Free The Hangings by Bill Pronzini Page A

it. "The good citizens of Tule Bend tell me things on occasion," she said. "Things they want me to know."
    "I don't understand."
    "Does it really matter, Lincoln?"
    "It does to me. Why would somebody want you to know I was hurt last night?"
    "You're sitting here with me now, aren't you?"
    "You mean because I come here to see you?"
    "At night. You come at night."
    "Hannah, I . . ."
    "The whole town knows about it," she said. "Did you think it was a secret?"
    "No. And I don't care what the town knows."
    "The town cares," she said.
    "To hell with the town."
    "You don't mean that."
    "I do mean it. By God, I do. It's nobody's business but yours and mine."
    "You're naive if you believe that. The town constable keeping company with the town whore—that is everyone's business, like it or not."
    Heat had come into my face. I leaned toward her. "What kind of talk is that? You're not a . . . you're not that kind of woman.''
    "The town thinks I am."
    "Damn the town!"
    "Don't shout, Lincoln. Please."
    I had shouted, the first time I had ever raised my voice to her. It shamed me; she was the victim, not the villain, and I had no right to be railing at her in any case. I sat back in my chair, put a tight rein on my feelings before I asked, soft, "Who was it told you about my trouble with the prowler?"
    "I'd rather not say."
    "I'd rather you did. I want to know."
    "Why? So you can confront the person?"
    ''I just want to know.''
    "It isn't important," Hannah said. "If I give you one name, I might as well give you half a dozen. People are the way they are—you must know that. You can't change them; no one can change them except themselves, and most have no desire to change."
    "That doesn't mean I have to accept it."
    "But you do. You do accept it."
    "I don't."
    "You live here, you're part of the town. We both are. As long as we choose to remain, you and I must accept what people say and think about us, what they believe we are."
    To have something to do with my hands, I got out my pipe and tamped tobacco into the bowl. I did not say anything.
    "Lincoln? You know I'm right."
    "Maybe so. But I don't have to like it."
    When she spoke again there was an edge of strain to the words. "I've coffee made. Or would you rather go?" Leaving it up to me.
    I didn't hesitate. "I'd like to stay, if you'll allow it."
    "Of course."
    She touched my arm, let her hand linger for a second— the first time she had ever touched me with any intimacy. Then she stood and entered the house.
    I sat quiet, fancying that I could still feel the heat of her fingers. There was a dull ache down low in my belly—an ache I knew too well, that in the past had led me down to one of the parlor houses in San Francisco when it became too much to tolerate. But at the same time I felt uneasy and confused and not a little angry. People coming up here on some pretext or other, telling Hannah things about me, making their snide comments to her and to each other—and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. People are the way they are . . . you can't change them . . . as long as we remain here, you and I must accept what people say and think about us. . . .
    Crockery rattled inside, a different sound than when Ivy rattled it at home—or maybe that was just fancy too. The moon was up and it put a silver tint on the rolling wooded hills to the east, painted a stripe of silver on the black path of the creek. Farther south, dredger lights winked and a flat-bottomed boat with a lantern on a pole drifted around a bend toward the S.F. & N.P. swing bridge. A nightbird cried out somewhere, low and trembly, like a lament for something or somebody that had died.
    Hannah came back with her coffee service and set the tray on the table between us. When she leaned over to pour, the lampglow showed me the curve of her breast and hips and I smelled again the sweet scent of her sachet. That low-down ache sharpened. What would she do if I touched her, tried to kiss her? Yield, or slap my face and order