She stood, away from the light, gasping and getting back her wind. The line became longer. Art reached the window, paid for his admission, and then went on inside.
A car full of teenagers pulled up, its exhausts thundering. Boys piled out and ran to the ticket window. Behind them two girls in jeans and sweaters followed. At the window they struggled and swarmed and shoved one another; the kids blended together, the jeans and shirts, the faces, the hair.
When they had gone inside the rink, she turned and walked back to the cabin of the motel. She bolted the door after her. A roaring filled every part of the cabin and at first she did not know what it was; she could not tell if it were inside or outside her head. It was outside. It was the air conditioner, she realized. They had left it on.
With her drink in her hand, she stood before the mirror and declared with certitude that she would have looked absolutely perfect beside him. Together they would have attracted favorable attention; they would have been an outstanding couple.
And then she began to cry. She started to sit down, but her hand struck the arm of the chair; the glass tumbled and the remains of her drink spread in a pool across the rug. She touched the pool with her toe. The rug was wet. The coolness felt nice.
God, she thought.
Walking into the kitchen, she fixed herself another drink. She turned on the radio over the bed, but she could not get KOIF; the transmitter was too far away. On a San Mateo station she picked up classical music; she turned the volume up loud, as loud as it would go.
She brought the wine bottle to the bed. Lying down, she snapped off the light; she lay in darkness, drinking, listening to the music. Outside the cabin, cars and trucks passed along the highway.
In the next cabin laughter and voices shrilled out into the darkness. She listened to that, too. When the voices ceased, she turned her attention to the music.
The music, suddenly, was gone. She sat up. At first she tuned the dial, wondering what had happened to it. And then she realized that the station had gone off the air. The time was midnight.
She made her way to the bathroom, washed her face, and then scrubbed her skin; she pressed her face into the fabric until her face ached.
Then she came back out and seated herself by the phone. She dialed the KOIF number, but of course there was no answer. With a shock she realized what she was doing. Not there, she thought, hanging up the phone. He couldn’t possibly be there. Nobody was there. It was after midnight; the station was shut down.
Holding the receiver in her lap, she dialed her own number. The phone rang on and on. Not there, she thought. She hung up. Next she dialed his apartment. Again there was no answer.
Nowhere, she thought.
She hung up the phone and went to refill her glass. The wine was almost gone. She poured it all into the glass.
Once more she telephoned. Using the San Francisco phone book, she looked up and dialed the Emmanuals’ number, the apartment on Fillmore Street.
“Hello?” a voice said.
“Jim,” she said. She began to cry again; tears spilled down her cheeks, onto her knuckles and the phone.
“Where are you?” he said.
“I’m in a motel,” she said. “I don’t know the name.”
Jim said, “Where is it?”
“I don’t know.” She sat crying, clutching the phone.
“Is he with you?”
“No.” From her pocket she got out her handkerchief and blew her nose. “He went out.”Jim said, “See if there’s a match folder. Look by the phone.”
She looked. She found a match folder with the name Four Aces Motel on it. “Jim,” she said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Did you find a match folder?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t know.” She buried the match folder in the phone book, out of sight. “I know where I am, but I don’t know what to do. He went out ice-skating. Can you believe that?”
“Tell me where you are,” he said, “and I’ll come and get you. Are you in San Francisco?”
“No,” she said. “It’s down on El Camino Real.”
“Near what town?”
“Redwood City. He’s up at an ice-skating rink with a lot of kids. What’s the matter with me, Jim? How did I get mixed up in this?”
“Tell me the address.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Tell me,” he said. “Pat, come on. Tell me where you are.”
“What am I going to do?” she said. “He’s up there with those kids. All he is is a kid; he showed me this place they go, this attic. He came over to the apartment and got me to go to dinner with him. We went out to Chinatown; I didn’t want to go, but he got me to. I did everything I could, but good god, what can I do if he’s going off and ice-skate?”
“Pat,” he said, “tell me where you are.”
“I’m scared of him,” she said.
“Why?”
Holding the handkerchief to her eyes, she said, “I don’t want you to come down. How can I get out of here, Jim? I have to get away. This didn’t work out . . . you were right.”
“Why are you afraid of him?”
“He hit me,” she said, crying.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay. He hit me in the eye. And we went on and on that night until there was nothing left of me. He wore me out and now he’s ice-skating. There was this girl ahead of him in the line; she—”
“I want to come and get you,” Jim said. “So tell me where you are. I can’t get you unless I know where you are.”
She said, “He’s afraid of you, Jim. That’s why we’re down here. He was afraid you’d show up at the apartment. You’re the only one he’s afraid of, he isn’t even afraid of Rachael. How is Rachael?”
“Fine,” he said.
“Is she mad?”
“Look,” he said, “tell me where you are.”
“I’m at the Four Aces Motel—”
“Okay.”
“Wait,” she said. “Jim, listen. I did everything I could; I bought him enough clothes so he looked like a man and not like a kid dressed up for Saturday night. It’s my car we came down in. What else could I do? All I wanted to do was just lie here in bed and not do anything. But he wouldn’t do that.”
“I’ll see you,” he said, and hung up. The phone clicked in her ear. For a time she held it, and then she put it on the hook.
“Christ,” she said.
Now it had happened. Now it was over. She went unsteadily to the closet and changed from her jeans and sport shirt to a blouse and bolero and long skirt; he liked her long skirts. Then she began braiding her hair.
18
At twelve-thirty the cabin door flew open and Art entered. “Hi,” he said. “What you been doing?” He saw the empty wine bottle by the bed. “What’d you do, drink the whole bottle?”
She said, “I called Jim Briskin.”
“Y-y-yeah?” He came around beside her. “No kidding?”
“I had to,” she said. “Why did you go off and leave me? I don’t understand how you could.”
“How long ago’d you call him?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s he doing? Coming down?”
“Yes,” she said.
By degrees his face darkened. “Get your stuff packed; let’s go.”
“I’m going back,” she said. “Oh y-y-yeah?”
Standing up, she said, “You sneaky little kid, if he ever gets his hands on you, he’ll kill you. So you better run as fast as you can and bide.”