I could feel my nerves unraveling. “Mister,” I said tightly, “I've got no vacancy. Why don't you try one of the other motels? There are plenty of them down the road.”
“The good places are all filled,” the old woman whined.
The man said, “Look here, son, I'm not as young as I used to be. Driving tires me, and I've been driving all day. You sure you haven't got some kind of place?”
“For Christ's sake!” I exploded. “How many times do I have to tell you? We've got no vacancy!”
“Well!” The little old woman pulled herself up, outraged. The fat man got red in the face. I turned my back on them and went back to the station as they drove off.
I was still shaking. I took the “Vacancy” sign down and put the “No Vacancy” up, the first time it had been up since I started running the place.
At that moment Paula stepped through the station doorway. She had washed her face and combed her hair and put on fresh lipstick and she looked like ten million dollars.
“Have you called your father?” she said.
“I'm not dragging my father into this, Paula. That's something you'd better get straight.”
Surprisingly, she smiled. “All right. If that's the way you want it.” She stood up, lazily, like a young savage. Then she stepped to the wall phone and picked up the thin directory.
“What are you doing?”
“I'm going to call a doctor, any doctor.”
“You can't! Any doctor you call will have to report that gunshot wound!”
“It can't be helped,” she said, as though it didn't make any difference to her one way or the other. “Karl will die if that arm doesn't get attention.”
“Then let him die!” I took Paula's arms and held her tight. “What do you care what happens to him? You don't love him. You despise him. I can see it in your eyes every time you look at him.”
I must have been hurting her, but she only shrugged. “Maybe, Joe,” she said softly, “but he's been good to me.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
This time her smile was edged with bitterness. “Joe,” she said huskily, “could you guess what I was before Karl married me? Could you guess what I did for a living?”
I turned her loose. I could guess.
“That's the reason I won't let him die,” she said. “Love has nothing to do with it. Karl has everything to gain and nothing to lose by calling a doctor. If the wound is reported, if the story gets to the police—well, it was you that killed the watchman, Joe.” She found a number, then lifted the receiver, and I could hear the operator answer.
I slammed the hook down with my hand.
“Well, Joe?” she asked softly.
She had me and she knew it. I picked up the phone and gave the number.
“Hello, Dad?”
Chapter Eleven
It was closing time but I was still at the station, waiting, wondering what I was going to say when my father came out of that cabin, wondering how I was going to explain it to him. Then I heard his footsteps—those slow, weary footsteps—as he came around to the front of the station. He looked a hundred years old as he came in and set down his bag.
“How's the patient, Dad?” It sounded insane, but he didn't seem to notice.
“Blood poisoning,” he said heavily. “Another day without attention would have killed him. He still stands a chance of losing that arm.” He reached for the phone and I jumped.
“Who're you calling, Dad?”
“The Sheriffs office. That man has a gunshot wound and I have to report it.”
“But it was an accident, Dad. Didn't they tell you?” I was hoping that he wouldn't notice how I was sweating. “You don't have to report it, do you, if it was an accident?”
“All gunshot wounds have to be reported and investigated, Joe. You know that.” He reached for the phone again and I stopped his hand with mine.
“Dad, as a favor to me, don't report this one. These people are friends of mine and I know it will be all right. Just don't bother them.”
Those old eyes looked puzzled, and I couldn't tell whether he suspected anything or not. “Joe,” he said slowly, “you know I have to make a report. I'd be breaking the law if I didn't.”
“Then you'll have to break the law, Dad.” And that was when he began to notice things. He noticed the sweat, the veins standing out on my forehead, and I guess he saw some things in my eyes that scared him. He felt for a chair and sat down very slowly.
“What is it you're trying to tell me, Joe?”
I couldn't tell him. I couldn't bring myself to hurt him any more than was absolutely necessary, but he knew something was wrong, and he knew it was bad. And he was waiting.
“Joe,” he said finally, “you're in trouble, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Is it bad?”
I couldn't look at him. I nodded.
He just sat there, looking at his hands. Those white, thin hands. After a moment he said quietly, “Why did you do it, Joe? Was it because of that woman?”
I didn't understand at first. Then it began to come, and an unexpected hope began growing inside me. He thought I had shot Sheldon! I took hold of that hope and held it tight, I held it with all the strength that was in me.
And then I was talking. “Dad, I don't know how it happened. I'd tell you if I could, but I don't know.” I saw the opening and the words came pouring out. “You saw what kind of woman she is. When she came playing around, I lost my head, I guess. I know that's not much of an excuse, but that's the way it was. And lien her husband found out what was going on, and there was a scuffle. I don't know.... There was a gun in it somewhere, and it went off, and when it was over there was a bullet in his arm.”
He just sat there.
“Dad,” I said, “don't you see why you can't turn in that report? The whole story would come out and the whole town would know about it.”
He folded and unfolded those white hands, saying nothing.
“Dad, the rest of my life depends on what you do about this report Should one mistake be that expensive? Just one mistake!”
“I was thinking about Beth,” he said heavily. “I didn't want to meddle any more in your affairs, Joe, but that woman, that man's wife, is she the one? Is she the reason you and Beth stopped seeing each other?”
I said nothing and let him think what he wanted to think. His hands trembled as he fumbled for his handkerchief and wiped aimlessly at his forehead.
I couldn't tell how I was doing. I couldn't tell what he was thinking or how much of the story he believed. “Dad,” I said tightly, “you hold the lives of three people in your hands. What happens to us now is up to you.”
He was hurt, but not nearly as hurt as he would have been if I had told him the truth. He looked at me once, then picked up his bag and slowly got to his feet. “Fm tired, Joe, very tired. I think I'll go home now.”
“The report, Dad. What are you going to do about it?”
He smiled then, and it was the saddest expression I'd ever seen. “It's a terrible thing,” he said, “holding other people's lives in your, hands. It makes an old man out of you. Maybe you were right, Joe, in not wanting to be a doctor.”
“The report?”
“I've never broken the law, that I know of.” And he smiled that sad smile again. “Maybe I'm overdue.” He walked out of the station, a little older, a little more bent, a little more tired. Relief washed over me like an icy sea. “I'll come back tomorrow,” he said wearily, “and treat the man's arm.”
“Tomorrow night, Dad, after I've closed the station. It has to be at night.”
“All right. Tomorrow night.” He got into his car, a battered old Dodge, and I stood there in the station doorway as he drove onto the highway and headed toward town. I felt as though the weight of the universe had been lifted from my shoulders. I took great gulps of air into my lungs and felt young again, and strong.