give or take

He said he came down to understand the South for a book he was writing. He was born in Omaha but he went to school in other places and never lived anywhere that didn’t have a Chinese restaurant or, he said, a coffee shop. I said I didn’t think I knew what that was. He had to explain. It’s like a diner but they don’t have real food or waitresses usually.

People tell me sometimes I’m pretty but I don’t see it gets me much of anywhere, so I don’t care to hear it anymore. He never said it to me, but it didn’t matter because I knew he was thinking the same kind of thing as anybody else who has said so. They look at you like they just jumped through a hoop and you should give them a prize.

He was always asking me questions about my experience, at first, until finally I said, Look, that’s just none of your business, and I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, Mr. Landis, but around here it doesn’t take a special kind of gentleman to keep from asking a girl questions about the experience she’s had. Then he explained he just wanted to hear about my life, day to day, he said, or about my childhood, or what I remembered or what I thought. That was all he meant by experience.

I still didn’t feel much inclined to talk to him, but he was awfully nice to Jeff. He bought him comic books and, which is more, he talked to Jeff; maybe he knew that would please me some. Anyway, after a day or two I let him know a few things. He thought the commonest things were exciting, like that I hadn’t read anything beyond McGuffey’s Reader and the Bible except a couple of dime store novels that I tried out because my friend Delia said they were good. He asked if there was anybody I knew from school who read much, and I said no, they went driving or to the movies when they could until they were old enough to go to the bars. Mostly, I said, we just talk.

About what, he wanted to know.

I couldn’t think of anything. I thought a long time but I couldn’t remember anything special to tell him.

It doesn’t have to be special, he said. What did you talk about last time?

I don’t often remember, I said, because usually we’re all drinking.

What do you drink, he asked.

I started to laugh then, because it seemed so simple. What do we drink? I said. What does anybody drink? Wild Turkey or Jack or Jim Beam, unless anybody can get better, like real old bourbon or something. Sometimes somebody goes to visit friends or relatives and comes back with some moonshine and we all get real crazy.

And then what happens, he asked. Or don’t you remember that?

We don’t remember but everybody else does, I said, when we get moonshine. One time the boys jumped off the water tower. One of the soberer boys went to catch at them but he got dragged off. He was the only one hurt, because his head hit the rail. He can’t see out of that eye anymore.

Do the girls do crazy things or just the boys? He asked.

The girls do stupid things, nothing exciting. They kiss each other sometimes, you know, that kind of foolishness. They just kiss more of the boys, usually. Boys they wouldn’t usually let touch them.

Why do you think that is, he asked.

I said I didn’t know.



We went walking out in the field sometimes when he was asking me all these questions. He never looked where he was going—I led us everywhere we went—he was always looking at me, staring real hard sometimes. I kept my eyes on the road, or if I was holding something I played with it in my hands.

There was a week when he had to go to the city and when he wasn’t there I went for a walk by myself but I kind of wished he was there, to ask me questions, because I found I liked to think about the answers I was going to give.

I saw Delia at the store and she said where had I been and was I screwing the writer man. She said people saw us walking together. What people, I asked her.

Clem Johnson when he was mowing his field saw us, and other people, people just knew, she said. Was I screwing him, she wanted to know.

I looked at her real hard, like I imagined Mr. Landis would if he was there. And she said, I knew it, I knew it, is he good?



When he came back he asked me, what did you do this week?

Nothing special, I said.

Did you go driving, he asked.

No, nobody was going out, I said.

Did you talk with your friends, he asked.

Not much, I said.

What did you talk about, he asked.

That fellow in Savannah who was killing little girls, I said.

Really, he said, how did you know about that?

We know some things, I said. Abe saw it on t.v.

Tell me about your conversation, he said. He pulled a pad of paper out of his pocket.

What’s that for, I asked.

I might need to remember something, he said. I forget easily.

Did you forget everything I told you before, I asked.

He smiled and he stared real hard. I don’t think so, he said.

Then I felt all right, so I told him what we said about the fellow in Savannah.

What did you drink that night, he asked.

They were drinking Jim Beam, I said. I didn’t have but one beer. It was P.B.R., I added, in case he wanted to know.



I have a personal question to ask you, he said one day, just as we set out. I thought I would have to wait, if it was more personal that the other things he asked me all the time, but he jumped in without taking breath, Have you been in love?

I looked at him.

My book is about love, he said, as if he was explaining something hard to understand, I want to know about love. I want to know about what it was like for you. But if it’s hard to talk about…

If what’s hard to talk about, I asked.

He smiled, like he was embarrassed. Your experience, he said.

I looked at him again. He was real embarrassed, I could see.

Do you mean, I said, being in love, or do you mean getting screwed?

He stopped smiling at all, and his face got real red.

What do you mean, I asked.

He looked down at his pad of paper in his lap.

I was in love, I said, a whole mess of times…

I don’t mean, he said, sounding sort of bothered, I mean really in love. Loving somebody.

Yeah, I said.

A whole mess of times, hm, he said, in a flat voice like he didn't believe me.

Is that what you mean, I asked.

I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing, he said. I don’t mean…screwing. It was hard for him to say screw, and harder still for him to say it like it was easy. It was kind of cute to me how hard he worked at it.

I only done that a couple of times, I said. And I’m not going to talk about it, anyway.

He looked confused. But I didn’t have anything to say more than that, so he gathered himself back up.

Talk about being in love, he said, in his usual way, with the red gone mostly from his face.

Well. I didn’t quite know what to say. Have you been in love?

He looked upset.

Never? I asked him. Because it’s hard to say what it’s like, if you don’t know something about it.

He looked real mad then, so I tried to hurry and come up with something to start.

I mean, I said, it hurts real bad, like bad enough sometimes that you’d just as soon jump in the river. You know? But I never did, I don’t know anybody who did. I never really thought I would.

What kept you from it, he asked.

Well, why would you, I asked, but I wasn’t asking him, really. It’s... Then I started to laugh, because I knew I would sound crazy.

It’s what, he asked.

It’s so nice, I said, laughing. It doesn’t feel nice. But it is, anyway. I looked at him. Crazy, isn’t it?

How many times, he asked.

That set me back a minute.

Two, three, he asked.

I guess fifteen, maybe, give or take, I said.



One day I asked him, how did you get the job you have?

You mean writing, he asked. It’s not a job you get, exactly.

Then he said, I always knew I wanted to do it, you see.

I said, what do you mean it’s not a job you get.

It’s not what I do for money, he said.

I thought. Then I said, what do you do for money?

Magazine pieces, he said. I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn’t care to ask about it.

The books you write, you write them for free, I asked.

He rocked back in his chair a minute. Do you want to write books, he asked.

I laughed. I said, I don’t even read books.

What do you want to do, he asked. Is there something you want to do with your life?

I looked at him and kind of thought about saying yes, because I could see what he wanted. It was a deep well in his eyes, the same as I’d seen before in other people when they looked at me, when they told me I was pretty. When Jeff looked at me sometimes I saw it and was frightened by it, even though he was a little boy. It was dark and it wanted to swallow me. I think it’s crazy how an old quarry tempts you to jump in, or a pot of water boiling sort of begs you to touch, just to find out.

I said, no, I don’t think about it.

What are you afraid of, he asked, in a gentle voice like he was my father or uncle.

Nothing, I said.



He left at the end of the summer, about the time people were going to pick apples. I told him he should stay to see the beginning of fall, but I didn’t care, really. He gave Jeff a stack of comic books and a baseball glove, though Jeff can’t hold things very well and he never plays baseball. But I said thank you and he said, no, thank you.

He walked off the porch and I guess he took the train out the next morning, because I never saw him again. I wonder sometimes about the book he was writing about the south. He said he would send it to me but I haven’t seen it yet.

Delia said, I hope you didn’t tell him too much, he probably put you in it and made it real dirty, people like that. I hope you told him some great big lies to put him off.

I said, he’d have to lie if it was going to be interesting, I didn’t tell him anything worth writing in a book.

But I guess he got what he wanted out of it. I gave him everything he asked for--I always meant to. That look of his told me what he was after, and I don’t believe he’d have left if he hadn’t got it. Men aren’t that way, I don’t think. But I think it’s funny he never asked me what I thought he should put in his book. He’d have got a lot more if he had.