“What’d you call him for?”
“Ice-skating,” she said. “What else do you do? Why don’t you go out and get me an ice cream soda?”
He shuffled his feet and stuck his hands away, into his back pockets. “Did you have fun?” she said. “Did you meet any kids you knew?”
“No,” he said.
“Why’d you leave?”
“They closed.”
“Did you walk some girl home? Or what did you do, buy a hot dog and a malt?” She felt cold and terrified; she did not dare stop.
Art said, “I tried out this guy’s MG.”
“Then you go drive his MG,” she said. “You just drive it as long as you want.”
“Are you really going back?” he said in a plaintive voice. “We j-j-just left.”
“Blame yourself—” she said.
Fooling with his belt, he said, “I couldn’t see sitting around.”
“With me,” she said, “you couldn’t see sitting around with me.”
“There’s nothing to do,” he said.
From the closet she got her suitcases. “Will you help me pack?” She began putting skirts and sweaters and blouses into the suitcase. “Come on, Art. Don’t make me do all the work.”
Going to her purse, he began rooting.
“What do you want?” She walked over and took the purse from him.
“The car keys,” he said, not looking directly at her.
“Why?”
“I can’t hang around here.”
“You can’t take my car. If you want to leave, go ahead. Go catch a bus or something.”
In an instant he had yanked the purse from her hands; holding it over the bed, he dumped out the contents. “I’ll leave it off someplace,” he said. “You’ll get it back.”
She said, “If you take my car, I’ll call the police and tell them you stole it.”
“You will?”
“It’s my car.” She held out her hand. “Give me back the keys.”
“Can’t I use it?”
“No,” she said.
“Suppose I just take it up to San Francisco and leave it off? I don’t want to run into Jim Briskin; he’s probably sore as hell.”
“He’ll kill you,” she said.
“Did he say so?”
“Yes,” she said.
“It was your idea.”
She put her hand up to her eye. “See what you did to me?”
After a long, uncertain pause, he said, “You got a couple bucks I could have? I mean, if I have to get a b-b-bus or something.”
“Did you spend everything, you had?”
“I paid for some gas,” he said. “For this guy’s MG.” From the contents of her purse, she took her wallet.
“I’ll pay you back,” he said.
She gave him six or seven dollars, and he put the bills away in his coat. “You better leave,” she said. “Before he gets here.”
She led him by the arm; his body responded sluggishly, and at the door he hung back, dragging, unwilling to go. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “I don’t believe you called Jim Briskin; that’s a lot of h-h-hot air.” Tugging away from her, he walked back and stopped by the kitchen door, his shoulders hunched.
“Suit yourself,” she said. She continued packing; she collected the bottles and jars and packages and fitted them into the suitcases.
“Is he really coming?” Art said.
“Yes,” she said.
“You’re going back with him?”
“Yes,” she said, “I hope so.”
“Are you going to marry him?”
“Yes,” she said.
His chin sank down. His body hunched until he looked like a little old man, a gnarled old gnomish fellow, nearsighted, hard of hearing; he strained to hear her, to gather his faculties. The youthfulness was gone. The purity. “What’s so good about him?” he said.
“He’s a very fine person.”
“And you’re a skinny old bag.”
Lifting a suitcase from the bed, she carried it to the door and set it down. That was one of them, and she began on a second. But it did not seem worth it. She sat down on the bed.
“Just an old bag,” Art said. “Why don’t you get a cat or a parrot or one of those birds the old maids have? So you can have something to mother.”
“Art,” she said, “would you go outside and leave me alone? Please leave me alone.”
“You’re not a girl at all,” he said. “You’re dried up. You’re all worn out.”
“Stop it,” she said.
“Tough,” he said, immobile.
She got up and went outside, onto the porch of the cabin. Headlights of cars flashed by. She walked toward the highway, closer and closer until under her feet the gravel was gone and she had come onto the pavement. A car honked. Behind it a second car slowed and swerved; the distorted features of the driver were visible, and then the car vanished. Its taillight glowed red. The taillight became smaller, and then at last it was gone.
After a while a car left the highway and bumped across the shoulder. Its headlights fastened on her and she was blinded; the car grew and she put up her hands. She smelled the hot engine as the hood of the car passed in front of her. The door opened; the car stopped rolling.
“Is that you, Pat?” Jim Briskin’s voice came.
“Yes,” she said. She lifted her head. Inside his car, behind the wheel, he sat with the door open, peering at her. When he had recognized her, he got out.
“How are you?” he said, as they walked toward cabin C. He patted her on the back. “I’m pretty good,” she said.
“You look rundown.” Halting her, he scrutinized her. “He really hit you, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said.
Ahead of her, he stepped up and into the cabin. “Hello, Art,” he said.
“Hi,” Art said, flushed and nervous.
Jim, said, “What’d you do, hit her in the eye?”
“Yeah,” Art said. “But she’s okay.”
Turning to Pat he said, “Let’s have your car key.” He looked all around the room as she got the keys from the heap of things on the bed. “Thanks,” he said. He seemed preoccupied. “Here, Art.” He tossed the keys to the boy.
“What’s this?” Art said. The keys fell to the floor, and he stooped to pick them up. The keys slipped away from him, and he stooped again.
“Your stuff isn’t packed, is it?” Jim said to her. “I see it all around.”
“No,” she said. “I have one suitcase packed.”
Going over to Art, he said, “You finish packing her stuff. Put it in the Dodge and then come on up.”
“Up where?” Art said.
“Leave the car in front of her place.” He led Pat from the cabin.
“You want me to unpack it,” Art said, following after them to the door, “wh-wh-when I get it up there?”
“No,” Jim said, “leave everything in the car.”
“What about the keys?”
“Put them in the mailbox.” Holding Pat by the hand, he took her to his car.
As they drove out onto the highway, she said, “Will he do it?”
“Do you care?” Jim said.
She said, “Thanks for coming.”
“I think that ends it.” Behind them the Four Aces Motel was already lost among the neon signs. “How are you otherwise?”
“I’ll live,” she said.
“It was certainly hard getting the name out of you. The motel name.”
After that neither of them said anything. They watched the road, the cars and signs, the headlights that flashed by. Leaning back against the seat, Pat slept a little. When she woke up, they were on the freeway. To their right was the Bay. Now there were fewer lights.
“That dirty little squirt of a kid,” she said.
“Okay,” he said.
“He socked me right in the eye; he knocked me out.”
“Now you have something to talk about,” he said. “Something you can point to.”