“There’s bound to be a way out.”

“Well, if there is I’d sure like to hear it.” She put out her cigarette. “You have any change?”

“What for?” he asked, but he was already digging in his pants pocket, coming up with a handful of coins.

She took a nickel and slid off the stool. He watched her cross to the jukebox, where she inserted the coin and punched in a number. After a moment, he heard the opening strains of Nat King Cole singing “Pretend.”

She came back to him, holding out a hand. “Come on. Let’s dance. I love this song.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Yes, you do.” She looked over at the bartender. “BW, tell the man he has to dance with me. It’s time to lighten up the mood.”

Jake felt himself smiling as she tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the tiny bare spot between tables that served as a dance floor. She slid into his arms, ignoring the awkward back-and-forth rocking motion that was the only kind of dancing he knew. She sang against his neck, her smoky wine breath tickling his ear. He could smell violets and soap and the same kind of shampoo Mary Hairl had used before she got so sick. Over Violet’s shoulder, he could see BW busy himself behind the bar, studiously ignoring what was going on. Jake had never much cared for music, but he could see now how it might have the power to make you forget. If there was one thing Jake needed, it was the blessedness of forgetting, even for a little while.

At midnight, BW started turning off lights. “Sorry about that, folks,” he said, as though the bar were filled with people. His tone was bored, but Jake could hear the underlying irritation. BW didn’t want to be a party to what was going on. Jake went up to the bar and paid the tab, peeling off bills and adding a generous tip, in part to remind the man of his place.

BW said, “You driving her home?”

“I might, if it’s any of your business.”

“I know you mean well, but you don’t know what you’re getting into when it comes to her. Ask Padgett. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Thanks, BW, but I don’t believe I asked for your advice.”

“I’m saying this as a friend.”

“I don’t need that kind of friend. Your job is to tend bar. I can look after myself, but thanks all the same.”

“Don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.”

Jake helped Violet into her raincoat and held the door for her. As they emerged from the bar, the air seemed as fresh as a florist’s shop. The May rain had passed, leaving a mist in the air. The blacktop was damp, looking shiny in places where shallow puddles had formed. He opened the truck door on the passenger side and handed her in. There were no lights in the parking lot, except for the reflected blue from the sign for the Blue Moon, the neon pulsing and blinking. Jake got in on his side and sat, watching the light, fascinated, not really sure what came next. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t strayed occasionally in the course of his marriage, but he was never sure what he was getting into and that lent a sick thrill to the proceedings.

Violet said, “This is like a time-out. It doesn’t count for anything. I like Mary Hairl.”

“Me, too,” he said. He kept his hands on the steering wheel as though he might actually start the car and drive away.

BW turned the neon sign off and moments later, he came out of the rear door, locked it, and walked to his car.

Jake knew both their faces must have flashed with white as BW passed, his headlights raking across the front of Jake’s truck.

And then he was gone.

Violet was drunk and Jake’d had too much to drink himself, but he needed a friend, someone to feel close to for just this one night. Blindly he held a hand out and she took it. They made love. The leather seat was surprisingly commodious. The night was growing cold, and through the open window he could smell the orange blossoms from the orchard nearby. The scent was so dense he could scarcely breathe. He could hear crickets and frogs, and then the night became dead quiet except for the rustling of clothes and his harsh, rasping breath. He felt as though he’d had to run for miles just to get to her.

13

Downstairs, Chet Cramer introduced me to his son-in-law and then excused himself. Winston Smith was the same heavyset salesman I’d seen earlier, and I wondered if his sales pitch had been successful. Probably not, given his energy level, which seemed low if not depressed. We sat in his cubicle, my back to the glass partition that looked out onto the floor. Winston’s desk was arranged so he could keep an eye out for customers without appearing inattentive.