I'm gonna pass out, and a damn good thing. I wish I would never come to. I wish that would be the end of it--the end of it--the end of it--Show these bastards I don't have to live if I don't want to. I'll show 'em.
And then she saw the fly. He wasn't an ordinary housefly but a newborn bluebottle, and his body shone with an iridescent blue sheen. He had come to the table and was standing on the edge of the pool of wine. He dipped his proboscis and went back to cleaning himself.
Alice sat perfectly still. Her flesh crawled with hatred. All her unhappiness, all her resentments, centered in the fly. With an effort of will she forced the two images of the fly to be one image. "You son of a bitch," she said softly. "You think I'm drunk. I'll show you."
Her eyes were wary and smart. Slowly, slowly, she slipped sideways from the table and crouched low to the floor, supporting herself with her hand. She kept her eyes on the fly. He had not moved. She crept over to the counter and went behind it. A dish towel was lying on the stainless steel sink. She took it in her right hand and folded it carefully. It was too light. She dampened it under the tap and squeezed out the excess water. "I'll show the son of a bitch," she said, and she moved catlike along the counter. The fly was still there, still shining.
Alice raised her hand and let the towel fall back on her shoulder. Step by careful step she moved close, her hand raised and flexed. She struck. Bottle and glasses and sugar dispenser and napkin holder all crashed to the floor. The fly zoomed and circled. Alice stood still, following him with her eyes. He landed on the lunch counter. She lunged, striking at him, and when he rose again she flailed the air with the towel.
"That's not the way," she said to herself. "Creep up on him. Creep up on him." The floor tilted under her feet. She put out her hand and supported herself on the stool. Where was he now? She could hear the buzz. The angry, sickening whine of his wings. He's got to land sometime, somewhere. She felt sickness rising in her throat.
The fly made a series of loops and eights and circles and then settled down to low, swooping flights from one end of the room to the other. Alice waited. There was darkness crowding in on the edges of her vision. The fly landed with a little plop on the box of cornflakes on the top of the great pyramid of dry cereals on the shelf behind the counter. He landed on the "C" of "corn" and moved restlessly over to the "O." He stood very still. Alice snuffled.
The room was rocking and whirling but with will power the fly and the area around him were unblurred. Her left hand reached back to the counter and her fingers crept across it. She moved silently, slowly, around the end of the counter. She raised her right hand very, very carefully. The fly sprang forward a step and paused again. He was ready to take off. Alice sensed it. She sensed his rise before he rose. She swung with all the weight of her body. The wet towel smashed against the pyramid of cardboard boxes and followed through. Boxes and a row of glasses and a bowl of oranges crashed to the floor behind the counter and Alice fell on top.
The room rushed in on her with red and blue lights. Under her cheek a broken box spilled out its cornflakes. She raised her head once and then put it down again and a rolling darkness dropped over her.
The lunchroom was dusky and very quiet. The fly moved to the edge of the drying pool of wine on the white tabletop. For a moment he sensed in all directions for danger, and then deliberately he dipped his flat proboscis into the sweet, sticky wine.
CHAPTER 12
The clouds piled in gray threat on threat and a blue darkness settled on the land. In the San Juan valley the darker greens seemed black and the lighter green of grass, a chilling wet blue. "Sweetheart" came rolling heavily along the highway and the aluminum paint on her gleamed with the evil of a gun. Away to the south a bank of dark cloud fringed off into rain and the curtain of it descended slowly.
The bus pulled in close to the gas pumps in front of Breed's store and stopped. The little boxing gloves, the baby shoe, swung back and forth in little pendulum jerks. Juan sat in the seat after the bus had stopped. He raced the motor for a moment, listening to it, and then he sighed and turned the key and the engine stopped.
"How long are you going to wait here?" Van Brunt asked.
"I'm going to take a look at the bridge," said Juan.
"It's still there," Van Brunt said.
"So are we," said Juan. He pulled the lever to open the door.
Breed came out of his screen door and walked toward the bus. He shook hands with Juan. "Aren't you a little late?"
"I don't think so," said Juan, "unless my watch is off."
Pimples climbed down and stood beside them. He wanted to be ahead so he could see the blonde get off the bus.
"Got any Coke?" he asked.
"No," said Breed. "Few bottles of Pepsi-Cola.1 Haven't had any Coke for a month. It's the same stuff. You can't tell them apart."
"How's the bridge?" Juan asked.
Mr. Breed shook his head. "I think here goes your ball game. Take a look for yourself. I don't like it."
"There's no break yet?" Juan asked.
"She could go like that," said Breed, and he sideswiped the palms of his hands together. "She's got a strain on her that makes her cry like a baby. Let's take a look."
Mr. Pritchard and Ernest climbed down from the bus and then Mildred and Camille, with Norma behind her. Camille was expert. Pimples didn't see anything.
"They got some Pepsi-Cola," Pimples said. "You like to have one?"
Camille turned to Norma. She was beginning to see how Norma could be valuable. "Like a drink?" she asked.
"Well, I wouldn't mind," said Norma.
Pimples tried not to show his disappointment. Breed and Juan strolled down the highway toward the river. "Going to look at the bridge," Juan called over his shoulder.
Mrs. Pritchard called from the step, "Dear, do you think you could get me a cold drink? Just water if there isn't anything else. And ask where the 'you-know-what' is."
"It's around back," said Norma.
Breed fell into step beside Juan as they strode toward the bridge. "I've been expecting her to go out every year," he said. "I wish we'd get a bridge so when a big rain came I could sleep at night. I just lay in bed and hear the rain on the roof, but I'm listening for the bridge to go out. And I don't even know what kinda sound she'll make when she goes."
Juan grinned at him. "I know how that is. I remember in Torreon2 when I was a little kid. We used to listen at night for the popping that meant fighting. We kinda liked the fighting, but it always meant my old man would go away for a while. And at last he went away and he didn't come back. I guess we always knew that would happen."
"What became of him?" Breed asked.
"I don't know. Somebody got him, I guess. He couldn't stay home when there was any fighting. He had to get in it. I don't think he much cared what they were fighting about. When he came home he was full of stories every time." Juan chuckled. "He used to tell one about Pancho Villa.3 He said a poor woman came to Villa and said, 'You have shot my husband and now I and the little ones will starve.' Well, Villa had plenty of money then. He had the presses and he was printing his own. He turned to his treasurer and said, 'Roll out five kilos of twenty-peso bills for this poor woman.' He wasn't even counting it, he had so much. So they did and they tied the bills together with wire and that woman went out. Well, then a sergeant said to Villa, 'There was a mistake, my general. We did not shoot that woman's husband. He got drunk and we put him in jail.' Then Pancho said, 'Go immediately and shoot him. We cannot disappoint that poor woman.' "
Breed said, "It don't make any sense."
Juan laughed. "I know, that's what I like about it. God, that river is eating around the back of the breakwater."
"I know. I tried to phone and tell them," said Breed. "I can't get anybody on the phone."
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 timber
s 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 glacee 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 b
rought 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."