“...OK, I guess that’ll do it.”
But in the night I kept thinking about it, and in the morning I said, “Rick, getting back to Mother, who you may be getting sick of, but I can’t get her out of my mind, and that idea you had, the card I’d mail from New York. It’s OK, except for one thing: it’ll take at lease a week, and this is Thursday, after me leaving home on Monday. Or in other words, sending a card that way, it’ll be ten days from the time I took off, and in that time God only knows what she does from worry about me. And if we lost out for that reason, we’d just have ourselves to thank for not getting with it and...”
“OK, I’ve changed my mind. Call her.”
“Oh, Rick, thanks, thanks, thanks.”
“But not from here, not from the hotel. It’s small, not like the one in Baltimore, and the girl on the board could get nosy, she could listen in. There’s a drugstore down the street, next door to that restaurant we ate in last night, and all drugstores have a booth. Put in a station-to-station call, dial the area code, then your house number, and drop in the money, in coins, soon as the operator tells you. Then she won’t know.”
“OK, I’ll do it now.”
“But let’s pack and check out. I’ll wait in the lobby.”
“Yes, that’s the best way. I’ll do it.”
So I packed and went down, and he checked us out. Then he sat down to wait, and I said, “I’ll make it as quick as I can, and then we can have breakfast. In the bus terminal would be nice.”
“OK, I’ll be right here.”
I went out and walked down the street and, sure enough, there was the drugstore. I went in and changed five dollars into quarters, nickels, and dimes. Then I went in the booth and dialed. But I kept getting a busy. That was Mother, it turned out, calling the dispatcher downtown of Steve’s trucking company to say he couldn’t drive that day for reasons I’ll get to later. Then she had to call his replacement, guy name of Jim Dolan, to tell him he had to drive—take the Parcel Post up to New York, then pick up wine off the boats, off the French Line boats at their pier, and bring it back on the down trip next day. So it kept her on the phone, and that’s why I couldn’t get through. I guess it went on for twenty minutes, until the fourth or fifth time that I tried, and then at last Mother came on. I said, “Mother, this is Mandy.”
“...Well! Where are you? And what have you been up to?”
“Mother, is that how you talk to me? When I call with love in my heart? To explain to you what I did. I mean leaving home that way and leaving that note for you.”
“I asked what you’ve been up to.”
“Who says I’ve been up to anything?”
“You must have been. What about that coat?”
“...What coat?”
Because I own up that caught me completely off guard, and I had to stall, to get my mind together. She said, “The one you showed Ed Vernick!”
“How do you know about that?”
“He called me, that’s how I know. To warn me that something went on—and put himself on notice. He did not mean to be dragged in. I ask you once more, where did you get it?”
“...From a store is where, a Baltimore store.”
“You mean you stole it?”
“I mean I bought it.”
“With what?”
“Money, what do you think?”
“Yes, but where did you get it?”
“...I found it. On the floor of a car.”
“What car?”
“I don’t care to say what car!”
“The whole thing sounds like what Ed Vernick said, a mess. And you’re not telling the truth about where you got that money! I don’t believe you found it, on the floor of a car or anywhere. Mandy, if some man gave it to you, you’re going to pay a price, you’re going to pay one awful price, I warn you. Mandy, while you can, I beg you come home. It’s only...”
“Mother, I can’t, I won’t.”
“Where are you?”
“That I prefer not to say.”
“Mandy, I have to know!”
“Mother, I promised not to say.”
“Promised whom?”
“It’s none of your business whom.”
She began hooking it up then, with loud, snuffly sobs, about all she’d done for me, giving me “money, clothes, everything,” and what a pest I’d been, “since the day you were born, bringing me nothing but grief.” And then, “taking off that way, and leaving me that note. I never read such a thing in my life. And on top of that, going to see Ed Vernick and flaunting a mink coat at him. What on earth possessed you?”
“Mother, cool it.”
“...You dare say such a thing to me?”
“I do. Cool it. Knock it off!”
For some moments she didn’t speak, and then in a different, more sensible tone she asked me, “Where are you?”
“I said I prefer not to say.”
“But I have to know, there’s a reason.”
“What reason?”
“One I may have, but don’t yet have.”
“Where I am doesn’t matter, as I’m traveling and first I stop one place, then another. When I’m settled I’ll let you know.”
“Then don’t say you weren’t told.”
“Told what, Mother?”
“The...reason I’ll have for wanting to know where you are. Which I’m not sure of yet but may be sure of later.”
“Then, OK, Mother, I called up to say I’m all right, that you don’t have to turn me in as a missing person or something, and...have you, by the way?”
“No! And after what Ed Vernick told me...”
“Then, don’t. I’m OK.”
“And that’s all you have to say?”
“That’s right. What do you have to say?”
“...That you have all my love.”
“And, Mother, you have mine.”
Suddenly, both of us were crying, but with love mixed in, and then she kept saying, “My love and my prayers, I keep saying them over and over.”
“Then, OK, Mother.”
“OK...OK.”
Then we’d both hung up, and I was standing there in the booth, with an empty, queer feeling, the tears still on my cheeks.
Walking back to the hotel I kept thinking of Rick, how glad I’d be to see him, to be with him, to have him pat my hand and start talking about our island. But in the lobby he wasn’t there. I looked in the dining room, remembering I’d been gone for some time and thinking he might have decided to eat breakfast. But he wasn’t there, and I came back and went to the desk. I asked, “Would you have Mr. Ruth paged? Mr. Richard Ruth, please.”
“Mr. Ruth has checked out. He left.”
“He has what?”
“Checked out. Are you Mrs. Ruth?”
“Yes, I am. Did he leave a message for me?”
“No, Miss. He left this.”
From behind the counter the clerk lifted my suitcase and set it on the desk in front of me. He kept staring in kind of a funny way. I said, “Oh, I see. Thanks.”
“Yes, Miss.”
10
I TOOK THE SUITCASE, but a bellboy grabbed for it, and also for the coat, which I was carrying now, as it was warmer in Savannah than it had been in Baltimore. But I hung on to them both and staggered to a chair, where I sat down real quick, as I had to. I mean I was stunned and might have toppled if I tried to stay on my feet. Because, of course, I knew by now that Rick had played me a trick, sending me down to that drugstore so he could give me the air and skip with all that money. But the jolt wasn’t all. I was hurt too, as at last I’d fallen for him, so I felt warm and close and friendly. On account of all that I sat there quite a few minutes, while the bellboy still stood by and the desk clerk studied me, like wondering what to do in case I became a problem, which I easily could have, as I had no idea what to do next. However, the first thing seemed to be to get on the trail of Rick. So at last I motioned the bellboy and let him take the bag and load me into a cab. I tipped him and
told the driver, take me to the bus terminal.
At the terminal I paid him and went inside and at that hour, which was no more than a quarter to nine, there wasn’t much going on, so the baggage man was sitting on his counter reading the paper. I asked him, “Did a young man in a zipper jacket and gabardine slacks claim a heavy black suitcase here? In the last half hour, I mean?”
“Yeah, about twenty minutes ago.”
“Which way did he go, please?”
“I didn’t notice which way he went. ... Hey, wait, so happens I did. Last I saw of him he was at the ticket window.”
“Thanks. Thanks ever so much.”
I asked the man at the ticket window, “A young man in zipper coat, gabardine slacks, and long dark hair: do you remember what ticket he bought? Maybe twenty minutes ago?”
“Miss, I don’t take note of their coat, their pants, or their hair. All I see is their money. No, I don’t remember.”
I went out on the platform, where people get on the buses, and, of course he wasn’t there. I asked a man in uniform which buses had left in the last twenty minutes, and he said, “Atlanta local; Memphis express.”
“Thank you so much.”
I went to the taxi stand and there was my cab where I’d left it. I got in and told the driver, “Police station, please.”
“OK...Something wrong, Miss?”
“I want to report a theft.”
“Police station’s where you do it.”
But then, after two or three blocks I panicked; I was so terrified. I realized what it would mean, that I would be questioned and would have to tell it all, not only about the money but also about the coat, so I’d have to give it up. I said, “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the police station yet. I must find a place to stay, so I’ll be settled down before I do anything. Where can I go, do you know?”
“You mean like to a motel?”
“I doubt if they’d take me in.”
“They don’t like young girls, that’s right.”
“I have to go somewhere, though.”
“How about to the Y? They might take you in.”
“I don’t know much about them.”
“Oh, they will take you in, of course. That is if you can pay? You got money, Miss?”
“I have some, yes.”
“Be around five dollars a night.”
“I can afford that much.”
“Maybe a little bit more now. Say, this inflation really hurts. Everything’s going up—except us. We have to charge the same.”
“Y’s fine. Take me there, please.”
So we were passing a park, one of dozens they have in Savannah, and he drove around it so we were headed back the way we had come. And I began thinking of how I’d have to buy a paper for the want ads it would have, and I would begin, where I left off in Baltimore, trying to find a job. And then all of a sudden I upchucked—not really, not the way Rick wanted to do, to make a mess there in the cab. I mean in my mind, so everything came up. It all came up in a flash, what Rick had done to me, how rotten it was, and how I refused to take it, lying down, sitting down, or any other way. I said to the driver, “I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind again. Back to the bus terminal, please.”
“The terminal it is.”
I knew what I had to do.
11
I GOT TO WASHINGTON around ten o’clock and, instead of taking the bus out, went all the way by cab, as I was pretty tired by then and wanted to get there. So it was $4.25, and I gave the driver five dollars. Then I went up to the front porch, walking on the grass so my footsteps wouldn’t be heard. I peeped in the front window and couldn’t see anything, but a light was on in the living room, so I knew somebody was home. I let myself in with my key, making as little noise as I could, and then from the hall saw Steve asleep in the chair by the arch, the one to the dining room. He was all sprawled out, his necktie pulled to one side, his shirt open at the throat, his belt unbuckled, and his pants half unzipped, while beside the chair on the floor were six or eight beer cans standing around. I set the bag down, opened the closet and hung up the coat, then went in the living room and sat down in the chair by the door. Everything looked the same, the furniture a little bit scuffed, the rug with rose border, the aquarelles of Venice, and the color TV by the fireplace. It came to me about Steve, that if he was more or less drunk he might start something with me, so I got out a knife I had bought at the newsstand in Savannah. On the box it said “BOY SCOUT,” but it was really a switchblade. I took it out of my handbag and sprung it open by pressing the button.
But at the click he opened his eyes.
Then he sat staring at me like a goof. He was big and thickset, maybe thirty years old, with kind of a bull look, but at the same time kind of a frog look. So he stared for some little time, then rubbed his eyes and stared some more. Then: “Mandy, is that you?”
“Well, who do you think it is?”
“I mean are you really there?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Can I come over and touch you?”
But at that I picked up the knife and warned him, “I don’t mind being touched, but if you start something with me, you’re getting this in the gut. Did you hear what I said, Steve? I bought it special for you, and you make one pass out of line, I’m letting you have it.”
“I won’t do anything to you.”
“Well, see that you don’t.”
So he came over and touched me with his finger, poking me on the shoulder, like he thought I might vanish or something. I said, “And another thing, Steve, you smell to high heaven of beer. So don’t come any closer, please. I just don’t care for beer, ’specially stale beer that makes me sick.”
“I’ll fix that right away.”
Then his pants started to slide, and he grabbed them and zipped them up, then fastened his belt. Then he went over and picked up the cans, piling them in his arms, and went through the arch to the dining room and on through to the kitchen. Then pretty soon he was back, with his shirt buttoned, his necktie pulled up, and his hair combed back neat. That way he looked kind of nice, and I thanked him for showing respect. “And the stink is gone, I hope. I rinched my mouth out, rinched it out good, with Listerine.”
He came close, and I said, “That’s better.”
“Mandy, I’ve been through the fires. When you left and I came home the next day and then your mother showed me your note, I thought I would die. I thought I would and didn’t care if I did. I didn’t want to live anymore. And then, after what happened today, the roof fell in—it’s why I started in on the beer. You have to admit, it’s not any weakness of mine, but I’d come to the end of the plank. Well? I’m not any drunk, am I?”
“OK, if it makes you feel better.”
“Then I opened my eyes, and there you were.”
“But what happened today?”
“It’s like the sun came up. And the moon.”
“I asked you what happened today.”
“All in due time, I’ll tell you.”
“It’s due time now. Where’s Mother?”
“She’s...not here.”
“Her car’s in the garage, though.”
“That’s right. She left it.”
“Well, Steve, say something! Where is she?”
“...She got married.”
“She what?”
“Got married. To that guy, the one she’s been stepping out with. Mandy, you have to know about him!”
“You mean that Wilmer? The one that has the distillery?”
“Yeah, him.”
“But how could she, being married to you?”
“...Almost married to me. Mandy, we were going to have it done, soon as she got straightened out on that thing with Vernick. But he stood in the way, and then when he wanted to get married again himself, he stood aside and that unblocked it. So she sued and that was that. But by that time she was suspicioning me, and we never did get around to it. She was free to marry any time she pleased.�
��
“Suspicioning you of what?”
“Mandy, you have to know.”
“Something having to do with me?”
“You’ve been my life for a long time.”
“Is that when she moved to her room?”
“Yes, that’s when...but by that time Wilmer had showed again, after bumping into her by accident on the street in Washington one day. So they started up again. But before she could marry him, she had to arrange about you—that’s what she called it, ‘arrange,’ when she sat down and talked to me today while waiting for him. And she admitted she had hoped you would fall for me, marry me, and...”
“Well, I won’t!”
“OK, but don’t leave me, Mandy. I can stand anything but that! Not again!”
“You mean I just stay here with you?”
“I’ll behave, I promise you. But listen, you did love me once! I could feel it. I can’t be mistaken!”
“As my father! When I thought you were!”
“OK. Let me be him again!”
“Steve! It’s all I’ve been looking for!”
“Oh, Mandy, it would make me so happy!”
“Then, I’ll think about it.”
He backtracked then, to tell more, and I kind of put things together: how Mother had held off her marriage until I was out of the way, and how this morning, when she thought I was, the idea popped in her mind that she’d have a showdown about it, and then if the answer was yes, she’d call me back and tell me—but I wouldn’t say where I was. So it seemed the answer came pretty quick, that Mr. Wilmer not only told her yes but to stand by and he’d be right down, which he was in a couple of hours. So they went to Dover, Delaware, where there’s no waiting period, and then called Steve from there—and how he celebrated was to get himself slopped on beer. Before they left she brought Mr. Wilmer in, “the first time I’d met him, Mandy. A real nice guy, a big shot as you know right away, just by looking at him.” And while waiting for him she talked, “the first time in her life she ever leveled with me, to tell it like it was, friendly and straight and honest.” Then he got back to me and came to where I was, in the chair, and touched me, my cheek, hair, and knee; I still had on the hot pants I’d put on in the room at Savannah. Then he took my hand and kissed it. So then I patted him and felt like I had before, when I’d climb all over him and muss him and punch him and tickle him. Then at last I said, “OK, Steve, be my father.” He kissed me then, on the forehead. I said, “You mind if I fix myself something? I didn’t have any breakfast and didn’t get off anywhere. Off the bus, I mean, to eat.”
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