The bars and shops were busy and the sight of them restored some sense of optimism in him. He parked his car, locked the doors, and walked along the sidewalk, looking at the numbers.
The house itself; huge and in disrepair, was set back on its lot between a billboard and a hardware shop. A wire fence ran along the edge of the sidewalk, and in the center was a rusty, ponderous gate. He managed to force the gate open. It groaned as he shut it after him.
The cement walk led him to the side of the house. Steps descended to a wooden door, a separate basement apartment. He rapped on the door and waited. There was no response. For an interval he rapped, waited, rapped again. They were not at home. His own fault, of course. This was a wild idea, a long shot.
He started back up the steps, keenly disappointed. What now? he wondered.
On the broad main steps of the building, the steps leading to the front porch, three teenage boys sprawled. They had watched him without comment as he rapped on the Emmanuals’ basement door. Now he noticed them for the first time. All three wore jeans and heavy boots and black leather jackets. Their faces were expressionless.
“Are they out?” he asked.
Finally one of the boys inclined his head.
“You know where they went?”
No response. The faces remained blank.
“You know when they’ll be back?”
Still no response. He started down the cement path to the sidewalk. As he was closing the gate after him, one of the boys said, “Try Dodo’s.”
“What’s that?” he said.
After a pause, another of the boys said, “Dodo’s Drive-In.”
“Down Fillmore,” the first boy said. The third said nothing; he had a beaked, hostile face, and on his right cheek, by his mouth, was a crescent-shaped scar. “Couple blocks,” the first boy said.
“Thanks,” he said. They continued to gaze after him as he walked off.
Parked in the lot at the drive-in, its front facing the glass doors of the building, was a prewar Plymouth. Inside were four or five kids, and one of them was a girl. He walked cautiously up beside the car. They were eating hamburgers and drinking malts from white cartons. The girl was Rachael.
At first neither she nor Art recognized him.
“Hi,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, “hello.” That was all she said. All five kids seemed subdued. They concentrated on their food.
“Is this where you hang out?” he said clumsily.
They nodded, dividing the nod among them. There was just the one nod for all five of them. Art said, “She’s not f-f-feeling too good.”
“Anything serious?” he said.
“Nn-no.”
Another boy said, “She’s feeling blue.”
“Yeah,” Art said. “She’s been feeling blue all d-d-day. She didn’t go to w-w-work.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, concerned and knowing no way to show it. All five of them seemed blue; they munched and passed the malts back and forth. Once Art bent to brush bits of fried potato from his pants. Another car, similar to theirs, drove up on the far side of the drive-in building. Kids stepped from it and walked indoors to order food.
“Would anything cheer her up?” Jim asked.
They held a conference. One of the boys said, “Maybe you could drive her to this lady’s.”
“Her teacher,” Art said, “she had in h-h-high school.”
“Sure,” he said, wanting to help.
The door of the Plymouth presently opened. Rachael stepped out, walked to the trash dispenser with an empty carton, and then returned. Her cheeks were hollow and darkened, and she moved slowly. “Come on,” she said to her husband.
“Okay,” Art said. “But I’m not going in. I don’t w-w-want to see her.”
To Jim, Rachael said, “Where’s your car?”
“Down the street,” he said. “I can go get it.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’d like to walk. I feel like walking.”
“What teacher is this?” he asked, as the three of them trudged along Fillmore, past the shops and bars.
“My home economics teacher,” Rachael said. “Sometimes I talk to her about different things.” She kicked a bottle cap along the pavement until it rolled into the gutter. “I’m sorry I’m like this,” she said, her head down.
Art patted her. “It’s not your f-f-fault.” To Jim he explained, “It’s my fault; she’s afraid because I’m m-m-mixed up with these guys and she don’t like them. But I’m through with them; I r-r-really am.”
“I don’t mind your being with them,” Rachael said. “I’m just worried that—” She broke off.
“She thinks they’re going to d-d-do something,” Art said. “Hey,” he said to his wife, tugging her until she bumped against him. “No more for me, you hear? Last time was the last.”
Ahead of them was Jim’s car. He unlocked the door and held it open for them.
Wonderingly, Rachael said, “It must cost a lot to have a car like this.”
“Not worth it,” he said. They were starting into the back and he said, “We can all fit in front.”
When they were in, he closed the doors and backed out into traffic. As he drove, Rachael and Art put their heads together in an almost wordless discussion.
Art said, “Hey, now she don’t want to go there.” To his wife he said, “Then where do you w-w-want to go?”
Rachael said, “Remember when we used to go swimming all the time?”
“Yy-you cant go swimming.”
“I know,” she said, “but remember we used to go out to the pool at Fleishhacker Zoo? Maybe we could go out there and just sit. It ought to be nice out there.”
Making a left turn, he drove in the direction of Fleishhacker Zoo.
“This is sure n-n-nice of you,” Art said.
“I’m glad to,” he said, and he meant it.
“Did you ever go out there?” Rachael asked.
“Whenever I could. I used to walk around the Park.”
“That’s over farther,” Rachael said. “It’s nice there too.” Now she seemed less despondent. She sat up straighter and began to look through the window at the cam and houses. The bright July sunlight shone from the pavement.
“Everything okay with the baby?” Jim said. “Yes,” Rachael said.
He said, “I guess you don’t have to worry about the Army.”
“Oh, they could take him,” Rachael said. “Art, I mean. In fact they sent him a notice and he went down. And they classified him 1A. But he has a kidney condition . . . he can’t eat a lot of foods, a lot of sweet stuff. And he didn’t tell them; he forgot. So they were going to draft him, and he even had the notice that tells when to report. So I called them up. And I had to go down and talk to them. And then they didn’t want him. So I mean they could take him . . . but I don’t think they will.”
“You don’t want to go,” Jim said. It was obvious enough.
Art said, “If they want me, sure I’ll g-g-go. But I mean, there’s no war or nothing.”
Rachael said, “They get everybody sooner or later. I think they want to have something so they can get you when they want you. Like in an emergency or something. They have everybody in a classification.”
“Not women,” Art said.
The sun was warm on the trees and gravel paths and on the water of the pool. On the rim of the pool teenagers sunned themselves in trunks and bathing suits. One or two beach umbrellas had been erected.
Rachael seated herself on the low steps overlooking the pool. In the company of the two kids, Jim began to feel old and overly tall. And yet, he thought, their situation was not so different from his. They, were not so far apart in their problems.
“Let’s walk,” Rachael said. “It’s so dull here.”
The three of them walked from the pool, in the direction of the Zoo itself. At a wire cage Rachael halted, and when he and Art looked back they saw her in contemplation. “What is it?” Jim asked, returning. She said, “I made the puma growl.”