“I’d have to think it over,” he said, thinking about his job at C.B.B., his apartment in Reno, his friends there, his boss Ed von Scharf, on whom he depended, everything that he had planned for himself.
But, he thought, I could make it pay. I could run it. A retail outlet of my own, a business of my own. Nobody to tell me what to do. I’d have a free hand. Put my talent and experience to work.
“It does sound good,” he admitted.
“Do you know when we have to order merchandise for Christmas?”
“In the Fall,” he said.
“In August,” she said, with resentment. “I’d want you to be already in and fully organized by then.”
He nodded. And then he took the bottle opener, opened the other bottle of beer, found a tall tumbler in the rack on the drainboard, and poured a second glass of beer. Susan watched absently.
“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “As a sort of celebration,” he said, feeling clumsy and thick-tongued.
“Oh no thanks,” she said. “It’s too early in the day. Anyhow I have the darn checks to finish.” She started off, and when he followed he found her again seated with the checkbook before her, pen in hand, writing and frowning.
“I guess it’s agreed on,” he said, bewildered, but aware that unbelievably, in essence, he had said he would do it.
“Thank God,” she said with fervor, pausing in her check-writing. “I really need you, Bruce,” she said. And then she resumed her work.
He stood sipping his beer, standing in the cool living room.
4
When he got back to Reno with the load of car wax he drove directly to the Consumers’ Buying Bureau building and searched up his boss, Ed von Scharf. He found him in a stock room in the rear, seated on a carton, with a Popsicle in one hand and an inventory sheet on the floor before him. Wearing his tie, vest, black oxfords and herringbone trousers, his boss had been making an inventory and flinging around cartons of electric mixers. His black hair was speckled with the dust of the brown cardboard cartons; it made his look distinguished.
Bruce said, “I ran into an emergency up in Montario. I have to go back. If I can’t get an indefinite leave of absence, then I guess I’m quitting my job.” On the drive he had worked out his story. “My Dad’s ill,” he said, knowing how little his employers could complain against that reason. “I want to be up there indefinitely.”
They argued for an hour and a half. Then they went upstairs and discussed it with two of the Pareti brothers who owned C.B.B. At last the Paretis wrote out a two-weeks’ paycheck, shook hands with him, and told him he was free to go. He left with the assurance that his job would be there if and when he wanted it again.
His boss walked out to his car with him, grave and discouraged. “It’s a hell of a surprise,” he said, as Bruce unhitched the trailer load of car wax. “Keep in touch. Will you?”
He clapped Bruce on the back, wished him and his family luck, and then returned to the C.B.B. building.
With a strong sense of guilt, Bruce drove away in the direction of his apartment. But, at least, he had made sure of his job, if things did not work out. It was only practical.
After he had told the landlady, he went upstairs and got out a suitcase and began packing his things. By sundown he had carried all his things down to the Merc, loaded them where the boxes of wax had been only a few hours earlier, and then had given Mrs. O’Neill back the apartment key. She wished him luck, too, getting up from the dinner table to follow him down the hall.
At eight-thirty he began the drive back to Idaho.
The next morning he blearily entered Boise. He stopped at a motel and rented a room. Without unloading any of his things he undressed, got into bed, and slept through the day. At five-thirty in the evening he arose, took a shower, shaved, put on clean clothes, and then drove over to downtown Boise and the R & J Mimeographing Service.
As he was parking, Susan Faine appeared at the office doorway, half a block away, waved to him, and disappeared back inside. He finished parking, got out of the car, and walked down.
Inside the office, Zoe de Lima greeted him with a frigid nod and at once turned her back. He said hello to her but she did not answer; she busied herself at her typewriter.
She knows, he said to himself.
With her coat and purse, Susan approached him from the back of the office. “Let’s go,” she said.
Together, they walked down the sidewalk and got into the car. “I told her,” Susan said. “We screamed at each other all day. Did you do it?” She craned her neck and saw all his clothes, suitcases, boxes of personal articles crammed into the back. “You did.”
“I quit my job,” he said. “And gave up my apartment.”
“Let’s go eat,” she said. “I’m starved.”
“Should you leave her?” he said.
“Why not?” Susan said. “Oh, I see what you mean. But she’s still a partner. She has a key. I can’t make her leave. It’ll take a week or so to have the legal business finished. Anyhow I don’t think she’d do anything vindictive. She’s hurt, and she’s mad at me, but she’s a reputable person. I’ve known her for years. We still expect to be friends.”
He said, “Well, you know her; I don’t.”
They sat for an interval in the car. The late-afternoon glare from the sidewalks was intolerable, and Susan shifted about uncomfortably. “Maybe I’ll go back inside and tell her we might as well close up for the day,” she said. She got out of the car and hurried back down the sidewalk. Time passed. Bruce put on the radio and listened to the news. Then, at last, he saw Mrs. de Lima leave the office, walking off briskly in the opposite direction. Susan locked up the office and came toward him, smiling.
“That’s that,” she said, getting in beside him.
“Where do you want to eat?” he asked, starting up the car.
“I have to go home,” Susan said. “Mrs. Poppinjay has to leave exactly at six forty-five on the dot, hail or rain or snow. And I really have to have dinner with Taffy; it’s something I need, as well as her. Mrs. Poppinjay starts a roast usually and then I take over when I get home and finish up and serve the meal, and Taffy and I eat together. It works out pretty well. Have you had dinner? I don’t know why I didn’t ask … I just took it for granted that you’d eat with us.”
“Okay,” he said.
When they got to her house Susan introduced him to Mrs. Poppinjay, a white-haired plump short old lady who obviously wanted to leave and get home to her own family. Taffy was off in her own room, coloring with crayons and listening to a children’s program on TV, her back to the set. She barely noticed him as Susan brought him into the room and told her what his name was and that he’d be working at the office.
“Nice-looking little girl,” he said, although he had not been able to see much more than that there was a little girl there, and that she was busy on the floor, and that she had light, almost blond hair. “Does she take after you or Walt?”
Susan, with a laugh, said, “She’s not Walt’s child. God forbid. I’ve been married twice.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Taffy was born during the Korean War. I didn’t meet Walt until early in 1955. I remember he had a brand new ‘55 Chevrolet V8 and he was always telling me that it was the first V8 Chevy built and there was something wrong with the rings. It used oil.”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s a fact.”
“Walt’s on the road a lot, too, like you. Over to Salt Lake City and over to the Coast, to L.A. in particular. That’s strange, isn’t it… to think of you both driving around. He’s a factory representative. Conferences and sales meetings.” She hung up her coat and put on an apron.