Hamilton, Donald - Novel 02 (2 page)

 
          
“Oh,”
he said. “Yes, the axe.” He grinned. “Well, I suppose it’s fair enough. The
other guy has the job back, and I’ve got the experience I gained while he was
in the service.”

 
          
“Oh,”
she said. “Then you weren’t…?”

 
          
“No,”
he said, and wondered angrily, as always, why the answer to this question
always made him feel small and embarrassed. “No, I wasn’t,” he said. “I went to
Washington right after Pearl Harbor. The rest of the war, as far as I was
concerned, was a duel between the Bureau and my draft board. The Bureau won. It
didn’t really matter, because if I’d been drafted they’d have had me ordered
right back to F.R.L., anyway.”

 
          
“If
they wanted to keep you so badly, you must be a pretty good whatever-you-are,”
the girl said, smiling.

 
          
“Chemist,”
he said, and laughed. “But it doesn’t necessarily follow. No government bureau
is going to admit that any man working for it is not absolutely irreplaceable.”

 
          
The
waitress came up and gave them menus and water and said that the lamb was all
gone. When they had ordered they sat in silence for a while, and the girl
turned her head to look at the sign over the cash register: In God We Trust—
all others pay cash.
As the light
changed on her face, Emmett saw the small scar on the left side of her mouth,
just at the lip; noticing it because her fingers had come up absently to touch
it and because she was too pretty a girl to be marred in any way. Suddenly she
was looking at him, snatching her hand away, and he knew that he was flushing.
The scar was no more than a faint white mark, but he knew that his staring at
it had been unforgivable.

 
          
After
a long time her voice said, “I… was in an accident. I haven’t quite got used to
it yet. I keep wanting people to tell me it doesn’t show.”

 
          
She
had opened her purse to look at herself, smiling at him a little apologetically
over the edge of it.

 
          
He
said carefully, “I didn’t notice. Until you touched it.”

 
          
“Thank
you,” she said, closing the purse and laying it aside so the waitress could put
the plates down. Then, looking up again quickly, she asked, “Do you mind
driving at night, Mr. Emmett?”

 
          
In
the car, he sat smoking beside her, trying not to look at her because she had
turned out to be a very bad driver, and he could not trust himself not to give
advice. It was easy to see why she might have wanted somebody to help her get
to wherever she was going. He sat watching the sun go down toward the rolling
country to the west, and told himself that nothing could very well happen to
you at forty-five. Behind him, his suitcases bounced together uneasily on the
floor, and his hat and light topcoat kept company with her purse on the small
rear seat of the convertible. Washington seemed much farther away than four
days and eleven hundred miles. Gradually, in spite of the girl’s driving, he
felt the sense of freedom return that had been lost to him for a while after
the Ford broke down. He felt also a small pleasant sense of adventurousness and
anticipation.

 
          
He
laughed abruptly, and the girl glanced at him.

 
          
“I
forgot to cash in my tickets,” he said.

 
          
“Oh,”
she said, “I didn’t know you’d bought…”

 
          
“I’d
just come back from getting them,” he said.

 
          
He
saw that she was frowning a little, and realized his error: she was thinking
back over what had been said and remembering that he had only asked once,
lightly, perhaps as a joke. He saw the color come into her face.

 
          
He
said quickly, “I don’t like trains. I rode too many of them during the war.
When I heard you ask for roadmaps of Iowa and points west…”

 
          
“But
it’s better now, isn’t it?” she asked after a pause. “I mean, the trains.”

 
          
“Yes,”
he said, a little dryly. “There aren’t so many uniforms.” After a while, she
not speaking, he said slowly, “You see, I had two brothers, both older. They
were both killed, Dave at Kasserine Pass, and Howie when the
Lewistown
went down off Savo. It made
being a civilian kind of, shall we say, awkward. I got kind of allergic to
uniforms, not having one myself.”

 
          
He
sucked at his pipe and knocked the dead coals into his hand and threw them out
the window beside him without looking at her. The windstream snatched the ashes
away from him.

 
          
“I’m
sorry,” the girl’s voice said.

 
          
He
said, “It was a stupid reaction. After all, Washington was full of civilians.
But I didn’t really feel the war was over until I loaded my stuff into the car
last Wednesday and headed out. But getting on a train would have kind of
spoiled it, don’t you see? So when I heard you ask for roadmaps I thought it
was worth a try.”

 
          
She
was silent for a while. He glanced at her. The blue stones in the small gold
blossoms on the lobe of her ear and on the lapel of her jacket caught the light
through the windshield; and the wind through the open window beside her,
sweeping through the car, tugged at the veil she had turned back, at the brim
of her hat, at the wisp of hair that had come free at her temple, and at one
point of the collar of the thin eggshell-colored satin blouse that showed in a
small triangle, between the lapels of her jacket, at her throat. She turned her
head briefly to look at him through the sunglasses that looked a little strange
with the rest of her costume.

 
          
“Incidentally,
my name is Ann Nicholson, Mr. Emmett,” she said, smiling abruptly.

 
          
He
laughed. “Yes. I looked at the registration card.”

 
          
After
a moment she laughed also. He realized with a small shock that she had,
briefly, been wondering if he had recognized her. He glanced at her again, but
her face aroused no recollection in his mind. He was quite sure he had never
seen her before, or even a reasonable portrait of her. He thought he would have
remembered.

 
          
“I’m
going to Denver,” she said, “if that helps you.”

 
          
“Denver’s
fine,” he said. “I’ve got reservations for three days at a place on Hogback
Lake, back in the mountains. If Mrs. Pruitt’s still running it, I can probably
talk her into letting me stay longer.” The girl did not say anything,
preoccupied with driving, and after a while he asked, “Do you know the country
around Denver?”

 
          
She
shook her head. “No. No, I’ve never been west before.”

 
          
“It’s
fine country,” he said. “We used to drive out every summer. Howie had an old
Dodge he had tied together with baling wire and rubber bands. I think we
covered every national park west of the Mississippi.”

 
          
She
started to speak, but a string of cars held back by a large truck bore down on
them and claimed her attention; and when they had the road to themselves again
she had, apparently, forgotten what she had been about to say. Emmett wondered
if she, like himself, was thinking of how it had been simple and pleasant
before the war—although probably not quite as simple and pleasant as it seemed
in retrospect. But the war had shown you things about yourself and about other
people that you would rather not have learned. Everything you did now was
colored by what you had learned during the war.

 
          
Presently
Ann Nicholson braked abruptly and swerved into a filling station, while the car
that had been behind them whipped past with its horn screaming. The girl looked
after it a little resentfully as it receded along the highway.

 
          
“Oh,
damn,” she said wearily. “I always do that. But he doesn’t have to make such a
fuss about it.”

 
          
Emmett
looked at her drawn face as the convertible came to rest beside the pumps, and
he opened his mouth to suggest that she let him drive.

 
          
“That
sun’s pretty bad, isn’t it?” he said instead. He did not want to frighten her
by seeming eager to seize control of her car.

 
          
She
removed her colored glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Yes, but it will be down in a
little while.” She turned as the attendant came to her window, and gave him a
key from the glove compartment. “Fill it, please.” Then she opened the door and
got out. “Can you reach my purse?” she asked Emmett.

 
          
He
leaned back, found it and gave it to her, then watched her walk around the
front of the car, her heels a little uncertain in the gravel, her tailored
skirt a little crumpled in the rear. She vanished around the white lattice-work
at the side of the filling station after glancing up at the sign on it. He got
out of the car and walked back and forth stiffly, kicking his feet in the white
gravel.

 
          
“How
far to Clinton?” he asked the attendant.

 
          
The
man looked around. “Forty miles to the river,” he said, and hung up the hose. “Check
the oil?”

 
          
Emmett
nodded. “And clean off the windshield, will you?” It made him feel a little
awkward to give orders about a woman’s car; a little like a gigolo. He opened
the door and dragged his things out of the rear, opened one suitcase and took
out a folded army blanket, throwing it back to the seat Then he got the keys
from the ignition, finding himself suddenly pleased that she had trusted him
enough to leave them, and opened the trunk. He put the bags away and closed the
cover and, after a moment, unlocked and opened it again, looking inside,
frowning. There was nothing there except the suitcases and fishing-rod
container he had just put in, the spare tire, the jack and handle, and socket
wrench for the wheel nuts.

 
          
“That’ll
be three-o-five,” the attendant said, behind him. “Oil and water O.K.”

 
          
Emmett
accepted the gas-tank key and stood for a moment, after closing the trunk,
looking at the white clapboard station with the little wings of lattice-work
that modestly concealed the doors on either side; everything very white and
clean, the pumps, oil cans, and water can looking very new in the fading red
light; only the hydraulic lift at the side showing enough grease to prove that
they actually did business in this place. The white gravel expanse was bounded
by a low white picket fence. Behind the station, on the hill, was a farm house
not nearly as neat and tidy as the station, and there were other farms as far
as you could see in all directions. The concrete highway ran arbitrarily
through them as if laid down, not necessarily with a ruler but at least with a
French curve, after everything else had been there for years except the filling
station which belonged to the highway rather than to the Illinois countryside.

 
          
Ann
Nicholson came out of the restroom. She had removed her hat, carrying it, with
her purse, in her hand. She had also combed out her hair, loosening it from the
pins that had held it in place under the hat, so that it fell in soft waves
behind her ears, reaching her shoulders. It was light brown, fine in texture
and, loose, made her look less remote and sophisticated, and several years
younger. Without hat or gloves on she did not look quite so much, Emmett
thought, like a mislaid orchid. She stopped by the attendant, who jerked his
head towards Emmett; and she came to him, opening her purse.

 
          
“No,
that’s all right,” he said. He was aware that the attendant was watching with
sudden interest, having at first, probably, assumed that they were married.

 
          
“Please,”
she said. “I don’t want you to…”

 
          
She
had a lump of bills in her hand larger than any he could remember seeing. The
top one was a ten. She saw him look at it and flushed, a little embarrassed,
apparently, at the ostentation of the mass of money; and also, he thought
wryly, without a doubt regretting a little that he had learned how much there
was of it.

 
          
“The
banks weren’t open,” she said apologetically. “I couldn’t get express checks.
Please let me…”

 
          
“Fifty-fifty,”
he said. “You take the next one.”

 
          
She
glanced at the attendant. “Oh, all right,” she said, somewhat annoyed. She
thrust the bills back into her purse and started for the car. “Do you mind
driving now, Mr. Emmett?”

 
          
“Not
a bit.”

 
          
“I
think I’ll try to take a nap in back,” she said. “I’ve got a splitting
headache. Oh, you took your things…”

 
          
He
saw her look at the trunk. “Yes,” he said quickly. “I got out a blanket in case
you’d want it. Use my coat for a pillow if you like.”

 
          
She
hesitated, studied his face for a moment, and said, “Thank you,” and climbed
over the folding seat into the rear of the car.

 
          
As
he got behind the wheel he could see her, in the rearview mirror, carefully
folding her jacket and laying it up behind the seat with her hat and purse;
then as carefully removing her earrings, not pulling them off but unscrewing
the tiny clamps until the gold blossoms fell into her hand. He started the car.
The wheels spun in the gravel with the quick surge of power that answered his
foot on the accelerator. He glanced up again, guiltily, but she was not
looking. As they swung out onto the highway he heard her remove her shoes and
lie down.

 
          
“Any
speed limit you want to set?” he asked over his shoulder. “I mean, it’s your
car.”

 
          
“Oh,
no. Anything you think is safe, Mr. Emmett.”

 
          
He
let the car gather speed along the concrete, and pulled down the visor in a
vain attempt to cut out the glare of the sun that rested, like a target in the
sights of a rifle, over the ribbon of concrete ahead. He heard her moving
uncomfortably on the narrow leather seat behind him, trying, he guessed, to
find a position that would allow her to relax without hopelessly wrinkling the
skirt of her expensive suit. He wondered if he could hint that he would not
look if she wanted to undress, but he suspected that the suggestion would
merely startle her.