 
Cooch Hildreth JOHN MARQUIS MAHONEY francis could hear Corly Jackson's fiddle as the wagon crested the hill behind the village. The
moon was full and well above the easterly ridge and throwing hard shadows
across the river while it shimmered and whispered as it flowed behind the
house and shops and sheds of The Landing. Most of the houses were
darkened, their occupants at the dance. As he approached the store,
Francis noted the muted glow of cigarettes in the shadow on the porch. He
looked straight ahead as he passed his unseen audience.
The music was louder now; Corley had struck up the St. Ann's Reel and
Francis could hear laughter and shouts of encouragement as the dancers
clapped and stomped out the rhythm. He guided the horse into the pasture
next to the Inn, tied her to a post, and slipped on a nosebag of oats. His
collarless white shirt, freshly starched and ironed and buttoned to the
neck, had felt stiff when he left the farm but now it was beginning to
feel limp; he was sweating and his carefully blackened boots were damp
with dew. Francis ran his hands through his wet hair, slicking it straight
back from his forehead. He sniffed his fingers. They smelled faintly of
horse but he didn't mind; he liked the smell of horses.
Francis stopped just outside the opened door; from there he could see
Corley sawing away on his fiddle and his wife, Madge, thumping vigorously
on an upright piano on a platform at the far end of the narrow dance hall
now packed with laughing, sweating dancers sashaying over the sawdusted
floor. At the opposite end of the hall Francis recognized two of his
schoolday tormentors at the bar, a serviceable arrangement of planks laid
over sawhorses and usually presided over by Elvira. The Putvain boys were
leaning against the wall, talking with Lucy as she drew foaming glasses of
beer from a wooden keg.
Lucy had swept her long hair from her neck against the heat of the
evening, piling it high and fixing it with pins, and now fine, red wisps
had escaped and were cascading down the side of her face. There were small
beads of perspiration on her upper lip, her forehead was shiny, and two
damp blotches had appeared on her dress under her armpits.
"Lucy looks hot," said one of the wall leaners.
"Uh huh. Lucy's hot alright, Buster."
Lucy flushed but said nothing.
"How hot do you suppose Lucy is, Rudy?"
"Red hot. Hotter'n a pistol."
"Oh, shut up!" Lucy pushed the two beers to the edge of the bar top.
"You owe me fifty cents."
They both grinned. Buster tossed a dollar bill next to the beers. "What
can I get for that?"
"Two more beers. That's all you'll ever get from me ... woodchuck."
"Be nice now, Lucy..."
But Lucy wasn't paying any attention to him, she was staring at Francis
who was standing just inside the door. His hands were crossed below his
waist in such a way that his extra fingers weren't visible. When he saw
that Lucy had spotted him, Francis dipped his head in a shy salute of
recognition.
"Well, I'll be dipped in shit! It's Dummy."
"Buster Putvain, you stop that," Lucy said. "His name is Francis."
"What say, brother? Let's buy the albeeno a beer."
"Don't you pick on him or I'll have my father throw you out of here."
"Lucy, Lucy. Hold your water. We're just being nice to an old school
mate."
"Yeah, Lucy. Me and Buster like Dummy. We were his pals in school.
Remember how we taught him to swim?" He nudge his brother's elbow.
They were grinning as they walked across the dance floor toward
Francis, who watched them approach with growing apprehension. Maybe coming
to the dance hadn't been such a good idea after all. He crossed his arms
and waited. Lucy watched from behind the bar.
"So, Francis. Out catting tonight, eh?"
Francis smiled and nodded.
"How 'bout a beer?"
"On us."
"Yeah, for old times."
"That's right ... for old times."
Francis shrugged, then nodded assent.
One on either side, their arms around his shoulders, they walked him to
the bar where Lucy waited.
"Hello, Francis. It's nice to see you. How have you been?"
Francis blushed. He held his hands behind his back.
"A beer for our friend Francis, my girl."
"I'm not your girl, Mr. Buster Putvain."
"She's pretty when she's pissed, eh Francis?" Buster slapped him on the
back. Francis took the glass of beer from Lucy and nodded his thanks, then
looked at Buster and Rudy and nodded to them.
"Well, here's looking at you, Francis," Buster said.
"Yeah, bottoms up," Rudy said.
Lucy watched them drink the beer. The light from the chandelier over
the bar glinted off their beer glasses. How light his hair is, even his
moustache. The white shirt buttoned at the neck heightened his paleness.
She noticed that Francis curled his hand under the bottom of his glass.
She wondered what his hand felt like.
"Three more, my girl."
"Don't call me that, Rudy."
"How do you want me to call you, Miss Teacher Lucy Langdon?"
"From a distance, Mr. No Account Rudy Putvain. From a far distance."
"Ain't you smart. Ain't she smart, Francis?"
Francis studied the tiny bubbles rising from the bottom of his glass of
beer. He wiped his mustache. Corley was calling for squares to form up for
a dance and couples were already moving on to the floor. Francis hitched
up his pants over his narrow hips and looked toward Lucy. Now or never, he
thought.
"C'mon, Lucy," said Buster."Let's give it a whirl."
Francis stepped back from the bar. Too late. He probably ought to
leave; it had been a mistake come here.
"Lucy's dancing with me, Buster."
"I spoke for her first, brother."
Lucy was smiling as she came from behind the bar. Both Buster and Rudy
reached for her hand but she brushed past them. "Francis? Shall we?" She
took his arm and led him to the floor where they completed a square.
Elvira watched from the other end of the bar. Corley and Madge launched
into Turkey in the Straw and they were away ... first couple left and
do-se-do...
"Look at that albeeno sumbitch."
"Fucking dummy."
"Shoulda drowneded him."
"Not too late now."
"Nah. Too much like work."
"We could kick his ass for him."
"Maybe later. Elvira, a couple of beers."
Francis was flushed and sweating heavily as the set ended. He motioned towards the open door and looked questioningly at Lucy. "Would you like to get some air, Francis?" As they crossed the dance floor Elvira was frowning behind the bar. Rudy drained his beer, then peered through the bottom of the glass at their distorted images disappearing into the night. Buster said, "Well, I'll be fucked." Lucy could feel the rough bark through the back of her dress as she leaned against the pine tree at the end of the drive. The moon, high in the night sky now, fully illuminated the front yard but half of Lucy's face was in deep shadow. "It's beautiful isn't it?" Francis looked at the moon, then at Lucy. He extended his right hand, pointed at the moon, then slowly brought his hand in front of her breast and pointed at her. He looked directly into her eyes, then ducked his head. Lucy squinted ever so slightly. "Why Francis, that's very nice." The moonlight gleamed on the sweat on her forehead. She reached over and unbuttoned the neck of his sodden shirt. Francis quivered at her touch, his skin went goosey. "Isn't that better?" He nodded, pressing his arms to his sides. "Thank you for the dance, Francis. It's nice that you came tonight. You should dance more often." He looked away, embarrassed. He wanted to touch her, to smell her hair. He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Would you like a beer? On the house?" He nodded. As they walked back up the drive he was careful not to brush against her. Elvira was talking agitatedly with Pincher in the kitchen as Lucy and Francis threaded their way through the dancers. Buster and Rudy were waiting at the bar. "You're a real stud, ain't you, Dummy?" "Buster, I warned you..." "Mind your own business, bitch." "If you're going to talk like that you can leave right now." "We're on our way. Watch out for them extra thumbs." "Buster--Putvain--you're--disgusting!" Rudy brushed past Francis, then turned and said, "See you soon, Dummy." "Yeah, study," said Buster. "Real soon." Lucy drew a beer and scraped the foam from the top of the glass. "Don't pay them any mind, Francis." "Lucy, please come here." She looked up and saw her mothering beckoning from the door leading to the kitchen. Handing the glass to Francis, she excused herself and joined Elvira. "Your father and I don't want you dancing with that freak." "Mother, Please don't say that. Francis isn't a freak." "What about those hands?" "Mother, please! I feel sorry for him. Those Putvains have always picked on him." "Your father and I..." "But mother, he must be so lonely..." "Lucy, Do you have any idea what he does at the Fair? In the girlie tent..." "Oh, a lot of the men go to the hoochy-coochy show. I'll bet Daddy has been..." "Young lady, some of the men told your father that he gets up on the stage with those sluts. And that's not all..." "What do you mean?" "He does nasty things with them ... They give him money to do it..." Lucy shook her head and looked through the open kitchen door at Francis, who was drinking his beer and watching the dancers waltz around the room. "I can't believe that." "Stay away from him. We don't want him hanging around here. He's not our kind." "But mother..." "That's enough, Lucy. What do you think people will say? You'll never get a teaching job ... or a husband." Lucy looked through the door. "Go up to your room, girl. I'll talk to him." Elvira closed the kitchen door and walked swiftly behind the bar as Francis finished his beer. He bobbed his head shyly in greeting. "You'd best go now, Mr. Hildreth." Francis looked puzzled. He pointed at the kitchen door. "Lucy has a headache. She's gone to bed." He bit his lower lip and frowned. Again, he pointed. "Mr. Hildreth, let me be clear. Lucy doesn't want to see you. We don't want you here. Go home, please."
Copyright © John Mahoney 1997 jane does the laundry |