“Do you like to go out?”
“Sure,” he said. “We used to go bowling a lot. And over to Dodo’s. A-a-and she likes to play poker. And dancing; she’s a cool dancer. And a lot of times we used to go to record shops. And stock car races . . . we drove down to Pebble Beach one time, for the races. When we had a car, we drove around. It broke down and we sold it.”
“So you don’t have a car?”
“No. I tried to get my brother Nat, who runs this used car lot on Van Ness, to lend me one, but he won’t.”
Pat said, “Did you go around with other girls before you met her?”
“No,” he said.
“Then she’s really your girl. Like in the movies. The girl you grew up with. The one woman for you.” Her hands in the pockets of her coat, she said, “You think there’s one girl for every boy? You believe that?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“That’s what they say.”
“Maybe so,” he said uncertainly.
Reaching out, she ruffled his hair. “Do you know you’re cute? You’re so young . . . and you have your one girl. I’ll bet you still know kids you hang around with.”
“I guess so,” he said.
The liquor store was to their right, and Pat entered it. “Give me back my money,” she said to him as they stopped at the front counter.
“What’ll it be?” the clerk, a middle-aged bald man, said. He smiled a pale, false-teeth smile.
“A fifth of Hiram Walker’s,” Pat said. She took the dollar bills from Art and paid for the liquor.
“Good night, folks,” the clerk said as they left the store. The cash register jangled.
“What are you going to be,” Pat said as they walked back, “when you’re old and broken down, like Jim and me?”
“A p-p-printer,” he said. “Hey, when we get back you want to see the dummies for our science fiction mag? It’s called Phantasmagoria. Ferde Heinke’s president of the fan club. It’s called the Beings from Earth.” She laughed. “My lord.”
“It’s multilithed . . . we’ve got pictures of fans and some drawings. If you can draw, m-m-maybe you could draw for the mag. You know?” It seemed a luminous hope; he exploited it for all it was worth. “What do you say?”
Pat said, “I’m no good. I can’t really draw. I took a couple of art courses in college.” Her voice was empty. “Don’t look to me for anything, Art. Look what I did to Jim. I can’t give. All I wanted to do was take. It was my fault. I know it, but I still can’t give him anything. Even when I try, I can’t. The other night I wanted to . . .”
She broke off. “Have you ever had a woman hold out on you, Art? They’re supposed to do that. One kind, anyhow. I never thought of myself as that kind. I just couldn’t do it. Maybe I was still resentful. I was punishing him. Or maybe I’ve lost the capacity to give anything to anyone. I never gave anything to Bob Posin . . . I told Jim I did, but it was just to hurt him.”
She stopped walking.
“That’s my car,” she said. “What do you think of it?”
Going to the curb, he identified it as a new Dodge. “Not bad,” he said. “Too much chrome, but not a bad p-p-p-power plant.”
“Can you drive?”
“Yeah,” he said.
Reaching into her coat, she brought out car keys. “Here. Open the door.”
Dumbfounded, he opened the car door. Pat motioned him in, and he crept in behind the wheel.
“Where do you go,” she said, “when you take a girl for a drive?”
“Twin Peaks,” he said. “I guess.” He was beginning to tremble.
She slammed the door on her side. “Take me up there. Do you mind? I can’t go back; he’s waiting for me and I can’t; honest to God, I want to, but I can’t.”
On the descending mountainside, cars were parked, most of them off the road or against the railing. In the cars shapes stirred slowly, in cumbersome positions. Below the road the pattern of lights flickered on the streets and houses of San Francisco. A field of lights as far as the eye could see. Fog drifted between the lights, and here and there the lights faded out. There was no sound except from the distant motors of cars.
“Here?” Art said. “Okay?” He took the car off the road, onto a dirt shoulder. Tree branches scraped the hood. He shut off the headlights.
“Turn the motor off,” Pat said.
He did so.
Beside him she opened her purse and brought out a pack of cigarettes. He found matches and lit one for her; the match shook and she steadied his hand.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“Nn-nothing.”
Blowing smoke from her nostrils, she said, “It’s peaceful up here. I haven’t been up here in ten years. Not since I was your age. You know where I grew up? Near Stinson Beach.”
“That’s cool up there,” he said.
“We used to go swimming. Every few days. Do you like to swim?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Are you good?” She handed him the package containing the bottle. “Maybe you can open it. There’s a corkscrew in the dashboard.”
He managed to get the bottle open.
“I shouldn’t do this,” Pat said, taking the bottle. “I know I shouldn’t, but I have to do something; I can’t go on this way. You think he’ll forgive me?” Rummaging in the glove compartment, she came up with a plastic handle-less cup. “God,” she said, “It’s still got Band-Aids in it.” She tossed the cup back in the glove compartment. “I don’t want to drink. Here.” She handed the bottle back to him. “Put it away or drink it or something. You know what I came up here for?”
“What?” he muttered.
“I’m looking for something. I’m twenty-seven, Art. I’m ten years older than you. Do you realize that? When I was your age—you were seven. You were in the first grade.” She sat smoking, her legs crossed. In the dull light entering the car her legs sparkled; he made out the line of her ankle, her heel.
“You’re sure nice-looking,” he heard his voice say.
“Thank you, Art . . .”
“I mean it,” he said.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s get out of here; I don’t want to stay here.”
Obedient, crushed with disappointment, he started up the engine. As he shifted into reverse, Pat reached out her hand and turned the ignition key; the engine died.
“You actually would,” she said. “You’re so—what is it? Let it go.” She put out her cigarette and lit another with a shiny metal lighter. “You’d drive me back if I asked you to . . . you wouldn’t put up a fight, you wouldn’t argue with me. Do you really like me, Art?”
“Yeah,” he said fervently.
“What about your wife?”
For that he had no answer.
“You’re going to be a father. Do you realize that, Art? You’re going to have a little boy. Have you thought what name you want to call him?”
“No,” he said, “not yet.”
“How will you feel?” She was staring out at the lights below them. “You’re a seventeen-year-old boy and you’re going to be a father.”
“Right . . . ,” he said. “Eighteen,” he said.
“The world’s so goddamn peculiar . . .” She turned on the car seat, facing him; she had drawn up her legs and tucked them under her. In the light her cheekbones were radiant, and he traced, in his mind, the line of her forehead, the ridge of her eyebrow, and then her nose. She had thin lips. In the half-light her lips were black. Her chin and neck were in shadow.
“Come on, Art,” she said.
“Come on what?” he said, afraid of her.
“Before I change my mind.” Rolling down the window, she tossed her cigarette out; it fell into darkness. “I feel so awful. This is a terrible thing to do . . . it isn’t fair to you or your wife or Jim or any of us. It’s so mixed up. But what else is there, Art? I’ve been going around and around. I don’t know, I really don’t know.”