In Milton Lumky Territory Read online

  “I guess I should have phoned,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “You know you’re welcome,” Her face sparkled, small and round and smooth. She had on an orange blouse and a dark skirt, and her hair was fluffed up and soft-looking. To him, she seemed quite pretty, and he longed to kiss her. But several of the people had craned their necks, smiling tentatively in welcome, so he did not.

  “Did you just drive in right now?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I got on the road about seven this morning. Made good time. Around seventy, mostly.”

  “You must be real tired. Have you had dinner?”

  “I pulled off for awhile around five,” he said. “I never feel too hungry when I’m on the road.

  “Don’t you want something now?” She led him down the hall, past the living room and into the kitchen. Spread out on the tile drainboard were a bowl of ice cubes, bottles of ginger ale and bitters, lemon rind, a full bottle of cheap bourbon. Opening the refrigerator she said, “Let me fix you something hot to eat; I know you only get a sandwich and a shake when you’re driving. I remember.” She began carrying dishes of food to the table.

  “Honestly,” he said. “Listen.” He stopped her. “I’ll just shove along. I have to make Boise. There’s some business I have to conduct there, tomorrow.”

  Halting, she said, “How’s your job?”

  “Not bad,” he said.

  Peg said, “Come on in the other room and let me introduce you to people.”

  “I’m too tired,” he said.

  “Just for a few minutes. They saw you come in. They’re just friends who stopped over. We ate in Boise. We had a Chinese dinner. Noodles and duck, and pork chow mein. They drove me home.”

  “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You’re just being a martyr. You should have called me.” Shutting the refrigerator she came toward him with her arms out, allowing him to take hold of her and kiss her. “You know how long it’s been since we had time to be together. Maybe I can get rid of them. They’ll probably leave soon anyhow. Stay for a little while, and I’ll sort of start talking about work tomorrow.”

  “No,” he said. But he let her lead him down the hall and back to the living room. She was right; it had been a long time since last time, and in his eight or nine months in Reno he had not yet met a girl and gotten to know her well enough. That well. So in that eight or nine months he hadn’t had any. Now, after kissing her, and feeling her small damp warm fingers wrapped about his wrist, he began to require. It was one thing merely to be without it, and another thing to have it before him, available.

  At a glance he recognized the people as clerkish types from the office building at which Peg worked. They had that thin, indoor look, and at the same time what he thought of as the Idaho Look. By that he meant a kind of slowness. A lapse of time between hearing and understanding, a measurable interval. Watching them, he could see the gradual course of response. They just plain did not get with it. Even the simplest things had to be mulled over, and the hard things - well, the hard things had never gotten up into Idaho and never would. So it was no problem.

  “This is Bruce Stevens,” Peg said, to them in general. “He just got in from Reno; he’s been on the road all day long.”

  By the time she had introduced him to the last person he had already forgotten the name of the first one. And by the time she had fixed him a drink, bourbon and ice, he had forgotten all their names. They had gone back to listening to the phonograph, so it made no difference. A conversation went on, too, something that had to do with Russian attempts to reach the moon, and were the planets inhabited. He seated himself with his drink, as near Peg as possible.

  The thin, indoor clerks chatted and ignored him. He kept his eyes fixed on Peg, wondering if and drinking his drink. And, while he did that, the door to the bathroom opened at the far end of the house, and a woman came along the hall and into the living room. He had not seen her before; evidently she had been in there since his arrival. Looking up, he saw a dark-haired older woman, very attractive, wearing a white scarf around her neck and great ring-like earrings. With a swirl of skirts she seated herself on the arm of the couch, and he saw that she had on sandals. Her legs were bare. She smiled at him.

  “I just got here,” he said.

  “Oh, Susan,” Peg said, coming to life. “Susan, this is Bruce Stevens. Bruce, I want you to meet Susan Faine.”

  He said hello.

  “Hello,” Susan Faine said. That was all she said. Ducking her head, she joined with the others in their conversation, as if it had been going on when she had left the room. Probably it had been. He watched the way her hair, tied back in a pony-tail, swung from side to side. Besides a long skirt she wore a leather belt, very wide, with a coppery-looking buckle, and a black sweater. On her right shoulder a silver pin had been pinned. Studying it he decided that it was Mexican. And the sandals, too, perhaps. The more he looked at her, the more attractive she seemed.

  In his ear, Peg said, “Susan just got back from Mexico City. She got a divorce down there.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, nodding. “I’ll be darned.”

  He kept on watching her, holding his drink glass up so that he appeared - or hoped he appeared - to be inspecting it. Her hands had a strong, competent manner, and he guessed that she did something manual. Beneath her black sweater he could see the straps of her bra, and, when she bent over, a bit of bare back between the top of her skirt and the sweater.

  Suddenly she turned her head, conscious that he was watching her. She looked at him so intently that he could not stand it; he ceased to watch her and let his gaze wander off blankly, feeling his cheeks flush at the same time. Then she went back to talking with those on the couch.

  To Peg, he said, “Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Who?”

  “Her,” he said, indicating Susan Faine with his glass.

  “I just said she got a divorce,” Peg said.

  “That’s right,” he said. “I remember now that you did. What’s she do? What line is she in?”

  “She runs a typewriter rental service,” Peg said. “And she does typing and mimeographing. She does work for us.” By that she meant the firm of lawyers that employed her as a secretary.

  Susan Faine said, “Talking about me?”

  “Yes,” Peg said. “Bruce asked what you do.”

  “I understand you just got back from Mexico,” Bruce said.

  “Yes,” Susan Faine said, “but that’s not what I do.” The people took that as funny and laughed. “Not exactly,” she added. “In spite of what you may possibly hear.”

  She hopped down from the arm of the couch, then, and went off into the kitchen with her empty glass. One of the thin clerkish-looking men arose and followed her.

  As he sipped his drink, Bruce thought, I know her. I’ve seen her before.

  He tried to remember where.

  “Don’t you want me to hang your coat up?” Peg said to him.

  “Thanks,” he said. Preoccupied, he set his drink down, got up, and unbuttoned his coat. As she took it and carried it to the hall closet he followed after her. “I think I know that woman,” he said.

  “Do you?” Peg said. She fixed the coat around a hanger, and while she was doing that one of those things happened that no man can anticipate and few can live through. From the pocket of the coat the box of Trojans, in its Hagopian’s Drug and Pharmacy bag, fell out and onto the carpet.

  “What’s this?” Peg said, stooping to pick it up. “So small.”

  Of course Fred Hagopian had wrapped the tin so that it came easily out of the bag, visible to all. Seeing it, Peg got a weird, frigid expression on her face. Without a word she returned the tin to the bag and the bag to the coat pocket. Closing the closet door she said, “Well, I see you came prepared.”

  He wished he had driven on through to Boise.

  “You always were so optimistic,” Peg said. “But they last, don’t they? I mean, they’re good any time.”
Returning to the living room she said over her shoulder, “I don’t want you to have wasted your investment.”

  “What investment is that?” one of the dull figures on the couch asked.

  Neither he nor Peg said anything. And this time he did not trouble to sit near her. Certainly, it was hopeless now. He sat drinking his drink and wondering how to leave.

  2

  AN OPPORTUNITY to leave occurred almost at once. Across from him a small bald-headed clerk arose from the couch and declared that he had to get started home, by bus.

  Bruce, also standing, said, “I’ll give you a lift. I’m going on to Boise anyhow.”

  Nobody protested. Peg nodded good-bye and disappeared into the kitchen as he and Mr. Muir started from the house.

  It took some time, after they had gotten to Boise, to locate Mr. Muir’s street. The man, not being a motorist himself, had little idea of direction. After he had let him off at last, Bruce started back onto the highway, searching for a motel. And then, just as he made out a fair-looking motel, he realized that he had left his coat hanging in the hall closet back at Peg’s. His shame had caused him to strike it from his mind.

  Should I go back for it? he asked himself.

  Should I not?

  Stopping at the side of the road, he looked at his watch. After nine o’clock. It would be nine-thirty by the time he got back to Montario. Better to wait until tomorrow? He had to have it; he couldn’t show up for his business appointment without it.

  Tomorrow, he decided, Peg would start off early for work. If he missed her, he would not see his coat again.

  Starting up the car, he made a U-turn and drove back in the direction that he had come.

  THE CARS that had been parked near her house had gone. And the lights had been shut off. The house, dark and shut-up, had a deserted look. He hurried up the path to the porch and rang the bell.

  No one answered.

  He rang again. Experience told him, first, that no one even in Montario went to bed at nine-thirty, and second, that me party could not have broken up so fast. They might have all gone off somewhere else, to another house. Or to Hill Street for something or other, a second dinner, or beer at one of the bars, or God knew.

  But in any case his coat was in the house. Trying the door, he found it locked. So he went around the familiar path, through the gate, to the back. The laundry room window had been propped open; he remembered it. Setting a box against the house he managed to get the window open, and then himself through it, hands-first, to sprawl onto the floor of the laundry room.

  One light guided him, the bathroom light. He made his way down the hall, to the closet, opened it and found his coat. Thank God, he thought. He put it on and then entered the living room.

  A smell of cigarettes hung over the living room. An odd lonely empty place, with the people gone … the warmth and reminders of them, crumpled cigarette package in an ashtray, glasses, even an earring on the end-table. As if they had gone up in smoke, like elves. Ready to return as soon as mortals - himself, for instance - had turned their back. Standing, listening, he heard a hum.

  The phonograph has been left on. Its tiny red light shone as he lifted the lid to shut it off. So evidently they hadn’t intended to be gone very long, or they had rushed out on the spur of the moment.

  The mystery of the abandoned sailing ship, he thought, as he wandered into the kitchen. Food on the table … on the drainboard the bottle of bourbon, now only half-full, remained. The bowl of now-melted ice cubes. Lemon rind. More empty glasses. And, in the sink, dishes.

  What am I waiting for? he asked himself. I have my coat. Why don’t I just go?

  Damn it, he thought. If that accident hadn’t happened regarding my purchase at Hagopian’s, I might be staying here tonight.

  As he stood there, partly in the kitchen and partly in the hall, his hands down deep in his pockets, he heard someone sigh. Far off, in another room of the house, someone rustled and sighed.

  It frightened him.

  I better be careful, he thought. Making no noise at all, he walked back down the hall, to the living room and the front door. At the door he paused, his hand on the knob, feeling a little more secure, listening.

  No sound.

  Now it seemed less menacing. He opened the door, hesitated, and then, leaving it slightly open, walked back. The house was so dark that he knew he could not be seen; at least, not very well. An outline, at most, his shape, too vague to be identified. There was something exciting in this, almost a child’s game. Memory of earlier days … Again stopping, he raised his head, put his hand behind his ear, and holding his breath, listened.

  Distinct breathing from what he knew to be a bedroom. The door had not been shut. Trembling, anticipating, he approached it one step at a time and stuck his head past the door to look into the room. There was just enough light for him to make out the bed, the dresser, a lamp.

  On the bed lay Susan Faine, smoking a cigarette, one arm under her head, gazing up at the ceiling. She had kicked off her sandals. At the foot of the bed various coats and purses had been piled up, those of the other guests. At once she became aware of him; sitting up she said, “Back already?”

  “No,” he mumbled.

  She gazed at him. Then she said, “I thought you left a long time ago.”

  “I forgot my coat,” he said, foolishly.

  “You have it on.”

  “Now I’ve got it,” he said. Presently he said, “Where did they all go?”

  “Off to buy some more mixer,” she said.

  “I got back in through the window,” he said. “The front door was locked.”

  “That’s what that noise was,” she said. “I thought it was them on the porch opening the door. I wondered why I didn’t hear anyone talking. I must have dozed off. Apparently I have some virus infection. What I’m afraid of is that it’s something I picked up in Mexico. Since I got back I’ve been continually nauseated. I can’t drink anything and keep it down; it comes right back up. And every now and then I feel so darn weak and dizzy. I just have to lie down.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  Susan Faine said, “Down there we were warned not to eat any of the leafy vegetables or any fruits or even unboiled water. But when you go into a restaurant you can’t ask them to boil your glass of water. Can you? You can’t boil the dishes they give you.”

  “Could it be just Asiatic Flu?” he asked.

  “That’s possible,” she said. “I have these recurrent pains in my stomach.” She had unbuckled her belt and now she rubbed her flat waist. Then she sat up, put out her cigarette, and arose from the bed. “They should be right back,” she said, as she put her feet into her sandals. “Unless they stopped off somewhere. I think I’ll fix myself some coffee. Would you like some?” She passed by him - her motions were agile, but obviously weary - and out of the room. When next he caught sight of her, she had switched on the kitchen light and was standing on tiptoe to peer into a cupboard above the sink. There, she found a jar of instant coffee.

  “None for me,” he said, hanging around in the general region of the kitchen table.

  “Walt, my husband, I mean my former husband, lived in dread that one of us would get amoebic dysentery when we were down in Mazatlan one summer. That’s supposed to be quite serious. Sometimes fatal. Have you ever been down there?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You ought to go sometime.”

  In his mind he had a notion of Mexico; he had talked with a couple of fellows who had driven down from Los Angeles, across the border at Tiajuana. Their tale built up in him a picture of girls in bathing suits, T-bone steaks at fancy restaurants for 40C, the best hotel rooms for $2.00 a night, maid service, no tax on whiskey, and any sort of pleasure wanted, picked up then and there on the street. Gas cost only 20C a gallon and that appealed to him particularly, because he used so much on his trips for his job. And there were top-quality English woolens in clothing stores, at dirt-cheap prices.

  Of course
, it was true as she said; you had to watch what you ate, but if you kept off the native foods you were okay.

  At the stove, Susan Faine put on a pot of water to boil for the coffee. So he said, “Better late than never.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Boiling the water,” he said.

  “This is for the coffee,” she said, in a serious voice.

  “I know that,” he said. “I was just kidding. I guess I shouldn’t kid anybody who doesn’t feel well.”

  She seated herself at the table, rested her arms on the table, and then laid her head on her arms. “Do you live here in town?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’m up from Reno.”

  “You know what I’m going to do?” she said. “I’m going to put some cognac in the coffee. I saw a bottle up in the upper shelf of the cupboard. Would you get it down for me? It’s pushed back so nobody’ll find it who just happens to be wandering through.”

  Obligingly, he got the cognac bottle down for her. It had not been opened. She examined it at great length, reading the label, holding the bottle up to the light. On the stove the water boiled.

  “It looks good,” she said. “Peg won’t care. Somebody probably gave it to her. Anyhow I’ll probably throw it up.” She handed it back to him, and he understood that he was expected to open it.

  The bottle had a cork for a stopper, and it gave him trouble. He had to clasp the bottle between his knees, stoop down like an animal, and, running a knife through the opener, get grip enough to pull with all his might. The cork traveled up by degrees, and at last out of the bottle entirely, expanding at once. To him it seemed offensive, and he stood holding the opener only, not touching the cork.

  All the time, Susan watched critically. Then, when he had gotten the cork out, she poured the boiling water into the cup, stirred the instant coffee in, and added some of the cognac.

  “Please have some,” she said.

  “No thanks.” He did not care for brandy, especially French brandy. Standing to one side, he rearranged his sleeves, which had become wrinkled; the tugging and straining had done it.