"You don't drink, do you?" he said. The hot sun and the situation made him yearn for a beer. "Could you be talked into stopping off at a bar somewhere?"
"No," she said. "I want to get some sun."
He let her up. At once she sat up, rising forward to fix her straps and dust bits of grass from her knees.
"What would Margo say?" she said. "She's already snooping around seeing what dirt she can dig up."
"Margo is probably off getting her petition presented," he said. "To force the city to clear the ruins from its lots."
"That's very meritorious. A lot better than forcing your attentions on somebody else's spouse." From her purse she took a bottle of suntan lotion and began rubbing it into her shoulders, ignoring him pointedly.
He knew that one day he could have her. Chance circumstances, a certain mood; and it would be worth it, he decided. Worth arranging all the various little props.
That fool Black, he thought to himself.
Off past the park, in the direction of town, a flat irregular patch of green and white made him think again about Margo. The ruins. Visible from up here. Three city lots of cement foundations that had never been pried up by bulldozers. The houses themselves -- or whatever buildings there had been -- had long since been torn down. Years ago, from the weathered, cracked, yellowed blocks of concrete. From here, it looked pleasant. The colors were nice.
He could see kids weaving in and out of the ruins. A favorite place to play... Sammy played there occasionally. The cellars formed caves. Vaults. Margo was probably right; one day a child would suffocate or die of tetanus from being scratched on rusty wire.
And here we sit, he thought. Basking in the sun. While Margo struggles away at city hall, doing civic good for all of us.
"Maybe we ought to go back," he said to Junie. "I ought to get my entry whipped into shape." My job, he thought ironically. While Vic plugs away at the supermarket and Bill at the water company. I idle away the day in dalliances.
That made him crave a beer more than ever. As long as he had a beer in his hand he could be untroubled. The gnawing unease did not quite get through to him.
"Look," he said to Junie, getting to his feet. "I'm going up the hill to that soft-drink stand and see if by any chance they've got any beer. It could be."
"Suit yourself."
"Do you want anything? Root beer? A Coke?"
"No thank you," she said in a formal tone.
As he plodded up the grassy slope toward the soft-drink stand he thought, I'd have to take Bill Black on, sooner or later. In combat.
No telling what color the man would turn if he found out. Is he the kind that gets down his hunting .22 and without a word sets off and shoots the trespasser of that most sacred of all a man's preserves, that Elysian field where only the lord and master dares to graze?
Talk about bagging the royal deer.
He reached a cement path along which grew green wooden benches. On the benches assorted people, mostly older, sat watching the slope and pool below. One heavy-set elderly lady smiled at him.
Does she know? he asked himself. That what she saw going on down there was not happy springtide youthful frolic at all, but sin? Near-adultery?
"Afternoon," he said to her genially.
She nodded back genially.
Reaching around in his pockets, he found some change. A line of kids waited at the soft-drink stand; the kids were buying hot dogs and popsicles and Eskimo Pies and orange drink. He joined them.
How quiet everything was.
Stunning desolation washed over him. What a waste his life had been. Here he was, forty-six, fiddling around in the living room with a newspaper contest. No gainful, legitimate employment. No kids. No wife. No home of his own. Fooling around with a neighbor's wife.
A worthless life. Vic was right.
I might as well give up, he decided. The contest. Everything. Wander on somewhere else. Do something else. Sweat in the oil fields with a tin helmet. Rake leaves. Tote up figures at a desk in some insurance company office. Peddle real estate.
Anything would be more mature. Responsible. I'm dragging away in a protracted childhood... hobby, like glueing together model Spads.
The child ahead of him received its candy bar and raced off. Ragle laid down his fifty-cent piece on the counter.
"Got any beer?" he said. His voice sounded funny. Thin and remote. The counter man in white apron and cap stared at him, stared and did not move. Nothing happened. No sound, anywhere. Kids, cars, the wind; it all shut off.
The fifty-cent piece fell away, down through the wood, sinking. It vanished.
I'm dying, Ragle thought. Or something.
Fright seized him. He tried to speak, but his lips did not move for him caught up in the silence.
Not again, he thought.
Not again!
It's happening to me again.
The soft-drink stand fell into bits. Molecules. He saw the molecules, colorless, without qualities, that made it up. Then he saw through, into the space beyond it; he saw the hill behind, the trees and sky. He saw the soft-drink stand go out of existence, along with the counter man, the cash register, the big dispenser of orange drink, the taps for Coke and root beer, the ice-chests of bottles, the hot dog broiler, the jars of mustard, the shelves of cones, the row of heavy round metal lids under which were the different ice creams.
In its place was a slip of paper. He reached out his hand and took hold of the slip of paper. On it was printing, block letters.
SOFT-DRINK STAND
Turning away, he unsteadily walked back, past children playing, past the benches and the old people. As he walked he put his hand into his coat pocket and found the metal box he kept there.
He halted, opened the box, looked down at the slips of paper already in it. Then he added the new one.
Six in all. Six times.
His legs wobbled under him and on his face particles of cold seemed to form. Ice slid down into his collar, past his green knit tie.
He made his way down the slope, to Junie.
four
At sunset, Sammy Nielson put in a last tardy hour galloping around the Ruins. Together with Butch Cline and Leo Tarski he had dragged a mass of roofing slats into a heap to form a real swell defensive position. They could probably hold the position indefinitely. Next came the gathering of dirt clods, those with long grass attached, for superior throwing.
Cold evening wind blew about him. He crouched behind the breastwork, shivering.
The trench needed to be deeper. Taking hold of a board that stuck up from the soil, he pried and tugged. A mass of brick, ash, roofing, weeds and dirt broke away and rolled down at his feet. Between two split slabs of concrete an opening could be seen, more of the old basement, or maybe a drainage pipe.
No telling what might be discovered. Lying down, he scooped up handfuls of plaster and chickenwire. Bits covered him as he labored.
In the half-light, straining to see, he found a soggy yellow blob of paper. A phone book. After that, rain-soaked magazines.
Feverishly, he clawed on and on.
In the living room, before dinner, Vic lounged across from his brother-in-law. Ragle had asked him if he could spare a couple of minutes. He wanted to talk to him. Seeing the somber expression on his brother-in-law's face, Vic said,
"You want me to close the door?" In the dining room, Margo had started setting the table; the noise of dishes mixed with the six o'clock news issuing out of the TV set.
"No," Ragle said.
"Is it about the contest?"
Ragle said, "I'm considering dropping out of the contest voluntarily. It's getting too much for me. The strain. Listen." He leaned toward Vic. His eyes were red-rimmed. "Vic," he said, "I'm having a nervous breakdown. Don't say anything to Margo." His voice wavered and sank. "I felt I should discuss it with you."