A Slipping-Down Life

14

That week’s newspaper carried a photograph of Evie hunched forward behind a seated man, as if she were pushing him in a wheelchair. Her face looked surprised. “Evangelist Ends Sojourn in Pulqua,” the caption read. “Brother Evan Hope left Pulqua yesterday after two weeks at the Tabernacle of God. He described his stay as ‘heartwarmingly successful.’ Above, a local teen-ager protests his attack on rock music.” Evie threw the newspaper aside, not bothering to show Drum. But the next day David drove all the way out to their house to tell them that Drum had been re-hired at the Unicorn. “You can thank Evie for this,” he said. “Word of mouth spread what she did all over town. People kept calling Zack and asking where Drum Casey was.”

“What do you know,” said Drum. He didn’t look up from the magazine he was leafing through. “Anything I hate, it’s indecision. I wish Zack would just fire me for good and get it over with.”

“When are you going to be satisfied? You got your Saturday nights back, didn’t you?”

“Sure. I guess so.” Then Drum turned another page of his magazine.

What he had said to Evie at the Tabernacle was buried now, not erased but buried beneath the new grave courtesy he showed toward her. He had never apologized. For several days he treated her very gently, helping her with the dishes and listening with extreme, watchful stillness whenever she spoke to him. It was the most he could do, Evie figured. She shoved down the Tabernacle memory every time it floated up in her mind; yet evenings, when they sat doing separate things in the lamplight, she sometimes wanted to leap up and ask, “What you said, did you mean it? You must have or you would never have thought it. But did you mean it for all time, or just for that moment? Are you sorry you married me? Why did you marry me?” None of the questions were ones Drum would answer. She kept quiet, and only watched him from across the room until he looked up and raised his eyebrows. Then the questions began to occur to her less frequently. Whole days passed without her remembering, and gradually she and Drum drifted back to the way they had been before.

Drum returned to his Saturdays at the Unicorn without a word, played his songs and came home as soon as his last set was over. He never went without Evie. She felt that her hold on her school work was slipping, and sometimes she suggested that he go alone while she studied, but Drum said, “Nah, you can study some other time. You’re so smart, one night won’t hurt you.” Yet while he played he stared over her head, never directly at her.

“We went two-ing on the one.

“We went circling on the square.

“We went adding on the divide.”

Evie listened without changing expression, clutching her coat around her for warmth.

She thought she might be pregnant. She pictured her stomach as a thin, swelling shell, like a balloon, and since something so fragile had to be guarded with a half-drawn breath, she put off going to the doctor and she said nothing to Drum. It was too early yet, she told herself; and then, as she reached the end of the second month, it was too late. How could she explain keeping it a secret so long? What held her back was this thin-skinned feeling. The baby, she thought, was a boy, still and grave and level-eyed like Drum, and the picture of those eyes in such a small face made it seem necessary to protect him in fierce silence every second of the day. She made a circle of herself, folding more and more inward. She carried herself like a bowl of water. At moments when she opened her mouth to say, “Drum? Guess what,” the sense of something spilling or breaking always changed her mind.

In department stores she picked up free magazines for expectant mothers and studied every word. Babies, it seemed, nested in vast jungles of equipment, wheeled and decaled and safety-railed and vinyl-covered. She had never been exposed to babies before, and she was not sure how much of the equipment was essential. Would it take a Jolly Jumper to keep him happy? Was it true that babies needed to ride their mothers’ backs in canvas carriers in order to feel secure? And if so, how would she ever buy it all? She put her name in a drawing for an English pram, and she clipped a newspaper coupon for a free week of germ-proofed diaper service. Like a mother cat, she wandered through the house counting up bureau drawers and staring for long periods of time into corner cupboards. She hung over the toilet bowl in the mornings, sick and dizzy, and worried about finding the money for a tip-proof high chair with a snap-on tray and safety straps.

Meanwhile Drum sat in the bedroom chair with his feet slung over one of its arms, and for hours on end he played his guitar. He sang very softly, reaching for notes deep on the scale. Even Evie could tell the songs weren’t rock. “St. James Infirmary” he sang, and “Trouble in Mind,” and something called “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.” The words slid about more, the beat was not as clear, and the tunes were sadder. Evie said, “Did you make these things up?”

“Shoot, no,” said Drum.

“They’re not rock, are they?”

“Shoot, no.”

It had been weeks since he had written any rock music. At the Unicorn he did the same pieces he always did, but at home he played nothing but these new ones. Evie began to recognize them. She could pick out the patterns, the verses that recurred with only slight variations from song to song. The parts that she liked she sang alone in the kitchen, with the tunes all wrong:

One morning you’ll wake to an empty bed,

You’ll bury your eyes and bow your head.

But she never told Drum she liked them. If he started playing those things in the Unicorn it would be the end of him. How could people dance to “Nobody Knows You”?

“You never write any songs these days,” she said.

“I’m getting weary of them.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Ah, I don’t know. Seems like I am always pushing to lift something I don’t have the muscles for. Every song I wrote, I thought, ‘This is it. This is something singular,’ I thought, but later I see how it is no different from anyone else’s except maybe worse. Little old crabbed, stunted lines. Nothing new. Same old beat. Now, why would I want to write more of them?”

His lashes cut across his eyes, straight and even; his pupils seemed pricked by tiny points of gold. Evie touched the hand that lay nearest her on the couch. “Everything will work out,” she said. “This is just a low period. What you need is publicity.”

“Publicity. Huh.”

“Let me think about it a while.”

“Forget it, I tell you.”

“Well, it’s for your own good, Drum.”

“Not for my own good, no ma’am,” Drum said. “I hate it.”

“How will you get ahead, then, if nobody knows your name?”

“That’s my business.”

“It’s mine too. It was me you were complaining to.”

“I wasn’t complaining, I was talking,” said Drum. “And you weren’t listening. You were thinking about publicity, which makes me tired. And I am tired too of getting nagged at all the time and having to face that nagging forehead of yours. I don’t know why you don’t wear bangs anymore.”

“I don’t wear bangs because I don’t back down on things I have done,” said Evie. “And I have never said a nagging word to you in my life.”

“All right, all right.”

“Have I?”

“No, forget it. I was just talking. Evie,” he said, “where has my luck gone? When am I going to rise above all this? Am I going to grow old just waiting?”

But Evie couldn’t answer that. All she could do was sit quiet, leaning gently toward him as if that would do what words could not, watching him run his fingers through the slant of his hair.

That Sunday David came over for lunch. While Drum was in the kitchen opening beers, Evie said, “Listen, David. What would you think of Drum getting kidnapped?”

“Huh?”

“For publicity.”

“Evie. You couldn’t even fool a traffic cop with a stunt like that.”

“I know we couldn’t,” Evie said. She looked toward the kitchen, checking on Drum, and then she came to sit beside David on the couch. “But listen to what I have in mind. It wouldn’t be a serious kidnapping, nothing to call in the FBI for. He would be spirited away by fans, that’s all, just for a couple of hours. What would be the harm? And still the newspapers would pick it up.”

“Sure,” said David. “Nothing wrong with that at all, except it’s too much work. It’s not worth it.”

“It is to me. I will do the work. I’ll get Violet and maybe Fay-Jean Lindsay, she’ll do it if she thinks it’s tied up with the Unicorn. And Fay-Jean might have a friend. I’ll arrange the whole thing. All right?”

“You can’t arrange Drum,” David said.

“Drum?”

“He will never go along with this, you know that.”

“I’m not going to tell him about it.”

“Oh, well, wait now.”

“It’s for him, David. I know he doesn’t like things like this, but I don’t like seeing him just curl up around the edges, either. What else can I do? Besides, I have to think about the baby.”

“What baby?”

“I believe I might be having one,” said Evie, and she felt something lurch inside her just the way she had expected it to.

“Oh,” David said. “You are?”

“Don’t tell Drum.”

“Well, shouldn’t—”

“Evie,” Drum called, “what have you done with the beer-can opener?”

“Coming,” Evie said. “Listen, David. If I did the work, would you go along with it?”

“Oh, Evie, I don’t—”

But at the end of the afternoon, when Drum and Evie were seeing him to the door, David said, “Evie, you know I would always try to help you in any way you wanted.”

“Well, thank you,” Evie said.

“What was that about?” Drum asked when they had shut the door.

“I don’t know,” Evie said.

In the library she looked up Fay-Jean’s number and then reached for the telephone. Even before she had dialed, her throat prepared itself for the tone she wanted. She slipped into it like a needle into a groove: the sure and reasonable voice needed to lay plans before people whom she did not expect to agree with her.

On Tuesday evening at seven, Drum said, “Why are we waiting so long to eat? I’m starved.”

“In a minute,” Evie said. She stood in the living room window, pressing her face against the glass so that she could see past her own reflection.

“You ain’t even started cooking.”

“In a minute, I said.”

A pair of headlights swung up the road, recognizable even at this distance. The headlights were round and close-set, like the eyes of some small worried lady. They floated gently up and down, bouncing on the uneven road. “Who’s that coming?” Drum asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s it look like?”

“I don’t know.”

Drum sighed and moved up next to her. She could smell the marigold smell of his skin. “That’s David’s Jeep, as any fool can see,” he said.

“Is it?”

The Jeep parked in the dirt yard, but the lights stayed on. A minute later there was a knock at the door, and when Drum said, “Come in,” the three girls entered first — Violet, Fay-Jean, and Fay-Jean’s sister Doris, all dressed up. David came behind. “Well, hey,” Drum said. He nodded to Violet and Fay-Jean, and then looked toward Doris and waited to be introduced. No one bothered. The three of them kept walking until they had surrounded him. Then Fay-Jean brought out a shimmering length of nylon cord and reached for one of his hands. For a minute it looked as if it would be as easy as that — just tie him up while he stood waiting. But as her fingers were circling his wrist, Drum said, “What in—” and jerked away. “What the hell’s going on?” he said.

“They’re kidnapping you,” Evie told him.

“They’re—”

“Kidnapping. It’s only for publicity.”

“Are you out of your head?”

“Now wait,” David said. “It’s not such a bad idea, Drum. We’re taking you to my shed. Evie will tell the police a bunch of crazy fans got you, and then you’ll be returned. No more than an outing.”

“You have went too far this time,” Drum said, but it wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to David or to Evie. He backed away, holding both arms ready at his sides, while the three girls advanced. “I would help you,” David told them, “but it wouldn’t look right.” Fay-Jean made another pass with the nylon cord and Drum lashed out, clipping the side of her face with his forearm and sending her crashing into the wall. ‘Ouch,” she said. “Get him, Doris!”

But it was Violet who got him. All she did was fling herself against him like a pillow, knocking him flat on his back. She set her one hundred and eighty pounds squarely on his chest. Even though he was still hitting out at them, Fay-Jean and Doris between them managed to tie his wrists together. Then they all sat there, breathing hard, and Drum lay scowling on the floor. “This is laughable,” he said.

“Well, sure,” said Violet. “So laugh. Enjoy yourself. We’re only going for a little ride.”

“Oh, no.”

He heaved until they couldn’t sit on him any longer. He tripped Violet with one kick of his foot and rammed an elbow into Doris’s stomach. “Now, you better stop that,” Doris said. Her voice was on the edge of tears. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to go hitting girls?”

“Here,” Violet said, and tied his feet together with enough space between them so he could walk. Then they raised him up, keeping tight hold of his elbows.

“Evie,” Drum said.

Evie pressed both hands together and shook her head.

“Now, Evie, I know this was your idea. It couldn’t be nobody’s else’s. You tell these girls to let me go, right this second. I don’t adapt well to being kidnapped.”

“It’s only for a while,” Evie said.

“I mean it, Evie.”

“I packed you a supper. It’s in the Jeep. A brown paper bag.”

“David?”

David hesitated.

“The worst part’s over anyway,” Evie told him.

“She’s right, Drum. No point untying you now. If I’d of known you’d take it so hard I would have said no, but what have you got to lose? You’ll be back by bedtime.”

Drum seemed to have nothing more to say. When David had opened the door, the girls led him out with no trouble at all.

After the Jeep had driven off, Evie sat on the couch for a while with her hands pressed together. She had not expected a kidnapping to be so difficult. The room was a shambles — furniture kicked over, cushions and papers scattered across the floor. When she finally crossed to the closet for her coat she nearly tripped over the rug, which lay in a twisted heap. She closed the door behind her before she had even put her coat on and ran toward the Volkswagen.

More headlights floated down the road, wide apart and rectangular. While she stood waiting beside the VW the other car drew to a stop, and a man said, “Evie?”

“Sir?”

“It’s me. Mr. Harrison.”

“Oh, Mr. Harrison,” Evie said. As if this evening had been none of her doing, she felt shaky and relieved at the sight of him. “Drum’s been kidnapped,” she said. “Not for real, but a bunch of fans got him. What’ll I do? I’m getting worried.” And she was. Her throat muscles knotted, and that uneven heartbeat was beginning in her ears again.

“Drum can wait,” Mr. Harrison said. “Your father’s sick. I want you to come with me.”

“Drum’s been kidnapped.”

“Evie, we haven’t got time for that. Your father’s in the hospital.”

“Will you listen?” Evie said. She had drawn closer to the car now. Her hands clutched the window frame; she felt them trembling. “Drive me to where Drum is. No, never mind, I’ll drive myself. Do I have the keys? Tell my father I’ll be there soon. It doesn’t matter about the police, just tell my—”

“Your father,” said Mr. Harrison, “has had a heart attack and is dying. I didn’t want to say it but I see I had to. Climb in. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

He opened the door on the passenger side, flooding the car with a dingy yellow light. Evie circled the car and climbed in slowly.

“Hospital,” she said. Her voice was as clear and sudden as if it were an order, but she was merely echoing him without any idea at all of what to do next.