“We’re talking off tonight. Bill and I.”
“Bill?”
“You haven’t met him. He’s the person I’m taking along. I still haven’t found a third rider. Bill is an old friend. You might like him. Maybe we’ll see him later on. He’s around town someplace.”
“What kind of person is he?”
“Plays piano in a band. Back in New York. Bill Herndon is his name. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Does a lot of arranging.”
“No, but I don’t—”
“This is progressive jazz.”
“You told me you were interested in it.”
There was silence. Verne finished his drink. He waved the bartender over. “Two more of the same.”
Barbara started to protest but the bartender was already gone with what remained of her drink. “How do you know I want another? Maybe I’ve had enough.”
“Everybody wants another. It’s part of life.”
“Maybe I don’t want to drink any more.”
“You’re still sober, aren’t you?”
“Is that what we’re drinking for? To get drunk?”
“Oh, get off it!” He scowled at her. “Put your god damn soap box away.”
Her heart thudded. She became quiet.
“Sorry.” He removed his glasses and polished them. “You can leave any time you want.” Without his glasses he looked like a little child. He peered up at her, nearsightedly. There were great circles around his eyes. Like rings.
“What is it?” Barbara said.
“I see you’re still here.”
“You don’t have to be so nasty.” She watched him put his glasses back on. His hands seemed to be shaky and nervous. The bartender brought the drinks and Verne paid for them.
He lifted his glass. “Here’s to.”
Verne drank quickly. Barbara took a swallow. This one did not seem to be so strong. She managed to drink almost as much as he did this time. She felt a faint glow of excitement begin to form inside her.
“It’s not so bad,” she said.
The sensations of the room increased. She found herself more aware of the warmth and the sounds of voices. She noticed the colors of the bar, the glasses, the wood. The lights of the jukebox. She leaned forward to speak, but before she could start she found Verne already talking.
“... And there never was such a one again,” he was saying slowly. What had he said? She had not heard the first part.
She started to ask him to repeat it. But all at once he was gone. She blinked. What had happened to him?
He was at the bar. He came slowly back to the table, carrying two glasses with great care. He set them down on the table with a bump.
“There,” he said, sighing.
Barbara took her drink. “Thank you.”
“Not at all.”
She sipped her drink. It did not seem to have any taste at all. But it was cold. She liked that. The room was too warm. She concentrated on the coldness.
“How long?” Verne said.
Barbara rubbed her forehead. The room was so hot! She was having trouble breathing. “What?”
“How long have you been up here?”
She focused carefully on his face. The ashtray was filled with cigarette stubs. She shook her head wearily. Lord, for some fresh air! She stood up.
“What’s the matter?” Verne said.
“It’s so close.”
“What?”
“The room.” She was standing by the door. But Verne was between her and the door. A man and woman pushed past them, coming inside. Cold air blew around her.
“Be reasonable,” Verne said. He raised his hand, finger extended admonishingly. She giggled, covering her face so he would not see. “What are you laughing at?”
“At you,” Barbara said.
“Me?”
He helped her sit down. She was having trouble with the chair. “Thank you.”
Verne’s breath blew against her face. The room revolved slowly. She put her head in her hands and waited. When she looked up again the room had come to rest.
As she drank she talked.
“We came up, the three of us. It was—” She was not sure. “A few weeks ago. Felix and Penny and me.”
“How did you come?”
“By bus. We have two cabins. I live in one. Felix and Penny live in the other.” She felt sudden horror: what had she said? “Penny and I live in one, I mean. Together. I didn’t mean that, what I said.”
“Why not?”
“Because she doesn’t go walking. I know.” Barbara felt suddenly sad. “I know. I know.” She wiped at her eyes. Her tongue was thick; her lips seemed frozen. Like when she had her tooth out, once. “I know.”
Verne patted her hand. “It happens to the best people.”
“Am I one of the best people?”
He nodded.
“Really?” She felt a little better. “But I know. She never tells me anything. But when she comes back she’s warm all over. And the smell. I can tell. Like an animal. It’s like animals. Pungent. Like—musk. All over her.”
“The best people get to earth that way.”
“Do they?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“I guess I knew. Is it wrong to know things? Things like that? Does everybody know?”
“Yes. Everybody knows.”
It was true, she realized. Everybody knew but her. She was alone. She pulled back, away from the table. She was cut off. The noise, the sounds, the warmth of the room—it was beyond her. Away from her. Another world. She could not reach it.
“I want to be—to be together,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“Not like now. Not on the edge. Not like I was. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember.”
“I was sitting on the edge. So far off. By myself. But you came over.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you come over?”
Verne considered. “To meet you.”
“Did you want to meet me?”
He nodded.
Barbara leaned forward. “Why?” She waited, tense. It was very important. She felt numb all over, waiting. “Why, Verne? Why?”
“You looked—nice.”
She settled back in the chair. “I was glad you came over. It’s a long way.” She tried to explain. “I mean, for me. Perhaps not for you. But it seems so far to me. Penny and Felix are going to get married when we go back. Everything’s arranged.”
“That’s nice.”
“I know. Have you ever been married?”
He was scowling. “Yes.”
“Why are you scowling?”
“No reason.”
“Don’t you like marriage?”
“It depends.”
“I’m glad they’re getting married. But I wish— If only—”
“What do you wish?”
“I— I don’t know.” She was silent for a long time. An age passed, an immense measure of time. At last she stirred. She felt heavy all over. With a great effort she raised her eyes.
Verne was waiting for her to go on. He had moved his chair very close to hers, not on the other side of the table at all. She looked down. He was holding onto her hand. Suddenly tears rushed up into her eyes. She felt them running down her face, down her cheeks.
He wiped them away with his necktie. That made her smile. Verne smiled back.
“Don’t let go,” she said. “Please don’t let go. Promise you won’t.”
“I won’t.”
He smiled more, a funny little wrinkled smile. Like a prune. She thought of a song, a record her father had played for her. The Prune Song.
“I’ve never heard it,” Verne said.
Had she spoken out loud? It was hard to think. Now he was holding onto both her hands. She could feel him close by her.
“Do you understand?” she said. He was nodding, so apparently he did. It made her feel better. “I hope you do. It’s all right for them. I hope it’s wonderful. It will be wonderful, won’t it?”