Mr. Pritchard’s right leg was crossed over his left and his suspended toe made little convulsive jumps. He had glanced into the blonde’s face when she came in and now there was a pleasant excitement in him. But he was puzzled. Somewhere, he thought, he had seen this girl. Maybe she’d worked in one of his plants, maybe a secretary, maybe in some friend’s office. But he’d seen her. He felt sure he had. He truly believed that he never forgot a face, when the truth was that he rarely remembered one. He didn’t look closely at any face unless he planned to do business with its owner. He wondered about the sense of sin he got out of the recognition. Where could he have seen this girl?
His wife was looking secretly at his swinging foot. Ernest Horton was frankly gazing at the blonde’s legs. Norma liked the girl. In one respect Norma was like Loraine. She didn’t love anyone—well, except one—so she had nothing to be taken away, nothing to lose. And this girl was nice. She was pleasant-spoken and polite. Actually the girl felt good toward Norma too, sensing that this girl could like her.
Just before the Greyhound came in Alice had said to Norma, “Watch the counter, will you? I’ll be right back.” And then the bus and the blonde and getting the coffee had taken up Norma’s thoughts. But now a certain knowledge struck her, made her turn cold and nauseous inside. She knew what was happening as though she could see it. She knew, and knowing, many calculations came into her head around her sick anger. The little roll of money in small bills. That could be used until she could get a job. And why couldn’t she go now? She was going to sometime. She opened the cabinets beneath the shelves in back of the lunch counter and shoved the pies in, all except one of each kind. One raspberry, one raisin, one lemon cream, and one caramel custard cream she lined up on the counter, and the smell of them made her sicker. She still didn’t quite know what to do.
Juan came through the front door and stood looking at the back of the blonde’s head.
Norma said, “Will you watch the counter a minute, Mr. Chicoy?”
“Where’s Alice?” Juan asked.
“I don’t know,” said Norma. She could see Alice in her mind. Alice’s eyes weren’t so good. She would take the letter to the window and hold it up to the light. She wasn’t really interested. It was a casual, vague kind of curiosity. She would lean sideways to the light and her hair would fall in her eyes so she would blow it, and her fingers would scrabble through the pages. Norma shivered. She saw herself hurtling into the room. She saw herself snatch the letter, and her fingers flexed. She felt Alice’s skin against her fingernails and her nails striking and clawing for Alice’s eyes, those horrible, wet, juicy eyes. Alice would fall on her back and Norma would come down on that great, soft stomach with her knees, and she’d scratch and tear at Alice’s face and the blood would run in the scratches.
Juan, looking at Norma, said, “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“Yes,” said Norma.
“Go ahead before you get sick here.”
Norma edged down the counter and opened the bedroom door softly. The door to her own room was open just a crack. She closed the door into the lunchroom and moved silently toward her own door. She was cold now and shivering. Cold as ice. Noiselessly she pushed her door open. And there it was—Alice, by the window, holding the letter to Clark Gable up to her eyes and blowing her hair sideways.
Alice blew her hair and looked up and saw Norma standing in the doorway. Her mouth was open, her face avid. She couldn’t change her expression. Norma took a step into the room. Her chin was set so hard that the lines receded from her mouth. Alice stupidly held the letter out to her. Norma took it, folded it carefully, and tucked it in her bodice. And then Norma went to her bureau. She drew her suitcase from underneath. She unpinned the key from the inside of her dress and unlocked the suitcase. Heavily she began to pack. She emptied the bureau drawers into the suitcase and pressed the mound of clothes down with her fist. From the closet she dragged out her three dresses and her coat with the rabbit collar and she laid the coat on the bed and rolled the dresses up around the hangers and poked them in the suitcase too.
Alice couldn’t move. She watched Norma, her head swinging as the girl passed back and forth. In Norma’s brain there was a silent scream of triumph. She was on top. After a life of being pushed around, she was on top and she was silent. She felt good about that. Not one word did she say and not one word would she say. She threw two pairs of shoes into the suitcase and put the lid firmly down and locked it.
“You going right now?” Alice asked.
Norma didn’t answer. She wouldn’t break her triumph. Nothing could force her.
“I didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Alice said.
Norma didn’t look up.
“You’d better not tell or I’ll fix you,” Alice suggested uneasily. Still Norma did not speak. She went to the bed and got her black coat with the rabbit collar. Then she picked up her suitcase and walked out of the room. Her breath was whistling in her nose. She went in back of the lunch counter and pushed the “No Sale” button on the cash register. Norma took out ten dollars, a five and four ones and a half and two quarters. She shoved the money in the side pocket of her black coat. Her weak mouth was set in a hard line.
Juan said, “What’s going on here?”
“I’m going to San Juan with you,” said Norma.
“You’ve got to help Alice,” said Juan. “She can’t stay here alone.”
“I’ve quit,” said Norma. She saw that the blonde watched her as she came around the edge of the counter. Norma went out the screen door. She carried her suitcase to the bus and she climbed in and took a seat toward the rear. She stood her suitcase up on its end beside her. She sat very straight.
Juan watched her go out of the door. He shrugged his shoulders. “What do you suppose that was?” he asked of no one in particular.
Ernest Horton was scowling. He hated Alice Chicoy. He said, “What time you think we’ll get started?”
“Ten-thirty,” said Juan. “It’s ten-ten now.” He glanced at the Pritchards. “Look, I’ve got to change my clothes. If you folks want coffee or anything, just come back here and get it.”
He went into the bedroom. He slipped the shoulder straps of his overalls and let the pants fall down around his shoes. He had on shorts with narrow blue stripes. He peeled his blue chambray shirt over his head and kicked off his moccasins and stepped out of the overalls, leaving shoes and socks and overalls in a pile on the floor. His body was hard and brown, colored not by the sun but by brown ancestry. He moved over to the bathroom and knocked on the door. Alice flushed the toilet and opened the door. She had been washing her face again and a wet strand of hair was plastered to her cheek. Her mouth was lax and her eyes were swollen and red.
“What’s going on?” Juan asked. “You’re having one hell of a time for yourself, aren’t you?”
“I’ve got a toothache,” Alice said. “I can’t help it. I’ve got a jumping pain right here.”
“What’s the matter with Norma?” Juan asked.
“Let her go,” Alice said. “I knew I’d catch up with her sometimes.”
“Well, what did she do?”
“She’s just a little light-fingered,” said Alice.
“What did she take?”
“Just thought I’d see. Remember that bottle of Bellodgia1 you gave me for Christmas? Well, it was gone and I found it in her suitcase. She came in when I found it and she got huffy and I told her she could go.”
Juan’s eyes veiled. He knew it was a lie, but he didn’t much care what the truth was. Women fights didn’t interest him at all. He got in the tub and pulled the shower curtain about him.
“You’ve been a mess all morning,” he said. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Well, it’s my time,” said Alice, “and then this toothache.”
Juan knew the first was not true. But he only suspected the second could be false. “Take yourself a slug of liquor when we go. That’ll be good for both ends,” he sa
id.
Alice was pleased. She wanted him to suggest it.
“You’ve got to take care of everything,” Juan went on. “Pimples is going along with me today.”
Excitement surged in Alice. She would be alone, all by herself. But she couldn’t let Juan know that was what she wanted. “What’s Pimples going for?” she asked.
“He wants to get some things over in San Juan. Say, why don’t we close up the place? You can go to the dentist in San Juan.”
“No,” Alice said. “It’s not a good idea. I’ll go in to San Ysidro tomorrow or the next day. It’s not a good idea to close the lunchroom.”
“O.K. It’s your tooth,” said Juan, and he turned on the water. He poked his head out of the curtain. “Go on out there and take care of the passengers.”
Ernest Horton had moved in on the blonde when Alice came into the lunchroom.
“Now, let’s have a couple of cups of coffee,” he said. And to the blonde, “You rather have a Coke?”
“No. Coffee. Cokes make me fat.”
Ernest had been making time. He had asked her name and the blonde had said it was Camille Oaks. It wasn’t, of course. It was a quick grouping of a Camel advertisement2 on the wall—another blonde on a poster with balloon-like breasts—and a tree she could see through the window. But Camille Oaks she was from now on, for this trip at least.
“I heard that name recently some place,” Ernest said. He passed the sugar dispenser politely to her.
Mr. Pritchard’s foot was swinging in little jerks and Mrs. Pritchard was watching. She knew Mr. Pritchard was getting irritable at something, but she didn’t know why. She had no experience with this kind of thing. Her women friends were not of a kind to put Mr. Pritchard’s foot swinging. And she knew nothing about his life outside of her own social movements.
He uncrossed his legs, stood up, and went to the counter. “You’re thinking of the Oakes murder trial,”3 he said to Ernest. “I’m sure this young lady wasn’t murdered or vice versa,” he chuckled. “A little more coffee,” he said gallantly to Alice.
His daughter pulled her right eye sideways to look at him. There was a quality in his voice she had never heard before. And there was a little grandeur in his tone. He was broadening his “a” and putting an unnatural formality into his speech. It shocked his daughter. She peered at the girl and suddenly she knew what it was. Mr. Pritchard was reacting to Camille Oaks. He was making a play—a kind of fatherly play. His daughter didn’t like it.
Mr. Pritchard said, “I have an impression I have met you. Could that be?”
In her head Mildred paraphrased it, “Ain’t I seen you some-wheres?”
Camille looked at Mr. Pritchard’s face and her eyes flicked to the club button on his lapel. She knew where he had seen her. When she took off her clothes and sat in the bowl of wine she very carefully didn’t look at the men’s faces. There was something in their wet, bulging eyes and limp, half-smiling mouths that frightened her. She had a feeling that if she looked directly at one he might leap on her. To her, her audiences were blobs of pink faces and hundreds of white collars and neat four-in-hand ties. The Two Fifty-Three Thousand Clubs usually wore tuxedos.4
She said, “I don’t remember.”
“Ever been in the Middle West?” Mr. Pritchard insisted.
“I’ve been working in Chicago,” said Camille.
“Where?” Mr. Pritchard asked. “The impression is very strong.”
“I’m a dental nurse,” said Camille.
Mr. Pritchard’s eyes brightened behind his glasses. “Say, I’ll bet that’s it. Dr. Horace Liebholtz, he’s my dentist in Chicago.”
“No,” said Camille, “no, I never worked for him. Dr. T. S. Chesterfield, that was my last job.” She got that from a poster too and it wasn’t clever. She hoped he wouldn’t notice right over his shoulder the sign, “Chesterfields—They Satisfy.”
Mr. Pritchard said gaily, to his daughter’s disgust, “Well, I’ll remember sooner or later. I never forget a face.”
Mrs. Pritchard had caught her daughter’s eyes and she saw the distaste in Mildred’s expression. She glanced at her husband again. He was acting queerly. “Elliott,” she said, “will you bring me a little coffee?”
Mr. Pritchard seemed to shake himself into reality. “Oh, yes—sure,” he said, and his voice returned to normal. But he was irritated again.
The screen door opened and banged shut. Pimples Carson entered, but a Pimples transformed. His face was heavily powdered in an attempt to cover up the eruptions, and this succeeded in turning their redness to a rich purple. His hair was slicked back and stuck with pomade. He wore a shirt with a very tight collar, a green tie with a small knot, and the shirt collar was pinned under the knot with a gold collar pin. Pimples seemed to be strangling a little, so tight was his collar. Shirt and tie rose and fell slightly when he swallowed. His suit was a chocolate brown, a hairy material, and on the sides of the trousers were the almost indistinguishable prints of bedsprings. He wore white shoes with brown saddles and woolen socks of red and green plaid.
Alice looked up at him in astonishment. “Well, will you look what just come in!” she said.
Pimples hated her. He sat on a stool in the place Mr. Pritchard had only just vacated to take coffee to his wife. “I’d like to have a piece of that new raspberry pie,” he said. He glanced nervously at Camille and his voice strangled a little. “Miss, you ought to have a piece of that pie.”
Camille looked at him and her eyes grew warm. She knew when a man was having trouble. “No thanks,” she said kindly. “I had breakfast in San Ysidro.”
“It’s on me,” said Pimples frantically.
“No, really, thanks. I couldn’t.”
“Well, he could,” said Alice. “He could eat pies standing on his head in a washtub of flat beer on Palm Sunday.” She whirled a pie and got out a knife.
“Double, please,” said Pimples.
“I don’t think you got any pay coming,” said Alice cruelly. “You’ve eaten yourself right through your salary this week.”
Pimples winced. God, how he hated Alice! Alice was watching the blonde. She’d caught it. Every man in the room was alert, his senses feeling toward this girl. Alice was nervous about it. She would know when Juan came in. A moment ago she had wanted the bus to be on its way so she could have a good big drunk. But now, now she was getting nervous.
Ernest Horton said, “If I can get to my sample case I’ll show you some cute gadgets I’m selling. New stuff. Very cute.”
Camille said, “How long you been out of the Army?”
“Five months,” said Ernest.
She dropped her eyes to his lapel with the blue bar and white stars. “That’s a nice one,” she said. “That’s the real big one, isn’t it?”
“That’s what they tell me,” said Ernest. “It don’t buy any groceries, though.” They laughed together.
“Did the big boss pin it on you?”
“Yeah,” said Ernest.
Mr. Pritchard leaned forward. It bothered him that he didn’t know what was happening.
Pimples said, “You ought to try some of this raspberry pie.”
“I couldn’t,” said Camille.
Alice said, “You find a fly in that and I’ll let you have the rest of the pie right in the kisser.”
Camille knew the symptoms. This woman was getting ready to hate her. She glanced uneasily at the other two women in the room. Mrs. Pritchard wouldn’t bother her. But the girl, there, who was trying to go without her glasses. Camille just hoped she didn’t cross with her. That could be a tough babe. She cried in her mind, “Oh, Jesus, Loraine, get rid of that jerk and let’s live in the apartment again.” She had a dreadful sense of loneliness and weariness. She wondered how it would be to be married to Mr. Pritchard. He was something like the man she had in mind. It was probably not very hard being married to him. His wife didn’t look as though he gave her much trouble.
Bernice Pritchard was in the dark. She
didn’t hate Camille. Vaguely she knew that some change had come over the room, but she didn’t know what it was. “I guess we’d better get our things together,” she said brightly to Mildred. And this in spite of the fact that their things were together.
Now Juan came out of the bedroom. He was dressed in clean corduroy trousers, a clean blue shirt, and a leather windbreaker. His thick hair was combed straight back and his face was shiny from shaving.
“All ready, folks?” he said.
Alice watched him as he walked around the end of the lunch counter. He didn’t look at Camille at all. Alice felt a stir of alarm. Juan looked at all girls. If he didn’t there was something wrong. Alice didn’t like it.
Mr. Van Brunt, the old gentleman with the stiff neck, came in from outside and held the screen door open a little. “Looks like more rain,” he said.
Juan addressed him shortly. “You’ll get on the next Greyhound north,” he said.
“I changed my mind,” said Van Brunt. “I’m going along with you. I want to see that bridge. But it’s going to rain more, I tell you that.”
“I thought you didn’t want to go.”
“I can change my mind, can’t I? Why don’t you call up again about that bridge?”
“They said it was all right.”
“That was some time ago,” said Van Brunt. “You’re a stranger here. You don’t know how fast the San Ysidro can rise. I’ve seen it come up a foot an hour when the hills dump into her. You better call up.”
Juan was exasperated. “Look,” he said, “I drive the bus. I’ve been doing it for some time. Would you mind? You just ride and take a chance on me, or don’t, but let me drive it.”
Van Brunt turned his face up sideways and stared at Juan coldly. “I don’t know whether I’ll go with you or not. I might even write a note to the railroad commission. You’re a common carrier, you know. Don’t forget that.”
“Let’s go, folks,” said Juan.
Alice kept secret eyes on him, and he didn’t look at Camille, didn’t offer to carry her suitcase. That was bad. Alice didn’t like it. It wasn’t like Juan.
The Wayward Bus Page 13