“You’re talking to an old eagle scout.”
“Thanks for helping out.”
At ten o’clock Mack pulled up in front of Erica’s house. He went up to the door. She opened the door and looked at him, looked out at his car, and asked, “Where’s Quent?”
He explained the change in plans. She introduced him to her aunt, a small woman with nervous mannerisms. Erica wore a tweed skirt, a pale cardigan, and moccasins. She seemed a little uncertain and said she’d better phone Quent.
“Why? It’s all arranged. Besides, he’s left already, probably.”
She kissed her aunt, and Mack carried the big yellow bowl of potato salad out to the car. It was covered with waxed paper tied on with cord. He placed it carefully on the back seat, shut the door on Erica, then went around and got behind the wheel. She seemed subdued.
“Great day for a picnic,” he said.
“It certainly is. It might be a little cooler when we get higher.”
“Not enough to matter.”
She sat far over on her side of the seat. He drove through traffic as fast as he dared, watching carefully ahead for Quent’s car. He decided that if he saw Quent ahead he would slow down and turn into a gas station. After he got on thirty-one, he was certain that he was ahead of Quent. The big car rocked and leaned on the mountain curves.
They had nothing to say to each other. When he saw the barn ahead, he glanced into his rearview mirror. The road behind him was clear. He passed the dirt road just beyond the barn. Erica turned suddenly and looked back. “Isn’t that the road? Quent told me.”
“You misunderstood, honey. It’s the second road after the barn. Right up here.”
“But I’m sure Quent thinks...”
“If he doesn’t show up, we’ll go back and take a look.”
The road ended at a small clearing he had seen before. He parked the car and turned off the motor. The cooling engine made ticking sounds. The wind made a soft sound in the leaves.
“Let’s take a look around,” he said.
“I’ll wait here in the car.”
He opened the door on her side. “Come on. Let’s find a good place. Let’s be girl scouts, lady.” He grinned at her.
She got out of the car, and he said, “That looks like a promising path.” He stood aside, and she went ahead, holding the branches so they wouldn’t slap him in the face. The path was resilient with pine needles. After a hundred yards it opened into a small clearing. There was grass, a large log.
“This looks okay,” he said.
“Let’s go back.”
He sat down on the log and took out his cigarettes. “Here. Sit down and smoke and take it easy.”
She took a cigarette. She didn’t seem to want to look at him. “Sit down, Erica. You make me nervous.”
She sat on the log a good four feet away from him. She sat with her hand braced against the rough bark. He watched her and saw the quick lift of her breathing. He saw her moisten her lips nervously.
He reached over almost casually and folded his fingers strongly around her wrist. She stopped breathing for a moment and then turned sharply toward him. “Mack! What’s the idea?”
He chuckled and moved closer to her. She stood up. He gave a quick yank to her wrist, and she was pulled toward him, falling to her knees. He put his arms around her, and she was like a woman made of stone, unbreathing. And then he felt the sudden softness, the great shuddering breath she took. He kissed her and then looked calmly at her face, looked at the glazed scimitar eyes, at the broken mouth. He laughed somewhere deep in his throat and took her in his arms again.
Afterward, he stood up and lit another cigarette. His hands trembled a bit. He looked down at her face, at the blue-dark hair spread wild against the grass of the clearing. Her eyes were tight shut. She was breathing deeply, and with each exhalation she murmured, “Darling... darling... darling.” It was a meaningless metronome sound, as soft as the wind in the leaves overhead.
He sat on the log, watching her with a curious cold tenderness. After a time she opened her eyes and looked vaguely around, like a person coming out of deep sleep. She sat up, then knelt and brushed at the twigs and bits of grass that clung to her skirt. She stood up and looked at him without expression, then stepped over and sat beside him on the log, not close to him. She picked up her leather purse, took out a comb, and combed her dark hair carefully, looking straight ahead.
“Cigarette?” he asked when she had finished.
“Please.”
He lit her cigarette and she looked at him over the lighter flame, meeting his eyes for the first time. She turned away, her shoulders hunched.
“So it was a dirty trick,” he said. “Go ahead. Rave.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” she said. Her voice had a faraway sound.
“You must have something to say.”
“I just feel... damn empty. It was probably a mistake. The whole plan. I thought... coming back here. I thought it would change things. God knows I tried hard. Back there too many people... know. When they know, there’s no defense.” She turned and looked at him again. “How did you know?”
He studied his cigarette. The breeze whipped the smoke away. “I don’t know. An instinct. Little things. Signs and portents. You get a hunch and you follow your hunch. That deal of you shaking hands with him to say good night. That was a sort of a tipoff.”
“It had to be that way.”
“Sure.”
“Oh, God, if there was some way... something that could be cut or burned out of me. Mack, why didn’t you leave me alone, even if you guessed?”
“I told you in the library. I feel almost like a father to the kid.”
“I wouldn’t have hurt him! I wouldn’t have hurt him!”
“Not this year, maybe. Then what goes on, honey? Some smart guy selling vacuum cleaners? A meter reader? Some drunk at a party? Don’t kid yourself.”
“Stop,” she said faintly. “Please stop!” She held her hands over her eyes. The discarded cigarette was near her moccasin, smoke drifting in the grass.
“Now you tell me you love the kid.”
“I do!”
“That’s good. Then you know what to do.”
She lifted her head. “Or?”
“That’s an unnecessary question, isn’t it?”
She stood up. Her face was all at once slack, gray, older. “You did go right by where we should have turned, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“You’ve been so damn clever, Mack, haven’t you?”
He stood up. “Sure. Old Mack. A big I.Q., darling. Let’s go.”
Mack watched Quent carefully during the next few weeks. The days were growing shorter and cooler. Mack watched the slow inexorable change in his partner, watched the listnessness, the climate of the rejected. One evening, knowing that Quent had gone back to the office after dinner, Mack returned also, occupying himself with work that could have waited until the next day, knowing that there was no need, actually, to talk to Quent, yet feeling a strong compulsion.
He wandered at last into Quent’s office. Quent looked up, and Mack saw the lean pallor of his face, the obscure sickness in his eyes.
“Knock off and have a quickie?” Mack said.
Quent stretched and yawned. “I guess so. Sure.”
They walked side by side through the darkness to the brittle cheer of the Alibi and sat at stools at the quiet bar. When the drinks came, Mack waited and then asked quietly, “What’s the pitch on those wedding bells, Quent?”
Quent’s smile was not a good thing to see. “You tell me, maybe. Erica’s going back east next week. She doesn’t seem to like it out here.”
“You kids have a little scrap?” Mack asked.
“I wish we had, Mack. I wish like hell that we had. Then I could figure it out. She just... cooled off toward me. Ever since that picnic it hasn’t been the same. As if she took a good second look at me and decided I wasn’t the guy after all. What the hell is wrong with me, Mack? What is it?” There was a certain taut desperation in his tone.