“Well,” Fielding said, smiling. “Now you know my name, and I know yours. Juanita Garcia meet Stan Foster.”
She half rose from the bench, then suddenly dropped back with a noisy expulsion of her breath.
“Garcia? Why did you say Garcia? That’s not my name.”
“It used to be, didn’t it?”
“It used to be a lot of different things. Now it’s Donelli, nothing else, see? And it’s Nita, not Juanita. Nita Donelli, that’s my name, understand?”
Fielding nodded. “Of course.”
“Where’d you get a hold of that Juanita business anyway?”
“I thought the two names were the same. There’s this old song, see, about a girl called Nita, Juanita.”
“There is, eh?”
“Yes, and I naturally assumed...”
“Hey, Chico.” She motioned to the busboy, and he came over to the booth, pushing his broom ahead of him. “You ever hear tell of a song called ‘Nita, Juanita’?”
“Nope.”
Juanita turned back to Fielding, her full mouth pressed tight against her teeth, so that it seemed half its size. “Sing it for me. Let’s hear how it sounds.”
“Here? Now?”
“Sure, here now. Why not?”
“I don’t remember all the words. Anyway, I can’t sing. I have a voice like...”
“Try.”
She was very quiet in her insistence. No one in the café was paying any attention to the scene except Mrs. Brewster, who was watching them with her bright, beady little eyes.
“Maybe there’s no such song, eh?” Juanita said.
“Sure there is. It goes back a long way. You’re too young to remember.”
“So remind me.”
Fielding was sweating from the heat, from the beer, and from something he didn’t want to identify as fear. “Say, what’s the matter with you anyway?”
“I like music, is all. Old songs. I like old songs.”
Mrs. Brewster came out from behind the counter making little sweeps of her apron as if she were brushing away invisible cobwebs. Juanita saw her coming and turned her face stubbornly toward the wall.
“What’s up?” Mrs. Brewster asked Fielding.
“Nothing, I just — that is, she just wanted me to sing a song.”
“What’s wrong with a bit of music?”
“It wouldn’t be music. I can’t sing.”
“She’s a little crazy,” Mrs. Brewster said. “But I can handle her.” She put a scrawny hand firmly on Juanita’s right shoulder. “Snap out of it. You hear, girl?”
“Leave me alone,” Juanita said.
“You don’t snap out of it, I call your mother and tell her you’re having trouble with your cabeza again. Also, I write to Joe. I tell him, Dear Joe, that wife of yours, you better come and get her locked up. O.K., you snap out of it now?”
“All I wanted was to hear a song.”
“What song?”
“‘Nita, Juanita.’ He says it’s a song. I never heard of it, I think he’s lying. I think he’s a spy from the police or the Probation Department.”
“He’s not lying.”
“I think he is.”
“I can spot a cop a mile away.” Mrs. Brewster said. “Also, I know that song. I used to sing it when I was a girl. I had a pretty voice once, before I breathed in all this foul air. Now you believe me?”
“No.”
“O.K., we sing it together for you, him and me. How about that, mister? We make a little music to cheer Nita up?”
Fielding cleared his throat. “I can’t...”
“I begin. You follow.”
“But...”
“Now. One, two, three, here we go:
Juanita’s face was still turned to the wall. Mrs. Brewster said, “You’re not listening.”
“I am so.”
“Isn’t it pretty, all that sadness? Now comes the chorus with your very own name in it.”
Fielding joined, softly and a little off key, in the chorus:
During the chorus Juanita slowly turned her head to watch the two songsters, and her mouth began to move slightly, as if she were silently singing along with them. She looked like a child again in that moment, a little girl wanting desperately to be part of a song she never knew, a harmony she never heard.
When the chorus was over, Mrs. Brewster blew her nose on her apron, thinking of her pretty voice that had vanished in the foul air.
“I like the part with my name in it the best,” Juanita said.
Mrs. Brewster patted her shoulder. “Naturally. That’s the best part.”
“‘Lean thou on my heart.’ Imagine anyone saying that to me. I’d drop dead.”
“Things like that don’t get said in real life. You feeling better now, girl?”
“I’m all right. I was all right before, too. I just wanted to hear the song to make sure he wasn’t lying.”
“She’s a little crazy,” Mrs. Brewster said to Fielding. “But she handles easy if you know how.”
“I didn’t really think you were lying,” Juanita said when Mrs. Brewster had gone. “I have to check things, that’s all. I always check things. It’s funny the way spooks like her think everybody else is crazy.”
Fielding nodded. “It is funny. I’ve noticed it myself.”
“You didn’t believe her for a minute, did you?”
“Not for a minute.”
“I could tell you didn’t. You have a very kind expression. I bet you like dogs.”
“Dogs are fine.”
His fear had gone now, leaving in his throat a little knot of pity which he couldn’t swallow or cough up. It wasn’t often that Fielding experienced pity for anyone but himself, and he didn’t like the feeling. It seemed to immobilize him. He wanted to get up and run away and forget about this strange, sad girl, forget about the whole bunch of them — Daisy, Jim, Ada, Camilla. Camilla was dead. Jim and Daisy had their own lives, and Ada had hers... What the hell am I doing here? It’s dangerous. I may stir up a storm and get caught in the middle of it. I’d better go while the going’s good.
The girl was staring at him gravely. “What kind of dogs do you like best?”
“Sleeping ones.”
“I had a fox terrier once, but it chewed up one of my old lady’s crucifixes, and she made me take it to the pound.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I get off work in fifteen minutes. Maybe we could take in a movie this afternoon.”
It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but he didn’t hesitate. “That would be very nice.”
“I have to go home first and change clothes. I only live about three blocks away. You could wait here for me.”
“Why don’t I come along? It’s a good day for a walk.”
She looked suddenly tense again. “Who said I was going to walk?”
“I assumed — well, since you only live three blocks away...”
“I thought maybe you meant I wasn’t the kind of girl that’d have a car.”
“I didn’t mean that at all.”