'All right,' said Ansel. 'Does that mean I can stay at the Pikes' until you call?'
'I don't care, for heaven's sake.'
He continued on toward the pickup, and Mrs Pike kept following after him. When he opened the door on the driver's side she opened the other door, and it was only then that he realized she meant to come along. They stood staring at each other for a minute across the expanse of seat; then Mrs Pike lowered her eyes and climbed in, and he did the same. He could see that the others on the porch were just as surprised as he was – they came closer together, and turned to look at each other – but Mrs Pike didn't offer to explain herself. She sat quietly, with her eyes straight ahead and her hands clasped in her lap. Even when he craned his neck around to look out the rear window as he was backing out, she stared ahead. The stoniness of her face gave her a calm, sure look, as sure as James felt inside; she must know where Simon was by instinct.
When they were on the main highway James turned his lights on. Already the opaque white look of early twilight was growing bluer and more transparent, and other cars as they came towards him clicked their own lights on. But he could see around him clearly stilclass="underline" the landmarks of the journey to town slipping by, and then a brief glimpse of Main Street itself before he passed it. It felt funny to keep going straight, instead of turning there. A strange sinking feeling began in his stomach, and he looked into the rear-view mirror and watched the town lights fading away from him. 'Don't worry,' he said suddenly to Mrs Pike, but Mrs Pike wasn't looking worried at all; she only nodded, calmly.
'I'm just waiting,' she told him.
'Oh.'
'I'll take what I get. Whatever I deserve.'
'Yes, ma'am,' James said.
He swerved around a little boy riding a bicycle. Where was Simon at this minute? Maybe swaggering down a street alone, trying to look as if he knew where he was going. Searching for some sign – a boy with a ring in his ear or a woman in a red-plumed hat, someone who would expect him the way he had expected them. James frowned. The clomping of Simon's leather boots seemed louder than the sound of the motor; the fuzz down the back of Simon's neck seemed clearer than the road ahead of him.
'It's been a pretty day,' he said.
'Yes.'
'Where's Joan?'
'I don't know,' said Mrs Pike. She looked out at the road a while, and then she said, 'I sewed a dress today.'
'Oh, did you?'
'Yes.'
'Well, now,' James said. He cleared his throat. 'I always thought a dress would take days to make.'
'Anything happens,' said Mrs Pike, 'it's only my fault. My fault.'
'Well, now,' James said again.
The truck was travelling too fast, he thought. Already the countryside looked like Caraway countryside; not Larksville. In his mind he had added mile upon mile to this trip, stretching the road out long and thin till Caraway might have been in Asia. Yet before they had been on the road half an hour they reached Stevens's Esso Station – the halfway mark – and he braked sharply and turned in. 'Need gas,' he told Mrs Pike. She nodded. The meter said the tank was half full, but stopping this way would slow things down a little.
Mr Stevens himself washed the windshield and filled the tank, with only a brief smile to James because he didn't recognize him. "Three dollars, ten,' he said. 'Nice evening.' He held his hand out flat, palm up, outside James's window, and James counted out the exact change very slowly. When he had paid he said, 'This the road to Caraway?' to stretch the stop out even longer.
'Sure is,' the man said.
'How much further?'
'Be there half an hour.'
'Thank you,' James said. He started the motor and looked over at Mrs Pike, but she didn't seem surprised at the questions he had asked. She just looked down at her hands and waited for him to drive on.
Almost no one else was on the road now. He drove at a steady pace, and in silence, looking at the country around him whenever they were on a straight stretch of road. At first it was just the occasional, very noticeable things that he recognized – that humped bridge that looked like something off a willowware plate, the funny barbecue house off in the middle of nowhere with pigs chasing each other rapidly in neon lights across the front porch. But after another ten or fifteen minutes, he began to recognize everything. The objects that flashed by were all worn and familiar-looking, as if perhaps without knowing it he had been dreaming of them nightly. Even the new things – the brick ranch houses rising baldly out of fresh red clay, the drive-ins and Dairy Queens – seemed familiar, and he glanced at them mildly and without surprise. When he reached the town limits it was just beginning to grow really dark, and his headlights glared briefly against the slick white surface of a newly painted sign. 'Caraway. Bird Sanctuary,' it read. The last time he had been here it had said only 'Caraway.' And he had looked at it and thought, I'll never see that sign again, not for any reason. He hadn't known the Pikes then, nor Joan, nor the Potters; he hadn't foreseen the existence of Simon.
He slowed down as soon as they reached the actual town, and Mrs Pike straightened up and began looking out the window more intently, perhaps already searching for Simon. James kept his eyes straight ahead until they got to Main Street. Then he pointed to an all-night grill and said, 'This is where the buses stop.'
'Oh,' said Mrs Pike.
'Do you want to go ask if they've seen him?'
'I guess so,' she said, but she was looking at him, obviously expecting that he would be the one to ask. He sighed and swung the truck into a diagonal parking place.
'I'll be right out,' he told her.
'All right.'
Once on the street, out from behind the shield of the pickup, he felt clumsy and conspicuous. Girls in bare-backed dresses waited with their dates in front of the movie theatre next door and when he stepped on to the sidewalk they pivoted on their high heels and glanced over at him. He stared back, but there was no one he recognized. And the waitress in the grill was a new one a fat blonde he didn't know. He came up and laid both hands palm down on the counter and said, 'Were you here when the last bus from Larksville came?'
'Yes,' she said. Her voice was tired, and she seemed hardly able to raise her eyes and look at him.
'Did you see a little boy get off?'
'I wasn't watching,' she said.
She began swabbing off the counter with a pink sponge, and James walked out again without thanking her. On the street he looked up and down, hooking his thumbs in his belt and staring over the heads of passersby, but there was no sign of Simon. For the first time he felt uncertain about him, and frightened. He returned to the truck.
'She wasn't watching,' he told Mrs Pike.
'She wasn't,' she agreed, and went on looking calmly out the window.
James knew where he was heading, but he was hoping he didn't have to go there. So he drove down Main Street very slowly, looking right and left, peering into the windows of restaurants and soda shops and scanning the faces of people out for evening walks. Several times he saw people he knew. Seen through the truck window, walking in half-dark, six years older and unexpected in new clothes that James had never known, they looked worn and sad to him. He would look after them a minute with a feeling of bewilderment, almost forgetting Simon until Mrs Pike touched him on the arm. Then he would drive on.
Mrs Pike didn't ask what he was doing when he turned off Main Street. She seemed to think that this was part of a tour around Caraway that anyone might follow, and she gazed in tourist-like respect at a three-foot high statue of Major John Caraway. ('This is Major Caraway,' James's father always explained to them. 'He fought in the Big War.' Meaning the Civil War, though there'd been others since. 'He certainly was a small man,' said their mother. Their father never answered that.) Even when they turned down Hampden Street, where there were no statues and only private houses, Mrs Pike said nothing. She kept on searching the sides of the road, poking her nose toward the window so that the skin between her chin and the base of her throat made one slanted line. James drove more and more slowly. He turned left on Winton Lane and then drew to a stop, letting the truck roll into the grass at the side of the road. They were in front of an old grey house with a great many gables, its yard sprinkled with the feather-white skeletons of dandelions. No one was on the porch. For a while James sat silent, tapping the steering wheel with one finger. Then he looked over at Mrs Pike. She was still searching out the window, almost as if she thought they were still moving. 'I'll be back,' he told her.