As late as this a flow of persons, white and Negro and Mexican, passed the shops. In doorways, figures had left the flow and were by themselves. They were mostly boys. They wore black—leather jackets and jeans, and for the most part they were surprisingly lean. They stood with their thumbs hooked in their back pockets; they twisted to follow elements within the flow, as if they had some special interest. At the popping of an exhaust, they raised their heads. They listened; their mouths opened. They caught signals. Then they looked back at the individuals and made judgments about them. Spectators, they saw everyone and had an opinion.
In the middle of the block Jim located the house set back from the pavement, the fence and iron gate. “That’s it,” he said.
“Maybe they’re not up,” Pat said.
He was able to park near the house. Together he and Pat walked up the sidewalk; he opened the gate, and they passed on in, to darkness and the sudden loss of street sounds. The cement path was ahead, but neither of them could see it. Reaching, he took Pat’s hands. Her fingers were cold, and he enclosed them.
To the right of the porch, the basement window showed a rim of light. “They’re awake,” he said.
“It’s so late,” Pat said. She stumbled, and a metal object rolled away, a tin can that glinted and then vanished into weeds.
He went down the steps, leaving her behind him. Against the streetlights she was slim and small, buried within her coat; her head was up, and she walked in a circle, her heels making sharp, staccato clicks on the cement. He knocked on the door.
The door opened and light flooded out. Rachael recognized him and said, “Oh. Hello.” Backing away from him and holding the door open, she said, “We were playing cards.”
He said to her, “This is in the nature of a favor. I have somebody with me and she isn’t feeling well. We thought maybe we could drop by for a while. Were you just about to go to bed?”
“No,” she said. She seemed to accept the situation. “Come on in.”
Going back for Pat, he led her down the steps and into the apartment. “This was a sort of inspiration. You can throw us out any time.”
Cards and poker chips were scattered across the top of the massive oak table. Something about the room had struck him as odd, and now he knew what it was; the walls were bare of pictures.
“This is Patricia Gray,” he said. He did not try to describe their relationship. He was not certain what he had said to them.
“I think I’ve seen you a-a-at the station,” Art said. He started to put out his hand and then hid it in his pocket.
Rachael said, “Can I fix you some coffee or something to eat?” She was standing close to Pat, and she had ducked in what seemed a survival of a curtsey. She wore a print dress, a bright summery frock, strapless; her shoulders were bare. Her skin was fairer than Pat’s. Her hair was much lighter and cut much shorter. Possibly she was smaller, but her expanded middle made it hard for him to tell.
As he helped Pat off with her coat, she said, “It’s warm in here. It’s nice. I—”
“You bet,” he said.
“What huge lovely eyes she has.” Turning to Rachael, she said, “You make me want to take up painting again.” During the first year of their marriage she had cleaned a but nothing had been completed. The set of paints, as far as he knew, was now stored or thrown away. Certainly she had given up all pretensions along that line.
Art hugged Rachael close to him. “She’s going to have a baby.”
“Why, you’re just a little doll,” Pat said. “I can’t get over her,” she said to Jim.
“You’re not only drunk,” he said, “you’re also queer.”
“I mean it. I’d like to paint her sometime. Those eyes . . .” And then she moved off.
Following her, he said, “What would help? Coffee?”
“Yes,” she said.
He went with Rachael into the kitchen. “She’s under a lot of strain,” he said, as Rachael put the coffee pot on the burner and got down cups and saucers.
“She’s high-strung, isn’t she?” Rachael said. “I kind of like her.”
“You’re sweet to let us in,” he said. “I’m grateful. We were out roaming around . . . it was no good.”
“How long were you married?”
“Three years,” he said.
“I wanted to meet her; I’m glad you came. I know she means a great deal to you.”
“That’s true,” he said.
“I can see why,” Rachael said. She seemed shy and conscientious, concerned with doing what was right. She carried the coffee cups into the living room and began clearing the table.
“What were you playing?” he asked.
“Blackjack.” She swept the deck of cards together and put it in its box. “One time we drove to Reno . . . we stayed there overnight. We played at the different tables.”
Art said, “She’s a real cool poker player. She takes it real seriously; one time she knocked off F-f-ferde Heinke’s glasses because he was fooling around.” In his nervousness he avoided looking at Jim and Pat; he grabbed up the poker chips and concentrated on them. He pretended that he was talking to no one in particular.
Several times in his visits to station KOIF, he had noticed Pat. He considered her beautiful; she reminded him of the women in fashion ads. The idea that such a woman would visit his house filled him with excitement. Only once had Rachael worn heels, and that was on the day they had gotten married. Glancing at Pat, he was aware of her dark hair and the intense color of her mouth. Makeup, he thought. He wondered how old she was. She was sitting by the table and he was attracted to her legs; they seemed to him long and curved, and he wondered if she was a model. She was so well dressed and beautiful that he went off into the other room and tried to think how he might improve himself. He examined one of his sport coats and a pair of slacks.
When he reentered the living room, Rachael offered him a cup of coffee. Jim Briskin was standing by the table, holding a cup and saucer; his head brushed close to the ceiling of the room, and in such small quarters he seemed especially tall. He wore a loose coat, his regular coat, and no tie. Art wondered how he could go around with Pat and not dress up; his own mind was filled with notions and schemes about clothes.
Taking the coffee cup, be paced about with it. He was this close to such a woman, and at the same time he was farther away than ever. He had no idea what he might say to her. He was afraid to open his mouth. His own muteness offended him; probably she would never come back and he would never have this chance again. In agitation he said to her.
“Hh-hey, how long’ve you worked at the station?”
Pat said, “I don’t know.” To Jim Briskin she said, “When did I start?” Bending, she unfastened her highheeled shoes and slid them off. She saw him looking at her and she smiled.
“How is it, working at a station?” Art said, as calmly as he could.
Pat said, “It’s noisy.”
“You want a month off?” Jim Briskin said.
“Sure,” she said. In her stocking feet she went across the room to the radio. “Can I turn it up?” Dance music was playing; she made it louder.
“Not too loud,” Jim Briskin said.
“Is this too loud?” Remaining by the radio, she closed her eyes. Art thought she looked tired. But he did not know what he could do for her; he walked in her direction without any plan.
Jim Briskin said, “You better come sit down and drink your coffee.”
“It’s excellent coffee,” she said. “Is there anything to drink? I don’t feel like coffee.”
“You don’t feel like drinking,” Jim Briskin said.
“I do.” She opened her eyes. “Not very much, just something.”