Dirty Work | Page 3

her get out the front door
and then followed. It was nice out, warmer than you could ask February
to be. The trees had their first buds, which would all die if it froze again.
There were even birds and everything. She headed up 21st Street and
turned at the Littlefield fountain, the one with the horses, and climbed
the steps toward the two rows of buildings on top of the hill. Once she
looked back and I turned away, crouched down to pretend to tie my
shoe, not fooling anybody.
I watched her go in the first building on the left, the one with the word

MUSIC over the door. I followed her inside. The halls were full of
students and I watched her push through them and go in one of the
classrooms. Just before she went in she turned and gave me this look of
pure hatred.
Made me feel pretty low. I stood there for ten minutes just the same,
after the hall cleared and the bell rang, to make sure she stayed put.
Then I went outside and walked around the side of the building. The
classrooms all had full-length windows. The top halves were opened
out to let in the warm air. I found Lane's room and sat in the grass,
watching a woman teacher write on the board. She had heavy legs and
glasses and dark hair in a pony tail. Charlene always talks about going
back to college, but I can't see it, not for me. I had a semester of junior
college, working construction all day and sleeping through class at
night. They didn't have football scholarships and I wasn't good enough
for the four-year colleges that did. So I went with what I knew and took
a job on my daddy's drilling crew.
By eleven thirty I was starving to death. There was a Vietnamese
woman with a pushcart down by the fountain selling eggrolls. I walked
down there and got me a couple and a Coke and took them back up the
hill to eat. It would have been okay, really, eating eggrolls outside on a
pretty spring day and getting paid for it. Only Lane knew I was there
watching and I could see what it was doing to her.
At noon we went back to the library. Lane sat off to herself in the
shelves behind the counter. She had brought her lunch in her bookbag,
a carton of yogurt and a Diet Coke. She didn't seem to be able to eat
much. After a couple of bites she threw it away and went to the rest
room.
She got off work at two in the afternoon. I watched her climb on a
shuttlebus and then I drove out to her apartment and waited for her. She
has a one-bedroom on 53rd street near Airport, what they call a mixed
neighborhood--black, white, brown, all low-income. This is where the
rape happened. There's a swimming pool that doesn't look too clean and
a couple of 70s muscle cars up on blocks. A lot like my neighborhood,
over on the far side of Manor Road.

She walked right past me on her way to her apartment. I was sitting in
my truck, watching the shuttlebus pull away. She went right past me. I
could tell by the set of her shoulders that she knew I was there. She
went in her apartment, toward the near end of the second floor, and I
could hear the locks click shut from where I sat. She pulled the blinds
and that was it.
I did what Dennis told me. I got out and made a log of all the cars
parked along the street there, make and model and license number, and
then I went on home.
*
I was in time to give the kids a ride back from the bus stop. Ricky is
fifteen and going through this phase where he doesn't talk except to say
yes or no to direct questions. Mostly he shrugs and shakes his head in
amazement at how stupid adults are. So naturally he didn't say anything
about me wearing a tie. Judy, who is seventeen, wouldn't let it alone.
"What's it for, Dad? You look way cool. You messing around? Got a
girlfriend?" She doesn't mean anything by it, she's just kidding.
I had TV dinners in the oven by the time Charlene got home. Salisbury
steak, mashed potatoes, and that apple cobbler dessert she loves. Her
new issue of Vogue was there and she took it into the bathroom with
her for a while. When she came out she was showered and in her
blue-gray bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, with her hair in a towel. She
loves Vogue magazine. I guess it takes her to