At times Mrs. Freeman was afraid that some of her correspondents might come to see her and find out about the neighborhood she lived in, and the highway and the tracks. She guarded against this possibility as well as she could by writing to no one further west than Chicago. This allowed a decent mileage between reality and fiction. She was, moreover, fairly certain that none of her correspondents had sufficient money for a long trip west, in spite of the claim of her pen pal, Flossie from Florida, that she owned a huge orange grove. Mrs. Freeman had the same percentage of belief in Flossie’s orange grove as she had in Mr. Freeman’s sojourns in Palm Springs or the Sierras.
No matter how many letters she wrote, Mrs. Freeman never suffered from lack of material because she had a keen eye, and she was an avid newspaper reader and an enthusiastic walker. She would walk for miles, especially after dinner in the summertime, consciously and deliberately seeing things that most other people would miss. She examined each flower and shrub, every car parked at the curb, the children playing on the sidewalks, the evening strollers like herself. She watched the mountains turn from blue to gray and disappear. She looked into the windows of houses and saw the people inside, eating or reading the paper, listening to the radio, quarreling, washing dishes, and she had a friendly curiosity about all these people.
Afterwards, Mrs. Freeman described her walks in detail, always managing to bring in the exotic street names that she dearly loved. “I strolled up Alameda Padre Serra and over to Plaza Rubio, and finally ended up on Salsipuedes!”
The weather was a constant source of material. Mrs. Freeman, however, did not content herself with mere temperature reports. She injected drama into a cloudy day by describing the fog rolling in from the sea, and into a windy day by stating that “the small craft warnings are up, all up and down the coast!” Calm, sunny days were provided with an element of terror by Mrs. Freeman’s favorite phrase, “earthquake weather.” The more beautiful the day, the more sinister the growl of the earth beneath it. Thus, Mrs. Freeman’s correspondents got the impression that she lived in the crater of a volcano with the earth forever teetering under her house. This impression served two purposes. It made Mrs. Freeman feel that she did indeed live dangerously, and it discouraged her pen pals from planning a visit to this perilous spot. Flossie of Florida had even gone so far as to remark that she wouldn’t live in California for all the money in the world — hurricanes Florida might have, yes, but an earthquake practically every day would upset her nervous system. This statement stimulated Mrs. Freeman’s imagination, and she replied by return mail, describing how only that morning the whole house had shuddered, the windows rattled, and the chandelier in the parlor swung like a pendulum. She neglected to add that this was a regular occurrence, caused not by an earthquake, but by an S. P. freight train.
Any seed, however small, could grow in Mrs. Freeman’s fertile brain. She returned now to her interrupted letter to a third cousin in Michigan. The ink flowed over George and he became a close relative of the Andersons who made that celebrated split-pea soup.
From where she sat, at the round walnut dining-room table, Mrs. Freeman could hear the angry rise and the defensive fall of George’s voice. The combination of attack and appeasement in his tone reminded Mrs. Freeman of her husband, Robert. Robert had been gone for nearly three weeks now and she was beginning to worry and to wonder whether she’d better go to the police. This harsh practical thought of going to the police annihilated Mrs. Freeman’s writing mood. She put down her pen. She had hoped to finish her letter before making herself a bite to eat, but now she couldn’t concentrate on it and for this she blamed George. He had no right to come forcing himself into the house (Mrs. Freeman had no recollection of opening the door for him), using profane language (she couldn’t actually distinguish his words but his tone was profane), and browbeating defenseless little women (making them accept money, probably tainted). For the moment, Mrs. Freeman was on Ruby’s side. Ruby might be sly, evasive, she might even be a downright liar, but she was a woman, and women should stick together.
In union is strength, thought Mrs. Freeman, who liked an aphorism as well as the next one.
She heard the thud of the evening paper as it struck the porch, and she rose to fetch it. When she passed through the hall she made her step good and loud, a cunning device that didn’t escape notice.
“You’d better go,” Ruby said. “She’s doing that on purpose.”
“All right.” George got up from Mrs. Freeman’s mohair sofa, aware that he had made a fool of himself. He had done what he set out to do, he had apologized for firing Ruby and losing his temper. But the apology had gone wrong. There had been nothing contrite or apologetic about it. He had forced it on her, he had apologized at the top of his lungs.
The apology had a curious effect on Ruby. She lost her air of frightened timidity. She looked composed, even a little ironic.
“She doesn’t like men callers to stay too long,” Ruby said.
“Do you have other men callers?”
“I can’t see that it’s any of your business.”
“It isn’t. I just want to know.”
“Well then, sure. Sure I have.”
“I don’t believe it,” George said.
Ruby put her hands on her hips in an exasperated manner. “Well, I like that! I certainly like that, Mr. Anderson! You, you just get out of here and don’t come back!”
George smiled painfully. “You’re not such a bunny after all.”
“I certainly don’t have to stand here and be insulted.”
Thump, thump, thump, Mrs. Freeman’s implying feet went down the hall again.
“Why did you leave the other place and move over here all of a sudden?” George said.
“That’s my affair.”
“Was it the rent? Do you need money?”
“Now I suppose you’re thinking that I skipped out without paying my rent! Well, let me tell you one thing, Mr. Anderson. If I were broke I could always go home. You seem to have gotten the wrong idea about me. I’m no orphan. I’m not alone in the world. I can go back to San Francisco any time. My mother and father have a beautiful home there and they’re always begging me to come back. But I told my dad, I’m tired of this sheltered life, I want to earn my own way.”
“Why?”
“Because. Because I do, that’s all. In the modern world a girl has to be able to look out for herself.”
“You’re not thinking of going home, then?”
“I haven’t made up my mind. It all depends.”
“I wouldn’t like you to leave town.”
“That’s funny. Someone else told me today that I’d be better off if I did. There are more jobs down south.”
“There are jobs here, too. If you don’t want to come back to the Beachcomber, maybe I can find something else for you. I’ve got some connections around town.”
Ruby’s face lit up. “That would be wonderful. Do you really think you could?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“A receptionist, maybe. I’ve always thought I’d like to be a receptionist.”
“I don’t know about that,” George said cautiously. “There’s not much call for receptionists in a town this size.”
“Still, it’s possible, isn’t it? — with your connections?”
“Yes.”
“Gosh, it’d be nice, sitting instead of standing all the time, and wearing pretty clothes and keeping my nails decent.” Her eyes were soft and her cheeks seemed to have already fattened on this dream of pretty clothes and half-inch nails. “I’d have to get a new permanent, though. My hair is a mess.”
“It looks fine to me.”
“No, it’s a mess.” She twisted a strand of it between her fingers. “Why should you do me a favor, Mr. Anderson?”