Norwood by Charles Portis Read Free Book Online

having any. Except to tell him to slow down, she absolutely refused to talk. She sat rigid and sullen far over against her door. Off and on she pretended to be sleeping. She tried not to move at all but every few minutes she would scratch, or shift about on the seat, her shiny dress squeaking, and each time Norwood would turn to her with a smile.
    â€œYou don’t have to look over here every time I move,” she said. “Keep your eyes on the road.” When she opened the vent glass she did it very abruptly, and dropped her hands away like a calf roper in a rodeo, so as to prevent Norwood from seeing and noting and enjoying the act. As it was, he caught only the last part of it.
    In Little Rock he asked if she would like to stop for a Coke or go to the ladies’ room. ‘I’ll let you know when I want to stop, Mr. Big Red.” She was in her dozing position again.
    â€œI don’t know what you’re so mad about,” he said, “but we got a long ways to go yet. We could make a right nice trip out of it if you wouldn’t act that way. I would like to be your good friend, Laverne.”
    She didn’t even open her eyes. “Yeah, I bet you would. My name is not Laverne, it’s Yuh-von. I don’t want you calling me anything.”
    On they rode in hostile silence through the rice fields and the one-stoplight towns of eastern Arkansas. The rain let up some but the trucks were still throwing up muddy slop on the windshield. Grady was right about the reflex tow bar. It was a little wonder. There was no bucking and yawing on the curves, even at high speed. He was right about the Olds too. It was clean and fast and powerful. The tinted glass made it snug inside. Everything worked, the radio, the clock, even the windshield squirters. Norwood could have driven that 98 Oldsmobile through all eternity and never stopped.
    They stopped in De Valls Bluff to get some peaches. Miss Phillips paid for them but she wouldn’t get out of the car. Norwood had a barbecue sandwich and a Nugrape. They ate in the car and pressed on. Just before they got to Brinkley Norwood broke the silence with a shout and hit the brakes. “Hey look at that!” Miss Phillips bolted and her red knees bumped against the dashboard. Some of the peach juice splashed from the can and ran down her legs. “What is it!” she said. “Where!”
    â€œYou missed him,” said Norwood. “There was a possum back there crawling through that fence. He looked like a big old slow rat.”
    Miss Phillips was frantically daubing at her legs with wads of Kleenex. “You son of a bitch!”
    Norwood hit the brakes again. “You want to go back and see him?”
    More juice erupted from the can, and this time two or three golden Del Monte slivers with it. They stuck on her dress and made dark growing splotches. “What the hell is wrong with you, fellow!” she shrieked. “Look at what you’ve done! You think I want to see a possum crawling through a fence!”
    â€œHe’s already through the fence,” said Norwood. “He’s back there in that field now looking for something. He’s probably looking for some chow.”
    â€œYou’re the biggest peckerwood son of a bitch in the world!”
    â€œI don’t like that kind of talk out of a girl, Laverne. How would you like your mama to hear you talking like that?”
    Miss Phillips had no answer. She quite unexpectedly broke into tears. She did not cry loud but she cried dramatically and long. It went on for miles, the snuffling and the little chirping noises. Norwood considered and dismissed seven or eight things to say. They were on the approaches to the Memphis Bridge when he went back to the first one.
    â€œI didn’t aim to make you cry. I’m sorry I brought that up about your mama.”
    â€œThat’s not what I’m crying about, stud.”
    â€œI’ll just keep my mouth shut