The Bitch Read Online Free Page A

guard on it the one night it was there. It was so wonderful—so when I told Johnny, he at least said he’d look into it. Just for me. I’ve known Johnny a long time.”
    “How nice.”
    “He checked on you. ‘Way back. You’ve been an awful stinker, Tate—but you’ve never really done anything like this.” She pushed herself onto her elbows, leaning back, watching me. “Tate,” she said. “Tell me—why are you really doing this? I mean, I’ve got every reason in the world. And Johnny’s just cleaning up some money, like always. He’s not doing it for me, or anything like that. But you—why are you doing it, Tate?”
    ‘That’s personal,” I said.
    She flopped back, still watching me. “Personal,” she said. She said it like an obscene word. “I suppose it’s some woman, isn’t it?”
    “Maybe.”
    “What will you do?” she said. “I mean, after? You won’t want to hang around here. And it’s not a terrible lot of money—your share. Not really.”
    “Maybe not to you. To me it’s plenty.”
    We looked at each other. There was a kind of sneer on her lips now, the tips of her teeth showing just a little.
    “Where will you go?” she said. “Mexico?”
    “Maybe.”
    “You’re full of ‘maybes'. Not telling, are you?”
    “No.”
    “Mine’s a start,” she said. “A fresh start. I couldn’t do it any other way. I wouldn’t marry a man like Johnny. It’s got to be something solid.”
    “That’s what you’ve got right here.”
    She snapped a sharp, filthy expression.
    “Jesus, Tate,” she said, then. “It’s tonight.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Suppose something goes wrong.”
    “Nothing will.”
    “Tate?”
    “What?”
    “After tonight we won’t see each other, probably.”
    “Probably.”
    “You’ve been awfully nice, Tate. I like you a lot—I really do.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “Tate? I can’t stand the waiting. It’s wrecking me.” I still said nothing.
    “Tate,” she whispered. “Please don’t make me say it.”
    “Say what?”
    “Jesus, Tate.”
    We kept on looking into each other’s eyes.
    “Let me give you a going away present,” she whispered. “Please? Lie down here with me, Tate—I’m just being frank, that’s all. Please, Tate—don’t just stand there. I can’t bear it.” She reached toward me with one hand and her eyes shone like a cat’s eyes, her upper lip lifting above the gleaming white chips of teeth. “Please, Tate—we could go together. I mean it. We could—just let me show you—
please!”
    I turned and started walking away. She didn’t say anything, didn’t make a sound. As I reached the archway, I looked back. I wanted to curse her for putting the thought in my head. I was breathing a little fast and I was shaking.
    She was still stretched out on the couch, lying perfectly still, holding both hands over her face.
    I went on through the hall and out the front door into the bright shaft of sunlight.
    • • •
    I drove for a time, not knowing where I was headed. Finally the dirt road ended and I got out of the car and walked through a short stretch of damp jungle and stepped up on the old wall overlooking the bay. Here, on this point of land, you could stand and see the Gulf of Mexico and the misty distance, blurred by sun. On the horizon a small fleck of freighter crawled. You could imagine the sound of the washing sea against its sides, the steadied
thump-thump-thump
of the engines. You could imagine the feel of the steel deck plates beneath your feet, the roll, and the everlasting throb, and at that distance, the crazy shrieking of the gulls. You could stand in the stern and watch the wake of the water, the straight path of furrowed white, fanning slowly into greens and blues and grays.
    On the shore, beyond the wall, the tide was out and fiddler crabs ran like rain among twisted gnarls of dirty oysters and mud. The odor of sulphur was strong, but not unpleasant. An enormous white crane stood at the water’s