“That’s not the two cents I had to put in.”
“Oh.”
“He thinks the world of you,” she said. “Stay with us and keep on being the kindhearted boy you are.”
Mrs. Lowry had an Irish smile and green eyes that could light up the dark side of the moon.
Chapter Eleven
THE SUN HAD set when I arrived at Jo Anne’s house. The sky was the color of tin, striped with purple and black clouds. I thought perhaps she and I could be alone for the evening or go for ice cream in town. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Henri Devos’s Mustang was parked in the gravel driveway, and an old school bus was parked in the field, not far from the neighbor’s hogpen. At least two lanterns were burning inside the bus. I knocked on Jo Anne’s front door.
“Hi,” she said upon opening it.
“Hi,” I said.
Her hand didn’t leave the doorknob. “Hello?” I said.
“Oh, come in.”
I stepped inside and closed the door. She was wearing a flannel shirt and khaki pants without a belt. “I’m a little confused right now. We were going somewhere tonight?” she asked.
“Not necessarily. I just said I’d come by. Who are those people in the bus?”
“Some friends of Henri’s.”
“He’s out there with them?”
“Yes.”
“What are they doing here?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe they’re beatniks. They’re hardly more than children. Henri said they need a place to stay a few days. I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”
“By what?”
“Maybe I made a mistake. It’s not his fault.”
“What are we talking about, Jo Anne?”
“I lent Henri five hundred dollars.” She took a breath after she said it.
“Your professor asked you for five hundred dollars?”
“He said he’d pay me back in a few weeks. That was two months ago. I asked him if I could have it back, or at least part of it. He said his ex-wife put a lien on his car and bank account.”
She sat down at the counter, one foot on the floor, the other tangled in a rung on the stool. She propped her forehead on the heel of her hand, her face in despair.
“There’s more?” I said.
“He wants me to mortgage the house. He says he can double my money in a month. He says that’s the only way he can make up the five hundred.”
I looked out the window at the bus. I could see people inside, their silhouettes moving jerkily, like sticks, against the glow of the lanterns. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. This time they looked normal. “How is he going to double your money?”
“Buy into an art business in Dallas. He knows Bunker Hunt.”
“Bunker Hunt the oilman?”
“Or whatever. He’s a John Bircher.” The top of her shirt was unbuttoned, her hair unbrushed. She pushed the loose button through its buttonhole with her thumb, hardly aware of what she was doing, the way people act when they have been betrayed or used or played for fools. I wanted to twist off Henri Devos’s head and flush it down a commode.