Wait For The Wagon

by Mary Lasswell

  Dr. Freemartin was back in his corner with a fresh bottle of gin; he had a morning paper spread across his face.

  “Keep it there,” Mrs. Feeley muttered. She and Miss Tinkham pushed Uremia into a sitting posture. “That service station might have ice, Ol’-Timer. We gotta gas up, anyway.”

  Miss Tinkham combed her hair and helped herself to a supply of Kleenex from the washroom.

  Mrs. Rasmussen paid the attendant. “Gimme half a dozen o’ them packs o’ Cheezits. Go good with the beer.”

  “Keep straight ahead on Forty,” Miss Tinkham cautioned. “We don’t want to get on the Auto Speedway. Our next big objective is Terre Haute.”

  As the car whizzed along the highway, Mrs. Feeley saw a young man in the uniform of the United States Marines standing near the road with his thumb out. He waved insistently at the car.

  “Yah!” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “Just stand there an’ hold it out till you see what grows hair on it the quickest! Too damn many passengers now!”

  The city traffic gradually thinned out and by eight o’clock green fields and farms could be seen along the highway. Sleek cattle looked up from the deep grass they were munching as the blue limousine sped by.

  “Rich country,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Oughta find a place near here.”

  “Good place for cookin’.” Mrs. Rasmussen looked at the fat hogs and the plump fowls that ranged the farms. “Sweet corn. All kinds greens.”

  “Eureka!” Miss Tinkham cried. A picnic ground with tables and benches spread out invitingly under a group of large trees. There were stone drinking fountains and brick outdoor fireplaces with grills.

  “We could o’ brought somethin’ to cook,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Never thought we’d find this.”

  “Doubtless a WPA project,” Miss Tinkham said. Old-Timer pulled over under the shade of a tree and stopped the car. He got out and raised the hood. Miss Tinkham nodded approvingly. The ladies got out quietly and Old-Timer lifted out the beer can.

  “Joy of joys!” Miss Tinkham cried. “A lovely stream. Did you say we had blankets, Mrs. Rasmussen?” That worthy was already opening the trunk. She handed out two blankets and a large piece of canvas that appeared to be a cover for the car.

  “The tabletop for me,” Mrs. Feeley said. She spread the two blankets on top of a big table. Mrs. Rasmussen opened her bag and got out soap and a washcloth. She and Miss Tinkham went down to the brook for a wash. When they came back, Old-Timer was sound asleep on the tarpaulin spread under a tree.

  “How we gonna know when it’s time to wake up?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Pure instinct,” Miss Tinkham said. “It’s all we’ll have to rely on.” She and Mrs. Rasmussen climbed up beside Mrs. Feeley and stretched out. The hard table felt fine. It was cool and it did not move. Uremia opened the door of the car and made a beeline toward the creek.

  “She’ll feel better now,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Where is everybody?” Red-eyed and unshaven, Dr. Freemartin came staggering up to the table. “What’s the idea? We can’t take time out like this. We’ve got to be going along. Wake him up…”

  “Somethin’ went wrong with the ignition. He fell asleep tryin’ to fix it. All wore out. Now keep quiet or start walkin’,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Come on! Come on…”

  Miss Tinkham rose up on her elbow and cut Dr. Freemartin short.

  “If you do not care to take advantage of the opportunity to rest, please be good enough not to interfere with those who do. You have the front seat all to yourself.”

  Muttering to himself, he went back to the car and returned to the table carrying his bottle of gin and the blue zipper-bag. Under his arm he carried his portable radio. He sat down at the next table and refreshed himself with a long swallow. He placed the radio on the table and turned it on. There was only a faint hum at first. Dr. Freemartin put his ear close to the small case and listened attentively.

  “Shut off that goddam squawk-box!” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “You’ll wake Ol’-Timer.”

  Dr. Freemartin smashed his gin bottle against the small radio, splintering the light plastic case. “See how nice I am? See how nice I am?” he shrieked. “You don’t want to hear the radio, so I fix it. I fix it good!” He ran toward the creek and threw the radio with a smash onto the rocks in the bottom. Miss Tinkham watched him go, then leaned down and picked up the blue zipper-bag. Dr. Freemartin saw her and rushed back up the bank.

  “Gimme that bag!” He grabbed it from her and sat down holding it on his knees. “Let’s get that car going. We’ve got to leave right away. I tell you what I’ll do…” He reached into his coat pocket.

  “It is quite useless, Doctor Freemartin.” Miss Tinkham put up her lorgnette. “We do not propose to endanger our lives by riding with a driver who is so fatigued that his co-ordination is impaired. Mrs. Rasmussen, will you return Doctor Freemartin’s money. You will have to find other transportation; we are not going to budge for the next five hours. If you and Miss De Brie will stand at the edge of the highway, I feel certain that, in a civilized state like Indiana, sooner or later a bus will appear bound for Indianapolis. There you are free to make any arrangements you choose.”

  “Now you’re cookin’ with heat,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Yeah—the State Police’ll give you a lift in,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  Dr. Freemartin’s smile looked like a grease-wave on a galley sink.

  “I’ll just wait down by the river,” he said. “Seen Uremia?”

  Mrs. Feeley gestured with her thumb. “In the bushes.” She turned to Miss Tinkham. “Hope he don’t try to make off with the car.”

  “Key’s in my satchel,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “You were inquiring about an alarm clock, Mrs. Feeley. He has a wrist watch, and I am sure he can be depended upon to wake us well before two this afternoon.”

  “Tiresome, ain’t he?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  Miss Tinkham lay down. “He really spoils our lovely trip.” She began to sing. “‘Is there no balm in Gilead? And no physician there?’”

  “That’s the place for me!” Mrs. Feeley giggled. “Mrs. Rasmussen, could you just pry the lid off the beer can and pass out a little of our nervine?”

  Mrs. Rasmussen woke first. She saw Miss Tinkham giving signs of life and dug up a fresh bottle of beer.

  “Never felt better in my life,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “We’ve drank quite some brew. We’ll have to get ice an’ load some o’ the cans from the trunk.”

  Miss Tinkham sat up and ate some of the Cheezits. She pointed to the bank of the creek. Dr. Freemartin and Uremia were deep in conversation. As soon as they saw the two ladies drinking beer, they got up and started up the slope.

  “We must wake Old-Timer gradually,” Miss Tinkham said. “Mrs. Feeley is stirring. The rest period has been our salvation.”

  “I’ll gather up.” Mrs. Rasmussen began folding the blankets and put the empty beer bottles and cracker boxes in the trash can. Miss Tinkham went over to Old-Timer with a paper cup of beer. She placed one hand gently on his forehead. He reached his hand up for the beer, then opened his big, blue pop-eyes and winked at her.

  “Last call for the comfort station,” Miss Tinkham called to the passengers. “We are ready to embark.”

  Dr. Freemartin and Uremia stood meekly waiting to be told where to sit.

  “Front seat, on the outside, if you please,” Miss Tinkham said to the psychoanalyst. “Miss De Brie, take your accustomed place next to Mrs. Rasmussen.” She handed Old-Timer the key to the ignition as soon as he lowered the hood of the car.

  “Thought you couldn’t start the car,” Dr. Freemartin said.

  “Quite right,” Miss Tinkham said. “Mrs. Rasmussen believes that there are more ways than one of killing a cat. Keep on Forty, Old-Timer. We go through Brazil, then right into Terre Haute.”

  Dr. Freemartin appeared to have sobered up considerably. He held the newspaper open in front of his face although he was not reading it.
From time to time he peeped over the corner of it, trying to see through the back window of the car. The three somewhat bulky female figures in the back seat, in addition to Aphrodite’s wide lampshade, blocked his view.

  “Ice!” Mrs. Feeley saw a big sign. “We’ll load the can.” Old-Timer pulled in and Mrs. Feeley hopped out. “Twenty-five pounds ice an’ fill the gas an’ oil.” Mrs. Rasmussen got a case of canned beer out of the back of the car. Dr. Freemartin kept his head ducked down behind the newspaper, and when the car pulled away onto the highway again, Miss Tinkham saw that he had donned dark glasses that covered almost half of his face.

  “Don’t suppose you’d care for anythin’ as sensible as a beer,” Mrs. Feeley said as she passed cups from the last cold bottle to her friends.

  “Makes me gassy,” he said. “Thanks just the same. I’ll have some gin.” He drank and passed the bottle to Uremia.

  It was obvious that the ladies were not going to make conversation.

  The gin restored Dr. Freemartin’s courage. “How’d you like the Kinsey Report?” he asked Miss Tinkham.

  “I hadn’t read a juvenile in years,” she said, “but it seemed to me an honest and sincere compilation of statistics. The prurient-minded who rush out to rent or buy such books were doomed to disappointment.”

  “Course I didn’t read the book myself. I read the Report on the Kinsey Report,” Dr. Freemartin said.

  “Do you mean to tell me you missed the Report on that?” Miss Tinkham smiled. “You are undoubtedly a great reader of book reviews.”

  “Oh, yes. My preoccupation keeps me so busy I don’t get to read the book itself. But that way I can still carry on a good conversation about the book.”

  “Far better than if you had read the book…no facts to interfere with your imagination.”

  “Yeah. The reason I asked you about the Kinsey Report,” Dr. Freemartin said, “like I told you: I could really use you in my business. You’d make a Grade A sexologist…”

  “I beg your pardon?” Miss Tinkham straightened up.

  “It’s the big thing,” Dr. Freemartin said. “You’d be surprised how many of my patients…”

  “Is he makin’ dirty propositions, Miss Tinkham?” Mrs. Feeley leaned across the front seat.

  “He is quite harmless, I assure you.” She turned back to Dr. Freemartin. “Nothing ending in ologist would interest me in the least.”

  “You’re wasting your talent,” he said. “Anybody can see you like tony clothes, even if yours are out of style. You could afford swanky new dresses and hats. Get you some glasses with pearl beads to hold ’em ’round your neck. You could buy as many books as you want and get a new convertible…”

  “Whadda you think this is?” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “A bucket o’ bolts?”

  “No offense! No offense! I’m just trying to orientate this lady into the upper bracket. People would lyonnaise you everywhere you go. You could associate with a lot better class of people…”

  “It would be a waste of breath to tell you, Doctor Freemartin, that the most sublime quality of the soul is a total lack of condescension. You would tell me he ran third at Suffolk Downs. Until we had the misfortune to encounter you…”

  “Don’t waste your conversation on him, Miss Tinkham.” Mrs. Feeley bumped him with Aphrodite’s lampshade. “You know you can’t make no silk purse out of a souse’s ear.”

  “I suggest that you center your efforts at rehabilitation on Miss De Brie,” Miss Tinkham said. “Her act needs a blood transfusion.”

  “Something like black light.” Dr. Freemartin helped himself to another slug of gin. “I don’t mind the expense.”

  “If you could only arrange a sort of musical comedy,” Miss Tinkham mused, “based on the Kinsey Report—they’ve made musicals of everything but Fannie Farmer’s Cookbook. You could make a capsule version of the book. Miss De Brie is the experienced type who would do the leading rôle perfectly.”

  “You see!” Dr. Freemartin said. “You’re a promoter. I knew it right along. Idea man. The synd…” He abandoned the unpleasant word and took a sup of gin.

  “In an overcrowded field like yours,” Miss Tinkham said, “would it not seem advisable to turn the entertainment-value of your art to account? With the high percentage of hypochondriac Americans, I should think a psychoanalytical night club would be the thing. You could have seductively dressed consultants go around to the tables and diagnose by flashlight, just as palm-reading is done in smart supper clubs. You could have Saturday Symptom Night…”

  “You got something there,” Dr. Freemartin admitted, “but the real clean-up comes from the couch séances. Of course, it’s hard work, but…”

  “Pity the poor psychoanalyst,” Miss Tinkham said, “sweating all day over a hot couch.”

  “You can laugh if you want to, but they pay me plenty money for the unsolicited-love advice; all they want is a green light, somebody to remove the guilt-complex.”

  “There is nothing new or startling about that,” Miss Tinkham said. “It explains the prevalence of rape: all responsibility is removed from the woman. You really should do something with the night-club idea. It may well be the answer to socialized medicine. You could offer door prizes good for three free consultations.”

  “Be a little gold mine.” Dr. Freemartin wagged his head. “Run the couch séance in the back.”

  “I suggest you start organizing at once.” Miss Tinkham turned to her friends in the back seat and let the lid of one eye droop perceptibly. “At this very moment a lovely theme-song is evolving in my head. Miss De Brie can easily memorize the words between here and St. Louis. The chorus goes like this:

  Frustrated and blue,

  Didn’t know quite what to do,

  No libido,

  No indeed-o,

  For my ills

  Took some pills

  That restored my youthful thrills

  Now they’re my credo.

  Adrenals blue, the thyroids too, estrogen new…”

  “I keep telling you you’re wasting your talent,” Dr. Freemartin said.

  “The whole plan for your club is gratuitous,” Miss Tinkham said. “I give it to you with my blessing. I can see it now.” She closed her eyes.

  “With plenty of that pink and green reflecting stuff they use at the filling stations,” Uremia said.

  “Yes,” Miss Tinkham said, “I think you would need a large building to accommodate your patrons: The Medico-Social Spa. Tabes For All. Paresis Are Reasonable. Everyone Is Congenital. Dance to the Music of Al Gumma and His Locomotor Orchestra.”

  “Sure sounds classy,” Uremia said.

  “Appropriate,” Miss Tinkham admitted modestly. “Too true to be good.”

  Shortly before eleven o’clock Monday night. Miss Tinkham spied the first billboard advertising Bloom’s Blue Grotto. She yawned prodigiously. Mrs. Feeley followed suit. Mrs. Rasmussen stretched and groaned. Following their lead, Old-Timer let the limousine lurch dangerously towards the ditch.

  “Watch it! Watch it!” Dr. Freemartin shrieked. Uremia slumbered on, clutching in her grimy hand the sheet of paper torn from an address book on which Miss Tinkham had printed the words of the Hormone Song.

  “How dare you yell at Old-Timer!” Miss Tinkham said.

  “We don’t allow no back-seat drivin’,” Mrs. Feeley said, “an’ sure as hell we ain’t gonna tolerate no front-seat drivin’. Ol’-Timer, pull in to the first nice place that looks like we can get a meal an’ a bed. We ain’t goin’ a inch farther tonight. You can do what you damn well please about it, but you ain’t gonna work us from can till can’t.”

  “But right outside of Indianapolis you slept nearly five hours. All this delay,” Dr. Freemartin sputtered. “You haven’t been on the road nine hours since then! What’s the big idea? All these stops…”

  “The walkin’ ain’t all took up.” Mrs. Feeley leaned across the front seat and started to open the door on his side. Old-Timer pulled into the circular driveway of th
e Blue Grotto. The lodge was a large log cabin, surrounded by small cabins made of logs and field stone. A hill covered with pines and oaks rose up behind it.

  “Right pretty,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “I smell barbecue.”

  Mrs. Feeley got out and straightened her dress.

  “Now’s your chance to get some o’ that gin you been pesterin’ us about for the last hour an’ a half…How many bottles per mile, or vice reverse, you been averagin?” Uremia did not answer. She and Dr. Freemartin went straight to the bar and climbed up on stools. Miss Tinkham beckoned to her friends to follow her.

  “Will you please bring out our bags, Old-Timer? We simply must have a bath and a change of clothes. We’ll meet you inside.” The ladies walked into the big cabin with a huge stone fireplace at one end and a bar at the other. Dr. Freemartin and Uremia were arguing with the bartender. They were the only customers in the place.

  “What kind of a lousy joint you bring us to?” Dr. Freemartin snarled.

  “No gin,” Uremia whined.

  “No skin off our…”

  “Only beer,” the bartender interrupted Mrs. Feeley “an’ setups. No drinks over the bar ’cept in cities over twenty thousand. State law. Package store about two miles down the road.”

  “Four beers,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Right over on that table—big and cold.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Dr. Freemartin said. “I can just run down in the car while you folks rest.”

  “Like so much sheep-dip!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Hoof it, boy.”

  Dr. Freemartin threw his hat on the floor and jumped up and down on it.

  “Throw a pail of ice-drips on him,” Mrs. Feeley said over her shoulder to the bartender. She and Miss Tinkham started towards the rest room and Mrs. Rasmussen followed them. “He’s really havin’ a hissy,” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “Looks like a nice place all right. I’m glad they don’t have no gin.”

  “We’ll have a difficult time planning our strategy and meeting David secretly unless Dr. Freemartin gets his gin,” Miss Tinkham said. “We must not stay up too late waiting for David, because Dr. Freemartin will recognize him and suspect collusion.”