Moving On Read Online Free PDF

cowboys. Most of them get kicked enough as it is.”
    “I’d advise you not to run that into the ground,” Patsy said. “I might make good on it yet.”
    The driver grinned at her engagingly. “I was teasin’,” he said. “Be a pleasure to be kicked by a pretty young wench like yourself. See you-all next time.”
    He tooted his horn lightly with the heel of his hand and moved the ambulance expertly through the mob of men and women and children who were leaving the stands.
    “You see,” Patsy said. “He keeps calling me things. Could I be accurately described as a wench?”
    Jim was too tired to be interested in such issues. Patsy took his hand and they walked through the swirl of people toward the Ford. The horses and cars and departing pickups kept the sandy roadway stirred up, so that the dust rose to their waists and made it seem like they were walking through a sandy mist. Car lights shone red through the sand, and whenever a horse crossed the road in front of a car the lights threw huge wavering shadows against the dust.
    “I hope you don’t mind driving,” Jim said. “I still feel dizzy.”
    The sorrel was no longer tied next to the Ford, and the trailer he had been tied to was gone. Jim went wearily around the car. Patsy stood for a moment by the door on the driver’s side trying to locate her car keys by the little door light. Finally she jiggled her purse and located them by the jingle.
    “Let’s sit until the traffic thins out a little,” she said. Jim was quite agreeable. He slumped silently against his door. By the time Patsy got her key in the ignition his eyes were closed, and very soon he was asleep. It annoyed her and dropped her spirits a little, even though she knew his head must hurt. She wanted to talk, and having him so soon asleep made her feel lonely, as it often did. Jim could go to sleep quicker than anyone she had ever known. He claimed he had always been able to, but she sometimes felt it was an escape technique he had developed for occasions when he didn’t want to talk to her. She would have liked to scoot over by him, but there was a clutter of photographic paraphernalia in the front seat and she had to content herself with putting a hand on his shoulder. Over the way, the dance she had been invited to was in progress. As the cars drove out and the grounds grew quiet she began to hear the sounds of the dancing, a yell now and then, the scraping of feet on concrete, and, over that, the sound of the hillbilly band. At first she only heard the ring of the steel guitars, but as the grounds emptied, mournful snatches of lyric filtered through:
Keep those cards ’n’ letters comin’ in-uh-in, honey,
Tell me that you love me time ’n’ time ugin-uh-in, honey;
It’s many a mile from Memphis to Berlin-uh-in, honey,
So keep those cards ’n’ letters comin’ innn . . . .
    Patsy kept time with her fingertips. When the song ended she started the Ford and drove through the almost empty grounds, squashing several beer cans but no bottles that she noticed. There was a very small trailer parked to the left of the exit gate, with a donkey tied to the fence nearby. As she turned to go through the gate her headlights swept across the front of the trailer. A man with no shirt on sat on the tiny steps of the trailer wiping his face with a towel. He looked up when she passed and to her surprise called her name. She braked, puzzled, and he got up from the steps and came to the car, the towel slung over one shoulder.
    “Thought that was you,” he said, and she realized it was the clown. He bent and peered in at her solemnly and looked past her at Jim.
    “He’s just asleep,” she said. “He’s fine. I’m ashamed of myself for being so flustered.” But she felt embarrassed and oddly flustered again and didn’t know whether to look at him or not. He seemed lankier than he had seemed in his clowning apparel. He was balding too. The hair that was so curly on the sides of his head was