come honey tell me so_百度知道
come honey tell me so
和&come on baby baby let me know&quot,求教啊歌里有这两句;:&come honey tell me so&quot
歌名是什么??
提问者采纳
Glee Cast 作曲： Do Ya Think I&#39： Ryan Murphy： Rod Stewart, Carmine Appice 编曲;m Sexy, Carmine Appice 填词? (Glee Cast Version)
歌手, Duane Hitchings, Duane Hitchings： Rod Stewart：
提问者评价
我擦,我p3里面有...竟然没印象...
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出门在外也不愁tell me no_百度百科
tell me no
本词条缺少名片图，补充相关内容使词条更完整，还能快速升级，赶紧来吧！
《tell me no》是Whitney Houston于2002年演唱的一首歌曲。
tell me no歌手简介
惠特妮·休斯顿（英文名：Whitney Houston）是位曾多次获得的著名歌手、演员、作曲家、电影制作人与并曾担任模特。她以强而有力的、一字多转音的感染力与宽广的音域
为世人所熟知，并成为流行天后。惠特妮在全世界有超过一亿八千万张专辑的销售纪录。根据，惠特妮是获奖最多的女歌手（获奖415次，提名562次）。美国时间日下午3点55分在比弗利希尔顿酒店酒店被宣布死亡，死因初步确定为阿普唑仓等处方药与酒精混合之后引起的反应。
tell me no专辑简介
《Just Whitney》象征着一位天后歌手充满喜悦地衣锦荣归,而且不负众望地用她极佳的嗓音,唱出一张终于能足以与她绝佳的天赋匹配、令人手舞足蹈的绝妙专辑。 而今她的最新作品《Just Whitney》终于问世,这张带有绝对个人风格,展现出惠妮一流天后的音乐水准的新作,她的圆熟与成长,且正如她闪亮出色的新专辑名称“就是惠妮”(Just Whitney…)所暗示的,在拥有这一切的成绩与成就之后,她还依然保有真我的个性,而且在乐坛屹立不摇,因为惠妮就是惠妮!
tell me no歌词
Reaching for my dreams
And you're so quick to say what I can't do
You criticize my action
But I don't see you standing in my shoes
I'm going the wrong way
I'm doing the wrong things
Every word just gives me fuel
So come on come on come on come on come on come on
And tell me no
And I'll show you I can
And tell me no
I sink my feet right in
Tell me no
Just tell me that I can win
I'm sure I'll prove you wrong
Go on and go
Tell me no
Every step I take you're right
there trying to block my next move
If you're making me feel bad
then tell me then do you feel good
I'm just human I know what I'm doing
That's what my heart tells me I should
So come on come on come on come on come on come on
And tell me no
And I'll show you I can
And tell me no
I sink my feet right in
Tell me no
Just tell me that I can win
Come onI'm sure I'll prove you wrong
Go on and go
Tell me no
No no no no no no no
You motivates me more and more
And I think it's time that you know
Giving me something to afford
And I can't wait for the day
I can rock things in your place
I ain't gonna stop til I'm done
I reach the top I'm the No.1
For everytime you try and tell me no
Oh you makes me keep on keep it all
tell me no
And I'll show you I can
And tell me no
I sink my feet right in
Tell me no
Just tell me that I can win
Come onI'm sure I'll prove you wrong
Go on and go
Tell me no
tell me no
And I'll show you I can
And tell me no
I sink my feet right in
Tell me no
Just tell me that I can win
I'm sure I'll prove you wrong
Go on and go
Tell me no
企业信用信息有首女生英文快歌 歌词 tell me what you want , come on ,more than_百度知道
有首女生英文快歌 歌词 tell me what you want , come on ,more than
有首女生英文快歌
tell me what you want , come on ,more than后面是什么就不知道
开头是个男声 啊 啊
然后是女声
ll tell you what I want What I really really want So tell me what you want I wanna I wanna I wanna I wanna I wanna Really really really wanna ziga ziga ha。Yo Tell you what I want What I really really want So tell me what you want What you really really want I's the way it is 得到总是太容易 我并不希望 What you think about that 你会如何思考 Now you know how I feel 现在你知道我的想法 Say you can handle my love说你能处理好我的爱 Are you for real你是真心的吗，不知道对不对是wanna be吗? I won&#39。:告诉你我想要的 我真正想要的 真的想 If you want my future 如果你想要我的未来 Forget my past 忘掉我的过去 If you wanna get with me 如果你想和我为友 Better make it fast 最好快一点 Now don&#39! 中文大意;ll give you a try我会给你机会 If you really bug me then I't go wasting My presure't be hasty我不会着急 I's time 现在别浪费我宝贵的时间 Get your act together we could be just fine 好好表现 我们就可以 If you wanna be my lover 如果你想做我的恋人 You gotta get with my friends请和我的朋友们相处 Make it last forever 和睦到永远 Friendship never ends 友谊不会消失 if you wanna be my lover 如果你想做我的恋人 You have got to give 你要懂得付出 Taking is too easy but that&#39？选秀高发歌曲;ll say goodbye如果你真的让我烦了 我就说再见 If you wanna be my lover
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出门在外也不愁卡佛小说的原文So Much Water So Close to Home
卡佛小说的原文So Much Water So Close to Home
《So Much Water So Close to Home》
My husband eats with good appetite but he seems tired, edgy. He
chews slowly, arms on the table, and stares at something across the
room. He looks at me and looks away again. He wipes his mouth on the
napkin. He shrugs and goes on eating. Something has come between us
though he would like me to believe otherwise.
"What are you staring at me for?" he asks. "What is it?" he says and puts his fork down.
"Was I staring?" I say and shake my head stupidly, stupidly.
The telephone rings. "Don't answer it," he says.
"It might be your mother," I say. "Dean--it might be something about Dean."
"Watch and see," he says.
I picked up the receiver and listen for a minute. He stops eating. I bite my lip and hang up.
"What did I tell you?" he says. He starts to eat again, then throws
the napkin onto his plate. "Goddamn it, why can't people mind their own
business? Tell me what I did wrong and I'll listen! It's not fair. She
was dead, wasn't she? There were other men there besides me. We talked
it over and we all decided. We'd only just got there. We'd walked for
hours. We couldn't just turn around, we were five miles from the car.
It was opening day. What the hell, I don't see anything wrong. No, I
don't. And don't look at me that way, do you hear? I won't have you
passing judgment on me. Not you."
"You know," I say and shake my head.
"What do I know, Claire? Tell me. Tell me what I know. I don't know
anything except one thing: you hadn't better get worked up over this."
He gives me what he thinks is a meaningful look. "She was dead, dead,
dead, do you hear?" he says after a minute. "It's a damn shame, I
agree. She was a young girl and it's a shame, and I'm sorry, as sorry
as anyone else, but she was dead, Claire, dead. Now let's leave it
alone. Please, Claire. Let's leave it alone now."
"That's the point," I say. "She was dead. But don't you see? She needed help."
"I give up," he says and raises his hands. He pushes his chair away
from the table, takes his cigarettes and goes out to the patio with a
can of beer. He walks back and forth for a minute and then sits in a
lawn chair and picks up the paper once more. His name is there on the
first page along with the names of his friends, the other men who made
the "grisly find."
I close my eyes for a minute and hold onto the drainboard. I must
not dwell on this any longer. I must get over it, put it out of sight,
out of mind, etc., and "go on." I open my eyes. Despite everything,
knowing all that may be in store, I rake my arm across the drainboard
and send the dishes and glasses smashing and scattering across the
He doesn't move. I know he has heard, he raises his head as if
listening, but he doesn't move otherwise, doesn't turn around to look.
I hate him for that, for not moving. He waits a minute, then draws on
his cigarette and leans back in the chair. I pity him for listening,
detached, and then settling back and drawing on his cigarette. The wind
takes the smoke out of his mouth in a thin stream. Why do I notice
that? He can never know how much I pity him for that, for sitting still
and listening, and letting the smoke stream out of his mouth....
He planned his fishing trip into the mountains last Sunday, a week
before the Memorial Day weekend. He and Gordon Johnson, Mel Dorn, Vern
Williams. They play poker, bowl, and fish together. They fish together
every spring and early summer, the first two or three months of the
season, before family vacations, little league baseball, and visiting
relatives can intrude. They are decent men, family men, responsible at
their jobs. They have sons and daughters who go to school with our son,
Dean. On Friday afternoon these four men left for a three-day fishing
trip to the Naches River. They parked the car in the mountains and
hiked several miles to where they wanted to fish. They carried their
bedrolls, food and cooking utensils, their playing cards, their
whiskey. The first evening at the river, even before they could set up
camp, Mel Dorn found the girl floating face down in the river, nude,
lodged near the shore in some branches. He called the other men and
they all came to look at her. They talked about what to do. One of the
men--Stuart didn't say which-- perhaps it was Vern Williams, he is a
heavy-set, easy man who laughs often--one of them thought they should
start back to the car at once. The others stirred the sand with their
shoes and said they felt inclined to stay. They pleaded fatigue, the
late hour, the fact that the girl "wasn't going anywhere." In the end
they all decided to stay. They went ahead and set up the camp and built
a fire and drank their whiskey. They drank a lot of whiskey and when
the moon came up they talked about the girl. Someone thought they
should do something to prevent the body from floating away. Somehow
they thought that this might create a problem for them if it floated
away during the night. They took flashlights and stumbled down to the
river. The wind was up, a cold wind, and waves from the river lapped
the sandy bank. One of the men, I don't know who, it might have been
Stuart, he could have done it, waded into the water and took the girl
by the fingers and pulled her, still face down, closer to shore, into
shallow water, and then took a piece of nylon cord and tied it around
her wrist and then secured the cord to tree roots, all the while the
flashlights of the other men played over the girl's body. Afterward,
they went back to camp and drank more whiskey. Then they went to sleep.
The next morning, Saturday, they cooked breakfast, drank lots of
coffee, more whiskey, and then split up to fish, two men upriver, two
That night, after they had cooked their fish and potatoes and had
more coffee and whiskey, they took their dishes down to the river and
rinsed them off a few yards from where the body lay in the water. They
drank again and then they took out their cards and played and drank
until they couldn't see the cards any longer. Vern Williams went to
sleep, but the others told coarse stories and spoke of vulgar or
dishonest escapades out of their past, and no one mentioned the girl
until Gordon Johnson, who'd forgotten for a minute, commented on the
firmness of the trout they'd caught, and the terrible coldness of the
river water. They stopped talking then but continued to drink until one
of them tripped and fell cursing against the lantern, and then they
climbed into their sleeping bags.
The next morning they got up late, drank more whiskey, fished a
little as they kept drinking whiskey. Then, at one o'clock in the
afternoon, Sunday, a day earlier than they'd planned, they decided to
leave. They took down their tents, rolled their sleeping bags, gathered
their pans, pots, fish, and fishing gear, and hiked out. They didn't
look at the girl again before they left. When they reached the car they
drove the highway in silence until they came to a telephone. Stuart
made the call to the sheriff's office while the others stood around in
the hot sun and listened. He gave the man on the other end of the line
all of their names--they had nothing to hide, they weren't ashamed of
anything--and agreed to wait at the service station until someone could
come for more detailed directions and individual statements.
He came home at eleven o'clock that night. I was asleep but woke
when I heard him in the kitchen. I found him leaning against the
refrigerator drinking a can of beer. He put his heavy arms around me
and rubbed his hands up and down my back, the same hands he'd left with
two days before, I thought.
In bed he put his hands on me again and then waited, as if thinking
of something else. I turned slightly and then moved my legs. Afterward,
I know he stayed awake for a long time, for he was awake when I fell
and later, when I stirred for a minute, opening my eyes at a
slight noise, a rustle of sheets, it was almost daylight outside, birds
were singing, and he was on his back smoking and looking at the
curtained window. Half-asleep I said his name, but he didn't answer. I
fell asleep again.
He was up this morning before I could get out of bed--to see if
there was anything about it in the paper, I suppose. The telephone
began to ring shortly after eight o'clock.
"Go to hell," I heard him shout into the receiver. The telephone
rang again a minute later, and I hurried into the kitchen. "I have
nothing else to add to what I've already said to the sheriff. That's
right!" He slammed down the receiver.
"What is going on?" I said, alarmed.
"Sit down," he said slowly. His fingers scraped, scraped against
his stubble of whiskers. "I have to tell you something. Something
happened while we were fishing." We sat across from each other at the
table, and then he told me.
I drank coffee and stared at him as he spoke. Then I read the
account in the newspaper that he shoved across the table: "...
unidentified girl eighteen to twenty-four years of age... body three to
five days in the water... rape a possible motive... preliminary results
show death by strangulation... cuts and bruises on her breasts and
pelvic area... autopsy... rape, pending further investigation."
"You've got to understand," he said. "Don't look at me like that. Be careful now, I mean it. Take it easy, Claire."
"Why didn't you tell me last night?" I asked.
"I just... didn't. What do you mean?" he said.
"You know what I mean," I said. I looked at his hands, the broad
fingers, knuckles covered with hair, moving, lighting a cigarette now,
fingers that had moved over me, into me last night.
He shrugged. "What difference does it make, last night, this
morning? It was late. You were sleepy, I thought I'd wait until this
morning to tell you." He looked out to the patio: a robin flew from the
lawn to the picnic table and preened its feathers.
"It isn't true," I said. "You didn't leave her there like that?"
He turned quickly and said, "What'd I do? Listen to me carefully
now, once and for all. Nothing happened. I have nothing to be sorry for
or feel guilty about. Do you hear me?"
I got up from the table and went to Dean's room. He was awake and
in his pajamas, putting together a puzzle. I helped him find his
clothes and then went back to the kitchen and put his breakfast on the
table. The telephone rang two or three more times and each time Stuart
was abrupt while he talked and angry when he hung up. He called Mel
Dorn and Gordon Johnson and spoke with them, slowly, seriously, and
then he opened a beer and smoked a cigarette while Dean ate, asked him
about school, his friends, etc., exactly as if nothing had happened.
Dean wanted to know what he'd done while he was gone, and Stuart took some fish out of the freezer to show him.
"I'm taking him to your mother's for the day," I said.
"Sure," Stuart said and looked at Dean who was holding one of the
frozen trout. If you want to and he wants to, that is. You don't have
to, you know. There's nothing wrong."
"I'd like to anyway," I said.
"Can I go swimming there?" Dean asked and wiped his fingers on his pants.
"I believe so," I said. "It's a warm day so take your suit, and I'm sure your grandmother will say it's okay."
Stuart lighted a cigarette and looked at us.
Dean and I drove across town to Stuart's mother's. She lives in an
apartment building with a pool and a sauna bath. Her name is Catherine
Kane. Her name, Kane, is the same as mine, which seems impossible.
Years ago, Stuart has told me, she used to be called Candy by her
friends. She is a tall, cold woman with white-blonde hair. She gives me
the feeling that she is always judging, judging. I explain briefly in a
low voice what has happened (she hasn't yet read the newspaper) and
promise to pick Dean up that evening. "He brought his swimming suit," I
say. "Stuart and I have to talk about some things," I add vaguely. She
looks at me steadily from over her glasses. Then she nods and turns to
Dean, saying "How are you, my little man?" She stoops and puts her arms
around him. She looks at me again as I open the door to leave. She has
a way of looking at me without saying anything.
When I return home Stuart is eating something at the table and drinking beer....
After a time I sweep up the broken dishes and glassware and go
outside. Stuart is lying on his back on the grass now, the newspaper
and can of beer within reach, staring at the sky. It's breezy but warm
out and birds call.
"Stuart, could we go for a drive?" I say. "Anywhere."
He rolls over and looks at me and nods. "We'll pick up some beer,"
he says. "I hope you're feeling better about this. Try to understand,
that's all I ask." He gets to his feet and touches me on the hip as he
goes past. "Give me a minute and I'll be ready."
We drove through town without speaking. Before we reach the country
he stops at a roadside market for beer. I notice a great stack of
papers just inside the door. On the top step a fat woman in a print
dress holds out a licorice stick to a little girl. In a few minutes we
cross Everson Creek and turn into a picnic area a few feet from the
water. The creek flows under the bridge and into a large pond a few
hundred yards away. There are a dozen or so men and boys scattered
around the banks of the pond under the willows, fishing.
So much water so close to home, why did he have to go miles away to fish?
"Why did you have to go there of all places?" I say.
"The Naches? We always go there. Every year, at least once." We sit
on a bench in the sun and he opens two cans of beer and gives one to
me. "How the hell was I to know anything like that would happen?" He
shakes his head and shrugs, as if it had all happened years ago, or to
someone else. "Enjoy the afternoon, Claire. Look at this weather."
"They said they were innocent."
"Who? What are you talking about?"
"The Maddox brothers. They killed a girl named Arlene Hubly near
the town where I grew up, and then cut off her head and threw her into
the Cle Elum River. She and I went to the same high school. It happened
when I was a girl."
"What a hell of a thing to be thinking about," he says. "Come on,
get off it. You're going to get me riled in a minute. How about it now?
I look at the creek. I float toward the pond, eyes open, face down,
staring at the rocks and moss on the creek bottom until I am carried
into the lake where I am pushed by the breeze. Nothing will be any
different. We will go on and on and on and on. We will go on even now,
as if nothing had happened. I look at him across the picnic table with
such intensity that his face drains.
"I don't know what's wrong with you," he says. "I don't--"
I slap him before I realize. I raise my hand, wait a fraction of a
second, and then slap his cheek hard. This is crazy, I think as I slap
him. We need to lock our fingers together. We need to help one another.
This is crazy.
He catches my wrist before I can strike again and raises his own
hand. I crouch, waiting, and see something come into his eyes and then
dart away. He drops his hand. I drift even faster around and around in
"Come on, get in the car," he says. "I'm taking you home."
"No, no," I say, pulling back from him.
"Come on," he says. "Goddamn it."
"You're not being fair to me," he says later in the car. Fields and
trees and farmhouses fly by outside the window. "You're not being fair.
To either one of us. Or to Dean, I might add. Think about Dean for a
minute. Think about me. Think about someone else besides your goddamn
self for a change."
There is nothing I can say to him now. He tries to concentrate on
the road, but he keeps looking into the rearview mirror. Out of the
corner of his eye, he looks across the seat to where I sit with my
knees drawn up under my chin. The sun blazes against my arm and the
side of my face. He opens another beer while he drives, drinks from it,
then shoves the can between his legs and lets out breath. He knows. I
could laugh in his face. I could weep.
Stuart believes he is letting me sleep this morning. But I was
awake long before the alarm sounded, thinking, lying on the far side of
the bed, away from his hairy legs and his thick, sleeping fingers. He
gets Dean off for school, and then he shaves, dresses, and leaves for
work. Twice he looks into the bedroom and clears his throat, but I keep
my eyes closed.
In the kitchen I find a note from him signed "Love." I sit in the
breakfast nook in the sunlight and drink coffee and make a coffee ring
on the note. The telephone has stopped ringing, that's something. No
more calls since last night. I look at the paper and turn it this way
and that on the table. Then I pull it close and read what it says. The
body is still unidentified, unclaimed, apparently unmissed. But for the
last twenty four hours men have been examining it, putting things into
it, cutting, weighing, measuring, putting back again, sewing up,
looking for the exact cause and moment of death. Looking for evidence
of rape. I'm sure they hope for rape. Rape would make it easier to
understand. The paper says the body will be taken to Keith & Keith
Funeral Home pending arrangements. People are asked to come forward
with information, etc.
Two things are certain: people no longer care what happens to other
and 2) nothing makes any real difference any longer. Look at
what has happened. Yet nothing will change for Stuart and me. Really
change, I mean. We will grow older, both of us, you can see it in our
faces already, in the bathroom mirror, for instance, mornings when we
use the bathroom at the same time. And certain things around us will
change, become easier or harder, one thing or the other, but nothing
will ever really be any different. I believe that. We have made our
decisions, our lives have been set in motion, and they will go on and
on until they stop. But if that is true, then what? I mean, what if you
believe that, but you keep it covered up, until one day something
happens that should change something, but then you see nothing is going
to change after all. What then? Meanwhile, the people around you
continue to talk and act as if you were the same person as yesterday,
or last night, or five minutes before, but you are really undergoing a
crisis, your heart feels damaged....
The past is unclear. It's as if there is a film over those early
years. I can't even be sure that the things I remember happening really
happened to me. There was a girl who had a mother and father--the
father ran a small cafe where the mother acted as waitress and
cashier--who moved as if in a dream through grade school and high
school and then, in a year or two, into secretarial school. Later, much
later--what happened to the time in between?--she is in another town
working as a receptionist for an electronics parts firm and becomes
acquainted with one of the engineers who asks her for a date.
Eventually, seeing that's his aim, she lets him seduce her. She had an
intuition at the time, an insight about the seduction that later, try
as she might, she couldn't recall. After a short while they decide to
get married, but already the past, her past, is slipping away. The
future is something she can't imagine. She smiles, as if she has a
secret, when she thinks about the future. Once, during a particularly
bad argument, over what she can't now remember, five years or so after
they were married, he tells her that someday this affair (his words:
"this affair") will end in violence. She remembers this. She files this
away somewhere and begins repeating it aloud from time to time.
Sometimes she spends the whole morning on her knees in the sandbox
behind the garage playing with Dean and one or two of his friends. But
every afternoon at four o'clock her head begins to hurt. She holds her
forehead and feels dizzy with the pain. Stuart asks her to see a doctor
and she does, secretly pleased at the doctor's solicitous attention.
She goes away for a while to a place the doctor recommends. Stuart's
mother comes out from Ohio in a hurry to care for the child. But she,
Claire, spoils everything and returns home in a few weeks. His mother
moves out of the house and takes an apartment across town and perches
there, as if waiting. One night in bed when they are both near sleep,
Claire tells him that she heard some women patients at the clinic
discussing fellatio. She thinks this is something he might like to
hear. Stuart is pleased at hearing this. He strokes her arm. Things are
going to be okay, he says. From now on everything is going to be
different and better for them. He has received a promotion and a
substantial raise. They've even bought another car, a station wagon,
her car. They're going to live in the here and now. He says he feels
able to relax for the first time in years. In the dark, he goes on
stroking her arm.... He continues to bowl and play cards regularly. He
goes fishing with three friends of his.
That evening three things happen: Dean says that the children at
school told him that his father found a dead body in the river. He
wants to know about it.
Stuart explains quickly, leaving out most of the story, saying only
that, yes, he and three other men did find a body while they were
"What kind of body?" Dean asks. "Was it a girl?"
"Yes, it was a girl. A woman. Then we called the sheriff." Stuart looks at me.
"What'd he say?" Dean asks.
"He said he'd take care of it."
"What did it look like? Was it scary?"
"That's enough talk," I say. "Rinse your plate, Dean, and then you're excused."
"But what'd it look like?" he persists. "I want to know."
"You heard me," I say. "Did you hear me, Dean? Dean!" I want to shake him. I want to shake him until he cries.
"Do what your mother says," Stuart tells him quietly. "It was just a body, and that's all there is to it."
I am clearing the table when Stuart comes up behind and touches my arm. His fingers burn. I start, almost losing a plate.
"What's the matter with you?" he says, dropping his hand. "Claire, what is it?"
"You scared me," I say.
"That's what I mean. I should be able to touch you without you
jumping out of your skin." He stands in front of me with a little grin,
trying to catch my eyes, and then he puts his arm around my waist. With
his other hand he takes my free hand and puts it on the front of his
"Please, Stuart." I pull away and he steps back and snaps his fingers.
"Hell with it then," he says. "Be that way if you want. But just remember."
"Remember what?" I say quickly. I look at him and hold my breath.
He shrugs. "Nothing, nothing," he says.
The second thing that happens is that while we are watching
television that evening, he in his leather recliner chair, I on the
sofa with a blanket and magazine, the house quiet except for the
television, a voice cuts into the program to say that the murdered girl
has been identified. Full details will follow on the eleven o'clock
We look at each other. In a few minutes he gets up and says he is going to fix a nightcap. Do I want one?
"No," I say.
"I don't mind drinking alone," he says. "I thought I'd ask."
I can see he is obscurely hurt, and I look away, ashamed and yet angry at the same time.
He stays in the kitchen a long while, but comes back with his drink just when the news begins.
First the announcer repeats the story of the four local fishermen
finding the body. Then the station shows a high school graduation
photograph of the girl, a dark-haired girl with a round face and full,
smiling lips. There's a film of the girl's parents entering the funeral
home to make the identification. Bewildered, sad, they shuffle slowly
up the sidewalk to the front steps to where a man in a dark suit stands
waiting, holding the door. Then, it seems as if only seconds have
passed, as if they have merely gone inside the door and turned around
and come out again, the same couple is shown leaving the building, the
woman in tears, covering her face with a handkerchief, the man stopping
long enough to say to a reporter, "It's her, it's Susan. I can't say
anything right now. I hope they get the person or persons who did it
before it happens again. This violence...." He motions feebly at the
television camera. Then the man and woman get into an old car and drive
away into the late afternoon traffic.
The announcer goes on to say that the girl, Susan Miller, had
gotten off work as a cashier in a movie theater in Summit, a town 120
miles north of our town. A green, late-model car pulled up in front of
the theater and the girl, who according to witnesses looked as if she'd
been waiting, went over to the car and got in, leading the authorities
to suspect that the driver of the car was a friend, or at least an
acquaintance. The authorities would like to talk to the driver of the
green car.
Stuart clears his throat then leans back in the chair and sips his drink.
The third thing that happens is that after the news Stuart
stretches, yawns, and looks at me. I get up and begin making a bed for
myself on the sofa.
"What are you doing?" he says, puzzled.
"I'm not sleepy," I say, avoiding his eyes. "I think I'll stay up a while longer and then read something until I fall asleep."
He stares as I spread a sheet over the sofa. When I start to go for a pillow, he stands at the bedroom door, blocking the way.
"I'm going to ask you once more," he says. "What the hell do you think you're going to accomplish by this?"
"I need to be by myself tonight," I say. "I need to have time to think."
He lets out breath. "I'm thinking you're making a big mistake by
doing this. I'm thinking you'd better think again about what you're
doing. Claire?"
I can't answer. I don't know what I want to say. I turn and begin
to tuck in the edges of the blanket. He stares at me a minute longer
and then I see him raise his shoulders. "Suit yourself then. I could
give a fuck less what you do," he says. He turns and walks down the
hall scratching his neck.
This morning I read in the paper that services for Susan Miller are
to be held in Chapel of the Pines, Summit, at two o'clock the next
afternoon. Also, that police have taken statements from three people
who saw her get into the green Chevrolet. But they still have no
license number for the car. They are getting warmer, though, and the
investigation is continuing. I sit for a long while holding the paper,
thinking, then I call to make an appointment at the hairdresser's.
I sit under the dryer with a magazine on my lap and let Millie do my nails.
"I'm going to a funeral tomorrow," I say after we have talked a bit about a girl who no longer works there.
Millie looks up at me and then back at my fingers. "I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs Kane. I'm real sorry."
"It's a young girl's funeral," I say.
"That's the worst kind. My sister died when I was a girl, and I'm
still not over it to this day. Who died?" she says after a minute.
"A girl. We weren't all that close, you know, but still."
"Too bad. I'm real sorry. But we'll get you fixed up for it, don't worry. How's that look?"
"That looks... fine. Millie, did you ever wish you were somebody else, or else just nobody, nothing, nothing at all?"
She looks at me. "I can't say I ever felt that, no. No, if I was
somebody else I'd be afraid I might not like who I was." She holds my
fingers and seems to think about something for a minute. "I don't know,
I just don't know.... Let me have your other hand now, Mrs. Kane."
At eleven o'clock that night I make another bed on the sofa and
this time Stuart only looks at me, rolls his tongue behind his lips,
and goes down the hall to the bedroom. In the night I wake and listen
to the wind slamming the gate against the fence. I don't want to be
awake, and I lie for a long while with my eyes closed. Finally I get up
and go down the hall with my pillow. The light is burning in our
bedroom and Stuart is on his back with his mouth open, breathing
heavily. I go into Dean's room and get into bed with him. In his sleep
he moves over to give me space. I lie there for a minute and then hold
him, my face against his hair.
"What is it, mama?" he says.
"Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep. It's nothing, it's all right."
I get up when I hear Stuart's alarm, put on coffee and prepare breakfast while he shaves.
He appears in the kitchen doorway, towel over his bare shoulder, appraising.
"Here's coffee," I say. "Eggs will be ready in a minute."
I wake Dean and the three of us have breakfast. Once or twice
Stuart looks at me as if he wants to say something, but each time I ask
Dean if he wants more milk, more toast, etc.
"I'll call you today," Stuart says as he opens the door.
"I don't think I'll be home today," I say quickly. "I have a lot of things to do today. In fact, I may be late for dinner."
"All right. Sure." He moves his briefcase from one hand to the
other. "Maybe we'll go out for dinner tonight? How would you like
that?" He keeps looking at me. He's forgotten about the girl already.
"Are you all right?"
I move to straighten his tie, then drop my hand. He wants to kiss
me goodbye. I move back a step. "Have a nice day then," he says
finally. He turns and goes down the walk to his car.
I dress carefully. I try on a hat that I haven't worn in several
years and look at myself in the mirror. Then I remove the hat, apply a
light makeup, and write a note for Dean.
Honey, Mommy has things to do this afternoon, but will be home
later. You are to stay in the house or in the backyard until one of us
comes home. Love.
I look at the word "Love" and then I underline it. As I am writing
the note I realize I don't know whether back yard is one word or two. I
have never considered it before. I think about it and then I draw a
line and make two words of it.
I stop for gas and ask directions to Summit. Barry, a
forty-year-old mechanic with a moustache, comes out from the restroom
and leans against the front fender while the other man, Lewis, puts the
hose into the tank and begins to slowly wash the windshield.
"Summit," Barry says, looking at me and smoothing a finger down
each side of his moustache. "There's no best way to get to Summit, mrs
Kane. It's about a two-, two-and-a-half-hour drive each way. Across the
mountains. It's quite a drive for a woman. Summit? What's in Summit,
mrs Kane?"
"I have business," I say, vaguely uneasy. Lewis has gone to wait on another customer.
"Ah. Well, if I wasn't tied up there"--he gestures with his thumb
toward the bay--"I'd offer to drive you to Summit and back again.
Road's not all that good. I mean it's good enough, there's just a lot
of curves and so on."
"I'll be all right. But thank you." He leans against the fender. I
can feel his eyes as I open my purse. Barry takes the credit card.
"Don't drive it at night," he says. "It's not all that good a road,
like I said. And while I'd be willing to bet you wouldn't have car
trouble with this, I know this car, you can never be sure about
blowouts and things like that. Just to be on the safe side I'd better
check these tires." He taps one of the front tires with his shoe.
"We'll run it onto the hoist. Won't take long."
"No, no, it's all right. Really, I can't take any more time. The tires look fine to me."
"Only takes a minute," he says. "Be on the safe side."
"I said no. No! They look fine to me. I have to go now. Barry...."
"Mrs. Kane?"
"I have to go now."
I sign something. He gives me the receipt, the card, some stamps. I
put everything into my purse. "You take it easy," he says. "Be seeing
As I wait to pull into the traffic, I look back and see him watching. I close my eyes, then open them. He waves.
I turn at the first light, then turn again and drive until I come
to the highway and read the sign: SUMMIT 117 Miles. It is ten-thirty
The highway skirts the edge of town, then passes through farm
country, through fields of oats and sugar beets and apple orchards,
with here and there a small herd of cattle grazing in open pastures.
Then everything changes, the farms become fewer and fewer, more like
shacks now than houses, and stands of timber replace the orchards. All
at once I'm in the mountains and on the right, far below, I catch
glimpses of the Naches River.
In a little while I see a green pickup truck behind me, and it
stays behind me for miles. I keep slowing at the wrong times, hoping it
will pass, and then increasing my speed, again at the wrong times. I
grip the wheel until my fingers hurt. Then on a clear stretch he does
pass, but he drives along beside for a minute, a crew-cut man in a blue
workshirt in his early thirties, and we look at each other. Then he
waves, toots the horn twice, and pulls ahead of me.
I slow down and find a place, a dirt road off of the shoulder. I
pull over and turn off the ignition. I can hear the river somewhere
down below the trees. Ahead of me the dirt road goes into the trees.
Then I hear the pickup returning.
I start the engine just as the truck pulls up behind me. I lock the
doors and roll up the windows. Perspiration breaks on my face and arms
as I put the car in gear, but there is no place to drive.
"You all right?" the man says as he comes up to the car. "Hello.
Hello in there." He raps the glass. "You okay?" He leans his arms on
the door and brings his face close to the window.
I stare at him and can't find any words.
"After I passed I slowed up some," he says. "But when I didn't see
you in the mirror I pulled off and waited a couple of minutes. When you
still didn't show I thought I'd better drive back and check. Is
everything all right? How come you're locked up in there?"
I shake my head.
"Come on, roll down your window. Hey, are you sure you're okay? You
know it's not good for a woman to be batting around the country by
herself." He shakes his head and looks at the highway, then back at me.
"Now come on, roll down the window, how about it? We can't talk this
"Please, I have to go."
"Open the door, all right?" he says, as if he isn't listening. "At
least roll the window down. You're going to smother in there." He looks
at my breasts and legs. The skirt has pulled up over my knees. His eyes
linger on my legs, but I sit still, afraid to move.
"I want to smother," I say. "I am smothering, can't you see?"
"What in the hell?" he says and moves back from the door. He turns
and walks back to his truck. Then, in the side mirror, I watch him
returning, and I close my eyes.
"You don't want me to follow you toward Summit or anything? I don't mind. I got some extra time this morning," he says.
I shake my head.
He hesitates and then shrugs. "Okay, lady, have it your way then," he says. "Okay."
I wait until he has reached the highway, and then I back out. He
shifts gears and pulls away slowly, looking back at me in his rearview
mirror. I stop the car on the shoulder and put my head on the wheel.
The casket is closed and covered with floral sprays. The organ
begins soon after I take a seat near the back of the chapel. People
begin to file in and find chairs, some middle-aged and older people,
but most of them in their early twenties or even younger. They are
people who look uncomfortable in their suits and ties, sport coats and
slacks, their dark dresses and leather gloves. One boy in flared pants
and a yellow short-sleeved shirt takes the chair next to mine and
begins to bite his lips. A door opens at one side of the chapel and I
look up and for a minute the parking lot reminds me of a meadow. But
then the sun flashes on car windows. The family enters in a group and
moves into a curtained area off to the side. Chairs creak as they
settle themselves. In a few minutes a slim, blond man in a dark suit
stands and asks us to bow our heads. He speaks a brief prayer for us,
the living, and when he finishes he asks us to pray in silence for the
soul of Susan Miller, departed. I close my eyes and remember her
picture in the newspaper and on television. I see her leaving the
theater and getting into the green Chevrolet. Then I imagine her
journey down the river, the nude body hitting rocks, caught at by
branches, the body floating and turning, her hair streaming in the
water. Then the hands and hair catching in the overhanging branches,
holding, until four men come along to stare at her. I can see a man who
is drunk (Stuart?) take her by the wrist. Does anyone here know about
that? What if these people knew that? I look around at the other faces.
There is a connection to be made of these things, these events, these
faces, if I can find it. My head aches with the effort to find it.
He talks about Susan Miller's gifts: cheerfulness and beauty, grace
and enthusiasm. From behind the closed curtain someone clears his
throat, someone else sobs. The organ music begins. The service is over.
Along with the others I file slowly past the casket. Then I move
out onto the front steps and into the bright, hot afternoon light. A
middle aged woman who limps as she goes down the stairs ahead of me
reaches the sidewalk and looks around, her eyes falling on me. "Well,
they got him," she says. "If that's any consolation. They arrested him
this morning. I heard it on the radio before I came. A guy right here
in town. A longhair, you might have guessed." We move a few steps down
the hot sidewalk. People are starting cars. I put out my hand and hold
on to a parking meter. Sunlight glances off polished hoods and fenders.
My head swims. "He's admitted having relations with her that night, but
he says he didn't kill her." She snorts. "They'll put him on probation
and then turn him loose."
"He might not have acted alone," I say. "They'll have to be sure.
He might be covering up for someone, a brother, or some friends."
"I have known that child since she was a little girl," the woman
goes on, and her lips tremble. "She used to come over and I'd bake
cookies for her and let her eat them in front of the TV." She looks off
and begins shaking her head as the tears roll down her cheeks.
Stuart sits at the table with a drink in front of him. His eyes are
red and for a minute I think he has been crying. He looks at me and
doesn't say anything. For a wild instant I feel something has happened
to Dean, and my heart turns.
"Where is he?" I say. "Where is Dean?"
"Outside," he says.
"Stuart, I'm so afraid, so afraid," I say, leaning against the door.
"What are you afraid of, Claire? Tell me, honey, and maybe I can
help. I'd like to help, just try me. That's what husbands are for."
"I can't explain," I say. "I'm just afraid. I feel like, I feel like, I feel like...."
He drains his glass and stands up, not taking his eyes from me. "I
think I know what you need, honey. Let me play doctor, okay? Just take
it easy now." He reaches an arm around my waist and with his other hand
begins to unbutton my jacket, then my blouse. "First things first," he
says, trying to joke.
"Not now, please," I say.
"Not now, please," he says, teasing. "Please nothing." Then he
steps behind me and locks an arm around my waist. One of his hands
slips under my brassiere.
"Stop, stop, stop," I say. I stamp on his toes.
And. then I am lifted up and then falling. I sit on the floor
looking up at him and my neck hurts and my skirt is over my knees. He
leans down and says, "You go to hell then, do you hear, bitch? I hope
your cunt drops off before I touch it again." He sobs once and I
realize he can't help it, he can't help himself either. I feel a rush
of pity for him as he heads for the living room.
He didn't sleep at home last night.
This morning, flowers, red and yellow chrysanthemums. I am drinking coffee when the doorbell rings.
"Mrs. Kane?" the young man says, holding his box of flowers.
I nod and pull the robe tighter at my throat.
"The man who called, he said you'd know." The boy looks at my robe,
open at the throat, and touches his cap. He stands with his legs apart,
feet firmly planted on the top step. "Have a nice day," he says.
A little later the telephone rings and Stuart says, "Honey, how are
you? I'll be home early, I love you. Did you hear me? I love you, I'm
sorry, I'll make it up to you. Goodbye, I have to run now."
I put the flowers into a vase in the center of the dining room table and then I move my things into the extra bedroom.
Last night, around midnight, Stuart breaks the lock on my door. He
does it just to show me that he can, I suppose, for he doesn't do
anything when the door springs open except stand there in his underwear
looking surprised and foolish while the anger slips from his face. He
shuts the door slowly, and a few minutes later I hear him in the
kitchen prying open a tray of ice cubes.
I'm in bed when he calls today to tell me that he's asked his
mother to come stay with us for a few days. I wait a minute, thinking
about this, and then hang up while he is still talking. But in a little
while I dial his number at work. When he finally comes on the line I
say, "It doesn't matter, Stuart. Really, I tell you it doesn't matter
one way or the other."
"I love you," he says.
He says something else and I listen and nod slowly. I feel sleepy.
Then I wake up and say, "For God's sake, Stuart, she was only a child."
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