"Thanks."
"You're not,"
"I'm glad you think that."
"Gee. I don't know why I said it."
"Pass me the corn Miss Martin. When one proceeds straight in life there is always an obstruction."
"You're an honest and good person. Mr. Smith."
"This is great corn."
"Mr. Smith pass me the peas."
"Certainly."
"I didn't mean what I first said."
"It's all right, Miss Martin."
"Gee you're so different in the country."
Smith ladling up the yellow kernels. Outside a breeze in the leaves. Yellow light flooding out the door. Music featuring a variety of horns. Lifts the spirit. Suddenly one can look at Miss Martin and see her in all her glory as a cook. Out here with all this good loneliness. Wafts away that feeling of the haunted hunted dog. Until the telephone rings. That black thing. Bouncing in the corner. Of this primeval forest.
"Let it ring, Miss Martin."
Little jangling bell. Phone tilts to the side. Bounces. Trembling to the edge of the shelf rigged to the corner of the wall. And falls on the floor. Talking handle sliding across the maple.
"Ah Jesus."
"Mr. Smith."
"Shush Miss Martin. We're trapped. Put your hand over the speaker."
Miss Martin picking up the phone. Putting the part to the ear. Frowning.
"Mr. Smith. It's someone saying what the hell is the matter with you George."
"Nothing is the matter with me."
"Shall I hang up Mr. Smith."
Smith rotating his hands. Looking across the room at Miss Martin as she stands both hands gripped over the talking instrument. Times in one's life when you think there is good news. And you listen.
"Mr. Smith. He says he's catching the train. That he has little or no money. And is presently trying to sell his shoes to pay for the ticket. And four embroidered handkerchiefs which he sold this morning for the price of a glass of ersatz orange juice. He says he just wants to talk. And why, O dear, he just said an awful word, the hell are you behaving in this extraordinary matter. Why are you trying to hide. Is there something the matter. I must say something, Mr. Smith."
"Tell him I've shifted further north."
"I can't do that, Mr. Smith. He's a cultivated gentleman on the phone."
"Do as I say."
"I will not. He's saying, why are you listening and saying nothing. I've got to say something, Mr. Smith, he says he is in an unbelievable nightmare. That all he wants is just a few hours away from it all."
"All right. Miss Martin. Tell him I'll meet him tomorrow morning. An eleven o'clock train comes from the coast. Tell him alight at Cinder Village."
"Hello. Yes. Yes. Mr. Smith says he will meet you on the eleven o'clock train tomorrow morning at Cinder Village. Yes. Mr. Smith is all right. He's here. It's only that he's not available at the moment. I'm sorry you've had to sell your shoes. Yes. Certainly. God's goodly wishes to you too. Goodbye."
"God."
"Mr. Smith he sounds like a real gentleman."
Smith with sad reflective eyes. Outside the bark of a fox in the wood. Miss Martin picking up the dishes. Brings them to the sink in the kitchen. Runs the water. Break her long fingernails. Peace. Dark. An evening chill. Another log on the fire. Smell the orange glow and woody fume.
"Miss Martin, let me help with the dishes."
"No Mr. Smith. Just sit and be comfortable."
Smith reclining. Placing the wicker chair near the fire. Reaching behind the bottles. Taking a long cigar from the humidor. Lighting up. Blow a cloud of whiteness out. Flick off the electric light. Moths from everywhere. Bumping the screens. Light is hope. And everyone is after hope. And away from the sad desperation. To become grasping hearts after emoluments. Riches, trusting nothing else. Bonnif ace sold his shoes.
Bedtime hour. In the woods. Miss Martin came shyly out of the kitchen. Paused looking over the reflective Smith puffing on his cigar. Smith rising.
"Miss Martin, do sit"
"It's late, Mr. Smith, isn't it. Perhaps I'd better make up the beds. Are there sheets/'
"In the bathroom cupboard. But you shouldn't. I'll do that."
"No Mr. Smith I'll do it. I'd like to."
Smith took a little smoke down into the lungs. Let it pause there a few seconds. Purifies the blood. The trembletude and strain sleeping alone. Need something to hold on to. A life preserver in this big sea. Two white breasts. Miss Tomson, I thought of you yesterday. That you were stepping from one nightspot to another. In giant strides. With a group of friends.
At George Smith's shoulder. The bent figure of Miss Martin making the bed. Tucking in the sheets tightly. Popping on the clean pillow cases. When she bends over. Calm these hairy hands. Please glow little light of hope. Everyone is trying to blow you out. Save Miss Martin. Might blow you out myself. Walking down the street smoking a cigar of dynamite.
Smith looking over his shoulder at the backside of Miss Martin. Puffs out a cloud of smoke, descending in a ring round her bottom. Target of two globes. Wave the smoke away. Miss Martin straightening and turning around. Looks at Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith nods. Smiles.
"Don't want to smell you up with smoke Miss Martin."
Miss Martin standing still in the shadows. Fire light across her face. Lashes close once over her eyes. God gave her good lips. Upper resting quietly on the lower. Freckles. Friendly one on the tip of the nose. Fox bark. Little tremor of Miss Martin's.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Smith."
"No thank you Miss Martin. I'll just sit by the fire here and finish my smoke."
"Well I guess I better-"
"Miss Martin."
"Yes."
"Miss Martin I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."
"I'm really fine Mr. Smith. I have to get used to the silence. And sound of I guess animals out in the dark."
"Thank you for washing the dishes."
"Goodnight, Mr. Smith."
"Goodnight, Miss Martin. Sleep tight/'
Smith crossing legs. Taking in a deep breath of air. Quietly stirring up to the book cabinet. Ladling out a glass of brandy. Back to the chair. Cross the legs. Taste the tobacco leaves and the sweet stinging grape. Miss Martin's door closes. Hear her light switch on. Bonni-face tomorrow on the train. Some terrible tale. Disaster on the high seas. Blows on the back of the neck suffered abroad. Escape to the land of opportunity. I met Bonni-f ace. First one night in a suburb of the university town. Where he resided with his pregnant wife with large beautiful teeth in a big beautiful mouth. We had spinach and poached egg. Toast and tea. His landlords were gentle people who showered their tenant with turf fires, much hot water for baths and first use of the daily newspaper. Bonniface was a stickler for justice and fair play. And he raised his rent accordingly as the landlords heaped presents and services upon him. I tripped down the front stairs that first evening and was laid out on the couch in the landlords' parlour. Coming to, I viewed the strange smiling face of Bonniface looking down. God forgive those incorrigibly strange of spirit.
George Smith. Chin on chest. Eyes sad. Night chilly. Low moon making shadows in the trees. Hoot of owls. Out here the black snakes. And the tan and red and poisonous land. Ready to slide over the pillow and wrap round the neck. Come up from under the house. Miss Martin to bed without a qualm. In that licking lashing fire flame. Miss Tomson. That great lollypop of a girl. Bite her, wherever she is, with a friendly pair of steak hardened jaws.
Smith locking latches on doors and windows. Turning off the faint music on the vast radio. The light out under Miss Martin's door. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, unlace the shoes, tug off the black socks. Miss Martin won't mind if I sleep without a garment. Be up before her in the morning. Thrill her with the smell of coffee. Tomorrow newborn. Leave today behind. And my footprints in blood. From Owl Street to this cabin far away. Running Without underwear Hiding without Shame.Rich Without reason Rotten without Rhyme.