2
An opportunity to leave occurred almost at once. Across from him a small bald-headed clerk arose from the couch and declared that he had to get started home, by bus.
Bruce, also standing, said, “I’ll give you a lift. I’m going on to Boise anyhow.”
Nobody protested. Peg nodded good-bye and disappeared into the kitchen as he and Mr. Muir started from the house.
It took some time, after they had gotten to Boise, to locate Mr. Muir’s street. The man, not being a motorist himself, had little idea of direction. After he had let him off at last, Bruce started back onto the highway, searching for a motel. And then, just as he made out a fair-looking motel, he realized that he had left his coat hanging in the hall closet back at Peg’s. His shame had caused him to strike it from his mind.
Should I go back for it? he asked himself.
Should I not?
Stopping at the side of the road, he looked at his watch. After nine o’clock. It would be nine-thirty by the time he got back to Montario. Better to wait until tomorrow? He had to have it; he couldn’t show up for his business appointment without it.
Tomorrow, he decided, Peg would start off early for work. If he missed her, he would not see his coat again.
Starting up the car, he made a U-turn and drove back in the direction that he had come.
The cars that had been parked near her house had gone. And the lights had been shut off. The house, dark and shut-up, had a deserted look. He hurried up the path to the porch and rang the bell.
No one answered.
He rang again. Experience told him, first, that no one even in Montario went to bed at nine-thirty, and second, that the party could not have broken up so fast. They might have all gone off somewhere else, to another house. Or to Hill Street for something or other, a second dinner, or beer at one of the bars, or God knew.
But in any case his coat was in the house. Trying the door, he found it locked. So he went around the familiar path, through the gate, to the back. The laundry room window had been propped open; he remembered it. Setting a box against the house he managed to get the window open, and then himself through it, hands-first, to sprawl onto the floor of the laundry room.
One light guided him, the bathroom light. He made his way down the hall, to the closet, opened it and found his coat. Thank God, he thought. He put it on and then entered the living room.
A smell of cigarettes hung over the living room. An odd lonely empty place, with the people gone … the warmth and reminders of them, crumpled cigarette package in an ashtray, glasses, even an earring on the end-table. As if they had gone up in smoke, like elves. Ready to return as soon as mortals—himself, for instance—had turned their back. Standing, listening, he heard a hum.
The phonograph has been left on. Its tiny red light shone as he lifted the lid to shut it off. So evidently they hadn’t intended to be gone very long, or they had rushed out on the spur of the moment.
The mystery of the abandoned sailing ship, he thought, as he wandered into the kitchen. Food on the table … on the drainboard the bottle of bourbon, now only half-full, remained. The bowl of now-melted ice cubes. Lemon rind. More empty glasses. And, in the sink, dishes.
What am I waiting for? he asked himself. I have my coat. Why don’t I just go?
Damn it, he thought. If that accident hadn’t happened regarding my purchase at Hagopian’s, I might be staying here tonight.
As he stood there, partly in the kitchen and partly in the hall, his hands down deep in his pockets, he heard someone sigh. Far off, in another room of the house, someone rustled and sighed.
It frightened him.
I better be careful, he thought. Making no noise at all, he walked back down the hall, to the living room and the front door. At the door he paused, his hand on the knob, feeling a little more secure, listening.
No sound.
Now it seemed less menacing. He opened the door, hesitated, and then, leaving it slightly open, walked back. The house was so dark that he knew he could not be seen; at least, not very well. An outline, at most, his shape, too vague to be identified. There was something exciting in this, almost a child’s game. Memory of earlier days … Again stopping, he raised his head, put his hand behind his ear, and holding his breath, listened.
Distinct breathing from what he knew to be a bedroom. The door had not been shut. Trembling, anticipating, he approached it one step at a time and stuck his head past the door to look into the room. There was just enough light for him to make out the bed, the dresser, a lamp.
On the bed lay Susan Faine, smoking a cigarette, one arm under her head, gazing up at the ceiling. She had kicked off her sandals. At the foot of the bed various coats and purses had been piled up, those of the other guests. At once she became aware of him; sitting up she said, “Back already?”
“No,” he mumbled.
She gazed at him. Then she said, “I thought you left a long time ago.”
“I forgot my coat,” he said, foolishly.
“You have it on.”
“Now I’ve got it,” he said. Presently he said, “Where did they all go?”
“Off to buy some more mixer,” she said.
“I got back in through the window,” he said. “The front door was locked.”
“That’s what that noise was,” she said. “I thought it was them on the porch opening the door. I wondered why I didn’t hear anyone talking. I must have dozed off. Apparently I have some virus infection. What I’m afraid of is that it’s something I picked up in Mexico. Since I got back I’ve been continually nauseated. I can’t drink anything and keep it down; it comes right back up. And every now and then I feel so darn weak and dizzy. I just have to lie down.”
“Oh,” he said.
Susan Faine said, “Down there we were warned not to eat any of the leafy vegetables or any fruits or even unboiled water. But when you go into a restaurant you can’t ask them to boil your glass of water. Can you? You can’t boil the dishes they give you.”
“Could it be just Asiatic Flu?” he asked.
“That’s possible,” she said. “I have these recurrent pains in my stomach.” She had unbuckled her belt and now she rubbed her flat waist. Then she sat up, put out her cigarette, and arose from the bed. “They should be right back,” she said, as she put her feet into her sandals. “Unless they stopped off somewhere. I think I’ll fix myself some coffee. Would you like some?” She passed by him—her motions were agile, but obviously weary—and out of the room. When next he caught sight of her, she had switched on the kitchen light and was standing on tiptoe to peer into a cupboard above the sink. There, she found a jar of instant coffee.
“None for me,” he said, hanging around in the general region of the kitchen table.
“Walt, my husband, I mean my former husband, lived in dread that one of us would get amoebic dysentery when we were down in Mazatlan one summer. That’s supposed to be quite serious. Sometimes fatal. Have you ever been down there?”
“No,” he said.
“You ought to go sometime.”
In his mind he had a notion of Mexico; he had talked with a couple of fellows who had driven down from Los Angeles, across the border at Tiajuana. Their tale built up in him a picture of girls in bathing suits, T-bone steaks at fancy restaurants for 40C, the best hotel rooms for $2.00 a night, maid service, no tax on whiskey, and any sort of pleasure wanted, picked up then and there on the street. Gas cost only 20C a gallon and that appealed to him particularly, because he used so much on his trips for his job. And there were top-quality English woolens in clothing stores, at dirt-cheap prices.