“He thought I was Alberta,” she said. “He called me by her name and told me I was a silly old spinster who should know better.”
“Know better than to do what?”
“He didn’t explain. He was mad at her, though, boiling mad.”
“Why?”
“Because she’d given away some of his clothes to a transient who’d come to the house. He called her a gullible, soft-hearted fool. Which made about as much sense as the naked nurses. Alberta might be a fool but she’s neither gullible nor softhearted. If there really was a transient, and if she gave him some of George’s clothes, she must have had a reason besides simple generosity. I mean, the Haywoods aren’t the kind who give handouts at the door. They might contribute to various organized charities but they’re not impulsive off-the-cuff givers. So I don’t believe it really happened, any more than the nurses had done a striptease.”
“Did you ask George about it later?”
“Well, I told him some of the things he said.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He laughed, not very comfortably. George is terribly dignified, he hated the idea that he’d made a fool of himself. Yet he has a sense of humor, too, and he couldn’t help laughing about the naked nurses.”
“Was he equally amused by his references to Alberta?”
“No, I think he felt guilty over calling her those names even when he wasn’t responsible for his words.”
Willie had lost interest in the grass and the little game of he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not. She had transferred her attention to a hole in the toe of her left sneaker and was picking at the frayed canvas like a bird gathering lint for its nest. Beyond the oleander hedge the city noise seemed remote and meaningless.
“What’s George’s financial status, Willie?”
She looked surprised that anyone should question it. “He’s no millionaire, he works for his money. And though business isn’t as good as it was a few years ago, it’s good enough. He doesn’t spend much except on his mother. She’s pretty extravagant. The last face job she had done in Los Angeles cost a thousand dollars and naturally she had to buy a new wardrobe to match the quote new unquote face.”
“Does George do much gambling, like his sister?”
“No.”
“Sure of that?”
“How can I be sure of anything at this point?” she said in a tired voice. “All I know is that he never talked about it and he hasn’t the temperament of a gambler. George plans things, he doesn’t like to take chances. He nearly blew a fuse when I bought a ticket on the Irish Sweepstakes last year. He said I was a sucker. Well, I didn’t win, so maybe he was right.”
George and Alberta, Quinn thought. The two planners, the two clams who could communicate with each other through closed shells. What had they communicated, a new plan? Alberta’s parole hearing is coming up soon, it seems a funny time for George to disappear. Unless that’s part of the new plan.
Willie’s elaborate beehive coiffure had come undone and was sagging to one side like a real hive deserted by its bees and exposed to the weather. It gave her a slightly tipsy look that suited her; Willie’s judgments weren’t entirely sober.
“Joe.”
“Yes.”
“Where do you think George is?”
“Perhaps right here in Chicote.”
“You mean living under an assumed name in a hotel or boarding house or something? He couldn’t get away with that. Everyone in town knows him. Besides, why would he have to hide out?”
“He might be waiting.”
“For what?”
“God knows. I don’t.”
“If he’d only confided in me, if he’d only asked my advice—” Her voice started to break again but she caught it in time. “But that’s silly, isn’t it? George doesn’t ask, he tells.”
“You think you’re going to change him after you’re married?”
“I don’t want to change him. I like to be told.” Her mouth was set in a thin, obstinate line. “I really do.”
“All right, all right, you like to be told, so I’ll tell you. Go home and get a good night’s rest.” “That isn’t the kind of thing I meant.”
“Let’s face it, Willie. You don’t like to be told one darned thing.”
“I do so. By the right person.”
“Well, the right person’s not here. You’ll have to accept a substitute.”
“You’re a lousy substitute,” she said softly. “You’re not sure enough of yourself to give orders. You couldn’t fool a dog.”
“Oh, I don’t know. A few lady dogs have taken me quite seriously.”
She turned away, flushing. “I’ll go home, but not because you told me to. And don’t worry about George and me. I can handle him—after we’re married.”
“Those are famous last words, Willie.”
“I guess they are, but I’ve got to believe them.”
He went with her to her car. They walked apart and in silence, like strangers who happened to be going in the same direction, absorbed by their own problems. When she got into the car he touched her shoulder lightly and she gave him a brief, anxious smile.
“Drive carefully, Willie.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Want to give me a written guarantee of that?”
“Nobody gets a written guarantee in this world,” Quinn said, “so don’t sit around waiting for one.”
“I won’t.”
“Good night, Willie.”
He passed the motel office on his way back to his room. The entire Frisby clan was gathered around the desk, Grandpa, Frisby and his wife, the daughter and her husband, and several people Quinn hadn’t seen before. They were all talking at once and the radio was going full blast. It was as noisy as a revival meeting. The hand-clapping, foot-stamping music from the radio suited the occasion perfectly.
Frisby saw Quinn through the window and came sprinting out of the door, his bathrobe flapping around his legs, his face glistening with sweat and excitement.
“Mr. Quinn! Wait a minute, Mr. Quinn!”
Quinn waited. A sense of foreboding shook his body, and he wasn’t quite sure whether it was imagination or whether he’d experienced the shockwaves of an actual earthquake. He said, “I have my key, thanks, Mr. Frisby.”
“I know that. But I figured, being as the radio in your room is on the blink, you maybe missed the big news.” The words tumbled moistly around Frisby’s mouth like clothes in a washing machine. “You’ll never believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Such a nice quiet little woman, the last person in the world you’d expect to pull a stunt like that.”
It’s Martha, Quinn thought, something’s happened to Martha. He wanted to reach out and put his hand over Frisby’s mouth to prevent him from saying any more, but he forced himself to stand still, to listen.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard about it. I yelled to the wife and she came running in, thinking I was having a fit. Bessie, I told her, Bessie, you’ll never guess what’s happened. ‘The Martians have landed,’ said she. ‘No,’ I said, ‘Alberta Haywood has escaped from prison.’”
“God.” The word was not an expression of surprise but of gratitude and relief. For a minute he couldn’t even think about the news of Alberta Haywood, his mind refused to go beyond Martha. She was safe. She was sitting, as he had last seen her, in front of the campfire, and she was safe.
“Yes, sir, Miss Haywood escaped clean as a whistle in a supply truck that was servicing the candy machines in the canteen.”
“When?”
“This afternoon some time. The prison authorities didn’t release the details, but she’s gone all right. Or all wrong, as the case may be, ha ha.” Frisby’s laugh was more like a nervous little hiccough. “Anyway, the police haven’t been able to find her yet because the supply truck stopped at three or four other places and she could have gotten off at any one of them with nobody the wiser. Maybe it was all planned ahead of time and she had a friend waiting for her in a car. That’s my story. What do you think of it, eh?”