Sometimes she saw them, washed up on the beach in the morning. Was that how they died? She thought about it. Perhaps a little sea thing would not even be aware of the ocean, the movements of the tide.
While she was meditating Verne Tildon came up on the porch and knocked. She could not imagine who it was. She opened the door and he came into the cabin.
“Hello, Barbara. How are you?”
She regarded him uncertainly. “I remember now. You’re Verne. What did you want? Penny and Felix are gone. They went over to see some people.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry.” He sat down on a hard chair and leaned back. He was so little and strange. How old would he be? Over thirty, certainly. Perhaps thirty-three or -four. His eyes, magnified by his glasses, blinked up at her owlishly.
“Why not worry?” she said.
Verne shrugged. “I can talk to you instead. If you don’t mind. Do you mind?”
“No. I guess not.”
“Then I’ll talk to you. Well? What sort of a person are you, Miss Mahler? Barbara Mahler. Barbara. I always like to know what kind of person I’m talking to.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Verne got up and came over toward her. He was studying her so intently. Like one of her professors back in school. What would this man be like as a teacher? He wore a rough, heavy coat and smoked a pipe. She tried to imagine him with a dog. No, he was not big enough. The dog would pull him along. She smiled, thinking of this.
One of his eyebrows went up. “Well, you’re not so god damn serious after all.”
She felt her cheeks grow red. “Let’s cut that out.” He was frankly appraising her, looking her up and down. “Stop it! What do you think I am? Something hanging up in a window for sale?”
“If you were, how much would it cost?” And he added, “Do you think I’d pay it?”
She did not understand. He seemed to be kidding her, but she could not tell. He was puzzling. A little dried-up wrinkled man with hornrimmed glasses.
“You’re an elf,” she said suddenly. “A strange little elf. Just like in my story book.”
For a moment she thought she had hurt his feelings, because he seemed to scowl. But apparently she was wrong. He bowed deeply, with great solemnity. “Thank you.”
As he bowed his face had come close to hers. She caught the smell of liquor. He was drunk! No, not drunk exactly. But he had been drinking. That was why he was so lively. Suddenly she felt afraid. She backed away.
“What’s the matter? Do you think I’m going to put a hex on you? Turn you into a pumpkin?”
“No.”
He walked around the little kitchen of the cabin, pulling open the cupboards. He peered inside them. “Got anything to drink?”
“To drink?”
His mouth fell open. “You mean you have never heard of such a thing?” He closed the cupboards. “Young woman, how old are you?”
He put his hands on his hips. The corners of his mouth twitched as he glared in mock astonishment.
“I’m twenty-four,” Barbara murmured. “Why?”
“Twenty-four? Really? And you never heard there was something beside eating and sleeping and—” He broke off. “Maybe you never heard of that, either.”
“Heard of what?” She was confused.
“Forget it.” He came up and put his hand on her shoulder. “My dear young lady. Perhaps it is time some older, more experienced person, wise in the ways of the world, introduced you to a certain practice, the indulgence of which—in which—is the producer of the most gratifying results.” He paused. “What I am saying is this. How about walking over to a bar with me and having a drink? I promise to pay for the drink in the event that you do not care to finish it. Assuming that I may have what is left, of course.”
She did not know what to do. She thought about it, her heart beating. He was so strange. He was partly drunk, but she could not tell just how much. He considered her a child; she could see that. He was teasing her. How much older he was than Felix or Penny! This would be the first time she would be going out without them. It was not the same, going to a bar with them for a beer. This was different. She could not make up her mind.
“I’ll have to think it over.”
He leaped to attention. “All right! I’ll come back in late October to find out what you decided.”
“Wait a minute.” She hesitated. “I can leave a note for Felix and Penny.”
“Would that make you feel better?”
“I really should leave a note.”
“All right. You go ahead. I’ll be outside.” He pushed the door open and went out on the porch. The door closed loudly behind him.
Barbara hurried around the room until she found a pencil and a scrap of paper. She wrote: “Penny— I have gone out with Verne Tildon. I’ll be back later on. Don’t worry about me.”
She got a thumb tack and put the note up on the wall, over the bed. Then she took her coat and went outside. Verne was sitting on the porch steps, smoking his pipe. He glanced up.
“So you decided to come. Well, let’s go.”
Taking her arm, he led her down the road.
The first bar they came to was a small wood place with high stools and sawdust on the floor. The juke box was playing loudly; they could see a few people inside, drinking and sitting.
“How would this be?” Verne said.
“It looks all right.”
They went in and sat down at a table. When the bartender came over Verne ordered two scotch and waters.
“I don’t like scotch and water,” Barbara said, after the man was gone.
“It’s the only thing to drink. All those mixed drinks with sugar make you sick. Like pink ladies. You stick to a straight drink like scotch and water and you won’t get sick afterwards.”
“Are we going to drink that much?”
“What much?”
“That we might get sick.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Verne said, trying to be patient. “That’s why I want to stick to scotch and water. Isn’t that right, Charlie?”
The bartender agreed, setting the drinks down on the table. Verne paid and the man left. Barbara lifted hers slowly and tasted it.
“That’s good blended scotch,” Verne said. “I saw what he was using. Walker’s DeLuxe.”
“It tastes more like gasoline,” Barbara said, making a face. “Phooie.” She put her glass down.
Verne drank deeply. He sighed. “That’s it.”
“What?”
“The breath of life.”
“I guess you can develop a taste for it.”
“So I’ve heard.” Verne drank more. Barbara sat, listening to the jukebox and the sounds of the people all around them.
“This is a nice place. Sort of warm.”
“Yes it is. Very nice.” He seemed less talkative. He had calmed down; he did not make as much noise as before. He sat peering into his glass, turning it around and around, his glasses pushed up a little.
“What are you thinking about?” Barbara said.
“What?”
“What are you thinking about? You haven’t said anything for a while.”
“Oh, nothing. I was just moldering. It’s strange to be here. I haven’t been here very long. It was hard to get away. I almost didn’t get here. I had to promise to go right back.”
“Your job?”
He nodded. “That, too.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two weeks Two weeks— And now it’s over. Back to the old grind. And everything else.”
“You’re leaving? When?”
“Later tonight.”
“So soon?”