CATHRYN HAD WAITED IN the front room while Willie looked for the blanket. She stood next to the side door, watching the progression of events at the party, trying, but not in the least succeeding, to share in the general rapture. The cowboy musicians were clearly drunk now, and they were playing overtime in exchange for whiskey and an opportunity to dance, every so often, with the women. The noise in the house had risen to such a pitch that it was nearly impossible to determine its individual components. It was just noise: bad music and loud talk, interspersed with whoops of maddened laughter, held together by the continuous thumping of bass chords. She watched Harris and Ellen Streeter grappling with one another behind a potted palm. Ellen was pale and stoic looking. Harris had kissed her and now had backed off, glaring at her. Ellen said something — it was impossible to hear any of it — and then Harris pulled her roughly against the wall. She shook loose and stepped away, as if gauging the distance, and then swung her small fist, cracking Harris smartly across the bridge of the nose and a corner of one eye.
Harris blinked in astonishment; he reached up and touched the nose and eye. Ellen watched him for a moment, then turned and walked off into the crowd. Harris’s face had gone red all over, and a single large teardrop advanced from the corner of the sore eye, spilling down his puffed cheek.
Willie appeared with the serape. “You ready?” he said to Cathryn.
“Just a minute,” Cathryn said. She told Willie about the blow Ellen Streeter had struck Harris behind the potted palm. They stood there for a few moments, watching Harris, who looked their way for an instant but did not seem really to notice anyone. He had a pocket handkerchief out and was blotting at both eyes. His face was still very red. Finally, he walked off in the direction of the bathroom.
Willie and Cathryn turned to leave, but Rinemiller reached them as they moved toward the side door.
“You there this afternoon when Earle made the jump?” he said.
Willie said yes, and Rinemiller said, “I mean were you there when he hit the ground? Did you see him when he hit?”
“No,” Willie said. “Giffen and Roy got there first. I’m not certain whether they actually saw him land — but they were there first. What’s matter?”
“It’s Earle,” Rinemiller said. “He pitched over in the kitchen a few minutes ago. Still passed out. Maybe it’s the booze, but I got to thinking maybe he cracked his head harder than he wanted to admit to himself this afternoon …”
“Well let’s go have a look,” Willie said.
“He’s out cold,” Rinemiller was saying as they pushed through the crowd. “His goddam eyes are all up in his head. His skin’s clammy and he looks awful …” He paused for a moment, thinking, and then added: “But no more awful than most drunks, I suppose.”
The party was still going good; people moved past and in front of them, looking reckless and extravagant and gloriously muddled. One of the women had been persuaded to sing, and she was going at it vigorously, in an occasionally off-key light opera voice, describing how it was when the Deep Purple fell.
In the kitchen, Earle Fielding was sprawled on the linoleum, his long legs half under the table. A sofa cushion had been slipped under his head, and there was a crowd gathered, pushing in close to see. Willie bent down to get a better look; he peeled back one eyelid but was uncertain about what exactly he was looking for; he attempted to take a pulse count; he kept losing it. Finally, he straightened up and said to Cathryn: “Wait here a minute. I’m going to go find Roy.”
He headed out of the kitchen and down the back hallway toward the little bedroom where he’d last seen Roy and Ouida. The bedroom door was closed, but light shone at the bottom, against the polished tile. He put his head against the door panel to listen. He rapped lightly and then once again, with more authority. He turned the knob and stepped inside. They’d left only their impressions on the unmade bed; other than the bed, there was little else. Willie wandered into the small bathroom, switched on the light, examined the tile floor, shook the dry shower curtain. He stared at himself in the mirror above the lavatory. His face seemed as bleached and pallid as Earle Fielding’s. He splashed cold water across tender eyelids. Then he switched off lights and left the room and moved back up the hall. Cathryn was at the other end, next to the door to the front bath. She took his arm and said: “Everyone’s gone crazy — really.”
Willie glanced at Cathryn and then, through the bathroom door, at Ellen Streeter. Ellen sat on the edge of a low tub, pressing a washcloth against the side of her face. Willie and Cathryn stepped inside, and Cathryn said: “Feel any better?”
Ellen smiled faintly and nodded her head. She got to her feet and stood in front of a mirror, holding the cloth away from her cheek to examine the bruise. She sat down again on the edge of the tub. Willie asked what happened; Cathryn stared at Ellen and said: “Harris socked her back. Right outside the door here. I saw it all … The son of a bitch.”
“Men is men,” Ellen said, looking up and smiling again.
“Jesus …” Willie said.
“You’d have to collapse on the floor and scream and swallow your tongue to get any attention around here,” Cathryn said. “Think I was the only one who noticed.”
“Where’s Harris?” Willie said.
“Wandered off somewhere,” Cathryn said.
“Sure you’re all right?” Willie said.
“Yes,” Ellen said. She got back to her feet and looked in the mirror. “Harris and I have now exchanged black eyes … We ought to buy us some boy-girl look-alike sweaters.”
Willie left Cathryn with Ellen Streeter and returned to the kitchen. Earle still lay sprawled, half under the small table. Rinemiller and Huggins were maneuvering over him, as if about to lower grappling hooks.
“I couldn’t find Roy,” Willie said to them. He stared at Earle, and added: “We ought to get him into town.”
Rinemiller nodded and got hold of Earle Fielding’s two feet. Willie and Huggins struggled to get a firm grip under each arm. The three of them began a slow, shuffling move toward the kitchen door. Cathryn appeared and Willie told her to go out front and bring the car around. Cathryn made a languid gesture, as if resigned to the inevitability of witnessing one delirious incident after another.
A few people stopped and stared and smiled as they carried Earle to the car. One young man, locked in an excess of pleasure with his date in the backseat of a car, let loose of the girl and looked out the window as they moved past carrying Earle.
“Hey-hey!” he called to them. “You all gonna be back now? Anybody drops out the tournament, screws up the pairin’s for everyone else …”
They got Earle stretched out in the back of Rinemiller’s car. Huggins sat alongside the unconscious figure, and Alfred moved up front to drive. Willie and Cathryn followed in another car. The rain had started up again, and they drove along the soft roads toward the main highway, alternately accelerating and slowing with the downpours as the stormclouds sailed overhead.