At the counter Art spun a stool and seated himself he picked up the menu and examined it.
“I’m hungry,” she said. “I have an appetite . . . you know what I’d like to do? Let’s ask them if they can fix the food to take out. So we can take it back with us.”
“What?” he murmured.
“To our cabin. And eat it there.”
The waitress was before them. “Are you ready to order?” she said, swabbing the counter with a white cloth.
Pat said, “Can you fix food to go?”
Speaking in the direction of the cook, the waitress said, “Can we fix food to go?”
“Depends on what they want,” the cook said, appearing. “Salads, sandwiches, coffee. Not soup.”
“What about the dinner?” Pat said. On the menu they listed veal chops and green peas and potatoes.
“If you have a plate,” the cook said. “But we don’t have any kind of cartons.”
“We can eat it here,” Art said. He ordered two of the dinners; the waitress went off with the order.
Pat said, “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” he said.
The food arrived and they ate. “Is this what you wanted?” she said. “I mean—all of this. Where we are. What we’re doing.”
He nodded.
After they had eaten, they ordered beer. Nobody questioned him; he was served his bottle and glass. The beer was cold; the bottle was white with frost.
“Let’s go back to the cabin,” Pat said suddenly.
“I don’t know. These places—you can sit in them for hours.” All the times, she thought, that she had sat with Jim in a bar and eatery like this, at the edge of the highway. Drinking beer, listening to the jukebox. Fried prawns and beer . . . the smell of the ocean. The hot night air of the Russian River.
On the way back to the cabin Art seemed resentful. She could not tell; now the sun was gone and the sky was dark. Beside her he was a dim shape, plodding over the gravel. Bugs, perhaps moths, flew in their faces, and Art swiped wildly.
“Do they bother you?” she said.
“You darn r-r-right.”
She said, “Let’s lock ourselves in; let’s stay inside and not come out.”
“Ever?”
“As long as we can. The rest of the night, until tomorrow. Let’s go to bed early.”
They entered the cabin and she closed the door; she bolted it and pulled down each of the window shades. The cabin was air-conditioned and she turned on the fan. It roared, and the noise gratified her.
“This is what I want,” she said. She felt elated. This was complete; they had everything they needed. Finally they were self-sufficient. Throwing herself down on the bed, she said, “Come and lie with me. Please.”
“And do what?”
“Just lie,” she said.
Begrudgingly, he sat down on the edge of the bed.
“No,” she said, “don’t just sit, lie down. Why don’t you? Isn’t this what we ought to be doing?” Trying to explain to him what she meant, she said, “This just involves the two of us. Lying here like this.”
Kicking his shoes off, he put his arms around her. Then he reached up to turn off the lamp above the bed.
“No,” she said. “I’ll won’t let you turn it off.”
“Why not?”
“I want you to see me.”
“I know how you look.”
“Leave it on,” she said.
Arising, he left her. He went over and picked up his magazine and seated himself in a chair. “You are ashamed,” she said. “You really are.” He did not look up.
“I wanted to look at you,” she said. “Isn’t that all right? Shouldn’t I do that? I like the way you look.” She waited and then she said, “Could you leave on some light? The light in the bathroom, how about that?”
His magazine under his arm, he went to the bathroom and turned on the lamp by the washbowl. Then he came back, and on his face was the fretful look; he reached past her head for the lamp. When it was off, he returned to the bed. The bed sank under his weight.
At first she saw nothing, and then she was able to make out the texture of his hair, the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows and ears, his shoulders. Lifting her hand, she unbuttoned his shirt. She slipped his shirt from him, and then she raised herself up and clasped her arms around him and pressed her head against his chest. He did not move. “Take off your clothes,” she said. “Please. For my sake.”
When he had taken off his clothes, she lay beside him, her arm under his head. But there was no response. She slipped down until her dark hair flowed across his stomach, but still he did not stir. No, she thought. Not at all.
“This is fine,” she said. “Just lying here.”
“Okay,” he said.
She kissed him. His body was cold, hard, without spirit. “Can’t we just lie here?” She unfastened her shirt, and then she took off her jeans; she lay against him with her mouth at his neck, her eyes shut. She buried her fists in his armpits, and she thought: Never. Never at all.
“It’s only around eight o’clock,” he said.
“I love you,” she said. “Do you understand what I mean? For god’s sake—” She dug her nails into his face and made him look at her. “I want to stay with you. This is exactly what I want, what we have now. This is enough.”
He said, “I’m not just going to lie around here.”
“What do you want? What do you need?”
“Let’s go somewhere.”
She held him down; she pressed down his wrists, his loins—she gripped him with her legs; she hugged him until her body ached and her breasts were bruised. “Where?” she said at last.
He said, “I saw this skating rink up the road. We d-d-drove by it.”
“No,” she said.
“Come on,” he said. With his hands he lifted her from him; he set her beside him in the bed. Getting to her feet, she began putting her clothes back on. “What sort of skating?”
“Ice skating.”
“You want to go ice skating?” she said. She went away and put the palms of her hands to her chin; her fingers covered her eyes. “I can’t believe it, Art.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “What’s the matter with that?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Don’t you want to?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t feel like it. I’ll stay here.”
“Don’t you know, how? I’ll teach you.” He arose and rapidly dressed. “I’m pretty good; I taught a couple of people.”
She went into the bathroom and locked the door.
“What are you doing in there?” he demanded at the door.
“I don’t feel well,” she said. She sat down on the clothes hamper.
“You want me to stick around?”
“No, go ahead,” she said.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he said. “H-h-how about that? Okay?”
She stared down at her hands. Presently she heard the front door of the cabin shut. Gravel crunched as he crossed the lot to the shoulder of the highway. Opening the bathroom door, she ran through the cabin and out onto the porch. Far off by the highway, his figure moved. He became smaller.
“Goddamn you,” she said.
He went on.
“Goddamn you, Art,” she said. She shut the door.
Putting on her shoes, she ran from the cabin, across the gravel to the highway, after him. Ahead of her his figure moved, and then it was swallowed up by the lights of a roadside bar and then a gas station. She slowed down. The neon sign of the skating rink was visible, and she kept her eyes on that; she could not see him, but she saw the sign and she went toward it.
By the skating rink, cars were parked, some of them locked up, some still full of people. Kids, she thought. Boys in sport coats and slacks, girls in dresses. A lunch counter was attached to the rink, and the kids were going in there. At the window of the rink a line of kids waited, and Art was one of them. In front of him was a girl in a checkered skirt and saddle shoes, a red wool sweater over her shoulders. The girl was no more than fifteen. Behind Art a soldier, roundfaced, gangling, waited with his girl.