Machine Dreams

shook his head in a parody of fortitude. He put the car in reverse and turned to look back, throwing one arm along the seat behind Jean. The warmth of his body was muffled in his thick coat, but Jean smelled a scent of after-shave, a delicate musk of tobacco and soap. She let her face touch his shoulder as the car came to a stop. Mitch let the engine tremble a moment, then turned off the motor. Across the whitened street, the VFW house was softly illuminated. Snow fell across the swept plank floor of the wideporch, drifting softly and heavily. As Jean sat watching, the snow was suddenly buoyed on a gust of wind. Snowflakes whirled then with a feverish motion, so incredibly fast, like an animated swarm drawn to the light.
    Reb met them at the door and bowed from the waist when he saw Gladys. “Why, Mrs. T. A. Curry.”
    “Oh, you old fool.” Gladys passed him by with a wave of her hand, walking down the hallway toward the big kitchen.
    Mitch lifted Jean’s coat from her shoulders. She felt proud when he did such things; his manners were kind and old-fashioned. “Cora come along?” he asked over Jean’s head.
    “Sure.” Reb smiled confidently. “She’s in the kitchen helping Bess set out the food. Don’t know why in hell they’re setting it out already.” He talked to Jean then, trying to include her. “People might want a few drinks first, dance a few times.”
    “Of course,” Jean answered. “Let’s go start the jukebox.”
    “That’s the spirit.” Reb took a drink from his flask. “But no jukebox tonight—we’ve got a big cabinet Victrola, and every Ellington and Dorsey record ever made. And the Crooner. Marthella brought the Crooner.”
    Mitch laughed. “No kidding? She brought all those records of hers?”
    Jean smiled uncertainly and Reb touched her arm.
    “Would you like a drink, Jean?”
    “Just some wine, I think.” She gave him a grateful look. Reb was good at smoothing situations; he seemed to see everything so squarely and easily. Maybe it was just part of doctoring. But Old Doc Jonas, Reb’s father, had been very different. A bit silent and grave. He’d inspired a secretive confidence rather than ease. Ease, that was it. Reb’s manner encouraged an ease that skated along over the tops of conversations and was evasive. Jean watched the two men joking and felt surprised at her own conclusion. But I like Reb, she thought, I really do. He seemed to perform his slight dishonesties for the sake of others, to give up something himself in the inclusive gestures, the arbitrarily friendly voice. Mitch wasn’t like that: he was absolutely honest, to the point of being tactless and not getting along with people. Tonight he was in agood mood. She hoped Reb wouldn’t influence him to drink too much.
    “Cowboy,” Reb said, “what’ll it be? Have some good brandy here in my flask, or you can start on a fifth of Jack Daniels.”
    “I’ll have to drink fast to catch up with you.” Mitch winked at Jean.
    She felt his hand, lightly, at her waist. He was so courteous in public; if only he wouldn’t get tipsy. She felt shy of him then, a little scared—not of Mitch but of her own discomfort. Well, she’d just have a few drinks herself. After all, it was New Year’s. She looked up at Mitch and said brightly, “I think I’ll have some of Reb’s brandy, he brags about it so.”
    “Fine,” Mitch said in her ear, “but I think we’ll mix it in a little water for you.”
    Yes, there, he was taking care of her. They walked across the hall to the parlor, a big room kept empty for dancing, and music was already playing.
    “Jean, have you met Marthella?” Reb gestured toward the woman beside him and began pouring four glasses of brandy. “Cowboy, I insist on at least one toast. This is good, aged stuff, and perfectly mellow. If you try to water it for them, I’ll deck you.”
    “Now, now,” Marthella laughed nervously. “Not on a holiday.”
    She wasn’t from good family, Jean thought. You could tell. Her clothes clung a little too tightly and were too bright, but she seemed nice enough, even a bit shy. Gladys and her gossip. “Marthella,” Jean said, “hello again. I think I met you a couple of summers ago, probably right here in the parlor. A VFW dance.”
    “Yes, I remember.” Marthella nodded. “But it sure isn’t summer now. What a storm.”
    They stood a little awkwardly, sipping their drinks. Jean looked at the room; she’d helped decorate it that morning. The