The Night In Question by Tobias Wolff Read Free Book Online

accents, and the girls by rendering them invisible to the boys. She wore dark glasses even when she went to movies. Her full red lips were habituallypursed. Wiley learned they were held thus in readiness not for passion but scorn, at least where he was concerned. After Monique read
Catcher in the Rye
her dissatisfaction found a home in the word phony. He never understood why she’d settled on him in the first place. Sometimes he thought it was for his language; he liked to talk, and talked well, and Monique was in the states to polish her English. But her reasons were a mystery. She dropped him cold without ever making them clear.
    Wiley had finished two whiskies and just bought a third when Kathleen and the little guy came out of the bar. They stopped in the doorway and watched the rain, which was falling harder now. They stood well apart, not speaking, and watched the rain drip off the awning. She looked into her purse, said something to him. He patted his jacket pockets. She rummaged in her purse again and then the two of them ducked their heads and started up the hill. Wiley stood suddenly, knocking his chair over. He picked it up and left the bar.
    He had to walk fast. It was an effort. His feet kept taking him from side to side. He bent forward, compelling them to follow. He reached the corner and shouted, “Kathleen!”
    She was on the opposite corner. The man was a few steps ahead of her, leaning into the rain. They both stopped and looked over at Wiley. Wiley walked into the street and came toward them. He said, “I love you, Kathleen.” He was surprised to hear himself say this, and then to say, as he stepped up on the curb, “Come home with me.” She didn’t look the way he remembered her. In fact he barely recognized her. She put her hand to her mouth. Wiley couldn’t tell whether she was shocked or afraid or what. Maybe she was laughing. He smiled foolishly, confused by his ownpresence here and by what he’d said, not sure what to say next. Then the little guy came past her and Wiley felt a blow on his cheek and his head snapped back, and right after that the wind went out of him in a whoosh and he folded up, clutching his stomach, unable to breathe or speak. There was another blow at the back of his knees and he fell forward against the curb. He saw a shoe coming at his face and tried to jerk his head away but it caught him just above the eye. He heard Kathleen screaming and the shoe hit him on the mouth. He rolled away and covered his face with his hands. Kathleen kept screaming,
No Mike No Mike No Mike No!
Wiley could feel himself being kicked on his shoulders and back. A dull, faraway pain that went on for a while, and then ceased.
    He lay where he was, not trusting the silence, afraid that by moving he would make it all start again. Finally he raised himself to his hands and knees. There was broken glass in the street, glittering on the wet asphalt, and to see it at just this angle, so close, so familiar, so perfectly a part of everything that had happened to him, was to feel utterly reduced; and he knew that he would never forget this, being on his knees with broken glass all around. The rain fell softly. He heard himself weeping, and stopped; it was a stagey, dishonest sound. His lower lip throbbed. He licked it. It was swollen, and tasted of salt and leather.
    Wiley stood up, steadying himself against the wall of a building. Two men came toward him, talking excitedly. He was afraid that they would stop to help him, ask him questions. What if they called the police? He had no excuse for his condition, no explanation. Wiley turned his face. The men walked past him as if he wasn’t there, or as if he belonged there, in exactly that pose, as part of what they expected a street to look like.
    Home. He had to get home. Wiley pushed away from the wall and started walking. He was surprised at how wellhe walked. His head was clear, his feet steady. He felt exuberant, even exultant, as if he’d gotten