She chose her words carefully, watching his face. “Verne, I wish I could talk to you before I go back.”
He frowned. “What about?”
“I— I just want to talk to you. I came up here to see you.” Her voice sounded forlorn.
“I’ll go off,” Teddy said merrily. She pushed her chair back, one hand on the table. “I’ll go into the powder room and sit for a while.”
There was silence.
“Don’t go,” Verne said.
Barbara’s heart almost stopped beating. She bit her lips, tears spilling into her eyes. She turned her head away.
“I’ll be glad to go,” Teddy said happily. She eased herself back down in her seat again.
Verne said nothing. His body sagged. He was resting his arms on the table. His chin sank down slowly, until it disappeared into the sleeves of his coat.
“It never rains but it pours,” he murmured.
“What?”
He shook his head. After a time he reached out his hand and took Teddy’s unfinished drink. Teddy said nothing. Verne drank it slowly.
“Good,” he said.
He removed his glasses and put them into his coat pocket. He seemed to be slowly coming apart. He put his head on his arms, closing his eyes. His body was limp, like straw. A limp bag of straw. Barbara watched him. She said nothing.
Finally Teddy stirred. “It’s late.”
“What time is it?” Barbara said.
“One-thirty.”
Verne lifted his head. “That’s not late.”
“It’s pretty late.”
“No.” Verne waved his arm. The waitress came over to the table. “Do you think it’s late?” Verne said.
“We don’t close for some time yet.”
“Bring me another scotch and water.” Verne looked around. “I guess that’s all.”
The waitress went off.
“Why don’t you all join in? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Teddy said.
Verne pulled himself up on his chair. He took out his glasses and fitted them into place. “Well, Barbara?” he said. “How do you like it in the Big City?”
“It’s fine.”
“Is this the first time you have had the pleasure of coming to our great city?”
“I’ve been here before.”
“Good. Good. I’m glad to hear that. It’s a fine thing to get out and see the world, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“One should travel. To the mountains. Up in the hills. A mountain stream. Trout. A campfire. Or to the ocean. I sometimes go up the coast.” His voice was dull, indistinct. It faded off. “Up the coast. Where the great surf beats endlessly. The sea. I like the sea.”
“I know,” Barbara said.
Verne’s eyebrow shot up. “Do you?” He nodded. “So. Well.”
“Did you meet Verne at Castle?” Teddy said suddenly.
“Yes.”
“Then you must be the girl that came back with him. I remember now. He did say she lived in Boston.” Teddy studied her with interest. “So you’re the girl.”
“Verne told you about me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Verne thinks a lot of you. He was very—shall I say, enthusiastic? He was very enthusiastic about you.”
“Oh?” Barbara murmured.
“I think a lot of everyone,” Verne said thickly.
“Sure you do, Verne,” Teddy said. “That’s what’s so nice about him, Barbara. You’ll find that out, if you should ever get to know him better. He’s so thoughtful. He thinks so much of everyone. Everyone is his friend—he loves everybody.”
Verne grunted.
“The whole world is one great, warm family to him. He feels everyone’s his friend. He loves us all. He wants to spread his love around everywhere. Right, Verne?”
Verne did not answer. His eyes were shut. His head rested against his arms. He was breathing heavily. Teddy prodded him, watching him. He did not stir.
“Verne?” she said sharply.
There was no answer. Teddy leaned back in her chair. She lit a cigarette, taking Verne’s lighter from his pocket. She sat for a time, blowing smoke across the table, around the empty glasses, around Verne.
Barbara sat tensely, twisting her hands together, knotting the arm of her sleeve.
“We owe for the last drink,” Teddy said. She stubbed her cigarette out abruptly in the ashtray. Then she waved to the waitress.
The waitress came over.
“How much?”
“Sixty-five cents.”
“Here’s the money.” Teddy took a bill from her purse and gave it to her. “Keep the change.”
The waitress started to gather up the empty glasses on the table. Teddy waved her away.
Presently Teddy leaned over close to Verne. She peered intently at him. “Come on, ducky. Time to go home. Come on. Let’s wake up.”
Verne did not stir.
“Help me, dear,” Teddy said to Barbara.
“What—what’ll I do?”
Teddy stood up. “Take one arm. We’ll get him up on his feet Sometimes he comes around when he’s on his feet. Take his left arm.”
Barbara went uncertainly around to the other side of the table. She tugged at Verne’s arm. Verne pulled away.
“Come on,” Teddy said patiently. “Time to go.”
They got him up on his feet. Two men at the next table wanted to help but Teddy waved them off. Verne began to stir a little.
“Hold on,” Teddy said. “Don’t let go of him.”
Barbara held onto his arm.
“Let’s go, ducky,” Teddy repeated. “Let’s go the whole way, all the way to the door. Out to the car.”
“Jesus,” Verne said thickly. “Let go.”
“Can you make it?”
“Yes.”
They let go of him. He walked unsteadily across the room to the door without looking back. His feet shuffled; he bumped against a table. Teddy put on her coat quickly, gathering up her things.
“Let’s go.”
She and Barbara followed after him. When they got to the door Verne had already crossed the sidewalk to the car. He was trying to unlock the door, pulling the handle down dully. Teddy found the key in his coat pocket and unlocked it. She helped him inside. He tumbled onto the seat and lay, his arms outstretched, his head forward.
“Get in,” Teddy said to Barbara. Barbara slunk silently into the car, beside Verne. Teddy walked around to the other side and got in behind the wheel. “Close your door. Pull it shut.”
Barbara closed the door. Teddy turned the motor on. She let it run for a few minutes. Presently she let the car inch forward.
“Anyone coming?”
“No.” The streets were deserted. The stores were closed up tight, their neon signs turned off. No one was in sight.
“What street is the bus depot on?”
Barbara faltered. “Why, I—”
“Don’t you know?”
“I think it’s at—”
“Never mind. I can find it.”
Teddy started the car up. They drove slowly down the empty street. At a red light Teddy stopped. She got out her cigarettes. She offered the pack to Barbara but then pulled it away.
“That’s right—you don’t smoke.”
After a while Barbara said: “Did—did Verne tell you very much about me?”
“Not much. How old are you?”
“Why?”
“I just wondered. It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t see why you asked,” Barbara murmured.
Teddy surveyed her. “You better go back to Boston. And get started on your welfare work.”
Barbara slunk down in the seat and did not answer.
They reached the bus depot Teddy drove the car up to the curb. A couple of bus drivers were standing together, smoking and talking.