He kept talking and flirting, and by the time the game of pool was over, he had bought me a couple of beers, and I was standing with his arm looped around my shoulders and neck, ready to go home with him. I never did call my friends. We went back to the little house on Fifth, and I didn’t even get out of bed for the next four days, except to go to the bathroom or get something to eat. I just lay around, watching TV, reading magazines, and painting my toenails, until Joe would get home from class or football practice and we’d get into the shower together and then spend the rest of the evening fooling around.
When I thought about how Joe liked to razz me, talking in his fake country accent about “big ol’ farm girls,” I began to understand what Rose was telling me. I remembered Joe saying something about having “a Chinese chick” one time, just to see what “Chink Poontang,” as he called it, was like.
I stood up, swatted some leaves off the seat of my pants, and went into the Student Union. I put a quarter in the pay ‘phone by the door and dialed my own number. It rang six times before Joe answered. He must have been asleep; his “hello” was deep and blurry.
“I just had an interesting talk with your girlfriend,” I said, making my voice as dry and cold as I could. I didn’t feel dry and cold; I was sweating, and my hand was shaking.
“Whazzat?”
“Your old girlfriend, Portland Rose Harris.” I pronounced each of Rose’s names slowly and deliberately.
There were a few seconds of silence, then, “Aw, Jack. That was a long time ago. She ain’t nothin’.”
Just my best friend, I thought.
“Jack? Jackie? You there? What’ve you been doin’, baby? Com’on home.”
I didn’t say anything. I held the receiver tightly and looked at the little plate in the middle of the dial. Someone had scratched over the printed numbers with a ball-point pen. I could read the “(208) 232-” but the rest was obliterated.
“Baby, you there? Come home. Let’s get some dinner goin’. Jack?”
“Joe?”
“Yeah.”
“My dad used to have this gun, this old twenty-two pistol. Not big enough for hunting. He used it for plinkin’. Target practice, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“He never cleaned it, and it was in pretty bad shape, but he liked to carry it around. In his pocket.” I looked at the ball-point pen scratches. Why would you do that? I wondered.
I went on. “He used to take it with him to the bar. Liked to show off, I guess, with the handle of it sticking out of his pocket. But one night he got all liquored up, and he took the gun out--just to show to somebody, you know--and the bartender got mad and told him to get rid of it or he couldn’t stay in the bar. So he gave it to my brother, Kip, who happened to be in there playing pool with some friends, and Kip took it out and put in under the seat in his truck.” I stopped. I noticed that I wasn’t sweating anymore, and the telephone receiver was light and dry in my hand.
“So? Jack?”
“So, nothing. Kip drove around with the gun under the seat of his truck for several weeks--months, maybe.”
“Is that it?” Joe exhaled heavily into the ‘phone. “What’s the point?”
“No point,” I said. “Except one day, Kip’s cleaning out his truck, and he remembers the gun. Reaches under the seat and gets it out, puts it on the seat, thinking he’ll give it back to Dad next time he sees him. Drives around for a couple of days, then one day goes by the house to drop off the gun. Stops the truck, opens the door and starts to get out, when BLAM! The gun goes off. Shoots Kip in the leg.”
“Shit!”
“Yeah.”
“Was he hurt? I mean, bad?”
“No, not too. It was just a twenty-two. He was laid up for a few days, ‘til his leg healed, but he’s okay, now. Doesn’t limp or anything. Does have a scar, though. Little round hole near the top of his thigh. Looks like a big dimple.”
Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.
“Uh, Jack? You comin’ home now?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” A few more seconds of silence, then, “Joe?” I said.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t really feel like seeing you when I get home. Don’t you have someplace you could go?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess. Yeah.”
“Okay. Good. ‘Bye.” I heard his “Bye, Jack,” as I hung up.
