47

Bayou Ridge

They were in Meara's farmhouse when Ray's phone rang. It was Jimmie Randall. Could Meara stop in to the office this afternoon? Afternoon in Bayou City could mean anything from 12:01 P.M. to anytime it wasn't too dark to farm without headlights. Sharon had things to do and they said their good-byes, with Meara following her back to town.

A lot of rain was coming. You could tell from the air and from the sky. It stunk of fish and worms and stagnant ponds; a funky, festering rankness that fumed up out of the turgid road ditches to meet the humid, malodorous promise of the descending rain clouds.

Only a few hours later, but hours of a day that had been so long and eventful that it already seemed like the next day, Ray was pulling up in front of the motel. Sharon heard his now familiar truck motor outside the door and was peering out around the curtains when he knocked.

“Come in,” she said.

He dripped in out of the wetness. “Hi."

“Urn, hello,” she said, as he kissed her.

“Thought I'd stop by on the way home. Guess who I talked to today?"

“FBI."

“You got it. They'd just finished with you. There they were in the Bayou City police chief's office. Asked me a lotta’ questions about you, girl."

“That's nice. You told them I was an okay person?” He moved over close and leaned down for another kiss.

“I told them you were very okay,” he said, breathing in the fragrance of the woman who was all he thought about now.

It was a long, soulful kiss, but it wasn't quite the same as earlier in the barn, and then in the house. Some of the heat had cooled.

Sharon reached up and touched his face and smiled, and moved over to the window, seemingly preoccupied, pushing the curtains aside and looking at the sky. In between the buildings across the road you could glimpse the horizon. The flatlands were all cottony looking with a misty look to the blue tree line, and where Sol was beginning to set there were slashes of blood and flesh-tone pink across the bruised black and blue cloud banks.

“Thinking about your dad?"

“Mm.” She nodded.

He put his hands on her shoulders very gently, coming up behind her, and she tightened a little. “S'matter?"

“Nothing."

“Sure?"

“Just tired."

“I wish I could say something—you know—optimistic. Promising. Give you an encouraging word."

“Thanks.” She smiled. You could hear the television laugh track on the speaker in the next room.

“I just thought I'd stick my head in the door on the way home. Tell you I was thinking about you."

“You're a nice guy. Very sweet.” She smiled again but her mind was blank. She knew she should invite him in or something, but it was the “or something” she wasn't in the mood for. “Don't mind me, Ray. Women are too strange."

“Tell me about it. I never could figure them out."

“Now hold on a second, we're strange but not impenetrable."

“'Zat so?"

“All we want is perdurable love from a caring person. That's not so hard to figure out."

“It is if you don't know what the per-thing is,” he said.

“Perdurable,” she smiled prettily, “my dear, means permanent. Lasting. Very durable. A love that won't pale over time, one that won't wear out through all the female mood swings."

“Fine, Sharon. Very durable. Why not say that in the first place?"

“Because we think in words,” she said, too pooped to realize he'd been teasing her.

“That's a heavy concept."

“Come on. Perdurable. Good word. Expand your mental horizons. How many words can you name that begin with the p-e-r prefix? Perform. Performance. Pertinent. Perky. Perfect. Come on."

“Person ... purple.” They laughed. “I'm going home,” he said and started out.

“Keep going,” she said, softly. “Percolate. Permanent. Pertain."

“I got one,” he said, putting his big hands on her shoulders. She looked exquisitely beautiful framed there in the doorway. Tired or not, she was so spectacular.

“Perdurable,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

“No way,” she said. “You can't use my word.” She looked about seventeen at that second, and he leaned over and kissed her right below the ear on the throat and held her like that, then kissed her again, gently as he could, on the nape of the neck and whispered, “Perfume."

At one of the stop signs on his way home, a car full of boys, so Bayou City bored they could only booze ‘n’ cruise, jumped the stop and nearly rammed him. He watched them roar away, remembering what it was like to wait for thunder so you could spring into your ride and chase the night lightning. His first truck had Riders On The Storm painted on it.

Face it, killer, he told himself, you've finally found something worthwhile. He realized he was grinning idiotically.