The Times Are Never So Bad by Andre Dubus Page A

not—’
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜No, but wait. I’m sitting here, right? and looking out the window and thinking, and I’ve got to leave home. See’—she leaned forward, placed her hands on his wrists, and lowered her voice—‘I’m living with my folks because I had a nice apartment and I liked being there, but last month, last month Ray broke in one night while I was sleeping and he held a knife on me and raped me.’ She did not know what she had expected from his face, but it surprised her: he looked hurt and sad, and he nodded, then slowly shook his head. ‘So I moved in with my folks. I was scared. I mean, it’s not as bad as some girls get it, from some stranger, like that poor fifteen-yearold last year hitchhiking and he had a knife and made her blow him; it was just Ray, you know, but still—I’ve got a gun too, a permit, the whole thing.’ He nodded. ‘It’s right here, in my purse.’
    â€˜That’s the way it is now.’
    â€˜What is?’
    â€˜Whatever. Women need things; you’re built too small to be safe anymore.’
    â€˜Steve, I got to move. But I’m still scared of having my own place. I was thinking, see, if I could move in with you, then I could do it gradually, you know? And when you leave in the fall I could sublet, I’d pay the whole rent for you till you get back, and by then—when do you come back?’
    â€˜Around April.’
    â€˜I’d be ready. Maybe I’d move to Amesbury or Newburyport. Maybe even Boston. I don’t know why I said Boston. Isn’t it funny it’s right there and nobody ever goes to live there?’
    â€˜Not me. Spend your life walking on concrete? Sure: move in whenever you want.’
    â€˜Really? I won’t be a problem. I can cook too—’
    â€˜So can I. Here.’ He reached into his pocket, brought out a key ring and gave her a key. ‘Anytime. Call me before, and I’ll help you move.’
    â€˜No. No, I won’t bring much: just, you know, clothes and cassette player and stuff. My folks won’t like this.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜They’ll think we’re shacking up.’
    â€˜What are you, twenty-five?’
    â€˜Six.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜I know. It’ll be all right. It’s just I keep giving them such a bad time.’
    â€˜Hey: you’re the one having the bad time.’
    â€˜Okay. Can I move in tonight? No, I’m too buzzed. Tomorrow?’
    â€˜Tonight, tomorrow. Better bring sheets and a pillow.’
    â€˜I can’t believe it.’ He looked at the bar, then smiled at her and stood. ‘All worked out, just like that. Jesus, you’re saving my life, Steve. I’ll start paying half the rent right away, and look: I’ll stay out of the way, right? If you bring a girl home, I won’t be there. I’ll be shut up in my room, quiet as a mouse. I’ll go to my folks’ for the night, if you want.’
    â€˜No problem. Don’t you even want to know how much the rent is?’
    â€˜I don’t even care ,’ and she stood and put her arm around his back, her fingers just reaching his other side, and walked with him to the bar.
    Polly’s father comes down the slope of the lawn toward the wharf and I’m scared even while I look past him at the pickup I heard on the road, then down the driveway, and I look at his jeans and shirt; then I’m not scared anymore. For a second there, I thought Polly or maybe Vinnie had pressed some charges, but it all comes together at once: he’s not in a cruiser and he’s got no New Hampshire cops with him and he’s wearing civvies, if you can call it that when he’s wearing his gun and his nightstick too. I decide to stay in the deck chair. He steps onto the wharf and keeps coming and I decide to take a swallow of beer too. The can’s almost empty and I tilt my head back;