“It’s like sitting on the shore and watching the ocean, instead of going in. It’s not the same at all.”
Both Verne and Barbara turned in annoyance. Verne caught her eye and he smiled. So she was thinking about it, too. She looked quickly away, but he knew. He crossed his legs, relaxing. She was thinking about those times the same way he was. For some reason this awareness gave him pleasure.
“Maybe Carl’s right,” he said. “There’s nothing like rolling around in the ocean. The surf, the spray—”
Barbara said nothing. Verne let the matter drop. He was becoming sleepy; the warm sun was shining down on him, all over him. Before long he took off his coat and tossed it in the corner. He unfastened his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves.
“It’s hot,” Barbara said.
The warmth of the sun was making perspiration come out on her face. Little warm drops standing on her forehead and neck, rolling slowly down into her collar. Verne felt it, too. The glare of the sun was working itself into high gear; it was only eleven o’clock and already the heat was too much. But noon it would be like a furnace. Maybe the fog wasn’t so bad, after all.
“What’s the matter?” Carl asked.
“It’s hot.”
“Hot? This isn’t hot. Wait until you’ve lived down in the South for a while.”
“I lived in the South,” Verne said. “And this is hot. I don’t like it.”
“It’s actually hotter in here, than outside,” Carl said. “What you’re feeling is the amount of moisture in the air. This room is very moist. The water from the sink evaporating, the—”
“I know,” Verne said. He lapsed into sullen silence. The talk annoyed him. What did if matter? Why did they have to sit around and discuss everything? He tried to relax. What was it that made Carl turn everything around and around, studying, examining? Every idea, every thought was like a bug under a lens, to Carl.
But it wasn’t really Carl that annoyed him; he knew that. Verne glanced up at Barbara. She had got to her feet and was gathering up the dishes. She had filled out, in four years. She was much heavier, solid. She had been rather light, before. But she was only twenty, in those days. He could see fine gold fuzz along her arms, as she lifted up the dishes. In the sunlight, her skin was a rich, mellow gold. Her arms were rounded. He watched her until she noticed him. Then he looked away.
“Give me a hand,” Barbara said.
It was going to be awkward. There was no doubt of that. He could feel the tension in the room. She didn’t like him looking at her. She didn’t even like him around. He got to his feet, pushing his chair slowly against the table. Carl rose, too, and they stood uncertainly.
“Come on,” Barbara said.
“Are we going to wash them?” Carl asked.
“Let them go.” Verne walked over to the window and stood looking out, his hands in his pockets. There was momentary silence.
“All right.” Barbara left the sink and sat down at the table again. She lit a cigarette. “It’s all right by me.”
Carl hesitated uncertainly. “Maybe I’ll get at the exploring business. I’m eager to begin.”
No one said anything.
“After all, everything is ours. To do with as we see fit. Our possessions. I want to start getting the lids off the packages.” He laughed.
“Just like Christmas,” Verne murmured.
Carl moved toward the door. At the door he stopped, waiting hopefully. “Isn’t anyone coming along?”
“I’ve seen too many Christmases,” Verne said.
Carl smiled at Barbara, appealing to her with his eyes. “It’s a nice day out there. Grass and sky. Places to get into. What do you say?”
“There’s plenty of time,” Barbara said. “Take it easy. We have seven whole days.”
Carl could not decide what to do. He was visibly torn between his desire to begin looking around and his desire to remain with them. If they would go along, the problem would be solved. But neither stirred.
His desire to start looking won out.
“I’ll see you people later, then.” He opened the door. “I really am surprised, though. I can’t see why you want to just sit around and—and smoke.”
“You can have first claim on everything,” Verne said. “Consider yourself the worm finder.”
“I’m going to see what’s left in the manager’s house. That’s the first place.”
“All right,” Verne said.
Carl closed the door behind him. They heard him going slowly down the outside steps, onto the walk.
“He’s a nice boy,” Barbara said, after a while.
Verne nodded. He was thinking. Maybe he should leave, go back to the dorm or to the office. Barbara was considering it; he could tell. The last person was the one who got stuck with the psychological short end of the stick, and he didn’t feel much like being that person. It would be better for him to walk out on her than to give her a chance to walk out on him.
He turned away from the window.
“How’ve you been?” Barbara said abruptly. Her voice was harsh and loud; the sound surprised both of them. “How’ve you been making out?”
“It depends on just what you mean,” Verne said guardedly.
“I mean, how have you been?”
“Fine.”
She was silent for a time. “How long has it been?” she said presently. “Three years? Four years?”
“Saw you last week,” Verne said. “Don’t you remember? Saw you last night, in the office.”
“I don’t mean that.”
Of course she didn’t mean that. As if he didn’t know what she meant. “I see you’re smoking, these days. As I recall, you didn’t used to smoke. In the old days.”
It was weird to be talking to a woman who was a formal, remote stranger—and yet who— He smiled. How terribly weird. A kind of mystery of existence. What was identity? Here she was, cold, remote, so formal that he almost found himself saying, “Miss Mahler” to her. But once, a few years before, he and she had spent an intimate time together. Been in bed together. It was a memory, but a very real memory. Was it really of her? Was it always the same person who looked out of two eyes? Perhaps it was a different person; perhaps a new person came each few years.
“No,” Barbara said. “I didn’t used to smoke.”
“No, you didn’t,” Verne said. The old Barbara had not smoked. This Barbara, this Miss Mahler, did. How could it be the same person? No two things were the same ever. No two stones, mice, drops of water, snowflakes. What did they call it? Nominalism. Perhaps it applied to people, to the same person at different times. There was no same person. Miss Mahler sat quietly at the table, polite, hard, detached, remote. A stranger. A person he scarcely knew.
But the same Miss Mahler, or another Miss Mahler, had, four years ago, rushed giggling and laughing, one cold night, leaping into bed beside him, still warm and damp, giggling and burying herself against him, pushing, pressing—
Barbara glanced up at him, and flushed. Could she tell what he was thinking? She probably was thinking the same thing, or something similar. Some other event, some other moment of their time together.
“Let me have a cigarette,” Verne said.
She put her pack on the table. He came over and took a cigarette out.
“Thanks.” He lit it and sat down across from her. She said nothing. “Mind if I sit here?”
“No.”
“All right.” He made himself comfortable on the chair. “Good cigarette. Nice and fresh.”
She said nothing. Wasn’t she going to talk? Was she just going to sit?
Barbara looked up at him. Her eyes were calm and level, but there were two spots of high color in her cheeks. She was going to say something. He set himself, waiting.