He'd had some idea what was going to happen right off, but he just hadn't cared-then. The thing was, maybe like a silly little kid believing in fairies and like that, when he thought about the afterward part (vague and eager) he'd thought, if it was going to tell Them anything at all, it'd be right away, and maybe even by this morning-some time today-everything would Not like that. Maybe not even some time Today. Maybe never. And what might happen now, when he went home, he just couldn't imagine how bad it'd be, or even what it might be. She knew he had something to do with its being gone, with the door always locked inside and all.
And besides Ma, what she'd do and say and ask This had been about the longest and awfullest day of his whole life. He'd got up early, before it was light even: he hadn't really got to sleep after he was back in from doing that-just laid there miserable and scared and wondering what would happen now. And then getting out soon as ever he could, after it started to happen. He hadn't really had breakfast, she'd been too upset and he thought some scared too, to fix much, and he hadn't wanted that; and she hadn't fixed his lunch to carry either, so he didn't have any.
Times today he'd felt sort of empty, but not like being hungry. An awful day, other ways: all the ways it could be. He'd been dumb in history class and Mr. Protheroe had scolded him, and then in English class he'd felt so sleepy, couldn't lift his head up hardly, take in what Miss Skinner was saying, and she'd been mad. He was glad, sort of, when it was three thirty and school was out, but another way he wasn't, because it was at least somewhere to be.
He didn't go home. He had the thirty cents Ma'd given him, hadn't bought anything in the school cafeteria at lunchtime, because he wasn't hungry then, but now he was and he bought a ten-cent chocolate bar and ate it while he just walked along going nowhere. Staying away from Home.
He walked for a while, just anywhere, and sat on the curb sometimes to rest; he started to feel like he couldn't breathe, from being so scared and not knowing what to do.
Because he had to go home some time. There wasn't anything else to do, anywhere else to go. It'd get dark, and he couldn't go on waling, sitting on curbs, all night.
Somewhere along one street, down near Main, he met Danny's ma. It was just starting to get dark then. She saw him, and she made him stop, and said, "Oh, you're the boy lives downstairs, aren't you? You know Danny, Danny S-Smith, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Marty, and he took off his cap like Ma and Dad both always said you ought to talking to a lady or when you came inside, to be polite.
"Oh, have you seen him anywheres? Was he to school today?"
"No, ma'am, I guess he wasn't, I haven't seen-"
"Oh, dear," she said in her funny soft little voice. "I guess he's for sure run off. I don't know what I better do about it. You see, his dad was kind of nice to him awhile, just lately, an' then he got mad at him, and I guess it sort of turned Danny-d'you suppose? Boys, they're funny anyways-never know what they're up to." It was like she was talking to herself. "I better ask Ray what to do. Only he said not to come home till eight anyways. Oh, well-" and she smiled sort of absent-minded at Marty and went past and he saw her stop and look at the ads outside the movie house there and go in.
He couldn't be bothered, think much about her or Danny.
It got darker, and then it was really dark and getting cold too, and his head began to feel funny, light, and he wasn't sure he could keep on walking, like, even if he sat down somewhere he might fall over.
There wasn't anything left to do but go home. And it'd be worse now, after a whole day…. And worse too with Ma, because he'd stayed away so long.
It took a long time to get there, and he thought for a while he'd never get to the top of the stairs. And now he wasn't feeling so awful scared any longer-like he'd got past that-part of him was just feeling sick and so tired and wanting to get home because that was the place to go when you felt that way, and another part just wanted to have it all over with, whatever was going to happen.
He leaned on the door when he knocked and waited for her to come, and so when the door opened he almost fell down, and she grabbed at him. She hadn't called out sharp, way she always did, who was there, first before unlocking-but he hardly noticed.
"Marty!" she said, and there wasn't so much crossness in her voice as he'd expected, she sounded-almost like the way he'd been feeling-plain scared. "Marty, where you been?-I been nearly crazy all day-you got to say what you did, where you-go an' get it back! Marty-"
And that was the first time he ever remembered she didn't right away lock the door-but he didn't notice that much either, right then.
Gunn was starting a cold, and left the office early. As usual, he denied the vague stuffy sensation in the head, the little soreness in the throat, the general feeling of lassitude; he said he wouldn't dare have a cold after the way she'd been stuffing him with Vitamin C all winter. Christy, having been married to him for thirty-nine years next June, ignored that, stood over him to see he finished the glass of hot lemonade and honey, and said he'd better have something light for dinner instead of the hamburger, and why didn't he get into his robe and slippers and be comfortable, so far as she knew nobody was coming in.
Gunn said defiantly he felt perfectly all right, never better. "Of course," said Christy briskly, "but no law against making yourself comfortable."
"I suppose you'll give me no peace until I do," said Gunn, relieved at being argued into it. And then the phone rang, and she said vexedly, There, if that was the MacDonalds wanting to play bridge tonight they could go on wanting-not, of course, because Gunn wasn't feeling well but because she didn't feel like it herself.
He had his tie off, in the bedroom, listening to her murmuring protests at the phone, when she came to the door and said crossly it was somebody who insisted on speaking with him, wouldn't take no for an answer. So he went out and picked up the phone.
"Mr. Gunn?" said a male voice, confident, courteous, used to doing business over the phone. "I've got a little deal for you, sorry to disturb you at home, but I'm glad I've finally got hold of you-your office let me have your number. You don't know me, I'm Earl King, King Contracting out on Western-but your office sent a memo to me, and I guess a lot of other places, about a fellow named Lindstrom, wanting to know if he'd applied for work or been hired, under that name or any other-"
"Yes?" Gunn sat down beside the telephone table.
"Well, I've got him for you. It was quite a little surprise to me, I tell you, because of the kind of thing it is-deserting his family-if you'd asked me, I'd have said he was the last man. He's been working for me nearly six months, one of my steadiest men, and under his own name too. When-"
"Well, that's fine," said Gunn. "We're glad to know where he is, and in the morning-"
"Wait a minute, this is just the start. When I got your form letter asking about him, well, there wasn't any doubt it was him, name and description and all. But I tell you, it staggered me. I couldn't help feeling there must be something on his side, you know, because of the kind of guy he is. And I didn't want to go and haul him off the job in front of the other men, make a big thing of it. What I did, I met him at the job half an hour ago when he'd be through for the day, and tackled him about it. No trouble at all, he broke right down, said he was glad it'd come out and he'd thought it would before this, and anyway he'd been feeling so bad about it he couldn't have gone on much longer-"
"That's fine," said Gunn, yawning. "Glad to hear it. He's decided to go back to his family? So that's that." Surreptitiously he swallowed, testing that soreness at the back of his throat.