She began to shiver uncontrollably. She thought, I'm freezing, Jane's words came back to her, "Frozen up, just stuck, just letting things happen."
Mathilda uncurled herself and sat up. This was paralysis. She rejected it. She would not wait.
A little later, she was walking down Grandy s drive. The bus for downtown passed within two blocks of Grandy s house. This was one of the city conveniences of which he boasted. The nearest bus stop was obvious. Tyl had no choice to make. She knew this was
the way Francis must have come yesterday morning.
She wore her short fur jacket and a little black hat. There was a strong spring breeze blowing her black skirt around her pretty legs. She stood there at the bus stop with her eager, forward-leaning look, and she had no trouble with the bus drivers. They were all
glad to lean out as she hailed them, and listen to what she had to say. "Can you remember Thursday morning—yesterday morning? Can you remember if a tall man with dark hair and dark eyes, a youngish man, got on your bus that morning?"
"What time, about, miss?"
“I'm not sure. About ten, I think."
"Lots of people get on and off, miss."
"Oh, I know, but try to remember. He would be wearing a gray coat, I think."
"Not much to go on, miss. Lots of men—"
"Yes, yes, but try! It was at this stop. I'm sure of that. And yesterday morning. Just yesterday. His eyes were dark. His eyebrows—But I guess he wouldn't have been smiling."
"Sorry, miss. Don't think I can help you."
"How many drivers are there on this route?"
“Six, miss.
"Thank you."
She tried again with the next driver and the next. The fourth man sucked his lip and said, "What do you want to know for?"
"Oh, because he was going somewhere, and he never got there, and I've been wondering."
The driver said, "Maybe I got your man. A fellow that changed his mind."
"He . . . did?"
"Yeah, yesterday morning. Tall, you say?"
"Tall, dark."
"I wouldn't wanta say he was dark. I wouldn't have noticed. But there was a tall fellow in a gray coat waiting here, only he didn't get on."
"He didn't?"
"No. Just as I was pulling up, a fellow comes up behind him—friend of his, I guess. So he turns around and goes off with the other guy. Gets in his car, see? The other guy notices him and picks him up. Happens all the time. People getting a lift. That help you any?"
"He went off with a friend?" said Mathilda incredulously.
The bus driver thought she was a stunner. "Listen, miss, I only said he was a friend. How do I know? All I know is, this guy didn't get on my bus. He was waiting for the bus, see, but he don't get on, on account of this other guy?"
"Did you notice the other guy?"
"Gosh." The driver pushed at his cap. The passengers were shuffling in their seats. He couldn't chat any longer. "I dunno. Nothing special I can remember. But they got in this D.P.W. car."
"What's that?"
The door began to wheeze shut. "D.P.W.! Department of Public Works I" he shouted at her. The bus moved off.
D.P.W. D.P.W. Mathilda stood on the empty corner and looked around her. Houses here were set in fat lawns, far apart, well back from the street. Nobody was about or would have been.
Wait, there was someone across the street. A gardener doing some spring paining. She ran across. She fetched up the outer side of the hedge and the man stopped his work.
"Please, were you working here yesterday?"
"Nah."
"Oh," she said, disappointed. She turned away.
"Whatsa matter, lady?"
"I only wondered if you'd seen a certain car," she said. "But if you weren't here—"
"I was over at Number Sixty-eight," he said, and spat.
"Where?"
"Over there." His thumb showed her the neighboring lawn. I work there Thursdays. Here Fridays."
"Oh, then maybe you did see it! There was a car with D.P.W. On it. Yesterday morning."
"Yeah," he said, and spat again.
"You saw it!"
"Sure I saw it."
"Did two men get in?"
"Yeah." There was something curious and yet reserved in his glance, as if he could tell her something if she had the wit to ask, but would not offer it.
"One of the men was waiting for the bus?"
"I couldn't say about that."
"It doesn't matter. I want to know where—which way did the car go?"
He pointed.
That way?"
"Yeah"
"Did it go straight on? Did it turn?" She thought, I'll never be able to do this. This is hopeless.
"Turned left on Dabney Street," he told her surprisingly.
"Oh! Oh, thank you!" She started to run, stopped, looked back. "Was there anything—anything more you noticed?"
A curtain dropped in his interested eyes. "Nah, I didn't notice anything," he said.
But she thought. He did. There teas something about it, something queer.
She thanked him again and walked briskly in the direction of the Dabney Street corner. Now what to do? Now, ought she to call the police? Tell them about that car? Surely they could trace all cars so marked. Those cars must belong to the city. She ran back again.
The gardener hadn't begun to clip yet. He was just standing there, looking after her.
"One thing more," she gasped. "It was a car from this town? I mean it was the D.P.W. here?"
"Sure," he said. "That's right." He pulled his disreputable hat down and began to work his clippers very fast, moving around am shrub with the deepest concentration on his task.
Mathilda started down the street again. At Dabney Street, she turned left, as had the car with Francis in it. That is, the car she thought Francis had been in. It seemed probable that he'd been in it. At least, it was possible. She walked a few paces, out of the gardener's sight at least. And then, at a loss, she stood still.
The pavement told her nothing. How could it? The houses here were a little less aloof, a little more chummy with the street, but still— A car passed yesterday morning. What remains to tell you that it has passed or where it went, which corners, after this, it turned, which way?
She felt very small and helpless. There was no use walking along Dabney Street. No use, she thought.
There was a little boy in leggings and jacket sitting on his three-wheeled bike, watching her. He was part way up the walk of the first house around the corner. He was about three years old.
Mathilda started toward him. She would ask. She thought. No, how silly! It's just a baby! She stood irresolutely at the opening between hedges, the end of the walk where he was.
The door of the house beyond him opened suddenly and his mother appeared, rather suspiciously, as if she thought this strange young woman might have designs on her child. She hurried down the walk, wearing only her house dress, moving fast in the chilly
spring air.
“Gigi . . .”
Gigi kept on looking at Tyl.
"Let me see your hands." He surrendered his dirty little paws. The woman began to put her fingers into the tiny pockets of his snowsuit. She looked over her shoulder at Tyl. "Was there anything you wanted?" she inquired with a polite grimace.