She threw herself down, full-length across the driveway, just as his foot hit the accelerator. She lay there, billeted, awaiting him. He remembered night flying in the Philippines, before the War, coming in too far down the runway and jamming the brakes to make that old P-26 roll. He gunned the car. THEM, 1956 By Martha Gies He hadn’t changed out of his clothes. He sat in a leather recliner, his dress shirt glaring white in the floor lamp’s cone of light. He was wearing the clip-on bow tie which he considered irresistible to juries. The latest Sports Illustrated lay unopened on his lap. In front of him, the big television console was silenced. He looked at his wristwatch, then tongued the warm brandy, receiving the fumes in his eyes and nose. Above him, a child galloped the length of the hallway. From the kitchen he heard the sharp jangle of a silverware drawer, yanked open by her. She dropped the silverware, hot from the dishwasher, into the drawer and slammed it. She worked artichoke leaves past the disposal’s rubber petals with a sterling silver dinner fork. Water sprayed the gathered waist of her yellow dress. She twisted loose three ice cubes and plunked them into a lowball glass. She splashed bourbon to the top and rattled the glass, spilling it. She drank, trying to listen for a sound of him in the living room. She shoved plates, water beading off them, into the rack of the dishwasher. Turning, she saw him in the kitchen doorway, tapping a Camel out of a fresh pack, his eyes on the garage door. “Oh no you’re not, goddamit!" she said. His lighter flamed and snapped shut. She let fly a Revere Ware saucepan, in the direction of the doorway yet not precisely at him. He laughed and withdrew to the living room, positioning himself near the foyer. Under cover of the diswasher’s grind, he quietly opened the heavy front door and slipped outside. He cupped the cigarette,' shielding its tiny red glow, and tracked soundlessly beneath the high kitchen window to the rear of the house. He backed the big silver car out of the garage and onto the paved circular driveway, satisfied he’d outmaneuvered her. She thought she heard the car’s engine beyond the splash of the wash cycle, and raced through the living room, out the front door, and into the path of his Continental. She threw herself down, full- length across the driveway, just as his foot hit the accelerator. She lay there, billeted, awaiting him. He saw her lovely body bloom yellow in his headlights. He whipped the wheel to the right, jumping the half-moon of a curb, and rode out over the picturebook grass, holding steady toward the broad ditch beyond the irises. He remembered night flying in the Philippines, before the War, coming in too far down the runway and jamming the brakes to make that old P-26 roll. He gunned the car, jumped the ditch, and snapped the wheel once again, skidding sideways onto the county road. Her recklessness excited him. He flew along toward town, relishing his desire for her. ♦ Writer Martha Gies, again a Portland resident, lived for several years in Seattle. Her last story in Clinton St. was “Warming to the Freeze,” Summer, 1982. A real estate professional: one who orchestrates the transaction to meet the needs and objectives of the buyer and seller. Bridgetown Realty 1431 NE Weidler Portland, OR 97232 287-9370 — established 1979 — PINE STREET CHIROPRACTIC 205 S.W. PINE W DOWNTOWN F l 274-0144 Where the healing arts meet the fine arts Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90 17
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