“Want to walk along?”
“Sure. You’re not—not mad at me, are you?”
“Mad? Why should I be mad?”
“I don’t know. Do you mind listening to my essay? If you do, just say so.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I don’t want to impose on you.”
“For Christ’s sake!”
Carl shrank away, pain flushing across his face. Like a struck child. She was sorry instantly. She put out her hand, touching him on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snarl. I have a lot on my mind. Things to worry about.”
He blinked hopefully, regaining some of his lost joy. “I guess I talk too much.”
Barbara put her arm through his. “Let’s go. Come along. We’ll get burned if we stay out any longer.”
“That’s right,” Carl said. “It’s hard to tell about that. The wind blows over you and gives you the false notion that you’re not directly in the path of the sun’s rays. You don’t feel it, but all the time—”
He stopped, seeing that she wasn’t listening. She was thinking again, far off in thought. Frowning a little. As if a bug were buzzing around her head, while she was trying to think. Carl became silent.
“Where shall we go?” Barbara said suddenly.
“Wherever you want.”
“Let’s go fix some coffee.”
“All right.”
“You can read to me tomorrow. How would that be? If it’s a nice day. We’ll sit outside and read.”
“Fine.” Carl beamed. “It’s much more fun to read out in the sunlight, instead of inside. Reading inside has a kind of museum quality about it. Stuffy. Like dry dust.”
Barbara walked across the grass, Carl following behind her. She felt vague annoyance; why did he have to worry everything to death? On and on he went, shaking each subject until there wasn’t anything left in it.
But he was like a child. A big child that had never learned. She slowed down, waiting for him to catch up.
“The hills look nice,” Carl said.
Already, he had forgotten. She sighed. Like some big overgrown child. “Yes, they look fine.”
They walked along together. Carl put his hands in his pockets, kicking at rocks ahead of him. Neither of them said anything. Carl gazed around at the trees and the sky and the distant hills.
“If you find you don’t enjoy it, after we start, all you have to do is just say so and I’ll stop. I have a lot of good ideas, but that doesn’t mean much. Everybody has good ideas. That doesn’t mean another person would be interested.”
“All right,” Barbara said. “If I change my mind I’ll tell you.” She smiled a little. “Are you satisfied?”
“I don’t want to impose on you,” Carl said. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
Barbara nodded. “I get that impression.”
Twelve
“Where is he?” Barbara said. Verne was sitting on the edge of his bed, cleaning his pipe with a match and a strip of toilet paper.
“Where is who?”
“Carl. How many people are there here?”
Verne looked up at her, standing in the doorway. “He’s shaving. Down at the bathroom. Why?”
Barbara came into the room. It was morning, a clear bright morning. Sunlight danced through the windows into the room, over the cots and chairs, the piles of clothing and neckties and men’s shoes. “We’re going hiking,” Barbara said.
“Hiking? What’s that a euphemism for?”
“We’re going up in the hills and he’s going to read his manuscript to me. Didn’t he say anything about it? Wasn’t he jumping up and down and telling about it sixty times?”
“No. He’s been very quiet. What sort of manuscript? What’s going on?”
“It’s a philosophical treatise. A credo. All the many thoughts he’s had about the universe and what makes it go.”
“Does he know what makes it go? I’m beginning to get interested. Am I invited?”
“Not by me. Anyhow, you wouldn’t enjoy it. We’re going to sit and discuss and watch the wind blowing through the trees and the clouds crossing the sky.”
Verne gave her an inscrutable glance. “Really? Is that so? Nothing else?”
“Stop fishing around. Of course nothing else.”
“All right I gather, however, that you’re taking an interest in our young man.”
“Our?”
“Don’t you remember what we were saying—when was it? Yesterday. Or have you forgotten already?”
“We said a lot.”
“About him. About the young blond-haired boy with blue eyes and an empty head.”
“We said that?”
Verne studied her. “No. Not exactly. But something along those lines. Something about a youth, a virgin youth coming along. I guess you’re all over your spell. You have certainly recovered quickly. No residue?
Nothing left of all your fright? I can’t believe you’ve completely forgotten.”
“No. No, I haven’t completely forgotten.”
“Is that why you’re going to hear his thesis? Because of yesterday? Because of what happened—to us?”
“Perhaps.”
They stood looking at each other across the room. Distantly, down the hall, came the sound of water and somebody moving around. Somebody began to whistle.
“Since we’re all going to have to live with each other I’d prefer to know him a little better.” Barbara smiled at Verne. “I already know about you.”
Verne shrugged. “It sounds like a good enough idea to me. Go ahead. I see nothing wrong with it. Except—”
“Except what?”
“If you’re going to hang around him you should try to watch your step. Sometimes you can rather foul up a naive person. The way you talk. You seem to have developed quite a brisk attitude toward childhood foolishness. If you want to get anywhere with Carl, don’t be too harsh on him. He may tax your patience.”
“So?”
“So watch out.” Verne stood up, cocking his head on one side. “He’ll be out in a minute. I see nothing wrong in your going around with him, but if you’re not careful you can queer the whole thing right off the bat. As far as I’m concerned, I’d like to see something work out. After all, I have a stake in this, myself. Or so we seemed to believe the other day. In any case, remember this, when he starts rushing about, kicking his heels and jumping up in the air.”
“I’m glad you approve of us. Thanks for all the benedictions.”
“Not at all. Here he is.”
Carl strode into the room, a shaving mug in one hand, a towel thrown over his shoulder. He was naked to the waist. At the sight of Barbara he stopped abruptly, his face turning red.
“Come in,” Verne said. “It’s just a friend.”
“Hello,” Carl murmured. “I was shaving.”
“Then it’s true,” Barbara said.
“What’s true?” Carl put down his mug and towel and slid into a sports shirt, buttoning it rapidly.
“That you shave.”
Carl grinned sheepishly. “Why not?”
“I understand you’re going up in the hills with this young lady,” Verne said. “Why didn’t you tell me about it? I feel left out.”
“Sorry. I—”
“Am I invited? Can I come along? I wouldn’t mind spending some time out of doors.”
Confused, Carl glanced at Barbara. He twisted helplessly. “You want to come? I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about it. I guess there’s no reason why you can’t come. Are you sure you want to come? It’ll be very dull. If you want to come I guess it’s all right. It’s all right by me.”
Verne pondered. “No. I have some work to do. I think I’ll stick around here. You two young people go on alone. I’ll be all right.”
Barbara moved to the door. “Let’s go. Let’s get started before it heats up.”