Bob has crossed the lane from his trailer and has approached to within a few feet of Allie, when he stops short, crosses his arms over his chest and says, “You remind me of an old girlfriend of mine. A real nice woman, she was. Probably still is.”
“That so? From up north?”
“Yeah. New Hampshire.”
“Your wife knows about her, this woman you’re comparing me to, this old girlfriend of yours?”
“No, she never knew. It wasn’t a real big thing anyhow.”
“But you’re telling me about her now. Because I remind you of her.” Allie has large, sad, dark blue eyes that turn down at the corners, a narrow-browed Irish face with tight mouth, long jaw, pale skin. “Did she look like me, or what?”
“No, nothing like you at all. I don’t know, it’s just something about the way you talk, how you’re so relaxed and easy, maybe. Actually, you’re both kind of sexy in the same way,” he blurts. “It’s hard to describe,” he adds, almost as an apology, wondering suddenly if she is in fact, as Elaine wants to believe she is, a lesbian, wondering if therefore she finds his compliments offensive, because after all, he tells himself, he’s not propositioning her or anything, he’s not asking her to fuck him, he’s just complimenting her, that’s all, which he is sure doesn’t happen to her every day, since she’s not what most men would ordinarily think of as attractive or sexy. Still, to him, she is sexy. So why not tell her so? Even if she is a lesbian. Hell, it’s better that way; it’s better if she’s a lesbian.
Allie’s eyes are wide open now, her breathing is tight and quick, and leaning forward toward Bob, her hands clasped to her knees, she says, “Well, I think you’re pretty sexy yourself, mister. If you want to know the truth.”
“You do?” Bob smiles.
Allie stands up and looks around the yard with care, at the faded gray trailer next to hers, over at Bob’s salt-pitted, lemon-yellow trailer, into the trees and shrubs and out along the sandy lane. A pair of egrets with gray bodies and rust-colored heads and serpentine necks, eyes like agates, legs like bamboo stalks, stroll watchfully along the shore. Allie says, “You want to come inside, Bob?”
“What?”
“You want to come inside awhile? With me?”
Suddenly he understands what he’s done, and at first he’s ashamed of himself. He’s not surprised, however, by anything that’s happened, by anything he’s said or she’s said, and he’s not surprised that now she’s inviting him inside so he can fuck her. But he feels the way he did an hour ago, when he brought in the
A moment before, talking to Allie about Doris Cleeve, flirting a little, sure, and curious, he’d felt good, a normal man chatting up the woman across the way, nothing serious, nothing dangerous to either of them, certainly nothing cruel. But now he’s got to say no to her, and he’s never said no to a woman before. He asked for something, and now he’s received it, and it’s turned out to be undesirable to him. The problem lies in asking in the first place, he suddenly realizes. Not that he can’t imagine fucking Allie Hubbell; he could do it if he had to. But he knows, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he’s supposed to want to fuck her, and her in particular. Jesus, he thinks, if you can control what a man wants, you can control everything he does. “Listen, Allie, I … I’m really sorry. I better go on home, okay?” He turns and steps away, looking back over his shoulder, as if a little afraid of her.
“Yeah,” she says. “See you later.” She sits back down on the stoop, places her elbows on her knees again and watches Bob make his retreat.
