Of Memory and Desire: Stories

Land of Promise

L\Nd of PROMISE The end of the day: time to close. She had been on her feet all day and her legs ached. And she had gotten practically zilch out of Angie, the little girl she was training for behind the counter—slow as molasses and no head for even simple arithmetic . She blamed the schools. Help was always a worry— they loafed or they pilfered or they couldn't make change. The bright ones stole and the dummies stood around. She sighed. At least the sales items had gone well. Fanny Wasserman counted up the cash, made out the bank deposit, and closed the safe. Movingalong the cases ofscarves and costume jewelry, she turned out the lights as she went. She took one last look around at the tables ofmarked-down goods and the racks of dresses that hung ghostlike along the walls, as though to reassure herself they'd all be there when she got back, then turned out the last lights, shut the door, and locked up. Outside, dust mingled with the twilight, fust up the street the city hall was dark, where during the dayold men and the local police lounged out in front, spitting on the sidewalk. The lights of the Buffalo Barwere on. Later, the bar would be loud with cowhands andMexican miners, andbeing Saturday night there wassure to be at least one fistflght and aknifing to bring in the police from next door. Later, too, would be the high-school kids tearing down the street in their cars, circling the flagpole at the end, and tearing back again. But now, as Fanny crossed the street, it was quiet, the sidewalks deserted but for a couple of early drunks shuffling homeward. Tired . . . tired, she thought, as she started up the hill. 118 OF MEMORY AND DESIRE When Benwas in the store with her, he droveher home each evening—it was good to have a son. But now she walked rather than take a taxi—it was an expense. She grewbreathless . The town was nearly all hills, and the one that rose up near the center of town was long and steep. In the mountains it was hard to breathe, the air was so thin. Why couldn't she have lived in a town where the streets lay flat? There were other places—Florida, California. The years had burdened her—all their burdens she carried in her flesh. At the top of the hill she turned up a dirt street to anarrow two-story brick house that stood on a little hill of its own. The iron fence leaned at an angle, and the yard wasall weeds. Who could get anything to grow? She'd given up years ago her efforts to call forth a little grass. Opening the gate, she sent the grasshoppers left and right as she walked up to the porch and climbed the steps. The house wasdark, and she knew that Moewasgone.He'd been planning to go, if not this week, the next. Anote would be waiting for her on the kitchen table. She had a piece of calf's liver to cook for him if he'd been home. Now she'd have to eat it herself two nights in a row. Let him go, if that was what he wanted. In a few days, he would turn up with a gray stubble of beard and a sackful of rocks that he would take down to the assayer's office or else polish up for gemstones. He was a strange man, her husband. The years had accustomed her to his strangeness but had given her no clue to fathom it. She sighed, full of weariness. "Going off in the bush like a young kid." It was too much to think about and useless to blame him. Three small trout were frying to a delicate brown in a skillet over the fire, sending out a smell that made him roaring hungry. The sun was just at the top of the bluff on the other side of the river, light glinting through the pines. The fire felt good to him. The coolness leapt up from the stream just as the sun set, and the day was over, even though the light lasted a long time. He sat on the ground watching the river until it wastime to turn the fish. He always started out his forays into the hills [3.15.156.140] Project MUSE (2024-04-24 15:59...