The Girl from Charnelle Read Free Page B

his wife. Everyone else referred to him simply as Letig. He worked with her father at Charnelle Steel & Construction, and though he was younger—early thirties, she guessed—he played poker and went hunting and fishing with a group of older men, including her father. She sometimes baby-sat Mr. and Mrs. Letig’s two boys. One was almost five, Rich’s age, the other only three.
    Laura held out her cup, and he poured too quickly. The foam bubbledover the rim and splatted on the floor between them. She jumped back but could feel the wetness on her legs and the laced hem of her dress. She wanted to protect the dress, a green-and-white-striped one with small white satin bows on the sleeves and waist—a dress she’d had her eye on for more than a year and a half and had only recently saved enough money to buy, even though her father thought it frivolous to spend seven dollars on a dress she’d probably outgrow in a year or two.
    â€œWhoops!” Mr. Letig chirped. He set the bottle on the table, gathered up a wad of napkins, and blotted the dance floor. “Here, let me get that,” he said and wiped at her shoes and leg.
    He was handsome, she’d noticed before. A big man with a thick chest, but also delicate features, a long face, his eyelashes thick and practically white, his nose angular, Scandinavian. His lips always very red, like a lipsticked girl’s, and white teeth only slightly crooked. His fingers were long and slender, and he moved with the grace of a large cat.
    â€œNo, that’s okay. I’m fine.” She stepped away quickly and spilled more champagne.
    â€œI’m not gonna bite you,” he drawled, looking up at her, smiling. His cheeks were flushed. His blond mustache wriggled comically. “Unless you want me to.”
    She laughed nervously. He grabbed her foot. He pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and snapped it open. “Never let it be said that John Letig besmirched a lady’s shoes.”
    He enunciated slowly, carefully, and she couldn’t tell if it was because he was drunk or because he was trying to be funny. She figured a combination. And it was funny and sweet in its way, and rather than call any more attention to herself—already people standing around the punch bowl were looking over—she let him finish polishing. He stood up, neatly folded the handkerchief, put it back in his pocket, and reached for the bottle of champagne.
    â€œThank you,” she said.
    He winked at her. “My pleasure. Do you know what time it is?” he asked.
    She could see now that his eyes were bloodshot and slightly glazed, but it didn’t scare her. He wasn’t a mean drunk, she could tell, not like a couple of Manny’s friends, who she knew got drunk as a precursor to fighting. He was having fun, and the alcohol brought out a comic foolishness that she found disarming.
    She looked at the big Armory clock behind his head. “Eleven-fifteen,” she said.
    â€œRight. And at midnight you’re gonna owe me something.” He smiled and tapped the bottle against her cup. “Cheers!”
    â€œCheers,” she said.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll find you.” He walked away, his shirttail dangling over the back of his pants. He walked straight, though, and she wondered—had she noticed this before?—if he used to be an athlete. He had an athlete’s natural agility, even for a big man, a lithe fluidity that suggested he was at home inside his body.
    And what was that thing about finding her? Just him drunk, she guessed. She knew that at midnight there would be toasts, everybody kissing. She knew it was a custom. In the past, their family had always stayed home, sometimes listening to the New York City special on the radio but often not even making it to midnight. She took a long swallow of champagne, and it felt like all the bubbles popped in her head at once. She laughed, and an old couple