They walked together out on the wooden bridge. And the moment Juan stepped on the flooring he could feel the thrumming vibration of the water. The bridge shivered and trembled. And there was a deep hum in the timbers that was louder than the rush of the water. Juan looked over the side of the bridge. The supporting timbers were under water and the river foamed and bubbled under it. And the whole bridge trembled and panted, and there were little strained cries from the timbers where the iron turnbolts went through. As they watched, a great old live oak tree came rolling heavily down the stream. When it struck the bridge and turned, the whole structure cried out and seemed to brace itself. The tree caught in the submerged underpinning and there came a shrill, ripping sound from under the bridge. The two men moved quickly back off the bridgehead.
“How fast is she coming up?” Juan asked.
“Ten inches in the last hour. Of course, she might start to go down now. Might have reached flood.”
Juan looked at the side of the supporting streamers. His eye found a brown bolthead on the edge of the water and he kept his eyes on it. “I guess I could make it all right,” he said. “I could make a run for it. Or I could get the passengers to walk across and I could drive over and pick them up on the other side. How’s the other bridge?”
“I don’t know,” said Breed. “I tried to phone and find out but I can’t get anybody. And suppose you cross this one and the other one’s out, and you come back and this one’s out? You’d be trapped in the bend. You’d have some mighty sore passengers.”
“I’m going to have some mighty sore passengers anyway,” said Juan. “I’ve got one—no, two—that are going to raise hell no matter what happens. I know the signs. You know a man named Van Brunt?”
“Oh, that old fart! Yes, I know him. He owes me thirty-seven dollars. I sold him some alfalfa seed and he claimed it was no good. Wouldn’t pay for it. He’s got bills all over the county. Nothing he buys is any good. I wouldn’t sell him a candy bar on credit. He’d claim it wasn’t sweet. So you got him along?”
“I got him,” said Juan. “And I got a man from Chicago. Big business bug. He’s going to be pretty sore if things don’t come out the way he wants them to.”
“Well,” said Breed, “you got to make up your own mind.”
Juan looked at the threatening sky. “I guess it’s going to rain, all right. And with the hills full up it’ll all dump right into the river. I could get over all right, but about what chance have I got to get back?”
“About ten per cent,” said Breed. “How’s your wife?”
“Not too good,” said Juan. “She’s got a toothache.”
“It pays to keep your teeth up,” said Breed. “Should go to the dentist every six months.”
Juan laughed. “I know. Are you acquainted with anybody that does?”
“No,” said Breed. He liked Juan. He didn’t even consider him a foreigner.
“I don’t either,” said Juan. “Well, there’s one other way to stay out of trouble with the passengers.”
“What’s that?”
“Let them decide. This is a democracy, isn’t it?”
“They’ll just get to fighting.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that if they fight each other?” said Juan.
“You’ve got something there,” Breed said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Whatever side everybody else is on, Van Brunt is gonna be on the other side. There’s a fellow wouldn’t vote for the second coming of Christ if it was a popular measure.”
“He’s all right,” said Juan. “You just gotta know how to handle him. I had a horse once that was so ornery that if you reined left he’d turn right. I fooled him. I did everything opposite and he thought he was getting his own way. You could get Van Brunt to do almost anything by disagreeing with him.”
“I’m going to forbid him to pay that thirty-seven dollars,” said Breed.
“It might work at that,” Juan said. “Well, the river isn’t at flood. That bolthead is covered. I’m going to see what the passengers want to do.”
Back in the store Pimples felt a little cheated. He had been maneuvered into buying both Norma and Camille a Pepsi-Cola. Try as he would, he couldn’t separate Camille from Norma. And it wasn’t Norma’s fault. Camille was using her.
Norma was flushed with pleasure. She had never been so happy in her life. This beautiful creature was nice to her. They were friends. And she didn’t say they’d live together. She said she’d see how things worked out. For some reason this gave Norma a great deal of confidence. People had not been nice to Norma. They had said “yes” to things and then wormed out of them. But this girl, who looked like everything Norma wanted to be, said “she’d see.” In her mind Norma could see the apartment they would get. It would have a velvet davenport and a coffee table in front of it. And the drapes would be wine-colored velvet. They’d have a radio and phonograph combination, of course, and plenty of records. She didn’t like to think past that. It was almost like spoiling her luck to think past that. There was a kind of an electric blue for the davenport.
She raised her glass of Pepsi-Cola and let the sweet, biting drink run down her throat, and in the middle of the swallow despair settled down on her like a heavy gas. “It won’t ever happen,” her mind cried. “It’ll get away! It’ll be just like always and I’ll be alone again.” She squeezed her eyes shut and wiped the back of her hand across them. When she opened her eyes again she was all right. “I’ll save it,” she thought. “Little by little I’ll make the apartment, and then if it doesn’t happen I’ll still have it.” A hardness came over her and an acceptance. “If any of it comes through it’ll just be gravy. But I can’t expect it, I can’t let myself expect it. That will take it away from me.”
Pimples said, “I’ve got plenty of plans. I’m studying radar. That’s going to be a very important job. Fellow that knows radar is going to be fixed pretty nice. I think a person’s got to look ahead, don’t you? You take some people, they don’t look ahead into the future and they end up right where they started.” A little smile was fixed on Camille’s lips.
“You’ve got something there,” she said. She wished she could get away from this kid. He was a nice kid, but she just wished she could get away from him. She could practically smell him. “Thank you very much for the drink,” she said. “I think I’ll just go and freshen up a little. You want to come, Norma?”
A look of devotion came on Norma’s face. “Oh, yes,” she said, “I guess I ought to freshen up too.” Everything Camille said was right, was dainty and fine. “Oh, Jesus Christ, let it happen!” Norma cried in her mind.
Mrs. Pritchard was sipping a lemonade. It had taken a little time to get it because they didn’t serve lemonade. But when Mrs. Pritchard had pointed out the lemons in the grocery section and had even offered to squeeze them herself—well, there was nothing Mrs. Breed could do, and she’d made it.
“I just can’t drink old bottled things,” Mrs. Pritchard explained. “I like just the pure fruit juice.” Mrs. Breed resentfully went down under this wave of sweetness. Mrs. Pritchard sipped her lemonade and looked through a rack of postcards on the novelty counter. There were pictures of the courthouse in San Juan de la Cruz and of the hotel in San Ysidro which was built over a hot spring of epsom salts.4 A fine old hotel much frequented by rheumatic people who bathed in the strong waters. The hotel was called a Spa on the postcards. There were other items on the novelty counter. Painted plaster dogs and glass pistols full of colored candy and bright kewpie dolls and fancy redwood boxes of glacée California fruits. And there were lamps whose shades turned when the lights were on so that the forest fires and ships under full sail moved and shone in a very lifelike manner.
Ernest Horton stood at the counter too and looked at the display with a certain amount of contempt. He said to Mr. Pritchard, “Sometimes I think I ought to open a novelty store with all new stuff. Some of this old stuff ’s been on the market for years and nobody buys it. Now my company has nothing but
up-and-coming stock, all new.”
Mr. Pritchard nodded. “Gives a man confidence to work for a firm he knows is on its toes,” he said. “That’s why I think you might like to work for us. You could be sure we’re on our toes every hour of the day.”
Ernest said, “Excuse me, I’m going to get my case. I’ve got an item that really isn’t before the public yet but it’s gone like hot cakes to the trade already, just to the trade. I’d like to place a few here, maybe.”
He went out quickly and lugged his sample case in. He opened it and brought out a cardboard box. “Plain wrapping, you see. That’s for the surprise.” He opened the box and took out a perfect little high tank toilet twelve inches high. There was the box and a little chain with a brass knob on the bottom, and the toilet bowl was white. And it even had a little seat cover colored to look like wood.
Mrs. Breed had moved down in back of the counter. “My husband does all the buying,” she said. “You’ll have to see him.”
“I know,” said Ernest. “I just want you to look at this item. It sells itself.”
“What’s it for?” Mr. Pritchard asked.
“You just watch,” said Ernest. He pulled the little chain and immediately the toilet bowl flushed with a brown fluid. Ernest lifted the toilet seat right out of the bowl and it was a small glass. “That’s one ounce,” he said triumphantly. “If you want a double shot, say for a highball, you pull the chain twice.”
“Whisky!” cried Mr. Pritchard.
“Or brandy, or rum,” said Ernest. “Anything you want. See, here in the tank is the place you fill it, and the tank is guaranteed plastic. It knocks ’em cold. I’ve got orders for eighteen hundred of this little item already. It’s a knockout. It gets a laugh every time.”
“By George, that’s clever,” Mr. Pritchard said. “Who thinks these things up?”
“Well,” Ernest explained, “we’ve got an idea department. Everybody puts ideas in. This item was suggested by our salesman in the Great Lakes area. He’ll make himself a nice bonus. Our company gives two per cent of the profits to any employee who sends in a workable idea.”
“It’s clever,” Mr. Pritchard repeated. In his mind he could see Charlie Johnson when he first saw it. Charlie would want to rush right out and get one for himself. “What do you get for them?” Mr. Pritchard asked.
“Well, this one retails for five dollars. But if you don’t mind my making the suggestion, we have a model that sells for twenty-seven fifty.”
Mr. Pritchard pursed his lips.
“But look what you get,” Ernest went on. “This one is plastic. The better item is—well, the box is oak and is made of old whisky barrels so that it’ll take the liquor fine. The chain is real silver and it has a Brazilian diamond for a knob. The bowl is porcelain, real toilet quality porcelain, and the seat is hand-carved mahogany. And on the box there’s a little silver plate for, if, like you wanted to present it to a lodge or a club, your name goes on that.”
“It sounds like a good value,” Mr. Pritchard said. His mind was made up. He knew how he would get the better of Charlie Johnson now. He would give one of the toilets to Charlie. But on the plate he would put “Presented to Charlie Johnson, the all-American soandso, by Elliott Pritchard,” and then let Charlie show off all he wanted to. Everybody would know who had the idea first.
“You haven’t got one with you, have you?” he asked.
“No, you have to order.”
Mrs. Pritchard spoke up. She had moved close, quietly. “El liott, you’re not going to get one of those. Elliott, they’re vulgar.”
“I wouldn’t have it around if there were ladies, of course,” said Mr. Pritchard. “No, little girl. Know what I’m going to do? I’m gonna send one of them to Charlie Johnson. That’ll get back at him for sending me that stuffed skunk. Yes, sir, I’ll fix him.”
Mrs. Pritchard explained. “Charlie Johnson was Mr. Pritchard’s roommate in college. They have the wildest jokes. They’re like little boys when they get together.”
“Now,” said Mr. Pritchard seriously, “if I ordered one, could you have it sent to an address I’ll give you? And could you have it engraved? I’ll write what I want you to put on the plate.”
“What are you going to say?” Bernice asked.
“Little girls keep their noses out of big man’s business,” said Mr. Pritchard.
“I’ll bet it’ll be awful,” said Bernice.
Mildred was in the dumps. She felt heavy and tired and she wasn’t interested in anything. She was sitting in a twisted wire candy-store chair all by herself at the end of the counter. Cynically she had watched Pimples trying to get the blonde alone. The trip had let her down. She was disgusted with herself and what had happened. What kind of a girl was she if a bus driver could set her off? She shivered a little with distaste. Where was he now? Why didn’t he come back? She smothered her impulse to get up and go look for him. Van Brunt’s voice sounded beside her so that she jumped.
“Young lady,” he said, “your skirt shows. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”
“You might have gone all day thinking you were all fixed up if somebody didn’t tell you,” he said.
“Oh, yes, thank you.” She stood up and, leaning backward, pushed her skirt against her legs so that she could see. There was an inch of slip showing behind.
“I think it’s better to be told things like that,” Van Brunt said.
“Oh, it is. I guess I broke a shoulder strap.”
“I don’t care to hear about your underwear,” he said coldly. “My only remark is—and I repeat it—your skirt shows. I don’t want you to think I had any other motive.”
“I don’t,” said Mildred helplessly.
Van Brunt went on, “Too many young girls get self-conscious of their legs. They think everybody is looking at them.”
Suddenly Mildred was laughing wildly like a sick woman.
“What’s so funny?” Van Brunt demanded angrily.
“Nothing,” said Mildred. “I just thought of a joke.” She had remembered that Van Brunt had never missed any show of legs all morning.
“Well, if it’s that funny, tell it,” he said.
“Oh, no. It’s a personal joke. I’ll go out and fix my strap.” She looked at him and then, deliberately, she said, “You see, there are two straps on each shoulder. One is for the slip and the other supports the brassière and the brassière holds the breasts up firmly.” She saw Van Brunt’s color come up out of his collar. “There isn’t anything below that until the panties, if I wore panties, which I don’t.”
Van Brunt turned and walked away quickly and Mildred felt better. Now the old fool wouldn’t have a comfortable moment. She could watch him and maybe later trick him and catch him in the act. She got up, laughing to herself, and went out around the back of the store to the lean-to marked “Ladies.”
A lattice covered the door and the morning glory was beginning to climb up. Mildred stood in front of the closed door. She could hear Norma talking to the blonde inside. She listened. Maybe this would make the trip worth while, just listening to people talk. Mildred liked to eavesdrop on people. Sometimes her liking to bothered her. She could listen to inanities with interest. But of all the listening, the best was in women’s rest rooms. The freedom of women in any room where there was a toilet, a mirror, and a washbowl had interested her for a long time. She had once written a paper in college, which had been considered daring, in which she had maintained that women lost their inhibitions when their skirts were up.
It must be either that, she thought, or the certainty that man, the enemy, could never invade this territory. It was the one place in the world where women could be certain there would be no men. And so they relaxed and became outwardly the people they were inwardly. She had thought a great deal about it. Women were more friendly or more vicious to one another in public toilets, but on personal terms. Perhaps that was because there were no men. Because, where there were
no men, there was no competition, and their poses dropped from them.
Mildred wondered whether it was the same in men’s toilets. She just didn’t think it was likely, because men had many competitions besides women, while most of women’s insecurities had to do with men. Her paper on the subject had been returned marked “Not carefully thought out.” She planned to do it over again.
Out in the store she had not been friendly toward Camille. She just didn’t like her. But she knew her dislike would not carry into the rest room. She thought, “Isn’t it strange that women will compete for men they don’t even want?”
Norma and Camille were talking on and on. Mildred put her hand on the door and pushed it open. In the small room were a toilet stall and a washbowl with a square mirror over it. A dispenser of paper seatcovers was on one wall, and paper towels beside the basin. A slot machine for sanitary pads was on the wall beside the frosted glass window. The concrete floor was painted dark red and the walls were thick with layers of white paint. There was a sharp smell of perfumed disinfectant in the air.
Camille was seated on the toilet and Norma stood in front of the mirror. They both looked at Mildred as she came in.
“Want to get in here?” Camille asked.
“No,” said Mildred. “I’ve got a drooping strap on my slip.”
Camille looked down at the skirt. “You have all right. No, not that way,” she said to Norma. “You see the way your hair line goes? Well, make the eyebrows go up a little on the outside, just a little. Wait, honey. Wait a minute and I’ll show you.”
She stood up and moved to Norma. “Turn around so I can see you. There, now. And there, now look at yourself. See how it kind of brings down your hairline a little bit? Your forehead’s high so you try to bring it down. Now look, close your eyes.” She took the eyebrow pencil from Norma and rubbed it gently on the lower lids just below the lashes, making the line a little darker as it passed the outside corners.
“You’ve got the mascara on too thick, honey,” she said. “See how the lashes stick together? Use more water and take a little more time. Wait a minute.” She brought out of her purse a little plastic case of eyeshadow. “Now you go careful with this stuff.” She dipped her finger into the blue paste, rubbed a little on each of Norma’s upper eyelids, making it heavier toward the outside corners. “Now, let me see.” She inspected her work. “Look, honey, you keep your eyes too wide, like a rabbit. Let your upper lids down a little bit. No, and don’t squint. Just let your upper lids droop down a little bit. There, like that. Now look at yourself. See the difference?”
The Wayward Bus Page 18