“Sort of.”
They sat for a long time, neither of them speaking. Finally Verne sighed and began to move about on the bed.
“Well?” he said. “What do you want to do?”
“It’s not very safe, under the circumstances.” She hesitated. “We crossed the state line, too, I think. Doesn’t that mean something?”
He nodded. “Yes. It means something.”
“What—what shall we do?”
There was silence. The room had begun to grow cold. The heater had been turned off. Barbara realized, all at once, that she was beginning to tremble. Her body was trembling all over. She gripped her hands together.
“Brrrrrrr,” she murmured. “It’s cold.”
Verne nodded. He drooped, sagging in a little heap on the bed. His face was long and sad. Presently he removed his glasses and put them on the dresser.
Barbara leaped up. “Verne—”
“Yes?”
“I wish I knew how you felt.”
“Felt?”
“About everything. About this. You know.”
He started to speak, but then he seemed to change his mind. He rubbed his chin and swallowed. Finally he looked up. “It’s hard to me to say in so many words.”
“I suppose so.” She hesitated. “It’s hard for me, too. To know what to do without being sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“I don’t know.” She paced slowly across the cold room, her arms folded. “I wish I could tell what you’re thinking. How you feel. What this means to you.”
She sat down again on the edge of the bed. Someplace, far off, a clock struck. Outside in the night, a long way away. A wind had come up. She could hear it moving against the window, rustling in the darkness.
She began to take off her shoes slowly, conscious of Verne’s eyes on her. Her heart was thrashing inside her, beating in hard little strokes. She was terrified at excited at the same time. Stage fright. Like when she had to make a speech in school. How far away that seemed! She was shaking terribly. From cold and fatigue. And fright. She smiled at him.
“I can hardly breathe.”
“Will you be all right?”
“I think so.” She took off the other shoe and pushed it against the first. She was cold all over. Cold and clammy. Little beads of moisture clung to her body. Tiny icy drops against her neck and arms. But she was excited, shaking with awe and terror.
“Verne—would you do something for me? Would you turn off the light? Please?”
He reached up and pulled the light switch.
In the darkness she undressed, her hands awkward, her pulse racing. What would Penny think of her now? If they ever guessed— But of course they knew. They knew all about such things. She laughed out loud.
“What is it?” Verne’s voice was very near her.
“Nothing.” She felt for the bed in the darkness. Her fingers touched the covers. He moved away to make room for her. “Verne—”
“Yes?”
“I hope you’ll be patient with me. I’ve never— I’ve never done anything like this before. Will you be patient and understand?”
“I will,” he said.
Eight
It was late August.
“How much money do you have?” Penny said.
Barbara opened her purse and got out the coin purse. She showed Penny her money: three tens and a twenty and some ones rolled up with a rubber band.
“All right,” Penny said, nodding.
“It’s enough?”
“Yes. You already have your ticket?”
Barbara showed her the ticket. The first bus was already starting to leave. It pulled out, away from the station, moving along the road with a roar. Penny and Barbara stepped back, away from the curb. The driver of the second bus brought his bus up to the loading platform, and the small group of people began to pick up their suitcases and shuffle forward.
Penny took Barbara’s hand. “Good luck, honey.” She grabbed her around the waist and hugged her hard. “And remember! If you get into any trouble in New York call me and Felix. We’ll come up there, if we have to.”
“I better hurry,” Barbara said. “He’s going to pull out.”
She caught hold of her little bag and ran to the door of the bus. The other people had all got on. The driver started up his motor, shifting gears. Barbara clambered up the steps and handed him the ticket. He punched it and gave it back to her. She pushed down the aisle to the rear. The bus began to move while she was still on her feet. She clung to a seat handle and lowered herself into the seat, still holding onto her bag.
An elderly man sitting next to the window put down his magazine. “Want me to put that up in the rack for you, miss?” he said.
She said no very quickly, and clung even more tightly to the bag. The old man returned to his magazine. Barbara sat holding onto the bag, looking out the window past the old man’s glasses, at the streets moving by.
In New York she checked her bag at the depot. She found a telephone booth and called the radio station.
“I’m sorry, lady,” the man said patiently. “I can’t tell you that. It’s not the policy of the station. I’m sure Mister Tildon wouldn’t mind, but it’s the policy of the station not to—”
“You can tell me when he broadcasts, can’t you?”
“Certainly.” She heard him moving some papers. “He’ll be on the air tonight at nine o’clock. That’s the starting time of his program.”
“Will he be in the station before the program?”
“I don’t know that.”
She thanked him and hung up.
When the taxi let her off in front of the station it was almost eight-thirty. She hurried along the gravel path, looking around uncertainly. Was this really the place? She saw a small modern building, one story, with shrubs and grass around it. A tall wire tower rose in the air behind the building.
Barbara pushed open the door and went inside. She was in a large, well-lighted waiting room. There was no one around. At the end of the room was a great window, and beyond the window she could see a man sitting before a board of dials and meters and switches. The man leaned back in his swivel chair, turning slowly from side to side. He was reading something in front of him. Every once in a while he pushed a sheet of paper away.
Barbara walked restlessly around the waiting room, her heart thudding. The room was painted in light pastels, blue and green. The ceiling was some kind of perforated fiber. The light came from recessed fluorescents.
She sat down in a deep modern metal and leather chair and watched the man talking. On the wall next to him was a big round clock and some photographs tacked up, a row of girl pictures, mostly breasts and shoulders. There was a tall file case of phonograph records in heavy covers. And two immense turntables next to each other, with long thin tone arms. The man who was talking noticed her and turned his chair around. He was an older man with curly light hair, a necktie and a jersey sweater. He studied her a moment and then swung around, away from her.
At the end of the waiting room a door opened. She jumped, suddenly tense. But it was only a big man in a blue pinstripe suit, walking with a young fellow in his shirt sleeves. They glanced at her and passed on through a door marked private.
The clock in the control room read five minutes to nine. Her nervousness increased. She took off her coat and folded it over the back of the chair. She picked up a magazine but she could not bear to read it. Presently she got to her feet and walked around, her hands in the pockets of her suit.
The man in the control room put on a phonograph record. She could not hear it play but she could see it going around. He got up from his swivel chair and lit a cigarette. He nodded to her. She turned away. On the wall the hands of the clock were still moving. Had the person on the phone told her the truth? Was this the right night?