There were more people on the sand that morning — strangers for the most part, the vanguard of the tourist season. He did not see Luella until three-quarters of an hour before it was time for Marla to pick him up, and he would not have seen her then if a woman lying nearby on a blanket had not suddenly rolled over. Luella was sitting just beyond her. She waved, jumped up, and ran to his chair.
“Hello,” he said. “You’re not collecting glass this morning? No more pretty pictures?”
She shook her head disdainfully. “I got better things to do. How’s your wife?”
“Mrs. Carter is quite well.”
“She was here yesterday afternoon.”
“Was she?”
“Yeah. Her and Shelby.”
He felt suddenly depleted, knowing that he wanted no more of this child. He needed a drink, but there was no bar or package store in walking distance. The Circle Bar sold beer, if he could get there. He tried as Luella watched him, not offering to help. He put one hand on the wooden bar that formed the front part of the deck chair, planted his cane in the sand, and pushed. Then surprisingly he was standing up, unsteadily but in a position from which he could go on to the next step. He was turning toward the shell road when a flash of memory brought him to a stop.
Marla had stayed at home most of the previous afternoon. She had gone out at four thirty, of course, and she could have come here to the beach at that time — but she hadn’t been gone for more than twenty minutes. He looked at Luella. She was still watching him, her face expressionless. He turned back to ask her what time Marla had been here yesterday.
He didn’t get a chance. Seeing him stop, Luella spoke again. “They were here a couple of hours. Behind the Point of Rocks.”
He didn’t tell her that he knew she lied. But she must have sensed it. “You don’t believe me? Ask anybody! She shows up every day with Shelby!”
He left her, limping to the shell road and making his painful way to the Circle Bar. He drank two cans of beer. They had no effect on him. He returned to his chair and caught sight of the picture while he was still several yards away.
It lay on the seat, a rectangle of cardboard covered with sticky paint from which shards of glass reflected the strong sunlight. Wondering, he picked it up. His breath stopped for a moment when he realized what he was holding. A crude, finger-drawn picture of a man and woman. Even in his disgust he could not help admiring Luella’s talent. There could be no mistaking the two people she had meant to portray, nor the suggestive manner in which she had meant to portray them.
He dropped the glob of paint and turned to face the sea. She was squatting on a slight elevation just beyond a group of men.
“Luella!” he called, but she paid no attention. He had to shout. “Come here!”
She got up, but did not approach him immediately. She stopped first to speak to the men. There were three of them. They rolled over on their stomachs to look at John. Then Luella strutted toward him. Strut was the only word for her complacent little swagger. She stopped with one hand on her hip, posing like a grotesque midget-model.
“Whatcha want?”
He pointed to the picture with his cane. “Is that thing yours?”
She nodded. “Think it’s pretty?” “Go away,” he said, “I don’t want you ever to speak to me again.”
“Say—” She pulled herself up straight, offended. “You better watch out. I know about men like you.” She came a half step nearer, undulating her thin body. “I bet you’d like to kiss me, wouldn’t you?”
“Get away from me!”
Luella giggled. She skipped back out of reaching distance before she let the giggle turn into a sharp scream. She ran to the three men and whispered urgently to them. All three got up and stared at John. Other people were looking at him too — curiously. One of the men walked over to a neighboring group. The group’s curiosity changed suddenly to loathing. They, too, got to their feet, all staring fixedly at John. There were seven of them now. They started walking toward him. They plodded through the sand, their arms swinging slightly ahead of them. They walked, he thought, like apes.
He called out, “Now wait a minute—” But they did not stop. They were no more than six yards away when he started backing up. “Now wait—” They kept on coming. Luella trailed behind. The instant before he broke and tried to run, he saw her eyes. They were excited, and her mouth was open wide.
His cane sank deep into the sand. It was now a hindrance more than a help. On the shell road he was able to go faster but when they noticed his increased speed, they also spurted forward and two of them came up to walk abreast of him, one on either side.
“Where you think you’re going, Jack?” the man on the left asked.
“Now listen—”
“You son of a—” growled the one on the right. “We ought to turn you over to the cops.”
“Hell with the cops,” said the other. “We’ll handle it ourselves.”
The two men started closing in. Marla, he thought, instinctively identifying her with sanctuary. There was a telephone at the Circle Bar. If he could only reach it—
“Let’s get him!” someone shouted from behind. There was a growing murmur of agreement.
John broke into a panicked run. After the first few steps he dropped his cane, abandoned it, and kept on. He hadn’t known that he could walk without it, but he was making good time now. The Circle Bar was on his left, ahead. He had almost reached it when his hip, unused to the exercise, gave way. He fell, sprawled out in the middle of the shell road as the red and white convertible raced around the corner. He caught a single glimpse of Marla’s face through the windshield. The convertible was going fifty miles an hour when it hit him.
Marla screamed at the initial impact. She slammed on the brakes, skidded to a stop.
The man beside her nodded his approval. “Quick thinking, baby. Keep it up. We’ll climb out now and you start throwing hysterics. Understand?”
“Of course.” The words were spoken in a controlled voice at singular variance with the piercing screams.
“Let’s go, baby,” Shelby Granville said.
Charles Green
A Mouse Called Emily
Do you have a fondness for those curious, offbeat conversations that sometimes happen at a bar? Well, this one sure was bizarre!
So I was standing at the bar, just kind of doodling in my mind, when the man next to me announced that he guessed he’d go home and see what Emily was up to. I glanced around. He was looking at me. And smiling. A middle-aged, plump little man. Mild blue eyes, friendly and blinking behind rimless glasses. An old-fashioned stiff collar pinching off a round, pink-jowled face. The kind of a meek little guy you’d expect to see clutching an umbrella.
“Emily is a mouse,” he explained brightly. “Don’t know why I called her Emily. But she’s been in my apartment quite a long time now. Quite a long time, sir. I’d like to tell you about her. By the way, my name is Edwin Hoffman. I’m a bookkeeper. Work for Halpert and Brown. A dress house. Splendid people to work for, too.”
He paused, his head cocked to one side, evidently waiting for data on me. Against my better judgment, I told him my name was Farrell, and he immediately insisted on shaking hands. Yes, apparently it was going to be one of those things. A garrulous bore.
It was rather unpleasant, I learned, to shake hands with Mr. Edwin Hoffman. His palm was moist, clammy, and somehow you couldn’t feel the bones in his pudgy little hand. Just to say something, since this little screwball was standing there beaming at me, I told him that I, too, once owned a pet mouse.