Sherill came out on to the verandah. He was wearing a grey and black check suit, Mexican boots and a big white Stetson. Miss Lolly remembered that hat when, years ago, Sherill had joined the circus and it had attracted her attention: remembering how young and dashing he had looked, wearing it. But now, his face white and puffy, there wasn’t any resemblance left of the young man who had fluttered her heart.
Sherill dumped down the two bags, walked down the wooden steps, then paused.
‘You best pack up,’ he said without looking at her. ‘We’ve gotta get out,’ and he went on down the path, round the house to the barn. He moved slowly as if his boots were too tight.
Miss Lolly continued to sit in the basket chair. Her fingers fumbled at her beard, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
On the upper landing of the house the grandfather clock chimed the half-hour. The clock had been in Miss Lolly’s spacious caravan throughout her circus career. All the other furniture in the house — what there was of it — belonged to her, and each piece was a memory in her life.
A large red and black butterfly fishtailed in and landed on the verandah rail, close to Miss Lolly. She looked at it, watched it move its wings slowly up and down and then take off, flying through the motionless hot scented air.
The butterfly reminded her of Carol. ‘Beauty should not be imprisoned,’ she thought. ‘I did right: I know I did right.’
Sherill drove round to the front of the house in a big Ford truck. He cut the engine, got out, came up the steps.
‘You’ll have to help,’ he said, still not looking at Miss Lolly. ‘We can take most everything in the truck.’
‘I’m going to stay,’ Miss Lolly said quietly. ‘This is my home.’
‘I know,’ Sherill said roughly. ‘Well, you’ve smashed it up for us now. Come on, don’t talk a lot of drivel. We’ve got to get out... you know those boys...’
‘You go,’ Miss Lolly said, thinking of the butterfly. ‘I’d rather stay, even if it’s only for a day or so. I’ve been happy here.’
Sherill eyed her, lifted his shoulders wearily.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘If that’s the way you feel. I’ll get off then.’
Miss Lolly looked up.
‘I did right, Tex,’ she said quietly. ‘It was an evil thing...’
‘Yes, you did right,’ Sherill said, defeated. ‘So long, Lolly.’
‘Good-bye,’ she said, ‘and good luck, Tex.’
She watched him dump his bags in the truck, climb into the cab.
‘They said they’d be back in two or three days,’ Sherill said as he stabbed the starter.
‘It’ll be long enough,’ Miss Lolly returned.
Carol had got to within twenty-five miles of Point Breese when her luck seemed to run out. Up to this moment she had been travelling by various routes and vehicles towards Steve, but now night had come down the cars and trucks which before had stopped willingly enough seemed shy of her.
The drivers were not chancing trouble by stopping for the rather wild-looking girl who waved frantically at them as they rushed through the darkness. A man might have got a lift, but not a girl. The drivers who passed Carol were heading for home; they didn’t want trouble or excitement. One or two of them did hesitate, slow down, wondering if she was a looker, whether they might have a little fun with her, but that patch of road there were no lights, and they decided she’d probably be a hag, so they kept on, increasing their speed, feeling suddenly virtuous.
Carol was tired. Prom the start it seemed to be going so well. A truck picked her up on the State Highway and the driver was decent to her, sharing with her his ample lunch, talking cheerfully about things that happened to him in his narrow walk of life. He set her down at a cross-roads, showing her the direction she’d have to take, wishing her luck.
A travelling salesman gave her a lift only a few minutes after the truck had disappeared in a cloud of dust. No, he wasn’t going to Point Breese, but he could drop her off at Campville, which was on the route.
He was more curious than the truck-driver and had asked questions. What was she doing, thumbing rides? Was she running away from home? Did she know she was pretty nice to look at? Hadn’t she better let him take her home? But she evaded these questions, made him talk about himself.
At Campville he gave her five dollars.
‘You’ll need it, kid,’ he said, opening the car door for her. ‘Aw, forget it. I’m making good money in this racket. If I want you to have it, why shouldn’t I give it to you? Get a meal. So long and luck.’
In a little restaurant in the main street she learned that the Sullivans had been in there. They had dropped in for a cup of coffee: four hours since. The news cheered her, and she finished her meal, went out into the street and caught the bus to Kinston, another milestone along her journey.
At Kinston she had to wait an hour or so before she found transport. Kinston, they told her, was forty-five miles from Point Breese. There was no direct bus service to Point Breese. She’d have to change at Bear Lake. There’d be an hour and a half wait at Bear Lake for the connecting bus.
A young fellow in a blue suit and stained grey hat, hearing the conversation, said he was going to Point Breese. He would be glad to take her. So she went with him, and they drove out of Kinston into the thickening dusk.
The young fellow drove very fast and said nothing and smoked cigarettes all the time. He drove with only one hand and whipped the car in and out of traffic, bearing down upon other cars until they slewed aside with brakes squealing, shooting recklessly across intersections.
He frightened Carol more by his silence than his recklessness.
When they got into the open country he slammed on his brakes, ran off the road on to the grass verge. Then he threw away his cigarettes and grabbed her.
He was very strong and handled her with practised ease. He kept kissing her while she tried to fight him off. While they struggled, he never said a word, and Carol hadn’t enough breath to scream.
He seemed to know exactly what he wanted to do to her: and he did it, and then he shoved her away from him and lit a cigarette. His hat had fallen off in the struggle and his hair had broken about his face, hair long as a girl’s. He flung it back with a toss of his head.
When she opened the car door and staggered out on to the grass verge he didn’t even look at her, and he drove away fast, the red glow of his cigarette like a little sneering eye where his mouth should have been.
That was when her luck ran out. It was some little while before she gathered enough courage to wave again to the passing cars: but none of them stopped.
There was a long tear in her dress and one of her stockings had come down and she was crying. She looked wild all right, and the drivers were scared of her.
After a while she gave up waving and began to walk. She walked stiffly. It was dark and lonely and the night air was turning cold. But she kept on, thinking of Steve, imagining the Sullivans already in Point Breese.
Then she heard the sound of brakes and a moment later a big kind of wagon she couldn’t see much of it in the darkness — drew up and the driver switched on his spot-lamp and focussed it on her.
She was too tired and sick to wonder at his startled exclamation.
‘Hello there,’ the driver said out of the darkness. ‘I guess you could use a ride.’
She said yes; not caring what happened to her so long as she could reach Point Breese.
The driver climbed down from the cab and stood beside her. She saw he was wearing a white coat.
‘This must be my lucky day,’ he said with an excited laugh, and caught hold of her very expertly so that she was helpless without being hurt.