Publicity by the paper.
But that made no sense. No sense at all.
Baffled, he smoothed the five slips out as best he could, and then added them to the box. In some respects he felt worse than before.
Later that evening he located a flashlight, put on a heavy coat, and set off in the direction of the Ruins.
His legs ached already from the hike with Junie, and by the time he reached the empty lots he wondered if it was worth it. At first his flashlight beam picked up only the shape of broken concrete, pits half-filled with spring rain, heaps of boards and plaster. For some time he prowled about, flashing his light here and there. At last, after stumbling and falling over a tangle of rusted wire, he came upon a crude shelter of rubble, obviously made by the boys.
Getting down, he turned his light on the ground near the shelter. And by golly, there in the light the edge of yellowed paper gleamed back at him. He wedged his flashlight under his arm and with both hands rooted until he had dislodged the paper. It came loose in a thick pack. Sammy had been right; it seemed to be a telephone book, or at least part of one.
Along with the telephone book he managed to dig loose the remains of large, slick family magazines. But after that he found himself shining his light down into a cistern or drainage system. Too risky, he decided. Better wait until day.
Carrying the telephone book and magazines from the lot, he started back to the house.
What a desolate place, he thought to himself. No wonder Margo wants the city to clear it. They must be out of their minds. One broken arm and they'd have a lawsuit on their hands.
Even the houses near the lots seemed dark, uninhabited. And ahead of him the sidewalk was cracked, littered with debris.
Fine place for kids.
When he got back to the house he carried the phone book and magazines into the kitchen. Both Vic and Margo were in the living room, and neither of them noticed that he had anything with him. Sammy had gone to bed. He spread wrapping paper on the kitchen table, and then, with care, he laid out what he had got.
The magazines were too damp to handle. So he left them near the circulating heater to dry. At the kitchen table, he began to examine the phone book.
As soon as he opened it he realized that he did not have either the covers or the first and last pages. Only the middle part.
It was not the phone book he was used to. The print had a darker quality; the typeface was larger. The margins were greater, too. He guessed that it represented a smaller community.
The exchanges were unfamiliar to him. Florian. Edwards. Lakeside. Walnut. He turned the pages, not searching for anything in particular; what was there to search for? Anything, he thought. Out of the ordinary. Something that would leap up and hit him in the eye. For instance, he could not tell how old the book was. Last year's? Ten years ago? How long had there been printed phone books?
Entering the kitchen, Vic said, "What have you got?"
He said, "An old phone book."
Vic bent over his shoulder to see. Then he went to the refrigerator and opened it. "Want some pie?" he said.
"No thanks," Ragle said.
"Are these yours?" Vic pointed to the drying magazines.
"Yes," he said.
Vic disappeared back into the living room, taking two pieces of berry pie with him.
Picking up the phone book, Ragle carried it into the hall, to the phone. He seated himself on the stool, chose a number at random, lifted the receiver and dialed. After a moment he heard a series of clicks and then the operator's voice.
"What number are you calling?"
He read off the number. "Bridgeland 3-4465."
Then a pause. "Would you please hang up and dial that number again?" the operator said, in her lofty, no-nonsense voice.
He hung up, waited a moment, and dialed the number again.
Immediately the circuit was broken. "What number are you calling?" an operator's voice -- not the same one -- sounded in his ear.
"Bridgeland 3-4465," he said.
"Just a moment, sir," the operator said.
He waited.
"I'm sorry, sir," the operator said. "Would you please look up that number again?"
"Why?" he said.
"Just a moment, sir," the operator said, and at that point the line went dead. No one was on the other end; he heard the absence of a living substance there. He waited, but nothing happened.
After a time he hung up, waited, and dialed the number again.
This time he got the squalling siren-sound, up and down in his ear, deafening him. The racket that indicated that he had misdialed.
Choosing other numbers he dialed. Each time he got the racket. Misdial. Finally he closed the phone book, hesitated, and dialed for the operator.
"Operator."
"I'm trying to call Bridgeland 3-4465," he said. He could not tell if she was the same operator as before. "Would you get it for me? All I get is the misdial signal."
"Yes sir. Just a moment sir." A long pause. And then, "What was that number again, sir?"
He repeated it.
"That number has been disconnected," the operator said.
"Would you check on some others for me?" he asked.
"Yes sir."
He read off other numbers from the page. Each one had been disconnected.
Of course. An old phone book. Obviously. It was true; probably it was a discarded series in its entirety.
He thanked her and hung up.
So nothing had been proved or learned.
An explanation might be that these numbers had been assigned to several towns nearby. The towns had incorporated, and a new number system installed. Perhaps when the switch to dial phones was made, only recently, a year or so ago.
Feeling foolish, he walked back into the kitchen.
The magazines had begun to dry, and he seated himself with one of them on his lap. Fragments broke away as he turned the first page. A family magazine, first an article on cigarettes and lung cancer... then an article on Secretary Dulles and France. Then an article by a man who had trekked up the Amazon with his children. Then stories, Westerns and detectives and adventure in the South Seas. Ads, cartoons. He read the cartoons and put the magazine down.
The next magazine had more pictures in it; something like _Life_. But the paper was not as high-quality as the Luce publications' paper. Still, it was a first-line magazine. The cover was gone, so he could not tell if it was _Look_; he guessed that it was _Look_ or one he had seen a couple of times called _Ken_.
The first picture-story dealt with a hideous train-wreck in Pennsylvania. The next picture-story--
A lovely blond Norse-looking actress. Reaching up, he moved the lamp so that it cast more light on the page.
The girl had heavy hair, well-groomed and quite long. She smiled in an amazingly sweet manner, a jejune but intimate smile that held him. Her face was as pretty as any he had seen, and in addition she had a deep, full, sensual chin and neck, not the rather ordinary neck of most starlets but an adult, ripe neck, and excellent shoulders. No hint of boniness, nor of fleshiness. A mixture of races, he decided. German hair. Swiss or Norwegian shoulders.
But what really held him, held him in a state of near-incredulity, was the sight of the girl's figure. Good grief, he said to himself. And what a pure-looking girl. How could she be so developed?
And she seemed happy to show it. The girl leaned forward, and most of her bosom spilled out and displayed itself. It looked to be the smoothest, firmest, most natural bosom in the world. And very warm-looking, too.
He did not recognize the girl's name. But he thought, There's the answer to our need of a mother. Look at that.
"Vic," he said, getting up with the magazine and carrying it into the living room. "Take a look at this," he said, putting it down in Vic's lap.