When the Light Goes Page 9

  Both girls began to cry again.

  “You’re not giving us a chance, Daddy!” Nellie cried. “You’re just not giving us a chance!”

  “No, I’m giving my heart a chance,” Duane said. “I’m giving it a chance by taking it to a really good hospital.”

  The girls gave up and went back into the cabin to use the bathroom. Anne Cameron got up, walked over to Duane, and stood on tiptoe, as if she meant to whisper something in his ear. Instead she bit his earlobe lightly. It startled Duane hugely—he jumped back, remembering as he did that Honor Carmichael had stuck her tongue in his ear before going on to more serious caresses.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Boss Man,” Annie said, smiling.

  Duane had set himself to resist Annie Cameron—even to dislike her—but now that she was beside him his resistance wouldn’t hold. She seemed eager to make mischief of some kind, between him and his daughters or him and Honor; hers seemed to be likable mischief, with no real malice in it. He couldn’t dislike her. One minute she was demure, the next minute she was biting his earlobe.

  “I won’t kiss anybody who chews tobacco,” Annie said. “Sort of limits my romantic life here in Copenhagen country, Mr. Moore.”

  “I’ve never chewed,” Duane told her.

  “Then we should get rid of your girls and fuck like snakes,” Annie said. “You can decide for yourself the great question of whether young pussy is better than old pussy. Want some chewing gum?”

  Duane took the chewing gum.

  “Whatever we do, or don’t do, I don’t think we need to let my daughters know we’re doing it or not doing it.”

  “Oh sure,” Annie said. “Let ’em be mad at you about Honor Carmichael. They don’t need to be mad at you about me—or mad at me about you. They are your children—better to keep the peace as best we can.”

  She took a pen out of his pocket and wrote an address and phone number on the back of his checkbook.

  “My apartment,” she said. “I’ll ride back to Thalia with the girls and meet you in Wichita Falls in about an hour and a half. I grew up in Tiburon, California, where it’s cool. I’m afraid I’d pass out in no time in that cabin of yours. You don’t really have some big objection to air-conditioning, do you?”

  Duane shook his head. His daughters were just coming out of the cabin, fanning themselves.

  “Don’t take every word I say seriously,” Annie said. “I talk wilder than I actually am. I’ll bring some shrimp and cottage cheese and tomatoes. We don’t really have to fuck like snakes. We can just eat shrimp salad and get to know one another a little, if you’d like to.”

  “I’d like to,” Duane said.

  26

  ANNIE CAMERON’S “PAD,” as she liked to call it, was an apartment in a nice part of town, near the country club. Karla had several times tried to get Duane to move to that very part of town, but he could not be persuaded. Now, driving in the early dusk, he smiled at the thought of how mad Karla would be if she knew he was driving to that very part of town to see a young woman her son had hired—a young woman who casually let her nipples show when at work. Though Karla had been dead two years, he could imagine her outrage vividly.

  Driving into town to meet Annie, Duane found himself pondering what, if anything, he owed Honor Carmichael. Their day of sex left him more in love with Honor than ever—but it had clearly not been the same with her. She wasn’t in love with him at all, and didn’t pretend to be. She had more or less let him know that she would probably take the woman painter as a lover pretty soon. Perhaps she would discover that she wanted a little more time with him—but probably not much more time. Also she had suggested that he needed to loosen up and find more sex. Plainly, in her opinion, he needed practice.

  Annie Cameron had seemed to offer a sexual opening when she suggested that they get together and fuck like snakes, but then she had immediately retreated from that statement. She had bitten his ear, of course, but that was probably just showing off.

  So he was at sea, really. He loved Honor Carmichael and he was unable to dislike Annie Cameron, the tall, playful girl from Tiburon, California.

  Anne’s apartment was on the second floor of a posh—for Wichita Falls—apartment complex. As he walked past her window he smelled shrimp grilling. Anne opened the door before he rang the bell; she was dressed demurely in a white shirt and slacks. She was wearing a bra—he could see the straps—and had tucked up her hair. She looked like a nervous teenager.

  “I guess this is the moment of truth,” she said. “I’m about to let a man into my apartment. I haven’t, you know, since I arrived a month ago—you’ll be the very first male to cross my threshold.”

  “Because of the chewing tobacco, I expect,” Duane said lightly.

  “No, it’s because I’m scared of men—particularly of large uneducated men.”

  Duane smelled bourbon on her breath. There was a candle at the little kitchen table—when Annie reached to light it her hand shook.

  “I’m extremely nervous,” she admitted, not looking at him. “If you’ll just hold steady I might settle down.”

  “Maybe if I had a drink of whatever you’re drinking we’d both feel a little steadier,” Duane said. “Those shrimp smell good.”

  “They are good,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind Thai noodles. It’s interesting that I don’t feel scared of you.”

  “Why would you be?”

  “Because mostly I’m scared of men,” she said. “Bourbon with ice or bourbon straight?”

  “I’ll get it,” Duane said. “You’ve got those noodles to think of.” He felt a sense of relief. The evening had seemed as if it might involve a sexual challenge, but it was already clear that that was unlikely. Annie Cameron was like a gawky teenager, who was nervous at the thought of making dinner for her parents—or maybe for her boyfriend’s parents. It had been a long time since anyone had been nervous about making dinner for him.

  There was almost no furniture in the apartment—a long couch, a futon, a desk with a computer on it, a small table, a flat-screen TV, and two chairs.

  “I know, it’s minimalist—but it’s okay for a six months stay,” Annie said. “Do you think you could subtract from our relationship every single word or gesture that I’ve said or made to you that might be considered a sexual invitation?”

  Duane smiled. “You mean you didn’t mean it when you bit my ear?” he said, taking a warming swallow of bourbon.

  “No, and I didn’t mean it when I said we should fuck like snakes, either,” she said. “Besides which it was a lie the day I met you when I told you my nipples got hard because I was thinking about my sexy boyfriend, Ruel. I never had a boyfriend named Ruel—my nipples just got hard because of the office air-conditioning. The fact is I haven’t had much sexual experience.”

  She scooped the grilled shrimp onto a plate and put it on the table.

  “I feel compelled to act as if I were hot to trot, but in fact I’m not hot to trot. I never let my boyfriends shave my legs or do anything like that. The only thing I’m really good at is geology. I may be a dud in bed but I can really find out what’s under the rocks.

  “But enough about me, let’s eat,” she said, slicing a couple of fresh tomatoes. She put a steaming bowl of Thai noodles on the table and set out a couple of sauces for the shrimp.

  The food was delicious. Duane was awkward with chopsticks, which was all that had been provided. His awkwardness was so obvious that at one point Annie leaned across the table and guided his hand until he got the hang of it. She didn’t meet his eye, but she was clearly relieved that he liked her food. And Duane really did like it. His eating had been erratic lately—it was nice to be offered delicious food that he didn’t have to cook himself.

  The cook, though, was in a low mood. She had three drinks—Duane had two.

  “I suppose most of us try to pretend that we feel sexier than we do,” Duane told her. “It’s no big sin. I kind of thought you were just play-acting anyway.”<
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  Annie looked at him thoughtfully, but she didn’t smile.

  “Did it make you think I might be fun to fuck?” she asked.

  Duane nodded.

  “I’m not really fun to fuck, though,” she said. “The Copenhagen cowboys don’t want to hear that. They’re sure I’m fun to fuck. But I won’t kiss them or fuck them either. Let ’em burn, I say.”

  “I expect you’ll be glad to get to Indonesia,” he said. “You can eat food like this every night.”

  “Yes, but otherwise it won’t be very different,” Annie said. “Lots of men will want me and I won’t want them at all. The only difference is that they’ll be chewing betel nut, not Copenhagen.”

  She looked bleak. Duane got up, took his plate to the sink, and put an arm around Annie Cameron’s shoulder. She took his hand and held it gratefully.

  “That’s a really comfortable couch,” she said. “I bet it’s more comfortable than the bed in your cabin. You would be doing me a huge favor if you’d sleep on it tonight—chastely, I mean.”

  “Okay, fine,” he said. “It’s pretty sultry out at my old cabin. Most nights I end up sleeping outside.”

  He wondered if she would explain why she wanted him to sleep on the couch—but she didn’t. She disappeared into her bathroom and emerged in a bathrobe and old flannel pajamas.

  “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I got here,” she said. “I’m too scared of being raped. These apartments have such flimsy doors. Some big linebacker type could bust right in and catch me. I’ve rejected dozens of them. I guess I just worry that one of them will get mad enough or drunk enough to come after me.”

  “Have a good sleep,” Duane said.

  The couch was indeed very comfortable. The two drinks had relaxed him and yet he didn’t sleep for a while. He heard Annie Cameron thrashing around on the futon. At some point she turned on her little radio, very low.

  At five in the morning, just as the light was coming, Annie eased down on the couch beside him.

  “Could you just hold me, Mr. Moore? I’ve been having real bad dreams.”

  Duane held her as requested. Very soon her breathing evened out and she slept. Duane held her for a couple of hours—mainly she smelled young, as his daughters had once smelled young. Annie made, from time to time, little shiftings and adjustments in her position. The couch was spacious, there was plenty of room, but Annie’s movements were tropic—she wanted her body as close to his as possible. At one point he had to turn himself to conceal from her that he had an erection. The last thing he wanted was to scare her, sexually.

  When she finally awoke, about seven, she lay in his arms and looked blank, as children do when they haven’t quite got their sleep out.

  “My goodness, Mr. Moore, thank you,” she said. “That’s the best sleep I’ve had for months.” Her voice was the voice of a sleepy teenager.

  “Thank you so much—I mean so much!” she said. Then she squeezed his hand.

  “You’re welcome,” Duane said.

  27

  “WANT SOME EGGS PROVENÇALE, Mr. Moore?” Annie asked—she was fully awake but had not moved from his side on the couch. Her pajama shirt had hiked up a little, exposing her belly button. She seemed to trust Duane completely, as a child trusts.

  “I might if I knew what they were,” he said.

  “They’re just eggs, with some tomatoes and garlic, or maybe some herbs,” she said, jumping up suddenly.

  “You don’t have to call me Mr. Moore,” he told her. She was already cracking eggs into a skillet.

  “You could just call me Duane—everybody else does,” he said.

  Annie looked at him gravely and shook her head.

  “You may call me Annie, but I want to call you Mr. Moore,” she said. “I don’t quite know why—I think it just sounds more respectful. And, on the PR front, it’ll help a little when people find out we’re living together.”

  The remark startled Duane. Was he now living with Annie Cameron—after all, it had just been one night.

  “I know—just one night,” she said. “But you liked staying with me, didn’t you?”

  She was squeezing oranges.

  “I sure did,” he said.

  It earned him a delightful smile.

  “And I liked having you—whole wheat toast okay?”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t you think you’ve kind of worn out your recluse-in-a-cabin thing?” she asked, serving him some orange juice.

  Eggs Provençale with whole wheat toast followed shortly. The breakfast was as tasty as the dinner had been.

  “You eat, it’s my time to run—I usually do three miles,” she said.

  A minute later, in running garb, she slipped out, returning twenty-odd minutes later dripping sweat. She went straight to the shower, emerging in her work clothes: cutoffs and a plain man’s shirt. She dumped bananas, strawberries, apples, and grains into a blender and made herself a smoothie. Then she sat at the table with Duane and sucked down the smoothie, leaving a little strawberry ring on her upper lip.

  Duane felt at ease, happy just to sit and look at Annie.

  “When’s Boston?” she asked.

  “One week from today.”

  Annie looked at a thoroughly marked up calendar on her refrigerator door.

  “I’d go with you and look after you but Dickie said I have to be in San Angelo that week—we’re trying to tie together a big lease.”

  “I’ll be fine in Boston, I expect,” Duane said.

  “I know,” she said. “You’ll be fine. But I want to be helpful. Why don’t you move in for a week? I could feed you really good food—sort of build you up for your trip.”

  She looked momentarily nervous, as if fearful that he would turn down her invitation, but he had no intention of turning it down. He felt quite comfortable with Annie and she was mostly comfortable with him. Why not move in?

  “That’s fine—all I have to move are my toiletries and maybe a change of clothes.”

  Annie stopped fretting and looked at him—there was relief in her look.

  “You mean you’ll just do it?” she asked.

  “Yep,” he said. “I like being here. I like you. Why wouldn’t I stay?”

  “That’s so great!” she said. “If it wasn’t against the rules I’d kiss you.”

  Duane didn’t say a word, but he found himself hoping that one day kissing wouldn’t be against the rules.

  28

  THAT NIGHT Annie served him grilled halibut and English peas, plus tomatoes, of course, and a salad. Duane had spent the day relaxing in her apartment. Rather than drive out to his cabin to collect his toiletries, he bought new toiletries at a Circle K. In the afternoon his spirits slipped a bit. He wondered if Annie might just be passing through an insecure phase. Once she got through it she might not want an old man taking up space in her apartment. Besides that she was due to leave in five months—he could already sense how much he would miss her.

  But when Annie came skipping in with their meal his spirits rose at once. The gossip from Thalia was that Jessica had thrown a hammer at Bobby Lee—the hammer missed Bobby but hit his bird dog, Cotton, who now traveled with a limp. Duane felt very happy as he watched Annie prepare their meal. Perhaps she felt happy too, because she kept looking at him and smiling. In relief—if that was what it was—they both drank too much bourbon. In trying to help her wash up Duane stumbled and broke a dish.

  “Mr. Moore, you could just let me do this,” Annie said lightly, though she took the broken dish in stride. For a time they merely sat together, both tipsy, on the couch.

  Then Annie disappeared and emerged ready for bed. Again she wore flannel pajamas and an old bathrobe.

  Again, she thrashed on the futon, while Duane dozed on the couch. At four A.M. Annie stumbled to the couch.

  “Bad dream,” she mumbled.

  “I’ll hold you,” Duane said.

  He held her—at one point she threw a leg over him, as a teenager might.
She slept with her mouth open—he could see her teeth. At one point she gasped. Then she said “don’t.” He didn’t think the word was meant for him.

  Again, when she awakened, she looked blank for several minutes.

  “I’ve never slept this deeply before,” she told him. “I got us lox for breakfast.”

  Then she went back to sleep.

  29

  “IT’S LIKE I’m a split personality, Mr. Moore,” Annie said. “In my work I’m totally organized and competent—but in my life I’m not.”

  She had come out of the shower with a towel around her head, topless, in jeans, nervous because she was apt to be late for work. Duane was washing up after their lox and bagels. Annie was all legs and shoulders, small-breasted, and in a hurry. When she stepped into the kitchen area to take a quick sip of espresso, one of her breasts brushed his arm—she didn’t notice, but he did.

  “It’s this goddamn air-conditioning,” she said. “It’s too cold and it makes my nipples perk up. Then guys wander in and make the mistake of thinking that it’s them I’m interested in, which is not the case.”

  She spotted a bra in a pile of laundry, put the bra on, put her shirt on, grabbed the black bag with her laptop in it, and started for the door. But then she whirled, came back to the kitchen, and gave him a hug.

  “Don’t break all my dishes,” she said, and left. Duane went to the window and watched her slip into the Lexus—just before she closed the door she looked up at him, waved, and gave him another dazzling smile. It was as if she knew he would look at her at just that moment. She had counted on it. Unconfident as she was in many ways, she wasn’t unconfident of her appeal to him.

  Later, feeling a little restless, Duane drove over to Mike and Tommy’s for lunch. Bobby Lee’s new pickup with the oversized tires was parked there when he drove up.

  “Where have you been?” Bobby Lee inquired, when Duane walked in. “I’ve been out to the cabin two nights in a row to see if you wanted to help me lay a trotline but you wasn’t there. And you wasn’t in town, either.”