“He was called out on an emergency. That was his nurse. I’m going to take the bandage off. Nothing to it.”
“He isn’t coming?”
“He left her instructions. She was just going to phone. You’re not supposed to use your eyes too much at first. When they start watering, close ’em. Wear dark glasses during the day. All the lights out when I take off those pads. And—”
“Well, come on! Come on!”
“And, no jolts or jars. No blows about the head for a long time.”
Lark tugged at the bandage. “Come on. Let’s see your ugly mug!”
“Hold up! I’m doing this.”
Lark felt his head turned from side to side. Scissors began cutting and pruning. The light chain on the table-lamp clicked.
“It’s real shadowy in here now,” Mac warned. “Don’t let it worry you.”
“Nothing’s worrying me,” Lark gritted. His muscles were in knots, fingers digging into the palms of his hands.
The pads were lifted away.
He opened his eyes slowly, winced. Pain stabbed him. Things came crawling out of the dark, sluggishly — a long rectangle of grayness in the opposite wall; the doorway — a fuzzy shape before him, moving, bending down; Mac’s wide, good-natured face, plastered with a frozen grin; coarse, close-cropped hair standing up like a yellow brush. “You... you all right?”
Lark reached out and gripped his hand. “I’ll have that drink.”
Mac gave a shout, running toward the dining room. “I’ll phone the boys. They’ve all been pulling for you!”
Lark cleared his throat huskily, relaxing a long moment, feeling the tenseness flow out of him. Then he got up, moving through the dim room, turned on a floor lamp, keeping his eyes squinted, head averted. Staring in the mirror above the mantel, he discovered he wasn’t a million years old after all. His blue eyes stared out of a face that had yet to see thirty.
But there was something that matched well with the iron set of his jaw — the scar. It gave him a new toughness. No more friendly claps on the back. People would hesitate, think twice about it.
Mac came back. “Here — your glasses.”
He took them, put them on. The dark lenses glinted. He was something out of a Martian Fantasy. But then, he wasn’t used to himself yet.
He went out into the twilight and stared at the lawn hungrily. June. Green grass. A sprinkler throwing delightful clouds of sheer spray. Was there anything better than this? He could see!
His face hardened. He could see — to strike back at the person who had struck at him.
“The boys want me to bring you down tomorrow,” Mac was saying from the top of the porch steps.
“I’ll drive you down tonight. How’s that?”
Mac chuckled, but his eyes were wary. “If you think I’m going to let you overdo at the beginning—”
“I’m getting into my glad rags as soon as I check up on every blade of grass in this lot.”
“Now listen—”
“Save it. I’ve waited months for this night!”
Mac spread his hands helplessly, turning.
“Left my cap inside,” he mumbled. “Go ahead. It’s your funeral.”
She had looks but no brains. He ditched her and found another. In a small town where you knew everybody and everybody knew you, there were always others. He looked different. He felt different. Cynical, maybe? They wanted rings on their fingers and a slice of his gas station. He wanted a few drinks, a few laughs, and then he turned sour, thinking about Jeri — who hadn’t loved him at all. The night wore on. And Lark Anderson called it quits.
Sober as a deacon and twice as lonely, he walked into the garage office, dropped into the swivel chair and propped his long legs on the desk; shoved his white Panama to the back of his head.
Mac eyed him, rubbing oily hands on the front of his coveralls. “I don’t like it.”
“What?”
“That’s the chair you were sitting in when you got shot. It gives me the creeps. Sit over here — away from the window.”
Lark slumped back, staring out that window into the dark field at the rear of the station. The glass had been replaced. “Maybe this is the place to start. Just like it was that night.”
Mac snorted. “Someone said they saw you in Jake’s Bar, the Elite Grill, the Pavilion. You nuts?”
“The glasses help. My head aches a little.”
Tires whined outside on the highway. Almost midnight, and traffic was still heavy.
The phone rang. Mac picked it up. He said yes a couple of times, turned laconically, still holding the receiver. “A wreck down the road. Your girl...”
Lark’s feet hit the floor.
“Now take it easy,” Mac spluttered. “Nobody’s hurt. She’s alone. Just needs a tow.” He turned back to the phone. “Be right there. Yes. About five minutes, Jeri.” He hung up.
“My girl,” Lark began thickly.
“Sorry,” Mac stammered. “I guess you are pretty sore. But — why don’t you go? Maybe things will clear up a little for you.”
“Shut up!”
Mac swallowed, turned and hurried out, climbing into the big wrecking truck.
Lark swore under his breath. His eyes gleamed behind the glasses with a bitter light. He jerked a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his blue sports coat, spilling one on the floor. What was she doing running around all hours of the night — and yet she had never come to see him? The town was going to be too small, the world too small!
He strode outside. There were four “islands,” twelve pumps, three grease racks — a super, with garage attached. The blue neons drew ’em in like flies from the V intersection outside of Elgin on the Chicago pike. Three attendants worked briskly this hot night, but the lanes were full, cars lined up waiting.
Removing hat and coat, he tossed them in the office and lent the boys a hand. He saw their surprised smiles. They evidently got a kick out of him — the first night like this. He drove himself hard. Ten, twenty minutes passed. He paused, wiping the perspiration from his forehead on his sleeve. It was hot, sticky... Could she have been hurt and not told Mac?
He went out back in the field and prowled around. What a target the office made! But the silence, and the stars overhead, told him nothing. The only clue he had was Mac. Mac was acting strangely. It was almost as though that phone call from Jeri had been prearranged.
By one a.m. business tapered off. He moved restlessly toward his coupe but couldn’t make himself leave. Be there in five minutes, Mac had said. That was an hour ago. He dragged a bottle out of the coke machine; let the stuff slide down his throat. Then he saw the red light coming down the highway.
The big tow-buggy eased up into the driveway swinging a sedan with a smashed front wheel. A slight, familiar figure sat beside Mac on the high seat. As the truck growled in a half-circle, the blue lights of the station washed over straight, chiseled features, coaxed streaks of flame from her hair.
Stiffly, Lark paced into the office, shrugged on his coat, picked up his hat. He looked at Mac as the other entered. “What kept you? Trying to sober her up?”
Mac’s glance was straight. “You shouldn’t talk like that. Maybe there’re a few things you don’t understand.”
Lark slapped on his hat viciously. “So? Take her home then. What the hell do I care?”
Mac frowned. “Come off it, Lark. You’ve been through a lot. I talked her into coming here. I said you’d — see her. It’s about her husband, Gabe Varden. Something she has to tell you.”
“You’ve got a lousy nerve. Jeri marries another guy — never comes near me when I’m hurt. And you—”
“She’s been waiting. We didn’t think it was wise for her to see you — until now. There’s a lot you don’t know.”