by Paul Gallico
C H A P T E R
4
Bill said to Marge “We’re coming into Yuma,” and then looking at her questioningly, “Here?”
Marge had awakened with all the innocence and trust of a sleepy-eyed child. Her face had been burrowed into the hollow of the boy’s neck and shoulder and his comforting arm had been about her, but now sitting up and suddenly in the midst of a town and feeling the bus slowing down and once more being asked for a decision, she felt the little panic waves that had beset her ever since she had left her home to go with him, and she searched for an excuse. A half of one was handy.
“Oh, dear, someone might know us. Myra, a girl in my class—we’re sort of friends—has an aunt in Yuma,” and then it was her turn to look inquiringly, “Are you sure you love me, Bill?”
The quick, glib answer refused to come to the boy’s lips. Love, love, love! Everybody was always yowling about love. What did they mean by love? What was it, a thought, a feeling, a stiffening of his member and the urgent need to secure a release? Or was it thinking about Marge when he ought to be doing his homework, or watching the coach diagram a play on the blackboard and suddenly remembering the texture of her hair, the pressure of her fingers on his hand, her proximity, the feel and the smell of her clothes? He was happy and content when he was near her but how could you tell whether that was love? But if you said you loved someone, and didn’t, just to make them let you give them a feel, or eventually go all the way, that was a rotten kind of a lie. A curious kind of sense of justice had told him something was unfair. In exchange for three spoken words a good kid like Marge would give away everything she had. That was all they wanted to hear but once you said it you couldn’t take it back.
He looked at Marge again and there was the physical surge and, too, there was something in the slightly pathetic curve of her lips, in the line of the young neck that was moving and disturbing. If one looked too long one might feel that tears could be dangerously close; unmanly tears.
He said, “I dunno, Marge. I guess I must because when I look at you it’s as though I wanted to bust inside.”
This satisfied her for she snuggled closer to him. But it was Bill’s own insecurity which led him to decison.
He said, “Maybe like you say, if Myra’s aunt lives here she might be around, you know. We could have some breakfast and then go on maybe even as far as Tucson or Lordsburg. Nobody’d know us there.”
The bus station at Yuma was classic, mingling the fumes of diesel exhaust with that of frying eggs and bacon. There was a lunch counter on one side, a news-stand on the other, a few benches and at the far end lavatories with large signs over the doors, MEN and WOMEN. There was also a small Indian trading post where a fat Navajo woman sold blankets, beads, basketwork and badly-made turquoise jewellery.
Gresham apparently had had difficulty locating something in his luggage. He and Julian were by far the last to enter the waiting-room and the majority of the passengers had already performed their morning necessities and were ordering breakfast at the counter or buying newspapers. Gresham, his arm still about Julian’s shoulder, stopped to glance about him.
He said, “My, my, smell that bacon. And I’ll bet they’ve got pancakes too. Would you like some pancakes?”
Julian said, “Uh, huh, but I’ve got to . . .”
At the far end of the room two of the passengers emerged from the door marked MEN one of them still adjusting his clothing.
“Sure,” Gresham said, “we’ll do that first,” and with his arm increasing the pressure on Julian’s shoulder they moved off in the direction of the lavatories.
Gresham had miscounted the number of male passengers visible in the waiting-room by one. That one, Frank Marshall, now stepped out from behind the corner of the news-stand where he had been waiting, and squarely into the path of Gresham and Julian, blocking the way. There was no longer any fury on Marshall’s face. His expression was blank, bland, almost disinterested as he ignored Julian and in a quiet conversational tone said to Gresham, “Where do you think you’re going?”
The shock and surprise to Gresham was total, particularly since there seemed to be nothing hostile in the attitude of the young man who he remembered now had ignored him so pointedly back in San Diego. Only in the amazingly light blue eyes with which he was being contemplated did Gresham feel there was something disconcerting, a kind of stare which seemed to be taking all of him in and at the same time appeared not to be seeing him at all. Odd!
Gresham said, “What?”
In the same quiet tone, Marshall said, “Take your arm off that kid.”
Gresham did not even realize that he had loosed his grip upon Julian as he said, “What? What do you mean? I don’t get you. The little fellow has to . . .” He tried to make a move to circumvent the man blocking his path but somehow always found himself looking up into those freezing eyes.
Marshall said, “Get lost.”
Gresham huffed, “Look here, what’s the idea? Who do you think you are? I’m looking after this . . .”
Marshall’s lips parted in a half smile, “You heard what I said. Split. Get out of here.”
Released from the encircling arm, Julian moved a little distance away, thus disassociating himself from the pair and whatever was to transpire between them and he gazed with curiosity from the face of one to the other wondering what was going to take place. This was the second time that the man he had labelled as the goodie had intervened and played a part in things that were happening to him. Was Gresham a baddie too? It had seemed as though he had only been trying to be nice. True, he had been a bit icky but then a lot of grown people were. What was it all about?
Here was a mystery. The two faces were close together, one handsome with its easy smile and the other suddenly disintegrating before Julian’s eyes. And the boy became aware within himself of a feeling that he could not put either into word or thought. He only felt that it was one of mingled discomfort and relief.
Gresham made a last attempt. “Look here, you can’t . . .”
This time Marshall made no reply whatsoever, nor did he raise his hand in any kind of menacing gesture. He simply stepped on to Gresham’s foot, hard, and kept up the pressure as Gresham grimaced and howled with pain.
Marshall said sweetly, “Sorry, dearie,” and then for the first time allowed a grating note into the softness of his speech. “You’re off the bus, too. If I see you again you could really get hurt bad.”
Julian felt a little frightened. Violence on the TV screen was fun. Men shooting, stabbing or battering one another, but right there, out in the open so close by, it gave one a curious kind of sickish feeling in one’s throat and stomach.
Gresham knew he was finished. He pleaded, “Listen, I’ve got to get to Memphis.”
Marshall said, “Sure, that’s all right. There’ll be another bus along. This is where we part company.”
What a strange way to fight. Julian watched Clyde’s round, smooth cheeks collapsing, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, his lips trembling like a baby’s, all the air let out of his figure.
Marshall knew that it was over and so he removed the pressure from Gresham’s foot and stood to one side saying, “You’re going to be a good boy, aren’t you, sweetheart. You wouldn’t want to end up the rest of your days a cripple, would you? Get going.”
Gresham’s nerve broke completely and without another word he turned and hurried away towards the exit from the bus station that led into the town where he paused for a moment, anxiously looking back.
Whatever it was, it was over and Julian was no longer frightened. If he felt a moment of pity for the stranger who had been destroyed before his eyes it evaporated into admiration for the man who had accomplished it with such ease and command and there was again a curious sense of relief as though some kind of a shadow of which he had not been aware had been lifted from him.
He asked, “What happened? Where did he go? Was there something wrong?” And then he had to give a little w
riggle since for all of these novel excitements there was still the original morning need.
Marshall said, “Never mind. You got to go to the can?”
Julian wriggled again. “Uh huh.”
Marshall said, “All right, then get on with it,” and he nodded with his head in the direction of the men’s room, but made no other move.
Once more looking up into Marshall’s face Julian experienced a great glow of admiration underneath which was a strange feeling of satisfaction engendered by something so subtle that he was not even consciously aware of it, namely that Marshall had not offered to go with him.
He said, “Okay,” and went in to the accompaniment of the sound of the automatic flushing urinals.
Marshall took out a bunch of keys that opened nothing he owned and led to nowhere he knew and played catch with them for a moment before glancing over in the direction where Gresham was yet lingering. Marshall made a sudden absurd threat as though to throw the keys at Gresham who, at the menace, turned and hustled out the exit so hastily that his buttocks shook.
Marshall gave a half snort, half laugh, turned and waited for Julian to emerge from the men’s room apostrophizing himself as he did so. “Now, what the hell did you do that for? For Chrissakes, Marshall, can’t you learn to mind your own business. You could get stuck with the goddamn kid.”
Julian emerged from the men’s room.
Marshall asked, “Okay?”
Julian replied, “Okay.”
Marshall said again, “Okay.”
The first one had been a question, the second had been a reply and the third was a careless farewell with all that Marshall could put into it of satisfied insouciance as he sauntered off. He did not turn around to see whether Julian was following him for that was the surest way with a stray of any kind to make him come after you. Julian stood there watching him go neither hurt nor puzzled over this ending to this curious incident. As he saw it, whatever it had been was over. Children are not apt to linger over events that are closed out or the never-to-be-understood behaviour of adults.
He went over to the cafeteria counter and found an empty seat next to the dark-haired man with the strange-looking instrument case, consulted the menu and ordered pancakes with little pig sausages. When they appeared he doused them liberally with syrup and noticed that his neighbour had nothing before him but sat there rather unhappily hugging his instrument case.
Julian asked, “What’s your name?”
“Milo Balzare. You?”
“Julian. What have you got in there?”
Balzare said, “A Symphonia. For music. But it very old from other times.”
“Can you play it?”
“Oh yes. Am coming here to America to learn your popping music.” He looked hungrily at Julian’s plate and asked “How you say that please? I like.”
Julian told him, “Pancakes and little pig sausages,” and signalled the counterman. From Balzare it came out, “Pon cakes and leetle peek sausage.”
The counterman yelled through the kitchen hatch, “Toss one. Small porkers with.”
The musician looked baffled, “That not what I say.”
Julian giggled, “That’s all right.”
The order duly appeared. Balzare regarded them in amazement and said, “Is so difficult language. How you say coffee?”
The counterman had just shouted again through the hatch, “Draw one,” and a cup of coffee was served. Julian laughed happily. He was having a wonderful time.
Looking down the line Julian recognized passengers more easily now that many were there at breakfast. Far down towards the end was Marshall with coffee. He was looking straight ahead. Julian wondered whether Marshall might glance over and if he did, Julian thought he might wave to him, but Marshall didn’t.
C H A P T E R
5
Boarding the bus after the morning break in Yuma, Colonel Sisson managed to stumble, drop his briefcase and spill the contents all over the aisle. Any film director worth his salt watching this scene would have said, “Oh for God’s sakes,” and called for a retake but apparently none of the passengers who were blocked behind him while he scrambled to pick up his papers, Allon, Marshall, Julian, Bill and Marge and the black-haired musician, thought there was anything extraordinary in this and only casually glanced at the papers which seemed to be mainly diagrams and blueprints. In great and obvious embarrassment the colonel was making an attempt to cover up the nature of these papers as he scrabbled them up off the floor and restored them to his briefcase.
While they waited the bus driver said to Marshall, “Where’s the little fat guy who was going to Memphis?”
Marshall replied, “He ain’t comin’. He changed his mind.”
The bus driver shook his head in disgust, “He might have said something. Passengers!” The hydraulic doors hissed shut. He picked up his short-wave microphone, gave his call letters, listened to the dispatcher’s voice for a moment and then said, “Three nine six on time out of Yuma.” He then picked up the one for interior communications and said, “Okay, folks, we’re off.”
When the aisle had finally cleared and the passengers settled, Julian found that his strange friend had moved across and preempted his window seat. That left Julian a choice on either side of the aisle. He didn’t resent losing his view. In fact he did not give it a second thought since it was quite in keeping with the hierarchy of his world as he had learned it. Children were there to be pushed around, but it did provide him with an opportunity to probe further into the mystery of the vanished Gresham.
He asked, “Can I sit next to you?”
Marshall looked up and noting Julian without enthusiasm, had in mind to say, “Why don’t you sit over there?”, and then realizing that he had taken the boy’s seat, felt guilty and fell. “What? Oh, sure sure, go ahead.”
Julian slid down into the seat. Marshall gave him his shoulder and looked out of the window as the bus pulled away from Yuma and hit the highway again. Julian waited until Marshall got bored with the scenery and made as if to turn for his book. Then he asked, “What’s your name?”
Marshall thought, Oh Christ. Well, I asked for it. Aloud, he said, “Marshall.”
Julian asked, “Marshall what?”
“Not Marshall What. Marshall. Frank Marshall. Okay?”
He looked to find his place in his book when Julian said, “Mr. Marshall?”
The man gave up. Okay, so he was going to have to cope with the kid. He said, “Just Marshall will do.”
Julian then asked, “Why did you make that man go away?”
Marshall was aware that kids were a lot smarter and more hip than they used to be but he had the feeling that this boy had a peculiar kind of innocence and trust and probably would not have known what that son of a bitch was up to. He therefore produced that completely phony expression and voice used by adults when they are telling to their young a thumping lie which they are convinced will be believed.
He said, “Well, you see, kid, I recognized him. I’ve seen him before. He was a—pickpocket.”
Julian clapped his hand to his jacket where the Bubble Gun design reposed. “Would he have picked my pocket?”
“Maybe he would have. He was a rat.”
Julian said, “Why didn’t you call the police?”
It stumped Marshall for a moment. This made his voice even phonier when he explained, “Well, now you see, sonny, that would have just held everything up and made a lot of trouble for everybody. And anyway, he didn’t have his hand in anybody’s pocket so I just scared the . . .” He pulled himself up in time. “. . . the pickpocket.”
Julian considered this. Well maybe, but it didn’t entirely make sense. Gresham hadn’t looked at all like a pickpocket ought to. For an instant that same sense of dark foreboding which he had felt during that moment when Marshall had frightened Gresham away returned to Julian. Something else had been involved from which Marshall had protected him. His doubts caused him to look into Marshall’s face half questio
ningly, to be greeted with the man’s dazzling, frank and open smile as Marshall said, “See?”
Julian reached into his pocket and produced the folded paper of his diagram and looking at it with satisfaction said, “He didn’t get it, did he?”
Marshall was grimly aware of the double meaning as he replied, “That’s right. He didn’t get it.” Then, indicating the paper, “What’s that?”
Julian replied, “My invention. After I g-g-get a patent for it I’m g-g-going to make a lot of m-m-money with it.”
The word “money” startled Marshall for a moment and a slight change of expression came over his countenance. He was about to reach for the paper but thought better of it. He said, “What are you talking about? Let’s have a look at it.”
Julian did not comply but said, “I g-g-got to work on it some more.”
Marshall said carelessly, “Okay, so don’t,” which, of course, produced an immediate unfolding of the sheet of paper revealing the diagram of the Bubble Gun. Glancing at it Marshall was surprised and even more surprised that he should be so. He studied it for a moment and then asked, “You did that?”
“Uh huh.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Julian replied, “I dunno. Sometimes when you pull the trigger it shoots a lot of little b-b-bubbles instead of a b-b-big one. I’ve g-g-got to figure it out.”
Marshall took the paper out of the boy’s fingers and examined it more closely including Julian’s name and address at the bottom.
He said, “It looks all right to me,” and then added, “Why don’t you ask him?” and he nodded his head towards the front of the bus.
Julian asked, “Who?”
Marshall replied, “That guy up there. The one who spilled his papers all over the floor. I had a look at ’em. That was ordnance.”
“What’s ordnance?”
“Guns and stuff. He’s probably army in civvies. He could tell you.”
“Do you think he would?”