"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 said.
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.
Pimpl
es 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.
Camille picked up her suitcase and scuttled out of the door. She didn't want to sit with any of the men. She was tired. Quickly her mind had gone over the possibilities. Mildred Pritchard was unattached and already Mildred didn't like her. But the girl who had quit was out there in the bus. Camille hurried out the door and climbed in. As quickly as they could, Ernest Horton and Mr. Pritchard followed, but Camille was in the bus. Norma sat quite still. Her eyes were hostile and her nose red and shiny. Norma was very much frightened at what she had done.
Camille said, "Would you mind if I sit with you, honey?"
Norma turned her head stiffly and regarded the blonde. "There's plenty of seats," she said.
"Would you mind? I'll tell you why later."
"Suit your own convenience," said Norma grandly. She could tell that this girl was expensively dressed. It didn't make sense. People didn't want to sit with Norma. But there was a reason. Maybe a mysterious reason. Norma knew her movies. Things like this could turn into nine reels of pure delight. She moved over near the window and made room.
"How far are you going?" Norma asked.
"To L.A."
"Why, I'm going there too! Do you live there?"
"Off and on," said Camille. She noticed that the men who had come piling out of the lunchroom had seen her sit down with Norma. Their drive slowed down. There was going to be no competition. They clustered around the rear end of the bus to have the bags put in the luggage compartment.
Juan lingered at the lunchroom door with Alice looking through the screen at him. "Take it easy," he said. "Had a god-damn mess all morning. Try to get it cleared up before I get home."
A sharpness came on Alice's face. She was about to answer.
Juan went on, "Or one of these days I won't get home."
Her breath caught. "I just don't feel good," she whined.
"Well, start feeling good, then, and don't run it into the ground. Nobody likes sick people very long. Nobody. Get that straight." His eyes were not looking at her but around her and through her, and panic came over Alice. Juan turned away and walked toward the bus.
Alice leaned her elbows on the cross piece of the screen door. Big soft tears filled her eyes. "I'm fat," she said quietly, "and I'm old. Oh, Jesus, I'm old!" The tears ran into her nose. She snorted them back. She said, "You can get young girls, but what can I get? Nothing. An old slob." She sniffled quietly behind the screen.
Mr. Pritchard would have liked to have sat behind the blonde to watch her, but Mrs. Pritchard took a seat near the front and he had to sit down beside her. Mildred sat alone on the other side and behind them. Pimples climbed on and he got the seat Mr. Pritchard wanted, and Ernest Horton sat with him.
Juan noticed with dismay that Van Brunt took the seat directly behind the driver's seat. Juan was nervous. He hadn't had much sleep and some kind of hell had been popping since early morning. He got the bags neatly stacked in the rear trunk, pulled the canvas cover down, and closed the door of the trunk. He waved his hand at Alice leaning inside the screen door. He knew from her posture that she was crying and he intended that she should. She'd got out of hand. He wondered why he stayed with her. Just pure laziness, he guessed. He didn't want to go through the emotional turmoil of leaving her. In spite of himself he'd worry about her and it was too much trouble. He'd need another woman right away and that took a lot of talking and arguing and persuading. It was different just to lay a girl but he would need a woman around, and that was the difference. You got used to one and it was less trouble. Besides Alice was the only woman he had ever found outside of Mexico who could cook beans. A funny thing. Every little Indian in Mexico could cook beans properly and no one up here except Alice--just enough juice, just the right flavor of the bean without another flavor mixed up with it. Here they put tomatoes and chili and garlic and such things in the beans, and a bean should be cooked for itself, with itself, alone. Juan chuckled. "Because she can cook beans," he said to himself.
But there was another reason too. She loved him. She really did. And he knew it. And you can't leave a thing like that. It's a structure and it has an architecture, and you can't leave it without tearing off a piece of yourself. So if you want to remain whole you stay no matter how much you may dislike staying. Juan was not a man who fooled himself very much.
He was almost to the bus when he turned back and walked quickly to the screen door. "Take care of yourself," he said. His eyes were warm. "Get a slug of liquor for that tooth." He turned away and walked back to the bus. She'd be drunker than a skunk when he got back, but maybe that would blow out her tubes and she'd feel better. He would sleep in Norma's bed if Alice passed out. He couldn't stand the smell of her when she was drunk. She had an acid, bitter smell.
Juan glanced up at the sky. The air was still but up high a wind was blowing, bringing legions of new clouds over the mountains, and these clouds were flat and they were joining together and moving in on one another as they hurried across the sky. The big oaks still dripped water from the morning rain and the geranium leaves held shining drops in the centers. There was a hush on the land and a great activity.
> Much as he hated to give Van Brunt any credit, Juan was afraid it was going to rain some more, and soon. He climbed up the steps of the bus. Van Brunt caught him before he even sat down.
"Know where that wind's coming from? Southwest. Know where those clouds are coming from? Southwest. You know where our rain comes from?" he demanded triumphantly. "Southwest."
"O.K., and we're all gonna die sometime," said Juan. "Some of us pretty horribly. You might get run over by a tractor. Ever seen a man run over by a tractor?"
"How do you figure that?" Van Brunt demanded.
"Let it rain," said Juan.
"I don't own a tractor," said Van Brunt. "I got four pair of the best horses in this state. How do you figure that tractor?"
Juan stepped on the starter. It had a high, thin, scratchy sound, but almost immediately his motor started and it sounded good. It sounded smooth and nice. Juan turned in his seat.
"Kit," he called, "keep listening to that rear end."
"O.K.," said Pimples. He felt good about Juan's confidence.
Juan waved his hand to Alice and closed the bus door with his lever. He couldn't see what she was doing through the screen. She would let him get out of sight before she brought out a bottle. He hoped she wouldn't get into any trouble.
Juan drove around the front of the lunchroom and turned right into the black-top road that led to San Juan de la Cruz. It wasn't a very wide road but it was fairly smooth and the crown had a high arch so that it shed the water nicely. The valley and the hills were splashed with gouts of sunlight, and they were fenced with the moving shadows of clouds rushing across the sky. The sun spots and the shadows were somber gray, threatening and sad.
"Sweetheart" bumped along at forty. She was a good bus and the rear end sounded good too.
"I never liked tractors," said Mr. Van Brunt.
"I don't either," Juan agreed. He felt fine all of a sudden.
Van Brunt couldn't let it alone. Juan had succeeded beyond his hopes. Van Brunt turned his head sideways on his stiff neck. "Say, you're not one of these fortunetellers or anything like that?"
"No," said Juan.
"Because I don't believe any stuff like that," said Van Brunt.
"Neither do I," said Juan.