Margaret Millar

Wives and Lovers

For Lydia and Don Freeman

1

In hot weather Hazel liked to sit in the dental chair. Its leather arms and back were cool and there was a fan in the ceiling above it. She loosened the belt of her uniform and leaned back, listening to the hum of the fan and thinking what a fine place it was to sit and realize that except for one bicuspid she didn’t have a filling in her head.

From the adjoining room she could hear sharp metallic sounds and the gurgling of water in a basin. Presently the gurgling stopped and Gordon Foster called, “Hazel?”

“Coming.”

She climbed out of the chair and, tightening her belt, followed Gordon’s voice into the lab. It was a shoebox of a room, with the ceiling pressed down on it like a lid, and Gordon and herself, two mis-mated shoes, tossed together into the box by a careless clerk.

“Did you want something?”

“No.”

“You called.”

“I thought you might have gone home.”

“It’s too hot to move. This is the hottest August I’ve ever experienced.” She said this each August, and many times each August, but it always seemed true. “Besides, I brought my lunch.”

Gordon looked up from the bridge he was repairing, his eyebrows raised. He didn’t talk much when he was working but he often asked silent questions with his brows: Why don’t you eat it, then?

“Thin people like you,” Hazel said, dabbing at the sweat that trickled down behind her ears, “don’t mind the heat so much.”

“You could eat your lunch out on the grass where it’s cooler.”

“I prefer to stay inside.”

“Oh.”

“The ants. It’s a bad year for ants.”

Hazel sat on a stool sipping a Coke and looking without appetite at the sandwich she had brought for lunch. Some of the starch that had gone out of her uniform and out of Hazel herself seemed to have found its way into the sandwich. The bread had curled at the edges and the peanut butter filling had dried and stiffened like buckram.

She held the cold bottle of Coke against her forehead for a moment. “Air conditioning would be nice.”

“I suppose it would.”

“Maybe next summer.”

He glanced at her questioningly — next summer? When is that? — then turned away with a sigh. Hazel was not sure whether the sigh meant that she was to be quiet or that next summer seemed a long sad year away.

“Dr. Foster—”

He shook his head. “Elaine says we can’t afford an air conditioner.” Elaine was his wife, and the final authority on office as well as personal expenditures.

“I know. I wasn’t going to talk any more about that.”

“Good.”

“I just wanted to say, well, the last few weeks you haven’t been yourself.”

He smiled. He had extraordinarily good teeth for a dentist. “Who have I been?”

“I mean it.” Hazel looked stubborn and unamused. “You’ve lost weight and your color’s not good. Those are bad signs in a man your age.”

He was thirty-eight, three years younger than Hazel, and sometimes Hazel felt like his mother and sometimes she felt like a mere sprite of a girl beside him. They were never contemporaries.

“Bad signs,” she repeated. “You ought to go through one of the clinics and get checked up.”

“And you ought to get married again, to some nice fellow who enjoys being fussed over.”

“You think I’m fussing?”

“Like an old hen.”

“I don’t usually.”

“No.”

“So I must have a good reason for doing it now.”

“The reason is, you’re a nice normal woman and you don’t feel alive unless you’re fussing over someone.”

“I’ve never heard you talk like this before. It just goes to show, things aren’t right.”

“No,” he said. “No, things aren’t right.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, but he had turned his back, and his white starched coat was like a blank whitewashed wall.

The buzzer sounded from the front door and Hazel went to answer it, moving heavily on her heat-swollen feet.

She said over her shoulder, “I could make an appointment for you at the clinic.”

“No, thanks.”

“But if things aren’t right—”

“I need a rest, that’s all.”

“I’m glad you’re admitting it. You haven’t had any time off since I came here.”

“Yes, I have. I went up to San Francisco for the convention in June.”

“Just three days. That’s no holiday.”

He didn’t answer. But his shoulders were shaking, as if he was laughing silently to himself. He did that quite frequently lately, laughed to himself, and it annoyed Hazel not to know what the joke was. She never asked him, though, because she was a little afraid that he might tell her and that it wouldn’t be quite so funny spoken out loud.

The buzzer sounded again and she went out through the hall to the waiting room. Since it was the doctor’s afternoon off, the Venetian blinds were closed tight and the front door was locked.

Hazel opened it, squinting against the sudden sun.

“The doctor is not— Oh, it’s you.”

The girl said, very brightly and gaily, “Yes, it’s me,” as if she had enjoyed every moment standing on the roofless stucco porch in the blazing noon. Her face looked stiff; the sun seemed to have squeezed all the moisture out of it. In her right hand she carried a suitcase with “Ruby MacCormick” printed on the side in black crayon, and across her left forearm was a red fox fur.

“Me again,” she said blithely. “Is the doctor—?”

“He’s working in the lab.”

“I won’t disturb him then. I only — all I want is some place to sit down for a minute and think. I can’t seem to think in this weather.”

“It’s cooler inside.”

“I won’t bother you.” The girl stepped inside and put the suitcase on the floor and laid the red fox across it. “It’s just, I want to sit for a minute. I’ve been walking. The suitcase is very heavy. I ought to have taken a taxi, except I wasn’t sure where I was going.”

Hazel closed the door. “You’re leaving town?”

“No. No, I’m moving. The establishment where I’ve been staying, well, it’s awfully low class. Not what I’m used to. If Mummy and Daddy ever found out, well, they’d kill me. I’m used to nice things.”

“I’ll get you some water.”

“No. No, I don’t want to bother you, Miss Philip. I was just passing and I remembered how kind you were last week and I thought I’d drop in and thank you and then be on my way.”

“What way, if you don’t know where you’re going?”

“There must be places for a girl of my background.”

Hazel didn’t know what her background was. She’d met her only once before, the previous Friday. She had come to the office early in the morning and Gordon had introduced her to Hazel as Ruby MacCormick, a friend of one of his nieces from up north. As it turned out, Gordon himself had arranged the meeting because Ruby was out of a job and he thought Hazel might be able to suggest some type of employment. Ruby was very young and untrained, and the only possibility Hazel could think of was the Beachcomber, a restaurant out on the wharf which was operated, and partly owned, by her ex-husband, George. Because of his temper, and the influx of summer tourists, George was constantly plagued by a shortage of waitresses and he was willing to try anyone who could walk and count up to ten. Ruby could do both.

Hazel poured some water from the cooler and the girl drank it thirstily. She was so thin that her Adam’s apple was prominent as a boy’s, and moved up and down when she swallowed.

Ruby smiled, her mouth still wet from the water. “That was good. It’s funny, I didn’t even know I was thirsty. Daddy says I was always like that — I never let physical things bother me, I never squalled for food the way some babies do.”

“Have you had any lunch?”

“Not yet. I’m waiting till I go to work. Lunch and dinner are free.”

“You got the job, then?”

Ruby widened her eyes. “Didn’t I tell you? I guess I forgot. Mr. Anderson hired me right off the bat.”

“Good.”

“Of course I’m only a waitress, there was no opening as a hostess, but Mr. Anderson says I have a chance to work up... I did just what you told me. I went over to the bartender and I said someone had told me he needed a waitress and practically the next minute I was hired. I didn’t even have to mention your name, it was that quick.”

Hazel didn’t bother informing her that this was the way George did all his hiring, and firing, too.

“Are you and Mr. Anderson friends?”

“We were at one time,” Hazel said dryly. “We haven’t seen much of each other lately.” She was usually very quick to tell anyone, even a total stranger, about her personal affairs, including the complete history of her marriage to George, but she had no wish to confide in this girl. Ruby’s strange talk disturbed her. It was like listening to a bird talk; the words sounded real, they could be understood well enough, but they had no connection with the bird’s thoughts.

“Well, I won’t keep you.” Ruby rose and picked up the red fox and slung it across her arm with a show of elegant indifference as if she had a hundred such furs stashed away in her drawers at home. But every now and then, as she talked, Hazel had caught her glancing at the fox with anxiety and affection the way a mother glances at a loved but wayward child.

One thing Hazel was sure of — the fox had seen better days; Ruby hadn’t.

She said, “What kind of place are you looking for?”

“Oh, just a room. I can’t afford anything fancy like I was used to at home. I’m standing on my own two feet now, that’s what I wrote and told Daddy.”

“My cousin Ruth has a friend who runs a rooming house. She calls it a tourist home. It’s on El Camino del Mar.”

“That sounds like a very high class location.”

“It’s the highway. 101.”

“Oh.” Ruby’s jaw tightened but when she spoke again her voice was as gay and blithe as ever: “Well, none of my friends up north will know the difference. They’ll think it’s high class just like I thought.” She paused. “Is it far from here?”

“Ten blocks or so.”

“Oh God.” Ruby sat down again, holding the fox’s head close against her face.

Hazel looked away. Dead things made her nervous.

“I can call you a cab,” she said.

“No. No thanks.”

“It’s a long way, in this heat.”

“I don’t — I don’t mind the heat like most people. I’m just a little tired, but I’ll manage. I always do. I’m stronger than I look.”

To prove her point she got back onto her feet. She wore winter shoes, black suede pumps scuffed at the toes and heels. Her stockingless legs were very white, as if they’d been frozen.

“I’d better be on my way.”

“Hold it a minute while I phone and see if Mrs. Freeman has a vacancy. It might save you a trip.”

“You’re kind, Miss Philip, you’re a kind person,” Ruby said, in a surprised voice.

It was too hot to argue so Hazel merely shook her head.

She used the extension phone in the operating room, partly because she didn’t want Ruby to overhear her conversation, and partly because she liked to sit in the dental chair while she was telephoning.

Ruth answered the telephone: “Hello? Hazel? I was just doing the lunch dishes.” Ruth always made a point of telling people what she was doing, had just done or was about to do. In this way she gave the impression that she did as much work as any six people and so could never be accused of being lazy or not earning her keep. “What do you want? I was just about to start on the Venetian blinds.”

“There’s a young girl here looking for a room. I thought I’d send her over to Mrs. Freeman’s.”

“Is the girl respectable?”

“She’s a friend of one of Dr. Foster’s relatives from up north.”

“Then she should certainly be respectable.” Ruth was the official baby sitter for the Fosters’ three children, and while she hadn’t much interest in, or use for, Gordon, she admired Elaine Foster tremendously.

Hazel said, “I don’t want to send the girl all the way over there unless Mrs. Freeman has a vacancy. Could you give me her phone number?”

“She doesn’t have a phone. What with the girls using it all the time, she had it taken out. But I know she has a vacancy. I saw her last night at the organ recital at church.”

“What’s the house number?”

“1906.”

“Thanks.”

“Hazel? Are you still there?... When I finish the blinds, I have to go over to the Fosters’ to baby-sit, but when I come home I thought I’d wax all the window sills.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Wax is a preservative.”

“All right, then. All right.” There was no use in arguing with Ruth. Hazel knew that by evening the window sills would all be waxed and Ruth would be lying on the bed with a wet cloth across her eyes.

Gordon came in from the lab and began washing his hands at the basin.

Hazel climbed awkwardly out of the dental chair. “Have you finished?”

“With the bridge, yes. I still have that inlay to cast.”

“I can help you.”

“It’s your afternoon off as well as mine.”

“In this weather there’s nothing I want to do anyway.” There was something, but she would never have admitted it to anyone: she wanted to go down to the beach in a brand-new bathing suit and look the way she had twenty years ago when she and George were married. She had changed in those twenty years, and so had George, but it was characteristic of Hazel that she noticed more changes in herself than in him.

Gordon dried his hands on a linen towel. “Who was at the door?”

“That girl, the one who was here last week.”

“Girl?”

“Ruby MacCormick.”

“Well,” he said, carefully. “What did she want?”

“She’s still here.”

“Oh.”

“She wants a room. She’s moving. I was just trying to find a place for her to go.”

“And did you?”

“I think so. It’s on the highway, 1906.”

“Not a very good location.”

“The best she can afford, that’s my opinion. She talks big, but I can tell. Any woman could.”

He threw away the towel and stood for a moment with his clenched fist pressed against the left side of his chest. It was a way he had of standing lately, as if all his problems had gathered together in a tight little bunch around his heart, and the pressure of his fist was meant to dispel them.

Hazel leaned over and picked up the towel and put it in the laundry container. She spoke quietly: “Maybe you’d better go out and say hello to her, just for politeness’s sake.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

“All right then, I’ll say it for you.”

“Do that.” He hesitated a moment. “Did you bring your car this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be too much out of your way to drive the girl as far as the highway. I feel a certain obligation to her because she’s a stranger in town.”

“Well, so do I, only I wanted to stay and help you cast the inlay. I’ll pour it up for you.”

“I can do it alone. Or you can come back later, if you insist.”

“I’ll come back.”

“Thank you, Hazel.”

He sounded so deeply grateful that she wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for; it couldn’t be for anything so trivial as offering to help him with the inlay, or driving Ruby over to the highway.

On the way to Mrs. Freeman’s, the girl sat quiet and motionless except when Hazel’s old Chevy hit a bump or turned a fast corner, or when Hazel asked a direct question: “What made you decide to come to Channel City?”

“I wanted to get away from home.”

“This is a tough place to make a living.”

“I have a job.”

“You’d do better down south. Some of the big airplane factories—”

“I like it here.”

“There’s not much chance of promotion being a waitress at the Beachcomber.”

“Mr. Anderson says I can work up to cashier or hostess if I try.”

“And after that?”

Ruby frowned and then rubbed away the frown lines with the tip of her forefinger. “After that I might get married.”

“Have you a boyfriend back home?”

“Loads of them, but they’re all silly and immature.”

“How old are you, Ruby?”

“Old enough.”

Hazel wanted to laugh — the things the girl said were funny, but the way she said them was not. There was an air of stubborn earnestness about her, as if she had in the back of her mind a single and solemn purpose that obliterated all others.

Hazel stopped the car in front of 1906, a two-storied frame house with a sign nailed to one of the porch pillars: “Mrs. Freeman’s Tourist Home, Ladies Only, Reasonable Rates, Ocean View.” The house, like the scrawny shrubs planted around it and the parched lawn in front of it, bore the marks of the drought years.

“It’s not much to look at from the outside, but it’s clean inside. Mrs. Freeman is a very clean woman,” Hazel added quite severely, as if Ruby had accused Mrs. Freeman of being a very dirty one.

Ruby opened the car door. “Thank you for the ride.”

“That’s all right.”

“I didn’t want to admit it but I was awful tired. You just about saved my life.”

“It was Dr. Foster’s idea.”

“It was? Heavens, I didn’t think he’d even remember me, honestly.”

But the word, honestly, was contradicted by the coy and artificial tone of her voice. She’s lying, Hazel thought. She expected to be remembered, and wanted to be. I wonder what her game is.

Ruby put her suitcase on the ground and started to close the car door.

“Leave it open,” Hazel said. “It’s cooler.”

“But you can’t drive with it open.”

“I thought if you wouldn’t be too long I’d wait here for you and drop you off at work on my way back to the office.”

The girl looked wary. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask me. I offered.”

“But why? Did Dr. Foster—?”

“No. This is my own idea.”

“Thank you.” She stood in the blazing sun, stroking the red fox. “You’ve changed my day, Miss Philip.”

“Have I?”

“It started out very bad, worse than I would ever tell anyone. But now it’s changed. You’ve brought me luck. I feel, I honestly feel lucky.”

“I’m glad you do,” Hazel said. She wasn’t certain what luck meant to Ruby or how the girl would use it now that it had come her way.

The front door opened and Mrs. Freeman came out on the porch, a tall, stout, middle-aged woman in a printed silk dress that blew around her like a tent. She peered down at the car with the look of chronic suspicion that landladies acquire after years of people. Then, very abruptly, she turned and went back into the house as if she had lost all interest in the car because she’d been expecting someone else.

Inside the house again, Mrs. Freeman leaned against the banister and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. I thought it was him, I thought for sure. He said, any day now, any day. One of these days...

Ruby picked up her suitcase. “I’m kind of scared. Would you come in with me?”

“I don’t know her. She’s a friend of my cousin’s, not mine. Besides, you’re lucky now, remember?”

“Yes, I’m lucky. This is my lucky day. People will like me and I will like them.”

So that’s her idea of luck, Hazel thought. It had nothing to do with money or jobs. Luck was being liked and liking; and the day which for Ruby had started out very bad, worse than she would ever tell anyone, must have started with hate. Someone had hated Ruby and she had hated in return, and Hazel had changed the day by being kind to her. Hazel wondered who would go to the trouble of hating a girl like Ruby.

Ruby went into the house, and the door closed on her like the page of a book.

Hazel lit a cigarette but the smoke was so hot and acrid that it parched her mouth and stung her eyes. She threw the cigarette out of the window, thinking of George, because it was one of the things she did which annoyed him, throwing lighted cigarettes out of the car. Whenever he read in the newspaper about a forest fire, he practically accused Hazel of being responsible for it even though she’d been several hundred miles away at the time it started and hadn’t been smoking anyway. Many of the things for which George held Hazel responsible were justified, but starting forest fires was not one of them.

George was a most unreasonable man. Still, Hazel got out of the car and crushed out the cigarette under the rubber heel of her white nurse’s oxfords, wishing that George would pass right that moment and see her. She frequently got a certain sly satisfaction out of correcting the minor faults he’d found in her. The major ones she retained; they were as much a part of her as her skin, but, like her skin, they had sagged a little with the years and no longer fitted so tight.

In five minutes Ruby came out again, without the suitcase and the fox fur. She was smiling and the smile softened the angularity of her jaw and made her look quite pretty.

She got into the car, almost out of breath, as if she’d been running. “She is nice, really nice, I mean.”

“Good.”

“She liked me right away, too. I told you I felt lucky, didn’t I?” She began to hum softly to herself, “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover.”

Hazel made a quick, illegal U-turn and headed south toward the harbor. Heat rose from the highway in waves, so that the white road markers looked uneven and the outlines of the passing cars were blurred. In the distance a strip of sea was visible, an ice-blue promise of relief from the heat.

“If I brought you luck,” Hazel said, “maybe you’ll take my advice.”

“What advice?”

“Don’t stick around this town.”

“I have to.”

“It’s no place for a kid like you with no occupational training. It’d be different if you were going maybe to nurse’s school or beauty college, something like that.”

“I hate sickness and I hate other people’s dirty hair.” The girl paused. “Why are you so anxious for me to leave town?”

“I’m not anxious. There’s nothing personal in it. I just think it’d be a good idea.”

“Well, it isn’t.” Ruby turned and looked stubbornly out of the window. “I’m staying. I have a job, I’m self-supporting, and I can live where and how I want to.”

Hazel was silent, watching the strip of sea expand on the horizon. She said, finally, “That business about all the boyfriends back home — malarkey, wasn’t it?”

The girl didn’t answer.

“There’s only one boyfriend and he’s here, in this town. Is that your story, Ruby?”

“You’re very nosy,” Ruby said.

2

At twelve-thirty George Anderson walked along the wharf towards the Beachcomber, a tall, heavy-set man wearing slacks and a sport shirt and a navy blue yachting cap trimmed with gold braid.

Someone had told George once that he moved like an athlete, and ever since then he’d been extremely careful to move like an athlete at all times, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back, stomach in, chin up. This posture was no longer easy to maintain, partly because he was forty now and putting on weight, and partly because in such a position it was difficult to avoid stepping into the holes in the wharf or stumbling against the two-by-fours where it had been patched up.

The wharf was eighty years old. It had been built to last forever but even the proudest citizens of Channel City were forced to admit that it wasn’t going to make it. Some of the holes in the planks were as large as fists and when cars drove along it or when a seiner accidentally struck it while docking, the whole structure swayed and tottered and the pilings squawked like gulls.

George took a personal interest in the wharf. He liked boats and he liked money, and the wharf meant both to him since the Beachcomber was built on the end of it. Sometimes, when a particular hole got so big that there was danger of one of the Beachcomber’s customers breaking a leg, George himself would come out and repair it, equipped with a bag of nails and a hammer and any piece of wood he could lay his hands on. One of the holes George had rather impulsively mended with the favorite chopping block of the Beachcomber’s head chef, Romanelli. After an exchange of bitter words with George over the incident, Romanelli went home and sulked for two days, drinking red wine and planning hot revenge. Unable to think of anything drastic enough and rather pleasantly tired from trying, Romanelli returned to work on the third day, docile and resigned, and George bought him a new chopping block and personally burned Romanelli’s initials on the side of it with a soldering iron.

On each side of the wharf “No Fishing” signs were posted but these signs were traditionally ignored and by noon the railings were lined with fishermen of all races and ages and sizes. George nodded pleasantly to each of them because they gave the wharf local color and provided interesting characters for the patrons of the Beachcomber to watch as they dined.

He stopped behind an old woman wearing oil-stained jeans and a wide straw hat pushed back on her head. Her face was brown and lively and covered with wrinkles, like coffee being stirred.

“Hiya, Millie.”

Millie jumped, clutching at her hat. “Jees, you scared.

“I see you’ve changed places again. How’s the luck over on this side?”

“The same,” Millie said. “The same, no matter where I go. I got a jinx, George.”

“Go on. You just have to keep trying.”

“I tell you, I got a jinx. It don’t matter whether I use mussels or squid or sardines, or what I use. Listen, George, I got a proposition.”

“Nuts,” George said pleasantly.

Millie’s propositions were always the same. They were a natural result of her jinx. Other fishermen might occasionally catch a stingray, but Millie hardly ever caught anything else. She usually pulled up at least one a day, and her problem was to get rid of it. If she threw it back into the sea it might be washed up on the beach and some curious child might pick it up and cut himself on the ray’s barbed poisonous tail.

After considerable thought on the subject Millie had figured out a way to make a profit on her jinx.

“Listen, George, you cut off the tail, see, and the head, and clean out the guts and what you got left? Filet of stingray. Only you don’t have to call it stingray on the menu. Maybe just filet of ray. Don’t that sound good to eat?”

“No.”

“Hell, George, you’re getting old, your mind’s narrowing. You think maybe just because a stingray’s a mean-looking bastard he won’t taste so good. You serve swordfish steaks and swordfish are the meanest-looking bastards ever lived.”

Laughing, George put his hands in his pockets and jingled the loose change. He had every intention of some day buying one of Millie’s stingrays and taking it over for Hazel to cook.

“I never see you eating any of the things,” he said.

“I had one last night for supper,” Millie lied solemnly. “No kidding, George, it was a real taste thrill. Maybe like tuna, maybe like abalone. High class stuff.”

“I bet.”

“Or chowder. How about making it into chowder, George? Chopped up like that, who’d know the difference from clams, I ask you. Be a sport and take a chance, George.”

“Ixnay.”

Millie sighed. “Oh well, no hard feelings anyway, eh? How’s Hazel?”

“The last I heard, fine.”

“I saw her drive by a few minutes ago. She went into the Beachcomber. How about that?”

“What do you mean, how about it?”

“I figure you and Hazel—”

“You figure wrong.”

“Well, you don’t have to bite my head off.”

With haughty dignity Millie returned to her fishing. She crossed herself and gave her pole three quick jerks to discourage her jinx.

Hazel’s old blue Chevy was standing in the middle of the parking lot next to the Beachcomber. Hazel had never learned to park properly and whenever she came down to the wharf she just left her car with the key in the ignition so that anyone who wanted it moved could move it without bothering her.

George unlocked the front door of the Beachcomber and walked through the foyer into the bar. Hazel was standing at one of the open windows looking out at the sea and breathing very deeply like an underwater swimmer storing up oxygen for the next dive.

He stared at her across the room, wondering why she had come, whether she had heard anything about him and the girl.

“How did you get in?”

“Through the kitchen. Romanelli told me you’d be along in a few minutes so I thought I’d stay and say hello. So, hello.”

“Hello.” He took off his yachting cap and began rolling up his sleeves. “Nice to see you, Hazel.”

“You act overjoyed.”

“It’s too hot to turn cartwheels.”

“Think you still could?”

“Sure, I think so.” He put on his bartender’s apron, tying it very tight to minimize his paunch. “I’ve been swimming from here to the breakwater and back every day for a week now.”

“Why?”

“Keeping in shape, that’s all. How about a beer to cool off?”

“Sounds fine.” She crossed the room and perched on one of the red leather bar stools with her legs crossed. “I heard you were on another of your health binges.”

“Who told you?”

“Word gets around.”

“It seems to me a hell of a lot of words get around to you.” He drew two beers from the tap. “Here’s to crime. Someday it may pay.”

“Right.” She sipped her beer. “Gee, this is like old times, eh, George?”

He looked at her uneasily over the rim of his glass. “I guess it is.”

“Maybe we ought to drink to old times.”

“That’s for New Year’s Eve.”

“What did you do last New Year’s Eve, George?”

“I don’t remember.” He remembered too well: he’d tended bar until two o’clock in the morning and then, in one of the vilest moods he’d ever experienced, he went home and began drinking. He woke up the next morning in a house on East Wilson Street with a plump black-haired girl lying beside him making little snorting noises in her sleep. His wallet was gone but he never reported it to the police.

“I kind of like New Year’s Eve,” Hazel said. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Well, what else is new besides the health binge?”

“I wish you’d stop calling it that. I’m just trying to keep fit.”

“Romanelli says you’ve been eating seaweed.”

“I don’t eat it. I sprinkle a little of it on my food.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Hazel said earnestly. “How does it taste?”

“Pretty good.”

“What’s this seaweed supposed to do for you?”

“A lot of things. It’s full of vitamins and minerals and stuff like that. Matter of fact, a fellow I know has a kelp-cutting barge and I’m thinking of going into business with him.”

“The seaweed business?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I shall be very damned,” Hazel said.

“I might have known better than to mention it to you. It so happens that scientists have discovered many new uses for seaweed.”

“Name one.”

“There are hundreds. This fellow I know that owns the barge—”

“If I were you I’d stick to the restaurant business. The day may come when we’ll all be sitting around munching seaweed but I don’t think it’s close. Remember the time you sank two thousand dollars in that vacuum cap for growing hair?”

“You’ve never let me forget it.”

“How could I? We nearly starved for a year.”

“Look, Hazel, let’s not argue. If you’re worried about whether I’m going to go broke and you won’t get your alimony every month, forget it.”

“Maybe I’m a little worried,” she said dryly. “I can’t keep the house running without it.”

“Ruth has no job yet?”

“No.”

“I thought by this time she’d be well enough to go back to teaching.”

“They’ll never take her back, you know that. Maybe she knows it too. I can’t tell.”

“Poor old Ruth.” George disliked Ruth intensely, having suffered too often from her acid disapproval, but now that he no longer had to see her, he could afford to express a little sympathy for her. “How are the others?”

“Fine.”

“Another beer?”

“No thanks. I have to get back to work pretty soon.” She added, casually, without looking at him, “Harold says he saw you downtown the other night.”

“I didn’t see him.”

“You weren’t doing much looking around, Harold said.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“You were too busy with the new girlfriend.”

George put the two empty glasses into the rinsing trough and wiped his hands carefully on his apron. “So that’s why you came—”

“No, it’s not. I gave someone a lift and—”

“—to check up on me again.”

“Apparently you need some checking up. Harold says the girl was young enough to be your daughter.”

“So?”

Hazel gazed at him in a kindly way. About some things, especially women, George was a babe in arms and Hazel sometimes had to be a little rough with him, for his own good. “Just remember what I told you, George, time and again. When some young chick pretends she’s interested in you, you go and take a good look in the mirror.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, I—”

“Then you ask yourself: is it me or is it the Beachcomber she’s batting her eyelashes at? See what I mean, George? I don’t want you to make a sap of yourself. It’d be kind of a reflection on me if you made a sap of yourself. Just don’t get carried away.”

“Well, who’s carried away?” George said irritably. “I hardly know the girl.”

“Personally, there’s nothing I’d like better than to see you married again, to some nice sensible woman, a widow, maybe, with a little something in the bank.”

“All right, all right. You find her, I’ll marry her.”

“I’ll look around. Meanwhile, don’t you forget what I told you about the mirror.”

“No time like the present,” George said bleakly, and turned and stared into the mirror behind the bar. There, between a bottle of apple brandy and a bottle of vodka, was his face, and it seemed to him exactly the same face he’d always had, no better, no worse.

“See what I mean, George? You’re no spring chicken. You’re still a nice-looking man, for my money, but you’re not going to set fire to any young girl... What’s her name?”

“You wouldn’t know her. She’s one of the new girls I took on last week, a stranger in town.”

“I thought you made it a rule not to mess around with the hired help.”

“For Christ’s sake, who’s messing around? I drove her home a couple of times, is all. Now can we drop the subject?”

“What’s your hurry? I’m just getting interested.”

George leaned across the counter. His face was very red and the pulse in his temple throbbed with the rush of blood. “You won’t be satisfied until you know all about her, will you? You can’t leave me alone, can you?”

“I just — well, I’d like to see you happy, is all.”

“Don’t kid me. If you thought I showed the least sign of being happy you’d march down here and plug me full of holes.”

“You don’t—”

“Well, I’m happy now. Hear that? — I’m happy right now! So what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Hazel said through stiff lips. “I’m glad to hear it. Very glad.”

George turned away, exhaling a long noisy sigh like an engine standing in a station letting off excess steam because it was not yet time to move. When he spoke again his voice was quiet and resigned. “Forget what I said. It’s not true, that business about plugging me full of holes. It’s just that I’m tired, I want to forget about things, including Ruby.”

“Ruby.” She had known of course that it had to be Ruby but until the actual mention of her name she had kept hoping that it wasn’t. The girl, for all her youth, had a shifty way about her, and George, for all his experience, was as artless and as easy to deceive as a baby. “All right,” Hazel said, “we’ll drop the subject. Forget about her.”

“The point is, I can’t. She keeps cropping up in my head. I’ll be thinking of something else and then suddenly, wham, Ruby will pop up in the middle of it.”

“And do you pop up in the middle of what she’s thinking?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it.” George smiled thinly. “As you pointed out, I’m not the type to set fire to any young girl.”

“I didn’t mean that as a nasty crack. It was for—”

“For my own good, yes, I know. Well, I haven’t set fire to her, and she hasn’t to me either. She’s just gotten under my skin, is all.”

“Oh.”

“I feel sorry for her, see. She’s a lousy waitress, moves around like I was running an old people’s home, and whenever she makes a mistake she stands around for ten minutes apologizing for it. She doesn’t realize that a customer would rather have a steak than an apology... And sloppy, God, is she sloppy. Half the coffee’s in the saucer and the other half’s on the floor, and she still manages to have enough left over to splash on the customer. She’s just not cut out for this kind of work.”

“I guess not.”

“But here she is, see? — and she’s not doing her job but she keeps trying so hard and the harder she tries the worse she gets. I ought to fire her before she wrecks the joint, but I can’t. She needs looking after. If I fired her, she’d be on my conscience.”

“You’ve got a nice roomy conscience, George, there ought to be a place for one more.”

Hazel climbed off the bar stool and smoothed her uniform down over her hips. Her arms and legs felt a little heavy, partly from the beer and partly from the depression that had come over her while George was talking. Though she was no longer married to George, or in love with him, she had a deep sense of responsibility for him as she had for all her friends and relatives, and it was a little disturbing to hear George talking about looking after somebody when he was the one who always had to be looked after. George was an impulsive man, and like most impulsive people he had friends who would have been willing to cut off a right arm for him, or at least a finger, and enemies who would have liked to shoot him on sight. It had been Hazel’s duty to protect him from both. Even now, when the marriage was ended and Hazel had been relieved of her duties, she still clung to some of them, like a retired general playing with tin soldiers and toy tanks long after the war was won or lost.

She said, “Well, I’d better be getting on my horse.”

“Hazel, if you were me, what would you do?”

“About what?”

“You know — Ruby.”

“Pension her off. Put her in a good orphanage. Feed her to the sharks. How the heck should I know what to do? It’s your life.”

“That’s the point, I don’t feel it is my life any more. I feel like I’m in a box and somebody’s sitting on the lid. Or—” George stroked his chin and scowled out the window. “Or like those lobsters way out there caught in the traps. At first they don’t realize they’re in a trap, they keep going through the same motions they always did, until zip, somebody pulls them up and there they are, lobsters Thermidor.”

“George Anderson Thermidor,” Hazel said.

Blinking, George drew his eyes away from the sea, and the invisible lobster traps. “I don’t know why I’m talking like this. It will give you the wrong idea of Ruby. Actually she’s a very shy, sweet kid.”

“No traps?”

“No.”

“Then what are you worrying about? No traps, no George Anderson Thermidor.” Hazel reached over the bar and patted him kindly on the shoulder. “You’ve got another one of your crushes, is all. Cheer up. You’ll get over it, same as always.”

George stared at her gloomily. “You’re a pretty swell woman, Hazel.”

“Baloney.”

“No, I mean it. You know what we should do, Hazel? We should go out right now and tie one on, for old time’s sake.”

“We should, eh?”

“We’ll go the rounds, how about it? I’ll forget all about this joint, and Ruby.”

“We’ll go the rounds, eh?”

“Why not?”

“You figure out why not.”

She began walking toward the door, very slowly, as if she expected to be called back.

George watched her, looking a little bewildered. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“But I thought you and I—”

“My idea of how not to have a good time is to go the rounds with you and watch you get stinking drunk so you can forget another woman.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake.”

“You give me a pain, George. You give me a big fat pain.”

She went out and slammed the door, and a minute later he could hear her racing the engine of the old Chevy. The smell of its exhaust fumes floated in through the open windows along with the smell of kelp and dead fish and hot rolls baking in the kitchen and tar from the underwater oil wells.

George watched the Chevy bounce along the wharf and then he turned and looked at himself in the mirror. His face was the same as it always was, except that it looked terribly surprised: What did I do or say? I just asked her to go out, to go the rounds.

It seemed to George that people deliberately or maliciously misunderstood his intentions. He always had the best intentions in the world, but lately every time he opened his mouth he got into trouble, the same as he did when he was a boy. When George was eight he had swollen adenoids and he kept his mouth open a great deal of the time to breathe through. One day when he was playing in the barranca behind his house, a bee flew into his mouth, and before he could spit it out the bee stung the roof of his mouth. For a long time after his adenoids had been removed, George kept his lips pressed together very tightly and he looked like a little old man with no teeth.

George had told this story to nearly everyone he knew, to point a moral, but he never told the sequel: that he was still deathly afraid of bees and that whenever he was worried he kept his jaws clamped together and his lips compressed, and looked like a big middle-aged man with no teeth.

Breathing through his nose George crossed the foyer and the dining room decorated with yacht pennants and abalone shells, and passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

While the bar and the dining room were deserted, the kitchen was alive with a kind of hysterical activity. A boy in a brown apron was oiling the dish-washing machine and whistling through his teeth. This boy had a gap between his two front teeth which was bad for talking but fine for whistling so he expressed himself not in words but with a variety of whistles, like a bird. All through the day and night his whistling served as an obbligato to the other kitchen sounds: the hissing of steam, the shrill squawking of the griddle, the banging of oven doors; bursts of Victor Herbert from the pastry chef and Romanelli’s eloquent cursing; the buzz of an electric timer measuring the minutes backwards, and the spasmodic peal of Mr. Romanelli’s own special alarm clock which he set to remind himself to do all kinds of things, to phone his wife, order turkeys, bawl out the linen-supply service and have the spark plugs checked in his car. At intervals throughout the day Romanelli’s alarm went off and the boy with the gap between his two front teeth whistled his allusive obbligatos.

Romanelli put down the chicken he was singeing and came over to George. He was stripped to the waist, but he wore his white chef’s hat.

“Lousy hot,” Romanelli said.

George nodded, without unfolding his lips.

“Some lady was here. Nice lady. She brought a present to you.” Romanelli’s eyes danced and his stomach heaved in silent laughter. “On the carving table I put it. Oh my, oh my.” Though Romanelli was inclined to be irritable, he dearly loved a joke, and when he laughed he laughed all over. His head bobbed, his chest shook, his feet stamped and his eyes laughed tears. “Oh my. Such a present. Such a nice lady.”

On the carving table was a freshly caught stingray. It was not quite dead. Its barbed tail moved now and then, and on each side of its head its dull, vicious eyes stared at George.

George’s mouth opened.

“Take that goddamn thing out of here,” he shouted. “Do you hear me? Take it out, get rid of the goddamn thing!”

He turned and saw Ruby standing in the doorway, looking pale and surprised. When she met his gaze she moved her arms convulsively and two cups rolled off the table beside her. They didn’t break, and Ruby bent over hurriedly to pick them up. Her handbag fell on the floor.

“And you,” George yelled. “You over there, you’re fired, see? Collect a week’s pay and get out! Hear me? You’re fired!”

Ruby grabbed her handbag and ran.

Romanelli impaled the stingray on a carving knife and carried it out to the garbage can.

Even after the stingray was gone George could still smell it, its sharp fishy odor mingling with the odor of soap and baking pies and chicken livers and Ruby’s Cashmere Bouquet talcum powder.

3

Gordon Foster’s office was one of ten pink stucco bungalows built around a court on the upper end of Main Street. Nine of the bungalows were occupied by physicians specializing in various fields; Gordon was the only dentist.

Whenever Elaine Foster came to call for her husband she took particular care with her grooming and her costume. As she walked through the court, past the goldfish pond and the lantana hedges, she held her head high, not exactly pretending that she was one of the physicians’ wives, but half-consciously hoping that passers-by would mistake her for one. It was always a disappointment to her when she had to turn in at Number Seven, which was plainly marked, “Gordon W. Foster, D.D.S.”

Elaine believed that Gordon could have been a real doctor if he had had more initiative, or if he’d met her earlier in life, so that she could have supplied the initiative. As it was, when they met, Gordon was already a dentist, and even Elaine’s considerable powers couldn’t make him into anything else. Their marriage had been colored by Elaine’s bile-green feeling that she had been cheated, that Gordon should have become a real doctor because she herself had all the attributes of a perfect doctor’s wife. She was energetic, competent, smartly groomed, and she had a low, cultured voice, excellent diction and a smattering of grammar: I’m very sorry the doctor is not in... You may reach him at his office... Yes, I shall see that he receives the message...

Elaine was at her best on the telephone. She used it as an actress uses a role, to project her personality and at the same time to hide behind the projection. As a real doctor’s wife she could have spent a great deal of time on the telephone, leaving the details of the house and the three children to a maid. As a dentist’s wife, she couldn’t afford a maid. She couldn’t even afford a second car, so that when she needed the Oldsmobile for shopping or errands, she had to drive Gordon to work in the morning and call for him when he had finished for the day.

She went around to the back door of Number Seven and let herself in. She could hear Gordon moving around in the lab, whistling. Elaine was, by nature, extremely suspicious of music or happy sounds in general, and she wondered what Gordon had to whistle about on such a hot day, with the house payment overdue and the tuition fee of Judith’s school raised again.

The medicinal smell in the office made her cough. Gordon heard the cough and came out of the lab into the hall, carrying a full set of dentures in his hand.

Elaine turned her eyes away. “Honestly, Gordon.”

“What’s the matter?”

“You know I can’t stand the sight of — those things.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He put the dentures in his pocket. “I’m not quite ready to leave yet.”

“I was hoping you would be. The children have been looking forward to this all day. You know how they adore the beach.”

“Beach?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“No. I—”

“But you have. I knew as soon as I walked in that you’d forgotten.”

“I have other things on my mind, Elaine. I can’t remember everything.”

“We talked about it only this morning. You said at breakfast that it was going to be a hot day, and I said, let’s get Ruth to look after the baby and you and I and Judith and Paul will go down to the beach... You couldn’t possibly have forgotten.”

“No.” He couldn’t possibly, but he had. He remembered Elaine mentioning Ruth, but after that his mind had wandered because the name Ruth had reminded him of the name Ruby.

Elaine was watching him, not reproachfully as she had at first, but with careful intensity like a cat about to pounce.

“I hate to mention this, Gordon, but everyone has noticed how absent-minded you’ve become lately.”

“I’ve been working pretty hard.”

“Hard work or not, you still have ears. You heard me talking about going to the beach this afternoon.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

“But you didn’t care.”

He put his hand in his pocket. The dentures felt cold and smooth to the touch, not like real teeth, which were warm and often a little rough. The owner of the dentures needed them by tomorrow morning. Elaine needed to go to the beach. It was up to Gordon to decide whose need was the more urgent.

He said, “I didn’t really promise that I’d have the afternoon free, Elaine.”

“You implied a promise.”

“I’d like to go to the beach as much as you, perhaps more.”

“I’m not concerned with myself. It’s the children. You know how much they enjoy the water.”

“I know how much they don’t.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.”

He was sorry he’d spoken, even though it was the truth. Like Elaine, both of the children were afraid of the water, and yet the beach seemed to hold an intense fascination for all three of them. Elaine would sit staring uneasily at the waves and wonder aloud about the tides and complain about the sand fleas. Paul would wander off by himself to pick up a group of strangers who would be very amused at first by his antics, then bored by his demands for attention, and finally exhausted and unkind. Judith, the seven-year-old, had a subtler approach to self-satisfaction. She would dig vast holes in the sand, large as graves, some of them, and here she would sit and eat her way through the contents of the picnic basket. A day at the beach, which always seemed so much fun for other families, was often a nightmare for the Fosters. Neither Gordon nor Elaine knew why this was so, but in self-defense each blamed the other.

“I don’t care about myself,” Elaine said. “I’m used to disappointments, all kinds, all sizes.”

“I guess you are.”

“It’s the children I’m thinking of... Other families go places together, even the Harrisons, and he’s a real doctor. I saw them at the horse show, the night you worked late.”

Gordon rubbed his eyes, knowing what was coming, yet feeling utterly powerless to stop it.

“You work late so often recently.”

“I have to.”

“If your practice is really that good, perhaps it’s time to hire an assistant.”

“I couldn’t make ends meet if I did.”

“They’re not meeting too well right now.”

“Well, I’m doing my best.”

“Yes. Yes, I really believe you are, Gordon.”

She sounded so sincere and kindly that he turned to look at her in surprise. She was a tall woman, nearly as tall as he. Her self-assured manner, her air of owning the world, had been one of the first things about her that he had noticed and admired. As the years passed Gordon had come to realize that it was not an air or a manner; Elaine really did own her world, and she allowed him to live in a little corner of it at a rent that he found it nearly impossible to pay.

“The trouble with some people’s best,” Elaine said, “is that it isn’t good enough.”

“Nothing will ever be good enough for you, Elaine.”

“Other women are more easily satisfied, are they?”

“I don’t know... I don’t even know what we’re talking about, money or sex.”

“You know I never discuss sex,” she said stiffly.

“Then it must be money. Is that what you want, Elaine? Money?”

“All I want is for our family to be together, to have a decent home life, with warmth and affection.”

“I’d like that, too.” But he knew that what Elaine meant by warmth and affection was not what he meant. To Elaine, warmth was gay conversation in front of the fireplace after dinner, and affection was a quick hug or a peck on the cheek, and, “Not now, Gordon, the children might still be awake—” or it was getting late, or she was tired, or she thought she heard the baby stirring upstairs or a prowler out in the yard.

She stood twisting her wedding ring, pulling it up over the second joint of her finger and pushing it back again. Up and over, over and down, with the diamonds glittering like tears. “What a lovely scene this has been, eh, Gordon? And what a charming couple we make. Somebody called us that once — remember? — a complete stranger said it when we were walking down Main Street on a Saturday night.”

“I think that’s what you really want out of life — to be one half of a charming couple walking down Main Street on a Saturday night.”

“I don’t know what you mean. All I know is that this whole argument started because I made a simple little request. I wanted you to take the children to the beach like any normal father.”

“Sorry,” he said with a wry smile. “I’m feeling a little abnormal today.”

“Is that meant to be a joke?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, it’s not funny. You have been acting abnormal recently — losing all that money on a horse race last week, going for those long walks alone every night, drinking down in that awful café and staying so late I have to phone you to come home.”

“I like to walk. And I drink coffee, almost exclusively.”

“There’s coffee at home.”

“Yes.”

“But you prefer to go down there.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He had a sudden impulse to tell her the real reason but the impulse went lame before it could move. He knew he would never have the nerve to tell her even half of the truth. “Gomez is an old patient of mine. I feel obliged to patronize him.”

“Very considerate of you.”

“Besides, when I go for a walk I like to have some kind of destination. Gomez’s place is just the right distance.”

“Does anyone ever see you in there?”

“If they look around, I imagine they see me. Why?”

“The place seems awfully low class. I wouldn’t want any of our friends to see you there.”

“Any real doctors, you mean?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, I’ll make you a promise, Elaine. If I ever see any real doctor coming in the front door I’ll sneak out through the kitchen.”

He expected her to get angry or at least to accuse him of sarcasm. She did neither. “Thank you, Gordon,” she said calmly. “That will be very kind of you.”

“Elaine, before you go, I’d like to ask you one question.”

“Ask it.”

“How did you first find out I went down to Gomez’s place?”

“You can’t keep a secret in this town. Only a fool would try.”

“You’re sure I have secrets?”

“Your face is crawling with them.”

Hazel had come in the back door but they were too engrossed in the quarrel to notice her. They stood in the hot, dark little hall, eyeing each other like fighters planning the next, the most devastating blow.

“Pardon me,” Hazel said.

They both turned and looked at her as if she had dropped from another planet to invade their private world. Neither of them spoke.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Hazel said, addressing Elaine. “I just came back to help Dr. Foster pour up an inlay... My, it’s certainly hot, isn’t it?”

Elaine blinked. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“A perfect day for the beach.”

“Yes, I thought so too. Apparently I was wrong.” She buttoned the little bolero she wore over her yellow linen sundress, and slung the rope straps of her beach purse over her left shoulder. “Well, I’ll be going now, Gordon. I don’t want to interfere with anything you and Hazel had planned.”

“I’ll take you out to the car.”

“Don’t bother. I’m quite accustomed to finding my way around alone.” She walked down the hall to the back door, passing Hazel without a glance. “When you’re ready to come home, Gordon, give me a call.”

“All right.”

“Unless you’d prefer a nice long walk.”

Gordon colored. “I’ll walk.”

“Good. And I’ll have a pot of coffee waiting for you. You like coffee so much.”

She closed the door behind her very softly to indicate to Gordon that she was not in the least angry.

She went out into the court, past the goldfish pond and the lantana hedges, holding her head high, looking like a real doctor’s wife. But when she reached the sidewalk she began to tremble so violently that she could hardly walk. She stood for a moment and pressed the palms of her hands over her eyes. Behind her closed lids there were no pictures, only a moving mass of colors, the reds of rage, the grays of terror.

Gordon turned to Hazel. “Don’t say anything.”

“I had no inten—”

“In fact, it might be a good idea if you went home.”

“But—”

“Now.”

“All right.”

When both the women were gone, he began to whistle again.

4

From a distance Hazel’s house looked like a small white box set right against the foot of the mountains in a grove of live-oak trees. But as Hazel drove up Castillo Street the box enlarged into a house, the live-oak trees stepped back a hundred yards into their proper place, and the mountains were six or seven miles away, the color of violets seen through frosted glass.

Hazel had lived in the town all her life. When she was a child she liked to believe that these mountains were the highest in the world, roadless, inaccessible, to be climbed only by daring men with ropes and pickaxes and spiked boots. It was quite a disappointment to her when her brother Harold, at the age of ten, accompanied his Boy Scout troop on a weekend trip to the Lookout Tower and returned unharmed. Harold reported great dangers, some real, like poison oak and rattlesnakes, some imagined, like tigers and man-eating plants; but he had worn ordinary gym shoes and no one in the party had carried a pickaxe.

Hazel stepped out of the car and the roadless, inaccessible mountains were blue dwarfs of hills. She opened the gate of the picket fence and crossed the back yard, stepping carefully around the gopher holes and the clusters of nettles that stung like wasps, ducking to avoid the spider webs spun from the tangle of geraniums to the clothesline, and waiting while a lizard shimmied across her path into the safety of the anise weeds which had grown large as shrubs beside the wall of the garage. Crossing the back yard was as hazardous as Harold’s trip up the mountain. When Hazel was feeling a little depressed, and consequently vulnerable to superstition and guilt, she believed that her back yard, with all its sprawling reproduction and confusion of nature, was getting back at her for certain lapses in her own life.

She had tried once to explain it to George: “It’s like the minute my back is turned, things happen — you know? — they all get together and whoop it up.”

Hazel never caught them whooping it up, but the evidence was there: an extra million ants hustling up and down the orange tree, more nests of snails at the roots of the geraniums, new little mounds of earth made by new little gophers, and fresh spider webs strung across the windows and under the eaves. She hosed the ants off the orange tree, she swept away the spider webs and crushed the snails with a spade. She put poisoned grain into the gopher holes. The gophers smelled her scent and avoided the grain, and eventually it sprouted up all over the yard into bright green tufts of wild rice. She set metal traps baited with raw apple and raisins. In order to evade the traps, the gophers dug more and deeper tunnels.

After that she tried an entirely new system, suggested by Josephine’s cousin who owned a ranch and presumably knew gophers like the back of his hand. In every open hole, Hazel stuck the top half of a broken beer bottle. Josephine’s ranching cousin claimed that gophers were unable to turn around in their holes and that they would commit involuntary suicide on the jagged ends of glass. The beer bottles sticking out all over the yard puzzled everyone, including the gophers. They nibbled a little of the glass, found it too hard to chew, and returned to their normal diet. One of the gophers died of old age and overeating.

Just as the weeds and animals had got out of control in Hazel’s back yard, so had the people in her life, her cousin, Ruth, her younger brother, Harold, who drove a truck for a furniture store, Harold’s wife, Josephine, and, in a few more months, Josephine’s child. There was no longer any minute of the day or any square foot of the house that Hazel could call her own.

Even before she opened the kitchen door, she could hear them talking, Ruth’s high, taut, suffering voice, and Harold’s quiet worried one.

“—but strawberries and artichokes, that’s going too far, Harold.”

“The doctor said—”

“The strawberry season is over. You don’t seem to realize how much food costs these days.”

“Hazel said I was to satisfy Josephine’s cravings.”

“We all go through life with unsatisfied cravings, Harold. And not just for artichokes and strawberries, either.”

“Even so.”

“Cabbage is excellent nutrition for expectant mothers. It contains calcium.”

“Josephine hates the smell.”

“We could use a little Air-Wick.”

Hazel came into the kitchen but they didn’t interrupt their conversation; it was the kind of household where no fuss was made over arrivals and departures, since there were so many of them. Only the little mongrel, Wendy, paid much attention to these matters. She sprang from her place at Ruth’s feet and made a great fuss over Hazel. From somewhere in her obscure ancestry, Wendy had acquired a fine sense of self-preservation, and she seemed to know that Hazel was the head of the house and must be given special notice.

They were seated across from each other at the round, oilcloth-covered table, Harold drinking a cup of coffee, Ruth cutting up a large head of cabbage into a wooden bowl.

Hazel leaned down to pat the dog’s firm little rump. “Any more coffee?”

“On the stove,” Ruth said. “I was just telling Harold—”

“I heard you from outside.”

“Well, don’t you agree?”

“If she wants artichokes, let her have artichokes.”

“Very well,” Ruth said stiffly. “Very well. I shall eat the cabbage myself.”

“The calcium will do you good.”

“There is no growing child inside of me whose little bones need strengthening.”

“Inside of me either, but I’ll help you eat the cabbage.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table beside Harold. They smiled at each other, very faintly, so that Ruth wouldn’t notice.

She noticed anyway. “I don’t see what’s so humorous about the high cost of food. I realize that I don’t contribute any actual money to the household, but it’s my job to keep expenses as low as possible, even at the risk of incurring unpopularity.”

“You’re not unpopular,” Hazel said. “Now forget it.”

Ever since Ruth began having trouble with her nerves, she had to be treated, on occasion, like a child, to be given firm yes and no answers, and sometimes strict orders or very abrupt changes of subject.

It was Hazel who usually provided the change of subject.

“I thought you were going to babysit for the Fosters this afternoon.”

“I was, yes.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Foster came home unexpectedly and paid me for a full hour, seventy-five cents, though I was only there half that time. I’ve saved fourteen dollars now... Do you think that’s enough?”

“Enough for what?”

“The suit,” Harold said and kicked Hazel under the table as a reminder. “The suit she’s going to buy to wear in front of the School Board. Herringbone tweed.”

“No, not tweed.” Ruth paused, looking reflectively up at the plaster ceiling. “I’ve changed my mind about the tweed. Silk shantung, I think, very simply cut. Don’t you think silk shantung would be better, Hazel? It will still be very warm in September... And perhaps if I’m lucky enough to get a real bargain on the suit, I’ll be able to afford a hat as well. I’d like to cover up my hair.”

“There’s nothing the matter with your hair.”

“I don’t want them to see what a change there has been in it. They might think something drastic has happened to me the past year, the way I’ve suddenly become gray like this... A turban would cover it up nicely. Are they wearing turbans any more, Hazel?”

“Some people are.”

“Then I shall aim for a turban.”

“Ruth—”

“Then, when I have my outfit all ready, I’ll phone the superintendent and ask for an interview. They say the teacher shortage in town is very acute. Of course they say that every year. I mustn’t build my hopes too high.”

“No, you mustn’t.”

“By September, I should have at least twenty dollars.”

She picked up the wooden bowl of cabbage and carried it over to the sink.

Hazel looked at her brother. “Where’s Josephine?”

“Sleeping. I told her to lie down, she looked bad.”

“You didn’t tell her she looked bad?”

“No.”

“I hope to God not.”

Harold’s responsibilities as a future father weighed heavily on him. He had always been a sweet-natured, dreamy man who could spot a silver lining a mile away, but as soon as Josephine missed her first period, Harold became a worrier. He worried nearly all the time because Josephine looked very frail and had a chronically delicate constitution. Harold had never been ill a day in his life and delicate constitutions fascinated and alarmed him.

“She’s so little, Hazel.”

“You talk like she was a midget or something.”

“It’s not only her size. It’s — well, she’s no spring chicken.”

“For God’s sake, don’t tell her that. I got enough trouble on my hands.”

“Sure, I know that, Haze.”

“For instance, that yard. You’d think a bunch of foreigners lived here the way that yard looks. We might as well go live in a jungle.”

Ruth turned sharply. “Are you implying, Hazel, that I should attend to the outside of the house as well as the inside?”

“Speaking of the jungle,” Harold said. “You know what a guy down at the plant told me the other day? He said, in the jungle the natives — well, say for instance the natives are going from one village to another, walking, and the native women are pregnant. They just stop walking, have their babies, and catch up with the rest of the tribe again. Can you beat that?”

“I keep this house clean,” Ruth said. “There isn’t a cleaner house in town. I can’t be expected to get out and dig in the yard.”

“We ought to plant something,” Hazel said. “We ought to have a few flowers around the place, like next door.”

“The people next door have a gardener once a week. It’s easy enough to have flowers if you can afford somebody to look after them. It’s a question of money, the same as practically everything else in this world.”

Frowning, Hazel picked up her empty cup and began rinsing it under the tap. “I wish I’d meet a millionaire.”

Hazel often thought quite seriously about her millionaire. His face and age varied in her mind but always he had in his background a frigid wife. Hazel saw herself opening up vistas for this man and having a few vistas opened up in return.

In a town that was reputedly teeming with millionaires, Hazel had never met one. The closest approximation was her former employer, Arthur W. Cooke, who had a real estate business, a wife, and a black Cadillac big as a hearse. Now and then Mr. Cooke would drop in to inquire after Hazel’s health. He never stayed more than half an hour and he never indicated any interest in Hazel other than the state of her health. Though Hazel called these occasions “dates,” they were more like visits from the family physician.

“Suppose I did meet a wealthy man,” Hazel said, “someone with class like Mr. Cooke, for instance, I’d be ashamed to bring him here with all those weeds around the place and the gopher holes... It’s a funny thing to me that with all those nice flowers and plants next door that the gophers don’t move over there.”

“Maybe they don’t appreciate nature.” Harold laughed, but no one laughed with him, so he added apologetically, “Listen, Haze, I get Saturday afternoon and Sunday off, and honest to God, I’ll get out there and dig those weeds and drown the gophers with a hose.”

“You can’t drown gophers.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve tried.”

“They can’t swim, can they? If they can’t swim, they got to drown, don’t they?”

“All right, Harold, you win. Next Sunday you go out and catch all the gophers and we’ll take them down to the ocean and throw them in.”

“Harold isn’t concerned with a minor trifle like the water bill,” Ruth said contemptuously. “Water costs money. This is desert country, and don’t you forget it. Everybody forgets that this is desert country because water has been brought in to irrigate it. But it’s still desert country.”

“So what,” Harold muttered, very softly. He was afraid of Ruth because she sometimes said very intelligent and forceful things. Like that about desert country. Harold admired that. He saw himself down at the plant addressing the manager, or even the president. Gentlemen, said Harold, don’t you forget that this is desert country.

Ruth took a sack of potatoes from the vegetable bin and began to peel them very quickly as if supper had to be prepared immediately. The kitchen clock on the wall said ten minutes after three, and supper was at least two hours away. But Ruth had a clock inside herself which never corresponded to the others in the house. Ruth’s clock ran fast and Ruth had to run fast to keep up with it. All day she ran, and part of the night; in her sleep her legs and arms twitched and she breathed so hard she woke herself up. There seemed to be no resting place for her, no safety zone where she could pause from the pursuit and catch her breath, no moments of peace except the rare ones when she was alone with the two things she loved best, the Fosters’ baby boy and the little mongrel she’d bought at the city pound for two dollars.

The dog lolled against her legs as she stood peeling the potatoes, and the warmth of its body touched cold, loveless places and slowed the clock a little.

Harold said, “I just remembered, a fellow down at the plant told me about some stuff the other day. You spray this junk on, see, and what happens is, it kills all the weeds but not the flowers.”

“I don’t believe it,” Ruth said. “I don’t believe that about the jungle and the native women, either.”

Harold looked injured. “Well, for crying out loud, I’m not making it up.”

“You’re gullible, Harold. You’ve always been gullible.”

Harold didn’t know what gullible meant, and Ruth knew he didn’t know. She stared at him in triumph until Harold dropped his eyes.

“I wonder how much he charges,” Hazel said.

Ruth put down the paring knife. “Who?”

“The Mexican gardener that works next door.”

“Have you gone out of your mind? Hiring somebody to do a little job like digging?... You must be crazy, Hazel. Why, Harold’s going to do it. He promised, next Sunday. Aren’t you, Harold?”

“Sure, I am. Sure.”

“There,” Ruth said. “He’s promised on his word of honor he’ll do it on Sunday. Won’t you, Harold?”

“Absolutely.”

Hazel walked back to the table and sat down with great deliberation.

“Listen, you two. Who’s running this joint? Who pays most of the bills? Who owns the house?”

“Well, I didn’t say anything, Haze,” Harold said anxiously. “I hardly opened my mouth.”

“You better not. It’s my house, and if I want it to look respectable, by Jesus it’s going to look respectable!”

“Sure, sure it is.”

“And if I want flowers around it, by Jesus I’m going to have flowers around it, see?”

“You bet you are, Haze.”

“Distinction, that’s what I want, a distinguished-looking house with some class to it.”

“People in our circumstances hiring a gardener,” Ruth said bitterly.

“I didn’t say for sure I was going to. I said I wonder how much he charges.”

“A dollar an hour, at least a dollar an hour. And a Mexican, at that. Why, I–I just wouldn’t feel safe in the house if he was out there.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t trust them, any of them... Of course I realize I have no voice in the matter. I’m living on your charity for the present.”

“Baloney,” Hazel said kindly. Her irritation had passed. She was always happiest when she was following her impulses and her current impulse was to hire the Mexican gardener and live in a distinguished-looking house waiting for a distinguished-looking millionaire.

Hazel rarely suffered from second thoughts. Once a decision was made, it seemed good, and Hazel stuck by it the way she stuck by her friends.

A nice yard would (a) increase the value of the house, (b) look pretty, (c) show up the neighbors, and (d) provide a suitable background for gentlemen friends.

Humming to herself Hazel went out into the back yard, gathered up all the broken halves of beer bottles sticking out of the gopher holes, and threw them in the trash can. Then she went over to the house next door and rang the front doorbell.

Half an hour later she returned with a pleasant glow induced by two glasses of cooking sherry, and a piece of paper bearing the address and phone number of Santana Escobar. She stood looking out of the kitchen window at the back yard. Tomorrow, Hazel thought, everything would be different; the muss and clutter would be gone, and the whole place would be blooming with gardenias and camellias, no more of those lousy geraniums.

Santana. The very name sounded prophetic, a symbol of a brand-new life. She had no clear plans for this new life beyond the fact that it would be different from the old one, and that at some point in it her millionaire would turn up, or at least someone with a little money like Mr. Cooke.

It’s the beginning, Hazel thought solemnly. It’s the beginning of a new life.

She wanted to communicate this thought to someone, not to Ruth who would blame it on the sherry, or to Harold and Josephine who had their own new life cut out for them, but to someone like George. George was very keen on new beginnings. He would understand perfectly.

She phoned the Beachcomber.

“George?”

“George isn’t here. Who’s that?”

“It’s me, Willie. Hazel.”

“Oh, hello, Hazel. This business about George, well, he left about an hour ago. Didn’t say where he was going, just walked off. There was some rumpus in the kitchen. He fired one of the girls. He lost his temper. You know George, he gets fussed up. Then, wham.”

“You said it, wham. Which girl did he fire, Willie?”

“One of the new ones. I forget her name.”

“Ruby?”

“Could well have been Ruby. Anyway, we’re short one girl and we’re short George. If you run into him anywhere, tell him we’ve got a crowd here, will you?”

“I’ll do that, Willie. So long.”

Hazel put down the phone.

In spite of George’s defection, it was still the beginning of a new life, and since Harold had gone back to work and Josephine was still asleep there was no one to tell but Ruth. She told Ruth.

“You shouldn’t drink in the afternoon,” Ruth said.

5

“Ruby? Let me think a minute.” Mrs. Freeman paused, searching for Ruby amid the tissue of fact and fiction that enveloped her mind.

“Ruby MacCormick,” George said.

“Oh, that’s our new girl, yes. We get so many here. They come and go. I hardly have time to catch their names.”

“I’d like to speak to her.”

“Now let me think, is she in or out? Wait a minute and I’ll go see. Sit down on the porch and make yourself easy.”

“Thank you.”

George sat down on a redwood bench beside the sign that identified the house: “Mrs. Freeman’s Tourist Home, Ladies Only, Reasonable Rates, Ocean View.” The bench creaked under his weight and he got up again, brushing off the seat of his trousers. He didn’t actually want to sit down anyway. He wanted to do something violent, to run away as fast as he could. But at the same time he wanted to have Ruby running along beside him, just as violent as he. He gazed blindly at Mrs. Freeman’s Ocean View — nineteen blocks down the highway a tiny strip of sea was visible — and wondered what he could say to Ruby to make everything all right.

On the highway in front of the house, cars hurried north to San Luis Obispo and San Francisco, and south to Los Angeles and San Diego. George wished that he were in one of them. He felt split in two. Half of him was headed for San Francisco, but the real half stood on Mrs. Freeman’s soot-covered porch, nervous and scared like a gangling adolescent.

Mrs. Freeman reappeared. She had taken off her apron, out of deference to George’s Buick, silk shirt, and masculinity in general.

“She’s in. She’ll be right down. What did you say your name was?”

“Anderson.”

“Any relation to the Anderson that makes that frozen split-pea soup?”

“No.”

“I just wondered.” Mrs. Freeman was disappointed. She had made a habit of asking people if they were connected with well-known names ever since she had met, down at the beach, a lady who claimed to be a second cousin of Joan Blondell, the movie actress. Mrs. Freeman had relayed this news to all of her pen pals back east, changing second cousin to first cousin because it was practically the same thing anyway and sounded more interesting.

“All these frozen things they make nowadays, it’s a miracle of science,” Mrs. Freeman said thoughtfully. “In my opinion, science is making great strides.”

George agreed.

“Some people think science is going too far, like this hydrogen bomb for instance. Myself personally, I’m not worried, though the other day something funny certainly happened. I’d bought this fish down at Marchetti’s, and when I opened the package it just seemed to fairly glow. I thought it might be one of those Bikini fish that got bombed. Do you think that’s likely?”

“No.”

“I guess not. I ate it and I feel the same. Here’s Ruby now.”

Mrs. Freeman moved aside with reluctance and Ruby took her place at the screen door. Beside Mrs. Freeman she looked extraordinarily slight and pallid. Her eyes were glowing like Mrs. Freeman’s fish, and George had to stifle a wild impulse to laugh.

“Ruby, I just came to — the fact is, you ran off without collecting your pay.”

Ruby bent her head and the white skin of her forehead pressed against the screen.

“I thought you might need the money so I looked you up. I had a hard time finding you. You didn’t leave an address.”

“I’m not so anxious for people to find me that I go around leaving my address,” Ruby said with soft scorn. “As for the pay, that’s perfectly all right. I broke some dishes anyway.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. You can take the money and buy some new dishes.”

“Don’t be silly,” George said, scowling. “It’s your money. You earned it.”

“Well, I don’t want it. Keep it yourself.”

In the background Mrs. Freeman’s bosom heaved with pride. This was the kind of tourist home she kept, yes-sirree. Her girls might be poor but they had a nice noble attitude towards money. Still, if Ruby had actually earned the money, she would be a fool not to take it.

“If you earned the money, my dear,” Mrs. Freeman said, “you’ll only be accepting your just deserts.”

Ruby uttered a sharp little laugh. “Everybody is very concerned about me all of a sudden, I must say. It’s certainly funny.”

“All right, forget the money,” George said. “What I came for was to apologize. I was — I lost my temper and I’m sorry, see? I’m sorry. Damn it” — he turned his scowl on Mrs. Freeman — “isn’t there any place we can talk?”

“Talk?” Mrs. Freeman’s eyebrows shot up. All her suspicions of men, some born and bred in her and the others picked up along the way of a life with the truant Mr. Freeman, were apparent in the look she gave George. Talk? Talk, indeed. I know men.

“You can talk in the parlor,” she said, firmly enough to indicate to George that she would be right outside in the hall while the talking was going on.

George opened the screen door and stepped inside. As the door closed his coat sleeve brushed Ruby’s bare arm. She shrank away from him, as if the contact had pained her, and ducked into the parlor. She bumped her shin against a leatherette hassock and almost fell, but when George put out his hand to help her regain her balance, she jerked her elbow and its sharp point caught him on a vein in the back of his hand. It stung for a moment like an insect bite.

“Oh.” She put her hand up and covered her mouth. “I’m sorry — I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. No.”

“All right,” George said heavily. “I take your word for it, Ruby.”

Mrs. Freeman coughed subtly and closed the parlor door. She was convinced of one thing — that Mr. Anderson was a fool to take Ruby’s word for anything. Ruby was a liar. During her fifteen years as a landlady, Mrs. Freeman had become a fairly accurate judge of character and she could invariably spot a liar, all the more readily because she was such a plausible liar herself.

Mrs. Freeman’s lies were nearly always written down in letters and were nearly always attempts to conceal her position in life or to justify it. She was a prodigious letter writer. She kept in touch with all her relatives back east, second cousins and nieces by marriage and even the new wives and husbands of divorced or defunct members of the tribe. She also had six pen pals, acquired through a pulp magazine: Middle-aged woman with cultural interests, fond of good music and literature, would appreciate hearing from women of similar interests, eastern background. How about a letter? California Caroline.

Caroline Freeman had become a letter-writer for a number of reasons. She was lonely. She could tolerate her life more easily if she glamorized it on paper, and she could even sometimes force herself into believing some of her own highly idealized versions of the truth: “I honestly felt, Mildred, that it would be a sin and a shame not to open my beautiful home to some of these poor unfortunate girls who have no place to lay their heads.”

Occasionally she mentioned Mr. Freeman’s spasmodic disappearances: “Poor Robert had not been feeling himself lately and has gone down to Palm Springs for the dry desert air. With the sea practically at our front door we naturally get a good deal of humidity!” When Mr. Freeman returned, in need of funds, badly under the weather, and with his face cherry red from overindulgence, Mrs. Freeman recorded the fact that Robert had come back from Palm Springs with a bad sunburn and the desert air hadn’t done him much good after all.

The ink that flowed from Mrs. Freeman’s pen was an unguent pouring over reality. It was true that she lived a few yards from the main north-south highway and had to listen all night to the purr and splutter of engines, the squeaking of brakes and the roaring of trucks. But it was also true that this highway had a beautiful and glamorous name, El Camino del Mar, and it was always a great satisfaction to Mrs. Freeman to write her address in the upper right-hand corner of her notepaper: 1906 El Camino del Mar. No one would ever suspect that it was a road lined with wooden shacks, filled eternally with the smoke of diesel engines and the soot from the Southern Pacific Railroad whose tracks lay parallel to the highway.

At times Mrs. Freeman was afraid that some of her correspondents might come to see her and find out about the neighborhood she lived in, and the highway and the tracks. She guarded against this possibility as well as she could by writing to no one further west than Chicago. This allowed a decent mileage between reality and fiction. She was, moreover, fairly certain that none of her correspondents had sufficient money for a long trip west, in spite of the claim of her pen pal, Flossie from Florida, that she owned a huge orange grove. Mrs. Freeman had the same percentage of belief in Flossie’s orange grove as she had in Mr. Freeman’s sojourns in Palm Springs or the Sierras.

No matter how many letters she wrote, Mrs. Freeman never suffered from lack of material because she had a keen eye, and she was an avid newspaper reader and an enthusiastic walker. She would walk for miles, especially after dinner in the summertime, consciously and deliberately seeing things that most other people would miss. She examined each flower and shrub, every car parked at the curb, the children playing on the sidewalks, the evening strollers like herself. She watched the mountains turn from blue to gray and disappear. She looked into the windows of houses and saw the people inside, eating or reading the paper, listening to the radio, quarreling, washing dishes, and she had a friendly curiosity about all these people.

Afterwards, Mrs. Freeman described her walks in detail, always managing to bring in the exotic street names that she dearly loved. “I strolled up Alameda Padre Serra and over to Plaza Rubio, and finally ended up on Salsipuedes!”

The weather was a constant source of material. Mrs. Freeman, however, did not content herself with mere temperature reports. She injected drama into a cloudy day by describing the fog rolling in from the sea, and into a windy day by stating that “the small craft warnings are up, all up and down the coast!” Calm, sunny days were provided with an element of terror by Mrs. Freeman’s favorite phrase, “earthquake weather.” The more beautiful the day, the more sinister the growl of the earth beneath it. Thus, Mrs. Freeman’s correspondents got the impression that she lived in the crater of a volcano with the earth forever teetering under her house. This impression served two purposes. It made Mrs. Freeman feel that she did indeed live dangerously, and it discouraged her pen pals from planning a visit to this perilous spot. Flossie of Florida had even gone so far as to remark that she wouldn’t live in California for all the money in the world — hurricanes Florida might have, yes, but an earthquake practically every day would upset her nervous system. This statement stimulated Mrs. Freeman’s imagination, and she replied by return mail, describing how only that morning the whole house had shuddered, the windows rattled, and the chandelier in the parlor swung like a pendulum. She neglected to add that this was a regular occurrence, caused not by an earthquake, but by an S. P. freight train.

Any seed, however small, could grow in Mrs. Freeman’s fertile brain. She returned now to her interrupted letter to a third cousin in Michigan. The ink flowed over George and he became a close relative of the Andersons who made that celebrated split-pea soup.

From where she sat, at the round walnut dining-room table, Mrs. Freeman could hear the angry rise and the defensive fall of George’s voice. The combination of attack and appeasement in his tone reminded Mrs. Freeman of her husband, Robert. Robert had been gone for nearly three weeks now and she was beginning to worry and to wonder whether she’d better go to the police. This harsh practical thought of going to the police annihilated Mrs. Freeman’s writing mood. She put down her pen. She had hoped to finish her letter before making herself a bite to eat, but now she couldn’t concentrate on it and for this she blamed George. He had no right to come forcing himself into the house (Mrs. Freeman had no recollection of opening the door for him), using profane language (she couldn’t actually distinguish his words but his tone was profane), and browbeating defenseless little women (making them accept money, probably tainted). For the moment, Mrs. Freeman was on Ruby’s side. Ruby might be sly, evasive, she might even be a downright liar, but she was a woman, and women should stick together.

In union is strength, thought Mrs. Freeman, who liked an aphorism as well as the next one.

She heard the thud of the evening paper as it struck the porch, and she rose to fetch it. When she passed through the hall she made her step good and loud, a cunning device that didn’t escape notice.

“You’d better go,” Ruby said. “She’s doing that on purpose.”

“All right.” George got up from Mrs. Freeman’s mohair sofa, aware that he had made a fool of himself. He had done what he set out to do, he had apologized for firing Ruby and losing his temper. But the apology had gone wrong. There had been nothing contrite or apologetic about it. He had forced it on her, he had apologized at the top of his lungs.

The apology had a curious effect on Ruby. She lost her air of frightened timidity. She looked composed, even a little ironic.

“She doesn’t like men callers to stay too long,” Ruby said.

“Do you have other men callers?”

“I can’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“It isn’t. I just want to know.”

“Well then, sure. Sure I have.”

“I don’t believe it,” George said.

Ruby put her hands on her hips in an exasperated manner. “Well, I like that! I certainly like that, Mr. Anderson! You, you just get out of here and don’t come back!”

George smiled painfully. “You’re not such a bunny after all.”

“I certainly don’t have to stand here and be insulted.”

Thump, thump, thump, Mrs. Freeman’s implying feet went down the hall again.

“Why did you leave the other place and move over here all of a sudden?” George said.

“That’s my affair.”

“Was it the rent? Do you need money?”

“Now I suppose you’re thinking that I skipped out without paying my rent! Well, let me tell you one thing, Mr. Anderson. If I were broke I could always go home. You seem to have gotten the wrong idea about me. I’m no orphan. I’m not alone in the world. I can go back to San Francisco any time. My mother and father have a beautiful home there and they’re always begging me to come back. But I told my dad, I’m tired of this sheltered life, I want to earn my own way.”

“Why?”

“Because. Because I do, that’s all. In the modern world a girl has to be able to look out for herself.”

“You’re not thinking of going home, then?”

“I haven’t made up my mind. It all depends.”

“I wouldn’t like you to leave town.”

“That’s funny. Someone else told me today that I’d be better off if I did. There are more jobs down south.”

“There are jobs here, too. If you don’t want to come back to the Beachcomber, maybe I can find something else for you. I’ve got some connections around town.”

Ruby’s face lit up. “That would be wonderful. Do you really think you could?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“A receptionist, maybe. I’ve always thought I’d like to be a receptionist.”

“I don’t know about that,” George said cautiously. “There’s not much call for receptionists in a town this size.”

“Still, it’s possible, isn’t it? — with your connections?”

“Yes.”

“Gosh, it’d be nice, sitting instead of standing all the time, and wearing pretty clothes and keeping my nails decent.” Her eyes were soft and her cheeks seemed to have already fattened on this dream of pretty clothes and half-inch nails. “I’d have to get a new permanent, though. My hair is a mess.”

“It looks fine to me.”

“No, it’s a mess.” She twisted a strand of it between her fingers. “Why should you do me a favor, Mr. Anderson?”

“Because I want to. There’s nothing, well, personal in it. I know you need a job, and you’re just a kid. In fact — well, to tell you the truth, I’m old enough to be your father.”

“You are?” Ruby giggled nervously. “My goodness, you certainly don’t look it. You don’t look a day over forty.”

George, who was forty, thanked her and pulled in his stomach. He knew by her expression that she had meant the remark as a compliment and that she probably thought he was at least fifty.

He felt a little sick, but he smiled and said, “I’ll do the best I can for you.”

“Oh, I know you will.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to come out and have some dinner with me.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t.”

“Oh.”

“I really can’t. I’m so tired. All this excitement, getting fired first and then having you appear out of the blue with a wonderful new job—”

“I haven’t found you one yet.”

“But you will, with all your connections and everything.”

“I hope so... Meanwhile, you’d better come back to the Beachcomber. At least it’s a living.”

“All right, if you say so, Mr. Anderson.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“All right.”

They shook hands, in a friendly way, and George opened the parlor door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. Freeman descending on him from the dining room. He walked rapidly in the opposite direction to avoid a meeting.

“In a hurry, isn’t he?” Mrs. Freeman commented.

“He’s a very important businessman,” Ruby said. “He’s got things to do.”

“I knew it the minute I looked at him. A businessman, I said to myself. What business?”

“He owns the Beachcomber.”

“All by himself?”

Ruby nodded. Though she knew that George had only a quarter interest in the Beachcomber she didn’t think it worthwhile to mention this to Mrs. Freeman. It was a small point, and Ruby believed that it was ridiculous to keep to the strict facts when a few variations served a better purpose. In this respect she was a true spiritual daughter of the house.

“He’s got an eye for you,” Mrs. Freeman said, with a satisfied nod. “I could tell it the minute I saw him.”

“Oh, that’s silly, I never heard anything so silly.”

“Mark my words, he’s a goner.”

Ruby colored. “Well, I certainly didn’t encourage him.”

“Why, I bet you could have him in a minute if you just snapped your fingers. Mark my words, I know men and he’s got that look.” It occurred to Mrs. Freeman at this point that possibly George was a married man and that she had gone too far in encouraging Ruby. She added, “If he’s married, well, that’s a horse of another color. I believe in the sanctity of the home and I think that any woman who comes between a man and his wife ought to be horsewhipped.”

Mrs. Freeman’s eyes hardened, applying the horsewhip to the guilty Ruby. But instead of cringing, Ruby said coldly, “He’s divorced, you don’t have to worry.”

“Not that I was actually worried. I knew as soon as I laid eyes on you that you were a girl that came from a respectable family. There’s a lady, I said to myself.”

Ruby was unable to resist this blandishment. Over a cup of Mrs. Freeman’s hot, bitter coffee she described her parents and their beautiful home atop Nob Hill whence they could see San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate. Her father, a retired gentleman of the old school, spent all his time now on his collection of rare stamps and coins. Her mother, who had been a beauty in her youth, was now silver-haired but she still rode every day. She was a brilliant horsewoman.

“I know that horsy set,” Mrs. Freeman contributed.

“I was terribly spoiled. Then one day I guess I just suddenly grew up. I wanted to live my own life and earn my own way. Daddy nearly had a fit and Mummy cried and cried, but it was no use, they couldn’t keep me home. When I make up my mind to do a thing, it’s as good as done. Naturally I’ll go back someday, but not until I’ve proved I can stand on my own feet. And now that Mr. Anderson’s getting me a job as a receptionist, I feel I’m finally getting some place. I suppose I should really sit down right now and write and tell Mummy and Daddy the good news, but I’ve got to dress and meet someone.”

When Ruby had gone back to her room, Mrs. Freeman poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down at the dining-room table to finish the newspaper.

“What a liar,” she said aloud, yet she felt genuinely sorry for Ruby, who was a victim of circumstance like herself. To a lesser degree she felt sorry for George too, because he had what Mrs. Freeman called a “nice open face” and a shrewd eye. From this shrewd eye Mrs. Freeman deduced that George knew quite a lot about women, and it was her opinion that men who understood women could be more easily duped by any individual woman than one who didn’t. Take her husband, Robert, for instance. Robert had never understood women, never wanted to, never pretended to, yet he’d had a wife as faithful as the day was long.

As faithful as the day is long, Mrs. Freeman thought, sighing. She turned for comfort to the City News Briefs. Here, in blunt paragraphs, were recorded the mistakes and sorrows, and the petty complaints and transgressions of that large but neglected and anonymous section of the community to which Mrs. Freeman unwittingly belonged. Names were seldom mentioned in the News Briefs. More tactful devices were used for identification: “A woman in the 500 block of W. Los Olivos complained to police of a dog barking in the neighborhood.” “An intoxicated middle-aged man was found sleeping in an alley and was given lodging by the police overnight.” “A rancher from the Arroyo Burro district reports that two sorrel mares have strayed or been stolen from his premises.” “Several juveniles were warned by police when they were found aiming rocks at a boulevard sign near the swimming pool.” “Two Mexican nationals were arrested in a local café after becoming involved in an argument with the proprietor.”

These items were cunningly spaced between advertisements, so that to make sure of not missing anything Mrs. Freeman read all the advertisements too: slenderizing salons, used cars, potato chips, lost dogs, apartments, lending libraries, Swedish Massage and Hawaiian chocolates.

While she read Mrs. Freeman talked half-aloud to herself. “Seems a lot of money for a 1939 Ford... I wonder what café they were arrested in, seems silly not to mention the name... that friend of Mrs. Lambert’s lives on Los Olivos, but that’s east not west, but it could easily be her anyway, newspapers are always making mistakes like that... trying to stop a dog barking. Might as well stop the wind blowing, what are dogs for, I’d like to know... sorrel mares, never heard of sorrel, but mark my words they were stolen, human nature can get very low.”

She heard one of the girls coming downstairs and she stopped talking abruptly. She didn’t want any of them to think she was balmy, talking to herself like that, and she was certain that none of them had enough sense to realize that if you have no one else to talk to, you talk to yourself.

It was Ruby.

“Dressed already?” Mrs. Freeman said cheerfully. “That’s a pretty suit. It goes with your eyes.”

Ruby blushed with pleasure and averted her eyes, afraid, breathlessly afraid that if she let Mrs. Freeman look at her eyes again Mrs. Freeman might change her mind and say, no, the suit didn’t go with her eyes.

She went down the hall, hugging the thin compliment to her heart, letting it nestle there, warm and protected, until it grew fat: she said I have nice eyes. She said, what a pretty suit, it goes with your beautiful eyes. Like stars, she said.

She pictured herself telling Gordon about it tonight, if he could get away from the house to meet her. She would say to him, “Oh, she’s a funny old bird, Gordon. You know what she said to me as I was leaving tonight? She said I was beautiful. Me, beautiful! Gosh, you could have knocked me over with a feather! She said, with eyes like that, you ought to be in the movies, Ruby.”

6

Ruby had never lived in a small town before, and she was unaware of the speed and intricacy of its grapevine. She assumed that she had in Channel City the same anonymity she had in San Francisco, and that no one knew about the relationship between Gordon Foster and herself, not even the owner of the café which was their meeting place.

She was not interested in or curious about the other people and she rarely paid any attention to them even when she was sitting waiting for Gordon and had nothing to do but drink coffee. She would have been surprised to learn that at least a dozen habitués of the café knew her and Gordon by sight and guessed the relationship, and several more knew them by name and were sure of the relationship. In the latter group was Al Gomez, who owned the café, and Gordon Foster’s wife, Elaine. Neither nature nor experience had equipped Gordon for a life of intrigue, and Elaine had found out about Ruby a week after Ruby arrived in town.

Elaine, as a churchwoman and the mother of three children, believed in divorce even less than she believed in marriage and Gordon, so she didn’t discuss the subject of Ruby at all. She merely telephoned the café two or three times in an evening, and asked Mr. Gomez politely to send Gordon home, one of the children had a sore throat, or a wrenched knee, or a headache, or a spot that might be measles. She never asked to speak to Gordon personally; she used Mr. Gomez as the messenger. This proved, at first, to be an effective device, for the messages, delivered in Gomez’s harsh, low voice sounded quite alarming. Mr. Gomez would shuffle over to the back booth where Ruby and Gordon were sitting, fix Gordon with his hot little eyes, and croak, “Wife says one of the kids fell out of bed, broke his arm.”

These messages, however startling they were in the beginning, had gradually lost their power, and the only people who were affected by them any longer were Gomez, who was tired of answering the phone, Ruby, who was infuriated by Elaine’s wily deceptions, and the two older Foster children. They had learned for the first time, listening to their mother on the telephone, that they were frail and mortal, surrounded by their enemy, death. They developed hourly symptoms, and screamed in real terror over a scratch or a bruise. Elaine, who believed she loved her children, was very much concerned because her five-year-old boy suffered from nightmares, and the girl, seven, was disgustingly fat from overeating. The girl found solace in food; even during school hours, or in bed at night, she chewed surreptitiously. As a result she frequently suffered abdominal pains which were relayed to Gordon, via Mr. Gomez: “The wife phoned, says one of the kids got a bust appendix.”

“Thank you, Gomez.”

“Or maybe polio.”

“If she phones again, tell her I’ve left.”

“Check.”

“Polio,” Ruby said, clenching her fists until the knuckles showed white. “Polio.”

“I’d better be leaving, Ruby.”

“But you just got here.”

“I know.”

“I hardly ever see you.”

“I know that too.”

When no one was looking, he kissed her goodbye.

He was often late for their meetings in the back booth, and sometimes he didn’t show up at all. Ruby would sit there the entire evening, sipping coffee, which was all she could afford, and watching the front door until her eyes went out of focus and her face looked drunken in its owlish intensity.

Once in a while Mr. Gomez would pause on his way to or from the kitchen.

“Late, eh?”

“Oh, he’ll be along. He should be here any minute.”

“Maybe the wife says no.”

“She’s always saying no. That wouldn’t make any difference. He’ll be here, I’m not worried.”

“Married man.”

Mr. Gomez’s abbreviated speeches, delivered in a cracked monotone, were difficult to understand. Ruby was not certain whether he was telling her that he too was a married man and knew how it was with wives, or whether he was reproving her for having a date with a married man. It worried her. She fancied reproach in his eyes and she wanted to slap his face, the dirty little Mex, but also to explain to him that she loved Gordon, she’d given up everything just to live in the same town he did.

“It’s not fair,” she screamed mentally at Mr. Gomez, who was frying a hamburger. “It’s not fair! She’s got everything — Gordon and the house and the kids, and all I’ve got is the back booth in this lousy little joint!”

The smell of grease rose from the griddle, clung to the walls and seeped into the very pores of Ruby’s skin, blending with the cologne she had splashed on her wrists for Gordon. She felt a little nauseated and dizzy from all the coffee she had drunk, but she sat with her eyes fixed glassily on the front door. Whenever the door opened her mouth got set, ready to smile; when it closed again, and Gordon was still missing, her heart shrank and oozed its juices like the hamburger Mr. Gomez was frying on the griddle.

She never gave up hope until Gomez changed the sign on the front door from “Open” to “Closed.” Then she rose, picked up her handbag and the fox fur, and said goodnight to Gomez, very gaily, letting him know that she wasn’t at all disappointed, and that, Gordon Foster or no Gordon Foster, this was how she liked to spend her evenings, sipping coffee in Mr. Gomez’s delightful back booth.

“How the time flies,” she said brightly. “I was so interested sitting here watching the people I didn’t realize how late it was getting. You certainly have an interesting place here!”

She didn’t fool Gomez, who hated the place more than she did, and she didn’t fool herself either. As soon as she stepped outside, the cold sea wind slapped the smile off her face. I hate him, she thought, running down the street. I hate him. I’ll get back at him. I’ll get even. I’ll go and see his wife. He’ll be sorry.

But Gordon’s sorrow had already begun, and it was deeper than Ruby realized. It was the sorrow of failure. He had failed Elaine and the children, he had failed Ruby, and he had failed himself. A more self-assured man might have taken a firm stand one way or the other. The only solution Gordon could think of was to go away for a while and leave the burden of decision up to Elaine and Ruby. A vacation, he called it, when he mentioned it to Elaine. He said he thought he’d take a little trip.

“To San Francisco again?” Elaine said with sweet irony.

“What do you mean, again?”

“I only meant that you seem to have had such a gay time there a couple of months ago.”

“You’ve got a funny idea of a gay time,” Gordon said. “I was at lectures damn near all day, every day.” After one lecture he had picked Ruby up in a hotel lobby but he still couldn’t understand why Elaine should suspect this. “That was a business trip. A dentist has to keep up with the latest developments and equipment. This time I want a holiday. I thought of Mexico, Ensenada perhaps.”

“Mexico?”

“What’s the matter with Mexico?”

“Did I say there was anything the matter with Mexico, dear?”

“You said it as if you suddenly smelled a bad smell.”

Elaine smiled gently. “There you go imagining things again, dear. You’re getting so sensitive. I wonder if it could be glandular.”

“Listen, I know how you said ‘Mexico.’ Don’t try and kid me.”

“Really, Gordon, you’re becoming impossible. I’ve thought time and again that perhaps you should go and see a doctor. Glandular disturbances are common at your age.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gordon said, sweating.

“All this fuss simply because I said ‘Mexico’ in a perfectly ordinary tone of voice. I’m sure I’ve got nothing against Mexico. Of course I’ve heard it’s terribly dirty. You can’t drink the water at all without boiling it, and you have to be awfully careful about the food, cholera and things like that.”

Elaine could, with a few well-chosen words, reduce anything to its lowest common multiple. Having deflated Gordon and crushed Mexico, she went to work with undiminished fervor on vacations in general and Gordon’s in particular. It was a funny thing, Elaine said, that men took vacations every now and then while women went right on year after year without any kind of rest or holiday at all. Anyway, did Gordon really think it was wise to leave right now?

“After all, dear, you’ve got your family to think about. It isn’t as if you were in some business that could carry on without you. I mean, every day that you’re not at the office and don’t keep your appointments, you’re losing money. You have your overhead, and Hazel’s salary, and you know how many new dentists, all of them veterans too, are opening up offices here. After all, you’re in a competitive profession. If you’re going to be away from the office half the time your patients are going to feel that they can’t depend on you.”

In one short speech she had managed to convey to Gordon that he was a shirker who hadn’t helped win the war, as well as lazy, impractical, thoughtless, incompetent and irresponsible.

Elaine considered herself a true gentlewoman. She never raised her voice or swore, and even when driven into a corner by fate she used only legitimate womanly weapons like her children, her bed and soft words strung on steel. She had betrayed Gordon on the day she married him by telling her mother that she knew Gordon had a weak character and that she would have to be strong for both of them. Elaine often recalled this speech, which she termed “realistic,” and which she considered remarkably shrewd for a girl so “young” — she was twenty-seven on the day she was married. Not six months later, she told Gordon of her speech to her mother. Gordon was shocked, not by her malice, which she had already revealed in many small ways, but by the fact that she despised him. She made it clear that it was only her own iron will and determination which kept Gordon on the straight and narrow and confined him to his office twelve hours a day. Gordon was thirty then, and working very hard to build up a practice so that he could buy Elaine a new house. He was quite surprised to find out that he was a weak character, and inexperienced enough to take the criticism seriously. In the end, after Elaine had given him a gentle heart-to-heart talk, Gordon was convinced that he was indeed weak and that it was Elaine’s personal power that turned the drill and kept him confined in the magnetic circle of office-and-home.

With this new self-knowledge inflicted on him by Elaine came a gradual change in personality. He began to doubt himself and his motives. He was grateful to anyone, man or woman, who paid him any attention. He was awed by his three children, who seemed to despise him as much as Elaine did.

“Gordon,” Elaine told her friends with a tolerant little smile, “is not the fatherly type.” Above the smile her eyes added a personal little message to Gordon alone: You’re a very poor father, admit it, dear.

Gordon walked through the years in a kind of numb bewilderment.

In the early summer of his thirty-ninth year, in the lobby of the Palace Hotel in San Francisco, a young woman asked him for a match.

She had dark hair and a thin, pointed face. The first thing Gordon noticed about her was her underdeveloped jaw. There wouldn’t be room for a normal set of teeth there, Gordon thought, and he wondered whether her teeth were exceptionally small or whether some of them had been removed to prevent overlapping.

“Sorry,” he said, patting his coat pockets automatically. “I don’t smoke.”

“Oh. Well. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She added, with a self-conscious little laugh, “Honestly, I don’t smoke either, only about once a year. But I was supposed to meet a certain party here and I’ve been waiting so long, I just thought a cigarette would help.”

They sat side by side under a potted palm tree, Gordon with his newspaper on his lap, and Ruby fingering the clasp of her purse.

“All I’m afraid of is that I missed my party,” Ruby said. “The lobby is so crowded, there must be a convention or something.”

“Dentists,” Gordon said.

“Oh, that’s it then. I wondered. Well—” She closed her purse with an air of finality and put on one of her gloves. “Well, I guess my party must be afraid of dentists or something—”

Gordon laughed. “Everybody is.”

“Well, I don’t blame them! I shiver every time I think of a dentist.”

“Are you shivering now?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Why?”

“I’m one.”

“No!”

“I am.”

“Gosh, and to think I’ve been sitting beside you all this time without a single shiver! But you don’t look a bit like a dentist. You look like, a lawyer or a doctor, maybe.”

Gordon was flattered. He had belonged for years to a club for professional men, but he had never got over the feeling that the doctors and lawyers among the members were superior to him, and that dentistry was the poor country cousin of medicine and law. Elaine lent her aid to this feeling. When the club held its monthly Ladies’ Night, Elaine was ostentatiously self-effacing, as if to remind everyone that she was, after all, only a dentist’s wife and had no right to open her mouth. She sometimes said as much to the other wives. “Of course it’s different with you, I’m only a poor dentist’s wife.” This remark caused acute embarrassment among the other women who found themselves forced to belittle their husbands and their husbands’ professions to make Elaine comfortable, or else to extol the art of dentistry: Where would we all be without dentists, I’d like to know. My goodness, dentists are terribly important.

The fact was that dentists were very important, and after two days of the convention Gordon was beginning to feel proud that he was a man who was doing hard and important work for the welfare of humanity. He was a little afraid for his new pride, though. It was too precious and fragile a thing to survive the journey home, and God knew, he’d never get it past the front door of his house.

He thought of Elaine, not bitterly, but with a kind of helpless pity. Whatever Elaine had wanted and expected from her marriage — great wealth? social position? an idyll of romance? — she hadn’t got it and he was unable to give it to her. She was, in the long run, worse off than he was. He had his job, he could become so absorbed in his work that he sometimes didn’t think of Elaine for two or three hours. He knew that Elaine had no such respite, that she was always conscious of him as she would have been conscious of a continuous nagging toothache.

He hadn’t, come to think of it, remembered Elaine once all day until the girl in the chair beside him asked him for a match. What had the girl said? — that he looked like a doctor or a lawyer. Some answer was expected of him, he must play the game, whatever it was.

“Appearances,” he said with ponderous humor, “are deceiving.”

“Aren’t they just!” She laughed, and he saw that her teeth were very small and even, like canine incisors. “Still, I always say I can tell a nice character by his face, I really can too. Look, isn’t that someone waving at you, over there by the cigar counter?”

Gordon turned, and recognizing a colleague of his, he waved back.

“He’s from my home town,” Gordon said. He mentioned the name of the town. Ruby said that she’d never been there but she knew lots of people who had, and they all agreed that it was the most beautiful place in the country.

“I certainly intend to go there,” she said. “I’ve just never found the time and my parents are terribly old school. They think girls should stay home all the time.”

“Do you work any place?”

“Just for the fun of it I’m working at the perfume counter in Magrim’s. Honestly, the people you meet! I never had any idea how the other half lives.”

“Didn’t you?” Gordon smiled at her innocence.

“Actually I’m not crazy about working, but it’s better than sitting at home watching Daddy fuss over his silly stamps and coins. A girl should get out on her own, don’t you agree?”

Gordon agreed.

Ruby’s “party” failed to appear. Gordon had intended to go to a movie by himself but he couldn’t think of any polite way to abandon the girl. She was too young to sit around a hotel lobby alone so Gordon offered to get her a taxi and send her home.

“That’s terribly kind of you,” Ruby said with a rueful little smile. “But I guess it wouldn’t do much good for me to go home this early. Mummy and Daddy are out tonight and I haven’t got a key.”

Gordon took her along to the movie. She was a trusting little thing. Even though he was a complete stranger she seemed to rely on him already and when they walked down the dark aisle she put her hand on his coat sleeve, tugging at it like a child who doesn’t want to be left behind.

Three days later she still didn’t want to be left behind.

“Don’t go, Gordon, please.”

“I have to. You don’t understand. I told you about Elaine and the children and my work.”

“Take me with you.”

“I can’t, Ruby.”

“Will you be back?”

“You know I will.”

“I’m afraid you’ll change your mind.”

“I would if I could,” Gordon said quietly. “It’s too late, I love you.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“What if I never see you again?” she sobbed. “What if you change your mind?”

“I won’t.” He held her in his arms while she wept. “I’ll be back, darling. Don’t worry, don’t cry.”

She sobbed over and over again, “What if I never see you again?”

He drove home alone, buoyant, frightened, intoxicated, ashamed of himself, confused, in love. Once or twice as he drove along the rocky coast he thought of sending himself and the car over the cliff, but he didn’t do it, and when he got home, Elaine seemed genuinely glad to see him.

Elaine fussed over him, unpacked his suitcase, and told him he was looking tired.

“Staying up late at all those burlesque shows, I bet!” she said with a gay laugh.

“I didn’t go to any burlesque shows.”

“My goodness, I thought that’s what conventions were for!”

He looked at her steadily. “Did you?”

“What’s the matter with you, Gordon? Can’t you take a joke any more?”

“It depends on the joke.”

“As if I didn’t know you have too much self-respect to go to a burlesque show,” Elaine said reproachfully. “What did you do with your evenings?”

“I went to the movies,” Gordon said. I fell in love with a girl named Ruby. At first I thought she was just an innocent, wide-eyed kid, and then afterwards at the movie I thought she was an ordinary pick-up. When it was too late I found out something else — she was a virgin.

Four days later he had a letter from her. During office hours he kept the letter in his pocket and at night he left it in the office safe.

Dear Gordon:

I guess by this time you’ve forgotten all about me and I wouldn’t blame you, really I wouldn’t Gordon, I’m not worthy to shine your shoes. In fact I’ve got some things on my conscience and I thought I’d tell you, then if you’ve forgotten me you can just read this and forget it too, but if you haven’t and if you still feel about me the way I do about you, you will know anyway that I’m trying to play fair and square with you. Well, here goes, Gordon.

I wasn’t waiting for anybody that night in the lobby, I was just sitting there. I was walking home and I got tired so I went and sat there pretending I was waiting for someone because otherwise it wouldn’t be good taste. Isn’t it funny Gordon that if my feet hadn’t been hurting I wouldn’t ever have met you. I’m glad I did, no matter what happens to us I’ll never be sorry. I swear on my honor I never did that before, talking to a strange man like that and I will never do it again. I haven’t even looked at another man since you left, what’s the use they look silly beside you.

Point two: I told you I lived with my parents, this isn’t true either because my parents are divorced and have married other people and I live with my aunt and cousin, my cousin is older than I and she has a good job. I guess you will think I am a terrible liar. I don’t know why I said that about my parents I haven’t seen them for years, but I want you to know the truth now anyway because I love you Gordon. I’ve never been in love before only crushes.

I guess that’s all Gordon. I hope you won’t hate me the way I hate myself for telling you those lies, but I wouldn’t blame you if you turned against me. I am not good enough for you maybe I never will be but I’m going to try hard. I think of you all the time, please write to me Gordon. I love you. Ruby.

Every evening, while Hazel was cleaning up the front office, Gordon went into the lab and sat down on the high stool. He read the letter over and over and then he put his head down on the lab table and wept without tears.

Ruby arrived in town three weeks later. She came by bus carrying a suitcase containing two letters from Gordon, a few clothes and her aunt’s red fox neckpiece (borrowed for a limited time only). She had nearly two hundred dollars, scraped together from various sources. Seventy dollars was her own, her cousin lent her twenty-five, and a hundred came from her father in Seattle. She had written to him for the first time in two years telling him she was going to be married and needed money for a trousseau. Her father sent her a check and a note wishing her happiness and telling her not to mention the check to her mother under any circumstances.

She took a room in a boarding house a couple of blocks from the bus terminal. Here she unpacked her suitcase, shook out the red fox neckpiece and washed her face. Then she went to the nearest café to phone Gordon and have something to eat.

She sat down in a booth, trembling with weariness and excitement. She was here at last, in the same city as Gordon, perhaps even just a few blocks from him right this minute. From now on all her days would be colored by the possibility of seeing Gordon. He might be walking past the café right now (she looked and could see nothing beyond the closed Venetian blind) and every time she stepped out of the door she might catch a glimpse of his car. She had memorized the license number on that first night, standing on the curb outside Gordon’s hotel. She had repeated it aloud over and over, without realizing why. Everything that concerned Gordon had become absorbingly important to her, with the exception of Elaine. She thought of Elaine vaguely as a shadow-figure crossing Gordon’s path now and then without touching him or interfering with him. Ruby’s one-sided imagination flung a veil over Elaine and her children, her own future, her financial difficulties, Gordon’s reputation, and any preconceived notions she had of right and wrong. Right was something you were going to do anyway, and if it didn’t justify itself afterwards it became wrong. Ruby’s mind worked with disastrous simplicity. It was “wrong” to lie to Gordon about her parents, but it was “right” to follow him here without telling him about it in advance or asking his opinion.

She wanted to surprise Gordon, and she did.

She dialed the number of his office while Mr. Gomez reheated a batch of French-fried potatoes and the juke box moaned a soft, disturbing song. The music brushed her ears and her lips like a kiss.

Watching her from behind the counter Mr. Gomez made one of his quick, wrong analyses of character: kid from a small town, on her way to Hollywood, due for a shock, no jobs around, lousy with pretty girls already, the kid’s asking for it.

“I’m not hungry,” Gordon told Elaine at dinner. “I think I’ll go out for a walk.”

Elaine glanced at him across the table. She believed nothing and so she could always spot a lie, an ability which was her pride and joy.

“A walk? I should think after standing on your feet all day a walk would be about the last thing you’d want.”

“I don’t get enough exercise.”

“You have your golf on Sunday afternoons.”

“If you’ve any objections to me going for a walk, say so. Don’t beat around the bush. Is there something you want me to do around the house, is that it?”

“You don’t have to get irritable, Gordon. I didn’t object to your going for a walk, it just seemed peculiar, that’s all.”

“Well, perhaps I am peculiar,” Gordon said.

Elaine sighed and thought, how true. Gordon was peculiar, and little did these people who were always telling her how lucky she was to have a good husband, little did they know what she had to put up with. It was quite possible that Gordon’s trouble was glandular. If this was the case, Elaine would stand by, she would even nurse him herself, if necessary, until Gordon’s glands readjusted and he had completely recovered. Complete recovery, in Elaine’s terms, meant that Gordon would be constantly sweet, affectionate, devoted to herself and the children. He would stay home at night and they would all play games together, a gay, happy, united little family. This was Elaine’s dream, this picture of Gordon and herself and the children sitting at a table reading aloud or playing Parcheesi and Casino and Snakes and Ladders... She and Gordon would touch hands and smile with pride and love at the children’s excitement... This was what she wanted but she had never told Gordon, and her own attempts in the direction of the dream were hopelessly inadequate. The boys were too young for such games and the girl Judith got overexcited and tried to cheat. Elaine was horrified by this cheating, she could not believe it was natural for a seven-year-old to try to cheat, and in the end she blamed Gordon for passing on his hereditary weakness to his daughter. The gay evenings with the children were nightmares for Gordon and agonizing frustration for Elaine.

Elaine confided in no one. To her friends she appeared invulnerable, and it was only when she said her prayers in the evening that she admitted, even to herself, that she was not.

When Gordon had left she put the children to bed. Then she went into the bedroom she shared with Gordon. Kneeling beside the bed Elaine confided in her doctor-psychoanalyst-father-mother-confessor-God. She talked to Him quite naturally, as to an old friend.

“Dear Father, I need your help, we all do. We turn to you in our unhappiness. I don’t ask you to make me happy, only to show me what is wrong and what I should do. Whatever it is I have enough strength and faith to do it. Something terrible is wrong in this house, it is crushing us all, and I know it must be my fault as well as Gordon’s. Gordon is out for a walk — it’s funny how I keep telling You things You must know — and I miss him the way I did when he was in San Francisco. I think I love him, I don’t know. When he’s away I love him, but when he comes back everything starts over, all the small irritations and differences. I do my best to lead a virtuous life but some times I have wicked thoughts and when I look at Gordon I resent him. Where does this terrible resentment come from? Sometimes I want to hit out at him, and just tonight when he swallowed some soup and it went down the wrong way, I felt glad, really glad! I thought, that will teach him — those were the very words that came into my mind. But why? What would it teach him? How could I have been glad? Dear Lord, show me the way, I am lost and wicked — I don’t know — what a mess, Oh God, what a mess—”

She remained on her knees for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, a blank relentless heaven.

In terror and exultation Gordon opened the door of Mr. Gomez’s café and found Ruby in the back booth.

“Gordon — Gordon, are you glad I’m here?”

“Yes, yes, you know I am—”

“I’m glad too.”

He took her hand and held it against his mouth.

“Gordon, I didn’t come here to ask you for anything.”

“I know. Don’t talk.”

“I have to say this,” she said earnestly. “I mean, I don’t want you to give up your family or anything, I wouldn’t ask you to. I just came to be near you.”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Here I am, though.”

“Here you are.”

“Are you happy?”

“Very.” He smiled at her but his eyes were worried. “I’m very happy.”

She noticed his worry and said quickly, “Now don’t start thinking, Gordon. For one night we won’t think or plan or anything, eh?”

“All right.”

“If it’s me you’re worrying about, you can stop right now. I can take care of myself and I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“What did you tell your aunt?”

“That I was going to get a job here, and I am, too. She didn’t mind. She even let me borrow her red fox fur so I could look more presentable. Naturally I didn’t tell her about you, she’s death on men anyway.”

“Have you any money?”

“Lots. My father sent me some. I had to tell a lie to get it. Does that shock you, Gordon?”

He shook his head. He was beyond the stage of shock, no matter what happened. His life, which for eight years had run like an engine on schedule, had without warning jumped its tracks and roared off into the woods.

It couldn’t have happened, Gordon thought in sudden panic, it isn’t true. Yet here was Ruby sitting by his side, accepting with mature complacence her new role as mistress to a married man. She seemed to have tossed away her girlhood and walked on without looking back and without looking ahead. She had no goal, no ambition, and no purpose beyond the immediate satisfaction of being near Gordon.

“You’ll have to go back home before your aunt finds out the truth,” Gordon said wearily.

“I have no home. My aunt’s house is no more home to me than the room up the street that I just rented. Why should I go back? Gordon—” She put her hand on his wrist. “Listen, Gordon, after you left, the whole city seemed dead to me. The people were there just the same and they did the same things they always did, walked and laughed and drove cars, but they looked dead to me, like they had motors in them like that dummy that rides the exercycle on Powell Street. Remember when we passed it on the cable car and you said it was wonderful, a typically American invention to get nowhere fast?”

Gordon nodded, marveling at the way she remembered, with absolute accuracy, all the words he had spoken in her presence, as if she had deliberately, right from the first, set out to memorize them. Why? Gordon thought. Why me? He saw himself as an ordinary man crowding forty, getting a little bald, a little stooped, a little tired. There was nothing about him to appeal to a young girl, yet for Ruby his departure had murdered a city. She loves me, Gordon thought, and he felt a nameless fear draining the blood out of his head.

Love, I’m not sure what it is, what does it mean? Elaine loves to love things. She loves tweed suits, mushrooms, bleached mahogany furniture, bridge, even me. “I love you, Gordon, naturally I do, for heaven’s sake you’re my husband, aren’t you?” She loves the children too. Eat your custard because Mummy loves you and wants you to be big and strong. Elaine wants to be loved in return, she’s always asking me if I love her and I always say I do. “Certainly, of course, absolutely, sure, naturally, why shouldn’t I love you, you’re my wife, aren’t you?” What have we been talking about all these years, Elaine and I? I never killed a city for Elaine.

“I remember,” Gordon said.

“I felt dead too, Gordon. I knew I was moving around, sometimes I could feel my legs walking up the streets but they didn’t have any connection with me, they just walked by themselves automatically.”

“I didn’t — I didn’t mean to make you feel this way about me.”

“I know, but I do. It’s happened. You don’t really want me to go home, do you, Gordon?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s settled then. And you mustn’t worry, promise?”

“I promise, Ruby.”

She pressed her head against his shoulder. Her mouth trembled and her eyes were blurred with tears. “I’ve never loved anyone before and nobody’s ever loved me either, not my father or mother or my aunt or another man, no one.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Gordon said. He felt a new and grave responsibility for her. She had such stubborn naiveté, she was so ignorant of the world and of the difficulties ahead of them both.

In fear and love and desperation he put his arm around her and held her close.

For Gordon, who was by nature a blunt and honest man, life became a series of sly, awkward deceptions.

He lied to Hazel: “You’d better phone Mrs. Hathaway and cancel her five o’clock appointment. I have a bit of a headache.” He lied to Elaine: “That walk last night set me up. I think I ought to get more exercise—” and to the children: “Daddy can’t read to you tonight, he’s going down to the Y to have a swim.”

Later, he and Ruby parted at the front door of Ruby’s boarding house. The proprietress, who didn’t allow visitors of the opposite sex in any of the rooms, had lately become suspicious of one or two of her tenants, and she sat all evening in the parlor with the blinds up, looking alert.

“The old biddy’s watching,” Ruby said. “Don’t kiss me.”

“All right.”

“Will I see you tomorrow, Gordon?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did you tell Elaine tonight?”

“That I was going for a swim at the Y.”

“You better wet your hair some place.”

On his way home he went into the public lavatory and dampened his hair under the tap. He splashed some water in his eyes to make them a little red, and dried his face with his handkerchief. He walked home along the dark quiet streets with the smell of the lavatory in his nostrils and despair and degradation in his heart.

On his arrival Elaine noticed his damp hair and reddish eyes, but she also noticed that he didn’t smell of chlorine as he always did after a swim in the pool. She didn’t make any comment to Gordon, she merely noted the discrepancy in the little account book she had kept inside her head for years.

The next night Elaine left the children alone, with a bag of chocolates as solace, and followed Gordon down to Mr. Gomez’s café. Through the window slot in the front door she saw Gordon enter one of the back booths and greet someone who was already there. After the first vicious thrill of triumph — “I was right! I’ve been right all along, absolutely right!” — she felt a dazed incredulity. She had followed the wrong man, it was not Gordon (good old comfortable, steady, hard-working Gordon); and the woman who had followed him, dodging behind bushes and trees pretending to be mailing a letter and looking for a certain house number, was not herself, Elaine, the sincere, virtuous, respectable Elaine she knew and loved so well.

Elaine was, during the first few hours, more appalled at herself than at Gordon. How could I, she thought. How could I, following him like that, peering in that window — what would Mama say if she found out?

Neither Mama, nor Gordon, nor anyone else, found out about Elaine’s trip in the dark. Elaine managed to forget it herself except when Judith referred to it as “the night Mummy left us alone with the chocolates.”

The night of the chocolates, which was for Judith one of her most delightful experiences, was the beginning of what Elaine called her fight for her home and her happiness and the children. She fought indirectly, via the telephone and Mr. Gomez.

The calls infuriated Ruby. “Why can’t she leave us alone? She’s got everything she wants, what’s she griping about? I’m the one should be griping.”

“What’s the matter now, Ruby?”

“I’ve got to move.”

“Why?”

“The old biddy’s found out about us. She told me very politely this morning that she didn’t keep a house and she wasn’t a madam and if I wasn’t out by Thursday morning she’d report me to the police and they’d run me out of town. Nice, eh?”

“She must be crazy to talk like that,” Gordon said, pale with anger. “My God, Ruby, didn’t you defend yourself? Didn’t you talk back?”

“Sure I talked back,” Ruby said dully. “I said I’d move out Thursday morning and that’s all I said because it’s all I could say.”

“But you must have—”

“Well, I didn’t. I want to get out of there, anyway. I don’t even want to go back there tonight. She scares me, Gordon.” She leaned her head on her hands in a picture of weary resignation. “What’s the matter with me tonight? I guess I’m tired. Don’t pay any attention to me. Things are getting so much more mixed up than I thought. I just seem to be making a sort of general mess of everything. Even my new job. You know what Mr. Anderson said to me tonight? He said I was the worst waitress he’d ever seen and I guess he’s right. In the same breath he asked me to go out with him. I said no. Would you be jealous if I did go out with him, Gordon?”

“I suppose I would,” Gordon said soberly. “I don’t know. I’ve never been jealous of anyone before.”

“You wouldn’t. I mean, that’s sort of typical of you. You’re just sort of generally nice, aren’t you?”

Gordon smiled. “Elaine would like to hear that.”

“Don’t talk about her tonight. I’m too tired, I’m so tired I could die. What a job, hauling food around all day. You should see some of them eat. God, people are pigs. It makes me so sick watching them that I never want to eat again.”

“You’ve got to quit that job. I’ll get some money for you. I’ll tell Elaine that—”

He stopped, unable to think of anything to tell Elaine that she would even pretend to believe. Out of the budget Elaine allowed him twenty dollars a week for lunch and incidentals. The budget had always been Elaine’s job — an office budget that covered salaries, rent and new equipment, and one for the household. These budgets invariably balanced, and Gordon was grateful to Elaine for taking over the job and making his money stretch further than he would have been able to do. He had never needed more than twenty dollars a week for himself. Now that he did, the only way he could get it was by more lying. If he cashed a check on their joint account Elaine would find out about it and he would still have to lie.

In the end he wrote out a check for fifty dollars and told Elaine he had lost it on a horse race.

“How could you, Gordon,” Elaine said, with soft reproach, “when you know how we could have used that money! The children are old enough now to perceive things. They see that the Brittons next door have a slide and swing, but they haven’t. And poor Paul has had his heart set on a model airplane with a real motor in it. Or a wading pool. I did so hope we’d be able to manage a wading pool this summer. Well — I won’t nag, Gordon, I hate nagging wives. But I must ask you for the sake of the children to keep within your allowance.”

A little later, while reading the paper, Elaine pointed out to Gordon the picture of an Indian potentate, reputed to be one of the richest men in the world.

“Of course he’d have to be rich,” Elaine said sharply, “in order to be able to afford a harem.”

Gordon did not defend himself any more than Ruby had when her landlady asked her to leave.

Monday noon, before she left for work, the landlady knocked on her door and when Ruby failed to answer she let herself in with a passkey.

Ruby was sitting on the edge of the bed in her slip, doubled over as if she had a cramp.

“What’s the matter, girl? You sick or something?”

“No.”

“You found a place yet?”

“No. I haven’t had much chance to look.”

“Just so’s you’re out by Thursday. This is the best room in the house and I want—”

“It’s ugly,” Ruby said, without raising her head. “It’s the ugliest room in the world.”

“Mind your tongue or I’ll kick you out right now.”

“My rent’s paid.”

“Girls like you, there’s a place for them and it’s not in any respectable home like this one.”

When the landlady had gone, Ruby got up and opened the closet door. The red fox fur was lying on the shelf, its glass eyes bright as jewels. Her aunt wanted the fur back; she’d written two letters about it, stating that she wanted it to wear at the wedding of a relative of hers. Though Ruby didn’t actually need the fur, she was reluctant to send it back because it reminded her of Gordon and the first night she had arrived in town — it was a symbol of the happy future she had imagined then. To relinquish the fox fur now would be an admission of failure and an acknowledgment that the happy future had already come and gone. She still loved Gordon but not in the pure distilled sense she had at first. Some of the pollutions of circumstance had seeped in, the squalor of her life, the room she’d lived in, the eternal smell of grease in Mr. Gomez’s café, the endless cups of bitter coffee, the endless waiting, the hope that had sickened but refused to die. If she sent the fox fur back she might as well go with it, go home, and never see Gordon again. But at the thought of a world without Gordon her heart contracted in a spasm of fear. She stood for a long time in the dark little clothes closet pressing her face against the red fox and wondering what she could do or say or become to make Gordon love her again.

On Wednesday when she went to work she called Gordon from the pay phone behind the wharf warehouse. He answered the phone himself.

“Dr. Foster’s office.”

“Hello, Gordon?”

“Hello.”

“Is there anybody there? Can you talk?”

“There’s no one here.”

“Why haven’t I seen you? Is there anything the matter, Gordon?”

“I couldn’t get away,” Gordon said wearily. “Ever since the business about the fifty-dollar check, the assumption is that I’m an insane gambler and not to be trusted even to go for a walk alone.”

“You sound so bitter.”

“I don’t mean to. Are you all right, Ruby?”

“Naturally.”

“Did you find a place to move to?”

“Not yet. When will I see you, Gordon?”

“God knows. When I can think up a new lie, I guess.”

“I’ll be waiting tonight after I get through work.”

“No, don’t. I can’t — I can’t stand the thought of you just sitting there in that place waiting for me. You don’t understand — I feel as if I’ve got to be there and yet I can’t get there. It tears me apart, I can’t tell you — I—”

“I won’t wait if you don’t want me to,” Ruby said quickly.

“Do you understand? Just for one night I want to feel that I don’t have to be two places at once, that no one’s expecting anything of me. I know, I guess this sounds childish, but just for this one night I’ve got to be a free agent. Don’t you ever feel like that, Ruby?”

“No. I don’t want to be a free agent. I like to wait for you, even if you don’t come. What else would I do if I didn’t wait for you?”

She hung up, and for a minute she sat staring listlessly into the round black mouth of the telephone. What else would. I do if I didn’t wait for Gordon?

That night after work she walked to the edge of the wharf and stood with her forearms resting on the rail, watching the lights of the town. The lights flickered halfway up the mountain so that the town seemed to be pinned to the side of the mountain with stars. On the wharf the lights were going out one by one. Everyone was leaving, except the customers in the bar. The kitchen was closed, and the waitresses and the kitchen help were departing, in twos and threes. They walked quickly, on the balls of their feet so their heels wouldn’t catch in the gaps between the planks. They were all anxious to get back on the dry land since it was common talk that the wharf was heading for disintegration and no one was doing anything to stop it. Occasionally some haphazard repair work was done and a few of the rotting piles were replaced, but this did not mitigate the sense of imminent doom among the people who worked at the Beachcomber. This feeling was nurtured by the cashier, a woman called Virginia, who had escaped certain death for five years now, six nights a week. To newcomers like Ruby, Virginia was careful to point out that the wharf was nearly eighty years old, and aside from the natural deterioration of the years there was also the strong possibility of a bad storm or a tidal wave.

“Mark my words,” Virginia said. “One of these days we’ll all find ourselves in the ocean hanging onto anything that floats. And you know what I’m going to do then? I’m going to sue them! I’m going to sue the whole damn bunch of them, the owners of the wharf and the city that grants the franchise and Anderson and his outfit, and when I collect I’m going to retire, build a house in the middle of the desert and live the life of Riley. Maybe we could all sue them and all of us retire.”

The hired help of the Beachcomber were drawn together, by Virginia’s enthusiasm, into a common dread and a common dream. The life of Riley appealed to them, and those among them who couldn’t swim found themselves eyeing the furnishings of the Beachcomber with the quality of buoyancy in mind.

When Virginia saw Ruby leaning against the railing she paused a moment to proffer advice. She reminded Ruby that the railing was nearly eighty years old, that it was quite a drop into the sea, and the water was cold and deep. Moreover if Ruby drowned she couldn’t even sue anybody, being dead.

Having survived one more day, Virginia sped back to land.

Ruby leaned her full weight on the railing. I wouldn’t care, she thought. I wouldn’t care about drowning except I wouldn’t like the water to be very cold. Gordon might be sorry for a while but he’d be glad too. He wouldn’t have to think or worry about me any more, he wouldn’t have to feel obliged to me all the time. It would be a relief to him if I died.

She began walking slowly toward shore. She wondered which of the lights of the town belonged to Gordon and what he was doing. Reading? Or perhaps he was already asleep? Poor Gordon. She hadn’t meant to cause him so much trouble. Everything had seemed very harmless and right to her in the beginning. All she wanted was to be in the same town as Gordon and to see him now and then. It wasn’t a great deal to ask for, but she hadn’t foreseen how even this much might affect Gordon’s life. Instead of making him happy she had only made him despise himself, and her too. There was no way that she could give back to Gordon his dignity and self-respect. Nothing could dissolve the feeling of degradation that Gordon had had the night he dampened his hair under the tap in the public lavatory. He had told her about it, and Ruby understood his rage and humiliation and guilt. He had said, “I can’t stand it,” and she believed now that this was true. Gordon was destroying himself and she was the instrument of destruction.

She groped blindly toward the lights of the town, wishing the wharf would rot away under her feet. She seemed to feel it actually moving, not rolling gently with the swell of the water, but throbbing with quick shivers like an old man with palsy. The headlights of a car beamed suddenly behind her. She stepped aside, and as the car passed her, the planks of the wharf rattled and shuddered. She began to run, as fast as she could, toward the shore.

When she reached the boulevard the car was parked along the curb waiting for her. She recognized Mr. Anderson at the wheel but she pretended she didn’t see him.

He called after her, “Hop in and I’ll give you a lift home.”

She stopped, shaking her head. “No, no thanks.”

“Might as well.”

“It’s such a nice night, I don’t mind walking.”

“You look tired.” He opened the front door of the car. “Come on, get in.”

She got in, holding the fox fur tight around her throat.

“You don’t have to act so scared,” George said. “I assure you I’m pretty tired myself.” He was smiling, but there was a note of irritation in his voice. “I’m going to have a beer and a steak sandwich. If you want to come with me, fine. If you don’t, I’ll take you home first.”

“I’ll — just get out any place and walk home.”

“That suits me.” He started the car and headed up Main Street. “You’re a funny girl. I can’t make you out.”

She said nothing. She was not interested in Mr. Anderson’s opinion of her. She hardly considered him a human being, he was so remote from her thoughts.

“I’m sorry I had to speak a little rough to you about that bar check,” George said. “But I’m in business, and if I want to stay in business I have to shoot off my mouth once in a while.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“Good.”

“I’ll get off at the next corner, if that’s all right with you.”

“Well, it isn’t, but there’s not much I can do about it, is there?”

At the next corner he stopped the car. He leaned across her to open the door. She shrank back against the seat to avoid his touch.

George said dryly, “Is there something the matter with me or is there something the matter with you? You’re not married or anything, are you?”

“No.”

“I’m not, either. I was, but I’m not any more. Won’t you let me take you out sometime?”

“I really don’t care much about going out.”

“That’s that, then.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“You’re welcome.”

As soon as he drove off, she went straight to Mr. Gomez’s café. She sat there until closing time, drinking coffee. She kept her eye on the door, out of habit. Gordon didn’t even know she’d be waiting, so there wasn’t the slightest hope that he would come. But she got a certain bitter satisfaction in watching the door anyway, facing the hopelessness.

She sat there for an hour and a half, seeing quite clearly that there was no future for her and Gordon, and there was no easy way out. The wharf would not rot under her feet, no tidal wave would engulf her, no storm would carry her out to sea.

During the week she sent the fox fur back to her aunt, parcel post, and she let George drive her home two nights in a row. He assumed that she was becoming more friendly toward him and Ruby didn’t bother to correct him. She was slipping back into her old habits of evasiveness. It was hardly worthwhile to tell the truth to anyone or explain anything. Let Mr. Anderson assume whatever he wanted to assume, it didn’t matter.

On Thursday night she met Gordon at the café for the last time. She arrived full of enthusiasm about the new job Mr. Anderson had promised her. A new job meant a new life, new hope, new chances.

Gordon was waiting for her when she got there. He looked out of place in the regular Thursday-night crowd. He was not watching the door for her arrival. He was watching the people at the bar in sober bewilderment, as if he too was aware of the difference between them and himself, but could not figure out what this difference was. These people were not drunk, yet the possibility of becoming drunk was already coloring their evening. They could cut loose if they liked, and they relaxed into quick friendships, easy laughter, loose wallets. The regulars at the café formed a kind of club for the kind of people for whom ordinary clubs were impossible. They were Mr. Gomez’s Rotarian Kiwanis of the Masonic Order of the Elks and Lions. They convened to exchange slaps on the back, stories, political arguments, gossip and news of absentee members, and to mitigate their loneliness.

Gordon, watching them, wished that he could walk over and join the club, or that he could look forward to one night every week when he could relax and forget his responsibilities. One night, not to get drunk, but to sit up at the bar with the regulars and roll thirteenth-ace for the next quarter for the juke box. He felt like a wistful child, on the outside looking in, yet he knew quite well that what he was looking into was nothing that he could accept or enjoy. Gordon could never unlock his chains; they had been forged long before he met Elaine.

“Hello, Gordon.” Ruby sat down beside him. She had meant to blurt out her good news right away, but her throat felt clogged and furry and she spoke so softly he had to bend his head to hear her. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“I know.”

“I’ve missed you terribly. Have you missed me?”

“Yes.” He took her hand and held it. There was a desperate strength in his grip as if he knew that something valuable was slipping away from him and he was unable to stop it, unable even to assess its value.

“I missed you,” he said, “but I didn’t want to see you. I had to reason things out and give you a chance to do the same.”

“I didn’t want a chance to reason things out. Everything I’ve done is unreasonable if you look at it that way.”

“No, wait, Ruby. I tried — I tried to figure out a way where we’d all come out all right, you and Elaine and I and the kids.” He drew in his breath painfully. “And there isn’t any way. We all have to suffer for my selfishness.”

“We haven’t done anything so terrible. Why should you let your conscience bother you like this? Elaine isn’t hurt.”

“She is, and so are my children, and me, and you most of all, Ruby. What have you gotten out of all this except grief?”

“I don’t think of that, Gordon. I love you. I’ve told you that so often and you never understand it, do you?”

“Understand it? No, I don’t. I’ve tried to figure that out, too. I can’t understand why you should love me, I don’t know what love is. I only know it needs certain things in order to survive. It can’t grow like a mushroom in a pile of dirt in the cellar.”

She got up. Her head felt light and empty. “You shouldn’t have said that, Gordon. You’re right but you shouldn’t have said it. It wasn’t a very nice thing to say. You hurt me. You hurt me, Gordon.”

She walked toward the front door. Her eyes were dazed and her mouth still hung open a little in terrible surprise.

7

Mr. Escobar arrived for work on Saturday morning. He steered his bicycle with his right hand, and with his left he balanced over his shoulder his own tools, a rake, a spading fork, a hedge clipper and a shovel as polished and sharp as a carving knife. In his bicycle basket he carried an oiled rag, a small wooden box which he used to trap gophers, a bottle of Pepsi-Cola, and three bologna on rye sandwiches moistened with cold beans.

He drove up Mrs. Anderson’s lane and parked his bicycle in the garage. A small black and white dog came bouncing across the yard. When Escobar opened the gate the dog danced wildly around his legs and finally flung itself on his heavy boots, stomach up. Escobar leaned down and rubbed its stomach. The friendly dog was a good omen. Only friendly people kept friendly dogs.

“Little fellow,” Escobar said. “Hello, pretty little fellow.”

Wendy got up and shook herself. Then she started to explore with her nose every inch of his boots. Escobar cleaned his boots almost daily but they never quite lost the smell of fertilizer. Sometimes Lucia, his wife, complained of this. She was a city girl, born and raised in San Diego, and she considered manure (even steer manure swept off cement floors) as rather coarse and unpleasant. When Escobar tried to explain to her that manure was sometimes necessary as food for plants, Lucia wasn’t quite convinced. She kept two potted geraniums on the windowsill in the kitchen and they got along nicely without fertilizer, only a little water now and then.

The boots moved across the yard and Wendy followed them, sniffing, and yelping in frustration when they wouldn’t stand still.

Ruth came to the screen door. “Be quiet, Wendy.”

“He is a pretty little fellow,” Escobar said.

“It’s a she. A girl. Her name’s Wendy.”

“She’s a pretty little fellow.”

“She’s only a pup, eight months old. Naturally” — Ruth’s laugh came through the door, sharp and defensive — “naturally she’s not a thoroughbred.”

Escobar nodded cautiously. He was not certain what a thoroughbred dog was, since he had always connected the word with horses. He could not see Ruth clearly through the screen door, but he didn’t like her sound, and in spite of the omen of the friendly dog, Escobar was uneasy. He hoped the woman would stay on the other side of the screen door.

“Mrs. Anderson’s gone to work,” Ruth said. “I’m her cousin. I’ll be here all morning if you want to consult me.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Mrs. Anderson said just to start in. The tools are in the garage. I noticed, I happened to be looking out the window, and I noticed you brought some extra ones.”

He nodded again and began to back away from the porch. The dog followed him and Ruth called her back.

“Wendy, come here.”

“Go on, little fellow,” Escobar said, waving his hand toward the house. “Go on.”

The dog paused and Ruth said, “Come and get your goody. Here’s your goody. Come on.”

She opened the door and the dog streaked into the house. Escobar had a momentary glimpse of her before she closed the door again. She was an old lady with white hair.

Ruth fed Wendy the rest of the scrambled eggs from breakfast, bit by bit, and as she fed her she talked. This was Ruth’s hour — two of them had gone to work, and the other one was still in bed — and she intended to spend it as she usually did. But with the Mexican out in the yard, she felt self-conscious, as if he might be eavesdropping. He couldn’t hear anything, of course, since she talked in whispers to avoid waking Josephine, but still he was there, and the words she used to the dog were a little different from usual.

“There, my pretty, there’s your goody. What a glutton you are. What a fat little glutton. And the manners! Sniffing people like that, my goodness, what bad manners!”

He probably smells, Ruth thought. He looked clean enough but they all smelled under the surface. Their dark skins didn’t show the dirt and they were too lazy to wash if it wasn’t necessary. Bone-lazy. She would have to supervise him and see that he didn’t cheat Hazel out of her hard-earned money by standing around watering things instead of really working, or by taking too much time to eat his lunch. Hazel was too easy on other people and too easy on herself as well.

You had to watch these Mexicans very carefully. They were sly. They put on a great show of innocence and stupidity but Ruth saw through that clearly enough. She had had several of them in her fifth-grade class before she lost her job, and one of them in particular was very sly. He had curly black hair and brown eyes like an angel’s, but Ruth knew that the instant she turned her back the Mexican boy did something. What this something was or how he did it, she never knew, but she knew it was done. The boy terrified her and she reported him to the principal at least once a week. “He does something, Mr. Jamieson, I swear it, I feeI it!” “I think you need a rest, Miss Kane.”

That had been two years ago, but she still thought of the Mexican boy, she thought of his smooth innocent forehead and the dark angel’s eyes. In the middle of the night she tried and tried to figure out what he had done, until desperation seized her and she had to cram her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming and waking Hazel. The boy had become a symbol of fascinating, exciting, evil things she dared not name.

You need a rest, Miss Kane.

To: The Superintendent of Schools, Ernest Colfax, A.M.

From: Percy Hoag, M.D.

I advise an immediate medical leave of absence for Miss Ruth Kane, such leave to extend for an indefinite period of time.

She was only thirty-six, but her hair was white and her skin and eyes were pale as if she had been bleeding internally for years.

Josephine called from the bedroom, “Ruth.”

“Coming.”

She went through the dining room, drying her hands on her apron, and opened the door of Josephine’s bedroom.

“Oh dear,” Josephine said. “I woke up — what time is it?”

“Nine.”

“Oh dear.”

“How do you feel?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t moved yet.” She hadn’t moved at all during the night. She’d gone to sleep on her back with her head propped on two pillows, and now she was awake in the same position, and not a strand of her long brown hair was out of place. Nearly every night Josephine slept like this, quietly and without dreams, and when she woke up she lay without moving for a long time, remote and self-contained. During the day she brooded or wept, she had placid daydreams or she quarreled, she had headaches and spells of overwhelming fear. But at night she entered another world, and emerging from it in the morning she was rejuvenated. Her face was untroubled, her eyes clear and lustrous, and her skin seemed to glow. It was as if she drew nourishment, during sleep, from a part of her mind or body that she didn’t know existed.

“Something woke me,” Josephine said. “A noise. There, you hear it?”

They listened and heard just outside the window the spasmodic sounds of Escobar’s shovel. The faint shriek as it cut the ground, and the smack as Escobar spanked each clod of earth to free the roots of the weeds.

“That’s the Mexican,” Ruth said.

“So early.”

“Do you want a graham cracker before you get out of bed?”

“No, no, I think—” Josephine moved her head experimentally. “No. Is Harold—? Of course. Oh dear. I guess I’ll get up. It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Harold’s off this afternoon. It’s nice having Harold around. The days—” She helped herself up with her elbows — “awfully long sometimes. The waiting — hand me my corset, will you? — four months yet, oh dear.”

She stood up and began lacing up the maternity corset, not too tight, just tight enough to give her some support. She was small-boned and slender, and her condition was becoming much too noticeable.

“I wish I was taller,” she said. “If you’re tall you can carry things off. Like clothes.”

Ruth was making the bed. When Josephine paused between sentences Ruth could hear the gentle shriek, smack, shriek, smack, of Escobar’s shovel. He’s working. Well, he’d better be. I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll see Hazel doesn’t get cheated.

She went to the window and peered out through layers of mauve net curtains. He was only two feet away from her. He had rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt and opened the collar. He wore a yellow undershirt. Sweat glistened on his forehead and in the crooks of his elbows, and his hair was a cap of wet black silk. He was breathing through his mouth. She could see part of his lower front teeth, and they were very white, almost as if he’d cleaned them.

He looked up suddenly and his eyes pierced the mauve net curtains like needles. She stepped back with a shock, feeling the needles in her breasts and her stomach. Her insides curled up and then expanded, disintegrated, dissolved into fluid. I feel quite faint. It’s the heat. It’s going to be a hot day.

“It’s going to be quite a hot day,” she said.

“Oh, I hope not,” Josephine said. “I feel the heat so. Remember? — I never used to mind the heat— Remember? — I never even sweated. And now — it’s the extra weight, don’t you think? Harold says I should sweat if I’m hot. Otherwise the poison stays in my system.”

Josephine said the same things nearly every morning. Her mind revolved in ever-decreasing circles as her body became larger. I feel, how do I feel? Have I a headache? I wish I was taller. The heat bothers me. Harold says. Harold, Harold.

Always she referred to Harold. No matter how small the circle got, Harold was right there in the middle of it, sometimes sliding along smoothly and sometimes getting bounced and jostled and bruised beyond all recognition.

Harold was Josephine’s second husband. Her first had been a silent irascible man, a veterinary doctor named Bener. Though he kept no pets of his own, Bener had a great deal of patience with the animals he boarded and treated. He had none at all with Josephine, and it was rather a relief to both of them when he died quietly one night, of coronary thrombosis, leaving all his money to his mother and his brother Jack. Josephine later received some of it under the Community Property Law. She spent it on clothes and then she married Harold.

She married Harold partly because he was handsome and partly because he was the exact opposite of Bener. In their three years together Harold had never spoken to her sharply, and even lately, when she wept or abused him and all men, including God, Harold remained tender and took the abuse as being well deserved.

Harold was no ball of fire, but he was a good deal sharper than most people thought. He showed up badly in front of Hazel (his older sister) and Ruth (his conscience). In their presence he was always making inconsequential remarks, holding his hand up to his mouth as he spoke, as if in apology. Alone with Josephine he was different and talked quite freely about the government and the Teamsters Union, which had nice new headquarters downtown with a neon sign, and the atom bomb, which something would have to be done about, no matter if the baby turned out to be a boy or a girl.

The others might underestimate Harold, mistaking his good nature for laziness, and his dreaminess for impracticality, but Josephine knew better. Make no mistake, Harold thought great thoughts as he drove his truck.

Josephine took her toothbrush and tube of toothpaste from her bureau drawer and carried them into the bathroom. She squeezed a quarter of an inch of paste onto her brush and thought, by the time this tube is finished, I’ll know. I’ll be dead or the baby will be dead or we’ll both be alive and all right and Harold will be a father. By the time—

She had an impulse to press the tube and squeeze out the future inch by inch, an inch for each day, squeeze out the time, a long white fragile ribbon of toothpaste.

She replaced the cap, soberly. It was a brand-new tube, giant size, eighty-nine cents, and it would last a long, long time.

“—for breakfast?” Ruth’s voice floated into the turning pool of her thoughts.

“Oh. Anything. I’m not very hungry. Shredded wheat, maybe.”

“Hot or cold?”

“Cold. It’s going to be a hot day.” She was sweating already. The poison was seeping out of her system through her pores, underneath the maternity corset and the wraparound skirt and flowered smock. “No, I think I’ll take it hot, don’t you think so, Ruth?”

“I don’t know, it depends on how you feel.”

“Oh, cold then. It doesn’t matter. Anything.”

She followed Ruth into the kitchen like a sheep, and sat down heavily at the table.

“It’s such a nice day,” she said. “We should all do something, go down to the beach.”

“We can’t,” Ruth said sharply. “Not with the Mexican here. He’d probably go to sleep if he thought no one was watching him.”

Josephine smiled pensively. “Mexican babies are cute.”

“The very small ones.”

“And Chinese babies. I saw a Chinese baby in a buggy outside the Safeway yesterday. The way it looked at me! So knowing. It seems a shame — to grow up, I mean. Ruth, I know what we could do this afternoon. We could all go down to the harbor and see George. Maybe he’d lend us his sailboat, Harold’s crazy about boats.”

“I don’t know that it’d be good for you, all that up and down motion.”

“I don’t think it would hurt.”

“Anyway, you know my feelings on the subject of George.” Ruth let her feelings about George show on her face. They pulled down the muscles around her mouth and shriveled her eyes. “It’s my opinion that when you divorce a man you ought to stay divorced from him and not go phoning him and asking him over all the time the way Hazel does.”

“She feels sorry for him. He gets lonesome.”

“Even so. It’s a matter of taste. I have nothing against George, and I have nothing against Hazel, but if they want to see each other they should never have gotten divorced. It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Oh well. It doesn’t matter.” Josephine sighed imperceptibly. It was hard to talk to Ruth without coming eventually on something which was a matter of principle or good taste. Divorce, George, drunkenness, Mexicans, horse racing, leaving dirty dishes overnight, teenaged girls who giggled, motor scooters, two-piece bathing suits, dyed hair, chewing gum, not airing blankets every week and the School Board.

It was becoming increasingly difficult for Josephine to excuse Ruth, but each time she did it anyway.

“I bet the ocean looks nice today,” she said.

“The rest of you can go down if you want to. There’s nothing to stop you.”

“There’s nothing to stop you either.”

“I want to take the curtains down and wash them. Besides—” She left the word hanging in the air, radiating implications. Besides, there was the Mexican, he couldn’t be left alone to be lazy. And besides, she didn’t like the sea. Its soft inexorable voice spoke of violence and eternity. When she went out onto the pier where George worked, she felt the water beneath her and the water on each side of her and she always had the wild idea that the sky itself was part of the ocean and ready to drop down on her and slowly and gently drown her. Watching the sea gave her a feeling of expansion and disintegration inside her.

“Besides,” she said after a time, “there’s too much to be done around the house.”

She rose briskly, unable to resist her own bait. Something would have to be done about something, and everything about everything, and right now. Like a professional soldier ready to take up arms against anyone, for any reason, she marched out into the back yard on the offensive.

Escobar was on his knees digging out a root of wild morning glory with a knife. He looked up at her, squinting.

“Those are flowers,” Ruth said. “What are you digging them up for?”

“The lady of the house said on the phone to plant gardenias on this side.”

“Gardenias.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Gardenias. You’d think she was made of money. How much — how much do they cost?”

“For the one-gallon size, maybe about five dollars.”

“How many did she tell you to plant?”

“Six. She likes the smell, she said, ma’am.”

“Six, That’s thirty dollars. She must be out of her mind.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You mustn’t do it, until I get a chance to talk to her... Geraniums are plenty good enough. Some people get ideas beyond their pocketbooks. Some people think money grows on trees.” She let out a sudden harsh laugh. “For you it does. That’s funny. For you money grows on trees.”

A spot of bright pink appeared in the center of her throat, as if someone had, with malicious accuracy, aimed a spoonful of paint at her. Knowing the spot was there, she covered it with her hand while Escobar wiped off his knife on his brand-new levis. His wife had told him to wear his old ones and he was sorry now that he hadn’t; it was a dirty job.

At noon, sitting with his back propped against the wall of the house, he ate his sandwiches and drank the warm Pepsi-Cola. Then he washed his face with the hose and dried it with his bandana.

A pile of weeds burned slowly in the yard. There was no open flame but the pile was diminishing, eaten away at the core, and the smoke rose thin and straight into the windless sky.

When Hazel came home after doing the weekend shopping she noticed with satisfaction that the eugenia hedge had been clipped, the yard raked, and the orange tree pruned, but Escobar was nowhere in sight.

She opened the screen door and went inside.

“Ruth,” she called. “Hey, Ruth! Where’s the Mexican gone?”

A gentle moan slid through the house. It seemed to come from nowhere and to mean nothing, except that somewhere, in any of the six rooms, something was still half-alive.

“Ruth, where are you?”

A second sound, louder and more definite than the first. Hazel tracked it down to the locked door of the bathroom.

“Anything the matter, Ruth?”

“No.”

“Are you crying?”

“No.”

“What on earth are you crying about?”

“No, no—”

On the other side of the locked door, Ruth leaned her head against the medicine chest over the wash basin. The tap was turned on, and the tears slid down her cheeks and dripped off her chin to mingle with the tap water.

Ruth opened her eyes. She saw Hazel’s toothbrush and her own, blurred and magnified by tears, and the blotches of tooth powder on the mirror, and the smudge of fingers around the catch of the medicine chest. I really must wipe things off, I must wipe—

“Ruth, are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“I thought—”

“I’m all right.”

And she was. She was not crying. From some inner reservoir filled to capacity the overflow dribbled out. She did not weep passionately and convulsively as Josephine had been doing lately. Ruth’s tears were without cause, without meaning.

I am not crying. It’s my eyes, they get so dry sometimes. They feel so small and shriveled, they need moisture. This is desert country, Harold, and don’t you forget it. The sun pours down, day after day. My eyes get dry and dusty.

“I bought a couple of pounds of ground round,” Hazel said. “We can have meat loaf. Then if there’s any left over we can make some sandwiches tonight in case Mr. Cooke drops in.”

“All right.”

Meat loaf. The oven would be on. The hot dry air would seep out of its cracks and the hot dry air would pour in the windows from outside. Her eyeballs would feel crisp and hard, like little dried peas.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Ruth said. “I’m bathing my eyes, they felt gritty.”

Everything in the house was gritty, though she dusted every day. There was a school playground across the street, and the faintest breeze swept up the dust and wafted it into the neighboring houses. The children didn’t seem to mind the dust. Ruth watched them often from the windows of the living room. Some of the younger ones flung themselves boisterously into the dirt as if it were clean white snow. They sat in it, they threw it at each other, they scooped it up in their hands, they ate it mixed with ice cream, bubble gum, lollipops and peanut butter sandwiches.

It was August now and the children were not in classes, but they arrived at the playground early in the morning to play. The school, built to resist earthquakes, was a one-story L-shaped structure with all the classrooms opening on to an outside corridor. This corridor was asphalt, ideal for roller skating, and the long summer days echoed with the steady whirr of roller skates punctuated by sharp rhythmic clacking as the wheels slid over the cracks in the pavement. The playground was to Ruth, at first, an interminable chaos of noise which tore at her ears in a merciless, meaningless way. But she had gradually learned to distinguish the sounds and finally to identify them and speculate about them. The teeter-totter squeaked and banged, and Ruth could tell, from listening to the rhythm of the bang-squeak-bang, whether the children on the teeter-totter were the same size or not. If the rhythm was uneven Ruth wondered whether she should go over to the playground and tell the heavier child to sit further toward the center of the teeter-totter, but she never went.

The teeter banged, the swings creaked, the basketballs plopped, wide of the net, the flying rings gave off a brassy clang, and the children communicated naturally with each other by shouts and screams. A hundred times a day the derisive chant of I’m-the-king-of-the-castle filled the air. The tune was always the same, no matter how the words varied: Can’t catch a flea... Billy’s got a girlfriend... Brown Brown went to town, with his britches upside down... Red red wet the bed wipe it up with gingerbread... Lewis is a stinker... Helen is a tattletale... Rita is a garlic face...

Every time the chant rose, Ruth’s heart cringed and she thought, cruel, children are cruel, I must not let it bother me. I must ignore everything.

Miss Kane is a Cross Teacher — written in chalk on the sidewalk.

Miss Kan madam My son Manuel on his raport says poor reeder Home Manuel reeds good or else—

Dear teacher please excuse Annie from being absent as she had to go to the circus. And oblige, Mrs. Mendel.

Dear Miss Kane: I must say I was extremely surprised when Lillian Mae told me she was not chosen for the Christmas Pageant. Lillian Mae has been taking private dancing lessons for a whole year and her teacher says she is as graceful as a bird. I certainly am mystified as to why Lillian Mae was not chosen for the Pageant. Your truly, Katherine C. Robinson, (Mrs. John H. Robinson, Jr.)

Miss Kane Chews Nails.

Dear Miss Kane: Would you drop into my office tomorrow at four, as there are several matters, pertaining to your grade, which must be discussed.

I think you need a rest, Miss Kane.

Miss Kane splashed water into her eyes and the grit from the playground and the dust raised by the cruel children plunged down the drain.

She emerged from the bathroom, red-eyed and composed.

Hazel was sitting on the edge of her bed. She had her shoes off and she was rubbing her instep where the pump had cut into the skin. The dog, Wendy, had picked up one of the discarded pumps and retired under the bed to chew at the heel. With perseverance and lack of human interference, she could, within an hour, demolish the heel entirely, grinding the lift off with her molars and then peeling the leather away bit by bit with her tiny sharp front teeth.

“She’s got your shoe,” Ruth said.

“Take it away from her, will you?”

Ruth got down on her knees and pulled up the bedspread. “You bad dog. Bring it here.”

“You were so crying,” Hazel said.

“Don’t be silly. Bring it here, Wendy.”

“You never admit anything. Maybe if you did, well, people might be able to help you.”

Ruth raised her brows exaggeratedly, repudiating the idea that she was in a position where people could help her. The dog squeezed out from under the bed, wagging her tail to indicate that the whole thing had been an accident. She pressed against Ruth’s apron, burrowing her nose in the pocket.

Ruth laughed. “There, she didn’t mean it. Look, Hazel, she’s apologizing, did you ever see the like? There, there, her mother knows she didn’t mean it.”

“The hell she didn’t,” Hazel said.

“Anyway, I don’t believe in burdening other people with my troubles, even if I had any.”

She rose to her feet, and the dog quietly and with great caution returned to the shoe under the bed.

“I am tired,” Ruth said, “and hot. That’s all. My goodness, when I see those children over there playing so hard all day and getting so dirty... It’s a wonder their mothers don’t look after them.” She went to the front window of the bedroom. Four o’clock, the peak of the day, when the children were dirtiest and noisiest. Their shouts were shriller and their movements had a frenzied quality, as if they knew their hours of play were numbered and they must crowd everything they could into every minute that was left.

“Some people should never have children.”

“Tell it to God,” Hazel said, rubbing her foot, “not to me.”

“I had one little girl in my class... It was almost funny how dirty she was, and without realizing it. I often had to wash her ears, they were so dirty you’d wonder how she could hear out of them. She had beautiful hair, that red-gold color, and naturally wavy. I bought her a little comb to keep in her desk, and whenever she washed her own ears and face I gave her a penny.”

My goodness, how nice you look this morning, Margaret. Here’s your penny.

Thank you, Miss Kane.

Margaret never used the comb or the pennies. She hoarded them in a corner of her desk. On Valentine’s Day Miss Kane received a paper penny valentine, “To a Cross Patch Teacher,” bearing the picture of an old witch in spectacles riding a yard ruler. When Miss Kane took the valentine out of the valentine box, the other children watched in silence while Margaret sat at her desk, snickering behind her hand.

Thank you for the valentine, Margaret.

I didn’t send you no valentine, Miss Kane.

Any valentine.

I didn’t send you any valentine.

I was under the impression, Margaret, that you did.

I wouldn’t have no money to buy one.

Any money.

I wouldn’t have any money to buy one.

“I bought her a little comb,” Ruth repeated. “She was an odd child, I could never get close to her.”

“You took your job too seriously.”

“I hoped, I wanted to give her some pride in herself. It was impossible, I see now. The home factor is so much stronger than the school factor. I couldn’t make up for poverty and neglect and brutality. Years and years—”

The years were numbered, like the hours of the children’s play, and into the last one she had crammed frenzied activity. The last year brought the angel-eyed Mexican boy, Manuel, who never talked.

Thank you, Lucy. And now it’s Manuel’s turn to read. Begin at the top of page 79, Manuel.

Manuel sat mute, unmoving.

Manuel, it’s your turn. Now see if you know what the first word is. It’s a hard one.

Manuel looked weary and innocent while the children giggled, and whispers fluttered in the air like invisible moths.

Is there anybody who can help Manuel with the first word? Janie? That’s right — gradually. There now, Manuel, you have the first word, gradually, can you go on from there?

The book lay unopened on Manuel’s desk.

Home Manuel reeds good or else—

Manuel didn’t play with the other children. As soon as the recess bell rang he dashed across the school yard and swung himself up to the top bars of the jungle gym. There he sat all during recess, with his legs twined around the bars and a faint smile on his face, as if he enjoyed the sensation of being high up, above the other children.

Once he had, without being seen, shinnied up the trunk of the old pepper tree beside the swings, and hidden himself in the feathery leaves. When the time came to return to class Manuel remained in the tree, plucking the pepper berries one by one and letting them slide out of his hand to the ground. He counted them in a whisper — “thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight” — and as they bounced and rolled in the dirt like tiny marbles, Manuel followed each one with his eyes, dreamily. He was Dick Tracy and the berries were drops of his life’s blood. He was Superman and the berries were atom bombs. He was Manuel and Miss Kane was calling him. He heard her calling him and he watched her looking for him, but he made no move to get out of the tree. He would have liked to stay there forever shedding his blood and dropping his bombs, high up above the other children.

Miss Kane knew that Manuel liked to climb, and so she looked first on the roof of the Boy Scout shack, and then on the roof of the kindergarten sandpile. Re-crossing the yard she saw the falling berries, and looking up into the pepper tree she saw Manuel. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be asleep, entwined gracefully among the boughs. In sleep his right hand dropped the berries, one by one, and the delicate leaves slid over his wrist like lace. He looked so beautiful, so innocent, that she couldn’t say the ordinary words: You know the rules about climbing that tree, Manuel... The bell rang some time ago... The principal wouldn’t like... The bell rang...

“It’s time to come to class,” she said quietly.

Manuel slid down the trunk of the tree and followed her across the yard.

She never again asked him to read, but one afternoon she kept him in and tried to talk to him and to make him talk to her. She tried too hard and Manuel was puzzled and a little contemptuous. When he was gone Miss Kane put her head down on her desk and cried because she had failed. All her failures came back to her and gathered like cysts inside her head and her breasts and her throat. Her tears did not dissolve these cysts, but they altered their substance. The benign I have failed became the malignant They have failed me, and the Mexican boy, Manuel, became the crux and the symbol of this change.

When the janitor came in to sweep the room and collect the waste baskets he found Miss Kane sitting behind her desk, swollen-eyed, reckless.

“As you can see, I’ve been crying, Mr. Thursten. No, don’t go away. It doesn’t matter. We all have our moments.” As she talked she scratched one spot on her head, near her left temple, over and over again. “I do my best. Everyone knows that. I’ve always done my best, without any help from anyone least of all from the ones I’m trying to help. There’s this one boy, Mr. Thursten. It was funny, he climbed the pepper tree, and you know he looked so odd up there, as if he belonged. I didn’t want to bring him down. Perhaps I ought to have left him. It’s difficult, difficult to make decisions all the time. Some of the African tribes live in tree houses to protect themselves from the wild animals.”

She saw Manuel in his tree house, surrounded by the yapping snarling faces of the little human animals. Manuel, I will help you. Manuel spat into the dirt.

Mr. Thursten shuffled up and down the aisles, pushing his brush ahead of him, gathering up the litter of the day. He knew Miss Kane was speaking but he didn’t hear her words. He was immune to noise and engrossed in his passion for cleaning up. All his aggressive and destructive instincts had been channelized into this one great passion. He loved to collect little piles of rubbish and thrust them savagely into the incinerator. At home he burned his mail as soon as he had read it. He was a bachelor, and did his own housework, and when he cooked his own meals he always washed and dried the dishes from one course before he began eating another course. After the meal he emptied the garbage on a newspaper, squeezing and compressing it into a small neat satisfying bundle. Nearly every day he hung all his blankets and his rugs on the clothesline and beat them into submission. He cleaned the mirrors and windows until they squeaked in protest, and he scrubbed his kitchen with chlorine water until the linoleum peeled and his hands were raw. Mr. Thursten was fortunate. His peculiarities accorded with his job and were misinterpreted as virtues.

“Mr. Thursten—”

The brush paused.

“Mr. Thursten, I wonder if — I feel quite giddy — is there, could you fetch me a glass of water?”

Mr. Thursten brought her some water in a paper cup. When she had finished the water, he took the cup and folded it over and over into a tight, tiny rectangle. Mr. Thursten took particular care of this rectangle. He put it into the incinerator separately, and as it snuffled and expired he had a nice loose feeling inside.

Mr. Thursten, Margaret, Manuel, they had all been a part of the last year. When the year ended Miss Kane ceased to exist. She became Ruth again, and it was Ruth who stood at the bedroom window looking out at the playground of another school, watching the anonymous children whose faces seemed so familiar.

“You took your job too seriously,” Hazel repeated.

Ruth turned from the window, wiping the palms of her hands on her apron. “I guess I’ll start the meat loaf.”

“You never admit anything. If you won’t tell people things they can’t help you.”

“My goodness, as if I—”

“Why were you in there bawling?”

“I tell you I wasn’t, Hazel.”

“Has it anything to do with the Mexican?”

“What—?” Ruth stopped, on the point of asking, what Mexican? She had been thinking of Manuel, but she realized at once that Hazel didn’t know about the boy in the pepper tree and that she must mean Mr. Escobar. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“I just wondered,” Hazel said carefully. “I just thought maybe he’d been rude to you or something. I mean, sometimes you get ideas in your head about certain people, you imagine things.”

“Oh?”

“Well, you do. And I just thought — oh well, skip it. Where’d he go?”

“He said he had to go home and get something; a sprayer. He says the eugenia hedge has some disease called scale.”

“It doesn’t look diseased to me.”

“He showed it to me himself. You know that part at the end where you thought the hedge was just dirty? It isn’t dirt at all. The sap has been sucked out. He showed me some of the things that do it. They’re like little bumps on the wood, hardly noticeable. He scraped some of them away with his thumbnail to show me. I told him, I said, why show me? I’m not the lady of the house, I just work here. And do you know what his answer was? He said he thought I’d be interested. Me, interested.” Ruth laughed, and color splashed across her cheeks. “I said—”

“Little bumps,” Hazel said bitterly. “Jesus Murphy, I thought we had everything, gophers, snails, sowbugs, ants, and now we got little bumps besides.”

“They can be sprayed.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with this damn place.”

“Neglect is the matter.”

“Or maybe it isn’t the place, maybe it’s just me. I attract things, that’s all there is to it. I’m like Millie, I’ve got a jinx.”

Ruth looked blank. She didn’t know Millie or the nature of her jinx. “He said if the hedge is sprayed now the other things in the yard won’t catch the disease. He says it’s very catching.”

Like measles, Escobar had said, scraping the little bumps away with this thumbnail while Ruth watched him with fastidious distaste. She did not want to be out in the garden with a Mexican laborer, and she experienced a sense of shock and unreality at finding herself there, and even more strongly, the feeling that a cruel fate had driven her there. I did not come, I was driven.

Persecuted by fate, she stood beside the eugenia hedge and watched Escobar’s thumb. It was thick and blunt, the nail heavy with dirt and every crack in the skin outlined as if in charcoal. The thumb moved, bent on destruction, but without hurry, without savagery.

Like measles, Escobar said.

She jerked her eyes away, she laughed nervously, without mirth, she put her hand in the pocket of her apron and shifted her weight to her other foot. She coughed to clear her throat, and when her throat was cleared she had nothing to say. The rays of the sun pelted her face and she thought of the dark house with the blinds drawn and she could not believe that she had left it to come out here. I was driven.

Still she couldn’t force herself to return to the house, and in the end it was Escobar who left. He said, “I have a hand spray at home. I will go and get it. It is not far.”

She moved with quick jerky steps toward the back door, her head ducked as if to avoid a blow.

Escobar wheeled his bicycle out of the garage. A bicycle was a delicate and expensive vehicle, and Escobar lavished great care on his. It was over four years old now, but there wasn’t a single dent in the mudguard or a nick in the red and green paint. Throughout the years he had equipped it with several pounds of gadgets. It had two headlights, one reflector (plain) and a larger one bearing the words “Watch My Speed!” On the handlebars there was a bell, a horn, a speedometer, a basket and a rabbit’s foot, and from the end of the carrier at the back dangled a skunk’s tail. The original seat was softened with a lamb’s wool cover, and between the seat and the cover a St. Christopher’s medal was hidden.

Escobar adjusted the pedals and swung his right leg over the bar. He rode away, moving his feet up and down in a proud, ponderous, dignified manner. The reflectors winked behind his back, “Watch My Speed!”

From the kitchen window Ruth had seen him pedaling down the street like a grave and happy child.

“It’s a jinx,” Hazel said. “We’re a pair, Millie and me. Where’s my other shoe?”

“I thought you had it.”

“I haven’t.”

“I thought you took it away from her.”

The shoe was located under the bed with the lift flapping loose from the heel, but the dog Wendy had disappeared.

“Jesus Murphy!”

“She didn’t mean it,” Ruth said anxiously. “It can be fixed. Look, it’s easy as pie to fix.” She held the lift in place. “All it needs is a nail or two. I’ll pay for it, naturally. I’m going over to the Fosters’ tonight to sit with the children, and I’ll have the money.”

“Oh nuts, forget it.”

“Very well.”

From outside came a rhythmic hissing sound. A pulse began to beat in Ruth’s temple and the spot of color reappeared at the base of her throat.

“The Mexican’s back,” she said.

She went out into the kitchen and stood at the screen door.

Escobar was spraying the orange tree. She could see his face, among the leaves. It was beautiful and innocent, like Manuel’s face looking down at her through the green feathers of the pepper tree.

Some of the African tribes live in tree houses to protect themselves from the wild animals.

I think you need a rest, Miss Kane.

8

Mrs. Freeman heard the click of the front door. She laid aside her pen and waited, with a pleasant feeling of alarm and anticipation. Doors were, in her opinion, one of the most interesting inventions of man. A closed door held a secret, on the other side there could be practically anyone: Robert returning from his travels, one of the girls coming in after an early movie, a stranger looking for another stranger, an old friend or a pen pal arriving unexpectedly. It could be a lunatic, an escaped convict, a man with a gun. Mrs. Freeman had had considerable mental practice handling these eventualities. To the convict, the lunatic, and the man with the gun, she would be very amiable; she would disarm them by kindness (food, conversation, hot coffee, and if worst came to worst, the bottle of rum she’d saved from last Christmas). Having allayed their suspicions, she would then maneuver them into the kitchen, lock the door very fast, run over to Mr. Hitchcock’s place next door and phone the police. Sometimes, when she was alone in the house as she was now, she thought of possible hitches in these plans. The man with the gun might shoot her before she had a chance to be amiable to him, the lunatic might be beyond understanding and the convict, with the police on his trail, might be in too much of a hurry to dally over food and drink. There was also the fact that Mr. Hitchcock’s telephone had recently been disconnected.

Mrs. Freeman was, on the whole, rather glad to see Ruby.

“You gave me a start,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “I confess, I’ve never gotten used to staying alone in the house. You never can tell. Look at all those sex murders down in L.A. Even a town like this, I bet you’d be surprised at the things that are going on. My advice to young girls, and I see a lot of them, running a place like this, my advice is to stay out of bars. Bars are the breeding place of crime, also they don’t wash the glasses properly, I’ve heard, just rinse them in cold water. By the way, that Mr. Anderson phoned for you. Wait a minute, he left a number for you to call. Here it is, 23664.”

Without answering, Ruby started up the stairs.

“Aren’t you going to call him?”

“No — no, I’m too tired.”

“Maybe it’s about the job he promised you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Freeman said. “Yon ought to care. Jobs don’t grow on trees. What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know.” She paused, leaning against the banister. “I don’t want to talk to him. He makes me feel crawly.”

“Crawly, for goodness sake. I thought he was such a nice man, clean-cut looking. Crawly. The way you girls talk, I don’t understand you.”

Ruby merely stared at her woodenly.

Mrs. Freeman said, offended, “It’s none of my business, but I can’t help taking an interest and when I see a nice-looking man obviously all gone on a girl — and what with the war and so many young men being killed, girls can’t afford to be too choosy.”

“I’m not looking for a young man.”

“Even so, you should be sensible. You can’t have too many irons in the fire.” Mrs. Freeman shook her head in sincere bewilderment. “Here is this man, putting himself out to get you a job and you won’t even call him, no, he makes you feel crawly, you put on an emotional display.”

Some of the bitter resentment Ruby felt against Gordon spilled over on Mrs. Freeman and George. “I know it’s none of your business, but I don’t like him and I don’t like the way he looks at me. Also he’s too fat and his face is too pink and shaved-looking. And I don’t like the way he talks to me as if I was a worm.”

“Even so,” Mrs. Freeman said helplessly. “Even so.”

She had no daughters of her own and so she had developed a proprietary interest in the young unmarried women who came to her house. Her chief concern was to get them married. In spite of her own experience, she still believed that marriage had curative qualities and that a bad husband was better than no husband at all. She was worried by the fact that most of the girls she knew were like Ruby. They had left their homes in search of romance, and overweight pink-faced men didn’t belong in their dreams.

Mrs. Freeman read the Vital Statistics in the paper every night and she was shocked by the number of divorces in the town. She blamed it partly on the town itself. People who saw it for the first time believed that they had reached the end of the rainbow, here between the violet mountains and the jeweled sea. And it was the end of the rainbow, Mrs. Freeman knew that; but she knew, too, how difficult it was to live there. The romantic postcard perfection of nature contrasted too sharply with the ordinary human existence. The stretches of beach, the parks, the bridle paths, the mountain trails — they were there, free for everybody, except the girls like Ruby who worked all week and washed and ironed their clothes on Sunday. Living beside a subway in Flatbush or in a small flat town in Kansas, they could have held on to their dreams of traveling some day to a tropical Eden. Now that they had reached Eden they were all the more discontented to find themselves leading the same old lives. The end of the rainbow was no longer around the corner; it was six miles north to the mountains and nineteen blocks south to the sea. Yet these blocks were more difficult to travel than three thousand miles across the country.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Freeman said, still with her air of helplessness. “Maybe it’s true about every place, but here it’s very true, people expect too much.”

“I expect nothing,” Ruby said.

“I remember once when I first came here years ago. It was in the spring and I was standing out in the yard at night. The acacia tree was in bloom and the moon was so bright that the shadows were as sharp as sun shadows and I could see the little yellow acacia blossoms like chenille. I picked a sprig and held it against my face, so soft, like a baby’s fingers. The sky was full of stars, and the air wasn’t just air, it was rich and thick and cold, I can’t describe it. There was a bird at the top of the tree making a funny little noise, a mockingbird perhaps. I had such an odd feeling, standing there, as if anything might happen in the midst of all this beauty, something wonderful. I saw Robert’s shadow against the kitchen blind, this very kitchen, and he looked as handsome as a god. Oh, the feeling I had.”

She paused, twisting the wedding ring round and round her finger.

“Well?” Ruby said.

“Well, then Robert flung open the kitchen window, and told me to come in, he was hungry and wanted a grilled-cheese sandwich.” She added, very earnestly, “I’m glad he did. It was a good lesson for me. Acacia doesn’t last long after it’s picked. I put it in water but the blossoms got smaller and smaller and finally they fell off.”

The doorbell pealed. Smoothing down her dress and adjusting her face into an expression of amiability, just in case, Mrs. Freeman answered the door.

She was agreeably surprised to see George, who was not too pink-faced or fat, merely a sturdy, healthy-looking man.

“She just came in,” Mrs. Freeman said. “Ruby, here’s Mr. Anderson.”

Ruby came down the stairs slowly.

“I left my number for you to call,” George said.

“I just got home.”

“I thought you might like to go for a drive or something.”

“It’s a nice evening,” Mrs. Freeman said. “And too late in the year for acacia.”

She returned to her letters.

“What’d she mean by that?” George said.

“I don’t know.”

“You look tired, Ruby.”

“You’re always telling me that.”

“Am I? I’m sorry. I can’t help paying attention to how you look. It’s getting to be a habit, I guess. Will you be warm enough in that suit?”

“It’s getting late—”

“You can’t turn me down all the time. Anyway, it’s Saturday night, and everybody celebrates on Saturday night.”

“What do they celebrate?” Ruby said dully.

“Anything.” He held the screen door open and she went out on the porch. “Are you going to be warm enough? Maybe you’d better get a coat.”

“No, I’ll be all right.”

He put his hand on her elbow, and guided her down the porch steps and across the clay path that substituted for a sidewalk. She didn’t shrink away from him as she usually did. She felt too remote to bother about it, as if she had had a great deal to drink and while she was still conscious of what was happening to her she had no interest in it.

George started the car. “Is there any special place you’d like to go?”

“No.”

“We’ll just drive around then.”

“Where’s Garcia Road?”

“What number?”

“Twenty-three hundred.”

“That’d be up in the hills. Why?”

“Nothing. I just overheard a — a customer say he lived there, that’s all. I wondered what it was like.”

“We’ll go and find out,” George said cheerfully. “Got to check up on our customers, see that they come from the right kind of houses.”

“No — no, I’d just as soon not. I’d just as soon drive along the beach.”

“All right.” He sent her a quick, puzzled glance. Her evasions irritated him. She had no reason to treat him as if he were a district attorney and she was accused of a crime. Yet this was actually how he felt about her. He wanted to put her on a spot and question her about herself, find out a few things about her. Her face rarely revealed anything but a kind of resigned unhappiness, and it was this expression of hers that agitated him. If she had cause for her unhappiness — money troubles? sickness in the family? loneliness? — he wanted her to break down and tell him, to bawl on his shoulder the way Hazel used to do.

They drove along toward the Mesa and George thought about Hazel and the night she had said out of a blue sky, “Jesus, I feel just like bawling the house down.” And bawl the house down she did, for a solid hour, until the police drove up to the front of the house, summoned by a neighbor to stop George from beating his wife. Hazel was delighted and she brought out two quarts of beer to celebrate the unexpected company. Neither of the two policemen could drink anything, since they were on duty, but Hazel invited them to come back during their off hours. They came back every now and then, bringing a friend or two, until eventually Hazel knew the whole police department.

“It must be lonely for you,” George said, “not knowing anyone in town.”

“I get along,” Ruby said. “I — read a lot. And write letters home.”

“How are your mother and father?”

“Fine.”

“Don’t you miss the big city?”

“Sometimes.”

“And your friends?”

“I’m not much for parties or things like that.”

“Maybe you should get out more, have a little fun and excitement.”

“I’d just be bored.”

“You should try it anyway.”

“I used to go to parties at school. I never had a good time. I was scared to death of the boys. I couldn’t even open my mouth.”

“You still are,” George said. “Scared, I mean.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Of me, anyway.”

“No.”

“Then I wish you were. I’d like to think I rang some kind of a bell with you somehow.” He kept his attention for a minute on the narrow winding road that crept up the Mesa. Then he said, “I need a drink. How about you?”

“If you want one, all right.”

“You certainly are an enthusiastic gal tonight. Is there anything worrying you?”

“No.”

“And you wouldn’t tell me anyway, I get it.” He made a right turn at the next crossing. “Here’s your Garcia Road.”

“I didn’t want to— Say, what’s the big idea anyway?”

“I didn’t believe that about ‘one of the customers.’”

“I don’t care what you believe, Mr. Anderson.”

“Here’s your twenty-three hundred.” George put the car in low and they went very slowly past a white frame ranch house. “Satisfied?”

She didn’t even look at the house. “Yes, thank you.”

“Who lives there?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can easily look it up in the City Directory.”

“Why bother?”

“Because it worries me. I think you told me a lie. Who lives there?”

“One of the customers, I don’t know his name. And you can let me out of this car right now. I’ll walk home. I never wanted to come anyway. You’re always accusing me of things.”

Instead of stopping the car he raced the engine and they shot ahead, up the hill.

“Why should I lie?” Ruby said. “If it was anyone I knew lived in that house why should I have mentioned it?”

“Maybe you thought I was too dumb to catch on, eh?”

“You can’t catch on when there’s nothing to catch on to, no matter how smart you are.”

“I didn’t say I was smart. I only want to be sure. I suppose I’m jealous of you, but if I tell you that you’ll only say I have no right to be jealous of you. Which is perfectly true.”

“Well, it is.”

“I said it first,” George said flatly. “Where do you want to go for a drink?”

“Anywhere.”

“You know what? I’d like to see you drunk sometime, Ruby. I bet you can be pretty vicious.”

“You’ll never find out,” she said with a sharp laugh.

“I wouldn’t want to. I like you better the way you are, so full of secrets you’re bursting at the seams.”

“You certainly have some funny ideas about me, Mr. Anderson. I can’t understand why you want to take me out all the time, when all you do is quarrel with me. Maybe you’re just a bully.”

“I’d hate to think that.”

“And whenever we’re out together all you want to talk about is me and what’s the matter with me and what a funny girl I am. I don’t talk about you like that.”

“That’s because you’re not interested.”

“Why can’t we ever talk about something else for a change? I’m — I’m so sick of myself I never even want to hear my own name again.” She covered her face with her hands, and with her closed eyes she saw Gordon looking at her with such quiet loathing that she wanted to tear at her own face for inspiring such a look. “I’m so sick of myself I could die. I hate—”

“Be quiet,” George said harshly. “That’s a hell of a way to talk.”

“I hate my own face, I hate it so much I’d like to slash it with a razor, I’d like to slash everything, everything I see!”

He pulled the car over to the curb and turned off the ignition. He said, with pain in his voice, “That’s kid stuff, Ruby, stop it.”

“A lot you know about it!”

“I do. You’re just depressed. You’ll snap out of it.”

She shook her head over and over again, refusing to be comforted. Powerless, he listened to her flow of words: it was a bad world, with bad people in it, she was as bad as the rest, worse, hateful.

Finally he started the car again. He didn’t know what to do about Ruby. He couldn’t force himself to try and stop her hysteria with a slap, and he couldn’t take her back to Mrs. Freeman’s until she calmed down.

He thought suddenly of Hazel. Her house was less than half a mile away; he could stop there and leave Ruby in the car while he got some whisky from Hazel. Hazel wouldn’t mind, as long as she didn’t know it was for Ruby.

“I’ll stop off and get you something to drink,” George said. “It will make you feel better.”

“A drink — you think a drink will cure anything, anything in the world—”

“It helps, sometimes.”

“It can’t help me, nothing can.”

“Let’s try it.”

“You don’t know, you don’t know—”

“I don’t want to know. Just take it easy.”

She kept silent until he parked the car in front of Hazel’s white stucco house. Then she said, in a low voice, “You’re being very kind to me. It’s no use, though.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it’s just no use.”

“We’ll see.”

He got out and walked around the lane to the back of the house. Parked beside the fence there was a car he didn’t recognize, a black Cadillac with a monogram on the driver’s door which was too elaborate to be deciphered at one glance.

George passed the car and went through the gate toward the back door. The moon had come up and it hung like a fruit among the top branches of the oak tree behind the garage. From the garage itself there came the scurrying and bustling noises of the wood rats as they raced along the ceiling and up and down the walls. Sometimes when George used to get his car out of the garage in the mornings he found their tiny paw marks in the dust on the engine hood. Aside from the paw marks and the dust they shook down from the ceiling, the wood rats did no harm. Their noise disturbed Hazel, though, and she used to go out now and then and bang on the garage roof with a broom. The wood rats froze in their tracks while Hazel banged away, breaking one or two of the tiles in her fury; but as soon as she returned to the house they started again, louder than ever, until the garage seemed to be cracking open. George had never been able to trap a wood rat, in fact he had never even seen one. The evidence that they existed at all was purely circumstantial, the noise and the paw marks on the roof tiles or on the engine hood of the car, like the tracks of the invisible man.

The sounds from the garage suddenly ceased, as though the rats had sensed the presence of an intruder. They seemed to be watching from under the tiles, listening, waiting for the stranger to leave the yard. George was struck by a feeling of loss and resentment. He thought, by God, I used to live here, this was my yard. I planted those two orange trees myself, with my own hands. And the hedge too... the hedge has been clipped, it looks too neat, like Willie’s mustache... I ought to get back to work, what in hell am I doing here anyway?

The hedge had grown, as thick as a wall and as high as Ruby. He looked at it as he crossed the yard, feeling almost betrayed, as if he’d half-expected it to stop growing during his absence.

He went up the steps of the back porch and rapped, hesitantly, on the screen door.

Harold and Josephine were at the kitchen table, making sandwiches. Harold was buttering bread and Josephine was slicing some meat loaf. Whenever a crumb of meat fell on the table Josephine picked it up and popped it in her mouth in a natural, unselfconscious way. They were both sunburned from their afternoon in the sailboat, and a row of freckles had sprung up out of nowhere along the bridge of Josephine’s nose.

George rapped again and said, “Hey.”

“Well, for crying out loud.” Harold put down the butter knife and wiped his hands on the apron of Ruth’s that he was wearing. “Come on in. Josephine, look who’s here.”

“I see him,” Josephine said placidly. “Hello, George. What brings you to these parts?”

“I just dropped in to see Hazel for a minute.”

“She’s got company.”

“Yeah, I saw the car.”

Harold whistled. “Some car, eh? They say a Caddy like that will do over a hundred miles an—”

“How fast a car goes doesn’t matter,” Josephine said, giving her husband a glance of disapproval. “If its owner happens to be married. Which he is.”

“Sure, honey. Sure—”

“Mr. Cooke’s interest in Hazel is purely businesslike, and vice versa. After all, she used to work for Mr. Cooke and there’s nothing more to it than that.”

Although both Harold and George were inclined to doubt this statement, neither of them cared to argue with Josephine. She had reached the stage where every remark, every incident, had a personal application for her. Harold knew this, and George sensed it.

The two men exchanged glances, then Harold said, hurriedly, “Say George, I didn’t get a chance to thank you for the boat this afternoon.”

“That’s all right.”

“We had a wonderful time. Josephine wasn’t scared a bit. Were you, Josephine?”

“I was so, at first,” Josephine said. “I would have been scared to death without Harold. Harold kept asking me if I was getting seasick, and finally he was the one got seasick!”

Harold looked very proud, as if he had deliberately shouldered the burden of seasickness to spare Josephine. “Josie makes a swell sailor. You’d think, with the baby and everything, she’d feel queasy.”

“Well, I didn’t, not one bit. And don’t think those waves weren’t high, George. They came at us, whoosh, didn’t they, Harold?”

She and Harold exchanged contented smiles. Together they had braved a new element, the sea. They had fought and won, and now after their shared victory they were relaxed, united.

“You’re both looking fine,” George said.

“I’m certainly not losing any weight, am I?” Josephine laughed. “The doctor thinks maybe I’ll have twins.”

“Holy cats.”

“That’s what I told Harold, holy cats. But Harold says it’d be sort of a bargain to get two for the price of one. Considering how much everything costs nowadays, it’d be nice to get a bargain for a change... How about a sandwich, George?”

“No thanks.”

“Well, the least you can do is sit down and make yourself at home.”

“I can’t. I’m in kind of a hurry.” George shifted his weight from one foot to another, already regretting his decision to bring Ruby here. Everything was so normal — the warm little kitchen, the pungent smell of the meat loaf, Harold with his pride and Josephine with her unborn child — that by contrast Ruby seemed eccentric, even depraved. “I’ve got someone waiting for me in the car.”

“Aha.”

“I’d like to speak to Hazel a minute, though.”

“Sure thing,” Harold said. “I’ll get her.”

When Harold had gone, Josephine said, casually, “Is it anyone we know?”

“No.”

“I just thought if it was, bring her in.”

“Thanks just the same.”

“If you ask me, George, you’re acting sort of jumpy.”

“Not as jumpy as I feel.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Call it business.”

“I didn’t mean to be nosy,” Josephine said rather stiffly. “It just surprises me when a man of your iron constitution starts acting jumpy.”

“I left my iron constitution behind years ago.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. It makes me nervous. After all, I’m not terribly much younger than you are, and here I am, going to have twins.” She turned to him, her eyes suddenly anxious, seeking reassurance. “Maybe I waited too long and my bones are too set or something?”

“Baloney,” George said cheerfully. “Listen, any time you’re in doubt about your health take a look in the mirror. Go on, do it now.”

“No.”

“Go on. Look at yourself.”

Awkwardly, Josephine rose from her chair and approached the small oblong mirror hanging between the two windows over the sink. Her eyes were clear and glowing, her dark hair glossy, her cheeks pink from the sun.

“I do look healthy, don’t I, George?”

“Wonderful.”

“There can’t be anything wrong if I look so healthy.”

Harold came back with Hazel, who was wearing her pearl choker and her black crepe dress, an outfit she reserved for sober and important functions. She looked warm and strained, and when she walked she took mincing little steps because her feet hurt; flesh bulged from her new patent-leather pumps like rising dough.

“I tried to get you on the phone,” she said to George. “Willie told me you weren’t there. You just up and blew, didn’t say a word to anybody, just blew. That’s no way to run a business, George.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Thanks loads.”

“Whenever you’re in the wrong you always sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what. Whenever you make a mistake you get sore. Isn’t that right, Harold?”

“You leave Harold out of it,” Josephine said sharply. “Harold and me, we mind our own business. Live and let live.”

“All right, all right, skip it.” Hazel dabbed at her moist forehead with the back of her hand. “My God, it’s hot. Come on out and I’ll show you the yard.”

“I saw it,” George said. “It looks fine.”

“Cost me eleven bucks. I need some air.” She opened the screen door and went outside on the porch. George followed her, feeling a little hurt that she wasn’t in a friendlier mood. “The place looks pretty good, eh?”

“Just great.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic. Maybe you don’t realize how a nice yard increases the value of a home.”

“Sure, sure I do,” George said. “It increases it plenty.”

“You can’t tell. After all, some day I might want to sell the place, I might get married.”

“I guess you might.”

She leaned against the porch railing, easing a little of the weight off her feet. “I suppose Harold and Josephine told you I have company?”

“Yes.”

“You remember Arthur Cooke that I used to work for.”

“Sure.”

“He’s very refined.”

“Hazel—”

“Doesn’t drink or smoke and always dresses in the best of taste.”

“I’m sorry to bust in on you like this.”

“That’s all right. He was just leaving anyway. He’s a very busy and important man, he—”

“Look, Haze, I don’t mean to change the subject or anything, but I’m in kind of a hurry. I’ve got someone waiting for me in the car.”

Hazel raised her eyebrows. “So?”

“She’s not feeling very well, and I thought if you had a little brandy or one of those pills you used to take when you got upset, the ones the doctor gave you—”

“I’ve got a quart of warm beer and some aspirin,” Hazel said curtly. “Who is it, the new girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Why bring her here?”

“Well, we were passing by and I figured I’d drop in and get her a pill or something to calm her down.” He scowled at a point in the darkness where a mockingbird sat trying to stir up his sleepy friends, hi there! hi there! “She’s so darned unhappy, Hazel.”

“I should give one half of one per cent of a good goddamn whether she’s unhappy.”

“All right, all right. I’ll shove off.”

“You can have the beer and the aspirin.”

“No thanks. Sorry to have bothered you.”

He went down the porch steps, stumbling slightly on the last one where the wood had been undermined by termites and sagged in the middle.

“Well, don’t go away mad,” Hazel said.

“I’m not mad.”

“Not much you aren’t.”

“I am not mad.” He scuffed the coco mat at the bottom of the steps with his shoe. “The thing is I want to do what’s right, only I don’t know how. She’s just a kid, she needs help. I get the feeling that she’s on the edge of something, something bad.” He kicked at the mat again, more violently this time, as if it were an obstacle that had to be kicked away. But the mat didn’t budge. It had been there for a long time and was so heavy with the dirt of years that during the rainy winters weeds sprouted in it and grew two or three inches high.

“I know what she’s on the edge of,” Hazel said. “And it’s not so bad.”

George looked at her hopefully, and for a moment Hazel wished that she didn’t have to say what she had every intention of saying both for George’s own good and for her own personal satisfaction.

“It’s not so bad,” she repeated. “Hooking you and cutting herself in on your share of the Beachcomber.”

“You’ve got the wrong idea, as far as Ruby’s concerned anyway. She’s not interested in me.” In an unconscious gesture, he put his left hand to his head and smoothed back his hair, as if to reassure himself that he still had hair left, that he wasn’t quite so old as some people might think. He remembered what Ruby had said when he’d gone to Mrs. Freeman’s to give her the back pay she hadn’t stopped to collect: “You don’t look a day over forty—”

“To her I’m a nothing.” He cleared his throat. “A big fat nothing.”

“I don’t believe it,” Hazel said, sounding a little angry, as if Ruby, by repudiating George, was casting an aspersion on Hazel herself. “Maybe she’s just playing hard to get.”

“You think so, Hazel? Honest?”

“I said, maybe.”

“Could you tell if you met her?”

“I don’t know. How should I know?”

“I mean, suppose I brought her in and you talked to her, sort of sounded her out a little?... Then maybe I could find out if I had a chance, and if I haven’t, well, that’s that, I’ll chalk it down to experience. Would you do it, Hazel, just talk to her?”

“Why should I?”

“No reason, I guess. Except — well, suppose you find out she’s not interested, then you wouldn’t have to worry so much about me getting married again.”

“I am not worried about your getting married again,” Hazel said, in a very calm, reasonable tone. “It’s who you marry that concerns me. It beats me why you can’t find some nice sensible widow with a little cash or some real estate.”

“You already said that, a hundred times.”

“Isn’t it true a hundred times?”

“Sure, sure. But—”

“There’s always a but.” She shifted her weight impatiently. The porch railing squawked a protest, and from his new position on the television antenna next door the tireless mockingbird answered, oh my, oh my, oh my. “The world would be O.K. if it wasn’t for the buts.”

“Haze—”

“All right, all right. I’ll talk to her. Bring her in the house.”

There was a slight edge to her voice, but George was too pleased to notice it. He had great faith in Hazel’s ability to handle people, to make them feel at home and get them talking about themselves. It was exactly what Ruby needed, an older woman to confide in. Perhaps — who could tell? — they might even become friends.

George was an incurable optimist. Like an alcoholic who needs only one drink to set him off, George needed only one happy thought, and the happy thought was that Hazel and Ruby should become real pals, lunching together, shopping together, telephoning each other at all hours. Each passing second made the idea more irresistibly logical: Ruby and Hazel, Damon and Pythias.

Oh my, said the mockingbird. Oh my, oh my.

“You’ll be crazy about her,” George said warmly. “She’s shy, kind of hard to know at first, but once you get underneath the surface you’ll see how sweet she is.”

Hazel made an impatient gesture as if she were swatting at an invisible mosquito. “I saw her, the day she came to Dr. Foster’s office.”

“That’s right, you did. What did you think of her? She’s not an ordinary girl at all, is she?”

“I only saw her for a few minutes.”

“Couldn’t you tell she was different?”

“I told you I only saw her for a few minutes. What could have happened in a few minutes, that we should’ve become bosom pals or something?”

“Not exactly.” But it was too close for comfort, and George was unpleasantly surprised at the easy way Hazel could reach into his mind and pick out one of his dreams and pinch it out of shape like a marshmallow.

He said, “I’ll get Ruby,” and started across the yard, stepping slowly and carefully because he knew Hazel was watching him and he didn’t want to appear too eager.

She called after him, “Hey, George.”

He stopped.

“George, hold your stomach in.”

“Jes—”

“And stick out your chest more. You might as well show up to the best advantage.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, but Hazel didn’t hear him. She had gone back into the house and the slam of the screen door was loud and final.

Straightening his shoulders George walked back to his car. Ruby was half-sitting, half-lying, with her head pressed against the back of the seat and her eyes closed.

“Ruby?”

She blinked in a surprised way, as if she had been hundreds of miles away and couldn’t understand how George had gotten there.

“How are you feeling?”

“All right, I guess.”

“You’re looking better.”

“Am I?” She yawned, making a funny little squeaking noise like a puppy. George wanted to laugh at the noise, which seemed to him charming, but he didn’t dare. He was beginning to realize how deadly serious Ruby was about everything. She seldom laughed herself, and the laughter of others always carried a note of menace.

“We’ve been invited to come in,” George said.

“I heard laughing. Is it a party? I don’t like parties, I really don’t, I wish you’d take me home.”

“There’s no party. I just want you to come in and meet Hazel, my ex-wife.”

Her entire face seemed to tighten, around the eyes and the nostrils and the mouth, as if it had been splashed by a strong astringent. “I guess this is your idea of a big joke, Mr. Anderson.”

“It’s not a joke. Hazel asked me to bring you in.”

“Why?”

“I told her you were waiting in the car. Hazel likes people. She invites everybody to come in.”

“She won’t like me.”

“Sure she will, and I’ll bet a nickel you’ll like her too.” He spoke with confidence. Nearly everyone liked Hazel. She could always make people feel good about themselves, and George had such implicit faith in her generosity that it didn’t even occur to him that possibly she wouldn’t care to make Ruby feel good.

“It doesn’t seem proper,” Ruby said. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to inflict myself.”

“You won’t be. Come on.”

He opened the car door and Ruby got out. She brushed off her skirt and the shoulders of her suit, and smoothed down her hair. “Do I look all right?”

“You look fine.” He wanted to say, beautiful, but he was afraid that the word would only increase her self-consciousness and that she wouldn’t believe him anyway. “Let’s go around to the back. Hazel’s in the kitchen.”

“Is it your house?”

“Not any more. We had a property settlement and Hazel got the house.”

“It’s funny you’re still friends like this.”

“Like what?”

“Well, calling on her like this, and bringing me here.”

“It doesn’t strike me as funny. Why should it?”

“I thought when two people break up, they wouldn’t ever want to see each other again.”

“It’d be pretty hard not to see Hazel again,” George said dryly. “She’s all over the place. I don’t mean she checks up on me or anything. But it’s a small town and we have mutual friends, and so we bump into each other.”

“I’d hate that. If I ever got a divorce I’d run away, far away. I’d never want to see him again, never, I’d run away.”

“Well, don’t get excited. You’re not even married yet.” He paused. “Not even considering it, I guess.”

“No.”

“You’ll change your mind someday when you meet the right man.”

She didn’t bother to answer. In silence they went across the yard and up the steps of Hazel’s back porch.

Hazel opened the screen door, wearing a fixed smile on her face that looked as if it had been attached with glue. During the time it had taken George to go out to the car and get Ruby, Hazel had freshened her make-up and combed her hair, but already along her upper lip and the hairline of her forehead little pinpoints of sweat were oozing up through the new layer of powder.

When she spoke she used her office-voice which had a professional lilt to it intended to make Dr. Foster’s patients feel at ease. “Come on in and make yourself at home — Ruby, is it?”

“Yes.”

She looked at Hazel, dully, with no sign of recognition. It was as if the two days since they had met had lengthened into years for Ruby and these years had numbed her memory.

“George tells me you’re not feeling very well,” Hazel said.

Ruby shook her head. “I feel fine, just fine.”

“That’s good.”

“I get nervous sometimes, that’s all. Everybody does. It’s nothing. I wouldn’t dream of imposing—”

“You’re not imposing.” Hazel turned to George. “Harold’s in the front room. He wants to talk to you about the boat.”

“My boat?”

“Yes. He says it’s sprung a leak.”

“A leak? He must be imagining things. Sure, on a day like this, she ships a little water, naturally.”

“All right, so it doesn’t leak. Talk to Harold about it. I never said it leaked.”

“He didn’t either.”

“Go and ask him.”

“I will. If that suits Ruby.”

Ruby glanced at him listlessly, as if the conversation and the moods and tensions beneath it had been too difficult to follow. “What did you say?”

“Is it O.K. with you if I leave you here with Hazel for a while?”

“I don’t care.”

“I won’t be long.”

“I don’t care.”

He paused in the doorway and looked back, but she was no longer watching him. Letting the door swing shut behind him he was conscious of a feeling of relief, and of gratitude to Hazel for insisting that he go and talk to Harold. Sometimes he wanted to leave Ruby and couldn’t; he deluded himself into thinking that if he stayed another minute, or five, or ten, his words, his presence and the very passage of time would change her in his favor.

The door swung into place with a squeak of hinges. The noise seemed to focus Ruby’s attention more sharply than any human voice. She looked at the door thoughtfully, as if it had said something to her, without words to distort its meaning.

“It needs oiling,” Hazel said. “Everything does around here. Including me. Want some beer?”

“No. No, thanks. You go right ahead, though.”

“I don’t mind if I do.” She took a quart of beer out of the refrigerator and poured out a glassful. The beer was warm and foamed out over the sides of the glass like soapsuds. “Sit down, why don’t you, before you drop.”

“I won’t drop.” But she pulled out one of the straight-backed wooden chairs and sat down at the kitchen table. “I feel fine.”

“Ruby—”

“Just fine.”

“Ruby, snap out of it.”

“What?”

“Listen, you haven’t been taking drugs or anything, have you?”

“Drugs? No, I never take drugs.”

“You don’t remember me, Ruby?”

“Remember?”

“We’ve met before.”

Ruby shook her head, slowly, unable for the moment to make any connection between the plump and perspiring woman holding the glass of beer, and the composed efficient nurse in the white uniform who ran Gordon’s office and answered the telephone. Even the voices were different.

“What you need,” Hazel said, “is some food and rest.”

“No, thank you.” She stared at the table in front of her, at the half-prepared sandwiches, the buttered bread and the thick slices of meat loaf containing bright blobs of green which might have been peas or green pepper but which looked to Ruby like some phosphorescent decay. She had missed dinner — she hadn’t, in fact, had a square meal for a week now — and the sight of the meat and its strong oniony smell nauseated her. She never wanted to see food again. There was no fight, no resolution, left in her, only the numbness of despair that made her want to lie down in a quiet place and go to sleep for a long time until many things were forgotten. She hadn’t even the energy to get up and leave. She was bound by sheer inertia to a chair at Hazel’s kitchen table, shrouded by the smell of meat loaf and the sweet, fermented memories of the summer with Gordon.

“You’re Gordon’s Hazel,” she said, and a nerve began to twitch in her left cheek, contracting the muscle and pulling up the corner of her mouth. It was as if, minutes before Ruby herself could see any humor in the situation, her face was preparing to smile. But instead of smiling, she threw back her head and laughed, and kept on laughing while Hazel watched her uneasily over the moist, foamy rim of her glass.

“You’re George’s Hazel and you’re Gordon’s Hazel and they both begin with a G!” It was so excruciatingly funny that tears oozed out from between her eyelids and fell down her cheeks almost to the point of her chin. She did not weep like Josephine who had a wealth of tears, fat and silver and smooth like ball bearings. Ruby’s tears came out pinched and meager, little coins squeezed out of shape between a miser’s fingers. Josephine wept from a great reservoir of self-regard and self-pity; Ruby wept from the dry ducts of self-hate.

“You’re punchy.” Hazel took a piece of Kleenex from the window ledge over the sink. “Here. Use this.”

“I don’t want anything from you, I don’t want anything from anybody.”

“All right, but not so loud. George might hear you.”

“I don’t care.” She took the piece of Kleenex and rubbed her face, savagely, as if she had a grudge against her own skin. “He brought me here on purpose. It was a trap. He wants to find out things about me.”

“He wants to help you.”

“I hate him. I hate him and his help.”

“Now listen—”

“He’s a fat creepy old man and when he looks at me I feel like screaming, my skin crawls. I know what he’s thinking. I know what he wants. And it’s not to help me. He wants to help me, what a laugh.”

“Shut up,” Hazel said, but without authority, without even conviction. “He’ll hear you.”

“Let him. I want him to hear. All this time him putting on the big act, poor Ruby, Ruby needs help, there’s something the matter with her. Well, I know who there’s something the matter with and it’s not me. It’s him. Him and his greasy eyes that never let you alone, that you can’t ever get away from because even when he’s not around I feel them looking at me and I get sick in my stomach!”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I? That’s what you think. I’ve been around. I know men like him.”

Hazel finished the beer and put the empty glass on the sink. With one part of her mind she felt pity for George and the need to defend him: George has nice eyes, they’re not greasy, they’re luminous — and he always tries to help people, not just you. But from another and deeper part of her mind, words gushed up like water from an underground river: Go on, tell me more. Show me how you hate him. Talk louder and he’ll hear you. Let him find out. Raise your voice, Ruby.

“Shut up,” she said roughly. “You’ve got no right shooting off your mouth about one of my best friends.”

Ruby didn’t answer. She had picked up a crumb of meat from the table and was rolling it between her fingers until it looked like a little brown pill.

“You’ve got no right,” Hazel repeated. “And anyway, what are you doing going out with him if you can’t stand the sight of him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have a reason.”

“No. He came to the house and wanted to take me for a drive and I was too tired to argue, that’s all, too tired.” She made another brown pill and placed it carefully beside the first one on the oilcloth table cover. “We drove up Garcia Road.”

“You don’t have to tell me where you—”

“I’ve never been in that part of town before. It’s very pretty, all the trees and flowers, and the houses with such wide windows like the people in them have got nothing to hide. I’d like to live in a place like that with big wide windows and never pull the blinds. I would keep myself very well groomed so that people walking by on the sidewalk would never catch me looking sloppy or anything. I would always have on a pretty dress or one of those quilted satin housecoats, and I’d keep the house very clean and tidy, nothing lying around. People walking by would glance in and wonder who I was and think how lucky, that girl, to have such a beautiful clean house with such shiny furniture.” She paused for breath, sucking the air in through her mouth greedily as if it was not air at all but an ether to prolong the dream. “Blue is my color but a red robe would be nicer. It’s more cheerful, like Christmas. Red always reminds me of Christmas at home.”

But she had stretched the dream too far — there had never been a Christmas at home that she could remember without bitterness — and it snapped like an elastic band and stung her skin and brought moisture to her eyes. Through the moisture she could see Hazel looking blurred and fuzzy as if she had just grown a crop of tiny feathers.

“You should have something to eat,” Hazel said.

“No. No, please, I’m not hungry.”

“A glass of milk, then.”

“No.” She blinked the moisture out of her eyes. “Gordon lives in a house like that, doesn’t he?”

“Like—? Oh. Yes, kind of like that.”

“Did you ever go there?”

“Once.”

“It’s like I said, isn’t it, when you walk by you can look right into the windows?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe you can.”

“I bet she keeps the place very clean. Just judging from what I’ve heard of her, I bet she’s very tidy.”

“I guess she is,” Hazel said. The girl was making her nervous. She wished George would come back and take her away. “I don’t notice those things much.”

“Naturally, being a friend of Gordon’s, I’ve had invitations to dinner and things like that, but I’ve always been too busy to go, so I’ve never even met his wife. I guess you know her pretty well.”

“Well enough.”

“What’s she look like?”

“She’s kind of blonde and pale.”

“Pretty?”

“She has nice teeth. She gets them cleaned every three months. That’s the only time I ever see her, when she comes to the office, except the once I went out to the house to take her the car keys.”

“I thought you might be friendly with her, she might tell you things.”

“No. She isn’t the kind that confides in the office help.”

“You don’t like her much, I can tell that.”

“I don’t think about her.”

“I do,” Ruby said in a whisper. “I think about her a lot.”

Hazel gave her a wary, uneasy glance. “If that’s your idea of fun, go ahead.”

“I think about her, what is she like, and is she prettier than I am, and what do her and Gordon talk about and what does she give him for breakfast and do they sleep in the same room — all the things that Gordon never tells me, that’s what I think about. Gordon and I — Gordon—” She put her head down on the table and cradled it with her arms for comfort. Her voice came out, muffled by the press of flesh: “You wouldn’t understand. Nobody would, nobody.”

Slowly and stiffly Hazel crossed the room and sat down at the table opposite her. Her hands were shaking and her teeth were clenched together so tight that her jaws ached.

“So you’re the girl,” she said, sounding helpless and confused, as if the fact had struck her like a fire in the night, exposing her nakedness. “The one he talks to on the phone, that’s you.”

“We never talked more than a minute. We—”

“Why did you have to tell me? I’ve got troubles of my own. I didn’t want to know. Why did you have to tell me?”

“I — don’t know.”

“I’ve kept out of it. I knew something was going on but I managed to keep out of it. It’s none of my business what Gordon does, or you.” But she was aware as soon as the words were out that they were a lie. What Gordon did was her business because he was her employer, he paid her salary; and what Ruby did was her business because it affected not only Gordon, but George as well. “Why drag me into it, for God’s sake?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“How many other people have you told?”

“No — no one.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Just her — Elaine.”

“Just Elaine,” Hazel said with a brief, mirthless laugh. “That’s very funny, if you know Elaine. Just.” She paused a moment. Through the closed door she could hear George’s bass rumble and she thought, so that’s why she hates George so much, not for what he is or does, but because he isn’t Gordon. “How did Elaine find out?”

“I don’t know. Suddenly one night she phoned the café where I meet Gordon and asked for him. She told him the children were sick and he was to come right home. I said to Gordon, we’ll have to meet some place else, and he said it was no use, no matter where we went she would find out.” She raised her head. Her eyes were dry and glassy like marbles, and there was a round red indentation on her left cheek where it had pressed too long and tight against one of the buttons on her sleeve. “He’s scared of her. There’s no fight in him.”

“I’ve seen him fight.”

“Not her. Not against her. He means to, he says he will, and then when the time comes he can’t. It’s like she paralyzes him and he can’t even talk to her. How can anything be settled if he won’t talk to her? What will happen to us?”

“You already know. It’s already happened.”

“You mean bad things.”

“What else?”

“They show, here?” She reached up and touched her face, running her fingertips along her forehead and down her cheeks to the point of her jaw. “You can see them?”

“Not exactly. I didn’t—”

“I’ve always looked old for my age,” Ruby said stiffly. “It’s because I got such fine skin, it wrinkles easier than other people’s.”

“I didn’t mean you had wrinkles.”

“You were just trying to scare me, that’s what you meant.”

“I’m trying to warn you what you’re messing around in. The top’s been ready to blow off that house for years.”

“Let it blow.”

“You think you can pick up the pieces?”

“Yes.”

“Your own, maybe. Not Gordon’s. There’ll be nothing to pick up.”

Ruby leaned across the table. “You don’t want Gordon to go away with me and be happy, do you? You want things to stay like they are. You don’t care about Gordon, it’s your job you care about.”

“There are other jobs,” Hazel said grimly. “And probably other Gordons. But if there’s a sure thing on God’s green earth, there’s only one Elaine.”

“Trying to scare me — what can she do to me?”

“She can twist you out of shape like you were a pipe cleaner. I’ve seen what she does to him.”

“I can fight back. I’m stronger than I look. I’m tough.”

Hazel turned away. “Sure. Sure you are.”

“Wait and see. Someday, when everything’s settled and Gordon and I are married, I bet you’ll look back on tonight and have a big laugh about how you tried to scare me.”

“I like a big laugh,” Hazel said wearily. “Good luck to you anyway, Ruby.”

“Why do you say it like that, like I was going to die or something? I’ve got a future, me and Gordon. No matter what it is, it’ll be better than this. You can see that, can’t you?”

“I guess I can.”

“I’m strong and I’m tough.”

“Sure.”

The door from the hall swung open and George came in. His face was flushed and his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he was rubbing his hands together as if he’d just told a good joke and had led the laughing. George knew a million jokes.

“Time to break this up, isn’t it?”

Neither of the women answered.

“You girls been having a nice little chat?”

“Swell,” Hazel said. “Dandy.”

He approached Ruby’s chair, almost shyly. “I told you Hazel was a real tonic. You look better already, that’s a feet.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the table. “I look a mess.”

“No, you don’t.”

“My hair—”

“Your hair looks great.” He reached out to touch it, but she shrank away from his hand.

“I left,” she said, “I left my purse in the car.”

“I’ll get it for you.”

“No!”

“Is anything the matter?”

“No! I just want to get my purse so I can comb my hair.”

“All right,” he said. “All right.”

He stepped back and she darted toward the door, quick and frightened, like a bird. A moment later, through the open window, they could hear her frantic footsteps.

For a long time George didn’t move or speak. Then suddenly he reached down and picked up a whole slice of meat loaf and crammed it into his mouth. He began to chew, his cheeks distended like a squirrel’s. A moist blob of food dribbled out of the corner of his mouth and fell on his lapel. He didn’t wipe it off. He just stood there, chewing, out of rage and defiance and humiliation, chewing until his jaws ached and his throat contracted in revulsion and a lump formed in his chest like a knot of leather. And then, because he could not swallow, he opened the screen door and spat across the porch railing into the summer night. He came back into the kitchen, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing noisily like a sprinter at the tape.

“You don’t,” Hazel said coldly, “have to act like a pig.”

“I am treated like a pig. I will be a pig.”

“Well, pick somebody else’s kitchen to—”

“Shut up.” Going to the sink he turned the cold water on full and splashed his face, sucking the water into his mouth. Then he dried himself carefully on a tea towel, folded the towel and replaced it on the rack,

“That’s a dish towel,” Hazel said.

He looked at her bitterly, his eyes bloodshot from the water. “Well, I’m a dish. That makes it all right. Ask Ruby what a fancy dish I am.”

“I didn’t have to ask her. She told me.”

“Give it to me straight.”

“I’d like a cigarette.”

“Here.”

He lit it for her and she took three quick puffs, as if she intended the smoke to blur George’s outlines and take the edge off reality.

She spoke slowly: “Ruby thinks you’re a fine man and all that, but she — well, you’re more of a father to her, see?”

“She said that?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did she say, exactly?”

“She implied that—”

“What did she say?”

“Goddamn it, are you threatening me? Get your hands off me!”

“Tell me, tell me the truth.”

“Or you’ll what?”

“I’ll shake it out of you.”

“Try.”

His hand was still on her shoulder but force and urgency had gone out of it. It lay like a dead thing on Hazel’s black crepe shoulder, and when she moved to one side his hand fell away. He looked down at it, a little surprised, and then he put it in his pocket.

“Hazel?”

“Get out of here.”

“Tell me the truth, what she said.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’ve got to know one way or another.”

“You already know. You just can’t face it. You want me to face it for you, just like in the old days, I got to spell it out for you because it’s easier to take that way. Well, I won’t. Get out and leave me alone.”

“You can’t—”

“And the next time you come bursting in here with one of your two-bit heart-throbs I’ll have you both thrown out on your ear. Now start moving before she comes back. I don’t want her in here.”

“She’s not coming back,” George said. “She didn’t have any purse.”

He began moving toward the door, his head bent, and swinging slightly with each step like a bear’s.

“Listen, George—”

“No. I guess you won’t have to spell it out for me this time.”

“You’re lucky she’s not coming back. You may not think so right now, but you’re really lucky, George.”

“Sure. I’m a very lucky guy.”

He went out on to the porch and down the creaking steps. From the shadowy denseness of the live-oak tree the relentless mockingbird chortled his derisive little song: Lucky guy, lucky guy, oh my!

George picked up a pebble from the driveway and threw it hard and accurately into the heart of the tree. The mockingbird skittered through the prickly leaves and across the garage roof to a telephone pole where it sat in silence. But the alarm had sounded: the whole tree seemed to come alive with squawks and twitterings and the whirring of wings; the wood rats responded, and began their noisy racing up and down the walls of the garage and across the hood of Hazel’s car; and from a clump of bushes came the gentle regret of the mourning dove, lamenting the sad things of this world.

The sound reminded him of Ruby. He quickened his step, stung by a sudden wild hope that he had been wrong about her; she had had her purse with her after all, and she had just gone to the car to get it; she would be there now combing her hair.

“Ruby!” he shouted, and broke into a run.

There was no one in the car, no one on the street. He looked carefully around as if he half-expected to find her hiding somewhere behind a tree or hedge, needing only a little encouragement to come out, like a half-tamed animal.

“Ruby?”

But the only sign of life was the blinking tail-light of the East Beach bus and the gray plume of its exhaust as it rolled down toward the sea.

He got into his car. The air was stale because the windows were all shut, and the smell of Ruby’s powder mingled with the smell of dead cigars and souring hopes. He cranked down the window on his own side and was leaning across the seat to do the same to the other when he noticed that the door to the glove compartment was open. He knew he hadn’t left it that way. He rarely used the compartment except on trips, and then only to store his road maps and sunglasses and the five-dollar bill in the money clip which he kept for an emergency, using the same bill year after year because the emergency hadn’t occurred.

The clip was still there but the money was gone.

“Ruby,” he said, sounding very surprised. “Ruby.”

He thought of her waiting in the car while he went to talk to Hazel, waiting, catlike and curious, exploring the glove compartment to pass the time: What’s this? Money. How nice. I don’t have any. It’s mine now. Finders keepers.

Had it been that simple and childish? He knew in his heart that it had not, that she had taken the money not at the first opportunity, when she was left alone in the car, but at the second, when she had run out of the house; and she had taken it not like an amoral child, but like a woman, desperate to get away.

For a full minute he sat there staring into the night and seeing in its deformed shadows a mocking image of the truth. Then he started the car and turned it around and headed back toward the sea. He had no destination but it seemed easier to follow the descent of the road.

Six blocks down he caught up with the bus. As it pulled into a curb the interior lights switched on like stage lights suddenly revealing a new set and cast of characters. The set was almost empty. Two women in nurses’ uniforms were at the front of the bus talking to the driver, and behind them, oblivious to their chatter, an old man slept, knees up and chin on chest, in a return to infancy. At the back of the bus a girl sat with her forehead pressed against the window pane, her hands shielding her eyes from the interior lights as if she was trying to see into the darkness outside. She was very young and did not look like a thief.

“Ruby!”

He stopped his car alongside the bus and pressed the horn once and then again.

The old man did not awaken. The young girl turned away from the window and closed her eyes. The bus lights went out.

9

Elaine called from the bedroom, “Is that you, Gordon?”

“Yes.”

“Where on earth have you been?”

He heard her sharp footsteps approaching the head of the stairs, and in the background the sounds of the children quarreling: Gimme it, it’s mine, gimme it.

Elaine came down the steps with quick, exasperated movements. She wore her old housecoat, but her face was made up and her hair was swirled on top of her head, pinned with a large Spanish comb.

“You know we were going to the party at the club tonight, Gordon. Where have you been?”

“I took a drive.”

“All this time? I even phoned Hazel to see if you had an emergency appointment or something. She said no, she left the office at twelve noon and so did you.”

“I forgot about the party.”

“I kept your dinner hot for a full hour.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Elaine.”

“You’re sorry, well, that’s just fine,” she said with a bitter little smile. “You go off for eight hours without letting me know and then you say you’re sorry.”

Gordon said dryly, “I keep getting sorrier and sorrier, if that’s any consolation to you.”

“And now you’ve got the nerve to turn around and be sarcastic about it! I suppose you expect me to believe that, about your going for a drive.”

“I went for a drive, you don’t have to believe it.”

“I wonder.”

“I can’t stop you wondering. I still went for a drive.”

At the top of the stairs there was a faint rustle, a flutter of white. Gordon looked up and saw Judith and Paul standing there listening. They were in their pajamas, Paul delicate and nervous, and Judith round as a ball. She had a candy stored in her mouth and one cheek was distended.

“Hello, Judith,” Gordon said with forced cheerfulness. “Hello, Paul.”

The boy lowered his head and took a step back. Judith said, “Hello.”

“Well. And what have you two been doing all day?”

“We went for a drive.” She began to giggle. “We went for a drive. Didn’t we, Paul? Didn’t we went for a drive?”

The boy began to giggle too, and the giggles grew into long shuddering sobs of laughter. “We went for a drive, we went for a drive!”

They started to jump up and down, in time to the words, up and down the hall they went in a frenzy of excitement, repeating the magic, mysterious and somehow forbidden words: “We went for a drive!”

“Stop it!” Elaine shouted. “If you don’t go right back to your rooms I’ll tell Miss Kane not to come tonight.”

The boy stopped jumping immediately and said, “I want Ruth to come. I want Ruth.”

“Then go quietly to your room.”

“Is Ruth coming?”

“She’s coming if you behave yourself.”

“She’s not coming, you said she’s not coming!”

“I said I’d tell her not to come if you make any more fuss.”

“She’s not coming, she’s not coming!” The boy went, wailing softly, back to his room. He felt betrayed, cheated. She was not coming. His mother was a black witch and his father told lies.

The parents were too ashamed to look at each other. Elaine turned and started up the steps, her shoulders sagging.

“Elaine—”

“I pressed your costume. It’s on your bed.”

“Thanks.” He wanted to apologize, to his children, to his wife, but the children couldn’t understand and his wife wouldn’t listen.

He did the next best thing to please them all. He gave Paul and Judith a dollar each and he put on his Fiesta costume without argument. The embroidered caballero coat was too tight and the gold braided trousers flapped around his ankles when he walked, like broken wings. Under the dangling pompons of his broad-brimmed hat, Gordon’s eyes held a vast bewilderment.

He heard the front doorbell ring and Judith and Paul dashing down the stairs shouting for Ruth.

Elaine came in from the dressing room. She was dressed as a Spanish bride in white lace with a heavy white lace mantilla over her hair. A red velvet rose was caught in the mantilla, and another was pinned to her waist. She had painted her mouth larger than usual, going beyond its own firm outline. The new mouth changed the emphasis of her face and made her look like a stranger to Gordon.

“Ruth’s here,” Elaine said. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so.”

“That coat’s a little tight this year. You must be gaining weight.”

“Probably.”

“Gordon—” She sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed. “I wonder why Paul does that. I mean, he gets ideas in his head, he deliberately misunderstands. You heard me tell him Ruth was coming. He refused to believe me. He was practically hysterical, I don’t understand it.”

“I don’t either,” Gordon said. He would have liked to sit down and discuss Paul’s difficulties, to try and trace their origin. But he knew that Elaine didn’t want a discussion, she merely wanted to be reassured that it wasn’t her fault, that she was a good mother. Any serious discussion of the children would lead to a scene, to Elaine weeping, I did the best I could singlehanded without any help from you, they might as well not have had a father, you’ve never loved them, you’ve never even played with them like a normal father.

No, Gordon thought, I didn’t. She never gave me a chance. If I so much as picked one of the children up, she always found reasons why I shouldn’t — I was holding them the wrong way, or watch-out-for-his-arm-Gordon! or it was too soon after a meal for them to be jostled around, or it was time for their nap.

“I feel,” Elaine said virtuously, “that it’s we parents who are to blame.”

Gordon nodded, and the pompons on his hat danced in wild irony.

“I might have known that something would happen tonight, it always does when I’ve been looking forward to something, like this party.”

“I’m sorry if — if I’ve spoiled it for you.”

Elaine gave a hard brief laugh. “You haven’t, don’t worry! I wouldn’t let anything spoil it. I’m not like some people. I don’t let circumstances get the best of me.”

To Gordon, her eyes added, I’m not like you, Gordon, you poor weak mouse, letting people, letting circumstances, letting—

Letting you too, Elaine.

Well, that just shows how weak you are. And you’ll go on letting me, forever and ever!

Gordon took off his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“It’s too bad you couldn’t have grown a beard like some of the other men,” Elaine said. “You’d look more authentic.”

“You look very authentic.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“It was the way you said it that I don’t like.”

“Listen, Elaine. Would you mind if I had a drink before we leave?”

Elaine wrinkled her forehead in exasperation. “What on earth for? There’s going to be plenty of liquor there. The liquor was included in the price of the tickets like last year. Anyway,” she added as an afterthought, “Ruth is here.”

“What’s Ruth got to do with it?”

“Well, you know, she’s death on liquor. If she saw you taking a drink she’d probably go home and tell Hazel and Hazel would spread it all over the town, exaggerating it, of course. A dentist can’t be too careful of his reputation. Anyway, why do you want a drink now, just when we’re ready to go?”

“So I’d feel a little less foolish in this outfit, to dull my sensibilities, in brief.”

Elaine shook her head in wry satisfaction. “I knew, I said to myself, if we get out of this house tonight without Gordon making some kind of a fuss about his costume, it’ll be a miracle.”

“I wouldn’t call this a fuss.”

“I can’t understand why other people can dress up and go out and have a good time and you can’t even seem to make the effort. My goodness, what difference does it make whether you’re dressed up like a businessman or a gay caballero?”

“I don’t feel like a gay caballero,” Gordon said dryly. “That’s the difference.”

“Well, all right then! We won’t go! We’ll stay home! We’ll spend one of our nice jolly evenings at home for a change!”

“Not so loud, Elaine. Ruth and the kids will hear you.”

“Well, it’s time somebody heard me. It’s time somebody heard my side of the story!”

“Come on, Elaine, let’s go.”

“I won’t.” She sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, refusing to budge.

“Look at it sensibly, Elaine. You’re getting your own way. I’m wearing the costume, I’m not having a drink. I’m a gay caballero, see, come hell or high water, and lips that touch liquor shall—”

“You’ve got a nerve getting sarcastic again.”

“I wish I had a nerve. Or two nerves.”

“What would you do?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”

“That’s a very vague threat,” Elaine said, but she got up and went to the door. She seemed to have a sixth sense about how far she could go without rousing Gordon’s temper, and when she reached that point she stopped. Not that Gordon would actually do anything — he never had, the presumption was that he never would — but he could spoil the party for her by sulking or refusing to dance with some of her bridge-club friends or by drinking too much, as he had on one occasion.

Elaine folded her troubles away in one corner of her mind, neatly and carefully, so that it wouldn’t be hard to find them again and unfold them as good as new.

The caballero and his Spanish bride went down the steps together, trailing the faint odor of mothballs and the fainter but more pervasive and sour odor of a quarrel.

Ruth was sitting on the davenport in the front room, with Paul on her lap and Judith pressed against her side. “... and this little girl was in the first grade, just like you, Judy, and she had a little brother who was just going to start to school, like you, Paul. And they had a baby brother too, and a dog.”

“I want a dog,” Paul said. “That’s what I want, is a dog as big as a pony to ride and sleep in my bed and I sleep on the floor, or maybe both of us sleep in the bed.”

Ruth laughed, and stroked his hair gently. “Ah, I’m afraid Mother wouldn’t like that.”

“I’m afraid she wouldn’t,” Elaine said with a smile.

“I want a small dog,” Judith said, “to go in my baby buggy.”

Elaine put on her sweetly reasonable expression. The children recognized it and knew what was coining. They waited, bored and resentful, for the judge to lay down the law and hurry out of court.

“Now children, I believe we’ve settled the dog question before. We’re going to get a dog when I feel that you’re both old enough to appreciate a dog and take the responsibility of looking after it properly.”

“Ruth has a dog named Wendy,” Judith said. “Ruth says it’s a Heinz dog.”

“A what?” Elaine said.

“A Heinz dog, fifty-seven varieties.” Judith howled with laughter, and Paul joined in, laughing even harder than Judith because he didn’t understand the joke.

“Hush now,” Elaine said. “Be quiet. We’ll be later than usual tonight, Ruth, but Dr. Foster will drive you home and you can take a nap if you like.”

“Oh, I won’t get tired, Mrs. Foster, I never do.”

“Don’t wake the baby to give him his bottle. He’ll wake up about eleven or so. I guess that’s all. Well, goodbye, children. Be good now, won’t you?”

She hesitated for a moment, half-hoping the children would come over and kiss her goodbye. They made no move, so she waved goodbye to them from the doorway, very gaily, with her arm feeling heavy as lead.

Gordon was waiting in the car with the engine running (indicating, to Elaine, impatience). He looked tired (sulky), and he had taken off the hat which was too hot and heavy on his head (fussing about his costume).

“Did I keep you waiting?” Elaine asked, getting into the car awkwardly so she wouldn’t disarrange her mantilla or dirty the white lace skirt.

“No.”

“You must have gotten gas if you went for that long drive today. The gas tank’s nearly full.”

“That would be the first thing you’d notice, wouldn’t it?”

Elaine widened her eyes. “Well, my goodness, I wasn’t checking up on you. I always look to see how much gas we have.”

“O.K.”

“And if you’re mad because I kept you waiting all of two minutes, well, all I can say is, you might at least have stopped to say hello to Ruth. She’s very sensitive about lapses in good manners, you know that.”

“I didn’t know that. I hardly know her, so I couldn’t be expected to know she’s sensitive.”

“She’s got a very sensitive face.”

“Good.”

“You’re certainly in a mood tonight, Gordon. I hope you’re not going to sulk all evening the way you did at the Lamberts’ party.”

“I can’t remember sulking at the Lamberts’ party. I can’t even remember the Lamberts.”

“It was right after we were married. They’re moved away now.”

“Your memory has a long arm, hasn’t it, Elaine?”

“I never forget any unpleasant scenes, if that’s what you mean. Who does?”

“A lot of people.”

“I’m not one of these soft-headed women who forgets a quarrel just because it ends in a kiss. If a quarrel took place, then I’m justified in remembering it, surely. Anyway, people can’t help themselves from remembering things.”

“I guess not.”

All the way to the U-Club Gordon tried to recall the Lamberts and couldn’t.

He parked the car in the palm-lined driveway and locked the doors.

The club was an L-shaped structure made of adobe brick. Here, the more successful men of the community — the professional men, lawyers, doctors, real-estate agents, retired army and navy officers — found a sanctuary from their wives and families. They lunched and dined, played poker and billiards and gin rummy, secure in the knowledge that no female trespasser could get past the front door. About once a month a special entertainment was held in the form of mildly dirty movies. No one, not even the head waiter in the dining room who ran the projection machine, knew where these movies came from, or who owned or rented them. This uncertainty gave rise to considerable speculation, especially among the members who were embarrassed and disgusted by the movies and were afraid the members of the Don Cabrillo Club would find out about them and act even more insufferably superior. Suspicion settled on various members, and there was a great deal of dissension and hard feeling in the club. Mr. Westervelt, who sold insurance, was one of the chief suspects because he liked to look at women’s legs. He subsequently resigned, refused to pay his outstanding bill, and threatened to sue everybody in the club for slander, including the bus boys. Dr. Lavery, who took Westervelt’s place as chief suspect because he’d had three wives, was made of sterner stuff. He wrote a scathing letter to the newspaper, and only the fact that the publisher of the paper was a loyal member of the U-Club prevented the scandal from becoming public.

No one member was entirely free from suspicion except Judge of the Superior Court, old Anton Bowridge. A childless widower, Bowridge led a dull life. Nearly every day he sat on the judge’s bench amid the somber beauty of the Superior Court. The high windows were heavily draped against the sun. The chandeliers that hung threateningly from the ceiling gave just enough light to accentuate the gloom, the twilight of guilt. No one in the court ever felt like a free man, least of all Bowridge.

The judge’s bench was a masterpiece of design. It looked comfortable, and yet it was just uncomfortable enough to prevent one from going to sleep. Sometimes he sat upright, sometimes he held his head in both hands, or rested his chin in his right hand, then his left hand; he crossed his legs and leaned way over on the right, or the left. But always the chair prodded him sternly in the vertebrae, the eyes of the chandelier accused him of inattention, and conscience lurked in the rigid drapes of the closed windows.

Bowridge had no interest in watching the movies himself. He had spent most of his life in courtrooms and there was nothing that he hadn’t seen or heard. His interest lay in watching the people who watched the movies — Johnston kept opening and closing his eyes, repelled, fascinated; poor old Coolidge often had sneezing fits, and the young architect with the buck teeth (McTavish? MacGregor? McSomething) cleared his throat, ahem! Afterwards they were all embarrassed, they smiled sheepishly at each other, some of them left in a hurry and others stayed around to discuss the question of where the movies came from. They asked Judge Bowridge if it wasn’t illegal to make or possess these movies and Bowridge ruled that it was, but that they were not, however, to accuse any one member of being the guilty party unless they were convinced, beyond a reasonable doubt and to a moral certainty, that such was the case.

Watching the watchers not only amused Bowridge, they restored to him some faith, not in the essential goodness of most people, but in their essential harmlessness. The poor fellows, they felt so guilty at watching the movies it was impossible to imagine them committing a felony. They were really quite simple, harmless fellows who would never crack a safe, take a potshot at their wives, embezzle or commit mayhem. Simple assault, perhaps (no deadly weapon, no intent to kill), or manslaughter involving a motor accident — but none of them, he was convinced, would ever repeat the crime. Their sins were little, their fears great, their lives short, and always in store for them was the Superior-Superior Court with God on the bench (looking a little like Bowridge except that He had a beard), God on the hard bench with an aching back, a little weary and bored, given to inattention, leaning His chin on His right hand, then His left hand, and wondering why someone didn’t push aside the drapes and open the windows and turn off the infernal lights of the chandelier.

The Little Sinners was Bowridge’s private name for his fellow members of the U-Club. He never missed any of their parties, mainly because they gave him an opportunity to see the wives and so fill in a number of blank spaces about their husbands.

Bowridge entered the club on the heels of Elaine and Gordon. (This young man Foster, now, had a lot of blank spaces. He didn’t attend the special movies, he didn’t play poker or bridge after dinner. When he came to lunch he left immediately afterwards. A shy duck.)

“Hello, Mrs. Foster,” Bowridge said. “Hello, Gordon.”

“Why, Judge Bowridge,” Elaine said. “You didn’t dress up!”

“I prefer to stay on the sidelines watching the beautiful señoritas.”

“That’s no excuse. Honestly, I think you’re mean. Don’t you, Gordon? Don’t you think he’s mean?”

“The fact is,” Bowridge explained dryly, “when no one forces me at the point of a gun to dress up, I don’t dress up. What caliber weapon did you employ, Mrs. Foster?”

“None at all, so there,” Elaine said. “Gordon, wait here a minute while I fix my hair. Excuse me, will you, Judge?”

“Certainly.”

They both watched her as she went down the hall toward the powder room.

“We’re early,” Bowridge said.

“I guess we are.”

“The others, I presume, are judiciously getting pie-eyed before they start. The punch they serve at these affairs is highly suspect. Come and try some.”

“Thanks, I’ll wait for Elaine.”

“She’ll be able to find you.”

“Well—”

“Come along, come along.” Bowridge walked ponderously ahead, with his head down and his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were thinking great and solemn thoughts. “As a matter of fact, I have a little surprise for you.”

“For me?”

“Well, not strictly for you. You happened to come along at the correct psychological moment and so we will share the surprise. Look.”

The judge removed from his hip pocket a pint bottle without a label.

“Gin,” Gordon said.

“You’re absolutely wrong. Compared to this stuff, gin is mother’s milk.”

“Alcohol.”

“Correct, one hundred percent pure grain alcohol. A medical friend of mine gave it to me for my birthday. Most unusual gift, I consider. His instructions were to mix it with grapefruit juice and the resulting potion is termed a Graveyard Special, I believe. I suggest that we try some — very, very cautiously, mind you — in a glass of punch. Or—” He squinted up his face in such a jovial frown that one of the waiters, who had just received a ticket for overtime parking, scurried back into the kitchen for sanctuary. “Or we might — and I grant that this suggestion has a faint touch of the macabre — we might simply pour the whole bottle into the punch, thus sharing it with the common herd. What do you think, Gordon?”

Gordon smiled helplessly.

“Both are tempting, I must admit,” Bowridge said. “But on the whole I think we’d better keep it to ourselves rather than dissipate its energy, as it were. Of course if we had two bottles there’d be no question involved. We could keep one and put the other one in the punch, eh? But the one we would put in the punch is the one we haven’t got, so, come along, come along.”

Gordon came along, trailing Bowridge like a spaniel. The ballroom, ex-dining room, was swathed in red and yellow bunting, and a few couples were dancing to the Latin American music of Miguel Escalante. Escalante himself was handling the maracas, tossing them in the air, rolling his eyes, swaying his hips.

“I like bouncy music,” Bowridge said, approaching the nearest punch bowl. “Here we are. Now, let me see. What proportions would you suggest, Gordon?”

“I don’t know.”

“We wouldn’t want to become intoxicated. On the other hand we wouldn’t want to be niggardly with ourselves. Mean to say you have no experience in these matters, Gordon?”

“None.”

“Nor I. It will have to be guesswork, I fear.” He poured some alcohol into Gordon’s glass of punch.

“Whoa,” Gordon said.

“Pleasant flavor.”

“Very nice.” Now that the drink was in his hands Gordon realized how badly he’d needed it. If he could have three, just three drinks, as a sort of buffer between him and Elaine—

“You’re a quiet fellow,” Bowridge said. “Something on your mind?”

“No.”

“No guilty conscience?”

Gordon shrugged his shoulders.

“By the way,” Bowridge said, “how did she get you to put on that costume?”

“I put it on voluntarily.”

“Ha, to avoid argument.”

“It’s getting hot in here. I wonder whether Elaine—”

“Have another drink and relax, Gordon. That’s what I’m going to do, relax. Relax like a damn little kitten.”

Gordon was beginning to understand that Bowridge’s relaxation had started several hours ago.

“All right, I’ll have another,” Gordon said.

“Fine, fine.” Bowridge ladled out two more glasses of punch. When he added the alcohol he had to narrow his eyes to the merest slits to make them focus.

“There’s your wife,” Bowridge said.

Gordon saw Elaine standing in the doorway haughtily glancing over the couples on the dance floor. She’s self-conscious, Gordon thought, she always looks like that when she’s self-conscious. He turned his back on her and deliberately finished his drink.

“Well. There you are, Gordon,” Elaine said pleasantly. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I thought you were going to wait for me in the hall.”

“I was.”

“It isn’t as if I kept you waiting very long.”

“I persuaded him to run away,” Bowridge said.

Elaine laughed. “You’re a bad influence on my husband, Judge Bowridge!”

“I hope not.”

“And just for that, I’m going to persuade him to run away from you! Come and dance, Gordon. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Judge? We haven’t danced together for ages.”

Gordon steered her out into the middle of the floor. She felt very light and soft in his arms. She was nearly as tall as he was and their cheeks brushed as they danced. Her skin was scented, some sweet, innocent, nostalgic scent that penetrated to Gordon’s heart: If only we could start over, if we could forget the million sour words and acid looks — Elaine had closed her eyes, the lids had closed softly over the sharp ironies in her eyes, the unspoken reproaches. I wish she would never open her eyes again. I wish—

“Why on earth are you staring at me, Gordon?”

“Was I staring? Sorry.”

“Your face looks funny. What have you and that old goat been drinking? And that’s the second time you’ve stumbled.”

“Sorry,” Gordon said again. “I was thinking about you. I was thinking it would be nice if you kept your eyes closed all the time.”

“My eyes closed? What a silly thing. Now you listen to me, Gordon. How many drinks did you have with that old goat?”

“Two.”

“Two drinks,” Elaine said contemptuously. “You should know by this time you can’t hold your liquor. Two drinks, and already your face looks funny and you’re starting to talk silly.”

“I don’t think it was silly. I was pretending, it was a game, you see. As long as you keep your eyes closed I can pretend that you love me and we have some sort of chance of going on together.”

“I do love you,” Elaine said. “I’ve always loved you. As for going on together, we haven’t much choice, have we? We’re not the kind of people who do foolish things on the spur of the moment. We have a sense of responsibility.” She turned her face away from his in a gesture of impatience and withdrawal. “Oh, let’s sit down. What’s the use of dancing, what’s the use of coming to a party at all if we’ve got to talk about things like this.”

The dining room was half-filled by this time. Elaine paused to greet two of her bridge-club friends, reminding Gordon by pressing his hand that he wasn’t to forget to ask them to dance. Gordon returned to the punch bowl, while Elaine explained to her friends that Gordon was keeping an eye on Judge Bowridge for the evening, he and Gordon were such pals, and you know how Bowridge gets sometimes, stiff, my dear, positively stiff. I know he lost his wife, but still!

Bowridge had sat down on a bench behind the punch bowl. He had taken his spectacles out of his pocket and was cleaning them with a handkerchief.

“Ha,” he said, breathing air on the lenses. “Ha, ha. Didn’t think you’d be back, Gordon.”

“Here I am.”

“Sit down. Do you feel anything?”

“No.”

“Nor I. A little in the eyes, perhaps. My eyes are my weakest part. Those damn lights in the courtroom, not enough of them. Have to peer and peer to distinguish the defendant from the prosecution.” He pinched his spectacles on the bridge of his nose and glanced around the room. “In my opinion this straight alcohol is vastly overrated, unless we’re diluting it too much. Do you think that could be it?”

“Possibly.”

“Then let us mend our ways.” The judge rose. He walked steadily and ponderously, without a tremor. Gordon saw Elaine dancing with Dr. Lavery. She was talking very gaily, shaking her head and laughing, but he knew very well that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. She was watching Bowridge too, as he ladled the punch and spiked it with alcohol from the bottle. Gordon felt like a little boy who is aware that he is doing wrong but keeps on doing it because he knows he won’t be openly reprimanded or punished in front of strangers. There’d be only the sweet steely smile, the secret pinch on the arm, the whispered wait-till-I-get-you-home, Junior!

And, like the small boy who knew he was doing wrong, Gordon pretended he was not afraid. His face smiled, while the fear pressed on his chest, stifling his breathing. Wait-till-I-get-you-home, Gordon! He knew now that he had always been afraid of her. This was no new fear that had sprung up because of Ruby, because he had finally given Elaine a weapon. It was an old growth, its multiple roots buried twenty feet under the ground, crossing and re-crossing each other, a maze of roots and at the core, Gordon’s personal minotaur.

“Wake up, Gordon,” Bowridge said.

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“Pardon?”

“I — wasn’t — asleep.”

“I didn’t say you were. You were dreaming. Sometimes I dream too, and I can look very alert when I’m dreaming but this takes practice.” The judge sat down on the bench and handed Gordon his glass. “In court, sometimes I dream, and sometimes I worry, about fifty-fifty. I worry about people, I try to clarify issues. I boil them down in a crucible, I boil and boil, and when I’ve finished there isn’t a thing left in the crucible, not an ash, not a drop of liquid. I also worry about my cough. Have you ever heard my cough?”

“No.”

“It sounds like this — chmm — there. Very dry. It could be anything. What do you suppose it is, Gordon?”

“Phlegm.”

“That’s no answer. Why do you suppose I have phlegm?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, there you are,” Bowridge said with gloomy satisfaction. “You don’t know and I don’t know.”

Gordon frowned. “I don’t get that about boiling the issues.”

“Ah, well, you boil off the extraneous matter, you vaporize the irrelevancies, and then what have you got? Nothing. It’s very clear, a child could understand. For a child there are no irrelevancies, everything is equally important, a fire, a bowel movement, a caterpillar on a leaf, the pattern of a print, a kiss, a bruise, a passing motor scooter, the smell of a certain cake of soap. I have no children, I am only making this up by the method of contrasts. I’m old. I’m too tired to be interested in fires or caterpillars. I don’t notice prints. My sense of smell is feeble, my bowel movements difficult. No one has kissed me for years. I hate the noise of motor scooters. You see?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah, even a child can understand, it’s very clear.” The judge coughed twice, chmm, chmm, very dry. Then he put his glass down, took off his spectacles again and cleaned them, blowing on them, ha! ha! ha! and wiping the mist off with his handkerchief. He began to hum with the orchestra. “Catchy tune that. Spirited.” Escalante sang “Chuy, chuy,” and the Judge sang too, “Chewy, chewy, chewy chewy!”

“I feel,” Bowridge said, “that I’m getting into the spirit of things.”

Gordon took off his hat and put it on the floor. “It’s getting warm in here.”

“I like warmth. You and I could sing a duet, Gordon. That fellow up there can’t sing. Who ever told him he could sing? Someone should apprise him of the true facts. Come along, come along, you and I will sing a duet.”

“I don’t know the words.”

“They’re very simple, just chewy chewy, chewy chewy.”

“I don’t know the music either.”

“No matter. Just follow me.”

Gordon looked around for Elaine, but there were too many people on the dance floor and they all looked rather vague and trivial.

Gordon and the judge raised their voices in song.

10

Gordon hung onto the palm tree with both his hands. The tree was swaying, so he knew there must be a high wind. Against his forehead the bark of the tree felt harsh and dry, like the skin of a very old man. He decided to sit down under this tree and rest.

“Get up,” Elaine said.

“I lost my hat.”

“Get up. I’m warning you, Gordon.”

“A little rest, that’s all.”

“You disgusting fool, humiliating me in front of all those people. Get up, we’re going home. After the exhibition you’ve made of yourself you’d think you’d want to go home. Do you hear me, Gordon?”

He heard her, of course, but he was listening to other things as well, trying to give them equal importance as the judge said. He heard the engine of a car starting, za za za za za oom, and the faint click of heels on the distant sidewalk. He heard Miguel Escalante and his Latin American Rhythms, and the noise of the palm tree. It didn’t make the same kind of noise as other trees did. It crackled an incantation, waving its arms in grandiose sweeps like a demented evangelist. What a remarkable woman Elaine was — the wind that swayed the tree left her untouched.

“I lost my hat,” Gordon said.

“I have it. Can’t you even see?”

He peered up at her very earnestly, and of course she had the hat. Elaine never forgot such things. She would, after the Fiesta was over, pack the hat away in mothballs until the next Fiesta. It was a way of measuring time, counting Fiestas instead of birthdays. Next Fiesta he would be one year, three pounds and two moth holes older. I’m old, the judge said. My sense of smell is feeble — I’m too tired — I don’t notice — I hate — no one has kissed me—

“Are you going to sit there all night?” Elaine said.

“A little rest. You could rest too, Elaine. The grass is damp but it’s not very damp.”

“Thanks. I’ll stand up.” She took a step nearer to him and leaned over, staring at him. Her face was white and furious. “All my life I’ve had to apologize for you and make excuses for you, and I’m sick of it, do you hear? I’m sick of it! I’ve apologized to the children because they’ve never had a decent father to play games with them or spend some time with them. I’ve apologized to my friends because every time we go out together you sit in the corner like a lump of lead, and don’t open your mouth. I swear, sometimes you act half-witted. Well, the great silent act wasn’t enough, oh no! Tonight you have to put on another one. You get drunk as a lord and sing, sing, mind you, in front of all those people. Out of tune, too.”

“I didn’t know the tune, I had to make it up.”

“That’s lovely! That makes everything all right, I suppose. Yes, and I’ve had to apologize to my mother, too. Little did she think that I’d be living from hand to mouth, without a maid or a car of my own. She thought you’d have enough gumption to go out and make some money the way other men do.” She took a deep breath. “Look, I’m trying to be reasonable, I’m trying to control myself, but there are limits. You just don’t seem to have any character, Gordon. You can’t resist things, you have no will power.”

Answers formed in his mind, rather cleverly, but he remained silent. Whatever he said, she could say more. It could go on all night and all tomorrow, it could go on until one of them died. Gordon, beloved husband of Elaine—

The thing to do was to attach equal importance to all sounds, the car, the heels on the sidewalk, the music, the mad tree. But the car had gone, the heels were silent, the tree drowsed. The music that seeped out of the windows was melancholy and sensuous. It whispered of love and betrayal, Perfidia. The notes ground into his wounds like salt. He thought of Ruby, and the tears welled in his eyes.

Elaine went on talking. She hadn’t raised her voice, it was flat, controlled, reasonable: now let us both admit, calmly, that you lack character, will power, earning power, social graces and fatherly instincts; in brief, let us admit that you bear no resemblance to a man.

“There’s one more thing,” Elaine said. “I swore for the sake of my own pride that I’d never discuss this with you. But I haven’t got any pride left any more. You managed that, all right. You were with your girlfriend this afternoon, weren’t you?”

Gordon shook his bowed head, not trusting himself to speak for fear Elaine might hear the tears in his voice.

“So you’re still going to lie about it, are you? I suppose you’re even going to deny that you have a girlfriend.”

Gordon shook his head again.

“They say a wife is always the last to know about it. But I wasn’t, I was one of the first. How you could hope to get away with it, in a town like this where everybody knows you — you, a man your age, with three children— Everyone’s laughing at you. Not at me, because they know I know. If they don’t know, I tell them. Everyone was laughing, and it was a case of me joining in the laughs or getting laughed at along with you. So I joined in.”

Gordon looked up at her, his mouth open with shock. No matter what happened to him she would always be on the opposite side, joining in the laughs.

“Surprised, aren’t you?” Elaine said harshly. “You didn’t think I’d do it, did you? I laughed with the rest of them. Yes, and if they didn’t know what the joke was, I’d tell them! I’d say, ‘Gordon? Oh, Gordon’s fine. Of course I don’t see much of him any more, he’s got a new interest in life.’ Then I’d smile, like this. You aren’t watching me, Gordon, don’t you want to see how I’d smile?”

She was leaning far over now, her face only a foot or so from his, and she was smiling viciously, her mouth drawn back from her teeth, her eyes narrowed to slits.

“You poor slobbering idiot, you thought you could make a fool of me, didn’t you? But I got there first, I turned the tables on you! When we were invited some place, you know what I’d say? I’d say, I’m sorry we won’t be able to come tonight. Gordon has a date. I haven’t the faintest idea whether it’s the same girl or not. You know how men get at that age and poor old Gordon needs a little fling. Heaven knows it’s better for some girl who gets paid for it to bear the brunt of it rather than me.”

He struggled to his feet, clutching at the palm tree. One of the shoulder seams of his coat ripped. He began to run clumsily across the grass to the driveway.

Elaine stood there under the tree, watching him. It was only when she heard the engine of the car start that she realized his intention, and she began to run after him, waving the hat. The car streaked out of the driveway with Elaine stumbling along behind it. Gordon didn’t look back.

She returned to the club, limping. She had turned her ankle while she was running, and it was already beginning to swell. Judge Bowridge was at the checking counter putting on his coat and still humming.

“I was wondering where you disappeared to,” Bowridge said. “What’s happened to Gordon?”

“He’s gone,” Elaine said curtly.

“Gone?”

“He took the car and left. We had a disagreement.”

“I hope I didn’t precipitate it.”

“No.”

“You must let me drive you home.”

“No thanks, I’ll call a cab. Do you think I should report it to the police?”

“Report what?”

“Gordon. He’s drunk, he shouldn’t be driving around in his condition, he might wreck the only car we have. And who knows where he’s gone? I could report that my car was stolen, couldn’t I?”

“Is it registered under your name?”

“Gordon’s.”

“Then it isn’t stolen, obviously. Now, if a divorce was pending and the car was listed as community property, Gordon could be enjoined from removing it from the premises without your consent, until the community property was equably divided.”

“There’s no divorce pending, I assure you.”

“Then if I were you I’d go home. You’ll probably find Gordon there ahead of you.”

The checkroom attendant called a cab, and Elaine waited for it outside. It was a long time in coming, and her ankle throbbed, but she couldn’t go back inside and face the smiles of her friends. She stood haughtily on the stone steps, holding her head high. She had done what she thought was right in bringing up the subject of the girl, but now that it was done she felt a slight anxiety at the back of her mind. Gordon hadn’t reacted as she thought he would. He had made no denials, no protestations of shame; he hadn’t promised to give the girl up and never see her again. He simply got in the car and drove off.

She half-expected that the judge was right and that she’d find Gordon at home, already asleep, when she got there. But when the cab stopped in front of the house she saw that the garage doors were still open and the garage was empty. Judith had left her scooter out. It was on the front lawn propped up against the pyracantha bush. Elaine picked it up and put it on the veranda beside Paul’s little bicycle. Judith’s one-legged doll, Nancy, was seated on the bicycle, draped in one of Paul’s sweaters. Elaine looked down at the abandoned toys of her sleeping children, and her throat thickened with regret and a growing fear.

In the dim light of the front room she saw Ruth asleep on the davenport. She had her tweed coat flung over her as a blanket, and she had spread a newspaper on the end of the davenport so that her shoes wouldn’t soil the slipcovers.

Elaine knew how nervous Ruth was about intruders, so she turned on another lamp in order that Ruth might see her immediately when she woke up.

“Ruth?”

“Who— Oh, dear.” She sat up and put her feet hastily on the floor. “My goodness, you’re home early. It’s not even midnight.”

“A quarter to.”

“What happened to your leg?”

“I turned my ankle on the dance floor,” Elaine said. “I thought I’d better come home. There was no sense in spoiling Gordon’s good time. I took a cab. I’ll call you one, when you’re ready to leave.”

“Oh no,” Ruth protested. “I can walk, it’s not a bit far.” It wasn’t, actually, very far, but the nights were dark, and all along the way there were high, dense hedges and massive shrubs. In the daytime they were pretty, with their bright green foliage, but at night they darkened to deep slate and black, shadows within shadows. The least sound, an exploring snail, a gopher, a bird threshing about in the leaves, would send her charging down the street seeking the shelter of the next street lamp. “I can walk,” she repeated stubbornly.

“No.” Elaine’s tone was final, and Ruth felt a deep gratitude toward her. No matter what some people might say, Hazel, for instance, Ruth had always found Mrs. Foster a lady, with a lady’s sense of obligation. It was hard for her to believe that the Fosters had quarrels, yet she knew it was true. Not only had Hazel told her, but Judith gave her detailed reports every Saturday night. The child had a wonderful memory, and sometimes she mimicked her mother with appalling cruelty. Ruth would try not to be shocked: “Now, Judith, it isn’t nice to imitate people.” “Well, she said it, she did so, didn’t she, Paul?” “She did so,” Paul agreed. “Well, you know,” Ruth said, “when we hear something we’re not supposed to hear, we must close our ears.” “Yes, but my ears won’t close,” Judith said earnestly.

Ruth got up and folded the newspaper and carried it out to the kitchen. When she returned, Elaine was sitting in the wing chair staring straight ahead of her at the lamp beside the davenport. Ruth glanced at the lamp too, to see if anything was wrong. No, the shade was on straight and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen.

When she had put her coat on, she said hesitantly, “Well, I guess you won’t be needing me any more tonight. Let’s see, I’ve been here three and a half hours, but we needn’t count the half, and you don’t have to pay me tonight if it’s not convenient.”

There was a long pause. Ruth kept buttoning and unbuttoning her coat, nervously. She was beginning to fear the worst — that Mrs. Foster had been drinking.

Without taking her eyes off the lamp, Elaine said, “Why don’t you stay here overnight?”

“Here?” Ruth said, immediately flustered. “Overnight? Oh, I couldn’t. Hazel’s expecting me, and what will Dr. Foster say when he gets home?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know whether he’s coming home.”

“A party can’t last forever.”

“He isn’t at the party,” Elaine said in a cold, dry voice. “He took the car and ran away.”

“Oh dear.”

“He was drunk and we had a fight.”

“What a shame.” We must close our ears. Yes, but my ears won’t close! “If he drives around, the air will sober him up.”

“I said some things I shouldn’t. Some of them were lies. I only lied to protect myself. I didn’t want him to think that he’d made a fool of me. I didn’t — I tell you I never did say anything to other people about Gordon and his — girl. I pretended she never existed. I never mentioned her, I don’t even know her name.”

She transferred her eyes, very carefully, as if they would break under any swift movement, from the lamp to Ruth. “You’re shocked.”

“No, no, I’m not.” Ruth’s face was burning.

“Yes, you are. So am I. I never thought anything like this would happen to me.”

“Perhaps it hasn’t,” Ruth said anxiously. “Perhaps you’re imagining. At certain times in the month I often get depressed and start to imagine the awfullest things, mostly about myself, but about other people too.”

“He didn’t deny it,” Elaine said.

“Oh, but if he was drunk — you can’t take drunk people seriously. I wouldn’t tell this to another living soul, but my father — drank. That’s why I’m a little prejudiced against spirits. My goodness, the things he’d say when he was in his cups. But Mother learned not to take them seriously. She knew that as soon as he’d sobered up he’d be his real self again.”

“No, no, this isn’t like that.” She heard a car coming up the hill. She listened, extremely relieved because she knew it was Gordon. The relief passed and gave way to a deep anger. She was already planning how she’d act and what she’d say, when the car passed the house without a pause.

“Hazel must have known,” she said wearily. “Hazel must have said something to you.”

“Hazel? My goodness, no. Even if she did know she’d never breathe a word to anyone. Hazel’s very loyal, and you know what she thinks of Dr. Foster. She’s always said he was a wonderful man.”

“And she never mentioned a girl? A young girl?”

Ruth shook her head, embarrassed, uneasy, trying to recall anything that Hazel had said about Dr. Foster. But her remarks were all ordinary: Dr. Foster had removed two impacted wisdom teeth in half an hour; Dr. Foster had gone home early with a cold; one of Dr. Foster’s patients was an old lady who talked to herself, and even with her mouth crammed with instruments her words were miraculously clear and articulate; Dr. Foster wondered if Hazel could do anything about getting a job for a friend of his, a young girl, pretty inexperienced.

Ruth frowned, annoyed at herself for remembering this at such an awkward time. It couldn’t be the same young girl — Dr. Foster must have hundreds of friends and acquaintances whom he helped. Besides, Hazel said later that George had given the girl a job, and if this girl really was Dr. Foster’s kept woman she wouldn’t have needed a job, she would be kept. In the back of her mind Ruth saw a fleeting image of a heavily draped, heavily scented boudoir, with a large canopied bed; Dr. Foster would never fit such a place.

“No, really,” Ruth said earnestly. “Hazel’s never said a word.”

“She’d be on Gordon’s side anyway.” Elaine unpinned the velvet rose in her mantilla, and took the high Spanish comb out of her hair. She held them in her lap, moved by the same feeling she had had when she picked up Judith’s abandoned scooter and put it on the veranda; as if something was gone, lost, dead, and only its death gave it any value. “Not that it matters, whose side anybody’s on. It isn’t a tug-of-war. It isn’t a case of me winning if I get twenty people on my side and Gordon has only ten. It’s a case of what we are going to do. I pray—” She raised her eyes suddenly to the ceiling, as if she were half-afraid that the person she prayed to was listening in, checking up on her. “I pray every night. I was brought up very religious, but now, I don’t know, I seem to have lost my faith, I can’t really believe that anyone is listening to me. Or if He is, He’s not going to help, He’s going to judge me, very harshly.”

“You’re wrong. I’m sure you’re wrong.”

“I know I have lots of faults, but I try to restrain myself, I try to be just. I try to be humble too, but I can’t. Something comes flooding over me like acid, it’s terrible, it spreads all over me. When I’m alone and calm, I think to myself, I will do anything for the sake of my children, I will control myself, I will by sheer determination keep my family together. Then I start thinking about Gordon going to meet that girl in the café. That’s where they meet, at an awful little place down on lower Main Street. Only drunks go there, and people like Gordon, people with secrets.”

Ruth turned her face away. “Perhaps you’re just imagining—”

“No. I know it.”

“Even so,” Ruth said helplessly. “Even so. He might be quite innocent.”

“He might be,” Elaine said with a sharp laugh. “That’s the crazy part of it. I don’t even know if anything happens. I don’t know if they sit there and hold hands and stare at each other, or if they go to her place, or take a room in a hotel, or park down by the ocean.” She broke off suddenly, her face squeezed up with pain. “I’ve always done Gordon’s planning for him. I suppose if I wanted to save my reputation, I should have planned this affair of his too. As it is, everyone in town is laughing at me. They never laugh at the man, the one who’s making a fool of himself. Oh no! They laugh at the wife, the one who gets left, who gets the wool pulled over her eyes.” Tears were burning the inside of her eyelids. She turned off the lamp beside her and said in a controlled voice, “Did the baby take all his bottle?”

“Every drop. Honestly, he’s the greediest little angel I ever saw. He must have gained two pounds since I saw him last.”

“Nearly.”

“Paul didn’t want to go to bed after our story was finished, but I told him—” Ruth flushed guiltily. “I told him that maybe next Saturday night I’d bring Wendy, my dog, with me. Would that suit you, Mrs. Foster?”

“I guess so.

“Then I gave him his pretend-dog which he promptly named Wendy, and he popped right off to sleep holding the dog in his arms.” She saw the look on Mrs. Foster’s face (grief? remorse? fright?) and she added, uncertainly, “If you really want me to stay the night, I’d be glad to.”

“It’s very kind of you, Ruth.”

“I’ll just phone Hazel, then, so she won’t worry.”

She phoned Hazel, and then she tiptoed upstairs to the baby’s room. She checked to see if his blankets were straight, she listened to his breathing, and she felt his cool, soft forehead. Then she lay down in her slip, on the cot beside the baby’s bed.

11

Gordon swung the car off the highway and switched off the ignition. He had turned the radio on very loud, to keep him awake. As long as this fast, jerky music continued, he didn’t feel like sleeping and he didn’t feel like thinking. He didn’t know the tune the orchestra was playing but he sang anyway, “chewy, chewy, chewy,” and honked the horn to emphasize the rhythm.

By squinting up his eyes and concentrating, he could make out the row of houses along the highway, dark, locked for the night. In one of these houses Ruby was sleeping. He couldn’t see very well but he was pretty sure which house it was, so he honked the horn insistently. As if in answer, a train came wailing around the bend, and all other sounds were lost in its dismal echo, Yoo hoo, yoo hoo hoo! The road shuddered, the houses trembled, their windows vibrating like chattering teeth. Long after the light on the caboose had disappeared, Gordon could hear the train mourning its farewell, adieu, adieu! He would have liked to follow the train, driving along the tracks, until he caught up with it. But this was impracticable, he realized. The wheels of the car wouldn’t fit the tracks, and even if they did it would be hard to keep on them. And suppose another train came along from behind? It would smash the car to pieces, and Elaine would be mad.

He honked the horn again, to drown out the echo of the train whistle.

In one of the houses a light appeared in an upstairs window. A shadow moved behind the blind, and a minute later a light went on in the downstairs hall. A woman in a bathrobe came out on the porch, carrying a flashlight. She shone the flashlight at the car, then directly into Gordon’s face. Gordon blinked. The woman came down the porch steps, cautiously, as if she didn’t quite trust them. She was middle-aged, heavily built. Her gray hair swung in pigtails against her shoulders. She had some kind of grease plastered on her neck and around her eyes.

“What do you want?” Mrs. Freeman said. “Waking decent people in the middle of the night, you ought to be ashamed. Turn that radio down, my land, do you want to attract the cops?” She sounded very cross, but it was a surface crossness. Mrs. Freeman was, in fact, rather relieved at seeing a total stranger. When she had wakened to the sound of the horn and the blare of the radio, she’d been half-afraid that it was Robert coming home all of a sudden, as he usually did, with one of his noisy friends.

“What do you want?” she repeated, when Gordon had turned down the radio.

“I want Ruby,” Gordon said. “Tell Ruby — you tell Ruby—”

“Ruby’s asleep like everyone else with a grain of sense to them. The trouble with you is, you’re drunk.”

“I know. I know I am. I’m very sorry.”

“You better be more careful. There are cops going up and down here all night. The highway patrol is just a couple of blocks up.”

“It is?” Gordon said, blinking. “I never knew that.”

“Well, you know now. You just skiddoo on home and go to bed like everyone else.”

Gordon shook his head, apologetic but obstinate. “I prefer to sleep here. I won’t disturb anyone. I’ll go to sleep in the car and when Ruby wakes up, you tell her I’m here.”

“You can’t sleep here. They’ll pick you up and put you in jail.”

“They can’t put me in jail just because I’m very tired.”

“You and who else,” Mrs. Freeman said in disgust.

“It wouldn’t be cricket.”

“Go on, skiddoo home now.” She fluttered her hand at him as if she were shooing away a chicken. “I got enough trouble without a drunk man being picked up in front of my house.” She broke off suddenly and exclaimed, “My land, you aren’t even dressed proper!”

“It’s because I lost my hat,” Gordon said. “I put it down some place and lost it. It belongs to the costume. You see, the costume isn’t complete without the hat.” He knew that the hat wasn’t important to him, yet he was filled with an overwhelming sense of loss. I’ve lost my hat. I’ve lost something. I’m no longer a man, Elaine said so. I bear no resemblance to a man.

Mrs. Freeman was staring at him in disapproval. “You people that get drunk at Fiesta time, it’s you people that give Fiesta a bad name.”

“I’m very sorry.” He leaned his head against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. He was sorry. He didn’t want to give Fiesta a bad name or to cause Mrs. Freeman any trouble. All his desires of the evening — to sing with Judge Bowridge, to hit Elaine, to cry, to follow the train up the tracks, to go back and find his hat — they had all congealed into one great desire, to go to sleep. But Mrs. Freeman turned the flashlight full on his face again and he had to open his eyes.

“All right,” she said in a resigned voice. “I’ll go and wake her up. Now don’t go off to sleep while I’m gone, will you?” She reached in and shook his arm. “Don’t go to sleep now, you promise.”

“I promise,” Gordon said earnestly. “Tell Ruby — tell Ruby—”

“You tell her yourself,” Mrs. Freeman said, and went up the porch steps, muttering under her breath.

He had promised not to go to sleep, and he didn’t. He merely closed his eyes and floated, until he heard Ruby opening the door of the car. She was breathing hard, as if she was angry or had hurried to get out of the house.

“Ruby?” He moved his hand towards her in a helpless gesture of appeal.

She took his hand and held it, stroking it very gently, as if she was soothing a hurt. He still wasn’t sure whether she was angry or not, until she spoke: “Where ever did you get so dirty?”

He opened his eyes. She was smiling at him, amused. She had her beige coat on over her pajamas, and a scarf around her head to hide the pin curls.

“I was sitting on the ground under a tree,” Gordon said.

“I’ve never seen you dirty before.”

“Am I dirty?”

“There’s mud on your coat, and see, here’s a grass stain on your hand. And your fingernails — you are a disgrace. Mrs. Freeman thinks so anyway.”

“I’m very, very sorry,” Gordon said. “Would you like some music?”

“All right.”

He turned the radio up a little. “There. How do you like that?”

“What did you get drunk for?”

“Oh, now. Oh, now, now, now.”

“I just wondered. I’ve never seen you drunk before either.”

“I am full of surprises.”

“Well, yes,” Ruby said slowly. “I guess you are.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Nobody said you had to.”

“That woman said I did. I said, no — I was very polite, though.”

Ruby laughed. “I’m sure you were.”

“You’re a funny girl. You sound so happy. Let me look at you.”

“No,” she said, quite sharply, turning her face away. “I haven’t any make-up on and my hair’s done up.”

“Well, I’m dirty. That makes us a pair. We’re a pair, aren’t we, Ruby?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Well, but we are. We’re a pair. Both victims. Can’t fight back. Soft.” He felt something closing in his head, like a sliding door. He saw it closing, slowly and inexorably, and he reached out to stop it. “No character, will power.”

He put his head on Ruby’s shoulder and watched the door close.

“Chewy, chewy, chewy,” Gordon said, and went to sleep.

With her free hand Ruby switched off the headlights of the car and turned off the radio. She saw that Mrs. Freeman was still up, moving around the house, and she thought, with detachment, She will probably ask me to move. I’ll have to move again. Well, that’s all right.

She sat listening to the beat of Gordon’s heart and the ticking of the dashboard clock, until Mrs. Freeman came outside again. She was carrying a cup of coffee, and the flashlight. The steam rose from the coffee like mist.

“Well,” she said. “Well. I guess you know him, eh?”

Ruby nodded.

“I made some coffee. Here.”

“Thanks, thanks ever so much.”

“It will sober him up.” She stared at Ruby. There was hostility in her face, but a certain stoical tolerance too. Facts were facts, and she might disapprove of the fact of a drunken man outside her house, but there he was. “What will the neighbors think?”

“There’s no one up, no lights.”

“They’re probably all peeking out the windows. I have a hard enough time holding my head up.”

“I’ll move,” Ruby said. “I’ll move out tomorrow if you want me to.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mrs. Freeman said soberly. “My land, the things that happen. The things that happen that aren’t really anybody’s fault.” She sighed. “What’s his name?”

“Gordon.”

She went over to the other side of the car and, grasping Gordon’s left arm, she pulled him to a sitting position, saying his name over and over in a stern whisper: “Gordon. Wake up, Gordon. Gordon! Now you just sit up, Gordon.”

She shook him until his eyes opened. Then she held him upright while Ruby fed him the coffee. Whenever she saw a car approaching Mrs. Freeman switched off the flashlight and the three of them were left in the darkness.

They put him to bed on the studio couch in Mrs. Freeman’s dining room. He lay on his side, with his legs drawn up. His shirt stuck out from the ripped seam of his coat, and he slept with his cheek resting on his grass-stained, muddy hands. Ruby covered him with two blankets.

“Look like kids when they’re sleeping,” Mrs. Freeman said with a kind of bitter melancholy. “I guess he’ll be warm enough with two blankets. Anyway, it’s all I have.”

“He’ll be fine. I— it’s— it’s very nice of you — letting him stay.”

“I couldn’t do anything else.”

“It’s very nice of you not to be mad.”

“I am mad,” Mrs. Freeman said decisively. “I am mad. But I don’t know who at.”

She flung a look of disapproval at the sleeping Gordon, but Ruby stepped between her and the couch, as if to shield Gordon. “He wouldn’t put anyone out like this intentionally,” she said. “He never would. Something must have happened.”

“Something always does.” Mrs. Freeman pulled the chain hanging from the beaded chandelier. “Always. Well, no matter. There’s some coffee left, if you want some.”

“Yes, I would. Thanks very much.”

“We’ll have to drink it in the kitchen. We don’t want to wake him up. Who knows, he might come to life and want to dance and make whoopee. You can’t tell with drunks.”

“He’s not a drunk,” Ruby said stubbornly. “He hardly ever drinks. Something must have happened.”

The kitchen was cold and damp. Mrs. Freeman lit the gas oven and left the oven door open. Then she poured the coffee, and the two of them sat facing each other across the linoleum-covered table. The table had already been set for Mrs. Freeman’s solitary breakfast. None of the dishes matched — they were the surviving odds and ends of old sets, the remnants of the years. The salt shaker was shaped like an orange, the pepper shaker was silver plate, with some of the silver still clinging to its surface. Her cup was a shaving mug left behind by one of her tourists. Repeated washings in hot water had peeled away some of the lettering on it but it was still partly legible, Gr in s f El so, Texas. Her knife and fork belonged to her wedding present from her father, a set of silver, but the spoon didn’t match. It had been a gift from Robert several years ago. He had arrived home unexpectedly one morning, broke, without a suitcase, without anything: Carrie, it’s me. Now don’t be sore, Carrie, don’t be like that. Look, I brought you something, it’s a present, Carrie. He had wrapped the spoon up carefully in tissue paper and tied it with a broken shoelace. He watched her eagerly while she unwrapped it. I hope you like it, Carrie. You’re always saying we need some decent silver. The spoon bore the imprint “Hilton Hotels.” I knew you’d be pleased.

She picked up the spoon now and stirred some sugar in her coffee. She felt a savage anger welling in her stomach. It spread down her arm into her hand, making her stir the coffee violently.

“I don’t know who at,” she said, as if to herself. “In the daytime it’s all right. I write my letters and make the beds and do my work. I’m not bothered. It’s when the night comes on that I begin to worry. It’s funny out here — as soon as the sun goes down it gets cold. Not like back home where you could sit on the porch in the twilight and rock a bit. No, out here it gets cold right away, a kind of bleakness sets in. Such a change, all of a sudden, it makes you kind of scared that the sun’s not going to come out again the next day. I’m getting like all the other old fogies around here, I depend on the weather too much, like it’s a religion. It creeps up on you, gradual, and you get superstitious — like, if the sun shines, well, that’s good, there’s still plenty of life left in the old girl, that’s how you feel. Dying seems awfully far away when I go out into the back yard in the morning and the sun warms my head. I feel quite youthful and confident, like God was smiling at me.” She added curtly, “Downright heathenish. A graven image.”

She sipped her coffee, a cool and bitter syrup that soured at the base of her throat.

“So something must have happened,” she said. “Yes. It always does. Excuses, I know all the excuses there are in this world. He’s married, I suppose.”

Ruby said, “Yes.”

“And what’s to happen now?”

“I don’t know. It’s up to Gordon.” She traced the pattern of the linoleum with her forefinger. “He’s the one that has to figure things out. He’s got ties, other people to think about, and I haven’t.”

With an air of impatience Mrs. Freeman got up and rinsed out the coffee cups at the sink.

“Not anyone I care about,” Ruby said.

“And that nice Mr. Anderson—” She turned off the oven and banged the door shut. “Well, that’s the way it goes. You better set your alarm early. Miss Hodgins gets up at seven and I don’t want her to find him sleeping on the couch like that. It wouldn’t look right, him in costume and everything.”

“I’ll get up at six.”

“Well, good night then.”

“Mrs. Freeman — thanks for all your kindness.”

“Kindness,” Mrs. Freeman said. “You’re going to need more than kindness before you’re through. Well. I told you I get feeling blue at night like this, don’t pay any attention to me. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Ruby set her alarm for six. Then she took off her coat and hung it in the closet, moving slowly because she dreaded to go to bed and lie in the darkness, thinking. I get feeling blue at night like this. She would have liked to read for a while but there was no reading light in the room. The crudely painted Mexican pottery lamp on the bureau didn’t work, and the only other light in the room was the ceiling light with a chain suspended from it. The chain was too short to reach, so someone had tied a strip of pink cloth to the end of it. Ruby pulled the strip of cloth, then lay on the bed with her eyes open, wondering why Gordon had come and what he was going to do.

We’re a pair, both victims, can’t fight back. In the darkness she shook her head violently as if Gordon was there to witness her denial. In the same motion she denied Mrs. Freeman too: You’re going to need more than kindness.

No, no, her head rocked back and forth on the pillow. They don’t understand about me, I’m tough. I’m tough.

When she came downstairs in the morning Gordon was already awake. He was sitting on the couch holding his head in his hands. She came toward him, very shyly, as if she were half-afraid he wouldn’t remember who she was.

“Are you all right, Gordon?”

“I’m fine.”

She sat down beside him. He was pale and his eyes were bloodshot. The pulse in his temple was beating hard and fast.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here,” he said. “What time is it?”

“A little after six.”

“The beginning of a new day.” He turned to look at her, smiling. “You brushed your hair out. Last night you had a scarf around it, you looked very pretty.”

“I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I remember everything, I think. I’ve got to go out and buy some clothes.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“I forgot. Well, I’ve got an old outfit at the office, I can wear that.”

“You have clothes at home.”

“I’m not going home. It’s too bad it’s Sunday. That’s going to make things harder, getting some money, etcetera.”

“Why do you need money today?”

“I told you, I’m not going home. I’m running away, I suppose you’d call it. I haven’t run away since I was seven and I’ve forgotten how you go about it, but I think money is pretty essential. I hope you’ll come with me, will you, Ruby?”

“Gordon — listen Gordon, you’re not still sort of half-drunk?”

“I’m sober.”

“What about Elaine? Did you talk to her?”

“Yes, we had quite a talk,” Gordon said dryly. “Last night.”

“Did you tell her you were going away? With me?”

“No, I’m going to let her be surprised.”

She looked at him anxiously for a moment. “Gordon, what is this? Are we just going on a little holiday, or are we going to stay together for good? I know, maybe I shouldn’t ask that—”

“We’re staying together. God knows what she’ll do. I’m hoping she’ll get a divorce. I’m hoping she’ll realize when I’m gone that that’s what she’s wanted all along.” He got to his feet. His head felt heavy and brittle, and for a minute he could see nothing but blackness shot with flashes of light. But his physical discomfort merely accentuated the peace in his mind. Elaine had freed him. She didn’t intend to, but she had, and now he was free. He said, “We’ll drive over to my office for some clothes and then we’ll have breakfast, I’ll bring you back here and you can pack your things while I’m trying to gather together some money.”

“I haven’t much to pack.”

“More than I have.” He glanced down at her, smiling at her earnestness. He would have liked to bend over and kiss her but he was afraid his head might split in two. He put his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll never come back to this town, Ruby.”

“We’ll have to. This is where your work is.”

“I’ll sell my practice and start another one, wherever you want to go.”

“I’ll help you,” she said. “I’ll work hard.”

“We’ll start all over. I hate this town, I never want to see it again.”

She stared up at him, thinking, he will never love me the way I do him, I am looking forward just to being with him, and he’s looking forward to getting away from Elaine — not the town, he doesn’t hate the town, it’s just that she’s in it. But it doesn’t matter. I’m lucky and I’m tough.

She turned away and began to fold the blankets on the couch. A desert wind had began to blow over the mountains in the middle of the night and the blankets felt dry and dusty. Everything in the house was covered with a film of powdered sand, and there was a rawness in Ruby’s throat and nasal passages.

When they went outside the wind was still blowing, warm and furious. Gordon’s car was gray with dust, and still the dirt came spinning along the road. The houses trembled, as if a procession of freight cars was lunging up the tracks.

The keys were in the car.

“It’s a nice day to get out of town,” Gordon said.

They drove to his office and Ruby waited in the car while he went inside. It was quite a while before he returned, wearing the gabardine slacks and shirt that he kept for golfing. He looked very stern when he got back into the car.

“Gordon, you’re sorry to be leaving?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I was just looking around for the last time. Sentimental, isn’t it? I’m not sorry I’m leaving. I would just like to take some things with me. It’s funny how you can get attached to an electric machine. Habit, ownership.”

“You don’t have to sell your practice, Gordon. Couldn’t we just go away for a while and then we could come back and you could start to work just where you left off?”

“That’s the hard way.”

“Why? You haven’t tried it. People in this day and age don’t look down on a man for living with a woman.”

“An insurance man, maybe not, or a truck driver. But a schoolteacher, a doctor, a dentist — it’s not enough to be able to teach or perform an operation or fill a tooth. We have to set an example. This isn’t L.A. or Hollywood, Ruby. They’re a hundred miles and fifty million light years away. My ability to fill teeth isn’t half as important as my morals.” He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t swing it, I’m too soft. It would hurt me if they said, ‘I certainly will not pay him any five dollars for cleaning my teeth just so he can spend it on that woman he’s living with.’ Don’t look surprised. People are funny, they’re pretty hard on people who do some of the things they themselves would like to do. So what I’d get if I stayed here is just that — unpaid bills, patients who want a bargain because they figure I couldn’t afford not to cut my prices, and maybe a few new patients who believe that any dentist who lives in sin should be willing to sell drugs on the side. No, I couldn’t face it.”

He added, after a time, “I don’t dare hope she’ll divorce me. She doesn’t believe in divorce, but there’s a chance, maybe, if she can come to believe that it would be better for her, too. It would be, of course. She’ll never be happy living only to spite me. It’s funny about Elaine. I think that if she’d never married me she’d have been all right. She wouldn’t be so filled with vengeance and petty spite. Maybe even yet she will have some kind of decent life with a little softness in it.” A gust of wind blew a piece of newspaper against the windshield. It shivered there for a minute and then lurched wildly off down the street. “Where would you like to have breakfast?”

“Any place that’s open,” Ruby said.

They drove down Main Street. The sun had already risen and in the distance they saw the sheen of the ocean. But the town looked dead, parched by the hot wind. Along the curb were abandoned cars under a pall of dust. Two women were hurrying across the street heading into the wind, shielding their eyes with their hands. An old man sat on a bench at a bus stop, like a victim resigned to the sacrifice, his legs apart, his lunch pail resting on his stomach, his head thrown back with his neck ready for the knife. The old man moved, coughed, spat into the gutter. A cardboard box rolled down the sidewalk and a piece of ripped awning flapped against a store window. A painted sign swung in the wind, squeaking on its hinges. The supple palm trees leaned to the ocean, their fronds streaming out like seaweed, and the air was filled with a continuous rustling noise.

It wasn’t a very high wind, like the wind that came in from the ocean and blew the fog off the top of the mountains and cluttered the beaches with kelp and stranded starfish and pieces of tar from the underwater oil wells. Gordon liked the sea winds, they were natural, they suited the town. But the desert wind was an intruder, an alien from the other side of the mountain. Sometimes it hung around for days, like an unwelcome guest in the house who produced tension but must be tolerated. Gordon felt the tension in his hands as they gripped the steering wheel, and in his throat which seemed swollen and grimy.

Yet he was grateful to the wind, too. It was a good day to be leaving, a day when the town looked unnatural, squalid, hidden under scurf. He let his mind dwell, deliberately, on the things he didn’t like in the town. Over on Gioconda Street, where the highway bisected the town, lay the nucleus of the slum section. Here lived the Negroes, the Mexicans, and the remnants of what had once been a large Chinese community, in sagging shacks and chicken houses and barns. These slums were worse than anything he had ever seen even in the large cities. If they had existed in Chicago or New York, at least some attention might have been drawn to them, but here they were ignored. The rickety children played in the dirt on Gioconda Street and went to school when they had clothes and shoes to wear, or to the General Hospital if they got sick enough. The town bulged with doctors and elaborate clinics, but many of the residents of the slums felt that it was easier to die than to make the long trek out to the General Hospital and wait all day for a turn, only to be told to eat more eggs and T-bone steaks, take a long rest free from worry, go to Arizona, wear a custom-made truss, buy contraceptives, take vitamin pills. Every Saturday morning they came to Gordon’s office for free dental treatment and Gordon had come to dread this day in the week because he, too, had to give them impossible advice: If you could try to keep Susie off carbohydrates, Mrs. Haley. Sure, sure, Doc. Say, I still got this awful pain in my side and I been told I oughta have an operation on my insides but I got my cleaning jobs to do, I can’t take no time off with all those mouths to feed.

He forced himself to think of Mrs. Haley. When she first came to the office she had the holes in her teeth plugged with candle wax. She had all her children with her, for moral support, and Gordon had given them each a ride in the dental chair, two at a time.

Thinking of Mrs. Haley, he was sure that he hated this pretentious little town. It wore culture on its head like an ageing, kittenish dowager, wearing a picture hat with artificial roses, and needing a good hot bath.

He was glad to be leaving.

The only place they could find open was the lunch room across from the S. P. station. The counter was already half-filled with railroad men. They talked back and forth to each other and to the two waitresses. One of the men took a snapshot out of his wallet and passed it to the stout waitress.

“Gee whiz,” she exclaimed. “They’re cute! They’re as cute as bugs! You musta had a good-looking iceman.” She handed the picture to Ruby. “Pass it along, will you? It’s Joe’s twins.”

Joe’s twins were standing in a playpen wearing identical expressions of surprise.

“They are cute,” Ruby said. “Aren’t they, Gordon?”

Gordon glanced briefly at the picture and passed it on.

“They don’t like to have their pictures took,” Joe explained. “Maybe scared of the camera.”

“G’wan,” said the waitress. “You probably beat them. G’wan, admit it.”

“You’re a great kidder,” Joe said.

The waitress brought Ruby and Gordon some scrambled eggs. She had a good-natured, careless attitude that reminded Gordon of Hazel. He hadn’t, until that moment, thought of trying to get some money through Hazel. Hazel wouldn’t have any herself, not enough anyway, but if he gave her a check she might be able to cash it through George Anderson.

Without tasting his eggs, he went to the phone booth and dialed Hazel’s number.

12

George didn’t get up till noon on Sundays, and when the phone started ringing before eight he struggled out of bed, cursing.

“George? It’s Hazel. Are you all right?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes you take things like last night kind of hard and I wanted to make sure you were feeling all right because I’ve got something important to ask you.”

“Ask ahead.”

“I need some money for a friend of mine. Today. Right now.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“You give me a pain,” George said.

“Listen to the deal first before you blow a fuse.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, this friend of mine is going on a holiday. He intended to leave tomorrow but he’s got this chance to leave today and he needs five hundred dollars. He’s giving me a check and I’d like you to lend me the money so I can give it to him, and then tomorrow morning I’ll cash the check at the bank and pay you back. See?”

“It sounds damned peculiar. I can scare up the money, maybe, but why the complications?”

“Because. Will you do it, George?”

“No.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not?”

“If your friend wants five hundred dollars bring him over here. Then if he has an honest face and a reasonable balance in his bank book, I’ll cash a check for him.”

“No. It’s better the way I suggested.”

“Why?”

“Well, he has a joint account with his wife, see, and his wife doesn’t know yet that he’s going away. If the check’s made out to me I can be at the bank sharp at ten when the doors open, and if I see her there I can just push ahead of her.”

“Holy catfish.”

“That’s what he told me,” Hazel said, stubbornly. “If his wife suspects that he’s going away she might try and draw out all the money before this check can be cashed. Now do you understand?”

“It sounds like a perfect set-up for you to keep your nose out of.”

“Wait a minute, I want to close the dining-room door. I think Josephine and Harold are getting up.” There was a pause. “It’s all right now. They can’t hear.”

“What difference would it make if they did?”

“This friend of mine doesn’t want everybody to know his business.”

“He’s running out on his wife, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“My gosh, George, do you have to know everything?”

“Five hundred bucks,” George said, “is five hundred bucks.”

“He’s got his reasons.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, aiding and abetting whatever you’re aiding and abetting.”

“I know, all right.” She thought how surprised he would be if he knew too. She felt a little sorry for George that he should have to finance Ruby’s and Gordon’s trip, but it was, actually, for his own good. Eventually he’d be glad and realize that Ruby would never have married him anyway. “It’s a matter of principle,” she said, her conscience leaping slightly. “Will you get the money, George?”

“I guess I can try.”

“You’ll do it. You have hundreds of friends.”

“I can’t think of a better way of losing them.”

“Everyone’s going to be paid back. This friend of mine is a very respectable man. Just because he’s leaving his wife doesn’t mean he’s a crook.”

“All right. I said I’d try.”

“Shall I pick it up at your apartment?”

“No.” He didn’t want Hazel to see the apartment in its present condition. It hadn’t been cleaned for a month. “How about meeting me at the Beachcomber?”

“When?”

“In an hour or so.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I still hope you know what you’re doing,” George said gloomily.

“You’re always such a pessimist where money’s concerned.”

“Five hundred bucks is—”

“Yes, I know, George. Anyway, this is very nice of you. I appreciate it. I’ll do something for you someday.”

“Cut the violins,” George said and hung up.

He got dressed and made his breakfast. This was the part of living alone that he hated most, getting up to an empty apartment and having to make his own breakfast. When they were married Hazel had always cooked very elaborate breakfasts. She told everyone that George had a large frame to fill, and she filled it, in the mornings, with hot cakes and sausages and fried potatoes and blueberry muffins.

The kitchen was a mess and the refrigerator smelled sour, jammed with odds and ends of stale food. He managed to find three eggs, one of them cracked. He fried them while the coffee percolated. Some day he’d have to clean out the refrigerator but he didn’t know how to go about it. It seemed kind of drastic to take everything out, and he wondered if women had some special easy system for cleaning out refrigerators, and what they did about the smell.

While he was drinking his coffee he counted the money in his wallet. Forty-seven dollars. That meant shopping around for the difference, four hundred and fifty-three dollars. There was some cash in the safe at the Beachcomber but he had made it a rule not to touch any of it and not to borrow any money from the till even for twenty-four hours. It was the kind of thing that, once started, was hard to stop, and he was afraid his partners wouldn’t like it if they found out.

He thought of two men who would be likely to have quite a bit of cash over a Sunday. One was a small-time gambler who played poker every Saturday night in the back of a Chinese herb shop. The gambler lived with his sister who didn’t approve of gambling. She took his winnings, when she could find them, and gave them to the church and to relatives. She had become so skillful at finding his hiding places that the gambler was occasionally compelled to leave his money with George over the weekend.

The other man was a fisherman called Mix. He was the co-owner of a small Monterey fishing boat that went out to the islands for two or three days at a time. He’d been bringing in eleven or twelve hundred pounds of lobsters from every trip. George had seen him yesterday morning on the way to Vasco’s fish market to settle up his accounts for the past two weeks. He figured that Mix, after deducting expenses, should have around five hundred dollars as his share. Like a lot of other fishermen Mix hated to put his money in the bank right away. He liked to keep it around and look at it, though sometimes, if he was afraid he was going out to get stewed, he gave George some of his money to keep for him. The rest he went out and spent. As soon as he had two or three drinks, Mix suffered an acute attack of generosity. He bought presents for all his relatives back in Missouri, and shipped them off, live turtles, chocolates, clothes, toys, souvenirs of Channel City. He picked up all kinds of people in bars and bought them drinks and promised them free lobsters. Once he bought up all the papers a newsboy was selling and sent the boy home. The newspapers were heavy to carry, so Mix gave them away to various people. He’d brought a gift to George once, a second-hand set of the Harvard Classics. They were the only books George owned.

When Mix was stone broke he returned to his boat to sleep, and the next morning he would get the rest of his money from George and put it in the bank. George didn’t like to throw anything away, so he had a whole drawerful of receipts that Mix had returned to him when George handed back the money. Received from Mix Jorgen, to be held in trust until Monday, the sum of Two Hundred Dollars, signed, George Anderson. Mix Jorgen gave me $175.50 to keep for him, signed, George Anderson.

George put the forty-seven dollars back in his wallet. He felt suddenly very annoyed with Hazel, not because she’d asked him to do her a favor, but because she shared his own weakness. She was always getting involved with people. He didn’t like the sound of the five hundred dollar deal. He and Hazel could easily be left holding the bag.

He got the car out of the garage and drove down to the wharf to find Mix.

George left his car in the small parking lot beside the Beachcomber. He didn’t like to take it beyond this point, because further on some of the holes in the planking had had been covered up by thick pieces of board nailed to the planking. When one of the fish trucks hit these boards it bounced in the air, making the whole dock shudder. George preferred to walk.

The wharf was fairly quiet. The amateur fishermen were already lined up at the edge, beside the signs: “No Fishing.” “Absolutely No Fishing.” “No Fishing Beyond This Point.” As George walked on, the fish odors became stronger. A pile of empty abalone shells lay stinking in the sun. The conveyor machines, silvered with scales, smelled of dried fish blood. A young Mexican girl, all dressed up in a tight flowered crepe dress, was tying on some bait which she kept in an abalone shell. The bait was gray and black and it smelled worse than anything George had ever smelled. A small lobster boat was tied up alongside, waiting to unload. The lobsters trailed along behind the boat in crates made of laths.

He found Mix sitting against the wall of the warehouse, smoking a pipe and reading a magazine. He was a man about forty, a Middle Westerner who hadn’t seen the ocean until the war. Although he’d been a fisherman now for two years, he was still self-conscious about it. When he was not on his boat he spent hours hanging around the wharf, trying to get over the feeling that he was an impostor. He wore rubber boots, a cowboy hat, a corduroy shirt and dirty army pants.

“Improving your mind?” George said.

Mix threw down the magazine and yawned. “Habit. I started reading in the army and I can’t get over it. It’s a disease, like.”

“How’s business?”

“Hell, fishing’s no business, it’s a bum’s game. For the little guys like me, anyhow. Look.” He held out his hands. They were covered with scars and scabs and cuts. One of the cuts looked infected. “Fish poisoning. Listen, George, you take a good look at these hands and figger you’re lucky to be in a white-collar racket. Sweet Jesus, the way I work! And for what? Thirty-five cents a pound for lobster from Vasco when I could be getting forty-five at San Pedro. People like you, George, you think fishing is just sitting around sailing over the ocean blue. Sweet Jesus, if I was a sensible guy I’d go back in the army so I could do my reading by electric lights again and my pay’d come in regular instead of in fits and starts, and I wouldn’t have nothing to do with octopuses. Those things, Jesus, they get me. They get in the pots, see, and I have to gaff them. The other day one of them got me on the arm with one of his suckers. I nearly died,” he said solemnly. “I wouldn’t tell this to everybody, but when that thing got onto my arm I nearly died.”

He tapped the ashes out of his pipe for emphasis. “Eels too, I don’t like. Lobsters, now there’s something pretty about lobsters. You take a big fifteen-pound bull and watch him flopping around, he looks kinda noble. No sneaking suckers on him, by God.”

“What was the take yesterday?” George said.

“Not so good. I figure this way, somebody’s been robbing our pots, and it ain’t just starfish and eels and octopuses, it’s human. So help me Jesus, if I ever catch them I’ll use the gaff on them. Last time we only brought in eight hundred pounds.”

“Did you settle up with Vasco yesterday?”

“Sure.”

“How much?”

“Jesus, I don’t ask you how much you—”

“I need some cash until tomorrow.”

“We may be going out tomorrow.”

“Don’t kid me,” George said. “You wouldn’t go out without putting the money in the bank and by the time the bank’s open you’ll have your money back, Boy Scout’s honor.”

“I used to be a Boy Scout,” Mix said reminiscently. “Back in St. Louis. The pride of Troop Twenty-Two, and look at me now. I haven’t had a bath in a month. I wash, sure, but washing’s not like having a hot bath. Maybe some day I’ll get me a nice little apartment in town with a bathroom and a kitchen with a refrigerator, cook myself some decent meals for a change. Like this morning, you know what Pete and I had for breakfast? We figured on bacon and eggs, see, with toast. We bring out the bacon and it’s moldy. No butter, no lard. The bread don’t look so good and the eggs are getting kinda old. So Pete cooks them anyway, scrambles them in Dago red to hide the flavor. Sweet Jesus, it’s a wonder my stomach ain’t rotting away.”

“How do you know it’s not?” George said.

“I’m feeling pretty good. I feel pretty good all over except my hand is sore.” He pulled up his shirt and unfastened the money belt he wore around his middle. “How much do you want?”

“Four hundred and fifty-three dollars.”

“I’ll see if I got that much.”

He counted his money, while George watched him, amused. Mix knew down to a cent how much money he had in the belt. When he wasn’t drinking he was inclined to be careful of money, and George knew that Mix, like a lot of other fishermen around the dock who looked like bums, had a very pretty bank balance.

“Yeah,” Mix said. “Yeah, I think I got that much.”

“You know damn well you have.”

“I have to be sure, don’t I? Here. That’s four fifty-seven. Now you give me an I. O. U.”

George wrote an I. O. U. on the back of an envelope. Mix folded the envelope and put it in his money belt with the air of a man who has made a very bad bargain.

“You’ll have it back tomorrow,” George said. “On the honor of Troop Twenty-Two.”

He showed signs of wanting to leave, but Mix pretended not to notice. Mix was in a conversational mood. Often when he was alone on the boat or at one of the fishing camps over in the islands, he planned conversations. He seldom had a chance to use them because the right situation never turned up and it was hard finding a good listener.

“With me,” Mix said, “with me money is a very personal thing. I’m not tight, don’t get that idea.”

“God forbid.”

“No sir. It’s like this. When you make money the hard way like I do, you get kinda interested in what happens to it. I mean, you own it, see, you hold it in your hands maybe a couple of days and then off it goes. Maybe you put it in the bank or lend it to somebody or spend it. No matter what, you have a real personal interest in what happens to it because it belongs to you. For example, if I put a hundred dollars in the bank I like to think of all those bills working and accumulating interest, bringing home the bacon to Poppa. It’s almost like they were kids I was sending out into the world. See what I mean, George?”

“I think so.”

“It don’t sound nuts to you?”

“No.” George patted the pocket containing his wallet. “These kids of yours are going on a trip.”

Mix was pleased.

“Yeah? Where?”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri? Well, I’ll be goddamned, that’s where I come from, St. Louis. Going on an airplane, even?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I’ll be goddamned.” Mix shook his head. “How’s that for a coincidence, me coming from Missouri and my money going to Missouri. On a plane, too. I never been on a plane.”

“I’ve gotta shove off now, Mix.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“Well, the plane’s leaving pretty soon and the kids here don’t want to miss it. They’re raising hell in my pocket.”

Mix threw back his head and roared. As soon as George left Mix tried to tell a couple of dockhands about the joke, but even though he explained it right from the beginning and told them how funny it was, they didn’t laugh.

George walked carefully across the wharf toward the Beachcomber. The money in his pocket felt heavy and he had half a notion to give it back to Mix, but he couldn’t think of any logical explanation to offer Hazel: Listen, Hazel, I’ve got a funny feeling about this money, we shouldn’t mess with it, I’ve got a hunch...

Although it was not yet nine o’clock the Beachcomber was open and Willie was behind the bar straining a martini for the lone customer, an elderly man wearing rimless spectacles and a wrinkled tuxedo.

Neither Willie nor the man paid any attention to George. They were both intent on the work in progress like alchemists about to test the results of a new formula.

“Here you are,” Willie said. “Very dry, like you asked for, Judge.”

“I did not say very dry. My exact words were very, very dry. Subtle difference there, lad.”

“Yes sir, but a martini can only get so dry. When it gets drier, it’s straight gin.”

“Mere rhetoric. A splitting of the hair of the dog that bit me.” Judge Bowridge laughed softly to himself. “You forgot the olives, lad. Three, if you please, on the side.”

“Yes sir.”

“One should never drink without eating. I learned that at my mother’s knee. Anton, she said, Anton, promise me by your dear dead father’s mustache, that you will never drink a martini without olives on the side. I have never violated that sacred trust.”

He picked up the first olive, slipped it off the toothpick and swallowed it whole like an aspirin. It made a little squeaking noise as it passed down his throat.

“Delicious,” he said.

Willie went down to the other end of the counter where George was changing into his white coat. He meant to say something unpleasant and cutting to George for running out on the business the night before but he was afraid to. Instead, he glanced back sourly at Bowridge. “He was sitting on the steps outside when I opened up. I had to let him in.”

“How’d he get here?”

“God knows. His car’s not around.”

“I’ll take care of him.” George took Willie’s place behind the bar. “Good morning, Judge.”

“Oh, there you are, Anderson. I was inquiring after your health just a moment ago. Willie informs me you keep well.”

“Well enough.”

“I am delighted to hear it. There are altogether too many half-dead people running around these days.”

“You been up all night, Judge?”

Bowridge took off his spectacles and rubbed them thoughtfully on his coat sleeve. “Now that you mention it, I don’t seem to recall going to bed. I was at a party.”

“The party still going on?”

“Oh, no, no, no. It wasn’t that type of party. It was, frankly, a lugubrious affair. Weak drinks and dull women. Bad combination. I tried to help matters by singing a few songs. Do you happen to know ‘Chewy Chewy’?”

“Not offhand.”

“A very spirited number. Like this.” He snapped his fingers in time to an invisible orchestra. “Gordon Foster and I perfected a duet. You know Foster.”

“Not personally. Hazel’s mentioned him to me.”

“An interesting fellow. Fine tenor voice, but unable to hold his liquor. The trouble with Foster is that he doesn’t eat when he drinks.” As if to set a good example, Bowridge swallowed the remaining two olives, pits and all, as he had the first. “How is Hazel?”

“Fine. I expect her here any minute.”

“Ah. In what capacity?”

“Not what you’re thinking,” George said dryly.

“I’ve been acquainted with Hazel for a great many years.”

“I know that.”

“She’s a remarkable woman.”

“I know that, too.”

“Frankly, Anderson — you don’t mind if I speak frankly?”

“No.”

“Well then, frankly, I never wanted to sign those divorce papers, Anderson, no, I did not. Oh, I signed them all right, but my heart wasn’t in it. I kept putting it off until it was time to go home. My secretary said, you haven’t signed these papers yet, and I said, goddamn it, I won’t sign them, there’s no reason on earth why these two people shouldn’t stay married. And she said, you should have thought of that while court was in session, the case is over. And so it was. I signed the papers.”

George turned away, looking stubborn and a little resentful. “It was Hazel’s idea, not mine.”

“So it would seem.”

“So it was,” George said stiffly. “You want to know what happened? — the real thing, I mean, not what Hazel’s lawyer said in court.”

“I would be very interested.”

“Well, I was late getting home one Saturday night and Hazel was waiting up for me in the front room. I was just sitting there having a beer and some potato chips and telling her a few odd things that happened during the day, and suddenly she got up, walked over to me and said, ‘I’m getting damn good and tired of your boyish blubberings.’ Just like that. Out of a blue sky.”

“A most provocative remark. What did you do?”

“Finished my beer and potato chips and went to bed. What else? She was spoiling for a fight.”

“She may simply have wanted your attention.”

“She wanted a divorce, she got it,” George said. “Let’s forget it.”

“As you wish.” Bowridge finished his martini and pushed the empty glass toward George. “One more, very, very dry. And do not look at me askance. De gustibus non disputandum. De mortuis nil nisi bonum.”

“Maybe I’d better call you a cab.”

“You may call me a whole fleet of cabs if you like,” Bowridge said graciously. “It’s only fair to warn you, however, that I have no intention of leaving. I must wait for Hazel. Besides, I like it here. The sea air is very bracing. It makes me feel alive and nimble.”

He inhaled deeply and extravagantly, opening his mouth wide to receive the bracing air. But his ageing lungs were not accustomed to such largess; he began to cough, pressing both hands against his chest as if to ease its troubles. His face looked pale and withdrawn and he seemed suddenly to have lost interest in George and the martini and the bracing air, in everything but himself. The judge was as ignorant of his body as he was aware of his mind, and this periodic rebellion inside his chest mystified and frightened him. If the day was warm and bright, and his calendar easy, he jeered at the cough, it was nothing. But on a day with a crowded calendar and pellets of rain exploding on the tiled roof of the courtroom so violently he could hardly hear what was going on inside, the cough was death, it had come like the bailiff to take him away, and away he would go, down long corridors to a dark and single cell.

“Devilish thing — don’t know what — causes it — maybe — the olives — did the olives — have pits?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it then — the pits have — lodged somewhere — devilish — damn.”

He coughed for a full minute, and when he had finished he took off his spectacles, wiped the moisture out of his eyes with a handkerchief. His chest was a little sore and his throat raw, but, having convinced himself that the cause was nothing more serious than an unfortunate lodging of olive pits, he felt quite cheerful again; the bailiff and the dark cell were years and miles away, the cough was nothing, the pits, wherever they were, would dissolve. A very dry martini would no doubt assist in their dissolution.

The judge repeated his order and when the martini came he sipped it very slowly and gravely as if it were medicine which had been prescribed for him and which he had to take whether he liked it or not.

George went out to the telephone booth in the foyer and called a cab. Through the window in the top of the door he could see Hazel’s blue Chevy coming toward the Beachcomber, bouncing over the worn planks of the wharf like a jeep. With a familiar feeling of irritation he watched her as she tried to park. Back and forth she maneuvered, three times, four times, and when she had finished the Chevy was still a good four feet from the wharf railing and straddling two parking spaces.

He opened the door and crossed the parking area. Hazel was just getting out of the Chevy, panting a little from exertion. She hadn’t dressed up as she usually did when she came to the Beachcomber. Her hair was tied up in a scarf, and she wore faded blue jeans, a striped T-shirt which had once belonged to Harold and a pair of rhinestone-studded sunglasses which she had borrowed from Josephine since Josephine was too sunburned to go out today anyway.

She gave George a long direct stare as if challenging him to make any remarks about her costume or the way she’d parked the car.

George could never resist a challenge. “You’re going to leave it there?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Look, all you’ve got to do when you want to park is pull up parallel with the car ahead, back in toward the curb until your engine is just about even with the rear window of the other car, then come to a full stop, reverse your wheel and—”

“That’s exactly what I did, and anyway you told me all that before.”

“You couldn’t have done it like that or we wouldn’t be standing out here in the middle of the road.”

Hazel colored slightly. “You seem to be pretty burned up about something. Is it the money?”

“No. And I’m not burned up.”

“You’re acting like it. It’s not my fault if I can’t park right. I do everything just like you taught me, but it doesn’t work out.”

“It isn’t the parking. It’s—” It was everything; it was the judge, the money, Ruby, it was life itself. “Hell, I don’t care if you park in the center of 101. It’s your funeral.”

“Thanks.”

He turned away, squinting up at the sun. “I guess I owe you something for last night. I guess you did your best.”

“I’d just as soon forget about it.”

“So would I.”

“Did you — you got the money all right?”

“Yes, sure.” He hesitated. “You want it now, or have you got time to come in for a drink?”

“I don’t know, it’s kind of early. The whole five hundred, did you get?”

“Here it is. Count it.”

“No. No, really—”

“Count it, go on.”

She counted the money quickly and put it in the back pocket of her jeans as if she was trying to get it out of sight as fast as possible.

“I don’t want to pry,” George said, “but I’d kind of like to know who the guy is. I deserve that much for my trouble, don’t I?”

“You’re going to get paid back. What difference does it make who the guy is?”

“Just say I’m nosy.”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you.”

“All right, it’s your business.”

Hazel turned away, avoiding his eyes. She was tempted to give him back the money right away and make a confession: I was going to play what you’d think was a dirty trick, George, only I’ve changed my mind.

But her mind refused to change. She thought, it isn’t actually a dirty trick, it’s for his own good. He said himself he wished he’d never met her. It’s my fault that he did and now it’s my fault that she’s going away. Everyone will be better off.

She said, looking a little guilty: “Maybe I could use a drink at that. I’m not dressed, though. I didn’t figure on coming in.”

“That’s all right. There’s nobody around except Judge Bowridge.”

“Is he—?”

“He is.”

“That’s too bad.”

They went inside. The judge was still sitting at the bar, his arms forming a circle around the half-finished martini. He was talking quietly but distinctly to himself in a language which neither George nor Hazel recognized but which George from past experience assumed was Latin.

“Carpe diem,” said the judge, “quam minimum credula postero. What happened to you, Anderson?”

“I went out to meet Hazel.”

“Hazel. My dear lady, I did not recognize you without your hair. Here, sit down, take off your glasses, let me admire you. O mater pulchra filia pulchrior.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Hazel said, laughing.

“No, indeed. I speak from the heart. Sit down, sit down, the night is young.”

“It’s morning.”

“I was merely using a figure of speech. I am quite aware that it’s morning. Sunday morning, as a matter of fact. I am always perfectly oriented, even when I’ve been drinking. And I might as well confess that I’ve had one or two drinks throughout the night.”

“Maybe it’s time you thought about going home.”

“I have thought about it,” Bowridge said solemnly. “It seems like an excellent idea.”

“Then—”

“But not one which appeals to me. Carpe diem, I say. Seize the day. Swing it by the tail. Let it know who’s boss.”

Hazel’s smile was a little forced. For one thing she wasn’t sure what he was talking about, and for another she had never before seen Judge Bowridge when he’d been drinking. She had heard about his periodic bats, from George and a dozen other people, but she hadn’t witnessed one, and it embarrassed her.

“I sense opprobrium in the air,” Bowridge said. “Chide me no chides, Hazel.”

“It sounds like you’re talking in riddles.”

“Like the Sphinx. Yes. But that is not my sole resemblance to the Sphinx. We are both old, desiccated, frangible. I know many fine riddles. For example, what is it that can go up the chimney down, but not down the chimney up?”

Hazel took a careful sip of the beer George had drawn for her, and tried to look thoughtful.

“It’s very simple,” the judge said. “Go on, guess.”

“I can’t.”

“Give up?”

“Yes.”

“It’s an umbrella.”

“Oh.”

“A very fine riddle, that. You don’t happen to know any, do you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, no matter, no matter. We will play Twenty Questions instead. Would you like that?”

“I really don’t know,” Hazel said earnestly. “I’ve never played them. Besides, I’ve got to go, I have an important engagement.”

Bowridge frowned. “It’s very peculiar, every time I suggest a game of Twenty Questions, people suddenly discover that they have an engagement somewhere. Is there something intrinsically repulsive about the game itself, or am I the repelling factor?”

“I really have a date. I’ve got to deliver some money.”

“Money. How very interesting. To whom?”

They were both watching her, the judge owlishly, over the top of his spectacles, and George with obvious eagerness, as if he believed that Hazel, now that she was in the presence of a Judge of the Superior Court, must tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. To some extent Hazel shared this feeling but it did not alter her decision to lie, it only made it more difficult to carry out.

George said, earnestly, “Listen, Hazel, has it entered your brain that if you give this guy money to run out on his wife, you’re kind of responsible for what happens?”

“I am not.”

“Just think about it.”

“I already have. He could get the money from someone else. The only reason he asked me is because, well, he just thought of me first, is all. He has lots of friends he could have asked.” She knew that this was a lie. Gordon had no close friends. “He would go away anyway, even without any money. I’m not responsible one bit. And I don’t see why you’re acting so petty about it.”

“It isn’t the money, it’s the way you let yourself get dragged into everybody’s business. You can’t walk up the street without getting involved with somebody.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I am not worried about you,” George said stiffly. “I’m pointing out to you a simple fact.”

“I already know some simple facts.”

“For instance, just for instance, remember the day you got the bright idea of driving over to Ojai to look up your mother’s long-lost cousin Gladys. That was all right, if it would have stopped there. But no. It turns out Gladys has a sister and the sister is living right here in town, teaching school. So naturally you look up the sister too, and by a strange coincidence she happens to be having a nervous breakdown and has to give up her job and has nothing to live on. The rest is history.”

“You’re getting awfully stuffy in your old age, George. I remember the bums you were always bringing home with you.”

“They didn’t stay for a couple of years.”

“I used to dread getting up in the mornings, never knowing how many bodies I’d have to step over to get to the kitchen.”

“That was different. We were married then, you had me to protect you.”

“The only thing you ever protected me from was having a good time.”

“That’s a lie, by Jesus!”

“And it’s none of your damned business who lives in my house because it’s my house.”

“I gave it to you.”

“The judge gave it to me.”

“I signed the prop—”

“Now, now,” the judge said, looking sad. “Now, now, now.”

“I signed the property settle—”

“Order in the court.”

“—meat.”

“You’re in contempt, Anderson. I fine you one martini.”

George looked down at the floor, mute and stubborn.

“You refuse to pay, Anderson?”

“That’s right. I called you a cab.”

“You realize what this means, of course. If you should ever be forced to appear in my court, I shall take a very dim view of your innocence, a very dim view indeed.”

“I’ll ask for a jury trial.”

“Naturally. But in my instructions to the jury I always have the last word.” Bowridge rose unsteadily, hanging on to the ledge of the counter, and addressed the rows of glasses behind George’s head. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have heard the evidence. This niggardly fellow, Anderson, is—”

“You’d better sit down before you fall down.”

“Very well. I always address the jury in that position anyway.” He sat down with cautious dignity, but he looked suddenly very tired, as if the act of rising, or the change of emotional atmosphere in the room, had exhausted him. He tried to revitalize himself by humming, “Chewy Chewy,” but he couldn’t remember the tune, and the sound that came from his throat was a sad sighing which had no connection with music.

“A fine melody, that,” he said, pretending that he could sing it perfectly if he chose to. “Foster sang high and I sang low, but Foster couldn’t hold his liquor and finally I had to go it alone. That’s life for you — one ends up going it alone. Lacrimae rerum. You know what that means, Anderson?”

“I guess it’s Latin.”

“It means the tears of things, the sorrows of the world.”

“Sure, sure. Just don’t start on a crying jag in here.”

“Preposterous remark,” Bowridge said. The truth was, he did want to cry a little and then go to sleep. Simple, human desires; there was no real reason why he shouldn’t gratify them. A few tears, a little sleep, and one would wake up, refreshed, forgetting the long night.

Though his eyes felt moist he could not cry and when he folded his arms on the counter and buried his head between them like a scrawny sparrow hiding from the cold and desolate winter, he could not sleep. The spinning of his heart and the ticking of his mind kept him awake. It seemed to him that he was a freak, that the simple and commonplace gratifications were always just beyond his grasp, or around the corner, or in the middle of next week.

“Your cab’s here,” George said.

13

Ruth came home at noon, her cheeks pink from the walk and from excitement. Dr. Foster had stayed out all night, and never in all her born days had such a thing happened to someone who was as close to her as Elaine was. It was dreadful, it was scandalous, but the excitement kept flooding through her in waves. She greeted Wendy with almost hysterical fondness and the dog responded, leaping up at her, turning in circles, barking in ferocious delight.

“Quiet,” she said. “Be quiet. Down, down, Wendy. Quiet.” But the dog was positive she didn’t mean it and kept leaping up at her and nibbling affectionately at her clothes with its tiny front teeth. “Ah there, there. Yes, I’m home. Now that’s enough. Yes, yes, of course you’re glad to see me, oh my, yes, you are!” Dr. Foster didn’t come home! “She’s always glad to see her mother, yes, she is. Now get down, Wendy.” Dr. Foster ran away! “That’s a good girl, you get down. You get down like your mother’s good girl.” And I am the king of the castle.

She was not consciously aware of the children’s chant running through her head, but the derisive notes picked their way out of her memory and she thought of Manuel who climbed the pepper tree, and Margaret and the pennies she hoarded in her desk. Where were they now, all the children? Carrying the dog she went to the window and looked out at the playground across the street. The dust was rolling across it like a wall of yellow fog pushed by the wind.

She thought, some day soon I will go back. I feel much better. I feel very strong, actually.

The dog squirmed out of her arms and headed for the kitchen. She turned from the window, laughing, filled with a sense of power because Dr. Foster had run away from his wife. In contrast to Elaine, she had very little, only a dog instead of children and a husband, but the dog was all hers. It would never run off and stay out all night and get drunk.

“There,” she said, “did someone forget to give my girl her breakfast? We’ll fix that.”

Josephine was in the kitchen, sipping a glass of milk and gazing placidly into space. Sometimes she could sit for hours without thinking of anything, only seeing a lot of warm rich color in her mind.

“Nobody had any breakfast,” she said in a vaguely surprised voice, “except me and Harold. I was wondering if I should do the dishes but there’s hardly enough to bother about.”

“I had breakfast at Mrs. Foster’s house. She asked me to stay there all night.”

With her mind swathed in the warm rich colors, Josephine was incurious. “Harold went out to look at an apartment. The ad was in the paper this morning, three rooms, it said, and no pets and no children allowed. Harold said I’d better stay home on account of someone might suspect my condition.”

“Mrs. Foster,” Ruth said, rather annoyed at Josephine’s obtuseness, “didn’t want to stay alone with the children.”

“Is she scared of the dark? I am, once in a while. I know very well it’s the same room in the dark as it is in the light, but I can’t be positively sure unless I turn the light on again for a minute.”

“Of course she’s not afraid of the dark. She was upset because he didn’t come home. He took the car and ran off last night, and this morning he phoned. She told me every word he said. He’s not coming back, he said, he doesn’t want to live with her any more and she’s to get a divorce.”

“My goodness.” Josephine was shocked. “I thought they were a very happy couple.”

“So did I. You can’t tell from appearances. He said no matter what grounds she gets a divorce on, he promises to give her reasonable alimony and not to ask custody of any of the children. That’s not all, either. There’s a girl mixed up in it. Mrs. Foster thinks they’ve been living in sin together. She’s not sure, but that’s what she thinks. Quite a young girl too. It doesn’t put him in a very good light, I must say.”

“I don’t believe it. No man would leave his kids like that.” The warm colors were gone, the scene was gray. She was having her baby and Harold was leaving her. The baby cried pitifully, and she herself held out her arms, pleading, but Harold turned away. A very slim, pretty girl was smiling at him. “Not a decent man like — like Harold.”

“Who can tell who’s decent nowadays? Look at Dr. Foster. There wasn’t a person in town who didn’t think he was the soul of honor. He fooled everybody, even Hazel.”

“What if he never comes back? Hazel won’t have a job.”

“I never thought of that.”

“It seems a shame,” Josephine said. “Just when she was all settled and getting the yard fixed up and everything.”

Ruth flung back her head as if she’d been challenged. “Well, at least that’s the end of the Mexican anyway. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

She walked decisively to the sink and began to rinse off the dishes under the tap, but she felt such a sudden sharp pain in her chest that she had to stop. She leaned over the sink, pressing her dripping hands against her bosom. It’s nothing, she thought. I feel very strong, actually. It’s one of those silly meaningless pains that everybody gets now and then. I’m really quite strong.

“Do you feel all right?” Josephine asked.

“Yes — dizzy spell — it’s over now.”

“It’s from that walking. If you walked all the way from Fosters’ house at your age — not that you’re old, my goodness, but it’s the way you walk, so fast no one can keep up with you. You’d think someone was chasing you.”

The pain was gone. She wiped her hands and dabbed at the water on the front of her dress, the damp imprint of two hands, one over each breast.

“I like to walk fast,” she said.

Josephine giggled. “I can’t say the same for myself, right now. I’ve gotten so I just hate to move, unless Harold’s around to help me up out of chairs and things like that.”

“I should change my dress.”

“It’ll dry in a minute on a day like this.”

“I’ll go and change it. I shouldn’t be working around in the kitchen in a good dress like this. It’s wasteful.”

She went into her bedroom, shutting the door against Josephine. Quite frequently lately, the sound of Josephine’s gentle voice talking about Harold, and the sight of her distended abdomen and swollen breasts, set Ruth’s nerves on edge. She wasn’t sure why she had these violent reactions to Josephine. They came at her suddenly, in the midst of quite ordinary conversations about the baby’s name, or the number of diapers that would be necessary, or the house Josephine meant to have someday down by the sea.

“Not a big house. Two bedrooms, that will be enough.”

“You’ll get the fog down there.”

“I don’t care, I never get tired looking at the sea.”

“If you build above the fog line it would be better for the baby.”

“And wistaria vines over the front veranda. I’m crazy about wistaria.”

“It’s all right when it’s in bloom, but think of when it isn’t. It looks like old dead twigs.”

“And maybe a very small orchard, a couple of orange trees and an avocado. And a jacaranda, just to look at.”

“They say you’ve got to plant two avocados side by side, a single one won’t bear fruit.”

“I never heard of that.”

“You’ve got to be careful about jacarandas too. Some of them never bloom and some bloom in fits, maybe every few years. They’re very temperamental, someone told me.”

“My goodness, Ruth, you’ve said something kind of unpleasant about every single one of my ideas.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You have so. About the fog line and the wistarias and the jacaranda—”

“I was just urging you to be careful.”

“Well, it didn’t sound like it. It sounded like—”

Josephine couldn’t explain what it sounded like, and Ruth, who might have explained, didn’t try. It sounded as if she was jealous of Josephine with her baby who hadn’t arrived yet, the two-bedroom house that hadn’t been built, and the jacaranda that wasn’t planted. But she knew she wasn’t jealous of the baby, the tree, the house, only of Josephine’s capacity for dreaming of such things.

She took off the crepe dress she always wore to the Fosters’ on Saturday nights. Where the water had touched it, the crepe had puckered and the imprint of her hands was now indistinct and no larger than a child’s. She hung the dress on her side of the closet she shared with Hazel.

Standing in her white cotton slip, Ruth heard her heart knocking against the bones of her chest, extraordinarily loud and distinct in the stifling closet. It was the heartbeat of fear. She felt that her life was changing, but she didn’t know in which way and she was afraid to have it change at all. The indications of change were there. They were very small things that someone else mightn’t notice, little wings beating against the thin brittle walls of her world like moths at a window.

Dr. Foster had left, and though he scarcely knew she was alive, his leaving affected her. There would be no more Saturday nights for her, telling stories to Paul and Judith and giving the baby his bottle, and probably even no more job for Hazel. The four of them, and the fifth to come, would be forced to live on Hazel’s alimony and Harold’s wages, while the cost of living kept going up and up and up.

The excitement she felt when she entered the house had been only carbonated fear and now that the bubbles had disappeared she recognized it for what it was. She was terrified by the intricate complexities of even one small human act. A man who was almost a stranger to her had decided to leave his wife, and by this decision he had involved not only himself and his family and the girl, but herself and Hazel and Josephine and Harold and the baby, even the dog. Perhaps in the end, she thought desperately, everyone in the world was affected by the actions of every other person, a chain reaction was set up that never ceased. It went on and on, an interminable string tying them all together in an inextricably knotted mass. There was no escape, it was a universal law: one drop of water couldn’t be displaced without affecting all the other drops.

She stood in the narrow closet listening to her fearful heart and the pressing of the wind against the windows. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t take one step forward or backward for fear that step would be heard around the world.

At that moment she came, as close as she’d ever come, to some kind of revelation, but the moment passed and her mind had to withdraw to protect itself. She began to grope for some simple easy explanation that would shift the weight of responsibility. It’s this wind, she thought. I always get nervy like this when the wind blows in from the desert. It used to affect my classes too. The children were all cross and I had quite a time controlling them. They used to sag over their desks, their eyes reddened with dust—

She put on a wrap-around cotton dress that Josephine had given to her when Josephine had become too big to wear it any longer. She felt quite ashamed of herself for becoming irritated with Josephine. It was the wind, of course. Now that she realized that fact, she could discipline herself better. For the rest of the day she would force herself to be pleasant and to smile when she didn’t feel like it. She had the will power, she could do it. Ignore the desert wind.

She heard the front door slam and she knew it must be Hazel coming home because Harold always closed doors very softly to avoid startling Josephine. Bracing herself (against the wind, the drop of water, the knot of string) she went out to the living room.

She told Hazel the news while Hazel sat on the davenport rubbing her eyes.

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Ruth said.

“Not so very. My God, it’s hot. Is there some cold juice or something in the refrigerator?”

“Grapefruit juice. Don’t rub your eyes like that. You’re only rubbing the dust in, not getting it out.”

“It feels good anyway.”

“If you’re not surprised it means you must have had your suspicions all along. Mrs. Foster asked me that last night, and I said, of course not. Hazel’s never said a word except what a wonderful man Dr. Foster is. I said, I’m sure Hazel would never condone anything like that.”

“Like what?”

“His running around with other women.”

“He didn’t,” Hazel said deliberately. “There was just one woman.”

“How do you know?”

“Someone told me.”

“That’s even worse. It — it practically proves that they were — cohabiting.”

“If they weren’t, they soon will be.”

“I’m shocked to the core by your attitude, Hazel. You don’t seem to realize—”

“How’s Elaine taking it?”

“How would anyone take it? She’s beside herself, the poor woman. This morning he had the nerve to phone her and tell her, bold as brass, to go out and get a divorce. Naturally she refused. She said never, no matter what happens, will she disgrace her church and her parents and her children by becoming a divorced woman. And I agree with her. She’s convinced that divorce is wrong and I admire her for standing by her convictions.”

“Crap.”

Ruth’s face grew pale with disapproval. “I wish you — you really shouldn’t use words like that, Hazel. I know it’s your house and all that but—”

“All right, I’ll say baloney then, but it’s the same thing no matter how you slice it.”

“Really, Hazel!”

“I get so damn tired of your admiration for that snippy little bitch. I know why she’s not getting a divorce, because she’s too damn mean for one thing. It would kill her to see Gordon have a life of his own. And also because she knows she’ll never get another husband if she lets Gordon go.”

“Such a thought would never occur to her,” Ruth said harshly. “And I’m surprised at you, Hazel. You talk as if you actually approve of Dr. Foster and what he’s done.”

“I’ve always approved of him, why should I change now? A good man doesn’t turn into a bad man overnight.”

“That’s all very well, but we must judge people by their actions. There’s no other way to judge them, and you—”

Hazel raised her voice to interrupt. “I don’t want to judge them. I want to go on liking the people I like and making excuses for them when I have to, and having a few excuses made for me too.”

“Moral softness. I want no excuses made for me, ever.”

“You need them, like everyone else.”

“I wouldn’t take them!” Ruth shouted, making a wild gesture with her fists. “I wouldn’t listen!”

“Don’t get so worked up. I wasn’t trying to—”

“I don’t want any excuses from anybody. Discipline, not excuses, that’s what we need in this world, more self-denial and discipline. Oh yes, I can see what you’re thinking now — poor Ruth, she can’t help getting worked up, she had a nervous breakdown and lost her job, and she’s an old maid too, of course, and her father was—”

“Stop guessing,” Hazel said. “If you want to know what I was thinking I’ll tell you. I was thinking that people who are hard on themselves the way you are, are usually pretty hard on other people too.”

“Not hard enough.”

“Elaine Foster’s kind of like that too. I can’t explain it so well, but maybe if she liked herself a little better and had a little more self-respect, she’d be better off.”

“Well, well! You’re getting to be quite a psychologist, Hazel Anderson. You’ve got Mrs. Foster and me all figured out, and the trouble with us is we have no self-respect!”

“I meant, respect for yourselves as you really are, not expecting to be perfect and accepting the fact that you’ve got a few human weaknesses that maybe aren’t so bad after all.”

“No self-respect, eh?” Ruth cried. “And what do you think you’ve got, the kind of things you do, drinking and carrying on and traipsing after your divorced husband—”

Josephine came to the door with an anxious little smile on her face. “Gee whiz, the way you two sound you’d think you were quarreling. Mrs. Hatcher’s outside working in her garden, she’s bound to hear every word you say.”

“That’s all right,” Hazel said. “We’re finished.”

“We have finished,” Ruth corrected her. “We are finished would mean we are dead.”

“Close enough to suit me.”

“The least I can do in exchange for your analysis of my character is to give you a free lesson in English grammar.”

Josephine turned on her and said hotly, “That’s no way to speak to Hazel after all she’s—”

“You stay out of this,” Hazel said. Then she addressed Ruth in a quieter voice, “I’m sorry if I said anything to hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”

“Hurt me,” Ruth sneered. “You can’t hurt me. I don’t allow myself to be hurt.”

“There you go again. Don’t kid yourself.”

“And I repeat, you don’t have to make any excuses for me, Hazel Anderson. I don’t require them and I don’t believe in them, for me or anybody else, let alone a man like Dr. Foster. A man that leaves his wife and children and runs off with another woman is a bad man. He stands condemned by his own action in the eyes of all decent people.”

“Maybe I’m not decent.”

“If the shoe fits, wear it.”

“There’s a car stopping out front,” Josephine said nervously. “You two just better quit arguing right now.”

Hazel got up to look out of the window. Then, without a word of explanation, she picked up her purse from the top of the radio and went outside.

Gordon was alone in the car. Though Hazel had seen him only twenty-four hours ago, he seemed to have changed more than a day’s worth. Wearing the old slack suit that she’d seen hanging in his office and needing a shave, he looked like an ordinary workingman relaxing on a Sunday morning. There was none of that do-or-die air about him that he put on along with his white surgeon’s coat.

He smiled at her as she came down the walk. “I was just coming in.”

“It’d be better if we talked out here. Too many people.” She opened her purse and took out the roll of bills bound together with an elastic. It looked like a lot of money and Hazel wondered if Gordon knew how little it actually was in these times. Maybe to him it looked like more because it meant his freedom for a week or two and he was too excited at the prospect to think further ahead than that.

He handed her two checks, one for five hundred dollars made out to Cash, and the other for a hundred made out to Hazel.

“What’s this for?”

“Your salary for the next two weeks.”

“What am I supposed to do to earn it?”

“Answer the phone. Cancel all appointments for the next month. If there are any emergencies send them over to Dr. Tower. Appointments for routine check-ups and cleanings you can step up till next month if the people are willing to wait. If they aren’t ask Dr. MacPherson to take them. Tell everyone I’m on a holiday, naturally.”

“Then you’re coming back?”

“I hope so. You’ll hear from me anyway.” He paused for a moment. “Thanks for everything, Hazel. Not just getting the money, but for understanding that this is the only way I could do it. It seems pretty sordid, I guess, for me to be sneaking away like this. But I couldn’t go home to say goodbye because I know I wouldn’t get away. Elaine would pull out every stop on the organ, and I’m afraid I’d change my mind. I want to do now what has to be done eventually. Ruby isn’t the issue, I want you to understand that. It’s true that if I didn’t know her and if she didn’t love me, I probably wouldn’t have the guts to leave Elaine now. But Ruby has caused nothing, do you see that?”

“Yes.”

“She’s over at her room packing. She’s been at it all morning and she’s only got one suitcase. I wonder if she’s giving me a chance to change my mind, or if she actually doesn’t want to leave under the circumstances.”

“Maybe she’s just particular,” Hazel said.

“That must be it.”

“It must be.”

Gordon drew in his breath. “Well, I guess that covers everything. Be sure and be at the bank when it opens tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“It’s a hell of a thing to say about your wife, but she might try to close our joint account and I don’t want you to be caught with two bad checks.”

“You’d better tell me where you’re going.”

“San Francisco, probably. Then if anything happens Ruby will at least have her aunt’s place to go to. Anything could happen you know, an accident or something like that.”

“Don’t sound so gloomy, Gordon.” It was the first time she had ever called him Gordon. She was surprised how the name slipped out so easily, as if she never expected him to come back and change into Dr. Foster again.

The wind veered suddenly, and picking up the dirt from the playground hurled it across the street. They both closed their eyes automatically until the sound of the wind died down.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Hazel said.

“I guess not. Well, thanks again, Hazel. I’d better get going, with four hundred miles to drive.”

They shook hands, and Hazel said, “Goodbye and good luck.”

“Goodbye, Hazel.”

She waited on the sidewalk until his car reached the corner, then she waved to him and Gordon waved back, very gaily.

Though she had a premonition that she’d never see him again, she wasn’t depressed at the prospect of losing a good job with a pleasant boss. It occurred to her then, for the first time, that she mightn’t have been so eager to help Gordon get away if he hadn’t been taking Ruby with him.

She stood on the small roofless porch reluctant to go inside and face the questions of Josephine and Ruth. A mockingbird flew up out of the pyracantha bush. Though the berries were barely beginning to show orange, the birds had already been at them. She resolved now, as she did every year, to save the berries for Christmas decoration by screening them with nets, but she knew perfectly well that by Christmas the bush would look as it always did. The red berries would be crushed and half-eaten, showing their yellowish pulp, like ruined immature apples, and every tiny leaf would be partly nibbled to its spine by snails and beetles. Even if she could save the bush from the birds it was hard to wash the beetles off before bringing the berries into the house. The beetles hid and clung, and only after they’d been in the house for a day or two would they abandon the berries and seek the bright yellow patches in the slipcover of the davenport. Motionless and rapt, they would sit absorbing the color. They never returned to the berries, and they never went anywhere else in the house.

The mockingbird came back and began to squawk insults at her from the porch railing.

A teenaged girl was coming up the street on a bicycle, riding very slowly, wobbling from side to side to keep her balance. She had long black hair that danced in a frenzy around her head with every gust of wind. Perched on the carrier behind her was a boy of five or six, hanging on to the girl’s waist and holding his legs out in the air to avoid interfering with the girl’s pedaling. In the basket at the front sat a fat sunburned baby with a soother in his mouth. Every time the bicycle wobbled the baby lurched to one side, but he didn’t make a sound, either because he didn’t want to lose the soother, or because he was enjoying the ride. The girl paid no attention to the baby or the boy behind her. Like the captain of a well-run ship, she seemed to assume that they each knew their places and would perform their duties.

The bicycle zigzagged again, and Hazel started down the porch steps and called out, “Aren’t you afraid he’ll fall?”

The girl stared at Hazel suspiciously for a moment. Then she applied the brakes and put her left foot down on the road. Simultaneously, as if from long habit, the boy put his left foot on the road, and slid off the carrier. “I didn’t hear what you said, lady.”

“I was just wondering if the baby would fall when you’re going so slow and wobbly like that.”

“He won’t fall,” the girl said flatly, blinking her dark eyes at the baby. “I got him tied in. Anyway, I’m only going slow because I’m looking for something. I can ride perfect, without hands even.”

“And backwards, and standing on the seat,” the boy added.

“My goodness,” Hazel said. “I never even heard of that.”

“Connie can do it,” the boy said. “Go on, Connie, do it for her.”

Connie hesitated, torn between the desire to show off and the desire to appear sophisticated. “Naw,” she said. “That’s baby stuff, and Pop wouldn’t like it anyway.” She explained to Hazel, “It’s my pop’s bicycle.”

“He goes to work on it,” the boy said. “He’s a gardener.”

“A landscape gardener,” the girl corrected him with a frown.

“I wouldn’t know the difference,” Hazel said.

“There’s lots of difference. You get more money if you’re landscape.”

The soother fell out of the baby’s mouth and he let out a howl of rage. The girl glanced at Hazel with some contempt. “See? I told you. He’s yelling because he thinks the ride’s over.” She picked the soother up off the road, wiped the dirt off on her blouse and popped it back into the baby’s mouth. “He’s not afraid of falling, even if he could. Which he can’t. Are you, Bingo?”

Bingo rolled his eyes and Hazel laughed. “He’s very cute.”

“He’s called Bingo because my mother was at a Bingo game just before he was born, only his real name’s Truman.” The girl added, with infinite scorn, “My parents haven’t the faintest idea how to name children.”

“Is that right.”

“I wouldn’t dream of using my real name at school. It’s Consuela, but I just call myself Connie, Consuela sounds so foreignish. If I just call myself Connie, people think my real name is Constance which stinks too, only at least it sounds as if I was born in this country. Which I was.”

“We all was,” the boy said. “My mother, too.”

“His name’s Vicente,” Connie said, with a worldly shrug. “Only he’s not old enough yet to realize how awful it is.”

“I do so,” the boy protested.

“If you realize now when you’re only six, just think how much more you’re going to realize when you’re nearly sixteen.”

The boy hung his head under the weight of this future, and began to shuffle his feet in the dust. Connie glanced at Hazel as if she wasn’t certain whether to continue the conversation or not. Then she said curtly, “Come on, Vin,” and she and the boy took their places on the bicycle simultaneously.

It wasn’t until they had moved a couple of yards ahead that Hazel recognized the skunk tail hanging from the carriage, and the reflector that spelled out “Watch My Speed.” She called out, and the bicycle stopped again, and the boy and girl turned their heads at exactly the same time and with equal suspicion.

“Maybe I can help,” Hazel said. “What are you looking for?”

“A hedge clipper,” Connie answered. “My pop lost it and it cost five ninety-five.”

“Enough for one hundred and nineteen ice cream cones, Pop said,” the boy added.

“That’s not counting tax,” Connie said severely. “If we don’t find it on the road, Pop said to go to Mr. Anderson’s house, 2124 the number is.”

“That’s my house.”

Connie blinked. “I know.”

“You can come in the yard and look around if you like.”

“Pop said to look up and down the road first.”

“It would probably be picked up by now if he lost it on the road,” Hazel said. “He may have left it at my house, I’ll go and see. Do you want to come inside and wait?”

“I’ll come inside,” Connie said, flashing a look at the boy. “Vin can ride Bingo up and down the street.”

“He can come inside too,” Hazel said quickly. “He doesn’t look big enough to sit on the seat and reach the pedals.”

“You don’t have to sit on the seat to ride a bicycle. Go on, Vin, show the lady.”

Vin obliged.

“See?” Connie said, and Hazel admitted that she saw and the two of them went into the house.

The front room was empty but it had the air of having just been abandoned at the approach of company.

“Sit down, Connie,” Hazel said.

“I’d just as soon stand. I like to stand, I do it all the time.”

She stood along the wall with her hands behind her back. She felt too sophisticated to stare at the furniture with the crude curiosity of a child, the way Vin would have done. She narrowed her eyes and gazed out of their corners in a manner meant to indicate a bored indifference. It was the expression she used at school when one of the teachers asked her a question she couldn’t answer. She merely lifted her eyebrows and narrowed her eyes to show that she didn’t care but that she certainly would know the answer if she did care.

Every few minutes she heard Vin ride past the house yelling, “Honk, honk!” and “Yippee, bang bang!” She would have liked to open the door and order him to be quiet, but she didn’t want to move for fear the lady of the house might think she’d been snooping while she was gone.

When Hazel returned Connie had barely moved a muscle.

“I can’t find it,” Hazel said. “My sister-in-law and I both hunted for it.”

Though Connie continued to look bored, there was an undertone of anxiety in her voice: “Pop said not to bother you too much, but he’s pretty sure he couldn’t have dropped it on the road. It’s heavy, it would have made a noise and he’d have heard it. Pop’s awful careful about his tools.”

“Yes, I saw that.”

“And this was the last place he went to.”

“Well, I certainly can’t find it,” Hazel repeated. She was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable under the girl’s oblique gaze. The girl had not accused her of deliberately withholding the hedge clipper; the accusation lay in the facts themselves. Mr. Escobar had brought his hedge clipper to Hazel’s yard, and when he arrived home the clipper was missing. It was practically impossible, Hazel thought, for it to have fallen from the bicycle basket without Escobar noticing it.

“Maybe someone stole it,” Connie said.

“I don’t see how. Your father was working out in the yard all the time, and there wasn’t anyone else around, not while I was here anyway. Wait a minute and I’ll go and ask my cousin about it.”

“Pop said not to bother you too much, maybe I better just go.”

“It’s no bother,” Hazel said quite sharply. “I want to get this thing cleared up.”

She went into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. The blinds were drawn, and Ruth was lying on the bed with a cloth over her eyes. She was absolutely motionless, yet Hazel had the same impression that she’d had when she and Connie had come into the house, an impression of activity that stopped a split second before she opened the door. She wondered if Ruth had been listening at the door and if she’d been able to hear anything with the wind blowing so loud outside.

“What’s the matter?” Hazel said.

“I have a headache.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but Mr. Escobar’s girl is here.”

Ruth sat up and the cloth fell off her eyes into her lap.

“What?” she said stupidly. “Who?”

“The Mexican’s daughter.”

“Daughter?” She let out a sudden sharp laugh. “This is a surprise. He’s got a daughter, has he? Who’d have guessed it, from the look of him? What’s she like?”

“Quite pretty.”

“Pretty, is she? That is funny.” She laughed again. “She can’t take after him!”

“Don’t laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I don’t! I was laughing because it’s so funny, him having a daughter, and pretty at that. What’s she doing here?”

“She came to get her father’s hedge clipper. He says he left it here yesterday.”

“He’s lying!”

Hazel looked annoyed. “Why should he lie about it?”

“So he can get a new one out of you. His was old, I saw it, it was all rusty.”

“The girl told me it was brand new.”

“They’re all lying,” Ruth cried. “They’re all the same, sly and scheming behind those innocent eyes of theirs! Yes, those innocent velvet eyes, they can hide a lot.”

“Keep your voice down. She’s right in the front room.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

Ruth picked up the cloth that she’d had over her eyes and began to twist it in her hands. Hazel watched her uneasily. She was afraid that Ruth was going to have another of her nervous spells. They always followed the same pattern — there was the hard mirthless laughter, the talk about self-discipline, and then the moment when the discipline broke open at the seams, exposing a quivering and uncoordinated mass of tissue.

“I certainly didn’t take his hedge clipper,” Ruth said. “What are you looking at me for? Why even ask me about it?”

“I thought you might have seen it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You said you did.”

“Only for a minute, long enough to see that it was old and rusty.” She fell back on the pillow, and when she spoke again her voice was high and suffering: “Anyway, it’s all a lie. The whole thing is a lie from beginning to end. Perhaps there never was a hedge clipper, perhaps I only imagined I saw it or I mistook it for something else. That’s it, I’m sure — I don’t believe there ever was such a thing, so I couldn’t have taken something that wasn’t there. You mustn’t accuse me.”

“I wasn’t accusing you.”

“You were, with your eyes.”

“I’m only trying to get to the bottom of the matter,” Hazel said. “I feel responsible for a loss that took place on my property.”

“That’s how he wants you to feel, so you’ll buy him another.”

“I have no intention of buying him another. I intend to find the one he left here and I’ll find it, by Jesus, if I have to take the whole damn house apart.”

“You’ll never find it,” Ruth said softly. “There never was such a thing. It’s all a lie, it was all meant to take you in because you’re innocent. You talk so rough, Hazel, and you know so many different kinds of people, but you’re very innocent.”

She put the cloth over her eyes again, as a gesture of dismissal.

“Listen, Ruth,” Hazel said quietly, “if you know anything about where that hedge clipper is, you better tell me now. I’ll find out anyway.”

Ruth lay on the bed, mute and rigid.

“Let’s put it this way, suppose you had one of your screwy ideas and decided to take the hedge clipper and put it away some place. Maybe you were going to teach him a lesson, or maybe you even did it for my sake, to save money or something — I don’t care what reason you had. Just tell me where you put it and then we’ll forget the whole thing.”

“I’ve already forgotten.”

“Listen, you’ve got to tell me where it is.”

“I don’t know. I never saw it.”

“You don’t realize, this is one of those small things that can turn out to be very serious. He’s a poor man, he might go to the police. We’ll all get in trouble.”

“See? You are accusing me. I felt it when you came in the room.”

“I wasn’t accusing you when I came in. I only got suspicious when you began to talk about seeing it and not seeing it.”

“I’m not a liar. Sometimes I appear to lie, but it’s only that my imagination is so vivid, pictures form so clear and real in my head. But I’m not a liar.”

“I know that,” Hazel said patiently.

“So that’s where I must have seen it, in my head. It was lying on a shelf, or on the grass, I’m not sure which.”

“Ruth, did you take it or didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t there to take, and besides, I’d have no reason to do such a thing. I can’t think of any reason at all.” Though there had been no change in her voice and no overt sign of weeping, the cloth over her eyes was wet with tears. “If I could think of a reason, any reason — for your sake, perhaps, for your sake—”

“The reason doesn’t matter. Did you take it?”

“No, no, I didn’t!”

“All right,” Hazel said. “We’ll forget it for now.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Send the girl home and then find the hedge clipper. Maybe we’d both better hunt for it, you and me.”

“I can’t, I have this headache.”

Hazel stood looking at her indecisively for a moment, then she burst out, “Oh, for God’s sake, Ruth, be sensible and tell me where you hid it.”

Ruth turned her face to the wall.

When Hazel went back to the front room the girl was gone. Thinking she might have decided to wait outside, Hazel opened the door in time to see the bicycle just turning on to Castillo Street. At the hole in the corner which Hazel was always careful to avoid when she was driving, the baby and the boy and Connie herself all bounced in the air, but Connie kept pedaling furiously and in a moment the bicycle had disappeared behind the stucco wall of the school.

Hazel turned back into the house. Through the closed door of the bedroom she could hear Ruth talking to herself in a thin, reedy monotone that sounded as though Ruth had not intended to talk, she had merely opened her mouth and the desert wind blew through it like a pitch pipe.

She opened the door. Ruth was sitting on the edge of the bed with the little dog cradled in her arms. The dog looked uncomfortable and puzzled, but it did not attempt to escape.

“Ruth.”

“I will come out and speak to her personally,” Ruth said.

“You can’t. She’s gone.”

“Gone? Why?”

“I don’t know. She had her little brothers with her, maybe she wanted to get them home.”

“Brothers. Yes, of course. They breed like pigs.” The little dog squirmed out of her arms, sensing danger in their sudden contraction, and went to hide under the bed. “Like pigs. It’s disgusting. He probably has a new child every year.”

“That’s his business.”

“I’m sure it is his business. He seems to do very little else.”

“There’s no sense in—”

“But then they’re all lazy, every one of them.”

“I thought he worked very hard yesterday.”

“You weren’t here. I was. I watched him. I watched him the whole day.”

“Yes,” Hazel said slowly. “Yes, I guess you did.”

“You can rest assured that I did. Josephine wanted me to go along on the boat ride but I stayed home deliberately. They’ve got to be watched.”

“Do they?”

“Every minute of the time.”

Hazel had turned quite pale. “You stood outside and watched him?”

“Not outside. In here.”

“In where?”

“In— Why are you looking at me like that? Stop it. Stop it immediately.”

“Ruth.”

“I won’t tolerate it.”

“Listen to me a minute. I’m only trying to get at the truth.”

“Truth. Truth. There’s no such thing — it’s all a pack of lies.”

“What is?”

“All, all of it. Lies. Slander. You can’t believe anything you’re told.”

“Nobody told me anything. I figured it out for myself.”

Ruth laughed. “Oh, you did, did you? You’re quite a figurer for a woman with no education, who never got past high school.”

She was trembling so violently that the bed rattled and the dog hiding under it made a sudden dash for the door.

“I can figure, all right,” Hazel said. “You didn’t know he was married.”

“I didn’t know, or care. I wasn’t interested enough to think about it.”

“You thought about it.”

“No!”

“If you watched him all day, you must have.”

“How can you imply such a thing? — A Mexican — a dirty Mexican—” She took a long, shuddering breath. “We’ve always held our heads high, all the Kanes, we’re a good family.”

“Why did you take the clipper? So he’d have to come back for it?”

“No, no, how can you — how—”

“It’s the only reason I can think of.”

“No, no! I did it for your sake, Hazel, for you. I knew he was going to try and cheat you. I cheated him first. That’s fair, isn’t it, isn’t it fair?”

“You’re talking crazy. Why should he try to cheat me?”

“Because they all do. Everybody knows that. You can’t trust them. They’re sly, deceitful. He didn’t let on he was married, never gave a sign. We talked, I remember every word. Nothing about a wife and family, nothing. It shows, doesn’t it, how deceitful they are, how they can’t be trusted? I remember every word. We talked about Wendy, him pretending to be interested in her but all the while sizing me up with those innocent eyes of his. Ah, but I was too smart for him. I cheated him before he cheated me. You see that?”

“Yes, I think I see it. I think I do.” Hazel walked over to the window, her hands jammed in the pockets of her jeans as if it was necessary to keep them under control. The sun poured through the net curtains, a golden stream of warmth and light. “Where did you hide it?”

“In the garage.”

“Whereabouts in the garage?”

“I — can’t tell you.”

“You’ve got to.”

Ruth stared down at the floor, mute and suffering.

“Now try and be sensible, Ruth. I looked in the garage a few minutes ago and couldn’t find it. You’re sure you hid it there?”

“Yes.”

“What part? Tell me.”

“I want to, I want to, but I—” She moved her head from side to side, like an animal with a pain it couldn’t understand or communicate.

“Ruth. Listen to me.”

“Yes.”

“You’re over the bad part, you’ve admitted you took it and hid it some place. That was hard for you, but you did it.”

“Yes.”

“The rest can’t be any harder. Tell me where it is and I’ll take it back to him and we can forget the whole thing. Are you listening to me, Ruth?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“The — the buggy.”

“Buggy.”

“That Harold got for the baby. It’s right — right there. I didn’t hide it. I just put it down — it seemed — such a good place for it.”

“Yes,” Hazel said quietly, “I guess it was.”

“You won’t — tell Josephine?”

“No.”

“She’d be mad — germs and everything.”

“I won’t tell her.”

“I don’t know — why I took it. It’s only a clipper.”

“Sometimes things have a special meaning.”

“What meaning could it have? Only a clipper.” She raised her head, slowly. “To you it must seem — quite humorous.”

“No.”

“But it is, it is humorous, in a way. I often see the funny side of things only I can’t laugh easily like some people. Oh, yes, I see the humor in it. You must, too, only you won’t admit it — a grown woman spying on a Mexican gardener, yes spying, and then stealing his hedge clipper and hiding it in a baby buggy. That’s humorous enough. You’re a great laugher, why don’t you laugh?”

“I don’t feel like it,” Hazel said. “I’ll go and get the clipper.”

“Wait. I’ll go with you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I must.” She grasped the bedpost and pulled herself to her feet. Two spots of color had appeared over her cheekbones like round red poker chips. “I must learn to face things.”

The garage smelled of oil and dust and dead leaves. Each time a gust of wind blew past the door the leaves were sucked up into the vacuum it left behind; they jerked and spun for a moment like frenzied dancers and then drifted down to the concrete floor, rustling with self-applause.

Throughout the morning dust had sifted into the garage like snow, and now it covered everything, the oil leavings from Hazel’s car, the broken chair from the kitchen, the bicycle Harold had used on his paper route years and years ago, Ruth’s trunkful of books, George’s collection of shells and driftwood; and, in the far corner near the window, the buggy which Harold had gotten, fourth- or fifth-hand, from the furniture store where he worked. Someone (Josephine? Ruth?) had covered the buggy with an old yellow slicker.

Ruth approached it slowly, holding a handkerchief against her mouth, partly to control its trembling and partly to protect it from the dust.

Her voice came through the handkerchief, muffled and strange. “Everything is so dirty. I must clean.” I must face things, I must expiate, I must clean, I must, I must... She removed the yellow slicker and a faint odor of urine rose from the mattress pad and vanished.

The hedge clipper lay snugly on its side, but it did not breathe or move; it did not look or smell or feel like a real baby, and yet for a brief time in Ruth’s mind it had been real. It had breathed against her scrawny chest and warmed her arms and made loving sounds in her ear.

She reached into the buggy and pulled the clipper out roughly by one handle.

“Only a clipper,” she said with a sharp little laugh. “You see? It is funny.”

“Yes.”

“I wish you’d laugh. You laugh at other things, why not at this?”

Hazel didn’t answer.

“I suppose you think I’m crazy. Well, I’m not. I sometimes wish I were. Life can be so dirty, so cruel, so terrifying.” Life is dirty, I must clean; it is cruel, I must be kind; it is terrifying, I must be brave, face things.

“Where does he live?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Escobar.” It was the first time she had ever called him by his name.

“On Quincy Street, 509, I think.”

“You said the hard part was over, Hazel. You were wrong.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m going to take the clipper back myself. That will be the hardest part, explaining to him.”

“For God’s sake, Ruth, be sensible. You can’t explain to him, you—”

“I must.”

She turned and walked back through the dead leaves and the dust, with the hedge clipper hanging loosely from her hand, striking her thigh as she moved.

She took a bus across town in the direction of Quincy Street. Since it was Sunday, the bus was nearly empty and the driver had to go very slowly to kill time. On weekdays, in order to keep to his schedule, he was compelled to drive at a wild clip, dodging in and out of traffic, blowing his horn, spurting through the streets like a grounded pilot demoted to the wheel of a dilapidated bus but not admitting it for a minute.

Sunday was different, low gear, five miles an hour. He had time to look around and enjoy himself and study his passengers through the rear-view mirror. The young Negro couple were in love, probably newly in love, from the way they sat and looked at each other in utter silence; the old man behind them was smiling drowsily to himself as if the bus was his own private Cadillac and he was taking a Sunday drive.

Only the gray-haired woman sitting taut and rigid near the rear exit door with a parcel across her knees seemed anxious for a destination. She kept peering out at the street signs.

“Driver?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You heard me say Quincy Street?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be sure and—?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He looked at her curiously. Her features reminded him of a teacher he’d had years ago in Jefferson grade school, a very gentle, pretty, young woman who had trouble keeping the class quiet. When she said goodbye on the last day of school she had cried a little and most of the children had cried too. Miss Kane. He hadn’t thought of her for years.

“Quincy Street,” he said, and the woman got up, clutching her parcel, and headed for the door.

He swung around in his seat and stared at her, his eyebrows raised, as if he expected an answer to some question.

Miss Kane?

She stared back at him for a moment, and then turned away. Sorry, Miss Kane doesn’t live here any more.

The door closed behind her and the bus moved away, its ageing insides grumbling and letting off wind.

She stood and watched, remembering the bus driver perfectly, his name, his age, his report card. Melvyn Schlagel, grade three. Dear Mrs. Schlagel, Melvyn is a bright and lovable boy, and I am sure his indifferent marks are merely the result of high spirits and will improve greatly in time to come. Sincerely, Ruth Kane.

Miss Kane?

Yes, Melvyn.

She raised her hand and waved, just as the bus reached the corner. She was not sure whether Melvyn waved back or whether he was making a left-turn signal. No, they never make signals, she thought, he must have waved back at me. He knew me after all these years. I can’t have changed so much. Perhaps next time, if I see him again, we will have a little chat about old times. What a noisy class I had that year, but I loved them all.

The bus turned the corner and Ruth began to walk in the opposite direction down Quincy Street, a new glow in her eyes and a bounce in her step, as if the unexpected reminder of happy years made them more real in the past and more possible in the future. The gap between the two seemed suddenly smaller, its walls lower, its moats easier to leap across, its doors already half-open.

Quincy Street was packed solid with small square frame shacks, their front windows no more than six feet from the sidewalk. Five hundred and nine was in the middle of the block, indistinguishable from its neighbors except for two potted geraniums precariously balanced on the sagging railing of the tiny porch. On the front door someone had printed in chalk, “Viva la Fiesta,” and in ink, on a card above the doorbell, “Out of Order.”

She banged on the door with the side of her fist to make herself heard above the street noises, the rumble of roller skates, the shrieks of children, the barking of dogs. She was aware that people were watching her as they watched anyone new or different in the neighborhood. Windows were raised, blinds snapped up, lace curtains parted, eyes narrowed.

She knocked again and waited, half-hoping that Escobar would answer right away so that she could get the whole thing over with, and yet dreading the moment when she would come face to face with him and try to explain: Here is your hedge clipper, Mr. Escobar. You didn’t lose it, you didn’t leave it anywhere. I took it, yes, quite deliberately. I committed a sinful act. I must pay for it. I must—

A young Negro in a T-shirt and a straw hat came around the side of the house and looked at her over the porch railing.

He said, in a monotone, “Ain’t nobody in.”

“Oh.”

“They went away couple hours ago. Fishing. They eat a lotta fish.” He folded his arms on his chest and teetered back and forth on the balls of his feet. He was wearing very long pointed shoes the color of mustard. “I live next door. Name’s Jenkins.”

“I’m Miss Kane.”

He tipped his hat briefly. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I — you have no idea when they’ll be back?”

“Depends on the fishing.”

“Could I–I wonder if I could leave this parcel here on the porch? It’s Mr. Escobar’s hedge clipper.”

“Oh, that. I heard them talking about it. The walls are thin,” he added, as if that explained everything. “It fell off his bicycle.”

“No. No, it didn’t.”

“Just saying what I heard at supper.”

“He never had it on his bicycle!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Still holding his arms over his chest he took a step back, as if her voice had struck like a spear at his vital organs.

“I know, because I took it. I—” I stole it, I committed, a sin. I must expiate. Viva la Fiesta. Out of Order. She inhaled deeply and the hot dusty air rattled in her throat like gourds. “I took it and put it away in the garage — for safekeeping.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell him — tell him I found it in the back yard, just where he left it.” She propped the clipper up against the front door and turned away, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Tell him he is to be more careful of his tools in the future.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr. Jenkins.”

She walked back toward the bus stop, feeling extraordinarily light and agile without the weight of the hedge clipper. The noises of Quincy Street, the children, the dogs, the passing freight train, mingled with the remembered noise of the classroom into a pleasant dissonance she had not heard before.

Sitting on the concrete bench at the bus stop with her eyes closed against the wind and the sun, she breathed a quiet prayer. Thank you, Hazel, for being kind. Thank you, Mr. Escobar, for going fishing. Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. Thank you, God.

14

On Sunday night after church Elaine Foster went to her minister for advice. The minister, a worldly man called Kriger, knew perfectly well that Elaine was incapable of taking advice, so he didn’t offer any. Instead, he let her talk. She talked for over an hour, being as truthful as she ever had to anybody, and when she had finished she went home and phoned Ruth.

The following morning about eleven o’clock, Ruth arrived carrying a suitcase and leading Wendy by a leash.

Elaine met her at the door. She looked coldly at the dog but didn’t say anything.

She spoke in a stage whisper: “The children are playing in the kitchen. I don’t want them to know you’re here until we’ve had a chance to discuss matters. They get so excited.”

“Have you told them yet?”

“Just that Grandma was sick and I have to go to Chicago to look after her for a week or so. They wouldn’t understand the truth.”

“Perhaps not.” Ruth hesitated, and then reached down and took off the dog’s leash. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing Wendy. I thought the children might like — it might take their minds off things.”

“I don’t mind in the least.”

“Besides, there’s no one at home to look after her. Harold and Josephine are moving today. They found a small house in the canyon.”

“I am very fond of dogs,” Elaine said, and leaned over and patted the little dog firmly on the head.

Leaving the suitcase on the hall stairs the two women walked on tiptoe into the living room. The drapes were drawn so that the morning sun wouldn’t fade the carpet and the slipcovers, and the room was twilight dark. From the kitchen came the sounds of the children playing, muffled by closed doors. Everything seemed muted, as if somewhere in the house, a person was about to die and mustn’t be disturbed by noise or light or movement.

“I hate to leave,” Elaine said. “But the Reverend Kriger told me it was the best thing to do, go away for a while and gain some perspective, think things out. If I sat around here feeling sorry for myself, I’d go mad.”

“You’re holding up wonderfully well.”

“That’s what he said, too. Some women would be simply prostrate, he said, having the bottom drop out of their lives like this. But I can’t afford to give in to my emotions.” She paused. “I wired Mother last night. Not that she’ll be surprised, she’s never had much use for Gordon. She was practically heartbroken when I married him. Reverend Kriger didn’t actually say so, but he implied that perhaps I am being punished for not taking Mother’s advice in the first place.”

She began to pace up and down the room, and the little dog, thinking that she might be taking a walk, followed, sniffing, at her heels.

“I told you about the charge accounts at the market and the pharmacy.”

Ruth nodded.

“You’ll need some cash too, for the laundry and the paper boy and things like that. I’ve left fifty dollars for you in the top left-hand drawer of the buffet in the dining room. We haven’t discussed your salary yet.”

“There’s no hurry.”

“I don’t even know how much I’ll be able to pay you.”

“You mustn’t worry about it.”

“That’s what Reverend Kriger said, I mustn’t worry about other people so much, I must think of myself.” The Reverend Kriger had done nothing more than nod and make a sympathetic sound, but out of these Elaine had fabricated a whole moral philosophy: You must be completely selfish, Mrs. Foster. “He said, what about money, and I said, I don’t know, I just don’t know how we’ll manage. With the house to pay for and three children to feed and clothe we’ve never been able to put much aside.”

“Dr. Foster certainly won’t let you starve.”

“Won’t he?” Elaine’s mouth twitched with a grim little smile. “How will he make a living?”

“Hazel says he’s a wonderful dentist.”

“Really?”

“First-rate, she said.”

“It seems to me Hazel might be a little prejudiced.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I wonder, why.” She had stopped pacing and the little dog had stopped too, and was standing at her side looking up into her face, trying to read her expression. “I saw her this morning.”

“Hazel? Where?”

“At the bank. She avoided me.”

“Oh, I’m sure she didn’t mean—”

“It was quite intentional.”

“She’s nearsighted.”

“Not that nearsighted. She was in line at the very next window.”

“Well.”

“She cashed a check, a large check, judging from the number of bills the teller gave her.”

“They could have been ones.”

“They could have been, but they weren’t. I am not nearsighted. They were twenties.”

“Hazel doesn’t keep much money in the bank. I can’t understand it.”

“I can. It wasn’t her money, it was mine. Half mine, anyway.”

“I don’t see—”

“When my turn came I asked the teller to check the joint account I have with Gordon. There was five hundred dollars missing. It adds up, doesn’t it? She wasn’t cashing that check for herself but for Gordon. She knows where he’s gone. She must, if she’s going to send the money to him. It’s laughable, isn’t it? — she and Gordon may have planned this whole thing weeks ago.”

“She never said a word about it, not a word.”

“She wouldn’t. She and Gordon are hand in glove, always have been.”

The sun had passed the front window. Elaine went over and pulled back the drapes. In the morning light she seemed tired, but every curl was in place and her light shantung traveling suit looked very smart and new. When she was a girl, Elaine had shown few signs of youth, and now that she had reached her middle thirties she showed almost no signs of age.

She said, contemptuously, “How typical of Gordon, to drag other people into his childish schemes. He can’t even manage his own love affair. Wait until the girl finds him out. Just wait. He’ll come slobbering back to me wanting me to wipe his chin for him and change his bib. Just wait until his dear little Ruby catches on to him.”

“Hello, Judith,” Ruth said in a falsely bright manner.

Elaine turned abruptly. The girl was standing pressed against the door frame with a slice of bread in one hand and a piece of clay in the other.

She looked gravely at Ruth. “I made something. Do you want to see it?”

“I’d love to,” Ruth said. “It looks very interesting.”

“It isn’t interesting, it’s just a worm. But it’s a good worm. Paul screamed at it blue murder.”

“I don’t blame him. It’s such an excellent worm I feel like screaming myself.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Perhaps I will, later on when your mother leaves.”

“It doesn’t count if you don’t do it right away like Paul did.” For the first time since she entered the room she turned her eyes on her mother. “Who is Ruby?”

“She’s just a girl, a woman,” Elaine said. “And how many times have I told you not to go around in your bare feet like that prying into grown-ups’ conversations? It’s cheating.”

“Linda’s mother has ruby earrings.”

“Well, that’s nice.”

“They cost a million or two dollars.”

“Now, Judith, you know perfectly well that a pair of earrings doesn’t cost a million dollars.”

“Linda’s mother’s did.”

“All right, all right.”

“She got them from her boyfriend.”

“Really now, Judith, you mustn’t—” Elaine turned, sighing, to Ruth. “She makes up the weirdest things, honestly.”

Ruth smiled at the girl. “I brought Wendy along.”

“I know.”

“Don’t you want to pet her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll pet her later on when my mother leaves.”

She put the clay worm on the table beside Ruth and walked silently out of the room.

“It’s always like that,” Elaine said. “Always. The least little thing and she turns against me. You’d think I was an ogre or something. Why does she do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s no time to be worrying about it. I ordered the cab for eleven-thirty.”

“It’s almost that now.”

“I — it’s hard to believe I’m really leaving. I haven’t been anywhere for so long.” She hesitated. “Do I look all right? — I mean, not like a country bumpkin?”

“You look very citified.”

“Do I, really? People dress in Chicago, you know. Not like out here.”

When the cab came, Ruth gathered the children on the front porch to say goodbye to their mother. Since Elaine never went as far as the corner grocery store without last-minute admonitions, a trip to Chicago was worth a record number: promise not to eat too many sweets, to say your prayers, brush your teeth, stay out of the loquat tree, watch for cars, don’t spill anything on the new rug, keep out of the gopher poison in the garage, drink your orange juice, don’t catch poison oak; be good, obedient, neat, careful, wise, polite, clean and healthy.

The air was thick as jelly with promises. The baby went to sleep in Ruth’s arms, Paul played with the dog, Judith ate three bananas.

Elaine departed in the cab, laughing a little because she had wanted this trip for a long time, and crying a little too, because this wasn’t how she had planned it. She had meant to go with Gordon and the children, a happy little family off on a visit to Grandma. “What a beautiful family you have,” people would say. Or, “Such lovely, well-mannered children. It isn’t often in this day and age—”

No, it wasn’t often.

She leaned out of the back window of the cab and waved her lace handkerchief in farewell. But there was no one left on the porch except the little white mongrel scratching its ear.

Elaine put the lace handkerchief back in her pocketbook and dabbed at her eyes with a piece of Kleenex. She must keep the handkerchief clean for the plane trip. Kleenex looked common.

15

On Monday night the wind stopped and fog began to move in from the sea across the city like a giant cataract across an eye.

Mrs. Freeman watched it from her dining-room window. It settled down into the trees and between the houses and crept under the cracks of doors; lights grew hazy, people vanished; the foghorn began to bray from the lighthouse on the Mesa.

Mrs. Freeman closed all the windows and pulled down the blinds and went back to the letter she had received in the morning mail. It was written on cheap hotel stationery and the handwriting was like a child’s, hesitant and uneven, and punctuated with blobs of ink.

Dear Carrie, I bet you’re sore at me not writing before this but you know me “old girl,” I’m no good writing letters and stuff. Anyway here goes.

I am in Vegas where all the “big shots” come here to gamble. Every day you see somebody famous like movie stars and gangsters. I’ve been working steady for a week now a swell job with tips. I “turn on the charm” for them and the tips really roll in. You have to smile a lot that’s the secret, the others haven’t got wise to it yet.

It’s pretty hot here now in the day but the nights are just right. People come here with azsma and go away cured, also T.B. Well that’s about all Carrie. Just wait I’ll hit the jackpot yet and then I’ll be home and we’ll live in “the lap of the gods,” you can buy a whole new outfit. I miss you a lot and would sure love a home cooked meal for a change. I miss the ocean too, they can have the desert, give me a view of the sea any time. Well I guess that’s it.

Love,

Robert.

P.S. Happy birthday on the 3rd of Sept. Ha, ha, I bet you thought I forgot!

Her birthday was on the fifth, but it was the nicest letter she had ever received from him. When the doorbell rang her heart quickened for an instant in the hope that it might be Robert, that the act of writing to her had made him homesick and he had decided to come back right away for a home-cooked meal and a view of the sea.

She opened the door and saw George, his outlines blurred by fog, his voice muffled.

“Is Ruby here?”

She looked at him dully, as if he had spoken a name she’d never heard before.

He coughed and said, “May I come in?”

“Yes. Yes, come in.” She closed the door behind him, trembling a little. “It’s cold, a cold night. I can smell winter in the air and here it isn’t even fall yet. But that’s Channel City for you, we get some of our best weather in December or January.”

“I suppose so, but—”

“We can talk in the dining room. I have the heater going.”

They sat down at the round oak table under the beaded chandelier. In spite of the gas heater hissing in the corner, the room was chilly, as if the old walls had absorbed one too many fogs.

“Ruby,” Mrs. Freeman said. “She didn’t call you?”

“No.”

“I asked her to. I said you must be sure and tell Mr. Anderson before you leave. He’ll want to know, I said, he’ll be around asking for you.”

“She’s gone, then?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Yesterday morning. It was very sudden.”

“It must have been.”

“Even so she ought to have told you. It’s not fair leaving it to me. She could have called you.”

“Maybe she tried. Maybe the line was busy.”

“I’ll bet you that’s what happened.”

He leaned across the table. “But you wouldn’t bet much, would you?”

“No,” she said, turning away. “Not much. She was — I tried to talk to her. She was a headstrong girl. Nothing mattered to her except what she wanted at the moment.”

“And what did she want?”

“Him,” Mrs. Freeman said quietly. “Just him. Nobody else counted. Some women are like that.”

Not many, she thought. But some. The unlucky ones. And the men they love are unlucky too. Like Robert.

She looked at the bowl of wax fruit in the center of the table. The fruit came from the dime store but Robert had made the bowl himself out of a cracked phonograph record according to directions he’d found in an old magazine, steaming the record over the teakettle and when it was soft shaping it into a scalloped bowl. “Why, Robert, it’s beautiful!” “It’s not bad, is it?” “It’s just beautiful.” “Maybe I can get hold of a bunch of old records and start a whole new business.” “That’s a wonderful idea.” “Honest to God, I think we got something here. I think we’re going to hit the jackpot, Carrie, old girl.” “Of course, of course we are, dear.”

Of course. Because she couldn’t bear to hurt him, she had encouraged him beyond all reason and reality. The hurt came anyway, and it was shattering and final. He tried to sell one of the bowls to Mrs. Haggerty next door and Mrs. Haggerty said her kids had been making bowls like that for years at the Y.M.C.A. crafts club.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Freeman said, but it wasn’t clear from her tone whom she was sorry for, George or Robert or Ruby or herself.

George lit a cigarette and the smoke curled up into the beaded chandelier and softened its glare.

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be any use anyway, trying to find her.”

“But you know she went with him — with the man?”

“I saw them leave in his car. A nice-looking car. Green. When she said goodbye to me she put her arms around me, can you beat it?” Mrs. Freeman’s mouth tightened. “You’d think we’d been friends or something, the way she said goodbye to me like that, as if she was kind of sorry she had to leave. Well, I can’t be responsible for all the girls that cross my path. It’s just — I took kind of a personal interest in Ruby. She reminds me of someone I knew years ago. Ruby’s a little harder than this other girl I knew. Maybe she’ll have better luck. She’s not a bad girl.”

“Ruby,” George said carefully, “is a liar and a thief and a cheat.”

She shook her head. “It might seem that way to you, you’ve been hurt. She lies, yes. People lie when the truth is too hard to bear.”

“She didn’t tell me she was interested in someone else, never even hinted at it.”

“She didn’t tell me either. No one ever came here for her or called her except you. It was a shock to me when he turned up on Saturday night looking for her. I thought it was just a common drunk making all that noise outside. When I went out to quiet him down he asked for Ruby. That was the first I knew about it.”

“Saturday night,” George repeated.

“Early Sunday morning, more like it. He’d been to one of those Fiesta parties and was all dressed up like a caballero or whatever you call them. I couldn’t let him wander around in that condition and not even dressed proper, so I went upstairs and woke Ruby and between the two of us, we got him in here on the couch. He fell asleep right away.”

“What was he like?”

“Like?” Mrs. Freeman blinked. “Well, sometimes it’s kind of hard to tell when a man’s drunk, but he seemed nice enough. Nothing special that I could see except he had lovely manners. I guess you’d say he was a gentleman.”

“Would I?”

“It takes a gentleman not to forget his manners when he’s had a few too many. I asked Ruby, is he a drunk, I asked her. And she said, no, he hardly ever touched the stuff, this was an unusual occasion. I can’t tell you much more, Mr. Anderson, I don’t know any more. It all happened so fast and unexpected. Maybe I should have phoned you just as soon as—”

“No,” George said sharply. “No. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I’d like to feel I did my best. I tried to talk to her, reason with her. But girls that age, they know everything, they know the score before they even find out what game they’re playing.”

She rose, and George rose too, and followed her down the long drafty hall to the front door. They shook hands soberly and formally, like mourners at a funeral.

“Thank you for your trouble,” George said and tried to smile but his mouth felt dry and stiff. “You’ve been very kind.”

“I tried, I wanted to help the girl. I wanted her to get interested in someone steady and dependable, well, like you, Mr. Anderson, no flattery intended. A girl like that needs a firm hand, a good strong marriage.”

“Maybe she’ll have it.”

“How can she? He’s already married, this man, married and with three kids.”

George looked at her in silence for a long time, then he turned and opened the door and stepped out on the porch.

“Mr. Anderson?”

“It’s getting late. I’d better—”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that. It just popped out.”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not thinking of doing anything drastic, Mr. Anderson? I mean, it wouldn’t be any use trying to find her. She’s gone. She made that clear, she’s gone for good.”

“For good. Yes, I guess you’re right.”

They stood facing each other on the porch. The fog had shut everything else out, and it was as if they were alone together in a cold gray little world of their own.

Moisture condensed on Mrs. Freeman’s home permanent and wiry curls began to spring up all over her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson. She should have told you herself.”

“What’s the man’s name?”

“I don’t — I can’t remember.”

“You’ve remembered everything else.”

“Even so. Even so, I don’t think I ought to—”

“Tell me.”

“Gordon,” Mrs. Freeman said. “She called him Gordon.”

By ten o’clock the fog had covered the city. It hung from the old oak behind Hazel’s house like angel hair on a Christmas tree.

There were no lights on in Hazel’s house and when George knocked on the front door no one answered. He walked around to the back, found the key where Hazel always left it, under the doormat, and let himself into the kitchen.

He switched on the ceiling light and went over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. The water left a long cold trail all the way down to his stomach. The rest of his body felt like fire.

Hazel came in from the dining room, heavy-eyed and yawning. “I thought I heard some one.”

He stared at her without speaking.

“What do you want at this time of night?”

“I think you know.”

“How should I know? What’s the matter with you, are you drunk or something?”

“Come here, Hazel.”

“What for?”

“Come here. I want to look at you.”

“You can see me from there.”

“Not well enough.”

“Say, what’s wrong with you, anyway? Are you losing your mind?”

“Hazel.” He went over and took hold of both her wrists. “Tell me about the money, Hazel.”

“What money?”

“You bitch. You creeping little bitch. I’d like to kill you.”

She was afraid of him but she made no attempt to free herself or to scream for help. Letting her wrists dangle limply from his hands, she thought, it wouldn’t really matter so much anyway; Ruth is settled, Harold and Josephine have a place of their own, Gordon is gone.

“Let go of me, George.”

“Why? You’ve got something important to do, maybe? You want to cook up another of your fancy schemes?”

“Oh, stop it. I didn’t — it wasn’t a scheme. Gordon had to have the money. I got it for him the best way I could.”

“There was no scheme, eh?”

“None.”

“No idea of getting rid of Ruby because you couldn’t stand the thought of me getting married again?”

“No.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Maybe, in a way.”

“Maybe, what is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, the idea might have been in the back of my mind at the time, but I didn’t know it was there.”

He let go of her wrists and took a step back as if to see her in a new perspective. “You don’t want me to get married again, do you?”

“Not to someone like Ruby.”

“To someone like who, then?”

“We’ve talked about it before.”

“Oh yes. The nice sensible widow my own age with a little cash and some real estate.”

“There must be lots of women like that.”

“In my business I don’t meet them. Most of the ones I see are already married again, to a bottle.”

“Well, I keep looking around.”

“Do you?”

“Naturally I do. I’d like to see you settled down. It would be a load off my mind, in fact. I can’t seem to — well, to get interested in anyone myself until I see you settled.”

He glanced at her dryly. “Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?”

“It’s how I feel anyway.”

“So you’re looking around for a nice sensible widow for me?”

“Sure. Sure I am. Just today at lunch in the cafeteria I met a very—”

“What a liar you are, Hazel. You almost make me laugh.”

“Laugh yourself sick if you want to. I’m going back to bed. I have to get up early for work.”

“Wait a minute.”

“Why should I? All you can do is swear at me and call me names.”

“I can do more than that.”

“I wish you’d—”

“I can do a lot more than that, even without your cooperation.”

“You’d better leave. I think you’re drunk.”

She stepped back, pulling her bathrobe closer around her throat.

“Afraid of me, Hazel?”

“No.”

“You are, though. You’re shaking like a leaf. What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

She shook her head.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Take — take your hands off me.”

“That’s what you really want?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

“When I touch you like this you feel no response?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“No! Yes! I’m sure.”

“All right. I just thought I’d ask.”

He took his hands away, looked at them for a moment as if they were strange new parts of his body, and put them in his pocket. The color had drained out of his face and his eyes bulged, dark and glassy like marbles.

Walking over to the table he pulled out a chair and sat down and crossed his legs, moving stiffly as if he was in pain.

He said in a low voice, “You’d better start looking a little harder for that widow. I don’t like living alone.”

“George.”

“I guess I owe you an apology. All right. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“You? What for?”

“The money.”

“The money,” he repeated with a grim little smile. “That seems like a long time ago. It hardly matters any more.”

“What does matter?”

“Nothing that I can think of.”

“Did you—” Hazel stopped and swallowed hard. “Did you love her very much?”

“Christ. What a question.”

“That’s no answer.”

“I thought about her a lot. When she was away I wanted to see her, but when I saw her she made me nervous, I couldn’t stand her sometimes. If that’s love, I loved her.”

“That isn’t how you used to feel about me, is it, George?”

“No.”

“We had a lot of laughs together, didn’t we? Remember the time you brought home that wrestler from New Jersey and he damn near wrecked the place and finally you had to pin him down?”

“I didn’t pin him down,” he said flatly. “He practically passed out. He could have broken my neck if he’d have been sober.”

“That’s not true. You’re very strong.”

“Oh stop it, Hazel.”

“Well, you are.”

“Stop it. I’m tired, I’m sick of myself. I’m a big fat nothing, let’s face it.”

“You’re just feeling a little low tonight. Tomorrow morning you’ll—”

“Tomorrow morning, next week, next month. It seems to me that all I’ve had for the past year is a future. The hell with it. I’d sell thirty years of future for ten minutes of present.”

“You’re pretty hard up then.”

“Sure I am. What do you expect? I haven’t had a wife for over a year.”

The phone began to ring in the dining room and Hazel went to answer it. It was impossible to tell from her expression whether she was relieved or disappointed by the interruption, but when she spoke into the telephone she sounded quite cross.

“Hello? Yes, it’s me... Now wait a minute, take it easy. Are you sure?... Well, lock all the doors and call the police... Who cares what she’d think, she’s halfway to Chicago by this time... You’re sure you’re not imagining things?... Well, wait a minute. George is here. Talk to him.”

She turned to call George but he was already there at her elbow.

He said, “Who is it?”

“Ruth. She’s staying with the Foster kids while Elaine’s away. She says there’s a burglar trying to get into the house.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“I know, but suppose there really is?”

“I’ll talk to her.” He took the phone from Hazel’s hand. “Ruth, it’s George. Now what’s this about a burglar?”

Ruth’s voice came over the wire, dripping bitterness. “Oh, I heard what you said. I know what you’re thinking, that it’s all in my imagination. Well, I didn’t imagine the dog barking, I didn’t imagine someone trying the back door, I didn’t im—”

“All right, Ruth, you didn’t.”

“He’s out there now. I saw him with my own eyes, standing in the yard. And there’s a car parked out on the street. I can’t see if anyone’s in it but there might be, there might even be a whole gang of them. A man came around this afternoon trying to sell vacuum cleaners. I told him the Fosters were away, I was only the housekeeper. It could be the same man. I can’t tell, it’s too foggy.”

“Well, sit tight until I get there.”

“I hate to put you to this trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” George said dryly. “I haven’t anything else to do. It’ll keep me out of mischief.”

Hazel followed him to the front door. “I could go with you, George.”

“I’m in a hurry and you’re not dressed.”

“I could slip a coat on. It won’t take me a minute. I’d like to go.”

“Why?”

“Well, the excitement, I guess.”

“Is that all?”

She shook her head, rather shyly.

“What’s the real reason, Hazel?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do,” George said. “You don’t want to be left alone. You’d rather come with me, not because it’s me — I’m nothing special as far as you’re concerned — but just to get out of an empty house.”

“That’s not true, not all of it is, anyway.” She opened the door for him and the fog drifted into the room like ectoplasm. “You could come back and tell me all about it.”

“I could. Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be damned,” George said and went out to his car. He walked very quickly as if purposely gathering momentum to carry him along in case his decision to leave should begin to falter.

Ruth put down the phone, and tiptoed through the darkness to the front hall. Here, on the bottom step of the staircase, she sat with the brass poker across her lap and the little dog at her feet, a pair of strange sentinels guarding the sleeping children.

The whole house was quiet. All the noise and confusion, the screams for help, the wail of sirens, the shriek of brakes, she had heard merely in her own mind. The only real noises had been the barking of the little dog and the faint but unmistakable click of the back-door latch.

She was afraid, but pushing its way up through the cold layers of fear was a feeling of triumph. The prowler outside was her enemy, the synthesis of all her enemies; he was real and alive and identifiable, and she was armed against him, guarding the children, with help on the way.

16

Even on a sunny day it was a quiet neighborhood. Men went to their offices early in the morning and returned in the evening to eat dinner and read the newspaper and watch television behind closed blinds. Young children were kept off the street in nursery schools or walled patios, and dogs were fenced. It was a neighborhood built by and for retired people and members of the younger professional set who were on the way up.

Gordon didn’t belong there; he had never felt any sense of belonging. When he came home from his office after the day’s work he usually hesitated a moment outside the front door as if he was not sure whether it was his own door, or what lay behind it, his wife, Elaine, or some hostile stranger.

There was only one light on in the house, the night light in the upstairs bathroom. Elaine always left it on for the children so he knew they must be there, all four of them, sleeping quietly and not caring whether he came back or not. His absence seemed to have made only two differences: Elaine had been more careful about locking the doors, and she had bought a dog. He wondered whether the dog was intended as protection or as compensation for the children. A dog in exchange for a husband. Well, that’s fair enough, he thought wryly. Elaine doesn’t like either breed.

He leaned back against the slippery trunk of the loquat tree. Fog condensed on its leathery leaves and dripped on the ground with a monotonous little tune, plink, plunk, like a dozen leaking faucets. Plink, plunk, the tune was taken up by the bougainvillea over the garage and the hibiscus along the patio wall and the row of red-flowering eucalyptus that bordered the street. The sound reminded him of when he was a boy in Minnesota; in the spring the icicles that had hung stiff as quartz from the eaves throughout the winter started to melt until they fell loose and shattered, and the ice on the pond split open and water began to gurgle up through the cracks. Water sounds, dripping sounds everywhere. The first thaw in spring was almost as noisy as the first storm in autumn.

A cold trickle of moisture slid down the back of his neck. He pulled up his collar and walked silently through the fog to the front of the house. He had meant to arrive earlier, he had started out at dinner time from San Luis Obispo but as soon as the highway curved west to the coast the fog had struck like a crippling plague. Sleek young cars became gray and slow and anemic and moved like a procession of old men.

He went up the porch steps and sat down on the blue canvas glider, and from the inside of the house the dog began to bark again, in a higher pitch of hysteria and frustration. It wants to get out and bite me, chase me away, Gordon thought. I am an intruder. The house already belongs to him.

He was certain that the dog’s barking would wake Elaine, and now that the moment was at hand when he must face her he felt uneasy and afraid. He couldn’t remember all the compelling arguments he’d thought of during the day. He had planned each one carefully, using words and phrases that Elaine would understand and respond to emotionally. The arguments were still there inside his head but they had lost form, had thawed and dripped out of shape, like the icicles under the eaves, until they were blobs of slush.

He looked at the front door expecting it to open and not knowing what to say when it did. The door was solid mahogany because that’s what Elaine wanted. She said it gave people a good impression from the start if they were faced with a solid mahogany door. But, as it turned out, she was mistaken. Hardly anyone came to the house, and of those who did not one had recognized that the door was solid mahogany, and Elaine was forced to tell them: “How do you like our door?” or “I hardly heard, you know, the door is so thick. Solid mahogany, you know.”

Solid mahogany, closed and impenetrable. The key to it was on a key ring in his pocket. He could open the door if he wanted to, it was a simple matter, except for the dog. This was no ordinary dog. It sounded larger, stronger, fiercer. Its hoarse barking set up disturbing echoes in his mind, and each echo set up a new echo of its own until his eardrums reverberated with a cacophony of fears.

He sat motionless on the canvas glider with the fog dripping down his face.

A car came over the crest of the hill, languid and yellow-eyed. It crept past the house and paused with a sigh of brakes. The headlights went out, a door slammed, shoes scraped along the wet cement of the driveway.

A man walked out of the fog, like an actor making his entrance from behind a gray plush curtain. He crossed the lawn and came up the porch steps, a heavy-set man with a fedora pulled down low on his forehead. In the dark he could be anyone; but even in the light Gordon would not have recognized him. He knew George only as the half-hero, half-child of Hazel’s conversation.

Gordon leaned forward as if he was about to rise to welcome the stranger. The glider creaked.

The man turned with a little jump of surprise and said harshly, “What the hell.”

“I didn’t mean to startle—”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“Ruth called me, said there was a prowler hanging around the house.”

“Ruth? You must have the wrong address. This is my house.”

“So?”

“It’s not paid for, but I have the deed, so you might say it’s my house. Are you a policeman? It’s funny somebody should call a policeman because a man wants to get a little fresh air.”

“If it’s your house why don’t you go inside?”

“Well, I would, except for the dog. It isn’t any of your business but I don’t mind telling you. She bought a dog while I was away. It sounds like a fairly large dog. You heard it a moment ago?”

“I heard it.”

“Don’t you think it sounds like a fairly large dog?”

“It’s a little white mongrel,” George said, “about the size of a fox terrier.”

Inside the house there was silence, as if the dog was eavesdropping on the conversation.

Gordon rose, wiping the moisture from his forehead with the sleeve of his topcoat. “A little dog,” he said quietly. “How could you know that?”

“I know a lot of things about you, Foster.”

“You have the advantage of me. I don’t even know your name.”

“Anderson.”

“You’re Hazel’s—”

“That’s right.”

“Well.” Gordon looked down at the floor. Six inches from his left foot lay the doll he had given Judith the previous week. He had bought it, not for a special reason like a birthday, but in a moment of guilt and compunction, as if he could give to her in the form of this doll the happy babyhood she had missed. He had been able to buy off his conscience to some extent, but he hadn’t bought off Judith. Within two days the doll was naked and almost scalped, one arm was gone, its china eyes had been carefully pushed back into its empty head, and into its slightly open mouth between the rows of tiny perfect teeth, Judith had thrust Elaine’s ivory-handled nail file.

“Well,” he said again. “I suppose it’s time we met, even under circumstances like these. I’m not sure,” he added wryly, “what circumstances they are.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. No, I confess I’m puz—”

“Where’s Ruby?”

“Ruby.” Gordon repeated the name in a flat voice as if it aroused no interest or memory in him. “She’s all right. Nothing happened to her.”

“Tell me where she is.”

“She’s — I left her in San Luis.”

“You left her.”

“She has a cousin there. I — she decided to stay with her until — while I came back and settled things with Elaine. So I came back.”

George stepped closer. He was laughing, soft derisive laughter that echoed back against the wall of fog.

“Lover boy,” he said, and the laughter bubbled up again, not from his throat but from a source deep inside him. “A real honest-to-God lover boy, eh, Foster?”

Gordon shook his head, mute, resigned.

“That’s your technique, is it, Foster? — Get them as far as San Luis, leave them with a cousin, and then come crawling back to your wife? That’s it? Eh, lover boy?”

“You can’t talk to me like that.” But the words were frail and wistful, like the clenched fist of a little boy, the sting of a butterfly, the bite of a glowworm.

He thought of Elaine the last time he’d seen her standing in the wind beneath the wild palm tree, her voice calm and quiet: you fool, you idiot, no character, no will power, not a man, no resemblance to a man...

“You can’t talk to me like that. I must—” I must defend my human dignity, he wanted to say. But there was no time, no place, for words. He drew back his arm and jerked it loosely like a piece of rope. His fist, an inert object at the end of it, incredibly, almost involuntarily, snapped up in front of him and struck George’s chin.

George stumbled sideways and stepped on the doll’s moist plastic head. The doll slipped out from under his foot with a squeaking noise and slid across the porch.

His arms flailed for a moment as he tried to recover his balance, then he fell heavily, his head striking the iron base of the glider.

From somewhere close by came the first soft muted wails of a police siren. Gordon turned and began to run. As he ran, his trembling muscles gained strength and a feeling of elation rose inside him like bubbles of adrenalin.

He climbed into his car and pressed the starter button. His right knuckles were painful and already swelling so that he couldn’t bend his hand around the steering wheel. But the pain was not unpleasant. He drove toward the business section of the city, steering with his left hand, his right hand resting on the seat beside him like a trophy.

He checked in at a hotel on lower State Street and from his room he called Ruby long distance. Although it was very late Ruby answered the phone on the second ring, as if she had been waiting beside it for hours expecting him to call.

“Ruby?”

“Gordon. Where are you?”

“I’m staying at a hotel for the night.”

“Did you talk to her? Did you ask her—?”

“I’m not going to ask her anything. I’m going to tell her.”

“You sound funny, Gordon. Have you been — do you feel all right?”

“I’m going to tell her,” he repeated and looked down at his bruised knuckles. You can’t talk to me like that. “I’ll see her tomorrow morning, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Why didn’t you see her tonight?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Because it was foggy, because there was a dog barking, because Judith left her doll on the porch and a man stumbled over it. “I’ll see her tomorrow. I’ll make it perfectly clear that I’m not going to be run out of town like a criminal. I’m going to stay put and fight. I’m going to—”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Just yes.” And she made a little sighing sound that was almost inaudible. But he heard it. He had heard the same sound a thousand times from Elaine and he knew its meaning and its intent; it was a complete negation of everything he was trying to say.

“Ruby?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see her first thing tomorrow and then we can make our plans definite.”

“Yes.”

“You can stay there for a few more days. Then I’ll find some place here for you to live, a little apartment, and then I’ll drive up and get you. How’s that?”

“Yes.”

Yes. Not a word of agreement, in fact not a word at all. A sigh. Elaine’s sound. A new sound for Ruby. He must destroy it before it grew as Elaine’s had grown.

“If you want me to,” he said, “I’ll drive up and get you tomorrow. We’ll face things together.”

He heard her gasp of surprise and pleasure. “Gordon, you’re not just saying that for my sake, because you know I’m seared?”

“No, I mean it. I’ll be there at noon.”

“Oh, Gordon.”

“Goodnight, darling. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

His hand had started to throb, heavily and irregularly, like a fluttering heart. He went into the bathroom and held it under the cold water tap.

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” he said and began to laugh.

The sun rose early and hung like an orange-red spotlight behind a gauze curtain. By seven-thirty most of the fog had burned away, and when Hazel went out into the back yard to empty the trash baskets the roofs of the houses were steaming as if the whole city was on fire. All the dust that the desert wind had laid over everything was washed away and the air was clean and sweet.

To hell with him, he didn’t even phone, Hazel thought, and banged the trash baskets upside down into the incinerator. Out came the remnants of the week: the letters and cigarette butts and apple cores, used pieces of Kleenex and empty food cartons and all the odds and ends from the drawers Harold and Josephine had cleaned out before they left, bits of ribbon, old grocery lists written on the corners of envelopes, some snapshot negatives, several newspaper clippings about pregnancy, a pamphlet on skin care, a sachet yellow and soured with age, and a woolen tie riddled with moth holes.

Hazel set a match to the rubbish and walked away because she did not want to see it burn. It seemed too final.

Slowly she crossed the yard. It had been only three days now since Escobar had cleaned it up, but already the grass had grown, more in some places than in others, so that the lawn looked uneven. The desert wind had deposited a fresh pile of dead leaves and acorns and eucalyptus pods beside the picket fence, and in the irrigation ditch Escobar had dug along the eugenia hedge there was a burst of new little weeds, tendrils of devil grass and sprigs of filaree and clusters of toadstools. Under the ground beside the garage an enterprising gopher had built himself some additional runways and storage rooms and his excavations had left little mounds of earth. During the night a dog or cat, bent on food or mischief, had upset the ant pot underneath the orange tree and the syrupy poison had seeped out and crystallized. The ants ignored the poison and marched as usual up and down the orange tree milking the aphids and, when it was necessary, carrying them to the more tender tips of the branches, like good farmers guiding their cattle to greener pastures.

It was as if, during a space of three days, a whole new cycle of life had begun. Under Hazel’s feet the ground seemed to move with bursting seeds and hatching eggs, with blind, brainless, soundless cells of things dividing and redividing; earthworms, sow bugs, nematodes, thrips, like rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief.

It’s no use, Hazel thought, a dozen Escobars wouldn’t change anything.

She heard the click of the gate, and turned and saw George. He looked tired and there was a bandage wrapped around his head so tightly that it crinkled his forehead and gave him a puzzled expression.

“Hello, Hazel.”

“Hello.”

“I thought you’d be up by this time. I’m on my way home and, well, I decided to drop in and see you first.”

“Oh.”

He touched the bandage lightly with his fingertips. “No questions?”

“You look like you had quite an evening.”

“I did.”

“In fact you look like you got into a fight.”

“In a way I did.”

“You’d think at your age you’d have learned to stay out of fights.”

“You’re sore, aren’t you, because I didn’t come back last night? Well, I couldn’t make it. Ruth phoned the police and they hauled me off to the hospital and wouldn’t let me go until a few minutes ago. The nurse hid my clothes so I couldn’t get away. And a couple of detectives kept asking me questions about who was my assailant, that’s what they called him, my assailant.”

“And who was he?”

“How should I know?” George said flatly. “It was foggy and dark. I didn’t get a good look at him. He jumped me, took me by surprise. I slipped on something and hit my head on the glider.”

“Is that what you told the police?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the truth?”

“Close enough.”

“What really happened?”

“What really happened,” he repeated thoughtfully, as if he had already spent a great deal of time trying to decide on an answer. “I don’t know. Maybe a lot happened, maybe I only got a cut on the head.”

“George, was it — is it a bad cut?”

He looked down at her irritably. “Don’t go into that Florence Nightingale routine. I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.”

“Then why the hell don’t you?”

“Here we are quarreling again. Always quarreling.”

“Well, I can’t help it.” She turned and went up the porch steps. “There’s some coffee on the stove, let’s have a cup.”

He made no move to follow her. “No thanks.”

“Aren’t you even coming in?”

“No.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I like it out here. Besides I can get a cup of coffee downtown. Any downtown. I can go anywhere in the world and get a cup of coffee.”

“Whatever that means.”

“It means a cup of coffee isn’t what I want.” He came up the porch steps, his head bent like a charging bull. “Listen to me. I did everything I could to get back here last night. I fought nurses and doctors and even policemen. I would have given my right arm to get back to you. It seemed the most important thing in the whole world to me, not because I’m hard up, as you put it, but because, well, I don’t know how to say it. I’m no good at saying things, you might laugh. And if you laughed, I might — I don’t trust myself — maybe I’d kill you.”

“I don’t feel like laughing.”

“Don’t I seem funny to you?”

“No.”

“I am, though. I’m pretty funny. What are you crying about?”

“I’m not crying. And if I am, I can if I want to.”

“What did I do to make you cry?”

She shook her head, holding her fists against her eyes. “Nothing.”

“I must have. Goddamn it, Hazel, don’t cry. I’m sorry. You hear that? I’m sorry. I don’t know what for, but I’m sorry. Now will you stop crying?”

“No.”

“Well, all right,” he said. “All right.”

He put his arms around her and she buried her face against his chest, and presently they went together into the house.

Content

Margaret Millar
Wives and Lovers

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