She sat in silence for a time, thinking about it. Again she felt terribly lonely and sad. She was all by herself. There was no one with her, no one nearby. Verne had gone again. She sipped at her glass, but there was nothing left but ice in it.
Suddenly Verne was back. He was talking, but not to her. To whom, then? She started to get up, but all at once the room leaped up and began to twist slowly. She caught hold of the edge of the table to steady it. Verne looked at her sleepily. He had turned his chair sideways and was sitting, his legs crossed, playing with his tie.
“I feel funny,” Barbara said. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from somebody else.
“... If we leave at one we’ll never get across the highway approach...” Verne was saying. She blinked. Who was he talking to? To her?
She looked around, but her head felt heavy and refused to turn. There was another man sitting at the table. He was all in black, his suit, his hat, his clothes, even his skin. He was a Negro.
Her hand was touching something cold. She was setting down her glass. She did not remember picking it up. The Negro smiled and spoke. Who was he?
It was Bill. Verne was saying so.
Bill repeated something, over and over again, looking intently at her. She nodded. What was the matter with him? He got up and left. He came back again.
Her hand was cold. The glass, icy, drops of wet against her fingers. The glass was full. The glass was half empty. She was belching.
She caught herself and pulled herself upright in the chair, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. Verne was gone. She could see him on the other side of the room talking to some people, hanging over the back of a chair. His feet were up; his soles needed mending. He was like a little child. A dried-up little elf. Why was he so small? Bill was huge. He was black all over. But he was a Negro.
Now it was “Time On My Hands.” She said, can’t you play something else?
The man with the glasses said, what do you want to hear?
She was on her feet. The room was moving slowly along like a carpet unrolling. Or maybe one of those little red amusement carts. The bar swung over to her. She saw a woman with a big wide face. And two men. Bland, round, filling up in front of her. She tripped. Her hands were numb, aching with pain. One of them was going along her cheek, rubbing against her face.
She got up. Verne said something, over and over again. Everything murmured and buzzed around her.
Now it was cold. She was cold all over. It began with her feet and went up her legs, through her body and into her arms. She lifted her arm up slowly. A terrible wind caught it and pushed it back. There was a vibrating. Was it the ocean? The ocean made her restless. She could see nothing but darkness ahead of her. Something hard was pressing into her side. She felt for it. It seemed to be a rod of some kind.
She felt fear. The rod would not move. She tore at the rod. Her nails cracked and bent. Then a hand closed over hers. Someone spoke. She forgot the rod.
She was in a car. The car was moving. Wind roared about her; she was against the door. The voice was telling her that, warning her about something.
Then she was sitting at a counter, staring into a stack of pies. Each pie rested on a little wire rack. A man in a white costume opened a little door and took out one of the pies. It was an apple pie.
“With ice cream?”
“Just plain,” Verne said.
“Just plain.”
Everything was bright. Her head ached. Her whole body ached. She turned slowly. Verne was sitting on one side of her, wearing a heavy overcoat. She turned the other way. A large good-looking Negro was sitting, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, Miss Mahler.”
She stared at him. How did he know her name? He was smiling broadly. He said something more, but she could not make out the words.
“... Better, I hope,” Verne murmured.
Barbara leaned forward and rested her head against the counter. Something seemed to be gurgling through her, crawling around inside her body.
She got to her feet and stood by the stool with her knuckles against her face. The two men looked up at her, Bill with his coffee cup half lifted, Verne smoking a cigarette. Bill was watching her with a polite expression on his face. An expression of tolerance and understanding. And amusement.
“I’ll—be back.” She turned toward the counter man. He looked at her without expression.
“It’s over to the left,” Verne murmured.
She walked unsteadily across the room and pushed open the door. Then she was hanging over the washbowl, violently sick. The only thing she could think of was: Verne was wrong. I am being sick. I am.
Disgust at being sick filled her with misery. She pulled away from the bowl, drawing herself up. In the square mirror over the bowl she saw her reflection. The grey face of a young woman vomiting stared back at her. The eyes partly closed with fatigue. The hair dry and stiff. She felt tears come, and she shut her eyes tight, squeezing them shut.
The sight was blocked out. She felt better. After a time she ran water into the bowl, cleaning it slowly. She ran the water over her hands and wrists and then rubbed her eyes. The water was cold. Her left hand stung.
Barbara sat down on one of the toilets and wiped her eyes with her fingers. The tears trickled down, along her wrists. She tried to make them stop; she did not want to cry. If she were to cry things would be worse. She wanted to pull everything into her. She did not want to release anything. If only she could hold herself in, pull herself together, smaller and smaller...
She rubbed her face clean and brushed at her dress. It was stained and rumpled. There was a bitter taste in her mouth and her nose. She blew her nose on a bit of the toilet paper.
Presently she went unsteadily back, into the room again. Verne and Bill were gone. No one was at the counter. She gazed dully around. They were in a booth.
She sat down next to Verne and stared at the napkin in front of her. She picked it up, twisting it with her fingers. She could see Verne’s wristwatch, buried in the hair on his arm, at the end of his cuff. What time was it? Nine o’clock? It was after nine, almost ten.
She looked through the window at the street outside. Sun was shining down. Trees and people. A few cars parked. Stores. A couple moved along. Older people, well-dressed. She wondered where they were going.
The café was almost empty. The counterman was at the back, washing dishes, turned away from them. He was a huge man with broad shoulders. He was whistling; she wished he would stop.
She rubbed her face. Her skin was dry and rough. Her body felt sandy, as if sand had got into all her joints and was making them stick and grind. She did not want to move. Everything in her resisted motion.
“Verne,” she said.
He turned toward her.
“Verne—what am I going to do?”
“Do?” His face wrinkled. “What do you mean? You’ll feel better. Drink some of this coffee.”
“Verne knows better than anyone how it feels,” Bill purred in a deep voice. “Don’t you, Verne?”
“Try something to eat. How about some mush? Or some soft boiled eggs?”
“I’m not hungry.” Her voice was low and thick. “I don’t feel well.”
“Nothing? Not even some coffee?”
Her lips twisted. “I was sick in there.”
“You were sick in the car, too. But not on anything important. It happens.”
Barbara turned away.
“We should be taking off pretty soon,” Verne said. “Bill would appreciate it. He has to get home by nightfall. We hadn’t expected to stop this long. If we’re going to make schedule we better start.”
“Where are we?”
“Aberdeen.”
She shook her head.
“A little place. Off the highway. About half way along. We drove all night. At least, Bill did.”
“It was a good thing I was along,” Bill purred.
Barbara turned her gaze on Verne. She had not realized he was so untidy. His tie was gone and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top. He had not shaved. His skin was dirty and splotched. There were countless little stiff hairs pushing through the skin of his jowls and neck. A green spot of color showed from his coat pocket. His tie. He had put it there.
“I guess you don’t feel well either,” she said.
“I’ll live.”
“Who wants more coffee, before we go?” Bill said. “Refills are free here, according to the menu.”
The last of his words blurred off. Darkness and fatigue rolled over her.
The room faded away.