall, when it was raining.
The garage that was empty all week with Alvin on the road.
The library books on the coffee table and the bedstand.
The movie theater three blocks from the house; the Ritz it was called.
Alvin coming home with his sample case late Friday evening, the tired smile and the kiss before he took off his hat and coat.
Alvin studying his correspondence course in business every Saturday afternoon at the dining-room table.
Alvin leaving the house every Monday morning before it was light; leaving it the last time.
Finding him in the tightly closed darkness of the garage, lying beneath the car's rumbling exhaust pipe, his body wedged against the double doors.
The last picture of Alvin Lyons was clear and perhaps it would never fade. Kay would see him lying on the oil-stained cement and sometimes she would want to shake him until his eyes opened and say to him, "Why did you do it? Why did you let me think everything was going to be all right? Why did you let me give you six years and then kill yourself?"
She was back where she had started, as bright and efficient as before, now manager of the hotel.
But she was also thirty-one years old and she didn't want to be bright and efficient in the service of others or the manager of a county seat hotel. She wanted to be herself and not have to concern herself with people. She wanted someone to take care of her, someone who was as sensitive and perceptive as she was, someone she could rely on and trust and know would always be there. It seemed so simple. She just wanted everything to be right.
The house she had rented for thirty-five dollars a month wasn't at all right. It was dismal inside and smelled old and the floors creaked. The only good points, it was a comfortable walk from the business district and it was private: a tiny one-bedroom place that had once been a tenant farmhouse, sheltered by cedars and overlooking rolling pasture fields out of the back windows.
Crossing the ditch to the front yard, Kay looked back the way she had come, far down the empty gravel road to the cemetery and the red-brick church standing on the corner. There was no sign of him. Soon though, she was sure, a car would drive slowly past the house. The car would turn around and come back and this time would stop.
Kay let herself in the front door. She did not seem outwardly surprised or startled to see Son Martin in the easy chair, but as she closed the door behind her she said, "God, you scared me. I didn't see your truck."
Son had lowered the newsp
aper and was looking at her from the chair. "It's in the shed. Hey, you're early, aren't you?"
"You were behind the paper," Kay said, "I don't know why, I had a funny feeling you were going to be someone else."
"How many keys to this place did you give out?"
"I mean it. It was an awful feeling." "Listen, I brought most of a quart jar--if you want something to relax."
"He followed me," Kay said. "Frank Long."
She stared at Son until he got up from the chair and moved to the front window. Looking out, holding open the curtain, he said, "I guess you know who he is and about last night."
"In the lobby this morning," Kay said, "people were talking about it who don't even know you."
"By now I bet it's a good story." Son leaned close to the glass pane to see down the road.
"They say he got Mr. Baylor and his men to help raid your still."
"I don't see a car."
"He's there," Kay said, "somewhere. He wanted to give me a ride."
"What kind of a car was it?"
"I don't know. A Ford, I think. He stopped me on the street."
Son looked around as she came over to stand close to him. He smiled a little and said, "Well, sure he would."
"He was in the dining room just before I left. Mr. Baylor came in and they talked for quite a while."
"Have you talked to Frank?"
"No. Only when he registered last night and a few minutes ago."
"Did he tell you he knew me?"
"I heard that this morning. When you were in the Army."
"We weren't good friends, but sometimes we'd go out and have some drinks." Son shook his head, thinking about it. "I've drunk too much with people before, but I never told anybody but him. Kay, why do you suppose I told him?"
"I don't know. I guess because you trusted him."
"I didn't have any reason to. You know, I don't think I even liked him especially. But I told him, the only person I ever told."
"You told me."
"You already knew about it. Like everybody around here."
"But I never thought about it," Kay said.
"It didn't mean anything to me until now." Son half turned from the window, "Listen, why don't we get a little more comfortable." "What if he comes?"
He touched her hip and slid his arm around her waist. "What if he does?"
"Should I answer the door?"
"We won't worry about it this minute." Son could feel the satin slip beneath her blouse and the edge of her ribs beneath the slippery feeling of the satin. Close to his shoulder her brown eyes were watching him, trusting him, and he could feel her breast and hip pressed against his side, the grown woman with the innocent little girl expression. He said, "If you want to take off your shoes or anything, I'll pour us a couple."
She nodded slowly. "Just a weak one. It might make me feel better."
"That's what I was thinking."
"There's a bottle of ginger ale in the icebox."
Son nuzzled her ear and brushed his mouth across her cheek. "There isn't anything we have to worry about. Not anything." He heard her breath come out softly, then kissed her, holding his hand gently against her face.
In the kitchen Son poured whiskey into two glasses, adding ice-cold ginger ale to Kay's. He drank most of the whiskey in his own glass and half-filled it again. Now Son washed his face and hands at the sink and, with a wet hand, slicked his hair down to the side. Drying off with the dish towel he decided to have another pull. This one he took directly from the quart jar. It tasted better out of the jar; it was a strange thing but it was true. Already he could feel the warmth of the whiskey inside him. He felt good.
All morning he'd felt more alive and sure of himself than he'd felt in a long time. He would probably tell Kay or she would notice it. But if she asked him why, he wasn't sure he could explain it.
Frank Long was the cause. (Tell her that.)
Because if Frank hadn't walked in out of the dark, Son was sure he would still be smiling with his mouth closed and being nice to people when he didn't want to be. Bud Blackwell might be partly responsible. Bud had started in on John W. Martin whiskey and it had got Son up on the edge. But it was seeing Frank Long that got him to wipe the dumb smile off his face once and for all and say it out loud.
He felt good because now there wasn't anything bottled up inside him, making him afraid to open his mouth. He had admitted to Frank Long in the presence of more than twenty men that his dad had ran off the whiskey and put it away. They might have known or suspected it before; that didn't count. Now it was official. Admitting it was telling them straight it was a fact and they might as well quit playing with each other. He had the whiskey and they didn't and that's the way it was. They could fool around if they wanted, but if anybody got serious or got close he'd blow them off with a 12-gauge. Son hadn't said all that last night, but admitting the fact of the whiskey was like saying it and he would tell it again to Frank and to as many revenue agents as Frank cared to bring. They could all go home or to hell or hang around here and try Son Martin out; it didn't matter which.
That was the way he felt now, one o'clock Sunday afternoon, picking up two whiskey drinks in the kitchen of Kay's house and taking them into the bedroom.
She had drawn the shade and was standing in her slip, holding the edge of the shade inches from the window, looking outside. When Son was next to her she said, "I don't see any sign of him." She took the drink and sipped it, holding the glass with both hands, looking up at Son's face.
He said, "Don't think about him. All right?" "I can't help it."
"He's not going to bother us."
"It's just--feeling him out there."
"He's probably gone away."
"I hope so."
"Listen, why don't we hurry up and finish these?"
He liked her in a slip. He liked her in a slip knowing there was nothing beneath the smooth cloth but her body. He liked pulling the slip up over her hips and seeing her a little bit at a time. He liked it especially this time of day, the house silent and the sunlight flat against the window shade.
He was aware of the quiet afternoon bedroom and was aware of his brown arm and hard sucked-in belly and was aware of the woman nakedness of her pale skin and dark hair, aware that she was with and around him but also down in alone somewhere behind tightly closed eyes, seeing whatever she was feeling or thinking. He closed his eyes and was aware of a prickle of sweat across his shoulders and after he was down in there with her somewhere holding on and not aware of anything but being where he was at that moment with his eyes closed tight and trying to make it last, until finally it was quieter in the room than it had been quiet before.
Close to him, almost whispering, Kay said, "Hold me."
"What am I doing?"
"I mean hold me."
"Like that?"
"Yes, That's better."
"My arm wasn't right."
"Hold me tighter."
"How about right there?"
"Just hold me."
"You smell good."
"Tighter."
"I don't want to hurt you."
She worked her body tightly against his and lay still.
"I want to hold you, and be held by you every night. Pretty soon we'll be able to."
There was silence. Son opened his eyes, his face against her cheek, his gaze on the sunlight framed in the window. "Pretty soon," he said.
"Maybe in just a few weeks. Let's start thinking about it," she said. "See if we can set a date."
"Kay"--Son paused--"why all of a sudden?"
She opened her eyes and moved her head so she could look at him. "Because all of a sudden we don't have to stay in Marlett. There's nothing keeping us now. We can be married and live anywhere we want."
"We can get married and live up at my place, but you say you won't do it."
"Because if we set up housekeeping here, we'll stay here, I know it. I don't want to grow a little vegetable garden and watch you make illeg
al whiskey. I want to leave here while we have a chance before you think of some reason to stay."
"I've got the same reason I've always had. Maybe I'm dumb or something, but what's changed?"
She frowned, puzzled. "They've found your dad's whiskey."
"Nobody's found it."
"They know you've got it. Once they take the whiskey, there isn't any reason for you to sit up there in your hollow like an old mountaineer. You've said it yourself, the sooner you can leave Marlett, the better."
"Kay, nobody's found the whiskey. I'm going to sell it and make the money, and then we're going to leave here and buy good farmland or a business somewhere, I don't know which or where we're going. All I know right now is they don't have any idea where that whiskey is located. They've looked, but in eight years nobody's found it."
Kay pushed herself up on one elbow. "Son, this isn't a game any more you play with your neighbors. Frank Long is a federal officer."
"You're sure built. Look at them things."
"Honey, if you don't tell them where it is they can make it hard for you and send you to prison."
"They can do that quicker if I do tell them."
"But you didn't make it, your father did."
"That doesn't mean anything. He made it, but I got it. Thing is, they have to prove I got it." Son smiled a little. "They have to find it--Frank Long does. That's one man, and I don't know as he's any better at it than Bud Blackwell or your cousin Virgil or some of the other boys."
"I don't know why you don't see it." She was concerned, worried, and now a hint of anger crept into her voice. "You're dealing with the federal government, not just one man. He'll bring all the officers he needs and if they don't find it they can sit up in the hills forever and watch you, and you won't ever be able to sell the whiskey yourself. Don't you see that?"
"I see a man named Frank Long," Son said. "He's the only one I see and as yet I don't know what he has in mind. I mean I don't know if he's out looking for the government or just for Frank Long, and that makes a difference."
Kay said, "What if we went away for a while--a month or maybe even longer, go somewhere and then come back and see--" She stopped. Son had pressed a finger to his lips. He was looking at her but listening to something else, she could tell. Kay heard the sound then, through the living room and outside: someone on the front porch.