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When we pulled in, the line at the gate was already backed up, bumper to bumper. I peeled off a buck for the guy at the booth, got a ticket stub for my trouble. The lot was mobbed, packed tighter than a Friday night double feature. I’d hoped for something quieter. Fewer cars, fewer eyes. Easier that way. But that was all right. I found a spot a little ways back that was dark enough. Not too close to the snack bar, and not up front with the squares. Good enough.
I killed the engine and sat there a second, watching a couple of Joes a row up knocking back something stronger than a Coke—thick-set guys, like they'd kept their Army weight, wouldn't've been surprised if they still had their dog tags in the glove box. Closest ones around, and not looking our way. We were golden.
I figured Holden could use a little warming up, anyway.
“Go see if they’ll slip you a taste,” I said.
“Yeah, right. You think they’d share?”
“Bet you could sweet-talk it out of ‘em.”
A teeny laugh came from behind us, and Holden started fiddling with the window crank, probably pretending that he didn’t hear it. I let him off the hook and turned back to the girls instead.
“You ladies want anything?”
“Popcorn,” Iris said. “And something sweet, if you don’t mind.”
Libby gave a little wave, all polite. “And a Coca-Cola, please, Ward. I’m absolutely parched.”
“Popcorn, candy, Coke. Holden?”
He popped his door like he was making a break for it. I climbed out after him, slammed it hard enough to kill the dome light.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Fat chance of that.
Some tinny voice rattled off specials over the loudspeaker. Kids hollered between the gaps, waved flashlights all around, damn near blinded me. Holden almost ate the ground when somebody blew past with a tray of sodas.
I clapped him on the back. “Steady.”
He shrugged me off and jerked his chin toward a genius bent under the hood of his car, cigarette in his mouth.
“Lookit. He’s gonna blow his goddam eyebrows off.”
“You two’d make a helluva pit crew,” I told him.
Hard to picture Holden in coveralls, though. He’d get them caught in the fan belt before he even found the wrench.
The line at the shack moved pretty quick. The old man behind the glass looked half-mummified. Probably hadn't moved since ‘42. I rattled off the order. Holden did the wallet dance, but I was faster.
We got the stuff and headed back. Holden whined about paying, but I was too busy watching a guy who had his girl pinned against the side of a Shoebox Ford, hands all over her, like they forgot they were parked two feet from the whole goddam town.
Holden looked, too. I caught his eye and raised my eyebrows—a real wouldja look at that. He made this funny little noise.
“You getting ideas?” I asked.
“Already got plenty,” he said. He didn’t smile, exactly, but it was close enough. I figured he just needed someone sweet in his lap and he’d loosen up a little. Iris wouldn’t’ve given him any trouble.
Holden, though—he gave that girl plenty. Damn near dumped the drink in her lap passing it back, but she caught it before it could spill. Maybe that’s what he meant by having ideas.
Libby leaned over the seat. “What took you boys so long?”
“Whole mess of people out there,” I said.
“Something about war. Always packs ‘em in,” Holden said. “Almost makes you want to sign up. Right, Stradlater?”
“I don’t really like war movies,” Iris said.
“Next time, we’re picking the picture,” Libby said. “I must insist on romance. Or at least technicolor.”
“Give it a chance, sweetheart,” I said. “Real men. Real action.”
“Boy,” Holden said. “So, right up your alley, huh?”
The screen flickered, all fuzzy black and white. Battleground, that was the picture. The girls passed the popcorn behind us and whispered, probably about us. The windows were cracked, the smell of butter and cigarettes in the air.
Butter’s the first thing that hits. Gets your mouth going before it even lands. God, it's enough to take me back to the spring fair—swing band blowing real loud under a big white tent, the kind with the scalloped edges, like waves or curtains or something. I had a bag of popcorn, grease soaked right through the paper, and Caroline Bishop wouldn’t shut up about Cyrano or whatever they’d just put on in the chapel. She barely touched hers. Said it was “too salty.”
It wasn’t.
She just didn’t want to get her hands dirty, that was the thing. Hands, hands, hands. She always fussed about her hands. Never her mouth.
And even with her yammering and the goddam swing band trying to split my head open, I still was hungry as hell. Could’ve eaten the bag, probably. Could’ve eaten the whole damn fair.
Anyway, somewhere along the way, the popcorn made it back to Holden. He hogged the bucket and picked through one piece at a time. Like a bird. It drives me nuts, guys who eat like that. You just grab a handful and pass it over, no big deal.
I reached over, brushed his hand without meaning to. He leaned away, said something smart like, “Patience.” Hell, I was the most patient man on the planet. I grabbed a handful anyway. “Least ya could do is share.”
“I am sharing.” Holden swiped a thumb over his lip—quick, like he didn’t even know he was doing it. ”You cleaned it out already, is all.”
“Looks like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I may be.” He wiped his fingers on his pants. “Popcorn's terrific. Which is saying something.”
“Need a lesson in manners, now?” I said. “You’re chewing like it’s your last meal. Hand it over.”
“Heavens, you sound like my brothers.” Libby’s voice floated from the back as I moved for the bucket.
“Hey—” Holden yanked it back too fast. Kernels shot everywhere—rattled off the dash, spilled across my lap.
I brushed some off and watched a few disappear between the seats. Coach’d love finding that when he reached for his damn coffee.
“For Pete’s sake, Holden,” Iris said. Some had landed in her hair, and she looked sore about it. “Let Ward have some.”
He ducked his head and pushed the bucket over, like he couldn’t hand it off fast enough. Not that there was much left—just a few sorry crumbs stuck to the bottom.
Libby nudged the back of my seat, but not enough to pull my focus. I kept half an eye on Holden. He was still as hell, and quieter than ever. Eyes back on the screen. The picture showed soldiers crouching in the snow. One of them said something about home, about missing a dame. The others sat with their heads down, huddled close, like that’d do a damn thing against the cold.
“You’re warm,” Libby said. She touched my shoulder. “I’m freezing.”
I twisted and slung an arm over the back of the bench. She was right there, easy as anything, so I asked, “You kids had enough of this movie, or what?”
“Front seat’s yours,” Libby told Iris.
Girls. Always had to run it through the council.
Iris took shotgun. I climbed in the back, spreading out wide enough for my thigh to touch Libby’s. I rolled up the windows. No sense giving those two drunk jarheads a show. That left Holden my old seat, behind the wheel. He didn’t say a word, just moved over slow, like he was trying not to touch anything on the way. Oh, brother. He looked like a guy who didn’t know what came next. He was still a virgin. I was sure of it. And the thing is, I might’ve said something earlier, if I’d known he’d look that lost.
Iris was a looker, too—the kind that might’ve let him put an arm around her, if he’d known what to do with it, if he’d just gone for it. Would’ve been something to see—not her, but him, just him trying, maybe failing, maybe not, who knows.
My eyes caught the rearview mirror, and there he was already—Holden, looking back at me, just for a second. I gave him The Smile, the one that says, Go on, the kind that makes a girl lean in without even thinking. It slipped out before I meant to give it.
He reached up and tilted the mirror, a little too far, just enough that I couldn’t see his face anymore—and I let it happen. Goddam shame.
It always starts like this: a smile, a laugh, a lean—just enough weight to let you know, a signal, not a yes, not a no, just something in between.
Libby smoothed her skirt, and my arm went around her like it belonged there. I leaned in, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, real gentle. My fingers slid along her cheek—light, careful, not to scare it off.
Then the speaker crackled. Shellfire popped through, shrill. Too loud, too soft, too loud again. Holden was messing with the sound box on the window. Of course he'd try and ruin the moment by busting our damn eardrums. I knocked my knee against the back of his seat, hard enough to tell him to cut it out. He stopped turning the dial. I left it there.
The screen went black. Big white letters blinked up—INTERMISSION. The speaker popped, and a corny song started up. You know the one. They all sound the same—bright and chirpy, trying to get you in the mood. The screen lit up with cartoon junk: sodas with legs, a hotdog shaking its buns. Real racy stuff.
I almost laughed. Really, I did. But I didn’t. I held still, kept everything where it was.
She moved. I didn’t. She looked like she might stop. She didn’t. I said something, but I don’t remember what. It worked. That’s what mattered.
Coach’s Plymouth was tight. Real tight. You couldn’t move without brushing up on somebody. Not that I minded. Not then. The leather creaked. Clothes rustled. Somebody breathed, close. She took her sweet time getting comfortable, the way girls do, and I let her. Sure I let her. It was her moment, I guess, with me in it. Lucky her. But the whole time my leg was still up against the back of his seat, and after a while, without meaning to, it started to fall into this kind of rhythm—back and forth, steady, stupid, impossible not to notice. Maybe he felt it. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he liked it. With him, you could never tell. He probably wouldn’t remember a thing. Not the part that mattered.
Some things hang around, you know. Not in your head. In your gut.