He drove at an even pace, wondering if Devlan had been right about his wanting to feel guilt, wanting to punish himself. It should not be that complicated. Had it hit her harder than she had let him know? Had she wanted death? Could a phone call have saved her? Was it dull, brute pride, then, that had killed her? His hand tightened on the wheel. It was something you had to find out. It was not possible to spend the rest of your life wondering about it. You had to know. And, he thought grimly, the trip was at her expense. It was money she would have had, had she lived. She had been his wife when she died.
Oasis Springs was an abruptness in the burned land. Here bloomed alien flowers, here grass grew with a transplanted lushness. It was new and raw and rich. Two years ago it had been lizard land. Now it was a place of pastels, spun glass, muttering of the air conditioners, motel moderne, bandit clank of the slots. You had six weeks, at special rates, of course, because Oasis Springs was not yet quite fashionable. The blue pools, and horses at dusk, if you preferred, and please ignore the knowing anthracite eyes of the hotel maids of Indian blood if you should happen to have a guest in your room, because Oasis Springs was earnestly concerned that your divorce should be pleasant. You could eat chili or pheasant, steak or a hot dog, bet a dime or a thousand. There were chunky little English cars, and vast pale fin-tailed monsters, and jalopies from out of the burned land, dust-crusted.
He drove down the main street of Oasis Springs at three in the afternoon, and the neon was silent. Two massive women in slacks stared dully at a window display of Indian silver. The shadows were sharp and black. Empty cars baked and glinted in the weight of the sun. A small girl in a white sun suit walked diagonally across the street, pink tongue dipping delicately at the pistachio cone. He stopped for what seemed to be the only traffic light. He could look into a place called the Golden Sixpence. It was darker in there, and people moved about. Ten crap tables. Air-conditioned. Beverages. On the opposite corner was an expensive women’s shop, with scanty swim suits on the bloodless dummies.
He found the Terrace Inn at the west edge of the new town. Beyond it was the emptiness, distant buzzards wheeling, heat shimmer on rocks, and beyond, the timeless mountains, regal in blue. The Terrace Inn stood tall, set back on the improbable transplanted greenness, driveway a curved blazing of marble chips, palms standing in curved postures, in lush daintiness. It stood tall with huge tinted face of glass, with redwood, with cement, with pale stone, with many terraces and suspended steps, and it was all like a color photograph made with film that is not true, the hues too vivid. There was a long carport, redwood uprights and a thatched roof, and he parked there in the shade. As he got out of the car, he saw a bellhop walking swiftly down toward him, a prim servant smile on the husky brown young face.
“Are you staying at the Inn, sir?”
“I’d like to. But you better not take the bag up. I don’t have a reservation.”
“We aren’t full up, sir.”
Jay Shelby unlocked the trunk, and the bellhop lifted the bag out tenderly. They went up to the big glass doors, the boy a few steps ahead. He opened the door and stood aside, and Jay walked into the chillness, the carpeted silence, the blond-wood discretion of the high lobby. An old lady with gold hoops in her ears sat and knitted in subdued yarns. There was faint music of violins. A girl behind glass ticked at a comptometer. He went over to the desk, and the thin, pale man smiled and put the card in front of him.
John Shell, he wrote, New York City.
“A single, Mr. Shell? We have a nice studio room, or a small suite.”
“The studio room, please.”
“If you’ll be staying with us for some time, we have a special rate you may be interested in.”
“I’ll only be here a few days. How much is the room?”
“Eleven dollars a day, sir. Front, please. Mr. Shell will be in six-ten.”
He followed the bellhop back through the lobby, out of the mechanical chill into the still heat of an enclosed court. There was a pool as still as glass in the center, iron tables on the flagstones under vivid umbrellas. From that enclosed space, he could look through an arch into another court, and he saw the plan of the hotel. The rooms were in the two-story structures that enclosed the open courts. There were roofed walkways for each story. The bellhop turned left, and Jay followed him through the shaded heat of the open-sided corridor. The stone court was deserted. One woman lay face down on the low board. She wore a pale-blue bathing suit, and her body was oiled, deeply tanned, very lovely. She heard them and lifted her head. She had a face that made him think of a turtle, sun-dazed, heavy-lidded.
The boy unlocked the door. The room was dim and cool. The boy demonstrated how the wall vent worked for the air-conditioning. He checked lights, towels, explained the studio bed was all made up. Merely remove the cover, sir. The pillow is in this cabinet here, under the lamp. Do you need anything? Ice? All right, sir. This pamphlet tells about the hotel facilities. Thank you very much, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay.
After he was gone. Jay looked out at the pool. Joan had died in that impossible aquamarine. Died under a billion stars. The skin on his shoulders crawled, and he turned away from the windows.
The shower was excellent. The towels were thick and soft. He dressed in gray slacks and a pale-yellow Orlon shirt. He sat on the studio bed and read the pamphlet. It was illustrated with color photographs. The owner had evidently imported hundreds of beautiful people from Hollywood to sit for the photographs. They were all smiling. They were gay. They were happy they could have breakfast up until eleven in the morning in the air-conditioned dining room or just outside the dining room on the Palm Patio. They were delighted that, after breakfast, the management would arrange for saddle horses, if desired, or tours of the surrounding area. And it pleased them that drinks were served at poolside starting at one in the afternoon, and that the cocktail hour was from five to nine-thirty on the Palm Patio. It was indeed splendid that the casino (to the rear of the hotel, just east of the Palm Patio, air-conditioned) was closed only between the hours of ten A.M. and noon, snacks served at all hours. And everything, of course, done with such taste and discrimination, such suavity and distinction.
The fine print said the Terrace Inn was owned and operated by C. Gerald Rice Enterprises, Inc.
Jay flipped a wall switch. Violins entered the room. Soft, as in the lobby. He wondered what room Joan had been in. He wished he had her easy way with people. He did not know where to start, how to start. She had known people who were now in the hotel. She could not live anywhere without meeting people, without getting to know them well. Yet she never seemed to have a true friendship. She amused people. They liked her. And for her, that was enough. He decided to look around. Yet it was an actual physical effort to leave the room. He felt awkward and diffident.
He took his key and went out, and the door snap-locked behind him. The tan woman was still on the diving board. Another woman came toward the pool from one of the rooms on the opposite side. She walked well. She was tanned reddish brown, an Indian color. Her hair was black, her suit was white, and she had a yellow cape slung over her shoulder. He watched her with a painter’s eye, seeing the good bones and articulation, the suggestion of gauntness in her cheeks. She dropped the cape over a chair, took a white bathing cap out of her beach bag, snapped it on and tucked her hair in carefully. She kicked out of her shoes and made quick little steps on the hot stone to the edge of the pool.